#Fic: Sinew & Crimson

[etherealvoidechoes]

What If? - Sinew & Crimson - Blood Hunt - Vampire Zhang Au

Art drought incoming. I am not in the best of moods and may be a touch depressed, but here is some writing.

Zhang and Karris taking out a bandit encampment and Zhang indulging in a darker side of himself.

Warnings for blood, gore, cannibalism, and mild language. Oh and liberal use of Google Translate. So sorry.

6.8k

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Zhang softly hummed to himself. Head swaying side to side, foot tapping to the beat to the harsh electronic music playing through his earbuds. Even his soldering tool was matching the beat as he went about desoldering some components from some old broken tech that had been recently found. Scavenging and recycling were a necessity to survive, and he just couldn’t give up his love for making IEDs. It was a stress relief and then his skills came in quite handy for the wandering group and an absolute nuisance for ADVENT.

He continued to work contently, a few times his hand went over to his music device to skip songs as he worked or pause it to give a few thank you’s to those bringing in more stuff for him to salvage and put to use. 

“Next time, Orkos. Until that venom is out of your system, you know you can’t handle the wires.” He had grown fond of the former Stun Lancer who had started to hover over him roughly around the time he “deemed” he could during his “poor health”. She was quick to pick up the art of IED making and became a great help. Though right now, after a nasty run in with those dreadful bugs, she couldn’t lend him a helping hand like she usually did.

“I understand!” Her tone was cheery like a songbird. “I have other things to keep me occupied like learning from my Skirmisher brothers and sisters on how they disable and remove chips!” She was just beaming with excitement. “I must get going as lessons are starting!” 

She gave Zhang a few playful pats on the back before running out. Zhang just shook his head and chuckled. He returned to his work.

Then he felt something. A presence. Someone lingering about. His nostrils flared, as he took in several quite breathes, quickly processing new and familiar scents. His eyes closed, rolling them. He didn’t need to look to see who it was. Just someone familiar and probably just entering their “hunting study” mode. How nearly everyone in the group had their quirks.

Ignoring the lingering presence, he continued his work. Until a few crates nearby by rattles, and then the table shook.

“Gāisǐ. Lái ba…” Zhang jerked his tool away from the delicate circuitry he was working on and the other hand slammed down on the table to brace it. 

The table shook under his hand for a few moments more before stopping. 

“That damn animal brain of his.” Zhang’s brow twitched as he kept his eyes from looking at the nuisance disturbing his work. “Though I cannot judge too harshly as I have my own special quirks now.” 

A grumble slipped out before Zhang went back to work. A free hand went over and lowered the volume to his music so he could keep track of his friend. Though the man had never attacked anyone when he was in his “hunger study” mode, it never hurt to listen to any sounds he would make just to track his mood.

His friend was pretty quiet. Just deep and slow steady breathing. 

Tap… Tap… Tap… Tap…

One nail after the other slowly drummed against the metal crate. And this continued… for several minutes.

Zhang furrowed his brows, grip tightening on his soldering iron, as another grumble came out. He could imagine those brown and blue eyes were locked onto him with great intensity. 

PLOP!

His eyes quickly darted to the left. They quickly fell onto something red and shiny that jostled about. It was a packet of blood, filled to the brim. From the looks of it, it looked to be human blood. He felt his throat tremble and teeth ache for a moment.

“No, no, no…” He quietly muttered to himself as he returned his attention back to his work. He didn’t want it. He didn’t need it. That dreadful blood he craved more than a Hybrid’s. How much he hated that.

PLOP! CLANG!

This time the table shook as two items, much heavier Thant the blood packet, fell onto the table. There was the distinctive sound of soft fabric touching the table and then the clinks of metal armor tapping together.

He glanced over again and save indeed there were some clothes and armor on the table. Looked to be some dark gray unders-uit of some sort. It had swirling alien markings on it that reminded him of Lynette’s and Marcus’ symbiotic armor. Then the actual armor, repurposed ADVENT armor, but looked the Skirmishers had done the work with their own flair. The plating was a dark sandy brown and white. The group had been in contact with the local tribes and had been supplying them with any armor they recovered from slain ADVENT for some resources. Perhaps the group had commissioned some armor?

“Hm.” He couldn’t help but raise a brow. He continued his work.

Tap… Tap… Tap… Tap…

A few minutes passed back until a smell struck him. Tickling his nose like a siren song. Sweet. Savory. His throat trembled; swallowing hard fighting back the building saliva. His eyes darted back to that blood back in a heartbeat. 

A finger was now tapping away at that bag. Nails as sharp as his had pierced the plastic shell and sweet globules of crimson were slowly flowing out with each tap.

This had to be an offering. Eyes narrowed quickly onto the culprit. Mismatched “dead” eyes — one brown and the other blue-ish green — locked with his.

“What do you want, Karris?” Zhang’s lip raised in annoyance, though he did his best to hold back a sneer. 

Karris was perched, hunched over like a prowling cat, on top a crate adjacent to the table. His response did not deter him; fingers continued to tap away at that blood bag and his eyes stayed firmly on him. Really, Karris looked barely fazed as he constantly had a more “dead”, plain look he wore consistently. Though those canines… sharp teeth. His teeth were barred revealing both sets of canines were oddly elongated, curving over his other teeth and lips.

“It’s a,” that low, rough voice of Karris paused, taking in a raspy breath, “fresh draw from some volunteers.” He tapped the bag in quick succession, piercing it in a few more spots. “All human… well… maybe one or two Hybrids are in here. But it is good.”

A little system that was developed to help ward off Zhang’s occasional thirst for blood as sometimes he had cravings for human blood and no amount of Hybrid or alien blood and flesh could satisfy it. 

Zhang’s nose wrinkled as more of that blood flowed out. It smelled so good. Feeling that feral thirst grow, he forced himself to look away, rubbing his nose in a futile attempt to get the scent out. “I’m good.” 

That didn’t stop Karris. That finger kept on tapping, punching more and more holes in the pack. He then suddenly stabbed at it, not taking his eyes off Zhang, and slowly pushed the pack towards him. A streak of crimson stained the table. 

Zhang’s brow twitched. The next moment, he slammed his tool down on the table; his other hand clawed into it. A flash of gold crosses his eyes as they narrowed. “Why are you here? Out with it.” 

The blood packet stopped just a few inches away from Zhang. Karris didn’t remove his finger.

“Craving some people.” He nonchalant answered. His canines flexed in and out. “Heard you are too.”

Craving some people. 

Sharp nails scrapped the table, causing the wood to splinter. A few curses in Mandarin slipped out. Zhang felt like a vein on his head was about to burst. “You know I don’t like eating humans, Karris.”

“Unless they’re the loathsome kind.” His face barely changed.

“… mhm.” Zhang couldn’t deny that. One of the few exceptions to his no hunting humans rule.

“So, I’ve found a nasty bandit camp we can make our dinner.” He tapped the blood pack a few more times, coating his finger quite heavily in blood. He then retracted his finger, bring his hand to his face and licked it off. “Mm, sweet and sharp. Your favorite right?”

“Fuck you.” 

This time a little smirk peeked through before Karris’ face became plain again. “So the bandit camp. They’ve attacked the local trading hub we’ve become friends with. Some kids got killed.”

Feeling his brow twitch ones more — and giving himself a headache — Zhang raised his hands to head and rubbed his temples. Karris, oh Karris. He wanted to strangle the man, but did he knew how to get to that animal side of him for certain hunts, and then the emotional side. Explained why camp was light this morning and some of their more resource people and “pack animals” had left around noon. Must have been helping survivors of that trading hub.

Just how many bandit groups had they run into now that were more troublesome than the local ADVENT patrols? Far too many. And he had killed more than a handful himself.

As he mulling over how he would respond to his pestering friend, he noticed that hand inching its way back to the blood pack. Oh, hell no.

Like a cracking whip, Zhang’s hand quickly snatched that packet up before Karris could start tapping it again. Then he bit into it, teeth sinking in, a spray of blood bursted out before he threw his head back and drank the blood. Sweet and sharp. Just delicious.   

Once every drop was gone, and his elongated tongue had cleaned up the mess he made of his face, Zhang tossed the pack aside and looked back at Karris. 

“When do you want to do this?” He was still annoyed, but could tell Karris wasn’t going to leave the subject alone. And after tasting that blood, he wanted more. Especially some fresh flesh.

“Tonight, if you’re available.”

“Tonight works.”

“Good.” The corners of Karris’ lips turned upwards as his canines partially retracted. He then patted the clothes and armor he brought. “Something for you to wear tonight. Should fit your flexibility. Supposedly the under-suit is made from the same symbiotic stuff Lynette’s and Marcus’ armor is made from.” Pressing his hand down on the pile, he pushed it over to Zhang, avoiding the blood streak on the table. “Unless you feel like hunting in the nude.” Those brows raised up in down quickly. A rare time for him to joke.

“Gǔn dàn.”Zhang’s remaining patience was thin.

“Meet you around the south side of camp tonight.” With that, Karris hopped off the crate and made his out of the tent. Still on all fours. Looked like that “hunt and study” part of his brain wasn’t off yet.

Zhang slumped deep down in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. Claws digging deep into his skin, almost drawing blood.

“I’m going to regret this aren’t I?” He just grumbled under his breath. How much he hated part of the new him; how easily it could be manipulated at times.

“Just hope neither of us go feral tonight if things get too hot.” 

He looked over to the clothes and armor Karris brought and picked them up and some examined them. As he ran his fingers over some of the armored platting, he felt it reverberate and a few psionic sparks popped off of him.

“Huh?” He ran his fingers along the metal again, nails skipping across the scratches and dings as his psionics fully activated. There was a pull coming from the armor, somehow entangling and enhanced his psioncs. “Part of this looks like that Priest armor. So… elerium has to be in this… Where did they get this?” Now he was curious. And he couldn’t wait to try this out.

“Tonight will be interesting.”

——

Hours passed, and day turned into night. A bright crescent moon shined above, accompanied by hundreds of stars. A chorus of bugs were happily chirping into the night.

Camp was humming with some activity. People were back from helping out the survivors of the trading hub and back to doing this usual duties around camp.

“I have a lot of questions concerning this armor, Karris.”

“Ask Burne and Navi when we get back. Just know they told me to deliver it to you.”

Karris and Zhang were are their meeting place and Zhang was showing off his new armor. Light, flexible, and plated sections covered the most vulnerable parts in all the right places. 

They started hashing out their plan. They would work carefully survey the bandit camp, get a headcount, and figure out their movements before striking. 

“Quick or slow?” Karris asked, picking at his teeth with a claw.

Quick or slow. A question Zhang didn’t want to think too much about. That wild part of him enjoyed the thrill of the hunt, his prey struggling to survive as he overpowered him. Sometimes he wondered if it was slowly eroding his humanity.

“We’ll see what happens.” He answered. 

After a few more plans being made, the two set off towards the bandit camp.

——

It took a few hours, but the two located the bandit camp. It was just a small shopping center they had taken over. There was some decent activity, people moving gear around, chatting around the fires, or messing around and firing off their guns are some bottles. There was a decent amount of rabble from those talking about some of their recent raid and plans to commit some more.

Nearby the east end of the center, perched high in the thicket of some deciduous trees were Karris and Zhang. Glowing eyes peeked through the dense foliage and scanned the camp.

“How many are you picking up?” Zhang asked.

Karris took in a deep breath, flaring his nostrils. He then exhaled sharply, causing a white mist to wick out. “Good amount. Over 20, possibly more. Decent feast.”

“Hm…” His throat trembled. He could already taste their blood.

His eyes glowed gold for a moment as they darted around picking up small little pings as he did a quick scan. “Around 25, give or take.” That nose of Karris seemed quite accurate. ”Something’s blocking my psionics with counting some of them.”

“Probably some shields they stole from the trade hub.” Karris growled.

“Who ever has them may be a minor nuisance.”

“Locate them first?”

Zhang nodded. 

“Hm…” Karris scratched at his throat. His eyes bounced around the landscape, taking in all the people and the buildings. “Find, mark, and meet at the top of the Burger Town.” He pointed a claw in the direction of the old abandoned fast-food chain.

“Sounds like a plan. Stick to the shadows.”

“Fadâye saret.” Karris chuckled before he carefully made his way down the tree and slinked off into the shadows.

Zhang soon followed, using his psionics to put out a small distortion field on any who may cross him.

Their reconnaissance began. 

Zhang prowled the grounds, shifting from wall to brush to dumpster as he searched for those with those troublesome mind shields. As he was doing so, he was making mental notes of what these bandits had. They had amassed a collection of weapons and armor; a decent amount was ADVENT. Though those DNA locks on the ADVENT weapons made them practically useless, especially if one didn’t know how to disassemble them safely. Then they had an abundant amount food. Canned, MREs, dried meats and more. Looks like they had food for months. 

Once done here we need to get the others so we can make better use of it.

As he continued his scouting, finding a few of those wearing the mind shields and making note of what they looked like and where they were; his disgust towards the bandits grew immensely. Those sharp ears overheard conversation after conversation of them gloating on their raids. How they easily overpowered them. How they slaughtered them. And then the trophies they took. Articles of clothing, jewelry, stuffed animals. The last made his chest hurt; a great fired burned within.

“All will die tonight.”

As he continued to skulk, his cover was nearly blown. By chance, he bumped into one who had one of those pesky shields. They are wandering, if not staggering, around out back, but he got them. A quick dash forwards, claws extended, and they dug deep into that unprotected neck before ripping it out. A gasp barely sputtered out as blood gushed out, crashing to the ground. Except it didn’t. Just mere centimeters from touching the dirty asphalt, the globules of blood began to pool just above, slowly pooling together into an ever shifting orb of shimmering crimson. Wisps of golden energy surrounded it.

Another gasped sputter came forth from them as eyes their trembled; mind trying to comprehend what just happened. A pained gasped slipped out. One that was twofold. What had happened had just set in and then they were feeling something else. Something being pulled out of them. Something warm.

Eyes shifting down, golden wisps circling around their gaping wound as their precious life blood was being pulled out. Their hands flew to their neck, grabbing at the blood in a desperate attempt to keep it in, to close the wound. But the liquid just slipped through their fingers. They opened their mouth to yell, to cry for help, but nothing came out. As they took a step away from their attacker to get back to their friends, sharp pain shot their spine. A swift pounding headache before everything grew numb and distant. Those hands loosened around their neck. Wobbling, they fell. 

Zhang quickly caught them before they hit the ground and dragged them away towards some bushes nearby. That floating pool of blood followed.

With the body out of site, he kneeled down, head closing in on their neck. Flesh around his mouth quivered as his maw split into two revealing rows of teeth, all closing in on the neck of his victim. Just a quick bite. A taste. And to put them out of their misery.

As his teeth sank in, a ragged gasp came out and hands quickly flew to his face; nails scratched at it. Looked like they still had some life in them, but that didn’t matter. That maw clamped down even more, crushing what was left of their trachea as more blood spluttered out. There was another ragged gasped as those fingers tightened on his face before they loosened and dropped to the ground. His tongue lapped up that flowing blood before he pulled back, tearing out a hearty chunk of flesh. 

First kill and snack of the night.

The meat was everything he had been craving for a while. Savory and sweet. And that blood. It had a slight buzz to it; hints of alcohol was in the victim’s system. 

“Something new to jot down in my journal.” A few dark chuckles slipped out as he took a few more bites before hiding the body some more and plucked the psi shield off of them and pocketed it. As he was cleaning his face, that blood gathered by his psionics caught his eye.

The ever shifting orb of blood, sweet crimson twinkling under the moonlight. He couldn’t let it go to waste, he had to collect it. With just a thought, a simple flick of his finger, the blood traveled to his mouth, and he sucked it up. Delicious. After indulging, he went back to prowling.

He had no other run-ins as he located those other potential problems before heading to the Burger Town to meet Karris.

As he swiftly scaled the barely hanging on gutter, his ears twitched, picking up the sounds of someone gurgling and flesh being torn. He darkly chuckled. 

Reaching the roof, he had his answer. Karris hunched over the body of a bandit. Looked like he had claimed his first kill for the night and was tearing away at their throat.

Ears twitching, Karris slowly turned his head; those mismatched eyes met his. A thick chunk of flesh between his teeth and face covered in blood. He quickly snapped up the meat.

“See you indulged quite quickly.” He noticed the blood on Zhang’s armor and bits that lingered on his face.

“Shut up.” Said with a half-heartedly tone. ”Had a run in. Took care of it. See you may have done the same.” Zhang replied as he went over. “How many did you find? Located about five with the shields, minus one I eliminated.

“Found four, killed two.” He tapped the body he was eating. “Drunks away from camp, no one should notice they are missing.”

“Mhm.”

“So,” Karris paused, picking at some meat stuck between his teeth, “quick or slow?” A deep rumble of a growl came out. His canines shuttered.

Quick or slow. That question again.

Zhang just grinned, eyes twinkling gold as his lower jaw split open for a moment. “Terrorize.”

“So slow.” A smirked peeked through that usual dead expression. “Psi madness bomb?”

Zhang nodded. He raised his hand, flittering his fingers as a golden psionic orb appeared. “Turn them against themselves. It’ll give us an edge during all the confusion.”

“And single out the shield wearers.” Karris liked the plan. “Now where did you find yours?” 

Zhang told him the locations of the other shield wearers were before they would spring their plan.

——————————

Taking a few minutes to indulge in his kill once more, Karris left the roof and headed back to the sections where he had found those with the shields once they finished their talk.

Zhang stayed on the roof. Hand rotating a psionic orb around as he watched the activity below. The bandits were still partying, doing their own things, completely oblivious to their presence. 

He focused on the area with the biggest campfires. Most were there. Chest flexing, a deep dark chuckle escaped. A carefully planted psi bomb would allow him to ensnare their minds.

“Been a while since I pulled at fears. Wonder if I’m rusty.” 

He mused to himself how he was going to twist their vision and thoughts to cause infighting. 

“In position. Set it off.”

Receiving a message from Karris, he grinned. 

Outstretching the hand holding the orb, his eyes glowed brightly. More golden wisps appeared around it as coils traveled down his arm. A few more seconds of intense concentration, he clutched is fist, and the orb disappeared in a flash.

“Let’s begin.”

——————————

Things were mostly nice and calm down in the camp. Music jamming. A little revelry amongst friends and lovers. Target practice bets going on. The night was good and tomorrow would be even better. More plans for more raids. This territory was theirs.

The celebrations continued on without care until… there was an odd sensation that crept in. A small tingle in the air, like little sparks of electricity was dancing on their skin. Then a breaching surge crashed forth, sudden skull-splitting shocks made everyone stop.

Before questions could be asked, a golden orb appeared in the middle of camp. Shining brighter than all the lights around. It lazily hung in the air, bobbing like a fishing lure.

“What the?” A few muttered as they fought to get their barrings. Maybe they were seeing things? Most had been drinking; some to excessive levels. A few went over to investigate.

The orb shuttered and grew. That just attracted more attention. Like a siren call, more went over to the possible new entertainment for the night.

“Wait…” But one didn’t. Pesky psi shields. “GET AWAY FROM THE THING IT’S PSION—“

The orb shuttered and grew once again before collapsing on itself like a dying star, then exploded outward throwing back those where too close to it. Psionic energy lashed out like a cracking whip, striking hot, linking on after another, ensnaring all minds without mercy. 

Cries of pain filled the air. Screams of terror soon followed. Gun shots rang out.

The world was thrown into disarray for all this affected, twisting into an ever turning, ever shifting, chaotic flurry of colors, thoughts, and hallucinations.

Friend became foe. Guns changed into biting cobras. Drinks and foods burst into a mass of spiders.

Those wearing those psi shields were not affected. But they had to worry about their friends trying to kill them now. Desperately, they were trying to snap some sense into them, but nothing they could do would shake off those entangling psionics.

There was one that finished putting a few bullets through their crazed friend’s chest and was making a break for the trees.

“Gotta get out of here! Damn ADVENT… This is probably that Warlock and his guys!” To them, it was every person for themselves. Too great of a risk to try and help any of the still sane out with how thick the madness was.

Just as they reached the tree lined, something hard hit their chest. A burst of energy reverberated through their body, knocking them onto their back hard. The trees and stars spun above them as their vision flickered in and out. Then something from the corner came towards them. A being shrouded in shadow. Their eyes glowed a bright gold. Didn’t look like the Warlock or any of his Priests.

A wheeze came out as this being placed a foot on their chest. The bandit grabbed at it and tried to shove it off to no avail.

“Bù, bù, bù.” Foreign words came from them. White teeth showed a twisted smile and oddly sharp teeth.

“Who… the hell… are you!?” 

The being kneeled down; the unnatural darkness shrouding them never shifted once, nor did that smile. 

“Ó, zhǐshì yè zhī èmó.” Still, they spoke in a foreign tongue. 

“Speak English you— ah!” A sharp gasp came out as they felt something in their throat. Something pierce their throat and dig around and pull at the muscles. Plucking at them like their were strings on a guitar. 

The bandit quickly shifted their hands to free their throat from the new pain but quickly found both hands pinned to the ground by the being’s hands and psionic coils. 

“Nǐ zhā zhā de èmèng.” The shrouded being growled. 

Then a terrifying sight unfolded before the bandit. How much they wanted to run away but all they could do was scream. That lower have of that smile split open like unfurling bat wings, revealing rows of sharp teeth. The next thing they felt were a searing pain and intense pressure on their throat. Desperately their tried to breathe. Desperately their fought trying to break free to get away from this monster. All was for naught as they felt their flesh being rendered and trachea being crushed. Then another searing pain came and so did a futile gurgled cry of pain.

“What the hell is this man?” Though the world was growing cold to them, that thought was clear in their mind as they watched this mad cannibal eat a part of them. And they were enjoying from the series of chuckles coming out. “To die to a freak like this!?”

The shrouded being’s eyes wandered to the side as they raised a hand to their face, that was coming back together, tapping at it “Kěkǒu. Duìyú dìqiú de zhāzǐ lái shuō, yīdiǎn yě bù chā.”

The bandit wanted to scream at them, curse them out. What sort of freak were they!? The only thing that came out were gurgles.

“Hm?” Golden eyes darted back down at them. That smile came back, but it was now crimson. “Bùnéng ràng zhè kǒu xuè báibái làngfèi.”  

Raising their free hand, golden energies swirled around it. The bandit “gasped” as their whole body shuddered. Energy coursed through it like a million needles were pricking them everywhere and something was compressing them. And then they felt an ever growing chill slowly form over them, starting at their toes and heading upwards.

“What’s… going… on… now…?” They could feel their mind grow heavier as the cold grew stronger and stronger with each passing second. Eyes felt like anchors as they futilely fought to stay awake. But the end was coming. And they saw how. Just from the cracks of those falling lids, they spotted something else swirling in the hand of their attacker besides the psionics. Glistening red. It was blood. Their blood. And their attacker was flicking a few globules over to their mouth like they were grapes.

“Cannibal freak.” Those lids closed fully.

——————————

Zhang finished siphoning the blood from the bandit and soon drank it all down.

“Heh, heh, heh.” He darkly chuckled as he licked his lips. “Wonder how they enjoyed the show.”

As he was kneeling down to get another bite out of them, a series of gunshots, shooting, and an animalistic roar caught his attention. His head jerked back in the direction of the bandit camp and he caught a glimpse of Karris scrambling down a gap between the building and to the rooftop and a small group giving chase. He wasn’t quite sure if they were ones with psi shields or ones driven insane as a few were partially overcoming the psionic trickery.

“Looks like he needs a hand.” Zhang quickly got back to his feet and moved to help his friend.

In little time he closed the gap. Though he had to put down a few of the surviving maddened that attacked him as he moved passed, but that took little effort.

He struck first at the last bandit that was climbing up the ladder to the roof. Dragging them down by their legs and throwing them to the ground. He was a silver blur as he pounced on them and clawed at their chest and throat with a furry of swipes like a rabid animal; snarling all the way, ignoring their cries of pain that quickly grew silent.

Shots rang out. There were a few pings then a hiss. A sharp, piercing pain to his left shoulder made him stop. His eyes met the shooter. Teeth bared, a snarl came out, and he darted off as more shots were fired; heading towards the back and out of sight.

The bandit followed only to be surprised by this human leaping the height of a single story building with little effort. Shots and snarls rang out until both stopped and a cry of pain was cut short.

“We’ve got another freak!”

“What the hell!?”

“There two of these cannibals!”

Zhang was barely done tearing into his target when he heard them, but he looked over and saw at least five guns trained on him. Beyond those targeted him were a few others still giving chase to Karris who looked to be holding his own.

He snarled, unfurling his jaw and thrusted a psionic imbued hand at them. Two cried out, clutching their heads. They fired at him, but he was already on the move. Towards them. The two he ensnared soon fought their friends, attempting to disarm them, and before they knew it Zhang had pinned the free one down and was tearing at their throat. One by one the others feel to his blood-soaked claws, desperately trying to close a wound before all went cold.

Zhang was about to pause to collect the blood until a pained yelp of a cry caught his ear and his eyes snapped to where Karris was. Looks like a shot found its way through Karris’ armor and nailed him in his stomach from the way he was clutching that area. He snarled and quickly headed over to him.

Just like the others, Zhang ensured the minds of the weak and had them turn on their friends, allowing him and Karris to eliminate the others with ease.

Finally, the night was silent — minus the music still jamming away.

Zhang panted hard, wiping the sweat away from his brow smearing more blood on his face. He looked over at Karris, panting as hard as him, and just blood soaked as he was, who was still clutching his stomach.

“Rrrgh?” A growl came out as he gestured to him and towards the wound. He raised his hand and let his psionics flow. Karris shook his head. A few grunts and he dug the slug out, tossing it to the side. Seeing that, Zhang turned his psionics onto himself to treat his own wounds.

Once done, he sniffed the air a few times. Nose tempted by the smells of blood and flesh, Zhang got down and sniffed at the bodies, figuring out which one he wanted to dig in first.

“Hm!” One that reeked of alcohol tickled his nose and he quickly made his way over to it. He wanted that buzz of a spice flavoring again.

As he reached the body and was about to grab it, it moved away. Furrowing brows, he looked up and soon snarled. Looked like Karris had similar ideas.

“RARGH! With a deep, ferocious snarl, Zhang quickly grabbed an arm and pulled back. He bared his teeth.

“RRRGH!” Karris snarled and pulled back. He too bared his teeth.

The next second, the two were wrestling, clawing and biting at each other like a pair of angry dogs. The fighting went on for a while, at times the two nearly rolled off the roof, until one of the came out on top. It was Zhang.

Deeps lines etched into furrowed brows, eyes glowing with great fire, his face twisted into a grimace. That maw opened wide as a long, deafening roar came out as he closed in on Karris’ face. Karris turned away, slightly closing his eyes.

Once that roar finished, Zhang panted. He was still angry. Karris barely made eye contact with his, but closed his mouth and kept his palms open. Submission. Zhang let out another snarl followed by a snort before getting off of him and claimed his prize. He dragged it away from him before he dug in.

Letting a few minute pass, Karris finally got up and found another body to claim.

The two ate their fill for the night, thankfully not getting into another spat. Instead, there was more play fighting like brotherly lions once they had their initial cravings satisfied. Tug o’ wars over arms and legs and sometimes bone.

 Before the food would make them drowsy, the two swept the camp and gathered the leftover bodies into one spot so Zhang could “preserve” them for later. After that, Zhang then set up a few psionic traps and alarms just in case they could have visitors.

They then found a place to turn in for the night after their invigorating hunt. They found some bed rolls and blankets and brought it to one the fires that had more secure surroundings with at least three walls standing.

Enjoying the warmth of the fire, Zhang was busy cleaning a few chunks of flesh stuck under his claws and occasionally licking off the blood. Though his sane mind was not fully there as his more animalistic side was still strong, he knew he was going to take a long soak in the local river to clean himself.

He barely noticed Karris move over to him until he heard a few clangs on the floor. Glance down, he saw several of this psi shields. A few were broken. He looked at him; the man was on all fours and avoiding eye contact. Zhang flared his nose rolled his eyes. A peace offering. Still must be a bit leary from earlier.

 He let out a gruff growl pointed at Karris’ bed roll before patting the spot next to him a few times. He was over the spat they had and didn’t care where he slept. With non-hostile approval, Karris fetch his roll and came back over and got himself comfortable. 

Zhang noticed something on his head. Blood running from a portion of skin split open around those black and red implants on his head. Must have come from a bullet.

“Rrrrgh…” A sad, annoyed growl slipped out. He leaned over and picked at it with a claw. Karris growled back and pulled away only to yelp when Zhang grabbed him by his collar and pulled his back. He picked at it some more before letting some psionic energy loose and into the wound. Karris gritted his teeth as the energy burned the area as the flesh stitched itself back together. After it did so, Zhang picked at it a bit more, studying his handiwork, before he looked him all over like a worried hen, making sure there was no more damage.

“Hmph. Mhm.” He let go of Karris and went back to picking at his claws. 

A few grumbles and gruff snorts came from Karris as he got comfortable once more.

Eventually their meals caught up to them and the two were out like a light. Soundly slumbering, huddling together, until morning came.

——————————

A deep groan came from Zhang as he came to, knuckles firmly planted to his temples and rubbing furiously away.

“What the hell?” He grumbled under his breath with eyes closed tight. 

Not only did his head hurt, but his whole body hurt. There was just a numb soreness radiated through all his limbs that would occasionally become a shooting pain.

“What happened…?” He muttered mostly to himself. His hands shifted to his and gave them a good rub. Which was somewhat hard due to the lingering stickiness. A stickiness that made him pause. 

Eyes fluttered open as he pulled his hands away. They were mostly clean. He glanced down. His armor on the other hand was not. The dark sandy brown and white plating was coated in dried blood with flakes of flesh decorating it. Looking down further, there was more blood on his pants and his feet were just coated in dried blood.

A deep sigh slipped out as he pinched his nose. “Ugh… how did last night go?” It was all a blur to him and that worried him.

“Pretty well.” Karris answered, followed by some smacking.

Zhang’s head spun to find him. Karris was sitting a few feet away. It did not surprise him to see he was snacking on someone’s leg.

“Your definition of well is different from mine.” 

“We’re still alive, minus a few wounds.” Karris grinned.

“Niánqīng rén…” The small chastisement only made Karris let out a gruff laugh.

“We both went a bit feral after you let off that psi bomb.” Karris began to explain as he had near perfect recollection of the night. “Got into the slaughter, especially with the few that remained. And then…” He paused taking a bite of the leg.

“Then what?” Zhang just felt a lump grow in his throat and no matter how hard he swallowed it wouldn’t go away. And Karris was taking his sweet time eating that leg. “Spit it out!”

Barely phased, Karris took his time with the meat before swallowing. “We attacked each other.”

Zhang’s brows went up. They did that? He was expecting something bad happened, but that wasn’t too terrible. “We… we attacked each other?”

“Had interests in the same meal. Time to assert dominance.” He bared his teeth for a moment. “You won, got the point across, and I backed off once free. You’re pretty strong.”

“Huh…” Still that did plant a few seeds of worry in Zhang’s mind. An animalistic part of his brain though could make him turn on his friends at a possible challenge or slight. He need to see if he could wrangle that part with his psionics. “Sorry if I… If I caused you any harm.”

Karris waved him off. “What’s done is done. Small spat, no real harm done. Probably less testing for dominance in the future.”

Zhang wasn’t sure what to make of that, but didn’t feel like dwelling on it for the time being.

“You mother hen-ed me later anyway.” He tapped at the side of his head, near a inflamed slash by those implants.

“I did what now?”

Karris explained it and then filled him in that he had already fetched the more “open-minded” part of the group to come and get the bandits’ ill-gotten gains while he was still slumbering. Since many at camp would throw an absolute fit if they brought back human corpses as food for certain people, they would just leave the bodies here. And the two had already had their fill for human flesh. Hopefully that craving would be satisfied for a long while.

Once Karris finished his breakfast, the two did a few more rounds around the place to make sure nothing was missed before heading back to camp.

“Do not speak of last night to anyone. Understand?” Zhang said with a slight growl to his voice. Narrowed eyes shimmered gold for a second.

Karris barely raised a brow, barely breaking the “dead” look in his eyes. “Understood.” He pinched two fingers together before sliding them against his lips. “And you mother hen-ing my wounds.” He grinned.

“Good.” He really didn’t want to think about his actions, but he knew he would have to make contingencies for them in the future. His brow twitched hearing the mention of that. “Shut it.”

[eelnoise]

seraphim

roronoa zoro x afab!reader c/w: bloodlust, consensual bloodplay, zoro bites, you scratch, religious themes, body worship, slight breeding kink, piv sex, creampie, manhandling, praise, post-murder sex (reader and zoro just killed a bunch of marines), public sex a/n: ? idk what even to say. i like my men bloody and i like when they bloody me. this is a rewrite of a previous fic which you can find here so if ur like "ive read this b4..." its because you kinda have banner by the lovely @buggyandthebartoclub!

Zoro isn’t a religious man.

No, he finds the very notion of reverence visceral.

Though as he turns back toward you, he’s dumbstruck. You face away from him, pulling the blade of your sword deep from the torso of a fallen naval officer and watching as the light fades from his eyes. Both of you had emerged victorious after a merciless and surprise assault from a group of marines in the middle of an open town square on some island that neither of you can remember the name of, where a large statue stands tall in honor of some long-forgotten hero at its center.

The scene is heavenly, you there - surrounded by the wages of spilled blood that pools beneath your feet, the remnants of singing steel permeating the now hallowed ground upon which you stand. There’s a certain beauty in chaos, and never has Zoro felt it quite as clearly as when he watches you tear into your foes with reckless abandon. The image makes him shiver - not in fear or revulsion, but something far more primal, deep within his gut.

He’s speechless as he observes you wiping the excess carnage from your blade, a sensation akin to delight igniting in his veins and fixated on you like a hawk. It’s beautiful, truly, a stunning vision that he couldn’t even dream up. 

“Well, we took care of that little rat problem, hm?” Your words are heavy with pride and exertion, but the sound of your voice only spurs him from a daze that he didn’t even realize he was in.

Then you turn to him, visage tattered and torn and stained with crimson. Zoro’s mouth goes dry, and words fail him, tongue tied tightly in a knot that he can’t seem to unravel. You’re immaculate, and for the first time in his life he’s fighting the urge to exalt, to sing your praise, to deify you.

He mutters something that’s beyond your field of hearing as he continues to stare at you like a starved man would a feast. Zoro’s seen you wield that blade countless times, watched on as you cut down enemy by enemy without effort or ailment, but never have you looked as angelic as you do now. Standing amid a symphony of battle and gore, covered from head to toe in splattered blood that’s both yours and that of the deceased around you, the look of delight and self-satisfaction twinkling in your eyes as you grin at him from across the square, fuck, it’s all too much. 

You’re right, of course, the two of you can and did handle these sin and sinew wrapped rats with ease, but the more pressing matter is the effect that you’re currently having on his heart. Zoro takes a step forward, taking in the beauty of your face, bloodied and bruised but not conquered.

Curiously, you leer at him, head tilted in question as you sheath your sword along your back, taking note of the lack of the usual snarky remark from the swordsman. “Zoro?”

His eye flickers to yours, lips parted in what could only be described as awe. He looks at you as if you’re a muse, descended from on high to grace him with your presence, one that’s stunned him into near silence. “Yeah?” Zoro manages to reply quietly, tone raspy and voice a barely audible whisper against the breeze - a timbre you only hear from him when he’s injured or exhausted, a weak and feeble inflection that almost has you questioning if the man was actually hurt.

Zoro’s jaw visibly tightens, his one open eye alight with the same burn that he eyes an opponent with, expression twisting into one that you know all too well. The face he only makes when -

He wants you.

Your war-torn, bloodthirsty appearance has overwhelmed Zoro, the innate desire etched on his expression like a fool in a daze. Lips twisting into a devious smirk, you’re keen on taking advantage of this rare opportunity of power that you’ve been given over him, and you know exactly how to proceed. With a step toward him, you do something he doesn’t expect, something that has his nails digging into his palms.

You lick blood from your lips.

Zoro’s blood blazes, a carnal, raw emotion swells in his throat with urges he cannot fight - will not fight. Ever a man of action, he’s upon you faster than you can react. Large, calloused fingers envelop your waist, pulling you close in an instant and slamming his lips onto yours in a starved, feverish, messy kiss. The metallic tang of blood on his tongue mixed with the taste of you drives him increasingly wilder each second you stay locked together in the embrace, hastening him further into devoted bliss.

You writhe as he leaves your lips to trail down your neck, lapping up the viscous liquid that coats your flesh in his wake. Zoro is fully prepared to kneel at your altar, to partake of and rejoice in each beautiful proverb that befalls from your sweet tongue, to bathe in every hymn you bestow.

Zoro's hands roam over your body, feeling the contours of your curves beneath the fabric of your torn clothing, tracing the delicate lines of your collarbone and shoulders before coming to rest on the small of your back, holding you firm against him. He feels like he could drown in this moment, in the warmth and passion that courses through his entire being.

Zoro grins wildly, a feral expression on his face as he feels the warmth of your skin beneath his fingertips, the heat of your breath against his neck, and the sound of your voice washing over in melodic harmony. He wants nothing more than to revel in this moment, to lose himself completely in the intensity of the connection that you share.

“You wouldn’t believe how good ya look like this,” He growls into your skin, his chapped lips dancing across your collarbone and up to your shoulder. “I feel like I shouldn’t even be allowed to see ya. Feels…” words wane into a series of open-mouthed kisses along your shoulder and into the crook of your neck, deeply inhaling the intoxicating scent of blood, sweat, and battle on your flesh, “...wrong.”

“Doesn’t seem to be stopping you,” You purr, allowing a soft, pleased sigh to slide from your throat when he adds his teeth to the wet assault upon your skin, gently nibbling and grazing at you in a manner that grows hungrier and more sporadic with every passing moment. 

“We both know I ain’t much of a rule follower.” Zoro’s husky voice is hot on your ear, his warm breath sending a jolt of longing right through your nervous system. The hand low on your back begins to wriggle its way through tattered tendrils of threads that once made up your shirt, fingers spread wide as it skims up your pliant softness, tracing along your waist and up between your shoulder blades.

Zoro's touch isn’t quite tender, a clear indication of his burgeoning lust you suspect, but there's honesty, sincerity in his newfound charge. He knows that you aren't fragile, the evidence fresh and red around you speaking well enough on its own, so why stay the hand that plys the sword? 

Men fall to their hands and knees in prayer to gods they’ve never seen, begging for mercy and crying out for deliverance that will not come.

But you - he can see you, he can hear you. 

He can touch you.

Taste you.

You're divine. A paragon of a twisted and bloodied form of justice. It's you that's stupefied him, luring him into a deistic high that has Zoro practically foaming at the mouth with innate desire.

His painfully hard cock strains against his thigh with means to worship you wholly, to partake in his own ideals of perverse, distorted devotion. He breathes in your salty-sweet scent once more and groans in longing, the taste of your crimson essence on his lips makes him feel like an offering to an idol., and every drop that drips down his chin only serves to heighten his senses even more.

He looks up at you through an eye glazed over with depraved adoration, and all he can think of is how good you look, how delicious you are on his tongue, how much he wants to please you, be consumed in your immaculate presence, and to offer himself up as a sacrifice to the darker and more nefarious desire within him.

The urge to claim, to take what he wants from you and find salvation surrounded by your benevolent hold. To act upon the impure aspiration that pulsates in his mind in ways that would make even the most vileindividuals gawk. He yearns to clean the blood from your sacred, championed skin, a lust filled ritual to send you both into sacramental euphoria. 

He’s in a frenzy, feeling and touching each curve and crevice across your body while pulling you impossibly closer to him. Before Zoro can even think, he’s sinking his teeth into your shoulder, overcome with enlightened debauchery and biting down until that deathly addictive taste of your blood is fresh on his tongue once more - a testament to the depth of his obsession and the power of your shared experience.

The pain burns hot, but brief - quickly dissipating away into a cry of raw pleasure, a moan so salacious and so absolute that Zoro feels the very last of his will slipping through his fingers. He laps over the decently deep mark, his saliva mixing into the cuts like kindle to flame and earning him another woefully delightful wail of exasperation.

He thinks himself safe for the interim, that he’s pulled some sense back from the brink - until you say the one thing that shatters him to pieces.

“Do that again.”

He doesn’t deny you, and without hesitation he obliges by drowning his teeth back into your shoulder, pressing deeper into the wound and savoring the way your blood flows across his lips and into his mouth, painting his face red in the process. He grinds his hips against yours in a primitive display of dominance, while his fingers dig into your flesh with bruising force as you dig your nails into his back through his sweat and blood damped shirt.

Despite the danger posed by your actions amidst the threat of more marines, there is something undeniably beautiful about this dance of life and death. In this fleeting moment, Zoro and you find a kind of transcendence - a place where boundaries blur and limits vanish, leaving only pure, unadulterated passion in its wake.

His lips return to yours, and soon enough you feel yourself being whisked off your feet. The open air of the square leaves little room for privacy, but you know he doesn't care. Zoro walks with you in his arms, lips locked together in a messy, bloody, passionate kiss, your legs tight around his waist before he eases you down onto the lip of nameless hero's memorial upon which he plans to ravish you.

Zoro releases his hungry attack on your lips and rips the remnants of your shirt in two, leaving you bare to him as if an offering of communion. To feast upon your body, to drink upon your wine.

You gasp, wincing just a little from the shock of the fresh air upon your chest. “Zoro-” you begin, his name emanating from your breathless lungs as you watch the fabric fall to the ground around you. 

“Y’can have mine,” He replies, leaning forward to pull one of your nipples into his mouth. “After I’m done with ya.” Zoro’s mouth suckles greedily, teasing your sensitive nub with his tongue before biting down hard enough to make you squeal and arch your back, but not draw blood.

His free hand traces down your side, finding respite upon your inner thigh and squeezing tightly onto it, growling as the fresh wound on your shoulder trickles down your chest and right onto his lips and eliciting an absolutely lewd groan from Zoro as he laps it up.

He gazes up at you with an intensity that borders on madness, his eyes burning with an unbridled lust that has you keening. “Ya taste so fuckin’ good,” he growls between his assault on your chest, “God, I can’t get enough.”

“Then take as much as you want.”

And fuck, he does. In an instant does he pop his lips from you to slide your pants away, somehow careful enough to not rip them to shreds - something you’d have to thank him for later. Without even removing his swords from his hip, let alone his own pants - Zoro simply rushes to undo the clasps and push the waistband down enough to free his length, thick and leaking, to bounce out against your pelvis. 

You can feel it even through your underwear, warm heat radiating from what you desire most in this world at this moment. Zoro looks at you, gaze lingering on yours as he slides the fabric shielding your sex to the side and grips your hip with one hand and his cock in the other. He teases it over your slickness tantalizingly while sliding it between your folds and inch by inch are you filled so wonderfully, stretched and stuffed so marvelously full that each tense or twitch of him inside you makes the edges of your vision blur and has you wailing in pleasure.

As soon as your hips are flushed against one another, he gives you but a moment of adjustment before rutting his hips into you quickly, a rhythm so ruthless and wild that leaves you able to do little more aside from gasp out breathlessly and brave his savage ruin. You’re not even sure when your nails crept up his shirt, or when they burrow sharply into his shoulder blades until they’re etching down his back, the crescent shaped lines running his skin raw and bloody, scathing scores fueled by ferocious, crude passion.

He folds you then, one of his hands coming to grip over both of your wrists to pin them above your head as an arm forces your thigh downward. Zoro leans over you, your ankle now bouncing wildly next to his ear while he plows into you at a newer, deeper, more luscious angle. 

Skin slaps against skin in company with brazen indulgence, a foul yet righteous lament for the fallen mere feet from you. From this more cramped position, you’re all but forced to keep eye contact with him - and he’s looking nowhere else but at your face, enraptured by every sound and move you make as you squirm in his hold.

Your desperate pants mix, leaving patches of sweat to pool between your chests. Zoro’s increasing gasps and snarls of ecstasy ring loud in your ear, the sounds echoing through you like a quake and causing you to flutter around his cock. He hisses, harsh and shrill in your ear and with a throaty grunt he pulls out of you, letting your legs fall to the stone pavement and releasing his grasp on your wrists to firmly twist you by the shoulders, spinning you around and sprawling his hand on your lower back to shift you forward into an arch.

He’s sinking into you again, fingers tight and stinging at your waist and burying himself fully inside of you once more. There isn’t even a moment given for reprieve, the man continuing to fuck you as if he hadn’t even left your dripping heat and making you cry out in hypnotizing delight. 

Zoro smacks your ass, relishing in the ripple effect in your pliable flesh left in the wake of his blow. “Shit,” he exhales, adjusting his machinations of impurity to wrap his arms around your waist and lifting you from the ground, holding you in place mid-air and thrusting into you with less and less fluidity by the second. “Feel so fuckin’ amazin’, always do but god damn do you feel so fuckin’ incredible right now.”

You reach back to lock an arm around his neck seeking any leverage to keep yourself upright amidst his onslaught. You’re moaning something incoherent, words neither of you recognize due to the lust-filled haze that fills your minds, feeling the pull of release pit low in your belly as his balls slap against your clit at a rapid pace. 

Delirium bids its toll upon you, tears prickling at your eyes as the climb to your closely approaching high reaches its limit. Drool slides down your chin and onto your neck, and in an instant Zoro catches it with his mouth, once again dissenting on your flesh and gnawing his incisors into your neck - sucking and biting with brutal obsession and marking your angelic skin in devout defiance. The growing familiarity of the warm flow of blood trickling from the bruised indents in your skin makes you crack, flying over the edge with a scream of his name.

He doesn’t slow as you ride out the waves of pleasure coursing through your body, still slamming into you a breakneck speed. You twitch and twist in his arms, the hard beating of his cock keeping a state of hyperstimulation over you, the whimpers and cries of weak will and breathless joy beginning to tip him over the edge. 

The only thing in Zoro’s fogged head is his need to flood you with his spend, to pack you to the brim with his cum until it drips out of you and onto the stone below. He doesn’t even care if you’re bred full of his brats after this - if anything it would show just how he reveres you, claiming you as his own personal magnificence. 

His jaw tenses, still attached securely on your neck, as he cums. Loud groans and grunts and sighs of relief vibrate against your skin, Zoro’s dick leaking and draining into you as your walls milk him for all that you can manage. 

A few final, slow motions and he slides out of you, gently placing you on the ground and instantly rolling his shirt from his shoulders to hand it to you. “As promised,” Zoro says, a deviously weak grin on his face, moving to wipe his brow after you’ve taken the clothing from his outstretched hand. “Want me to patch ya up when we get back?”

“If you don’t mind, yeah.” You reply as you toss the shirt over yourself gently, minding the wounds that line your body as you do so.” Would rather not be asked any questions I don’t want to answer.” Zoro nods, chuckling softly before helping you clean up, using scraps of your ruined shirt as makeshift bandages and rags before he lifts you into his arms for a third time, though this one with the intention of carrying you safely back to the others - a soft apology for his brutality on your flesh, but one he knows he doesn’t need to say.

[mythicamagic]

Exalted One - a Sukuna x Reader fic

Summary: An apothecary ostracised by her village for witchcraft.

A murderous cannibal who practises sorcery.

Like oil and water, the two shouldn't mix. Heian era fic.

-----

AN: Sukuna x Reader/OC depending how you look at it. Idk ignore me I won't be able to update this for like a month but I have poor impulse control. This is written in third person because its more comfortable for me than first.

Read on Ao3 - here

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Smoke. It billowed thick and black into the sky, seeping into her lungs. Flames roared, submerging everything in bright flickering lights and casting thick shadows all at once.

The woman remained bent low on hands and knees, crumpled in the street. Everything in her screamed to move. Her teeth chattered with the force of it. She could do little more than watch, frozen in place as one such thick shadow rippled, giving way to the towering figure that blocked her path- one of his many arms lifting a screaming man aloft. 

The villager's legs swung, flailing wildly as a large hand squeezed tighter around his neck. One of his feet struck- hitting the creature in the belly. 

"Heh, tickles." 

A sick slap of flesh splitting open reached her ears as- to her horror- a mouth opened up on the creature's stomach, spreading wide into a grin. It caught the man's flailing foot between its teeth, sucking his calf inside before a harsh 'snap' and crunch could be heard. 

If the man had been screaming before, he was inconsolably shrieking and wailing his heart out now. Blood oozed from the remainder of his stump as he yanked it free, unable to squirm away from the collection of four arms holding him captive. 

The woman flinched and covered her ears, but it was useless. She'd seen too much now, heard it all. So many villagers lay scattered in ruined body parts and sinew. 

It had been such a normal, ordinary day. Nothing had heralded this slaughter, not one bad omen. The woman had opened her apothecary as per usual, and left a herbal remedy for Mrs Okami’s back pain on her doorstep. The boy called Shinta and old man Yunko had ignored her as usual on their way to the fishing lake. None of them had tossed an insult toward her at all- it had even seemed like things were looking up.

Now they were all dead- or perhaps some had been fortunate enough to flee, escaping the burning houses and terrifying monster stalking the streets. What she'd initially thought had been a random army attack turned out to be just one force of chaos. A natural disaster disguised as a misshapen human.

He was tall- far taller than any man she’d met- and stripped to the waist as if to show off the murderous arms he’d used to pluck frightened people from their homes. He’d killed them with the glee and indifference of a child toying with their dolls.

The woman shuddered as her neighbour was ripped limb from limb and split down the middle, watery noises of blood splashing onto the ground. The sound threatened to empty her stomach again. 

"Hm, raw food doesn't agree with me like it used to," the creature tsked, a second tongue appearing from his cheek to lick crimson stains off one of his meaty hands. 

Her breathing hitched, air freezing in her lungs. What was he? 

Demon.

The word stuck and refused to leave her mind. 

Burning red eyes turned towards her as if she’d spoken the word aloud. She jolted, heart leaping into her throat. Oh no no no no-

The creature dropped the remains of the neighbour's carcass. They met the ground with a sickening thud. His lips twitched and spread wider, sizing her up. He took a single step- but adrenaline kicked in and she was already up and scrambling away. 

It was useless of course. No one could outrun him after the things she'd seen, but her legs couldn't be stopped. 

She fled into her Apothecary at the far outskirts of the village, knocking pots over in her haste. 

Mother. 

It felt important at that moment to hold onto something familiar. If she was going to die- it would be while keeping the memory of someone who loved her close. With this in mind, she grabbed a well-worn bamboo book off the shelf and hugged it to her chest, grabbing a knife in her free hand and crouching against the corner of the room, hiding in the dark. 

It didn't take long before the entirety of her front entrance was ripped away. 

The roof was pushed back to reveal a firelit sky, the ceiling screeching with the snap of support beams failing. Tattooed hands were suddenly reaching into her ruined hut, his fingers spread wide, nails sharp and ready. The woman screamed as she was grabbed, scooped up into malevolent arms without much effort. 

The creature grinned and straightened outside. "You thought you could run despite seeing everything I’ve done? You- who sat back for such a long time and stared at me with a stupid expression,” he chuckled. “While the attention was flattering, I thought you might have learned something from it- and would show far more spirit than this." 

He squeezed, the sensation tightening hard and cruel around her waist, and she gasped, grip loosening on the knife until it clattered to the ground. 

Red eyes smiled, dancing with mirth when she cursed and twisted in his hold, kicking uselessly and sinking her free-hand’s nails into his arm, scratching and clawing. At one point- she bit down into the meat of his arm. The action had him chuckling richly- jolting her so hard in his grip that the book in her hand fell loose. The woman cried out, straining uselessly as it collided with the ground in a clatter of wood, cotton and string.

The air around him changed, everything falling silent. The steel band crushing her lungs eased.

"What's this?" 

Mother’s book was snatched from the earth, the demon looking it over curiously with all four of his roving eyes. 

"No! Give it back-" she swiped for it, missing as he held it out of reach. "I-it's useless to you. Please give it back to me." 

With two hands holding her waist, it was easy for him to open the lovingly crafted book. She had no idea if he could even read the handwritten strips of bamboo. 

He took his time, stroking his chin consideringly. Narrowed eyes flicked back to her after a moment. Despite the bloodlust he’d displayed, it unnerved her to see shrewd intelligence within his gaze. "Now I see…looking at you more closely, you're not from these lands, are you? This written in your native tongue?" 

She trembled but set her jaw. Not trusting her voice, she gave a faint nod. 

"Hm. And you can read it?" 

Again, she nodded, albeit with confusion and no small amount of fear. 

The book was tossed in her general direction and she gasped, lurching up to catch it. "Hold onto it then," he dismissed casually, glancing at the remains of her hut. "Got any more books like this?" 

"N-no. This is the only one.”

"Pity," his velvety voice drawled, belying the wicked smile that spread across his lips. "Oh well, you'll do for some late-night amusement at least." 

TBC

[violettduchess]

A/N: Welcome to my new series! While I am still working on my Kiss fics with the Vamp suitors, Prince suitors can move on to this which begs the question: What is it like with your suitor right after the fireworks of making love?

This is not a request but my own decison to start with Gilbert as it is the first fic after his route release and I wanted to test the waters with writing him. I am happy to say I think I found a balance between what I have imagined before and canon.

Gilbert x reader

Warning: Minor spoiler from his route

Word Count: 533

You are a prisoner. Your cell? The circle of Gilbert’s arms, the weight of his leg pinning yours to the matress, the scrape of his teeth over the rounded curve of your shoulder, holding the promise of another rosy bite. Another flower in the garden of crimson and pink blossoms he has already decorated your body with. Floral garlands of his desire adorning you like sylvan cords. He tightens his embrace, an anaconda wrapping itself around its prey, reassuring itself that the prey is still there. Reminding the prey that it has no hope of escape.

But you do not want to escape. You welcome your captor, the man with one eye blue as heaven and one eye red as hell. He has taken your heart, against all odds, against all logic, and cups it protectively, possessively, in his bone-white hands, hands that have delivered ruthless justice accompanied by the sharpest of smiles, and he will trample any man, woman, nation or God underfoot before he lets it go. You sigh, running your fingertips over the cool skin of his forearms, over the lines of sinew and muscle under the moonlight of his skin, the topography of a heavenly body whose gravity binds you.

“If my Häschen is still able to sigh, then I have not done my job.”

His voice is by your ear, soft as starshine, dark as pitch. It still sinks into your consciousness like a stone in still waters, but the ripples that emanate from that smooth tongue and spread through your veins are not pulsing with fear as they did when you first met, but smoldering with desire, gleaming with something you would dare call love. You bite back a smile, your lips still sore from the gnaw of his teeth, the demanding drive of his tongue.

He is a ravenous lover, your Obsidian emperor. Forever hungry, never satisfied. Even now, just minutes after you exploded like radiant meteors across the night sky, even as your skin is still sparking from the assault of his fingers and mouth, he is restless, needy, turning you around so that you face him, both of you shrouded by the dim shadows of his bedroom.

“Your job?” Your voice is rounded by tenderness, worn down like a stone to smooth affection by the waves of Gilbert's relentless insistence that you are his.

There is so much beauty in that face, in that gaze, that you can’t help reaching up, touching his face with a gentle hand, fingers stroking the line of his jaw. His eyes close, his breath shuddering in his chest at your touch, at the loving caress you bestow upon him. This is all he has ever wanted. He turns his head, catching your finger between his white teeth, your tiny gasp as loud as an explosion in his ears. He smiles slowly, sucking on the offended finger, pain and pleasure twining together like velvet barbs dancing along your sensitive nerves. Suddenly, he shifts and the world tilts. You are underneath his long body, caged in by his arms, pinned yet again by the press of his hips.

“My job,” he murmurs as he lowers his head, breathing in the familiar scent of your hair, the one that perfumes his every thought. “Is to leave you so breathless, that not even a single sigh is possible.”

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-writer @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @redheadkittys @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @queen-dahlia @aceuuuuu @scorchieart @bubblexly @joiedecombat

[i--am--the--sheep]

If I Don't Sleep (I'll Never Dream) [ch 4]

read fic warnings and find other chapters here

Rei’s sleep started dreamless.  He wishes it would have stayed that way.

It starts with memories of the dogs.  Rei always had cared for animals.  It was his father’s first lesson – don’t care for anything but yourself.  He hears them before he sees them, snapping and growling on their chains.  They were raised to fight – aggression sewn into their sinews and soaked into their bones by a life of torture.  They were alive for the same reason as he was: violence.

His father takes him outside, pressing a knife into his palm.  He’s silent, but the look in his eyes is clear.  Only one of you will leave this field.  The dream turns into a flurry of pain, and blood, and gore, before the scene suddenly changes with the loud ringing of a gunshot.  He failed.

Things shift.  He’s staring down at Kazuki’s mutilated, bullet-riddled body.  He’s covered with blood.  The gun is in his hand.  This is his fault, he’s killed the one person he cares about.  He can hear a child crying – Miri?  

“Papa?”  He looks up, sees her cowering in the corner, weeping and spattered in crimson.  He can feel himself reach to her, hold her, comfort her, something, and she yelps.  Her arms are over her head, shielding herself as best she can.  “Please, papa,” is all she can cry out before her form fades and dissolves into dust.  

Things shift again.  He’s trapped, backed into a corner.  His father, his boss, is stalking towards him.  Suddenly, Rei is seventeen again, and he’s just fucked up his first big kill.  He’s certain that this is it.  This is the time the beating goes too far, the knife goes to deep, the blood flows too readily.  And he’s terrified.  He’s back to being some scared kid.  He’s sure everything and everyone is out to hurt him – the world, his father, himself.   

“Rei!”  His father’s voice is overwhelming, an all-encompassing storm of rage and wrath.  He gets close.  “Rei!  Rei!” 

He wakes with a start.  Someone is shaking his shoulders.  “Jesus, are you okay?” 

It’s sheer instinct.  One hand is around his assailant’s throat in a heartbeat, the other reaching for the weapons stowed beneath his pillow.  He doesn’t find one.

“Hey, hey, its me!”  A familiar voice barks at him, and Rei’s eyes focus in, his heart thudding in his chest.  Kazuki.  His hand recoils.

“You’re in my room, remember?  I don’t keep stuff there.”  Kazuki nods to where Rei’s hand is still under the pillow, grasping for some sort of knife or gun.  “They’re usually in the nightstand.  Moved ‘em though, you’re jumpy as all hell.”

Rei’s pulse slows, and he grumbles an apology that Kazuki wasn’t concerned about receiving.  

“Nah, my fault for waking you.  You were shaking pretty badly, wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Rei knows Kazuki doesn’t usually pry unless he needs to.  He could shrug, give absolutely no answer, and the two of them would return to whatever they were doing.  But that seems hurtful, after all Kazuki has done, after what they’ve been through.  Rei doesn’t think he cares about being hurtful.  Maybe he does with Kazuki.

On the other end, talking, sharing, seems daunting.  It makes his stomach churn.  Things like this stir up such a strong reaction from him.  He figures its probably because the other times he brought anything like this up at his father’s house, he’d get beaten within an inch of his life.  His bones ache just thinking about it.  

He ponders for a moment, thinking.  

“Nightmare.”  Just enough information to make Kazuki happy, not so much that Rei would throw up.  Kazuki hummed in acknowledgement.  Silence stretches on for a bit before Kazuki pipes up.

“Can I touch?”  He always asks.  Rei sometimes nods.  Today is one of those sometimes.

Kazuki moves behind him, and Rei expects him to maybe untangle the knots in his hair, or dig his thumbs into the knots in his shoulders.  He’s not expecting to have his partner draped over his back, chin resting on Rei’s shoulder.  Kazuki’s all lean muscle, heavy on his spine, and it feels nice.  Grounding.  

“Kyu said Miri’s been asking for you.  Wants to know when she can come play Mario Kart.”

Rei huffs out half a snicker, bittersweet at the thought of her.  “Does… Does she know?”

“Kyu told her you got hurt in an accident.  That’s all.”  

“...When will she be back?”

Kazuki barks out a laugh.  “What, don’t tell me you miss that little devil?”

Most days, he would have backpedaled.  Taken it back, sworn he didn’t care to keep up appearances.  But its just them, and Kazuki’s weight on his back feels safe.

“Maybe a little.”  Kazuki doesn’t tease or goad, just nods.

“Me too.  Kyu won’t let her stay for too long.  He gets sick of making smoothies and shakes for her.  Just… Just need to make sure everyone is okay first.”

Rei knows that’s mostly about him.  He doesn’t ever feel okay.  Hasn’t for a while.  Doesn’t really feel okay now.  

It does feel a little bit better than usual though, here in Kazuki’s arms.

[fyeahnix]

for the ao3 ask game! 20 and 29?

20. Which work of yours have you reread the most? Dogsong, mainly because that's the only fic I actually published this year lmfaooo

29. Favorite line/passage you wrote this year? Hard to choose but probably this werewolf Sevika thing I wrote recently that was a scene that popped into my head in the shower one day.

CW for body horror and severe burn injury

She smirked. The one exposed canine elongated and pierced her lip, drawing crimson. It bled for a microsecond and stopped. The burnt and charred flesh hanging from her face slopped off. Missed your arm by three inches. The remaining muscles twitched pathetically in the same spot. Right before your eyes, sinew stitched and weaved itself together. Connected muscle to bone. Fresh blood oozed from the new junctures, and the metallic stench coated the back of your tongue. It didn't last, and soon enough, fresh, healthy muscle replaced the warped fibers. Little crackles snapped like arcs, only perceptible because you were so close together. The limbal ring around her irises expanded. Black overtook the whites of her eyes, underscoring a more prominent and striking gold. You were thankful for the distraction away from her ghastly face, but like a nightmare you couldn't shield yourself from, your attention rebounded there. Brown skin grew and stretched over the fresh muscle. Where teeth and bone had been exposed before, they were now hidden. Her jaw was intact, her cheek slim and angular. Sevika healed up like nothing had happened.

[sandsorghum]

The fic I've always wanted to write I don't know what to say about this one because it means a lot. Maybe once I get some distance, I've spent too much time with it. I'm just glad to have made it for Nanami's birthday, under the wire. But also it's unbeta'd. The format is new for me too, sort of a slow-burn triptych, best thought of as snapshots. I want to experiment more with it in the future, so I hope it does well. Please let me know your thoughts! Thread Count Genre: Slow Burn, Romance, Friends to Lovers WC: 5.3k

i.

Ache, behind the eyes. Throbbing. Fizzling fiber optics.

Static hissing. Constant haunting. Pelting silver sibilance. The ghosts chorus against asphalt.

Chill in the air. Condensing upon dewy brows. He tilts his head ever so slightly. Satin relief, the sheets are cool too. Except in one spot.

Warmth already leaching into his fingers. He flexes them against his palm, to assess how sticky he's made the bed.

This thread count is too high.

Shit.

"Relax."

His body refuses, does the opposite. Freezes as he hears his name dissolve into a warning. Something fractal spreading in his lungs, spidery and sharp, an icicle breaking off between his ribs as he struggles to sit up.

A hand settles in the crease of his elbow, touch no longer tentative. Firm as the voice, equally familiar. Too familiar.

"It's okay, Akemiuchi's loyalty program is gonna guarantee me a decent discount on the next duvet."

"I'm-"

"It's a good chance to rack up those points. There's this crocheted quilt I've been eyeing? It's the cutest thing ever. I'll show it to you next time."

Nanami winces, sweet intentions souring into an implication. An imposition you've already accepted as inevitable. He's the worst. He had a few moments of consciousness to spare, he knows he did, could have called Ijichi or Shoko even, directly, but no he'd wasted those final flickering seconds to drag himself over here.

The last thing he remembers before slumping over was your welcome mat. Rubber now, instead of fabric.

He can't keep doing this. Not to you.

"Phone." He rasps.

You fluff the pillows behind his head. "It's charging."

A rectangle glares in the periphery of his slits. 3%. It'll do. Ijichi's prompt with calls, especially those coming in at this hour.

" - a real viper's den of cables, took me a while to find yours. I told you you should switch to Android, that port design is super dumb - Hey."

Fingers clamp down on his wrist before he can even reach the nightstand.

"It's late-"

"I was editing a presentation anyway. Clearly we've both got issues with work boundaries."

His arm stretches out again, sinews shrieking their protest, bones creaking their own echo. He ignores them. Deft fingers skate up his swollen biceps, insistent. There's a pressure at his shoulder and he flinches. When had you gotten so strong?

When had he gotten this weak?

"Crap - sorry. That hasn't healed yet? Or is it new..."

He doesn't dignify you with a response, but the tight seam of his lips reveals enough. Nanami's further given away by the loose slump of his limbs. Defeated and betrayed by the mutiny of his howling muscles.

His body sings its triumph with a fresh pang rolling hot through his gut, crimson banner unfurling over ragged veins. He'll be damned if he admits to such a vicious victory. Nanami sucks in a breath instead.

"Fine, don't tell me."

There's something clipped in your voice, something abrupt in the way you stand and stride to the bathroom. A cabinet creaks, but that's all. Nanami watches the silhouette of your hands meld into the shadows to retrieve something off a shelf.

The lowest shelf.

There isn't any other sound besides the soft shuffle of your returning footsteps. Well, of course you'd know where everything is in your own home. Including the things you rarely had a use for. You hadn't even bothered to switch the lights on. Nanami wishes you did. Wishes he could confirm your dry eyes and blank face, numb and neutral as you moved through the motions of getting medicine for a man who has soaked your front step scarlet again.

Routine, right?

The tub thuds against the table, crisp and resolute.

"There's a quarter of the salve left," you mutter. You aren't looking at him. You wouldn't be able to see him in this dark anyway.

"If it isn't enough, I've another jar. Top drawer. Aspirin's there too."

Easy access, even blind, Nanami thinks. The room's still swathed in navy blues. He's invisible in this ink. It feels safe to smile, just for a moment.

"Thank you."

Your head tilts up and his mouth hardens with restraint once more. They were just two words, you couldn't possibly have detected anything beyond civility in them.

But there's a suspicion, once tightly coiled, now starting to slither from the base of his spine and it's this: People don't unquestioningly accept their ex-colleagues into their apartments at 3am to bleed into their bed, out of sheer politeness.

A sliver of a pause before you say,"You're welcome."

You move to the door.

Nanami exhales, the exhaustion deflates and the stubbornness exsanguinates as his bones relearn their weight. Your palm meets the handle and you let go of the breath you didn't know you were holding. But it hitches when you hear the grunt of your name. You glance over your shoulder.

"Akemiuchi, was it?" An index prods at your comforter.

"Uh. Yeah?"

The confusion furrowing your brows is clear in Nanami's mind, he knows just how those lines will knit and scrunch your puzzled expression. He knows, even at a distance, with you all the way across the room how you'll shrug and shake your head at his apparently random question.

"Okay."

"Okay. Rest well, Nanami."

Then you're gone, and it's safe now.

It's a famous brand, there's a branch three blocks down from his neighbourhood. He's seen the quilt, a recent addition to the autumn collection. An elaborate fuss of mint and pastels, taking pride of place in the storefront window. It's got tassels too.

Gaudy, unabashedly.

Nanami closes his eyes and his mouth twitches.

ii.

He shows up at your doorstep tonight, a night of thunderstorms, looking like an envoy of Zeus and giving you about as much warning. His always imposing silhouette had crumpled in a crack of lightning.

When the skies next belched and blanched, you'd seen his clothes drenched with rain and red. And a goopy violet you'd never seen before.

"What do you tell people?" you had asked early on, not expecting any proper answer. You were right not to.

"They don't ask."

"You don't let them." It's neither question nor confrontation, but you get confirmation in his silence, eyes downcast amidst the downpour.

He'd had the decency to be mollified about the dramatics.

You were people to him too. He'd given you the same answer he gave everyone else. You could tell how well it was rehearsed, even through his grimaces, mumbling his way through something about Private security.

Unlike others however, you weren't polite enough to accept his excuses. Especially not when he dripped all over your carpet.

"I'll replace it," he shudders, heaving himself against the edge of your bathtub.

"It's $3000," you pointed out, kneeling and pressing a towel to his side. He arches a brow, not so much shocked by the hefty price tag, but by your lavish attitude towards interior decorating. You, on the other hand, are startled by a swoosh and soon after, the chime of your phone receiving the bank's notification.

You stare at your screen, then back up at Nanami, who simply pockets his mobile with a small shrug.

Somehow, it seemed smug.

Whatever this new gig was, it paid a hell of a lot better than the previous one at which you two had met. You pull the cloth away.

The fibers are saturated scarlet, staining your fingertips. What kind of job could be worth this? Moral fetters at the expense of financial freedom, was that the trade off Nanami had made? Nanami Kento, whose resentment and disdain for Mondays was sustained throughout the week, whose bleak, sombre expression stayed whether cast under cost-cutting fluorescents or the neon glitz of Shinjuku's excess.

You remembered the distant din of middle management's chants, the chugging and choking of sycophants, all muffled by plumes of cigarette smoke escaping thin lips, and a jacket draped wordlessly over your shoulders. Sobriety never seemed to be an issue for him.

Yet, he always appeared more exhausted than his hungover colleagues, the shadows beneath his naked eyes darker and deeper than those hidden under the department head's sunglasses. Nods to decorum couldn't disguise the stench of alcohol or the slur of his speech, a nasal wheedling appealing to Nanami's efficiency as another stack of files thumped down unceremoniously before him.

You gaze at Nanami now, beneath the bright white lights of your bathroom, teetering on the edge of your tub. He looks just as tired, except now he reeks of iron, not whiskey. Liberated from a desk, still duty-bound. We all pick our poisons and our prisons, you think.

The two of you have an understanding by now. Whatever his next chapter was, that story is sealed behind a steel vault, nothing will ever rust away at its hinges. You don't care. You're just...nosy, occasionally. Fiction formed from a few bad habits.

The consternation had been there before, threatening to bubble over, acidic enough to bleach bones. Yet even then you knew, Nanami had no use for emotional effervescence.

So what could you do, but wipe away the stains and residuals? Return him smudge-free glasses so he's immaculate and impassive once more. Though there's no alternative to ignoring your instincts, the filtrates of fear never quite boiled down to what you could label mere curiosity; still corrosive, always gnawing away at you.

In the stretch of months after, in his indefinite absences, the fangs drill down to your marrow. You only muzzle its maw when Nanami reappears with gashes and abrasions and an expression masking whatever else his shredded suits can't.

And you, you've gotten pretty decent at disguising the twisted relief that comes with finding his pulse; intermittent, but in your hands. You're the worst.

"You always did have expensive taste," he comments, catching your stare before you can tunnel further down that rabbit hole.

You blink, then snap the clasps on the first aid kit and scoff, "Please, your midweek coffee bill was double my lunch budget for the month."

Your hands make quick work of the packaging.

"Even if I was buying for two," you add.

"Did you want a reimbursement? You always said it was your treat."

You roll your eyes. "Because someone always forgot to take a break. Seriously? Not even a vending machine sandwich? Nobody should be able to survive solely off six espressos."

You pause, laying out a few other implements. "The cafeteria's ciabatta is a lot better now though, after you gave them those tips. Shame you left before you saw the benefit of your feedback pay out."

"Hm."

To anyone else, the sound is non-committal. But you recognize that hum, the rich roundness hinting at his satisfaction, that a minor injustice of yeasty mediocrity had been redressed.

You recognized it, because it was rare and you'd always had to strain to hear it, replaying it in your mind to compensate for the sore dearth set by reality's quota.

"Besides, I couldn't risk our top sales lead collapsing from low blood sugar at an important stakeholders' meeting. Oh, and Shuichi's department head now, so thanks for that."

There's a suspicion of amusement which rumbles low in his chest, a sound you've heard even less frequently, and so conversely, dreamed about more. But it cuts off abruptly into a rough grunt when your fingers ghost over his ribs, swiping antiseptic. You look up sharply.

"This is even worse than-"

"It should have been you." Nanami's interruption rings mildly vexed, to your surprise. He grips your hand with a force that's even more unexpected, as he pulls it away. "You had more seniority than him."

"Yeah well, you know how it is." you mutter, fist clenching around the cotton swab before hurling it into the bin. "Apparently women my age are meant to be running nurseries, not boardrooms."

Nanami watches you fiddle with the surgical thread, spooling it through without hesitation. Meets your gaze, unclouded by worry or weariness. It had been 2am when he had turned up unannounced. And he feels your hands, reassuring warmth hovering over his wound. He nods once, and you touch skims over ruptured skin, where a fresh scar awaits to adorn his obliques.

His breath seems harsh and loud to his own ears.

"You could manage both if that's what you wanted."

"What makes you think that?"

"You're capable of a lot. Discipline and kindness."

The crescent of your eyes and lips glint brighter than the curved piece of silver weaving in and out of his flesh. It's a pleasant distraction, he'll admit that much.

"Ruthlessness too," he adds, wincing as the needle digs into a particularly tender spot.

"Go on," your smile is sardonic, both bee sting and nectar. Nanami feels a twinge in his rib cage, in his chest free from any visible bruises.

"You're beautiful."

Maybe he lost a lot more blood than he realised. He only notices his accident of sincerity when the thread is tugged tense, the needle jerking back abruptly. Then the anvil drops over his windpipe.

He glances at the gleaming point, barely quivering between your thumb and forefinger. The tremble of your lips is terribly obvious by contrast.

Desperation surges through him suddenly, a riptide of an urge to have them quake against his own, to savour your whimpers shaking against his tongue, give you a taste of your own medicine, have the pinprick of his incisors sink into where you're soft and vulnerable. You've given him countless stitches, and he hasn't left a single mark on you. It's unfair. It's cruel.

"How-" A distracting slip of pink darts out to wet your lips. The needle nips into his skin again and he has to hold back a groan.

"How is that trait relevant to being either a manager or a mother?"

Nanami grips the edge of the tub, white-knuckled as its porcelain. There's a pause. Longer than he's comfortable with, though you don't seem to notice. Or comment on it at least. Small mercies.

Then he says, "It doesn't hurt your odds."

"My odds aren't that great."

For a moment, Nanami wonders if you're still fishing for compliments. But then, dorsal finned mischief flashes in your grin and you let him off the hook.

"Most smooth-talkers aren't like you. More style than substance."

Your smile stretches wry, deprecation retreats into the furthest corners of your cheeks. "Not that I meet many of them though."

"It's difficult to find someone compatible." You lean forward, on the pretext of inspecting the knot before you snip the thread. Your hand settles on his knee. His spine stiffens into a limestone column. The caterpillars in Nanami's belly curl into tight cocoons.

"Someone who isn't intimidated by my ambitions," your fingers are feather-light, trailing up his toned hamstrings. Nanami feels the winged creatures twitch in their chrysalis.

"My desires..." Your palm curves higher, like your lips, closer to the apex of his muscled thighs. Newborn butterflies stir, damp with arousal. Nanami swallows, perhaps his spit could extinguish the sparks fluttering in his gut.

"Someone who's sensible and strong, who could hold me down long enough to..." The ridges of your knuckles have met the crest of his seams, any further and you'd feel the effect of your touch, of your smoldering eyes.

"...put a child in me." Your whisper fans the flames in his hollowed cheeks, in his skin scorching and stretched thin over the flint of his jaw, in the recesses of his throat, scratchy with kindling.

"If that's what we both wanted." It's the slightest graze of your thumb, but Nanami's already doomed by the briefest jolt of his hips. Fuck. You definitely felt that. Your eyes flicker, but by some sheer miracle, not downwards, to where the wet spot is staining and straining against his fabric and your fingers.

"Do you know someone like that, Nanami?" you murmur and he breathes hard, sees the vapour of his harsh pants slip behind your own mouth, parted and patient. Your fingers haven't moved a fraction too.

His brushes with death have sculpted his body, corded his chiseled torso with complete control, each synapse wired with lightning to assess curses, salivating for his flesh and demise.

Nanami knows the anaerobic burn of adrenaline, what it is to run on fumes into the jaws of danger, to dispatch nightmares, to delay the inevitable. Countless demons slewed in calculations of perfect precision, in single fell swoops and too close shaves.

You are the greatest peril Nanami has faced in years.

It takes every last fiber of his being, of his battered body, crafted far beyond the demands of labour and the delusions of purpose, not to buck into the threat and promise of your gentle heated hands or crush his mouth to yours.

"No," Nanami croaks. "I don't."

iii.

There's something soupy about the atmosphere tonight, thick with humidity, hot fog rolling in. The sheets stick to his clammy skin.

He doesn't remember how he got here this time.

Regret reverberates together with recognition as his cuticles clink against glass. There's the rustle of foil, conveniently within reach too. The plastic pops twice underneath his nail. The end of the row, Nanami notices.

He wonders if these are the drowsy kind, or maybe it's just a moonless night and all the shadows are melting together. Eventually he finds the silhouette he's looking for, slumped into a chair.

Nanami squints at the world's saddest mountain, gradually losing its slope. It's the blanket sliding off you. It puddles by your ankles, next to a basin of water, tinged pink and tepid by now. You shiver slightly, his eyes dart up and sure enough, there's the rag, twisted in your hands.

An exhale wheezes its way from his ribs and Nanami winces; he should know by now shallow sighs are all his sunken chest will allow. But the pain is dulling everything, pounding against his ivory dome like a petulant brat with balled fists.

His mobile - had you confiscated it? Such sly sweetness - Focus, landline then for a taxi, tip extra for the smears on the seats -

"You should be carrying an umbrella with you these days. Could probably fit one in that holster."

Your admonishment pierces through his haze, sounding less groggy than he'd hoped.

"It'd obstruct movement."

"Or try wearing a poncho, unless you're worried it ruins the lines of your suit." You stand up, retrieving a familiar looking quilt off the floor. The shipping had been free, he recollects.

"Given the latest state of your jacket however, I doubt that's a priority."

Nanami hauls himself up, or tries to. His deltoids have other ideas, and every muscle beneath them agrees. The veto is unanimous, and he grimaces.

You shuffle over, remarking, "I've been looking for a good tailor. I'm sure you have recommendations."

"Bulk orders from the department store," Nanami grunts, combating gravity as he attempts to swing his leaden legs over the bedside. You drag the duvet back over his lap and it might as well be lumber.

"Shame on you," you scoff with such force that he stops struggling for two whole seconds to look askance at you.

"Deluding some atrocious tie designer out there into thinking they have a shot in the fashion industry."

Against his better judgement, Nanami decides a snort is worth the risk. It isn't, obviously. He learns, too late, the appeal of mirth's medicinal qualities is gravely overstated.

"And if I told you they were custom pieces?" he snipes.

"Then I'd applaud whatever keeps attacking you."

A warning filters through the back of his brain, Whatever, not whoever. Suspicion alone is a lethal enough threshold to his world, he can't risk you. And yet he's here, the voice whispers. Far from an emergency.

"My assailants are probably acquainted with decent tailors."

Nanami's cynicism towards humour as a balm ebbs, watching your lips curve.

"I'm in stitches," you state, digits skimming Nanami's pectorals, skirting around the petunias starting to clot there.

"You took a dozen this time," you add, a little softer.

He lets your palm stay on his chest. "Where's my cell?"

"Down the chute."

"I'll use yours then." He brushes your hand away.

"Mine's outta juice too." A fist this time, knuckles pressed to his breastbone.

Nanami's eyes flick up to the ceiling for a moment, he's long suspended belief in heaven or gods, the gravity of his bones remind him of this; Any covenant he's made is between his cursed technique and body - more altar than temple.

"Got a pull out couch?" he asks at last.

"Oh shut up. You're staying here," you huff in disbelief and he looks at you, a Vestal Virgin with embers for irises. A braver man than him would wait for the hint of a spark.

But instead he says, "More water, please."

You nod, handing him a mug that's still warm but empty. "I'll fetch the thermos - oh, hang on. Let me rinse that out, sorry."

Nanami takes a quick sniff before passing it over. "Nicaragua?"

"Guatemala, Santa Isabel," you elaborate. "Tea's probably better for putting you down though."

"Water's fine."

You slip out into the shadows, taking the aroma of the dark roast with you. Nanami reclines against the headboard, your scent lingering in his passageways. Yet another inconvenience he's instigated. A longstanding tradition, fitting its origins. There had been a time when you insisted on oolong instead, or the superiority of Ceylon. You were convincing enough in those first few months, with your tiresome tirades and passionate grandstanding in the pantry, all before 8am. Nanami had almost attributed your bright eyes to the beverages you rigorously argued for, even as he refused to deviate from the ritual masochism of his "sad bean juice". Not so much elixir as IV drip. "That much caffeine will wreck your melatonin production," you berated him. He had no idea what you were talking about but then, neither did you. The destruction of Circadian rhythms, the annihilation of any balance beyond the kind in the books you pored over (long after your bosses had dumped them on you a quarter to 7), would never boil down to what was poured into your mug. The defeat was inevitable. Nanami told himself he didn't miss your near daily trivial one-sided debates; they just interfered with his morning reports. Still, he had stared too long at the pair of steaming takeaway cups you carried in one day. "A peace offering," you said. "Robusta. The cafe down the street has a fresh batch every Tuesday." You leaned forward, depositing them under his nose. "Here's to the grind, on our terms." A croissant wrapped in the white flag of a serviette slides next to his cup, over the grey laminate of the table. Compromise shouldn't smell this good on you, he had thought. In your kitchen he's spotted both the conical slopes of the Chemex, and your stash of pyramid pouches with their loose leaf treasures. Just one more thing he's taken away from you on a night like this. He's an aberration, an intrusion - much like the flavours infringing upon your tongue. It ought to be the routine lull of chamomile, instead it's coffee, keeping you alert; iron and tannin tangling in the air. Nanami's mind drifts to the rude awakening your taste buds must endure, wonders about the sweetness there, more hazelnut than herbal, strong or mellow, aggressive or pliant- "Here." Nanami reaches out, fingers grazing ceramic that feels like hearthstones. He finds the handle by sheer luck. The sips he takes are small and slow, tendrils of steam climbing up his sheer cliff face. Over the rim, Nanami feels you watching him absently. Your concern suspended over the ravine between the both of you, silence slack in your carabiners.

Then you murmur, "Your mouth's too hot."

His throat goes taut. "What?"

"I forgot. Now the reading won't be accurate," you sigh.

Something rolls off his shoulders when he recognises the thin beak of the thermometer outlined in your grasp. The sensation is more weighted than mere relief, Nanami can't quite name it. It's a residual sludge in his gut, turning the ground to mud as he tries to trample it.

"I'm fine."

"Liar." The mattress dips and the boulder in his belly plummets as he feels your body brush next to his. He pushes back, it's Sisyphean, your breath against his clavicle, his soles are slipping.

"What are you-"

"Last I checked," you interject, wrestling the covers over your laps, "this is my bed."

His knees buckle as you shove aside his thigh with yours.

"You'll catch this bug." The warning is futile, Nanami knows. He's already set down the mug.

Your tone takes on a solemn timbre. "An extra risk. There's no known cure for cooties either. Sorry to break it to you."

Nanami huffs through his nostrils, he ought to feel more patronized than placated. But there's a levity to your touch, gently pressing him back against the bed.

"And I really hope you're not a blanket hogger because I'll kick you out. Injured or not."

There's already too little space between you and him but Nanami turns on his side, stoic expression that much closer. "You should have kicked me out a long time ago."

"Probably," you agree.

Nanami startles as your fingers sweep beneath his fringe, pressing your palm to his forehead, then to yours, then back to his.

"At least your fever's broken, I think."

Perhaps the pills worked, but Nanami doesn't feel the same relief flooding your gaze.

"Are you sure?"

Your touch lingers, he leans into it. His temperature is rocketing, if anything. Hesitantly, Nanami's hand glides over your temples.

"You're too warm yourself."

"I'm not," you object, despite the steadily building furnace in your cheeks. "Check again."

"This isn't accurate," Nanami mutters, but his touch settles over you. His fingers should stay in a delicate arch over your head but his hand is drifting to cup your face, feeling your smile curve into his palm. He cradles it, together with the quiet of your breathing slowing into sync.

"I should keep a couple of shirts in the closet. What size do you wear?" you mumble sleepily.

"That's not necessary."

You crack open an eye. "So you're gonna insist on staying half-naked in an unmarried woman's bed?"

Nanami retracts his hand swiftly, as if he's been scalded.

"That's not what-"

"Don't get me wrong," you smirk, drowsiness completely vanquished. (Had it really been there in the first place? Nanami wonders.)

"Wearing just perspiration and bandages is a great look on you, but..."

You pull the blanket higher over the distinct curves of his biceps, shifting closer. "You'll get cold. And the forecast said rain tonight."

The meteorologists must be right for once, he thinks.The atmosphere is electric, frenetic with an impending summer storm. He can feel the crackling in his capillaries, heat condensing in the air.

You're an inch, maybe less, away from his face now. Near enough anyway that he can make out the feathered arc of your lashes, can see how they'd flutter with each of his exhalations, if he isn't careful.

Nanami holds his breath, becomes statuesque. You notice.

He's a magnum opus of masonry, Michelangelo's misery, muscles cast in moonlight and breaking all mortal molds - but the truth is, he's built himself from scratch. You know this. You've admired his Adonis belt, cut from alabaster, yes, but you've also witnessed that rigid expression, pale as chalk. The bricks in his abdomen, the welts chiselled crudely into his spine, your hands have traced all this.

It's how you know where to look for movement now, your palm pressing over the telltale pounding in those marble pectorals, fingertips skating the shadows that dance along the column of his throat. Nanami swallows cinders, the inferno in his belly growls. There is smoke in his lungs, his trapped protests, his warnings will taste like ash.

Because Nanami's not sure how much more of your mercy he can take, how many more miracles will lay to waste his mornings and nights as he remembers the softness of your skin, free from soot.

Reality isn't this good to him, Nanami isn't kind enough for it-

But you are.

Your kiss is gentle, glacial. Mouth drifting over his, as innocuous and inevitable as an iceberg.

A kiss so gentle it rips the hull of him wide open.

A hissing, gasoline fumes siphoned from his clenched teeth as he rolls your body on top of him and his cracked ribs, your gasp tangling with the rustle of the sheets. They bunch in your fists as he feels you struggle to push away from him, to alleviate the weight, but Nanami needs it, like pressure upon a spurting wound, grabs your hips and holds them flush to his own as he locks his other hand around your nape. He nips your protest in half, teeth and tongue raking and tilling along your bottom lip, until at last you let submission bloom in the bruises there.

Nanami doesn't know if he will survive this tenderness; if it'll survive him. The struggle is exhausting. But then, your hand clutches the hair at the back of his neck, roots silken in your strong grasp. Soft blonde strands sprout through the gaps of your fingers, the furrow of your brow eases into a plateau, a quiet moan pushes into his mouth; and Nanami knows he's lost.

And found again.

He feels the sickle of your smile, the swipe of your tongue as it reaps the first fruits of spring.

The scent of rain starting to fall can't compare to the taste of you, the scattered sounds are even more vague. Nanami doesn't register the gale's shrill whistle, too focused on the high peals of your whimpers. Precipitation's heavier pitter-patter against the panes is drowned out by the hammering of your heart underneath him, all of heaven's rumbling can't contend with the rushed whispers of his name and yours. Nanami links your hands together, the syllables loop around your bodies tighter and tighter as the intervals between your chants get shorter, breathier.

You pull away from Nanami at last, not quite completely, as he tries to temper his greed by suckling at your neck, your pulse barely a pacifier for his petulance. You pant, head lolling further to the side.

The sky has mistaken itself for the sea, deluge of melodrama lashing against your window. The cityscape is shrouded in silver, though you're not exactly enamoured by the view at the moment.

Nanami coaxes your attention back to him, lips roving over your cheeks and chin and nose. He rests his forehead against yours, gazing deep into your eyes. The silence is different now.

There had always been a certain detachment and distance, as if he were tuned to the frequency of a far away planet, a separate world. Still, you were pulled into each other's orbit; a pair of satellites emitting mixed signals.

You sense him drifting now, calibrating, calculating again; static buzzing as he searches for the right words.

You sigh and tug Nanami into another kiss.

He's a little surprised the atmosphere isn't scorching, that he isn't burning up upon reentry, falling back into your gravity. The heat is still there of course, just under your tongue and evident in the kerosene trails you're painting across his chest. It's diffuse this time, simmering rather than searing. Languid as syrup, as butter browning in a skillet. No flash in the pan, you tell him, lips still occupied.

Nanami closes his eyes, the liquid light filling him brighter than any solar flare. You drag your kiss, slow and soothing, till it's tucked into the hollow of his throat.

"Sweet dreams, Kento."

How redundant, he thinks without verbalizing it, arm curling around his one impossible yearning that has already come true.

Quietness seeps through the room as you curl into Nanami's side, and he allows himself to drift into warmth's embrace; the warmth of a sunbeam spilling through billowing muslin curtains.

Perhaps he could get used to this thread count.

[inevitably-johnlocked]

Hey Steph, first of all, thanks for all the amazing work you do, you are literally the backbone of the fandom on here! i was wondering if you have any modern recs that include sherlock boxing or doing other matial arts like in the acd canon? thank youuuu <33

Hi Lovely!!

Ahhhhhhh Hm. I don't recall many that I have personally read, and I know of the Fightlock series that I haven't read, but let me check my tags on my MFL list. I also have a Fighting Fics Community Recs post too you can check out, but it's not specifically about boxing, LOL.

Here are the ones I've read and recall:

Hard Knocks by laureleaf (K, 11,712 w., 29 Ch. || Boxing/Fighting, Angst, Friendship) – Sherlock and John have a massive fight. Can Sherlock figure out how to apologize, and can John forgive him? No slash. Expansion on my 'Bored' chapter in 'Five times John punched Sherlock'. Lots of chapters, but they're short.

Points by lifeonmars (E, 53,791 w., 42 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || HLV Rewrite / Canon Divergence, Married Life, Pregnancy / Baby Watson, Drinking to Cope, Boxing / Fisticuffs, Clueless John, Angst, Minor Medical Drama, Tattoos, Christmas, First Kiss/Time, Eventual Happy Ending, Love Confessions, Doctor John, Sexuality Crisis, Slow Burn, Case Fic, Drugging, Blow/Hand Job, Emotional Love Making, Parenthood, Passage of Time) – What if His Last Vow never happened? This fic picks up a few months after John and Mary's wedding, in an alternate universe where Magnussen doesn't exist, but Mary is still pregnant. Life continues -- just in a different direction. And slowly, Sherlock and John find their way to each other.

-----

And here are...

BOXING / MARTIAL ARTS FICS (MFLs)

Untested Waters by nondeducible (E, 8,873 w., 1 Ch. || Pining Sherlock, Romance, Fluff, First Kiss/Time, Masturbation, Blow Jobs, Anal Fingering, Virgin Sherlock, Boxing, BAMF!John) – John decides to get fit. Sherlock takes notice, and so does his cock.

Crimson Hymns by brilliantlyburning (E, 48,982 w., 9 Ch. || Post-S3/TAB, Angst,  Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Drug Addiction, Unhealthy Coping Methods, Demisexual Sherlock, Boxing, Pining, Sensory Processing Issues, Drug Use, First Kiss / Time, BDSM, Mary is Not Good, Parentlock, Proposal, Happy Ending, Beekeeping, Violence, References to Addiction, Poetry) – He laid his head over John’s heart, eyes level with his silver-rough scar, and listened to the crimson hymns beating beneath the surface. He imagined flowers blooming in his own chest: veins weaving intricate patterns on petals of thin muscle engorged with blood, sinew for stems and tendons for roots—the flowers would be poppies, maybe (addictive) or foxglove (deadly yet useful)—twining gleaming blood-red around the porcelain bone of his ribs. In his mind’s eye the gruesome bouquet all tied together on the left side of his chest, the stems bound together in heartstrings and the flowers fed by the rhythmic contraction of ventricles. It’s yours, he imagined saying to John—from the vena cava to the mitral valve to the arteries it is yours.— Or, the Love Song of W. Sherlock S. Holmes.

The Way of the Mind by bigblueboxat221b (E, 62,686 w., 29 Ch. || Martial Artist John AU || BAMF John, Slow Burn, Eventual Happy Ending, Angst, Alternating POV, Developing Relationship, Mystrade, Past Drug Use, Panic Attacks, PTSD John, Flashbacks) – Sherlock Holmes is a consulting detective for NSY, but only for as long as he attends self-defense classes with the rest of Lestrade's team. It's Anderson's fault for getting jumped by a suspect hiding at a crime scene, but if that hadn't happened, Sherlock would never have met the Army-trained, dual-black belt holding instructor, John Watson, who seems to be better than a good homicide at calming the noise in Sherlock's head...

Bleed So Pretty: A Collection of Fight!lock Stories Series (E, 60,919+ w. across 8 works || Series WiP || Fight Club AU || Fighting Kink, Punching, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Pinching, Hair Pulling, Mildly Dubious Consent, Blow Jobs, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Biting, Bruises) – Sherlock and John first met when they were first-time opponents at an underground fight club. Several weeks later, they meet again, but neither of them can get on the night's schedule, so an unsanctioned bout in the car park will have to serve.

Drift Compatible by J_Baillier (E, 130,380 w., 26 Ch. || Pacific Rim Fusion || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Alternate First Meeting, Angst, Family Drama, Accidental Telepathic Voyeurism, Martial Arts, Sci-Fi, Internalised Homophobia, Rubbish Siblings, Army Doctor John, Medical H/C, Bullying, Neurodiversity, PTSD, Drug Use, Depression, Mourning, Adventure, Hurt/Comfort, UST/URT) – A washed out war hero struggling with his past. A prodigy who wants nothing to do with his family legacy. Both are looking for something—and someone—worth fighting for in a world where human civilisation is constantly under threat.

-----

Feel free to add to add any you guys know of!!!

[ruiniel]

No Might nor Mercy

Fandom: The Silmarillion

Characters: Sauron, Amarië

Relationship: Amarië/Sauron (past)

Rating: M / 18+

Count: 3.5k

Summary: This is an older piece I rewrote and resurrected. Starring Amarië of the Vanyar and Sauron being an utter creep. Very AU. Very headcanon. Please heed the tags.

After his storming of Tol Sirion, Sauron watches the prisoners being dragged into Angband.

Additional tags: Angst, Psychological Torture, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Non-Con, Threats of Violence, Depictions of Violence, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cruelty, Crack Relationship, What Ruiniel writes when they're off her pills, Past Relationship, Horror, Choking, Alternate Universe - Dark, Angband, Torture, POV Alternating which I'm too m e h to fix up, Older fic, Darkfic, Finrod's usually got beef with Sauron why not her, My only excuse is I labeled/tagged this as well as I could don't @ m e , Actually no excuse you should know this by now, My Sauron differs from fic to fic, But he'll always be cruel :/, Imprisonment

Also on AO3

He watched the incoming tide of prisoners, heaps of sinew and bone, fodder swallowed by the Great Gate. He watched, an unmovable monolith looming over the world from atop the tallest mountains of waste. His sight discerned all from his place upon the highest of the three peaks amid the crimson fumes rising in angry gusts, threading viciously through his unbound hair.

He smiled. For the recent victory upon their foe which he'd so triumphantly directed. For the hopelessness lining the faces of those fallen to his rule. Those who had opposed his will, his allegiance, the spawns and willing servants of the scourges stumbling from the cowardly West. Where once they laid honors at his feet and sought his counsel, now their hallowed lips would curl in disgust, their serene faces strained in revulsion at the mere mention of his name.

Good. All fools to never know the taste of true, endless freedom, and that they should witness the might of it here, as they drew their last breath, seemed only fitting. And he would enjoy it. Clawed fist clenching, he delightedly recalled the uplifting melody of their wails, the odes of their shrieks. He would watch, feed on the breaking of their spirits into crumbling stardust until naught but the husk remained - for that was of most use to him here.

All these roiling thoughts were chief in his mind as smoldering eyes followed the prisoners being marched through the gates, forced up the pyramid of stairs leading to their fates. Some would be put to work in the smithies, others would be fodder for beasts. Most would undergo the process of being turned, efficiently devised by his Master, and perfected by him.

Putrid winds retched their dissonant tunes, sending russet strands astray. Black robes coiling around his tense frame like snakes, he watched until the last of the prisoners trudged inside before making his descent, intent on being there to savor the fresh scent of agony and disbelief. 

Agony that was once his own, caused by an endless yearning for more. One They had opposed and banned for its discordance, as they did his Master. One that clove his spirit when the Maia was still a young and hopeful servant. And how he secretly wallowed in the depths of his own nameless desire, hidden from all so They would not see. So They would not sense the seed of it growing and taking hold, shearing and dividing him. And so Melkor found him, fed him power and determination.

The abyss of his mind dreaded to remember those days, when the light of the Trees bared the innermost recesses of spirits for all to witness. It had been the hardest toil to hide his goals, but now he was free of it, free of the vicious delving once bleeding him dry of all he came to deem true and worthy.

Brow knit, he reached the lower levels and paced through the great tunnel. His eyes flashed at the fresh murmurs of misery, so known to him by now. The air burned, unbearably hot for anyone not of this place. It flared from the blast furnaces and smithies to the sharp spires of the smoke-choked towers. His measured stride took him to the slave quarters, where gaolers were whipping their quarry into an array of coarse holes barred in iron.

Melkor was keeping to his own devices, pursuing the Secondborn awakened by the will of the One. His lip twitched in disgust. More fodder. But for now, Angband was left for his lieutenant to mind, which in truth, bore little difference to the usual way of things. 

Reaching the bottom of the stone stairs he stood at ease, observing the beings he had grown to abhor. Lithe and weakened by the harsh march, they were being crushed into the recesses of long lines of caves hewn into the wide underground space. Pleasure rushed through him as he watched them being beaten, whipped, branded. The orc, once their brethren, could see no further than the nether of their corroded spirits; ones he and his master had so irreparably twisted into oblivion that nothing but pain and chaos could appease the hungry fire driving them.

The pale one waited, reveling in the anguish suffusing the air. His desire flared with the lengthening intensity of it all, music higher and of more transcending power to his senses than even the first Music he witnessed in times immemorial; forgotten but for sparse, stubborn fragments lingering against his better efforts like deeply embedded shards.

It had been too easy. His tactical prowess proved itself yet again through the swift, brutal storming of Tol Sirion. He bore down upon them with his werewolves, dispersing all wills and throwing their meager display of courage to the wind. Now it was subdued to his will, and the western pass of the river Sirion belonged to his master; as the world itself would, ere the end, but more fool the victor lazing on the trimmings of success. There was yet more work to be done, much more to be woven and with much care.

His vision narrowed upon the wearied prisoners. Most of the creatures were imprisoned now, drawing into one another in their ragged states. All-seeing eyes straying over anguished, stricken faces, he was about to turn away.

But found he could not. 

What he saw, swallowed his initial intent. Brow furrowing further and on strange impulse, his thunderous steps drew closer to the pens. 

Two orc were blocking most of his view, seemingly intent on laying thorny whips upon the object of his interest. Surroundings dimmed around him as the lieutenant came to stand behind his minions. 

"Out of my way," he ordered lowly in Black Speech, glaring down at them with his hands clasped behind his back. He did not raise his voice, he did not need to.

The soldiers grunted, startled by the sudden presence of their master and swiftly stood aside.

What was revealed to him caused an odd spike of awareness, a stir within concealed recesses. What he saw, made his insides boil as his mind strayed to a buried, long abandoned existence.

She knelt, weeping with her head bowed, arms wrapped around herself. Her long, golden hair billowed down her shoulders to her ankles, its shine marred by blood and dirt. Her garment was tattered, and bruises bloomed on her arms and legs, feet bare and covered in sweltering wounds. The cloth upon her had been torn just as his servants were preparing to whip her into subservience.

A deep, sordid ire filled with the knowledge of memory burst through his mind, and threatened to suffocate. Unwilling, yet he could not look away. In remembrance his face turned terrible, memories past flickering behind his eyes.

Sensing the momentary lapse in abuse from the orc, with her last remaining strength the Elf woman raised her gaze to look upon his face, and he was left staring into deep blue depths.

"...Mairon?" she whispered disbelievingly, both sorrowful and lost, and at the fear in her eyes his fury flared higher than the flames of the Valaraukar.

She ought to be afraid. His lips quivered at the name he'd not heard for what seemed like an eternity. He uttered the following word infused with resentment, giving voice to a language he had not used, had refused to use ever since his plunge into the depths of knowledge and exile. He did not wish to say it, to burn his lips on the loathsome sounds. And yet, he did. His voice came as a whispered threat, a chill of ages past. 

"Amarië."

The Elf gaped at him towering over her, observing her with that heinous, flaming gaze. Eyes once reflecting goodness and mirth, now sunken and shadowed with malice, void of life as all knew it.

Once, she had watched him. The mightiest among the Maiar of the One he had been, so imbued with His greatness that all revered him and sought him wherever he went. Nothing less than perfection ever came of his hands, and all he touched turned to gold to the fascination of all. She had always admired his love of order in all things, and how he permitted no wastefulness in his endeavors. Ever-bright, searing light shone through his eyes and there was none more cherished in the house of Aulë.

And he had watched her. In the forgotten realm, there were none more majestic than the Valar. But when Amarië saw him, reveling in his stunning russet glory, the movements of Eä seemed to cease, the circles of the world slowed and nothing kept her adrift but his eyes.

They would often meet at the base of the Trees and she would listen to his plans and tales of what had been, and what was to come. And he would linger on her features when she spoke, and his fair face would be ever smiling when they were together.

But then, as with all things that ever were and ever will be, change was wont to happen. As all beings, even those of divine nature are capable of many degrees of error and failing. Gradually, he ceased searching for her. It was the first time she had known pain then, when the Elf looked upon his face and saw a sliver of shadow, foreign and deep, slithering beneath his once peaceful features. With great sorrow she learned his heart was turned and fear had gripped her, and she fled.

She fled, and he did not follow. Amarië said nothing of it to the others, and later she blamed herself for her cowardice. Perhaps it could all have been different. But what use was there for regret? The brilliant Maia had gone to follow another master, one opposed to the very life which thrummed in Eä, waging war upon Creation. Why he did so, she could not fathom, but he had done deeds that haunted her ever after upon hearing them, and her grief increased tenfold when thoughts strayed to how gentle and kind his former self had once been. How the Elf had felt him so near, so powerful and animated in all that he achieved.

Now a warped memory stood before her, clad in his fair form, his burnished hair a flowing river of fire, taller than Amarië ever remembered him. Eyes of golden red mercilessly bored into hers. His fair form still, yet a fathomless shadow enveloped him, and he reveled in its potency. His light had long been extinguished. His ominous presence engulfed her, striking daggers of fear by the cruelty of his mien.

An eternity passed with the silence as she cowered on her bruised knees, tortured by fatigue, gaze locked with his. Amarië lowered her eyes, unable to look upon what he'd become. 

She flinched when sooted, clawed fingers tilted her chin upward, forcing her to meet his stare. His touch was withering, cold. A deathly cold seeping through her, wringing a gasp at the painful tear it wreaked within.

He kept her locked in the depths of his flaring gaze, but the Elf could not guess as to what lay beyond it. Then, eyes never leaving hers, the lieutenant of Angband spoke two words to his servants in Black Speech.

"Bring her." 

He sharply turned away and the Elf was forced to her feet, dragged through the pyramid of roughly hewn stairs within the rotting bowels of Angband. Her body trembled at the slimy touch of the orc, at the sights within this place. The cries and blood-curdling moans, the all-consuming heat, the sickening, biting fumes. Her kin, torn and ragged and hurting.

Meanwhile, as he strode towards their destination, the Maia pondered. Hated recollections kindled, he bitterly recalled her face, once upon a time. Eagerly absorbing him and his words, always reluctant to leave his side. Something terrible irked him, thrashed through his normally well adjusted and calculating mind. 

What had possessed her to leave Valinor for the darkness and tumult of Beleriand? Last he knew of her, she had taken to that righteous Noldo fool, who followed his kin in exile. 

Ah.

He grinned. What to do with her now? Why had he not left her there, and told the wretches to burn the sign of Angband into her back?

Curiosity. That was why. It was peculiar indeed. And there was her fëa, pure and luscious prey to his thirst, a delight as he breathed her fear. He would enjoy breaking her, throwing her to the winds of Thangorodrim. She once ran, disgusted by what he had discovered of his truth. Well, she could not run now. Now, she was his; in a manner of speaking.

They reached his abode, a place hewn into the terrace of the middle peak of debris crowning the fortress. It was dark but for the dread twilight reaching through the windowless open space to one side, where Dorthonion and Anfauglith loomed in the distance. He paced towards a roughly carved seat of sorts while they threw the Elf inside, and the heavy metal doors rang shut behind them. Now they were alone; she was alone.

A brief, sudden movement flashed before her eyes, and Amarië unwittingly took a step back. 

The apparition wove itself around his throne, its naked form splayed above her master. It had the body of a youthful woman, but its skin was of a bruised, greenish shade, its hair of midnight. Great webbed wings spread like hunger as it eyed the newcomer with a keen, snakelike glare.

"What have you brought us?" it hissed, baring long, needle-point fangs.

"Thuringwethil, away," he snarled with a sharp tilt of his head.

The creature started, frowned and threw the frightened Elf a baleful look, but bowed and receded into the shadows from whence it came.

Vaguely Amarië wondered whether there was any sort of mercy left in him to grant her a quick death, but when the Elf saw his face any hope of the sort withered like the ashes of a spent pyre.

"Step forward," he bade, his gaze elsewhere. It was not a request.

The Elf shifted closer on her wounded feet, heart crushing her ribs in bloodied stutters. As Amarië came to stand before him she prayed to the One, to any who would hear. 

"You came for him, here?" His long fingers drummed a sickening echo against the stone armrest, his smile an awful, despicable thing. He spoke her language to perfection as he always had, and it killed her inside.

"Y-yes," the Elf choked. "In Tol Sirion."

"Quaint," the Maia offered. "And utterly foolish." Fingers tapped, tapped, tapped their maddening rhythm. "How."

"I was allowed… special dispensation, and," she shivered and coughed as fumes grew thick in the air between them, "p-provided passage, a vessel…with others..."

A line twitched in his jaw, and vileness coated his voice. "And he was not there," he concluded. The Maia looked down at his lap, appearing thoughtful.

Amarië shook her head, hoping for this to pass soon, over and done with, for peace to rain upon her once this trial was complete. But his following words left her breathless, and her hope crumbled into dust.

"Undress."

She looked to him pleadingly, arms wrapped around herself. Amarië knew not what she had anticipated of him, but it was not this. Her voice came faint and shaking with despair. "P-please."

His gaze snapped upward. He leaned forward in his seat with narrowed eyes, and the stone edges cracked beneath his grip on either side. "Do it," he hissed in Vanyarin, though it seared his tongue to speak it. "Or I will have her do it for you," he jerked his chin towards the glow of eyes gleaming like blades in the nethers.

The vampire emerged anew, robed in shadows, nearing the willowy prisoner. It grasped her and brought its face into hers even as the Elf drew away with a broken whimper. Its nostrils flared, and its lips curled as it breathed the foreign scent. "Fearful blood," the vampire crooned in Black Speech. The Elf gasped when it trapped her shoulders, roughly yanking her hair back to expose the thrumming lifebeat at her neck.

"Enough!" he growled, fist striking into stone. "You," his eyes bore onto the vampire, "Begone."

A shadow shifted as swift as a gust of wind and Amarië found herself alone once more. With him.

The lord of wolves observed her blankly for yet some time before rising from his seat, slowly making his way to her with a languorous, predatory gait. Amarië faced him, steadfast and unwavering, though fatigue had weakened her past a point of endurance.

"I am waiting," he muttered once more in her tongue, black boots sleeking over adamant floors as he circled her. "And as all know, it is most unwise to keep me waiting," the dread captain of Morgoth added in silk dripping poison, his bloodlust rising steadily at the sight of her. They were all such weaklings, the Children. 

Grimacing in distress and with trembling fingers, Amarië might have done as he asked, if not for the sliver of dignity left to her, the same that kept her alive through that hellish, grueling march.

The Maia watched her shaking hands freeze in the motion of unlacing her filthy, torn robes, but not before exposing small, tense shoulders.

"No." Faint, barely croaked, but steady. 

He raised an eyebrow, stopping before her with a metallic hiss of his boots. "...No?" His voice dripped perilous kindness again. Perfect, bloodless lips revealed straight, pearly teeth.

The Elf blinked at him through reddened eyes swollen with fatigue. She merely shook her head. "Mairon, I beg you... once, we have been so… so close..." 

"Dare not use that name again!" the pale one rebutted, the smile falling, eyes hard on her, and the flames in them seemed to burn away at his face. 

For one heartstopping breath, the Elf thought she saw a skinless horror. The shadows roiling about him weakened her resolve. She gasped as unseen claws clutched at her throat, crumpled on herself at the sting in her protesting, burning lungs; through her swimming vision she barely saw him, and her chest heaved for air. 

Blankly he watched as she choked on his power. "I know what your kind call me now," the Maia spat, the flames receding, and a rictus cut his face as he fed on the crest of that delectable anguish. "A long forgotten word and ashes for memories will not be your talisman. There is no escape, Amarië." And there would not be.

She hunched her shoulders forward, knees weakening, gasping for pitiful little breaths even as the deathgrip on her windpipe suddenly eased and her body slumped forward; the Elf sank to her knees, thin hands clasped together in supplication. "Please, please send me… send me to Mandos. Please. A last...a last kindness. Once. It is all I ask."

The words had been feeble, but he heard them well enough. "Send you to…" the rictus drowned in fellfire. Kindness?

Kindness?

How dare she ask such a thing of him? How dare she presume to merit such grace, or that he'd be willing to grant it? Freedom for them was an unknown concept here, and the Maia was determined to keep it that way. 

Wrath changed his face, and leaden fright tumbled down her innards, clogging her veins, trapping her limbs. He looked a true creature of the void, hideous and bound in hate, no matter the translucent fairness of his features and the sheen of his liquid copper hair, now snapping around his neck and face with the harsh winds roaring from the wastes without. The ground was hard and unforgiving on her knees, and the Elf shivered despite the heat rising from the lower levels of the fortress.

"Unfortunately for you," Sauron spoke, a veneer of calm shrouding his countenance as he gazed to the ravaged lands beyond, "the rights to your own person have been forfeit, until such time as I deem suitable," he drawled in a mockery of regret.

His words were hollow to her ears, his face bored, and with wretched clarity Amarië then recalled how his voice had sounded once - nothing like this. And no sooner did his utterance gain meaning than she lifted her weary head, only to see him retake his seat, lounging as if deep in thought. The Elf flinched when sharply he struck the armrest twice. 

The doors burst open, revealing a burly orc standing to attention.

"Wait!" Amarië tried, her eyes beseeching, desperation hurling words in a fast stream past her dry lips. "What will you do? Where will you take me?" She failed to struggle against the heavy talons, and so slumped in the orc's grip as one depleted.

He watched her strife with cool indifference, then averted his gaze to the ashen plains. At one curt motion of his hand Amarië was roughly dragged away, and the great doors groaned shut. Gone was the sight of her, the whimpering and the scent of her fear. Relieved, the Maia watched the arid barrenness yawning before him for a long while.

 "Oh, Amarië," Sauron spoke, his blazing eyes dimmed to embers, lingering on the vast emptiness that stretched ahead. "There is so much for you to see here." 

[fearofahumanplanet]

Concrete Riven Excerpt (10/13/2022)

This is a little excerpt of my WIP Predator: Concrete Riven, a long-fic set in Skid Row, Los Angeles, following an Irish mob enforcer, a homeless war veteran, and the Bad Blood that stalks them. You can read more about it here!

CW: Gore, neo-Nazis again (but this time they're dying brutally :D)

Excerpt Word Count: 764

Overall Word Count: 4,586

Y'all ever watch the Predator films and think "these are great, but I wish I got to see a Predator murder a bunch of Nazis?" Merry fucking Christmas, besties.

Concrete Riven Taglist (ask to be added!)

@aohendo, @athenswrites, @impaledlotus, @bardic-tales, @creepypyromancer, @marinesocks, @writingpotato07, @hey-its-quill, @dogmomwrites, @andromedatalksaboutstuff, @bpdgotmelike

Please reblog and share your thoughts, it makes my day and motivates me to continue posting :)

The flickering phantom fires off some sort of net into the man’s gut, a net that fires off like a shotgun blast. The man hits the ceiling and doesn’t come back down, his binding hooking into the plaster. It would be one thing if it just held him there, but it doesn’t – it contracts and shrinks in size, links spitting heat, and all Clío can do is hear him scream as the net shreds him into dozens of sizzling, gumbo-sized chunks.

Boiling blood rains upon the last hapless survivors, and the predator stands, a growl that rises from the throat meeting the humored clicking beneath the mask.

Almost as if it’s daring them to attack.

There’s three left alive, and the phantom lets them make the first move.

Two of them pull out guns, and the predator ducks under the first shot, the shimmer swimming downwards as something unseen opens with a click. Before the second thug can even make his shot, some sort of spear materializes and plunges through is gut, throwing him across the room and pinning him to a wall. The third, left without options, tears a small television from the dresser and moves in to attack.

The predator flickers here and back, like a stop-motion monster, and when the man brings the television down for one crushing blow, the thing kicks him away. The television flies into the air and the creature catches the tumbling grey box with ease, spinning on its heel and bringing the screen to a shattering stop against the armed fascist’s head. His head disappears within the machine, his screams contained like a rat in a cage.

Clío’s bloody, sweating hands drop the damn knife, and as the predator approaches its stumbling, blinded prey, she desperately moves to reclaim it, the rope binding her hands connected by bare sinews. Just a little more…

The predator picks up a fallen machete from the ground, finally appearing into horrific sight once more as it spins the blade in its hand. The man behind it is recovering, but he’s certainly not going to be fast. The machete flies, slicing the blinded skinhead in half, and in a movement that almost seems faster than light, the predator snatches his flailing intestine and throws him behind it like a ball on a chain.

The last of the fighters stands just as his disemboweled friend slams into his face, sending both of them tumbling out the window. Clío hears one last howl cut off like a program losing its signal, the cold winter wind finding its way through shattered, sanguine-soaked glass.

Clío tugs at her restraints, hacking away at the last of her bindings with the knife, her heart pounding as the blood all rushes to her goddamn head. One of her legs is prickling with pins and needles, falling asleep with how long she’s been upturned.

The man speared to the wall seems to be the only of her interrogators to still live, tears streaming down his cheeks. He’s trying to pull the spear free of his gut somehow, his hands coated in his own crimson, tiny bits of spittle streaming down his chin. The predator turns to stare him down in what almost seems like annoyance, giving Clío a perfect view of the ugliest motherfucker she’s ever seen.

She would’ve been much happier without it.

The predator raises its left hand, the one unadorned with wristblades, some sort of energy launcher popping out of the wrist panel. She quickly discerns what it’s for when the trail of devastating blue that started off this whole mess lights the room in cyan consuming.

Clío blinks, and when she opens her eyes, the upper half of the crying man is gone, and he’s got no tears left to trail.

That also means she’s alone in the room with the predator.

The ropes are so close… So fucking close…

The predator crouches down, its red eyes falling upon Clío’s struggling form, the Irishman getting more and more desperate. She tries to wriggle away, her hands tugging further from each other as the rope grows weaker.

It watches her, some sort of unseen method to its madness, failing to move, failing to do anything but stare. And then a voice emanates from its peculiar helmet, crawling over her spine like the chill that seizes your teeth when you bite into ice.

It’s her own voice, a replication so perfect that it had to be a machine. “Good first round.”

The ropes tear apart, and Clío kicks the chair out from under her, hitting the floor.

[etherealvoidechoes]

Aaaah fever dreams be producing some weird stuff for the Vampire AU. Mustered up enough strength and willpower to draw out this future mutations for dear ol’ Zhang. Jawsplit is different. Single tongue is now a tri-tongue, and an additional tongue strictly for siphoning blood. Oh and slit pupils off and on.

Nanomachines, son.

[beskarberry]

Solisequious

A Treasure Planet/Prospect Crossover

(Cyborg!Ezra x F!Reader with last name) [+18]

His eyes were glassy but full of undeserved pride, a weak smile tugging on the corners of his mouth. “If anyone can find her, it’s you, because that’s what the Hawkins family does.” His eyes flutter and shut, a small sigh -his last breath- leaves his lips.

“We… find… treasure.”

Next->

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 4.9k

Summary: Delinquency seems to run in the Hawkins family, but so does a nose for treasure. When long lost family returns bearing ill-tidings and ill-begotten artifacts, will you follow in the footsteps of your grandfather's noble legacy, or will a charming cyborg lead you down a more unsavory path?

Content warnings: Death mention and death of a parent, sibling arguments, brief descriptions of wounds, liberal oc creation, morally ambiguous characters. Angsty start to a slow burn.

A/N: This is my first Ezra and my first crossover fic, so this has been very interesting to write! This series will have smut in it eventually, but this first chapter is just backstory, character introduction, and world building. Hope you're ready for an adventure, because we're headed for the stars!

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Breathe in.

You held the gritty, sand-encrusted air in your lungs as the breeze that birthed it rushed up from the wide open canyon below, making your clothes billow and flap; an unneeded reminder of wings you did not possess. Unlike Icarus, who flew too close to Apollo’s heels, taunting the sun god with wings of wax and tallow, you were not here to challenge the radiant star burning brightly ever through the smog-choked air. No, you were here to romance it with your single blade of solar sailcloth, a family heirloom no less, the heat of noonday pulsating along the embedded wires in time with the racing of your heart.

Standing on the precipice of the vast quarry, the rough-hewn stone dropping far below you to where broken machinery and enormous, immovable boulders had met the fate you were hoping to avoid, you clutched your grandfather’s solar-board tightly, hoping it wouldn’t be for the last time. The wind whipped around you, seemingly strengthened by your final exhale, and with its passing,

You jumped.

Grit and gravel tore at your face and clothes as you fell, trying to rip your eyes from your skull and your skin from your bones. Hugged to your chest, the board’s sail snapped angrily with the rush, fire sparking to life along its hexagonal pathways as if the sun-god’s very fingerprints were burning themselves into the bright crimson fabric. Through your tightly squinted eyes you watched the ground eagerly fly up to meet you, its smile hungry, wide, and jagged. Closer, closer it came, until the sailcloth lit up like a comet, fully charged, rumbling with agitated anticipation for your command.

The cliff face sped beside you, the light from the Montressan afternoon dimming, dimming, becoming darker as the wall of granite swallowed the sky, the only witness to your doom as you would surely be dashed to bits on the rocks below.

But you, you knew better than that.

With a stab of your heel you kicked the aft-mounted propulsion engine to life, funneling all the fury of the stars into a jet of blinding fire, rocketing you away from the quarry walls at the last possible second. In your hands the sail’s boom bucked angrily, swelling with the power of the wind and sun, almost as if it were alive and hellbent on escape. You dug your heels into the fiberglass board, tilting the prow up and over the arm of a crane that had risen from the ground as if to swat you from the sky like you were nothing more than an insect; only to eat your flaming wake instead.

Mining onworld had long since been deemed a task far below the stature of any sentient race, the arduous labour now belonging solely to the machines and leaving you as the only flesh-and-blood being to be found for miles. Flesh and blood, bone and sinew; soft, malleable things that would be splattered gloriously across the iron booms and steel shovels that you tore your path across, challenging the metal monstrosities to a game you were too cocksure to lose. You banked through the machinery, spiralled through a cloud of lung-clogging smoke, and boldy -no, arrogantly- scraped the keel of your board along an iron girder, the roar of your engine prideful and fierce over the whine of steel. Unstoppable, you crouched low on the board as if you were trying to become the wind itself, but you were not truly a creature of the air.

You were a creature of fire.

A one winged comet, you soared towards your ultimate goal: the enormous, slowly-turning gears of the Graveller, a monumental excavator, obliviously carving away at the quarry walls without a care in the world. House-sized buckets clawed their way into the stone, sending boulders spiraling down to the terraced ground below, but you weren’t watching the shovels, instead you focused on the turning of the gears. Between the supporting radial spokes flashed the openings of your salvation, or your destruction, seconds-long spaces that would casually crush your bones to powder with inanimate indifference if you missed your timing by even a hair.

You flew, a phoenix rising, towards the death-defying challenge, counting the blink of the passages in time with your breath, speeding faster and faster as you approached.

Open.

Closed.

Open.

Closed.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Breathe in

You snapped the solar sail closed, and with it yourself, becoming nearly flush with the board, spiralling like a bullet fired from a rifle between the unforgiving tunnel of steel; and from the grave, Icarus screamed and averted his ghostly eyes. The phoenix becomes the peregrine, exploding out the opposite side right as the bone-crushing gears bit down on your flaming tail, the mechanical beast starved for flesh this night.

Breathe out.

“Hell fucking yes!!” Whoops and hollers echo over the sound of cacophonous prospecting as you cheer yourself on, your fists and your sail raised in a prominent display of victory. Heart pounding, lungs burning with soot and adrenaline, you wiped the grit and grime from your eyes with the back of one wind-whipped hand, but once your vision cleared the whooping of a siren replaced your hard-earned cheers.

Busted.

“For fucks sake!” You shouted with callous disregard for the law enforcement droids approaching you, their stupid constable hats flashing red on their approach. “Did you at least see me beat the Graveller? Been trying to-”

“Miss-Hawkins,” one of the robots grated, it’s mechanical voice somehow dripping with pre-programmed annoyance. “You-are-being-detained-for-trespassing, -again.”

Lively music swelled up to the wooden rafters of the Benbow Inn over the sound of joyus chatter and delightful company. The Inn had long since been a favoured landmark on Montressor after it had been rebuilt, the original destroyed by a freak accident; though back in the day it was more suspected to have been arson. Regardless, the building was beloved by locals and travelers alike for three generations now, the pride and joy of the Hawkins family.

On the wall opposite the grand fireplace was a collection of picture frames, the clean glass reflecting with the faces of patrons, giving the photos of the deceased the illusion of being alive and ever-watching. The largest and most prominent was of a handsome man with dark brown hair and vivid green eyes, his white coat adorned in a swath of medals and awards for his years of service with the Royal Navy. Below the gilded frame a delicate plaque is inscribed with the name:

Jim Hawkins.

Over the crowd of customers the house matron made eye contact briefly with the image of her grandfather as she scuttled across the tavern, an armload of strange delicacies in each hand. “Here you are, Mrs. Fergle, a bowl of the house special: bonzabeast stew!” She beamed, placing the steaming bowl in front of the betentacled lady. “And an apalonian chowder, for the birthday boy!”

The squidling gurgled in delight before digging into the meal, making his cyclopian mother smile. “Thank you, Sarah, you know it’s his favorite!”

The woman with a name inherited from her great-grandmother smiled proudly before politely taking her leave back towards the kitchen. She got a fair distance from the more crowded side of the inn before she sighed and wiped the sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand. Looking back disdainfully towards the rear of the kitchen where the aprons are hung, she groaned audibly at the name of her little sister embroidered on the front of one still hanging. This was supposed to be Sarah’s night off, but, yet again, her coverage has fucked off for the night without so much as a note. “Where is that little brat?”

She wasn’t expecting an answer, but one unfortunately came in the form of the front door nearly being broken off its hinges by the insensitive arm of one cop-bot. Between it and a second droid was you, looking like something a cat would have dragged to the doorstep, hair a mess and clothes as rumpled as the sailcloth tucked under your arm. Were you any less used to this scenario you would have paled at the steely stare coming from your older sister’s eyes, but instead you did your best to flash your most innocent shit-eating grin. “Hey...”

“You!!” Your sister seethed, her anger made more palpable by the sudden hush that fell over the crowded inn. She forced herself to choke down the rage boiling in her throat before re-addressing you, her bottom lip pulled tightly into a frown. “You… are supposed to be working! You told me you would cover my shift tonight! What the hell have you gotten yourself into this time?”

“Miss-Hawkins-was-caught-trespassing-at-the-old-quarry-and-flying-in-a-no-fly-zone.” The bot with its claws dug into your arm began, not giving you a chance to explain yourself. “Again.”

“Pfft, ‘miss’ Hawkins.” you bemused, rolling your eyes to distract from the sharp metal in your bicep. “You know my name, tin can, you could at least call me that instead of treating me like a kid.”

The bot’s red, triangular eyes swiveled down towards you. “We-might-stop-treating-you-like-a-kid-when-you-stop-acting-like-one.” On instinct you stuck your tongue out at the droid, and for a split second you felt as though, if it had a tongue of its own, it would be sticking it out at you as well. “Do-not-let-us-catch-you-there-a-third-time.”

You were rudely shoved forward into your home and place of work, stumbling but finding your footing quickly to try and remain cool in front of your audience. “Yeah yeah, don’t worry your circuits over it, you won’t… catch me there again.” You winked slyly, but the robots did not return the gesture since they didn’t have eyelids.

“Madame-Hawkins.” The second droid turned and addressed your fuming, cross-armed sister, using a more respectful title for her as a way of belittling you. “Do-try-to-keep-this-one-out-of-trouble. We-would-not-want-her-to-tarnish-the-good-Hawkins’s-name. Have-a-nice-day.” The condescending statement fell on deaf ears, earning a matching eye roll from both women, each disgusted that these robots thought one sister could control the other. The droids ‘tipped’ their mechanical hats before both of the officers turned on their wheels, rolling down the driveway and off into the darkening evening, chattering between themselves about how much of a pain in the ass the Hawkins’s youngest was and how unsurprised they were at the delinquency that ran in the family.

The goodie-two-shoes eldest, on the other hand, looked like she was nearing an explosion, and you did your best to swap your face over to one more pleading and innocent once you’d both made it back to the kitchen, out of sight and sound from the busy tavern floor. “Sarah, I-”

She put her hand up, silencing you with practiced ease. “Don’t even fucking start. Not only did you ditch me when you SAID you would be here tonight, but you also took grandad’s solarboard? Are you crazy?! That thing is a relic and a family fuckin’ heirloom, you’re so lucky it didn’t explode and kill you, but you know what, since it hasn’t, I just might!”

“She works fine, I fixed her myself, you know.” Grandpa Jim’s board shimmered in your hands when you leaned it against the kitchen wall, the last traces of starlight flickering out like embers on the wind. “The old girl needs some fresh air every once in a while.”

Though you were speaking about the board as if it were alive, your sister’s shoulders stiffened and slumped when she realized you were talking about yourself more so than the antique. She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose between crinkled brows. “I know you don’t like helping me with the inn, but we promised dad-”

“You promised dad!” You barked before she could finish, a hateful tone snapping angrily from between your teeth and turning the conversation into confrontation. “I never even got to say goodbye before he left! Before he fucking abandoned us with this shithole tavern!”

“It’s not a shithole! I bust my ass keeping this place running while you go for joy rides and get arrested!”

“Detained.”

“Whatever! The point is we have to keep this place up and running for when dad comes back, so he sees how good of a job-”

“He’s not coming back!” You nearly screamed, tears already threatening to boil over from behind your eyes. “He left ten years ago, Sarah, he’s not coming back! Haven’t you figured that out yet? He’s probably drunk or dead in a ditch and you know what? I don’t care either way! He died the day he stormed out that door as far as I’m concerned, and it’s high fuckin’ time you grew up and realized that as well! We’re too old to believe in fairy tales.”

Sarah bared her teeth and stood her ground, rage making her into a force to be reckoned with. “You know why I still believe he’s coming back? Because that’s what parents are supposed to do, just like I took over the Inn like I was supposed to do, meanwhile you’re too busy being a little rebel to notice anyone else but yourself! Breaking laws and getting into fights! I’m shocked you haven’t been thrown in jail yet for the shit you pull! You’re too much of a handful, dick head, and that’s why he left!” Sarah balked the second the words left her mouth, watching in horror as they buried themselves like daggers in your heart. “Wait, I didn’t-”

Angry and heartbroken, you grabbed the solar board and crashed from the kitchen to the stairs that lead up to your room, your boots nearly breaking through the wooden floorboards in your furious haste. You didn’t own much, some knick knacks and memories strewn about the room, but they were so far back in your mind that they didn’t even register while you snatched your boogie bag off the hook behind the door and raced for the unlocked window. The glass threatened to break when you slammed it open and clambered out onto the roof, the first drops of an evening shower making the shingles slick.

Without sunlight the board was essentially useless, but it was the only remaining connection you had to your grandfather who died when you were just a little girl, and you had claimed it as your own no matter how much Sarah wanted to keep it on the wall mount above the mantle. Sliding down the slickening tile nearly put you on your ass when you slipped from the roof and onto the gravelly, soon-to-be-muddy driveway that led up to the Inn, and the second your feet obeyed you, you commanded them to run.

Where you were headed you didn’t know, but it had to be away from everything that broke your heart. From your heartless sister, that damned Inn, the bustling, obnoxious customers that drove you insane; but most of all from the photo of your father that adorned the wall a few spaces away from the grand illustration of your grandpa. He looked so much like him, you thought whenever you passed by the wall of frames, with his wild hair and intense, star-borne eyes. Those you had inherited from him, as well as the recklessness that seemed so unique to the Hawkins’s bloodline; your sister having drawn the lucky straw of taking from your soft-spoken mother.

You, on the other hand, like your father and his father, could not be so easily contained. Mercurial wings bore you down the drive towards the fingerling piers that jutted out over the shipping lane canyon, far below where the Benbow teetered on the seemingly bottomless ravine. More than once you had almost hoped that a fatal breeze would knock the tavern into the hole, taking your memories of a simpler time with it.

In the near dark and increasing rain you squinted your eyes and searched for a ship, any ship, just one that you could commandeer like you had done several times before in the past and fuck off for good. Holding a hand to your brow, you scanned for possible targets, but though the tavern was hopping with local patronage, not a single ship floated in the bay.

You felt your chest tighten and your breath quicken and heave, suddenly claustrophobic even though you were standing on the edge of the expanse. Trapped, trapped like a rat. “Fuck!” You hollered, nearly throwing the solar surfer in your rage. “Fuck!!” The rain seemed to empathize with you, increasing from a steady drizzle to a heavy shower and soaking your clothes through. With a groan and another shout of curses you begged the storm to take you away, to bring you a ship so you could chase the stars for yourself, to fulfill the true Hawkins’ family calling instead of getting swept up in that damn tavern like your parents had. Like your sister had.

The storm, ever listening, its tears mixed with your own as the water flowed down your cheeks, answered you justly.

-ka-BOOM!!-

High above you something exploded through the atmosphere, and for a moment you wondered if meteor season was early this year. Watching the fireball crash through the clouds, sputtering and coughing a thick plume of smoke in its wake, you were horrified to realize that the falling star was actually a falling ship.

There was nothing you could do but watch as it came down, your heart leaping disgustingly to your throat at the idea of the ill-fated ship and all its passengers being lost to the abyss, but a lucky explosion popping off the side of the doomed vessel knocked it onto a more amicable course. It hit the fingerling pier, screeching steel whining into the night as it skittered closer to the edge before grinding to a halt, and it wasn’t until the billowing flames scalded your eyebrows that you noticed you had dumped your board and ran headlong towards the wreckage.

With no concern for your own safety, you covered your face with the collar of your shirt and began kicking at the escape hatch before the fire consumed it, knocking the steel bulkhead out of the way and grabbing fearlessly towards an outstretched arm. Searing heat nearly scorched your face off when you dug your fingers into the singed fabric of their coat sleeve and yanked, dragging the stranger into the rain and away from certain death. You stumbled with them quickly away from the ship, getting just far enough away before the damn thing’s ionizers cracked and lit the bitch up like fireworks, turning the once star-worthy machine into a fireball of steel confetti.

Cold rain pelted against you and the stranger who was slumped in your arms, coughing maddening amounts of soot from their lungs. You dragged them towards an embankment on the road, setting them down in the muck so the rain could put out the residual smoulders that flickered along their wide brimmed hat and tattered old coat. “Hey, you alrig-” You started to ask, grabbing their hat before it lit their hair on fire, but in doing so you felt your heart drop through your boots at the sight of a familiar face underneath. “Dad?!”

“SARAH!”

The door to the Benbow was nearly blown off its hinges for the second time that night. Your sister, broom in hand, turned with a snarl marring her lovely features towards you and the near-corpse you were hauling through the door on the back of a makeshift gurney, dragging red sailcloth through the mud. “That was fast, don’t tell me you already hit someone?”

“Fuck you shit for brains! It’s dad!” You quickly pulled your wounded father from the sullied solar-surfer and tossed him into the closest chair. “Water! Sarah, get water, fast!” Sarah was about to rip your head off for ruining her mop job when she saw that you were telling the truth, that her long lost papa had finally come home. She paled, the blood draining from her face, and it took another bark from you to get her ass in gear. “Hey, dad, what happened? Who did this to you?”

Your sister returned with a cup of water and tried to push it to the man’s lips, but he refused. “‘M’not.. I’m not gonna… here.” He stammers, drawing something from his pocket and thrusting it into your hands. Slowly, almost deliriously, he smiled up at you from under his rain-and-sweat soaked hair and mused: “Papa wasn’t the only one who knew where to find gold.”

Confused, you looked to see what you’d been given, hoping you would find answers but only found more questions. In your hands you now found a star chart and a clear, ovoid-shaped gemstone that glittered with a small golden center in the light of the hanging chandeliers. Sarah furiously swiped the map from you before you could get a good look at it, balling it in her fist. “The fuck is this!? You’ve been gone for a damn decade for what? For this?! You can’t possibly be ser-”

“Sarah, sweetie I know, and I’m sorry but… I had to…The Inn looks so nice...”

“I’m calling Dr. Doppler!” Sarah, in tears, screamed and raced for the phone, leaving you alone with your estranged parent.

He took your hand, making you cringe from the bloody, sticky burns on his palm. “Chickpea, I’m sorry to show up like this’n dump this on you, but you have to find the queen before… before the cyborg does.” He clawed his other hand into the collar of your shirt, drawing you towards his ashen face. “You can’t let the cyborg find the queen!”

Horrified, you shook your head, hopelessly fending off fresh tears. “Queen? Cyborg? Dad, what are you talking about?! I don’t understand!!”

His eyes were glassy but full of undeserved pride, a weak smile tugging on the corners of his mouth. “If anyone can find her, it’s you, because that’s what the Hawkins family does.” His eyes fluttered and shut, a small sigh -his last breath- leaves his lips. “We… find… treasure.”

The morning after your father died found you still awake and exhausted, sitting in one of the tavern’s booths while the coroners were finishing up. In your hand you absently turned the strange jewel you’d been gifted over and over, running your thumb across its smooth surfaces. You’d never seen anything like it, but you guessed that it must be worth something to the right person. However, to you it merely served as a worry stone, something to ground you after the trauma of the night.

“Are you alright?”

The sound of a question caught you momentarily off guard. Looking up with eyes drier than they should be, you were greeted with the warm contenance of Dr. Tillie Doppler, one of Amelia and Delbert’s quadruplets. Though she bore the same face as her mother, her wild auburn hair was distinctly from her dad’s side, as was her inquisitive personality.

“Peachy keen.” You lied, leaning back heavily against the bench seat where the first dappled motes of morning sunlight were leisurely making their way through the window. You shook your head, “It doesn’t make any sense, Til. Haven’t seen him in ten years and suddenly he just drops out of the sky? And for what? Not to see his daughters, obviously.” You scowled at the shiny rock in your palm, letting it shimmer in the dawn. “What’d’ya think this is, anyway?”

The Felinid took the stone from you gently, tweezing it between her dainty claws while she adjusted her glasses. “You know I’m not entirely sure, but if I had to make my most educated guess, and I am educated, I would have to say that this right here is aurelac, though nobody’s actually seen aurelac in this part of the galaxy in well over three centuries. They’d been believed to have gone extinct.”

“Extinct? But... it’s a rock.”

“True, it is a rock, but a rock produced by an animal, much like how an oyster makes a pearl, though the process by which this pretty pebble is made is vastly more obscure. Oh what I wouldn’t give to know where this had come from! It would be the crown jewel -pardon my pun- of the Doppler Archives.” Tillie’s cat-eye slits had gone wide with excitement, and it took her a moment to return the stone to you. “You said there was a map as well?”

You huffed and looked to your exhausted, bedraggled sister, asking her with your eyebrows for the crumpled paper you knew she had. Sarah nearly growled before giving it to you, her fury only mildly abated since the previous evening. Thanking her sarcastically, you smoothed the wrinkled parchment over your thigh, grumbling at the ridiculousness of it. Who charts on paper anymore?

Eyes like moons, Tillie took a corner of the map with you and helped you smooth the paper out over the tabletop, using the aurelac as a paperweight. The map depicted a well-worn image of the Etherium, with carefully traced lines leading your eyes along the ether currents. It was a familiar picture, one that you’d studied ever since your grandpa first put a telescope to your eye, so you knew right away that a circle in the corner didn’t belong. “Do you think this is where the aurelac came from?” You asked, pointing at the insignificant mark that could just as easily be a coffee stain.

Tillie crinkled her kitty nose, bringing her glasses closer to her eyes. “I’m not sure, might just be a booger or a spec of dirt…” She thoughtlessly moved the aurelac out of the way to get a better view, pushing the gemstone into a beam of sunlight streaming in through the window. The aurelac glowed with the radiant light of the dawn, throwing a sliver of sunshine over the parchment that shimmered with something unseen.

“By the stars, look!” Tillie exclaimed, grabbing the gemstone and holding it up to catch a better sunbeam, turning the aurelac into a prism that bathed the map in gold. Suddenly the once-plain paper was awash with hidden text written in some kind of indelible ink.

The map of the Etherium had been transformed into what appeared to be a topographical map of a planet’s surface, the word Bakhroma written on the bottom. Your collective eyes followed a gilded line drawn over what you guessed to be dense jungles and high cliff faces leading to an X scratched haphazardly over the terrain. Next to it was an image drawn by a different hand, more carefully, almost lovingly so, of a fat, six-legged creature that seemed to be wearing a spacesuit.

“You can’t tell me that’s not a treasure map, Til! X marks the spot!” You shout, strengthened by a second wind. “Dad went looking for treasure just like grandpa did when he went to find Treasure Planet, and I bet if we followed this map it would lead us to wherever the aurelac came from!”

“Pfft, ‘Treasure Planet’…” Sarah seethed, her tone even more hateful than it was the night before. “You really believe that grandad went on some wild adventure with bloody pirates to go find a planet full of gold?! Those were just stories! Fairy tales. They weren’t real. ” She threw her hands up and stormed over to you, her eyes flinty as daggers. “You know what is real? Dad! He’s real and whatever that is got him killed!” The light caught briefly in the mist forming in her eyes for the umpteenth time since the storm passed. She stomped her foot and crossed her arms defensively. “I can’t believe he would do this to us! And I can’t believe you would be just as stupid as he is, though I guess I shouldn’t even be surprised.”

“Yeah, you shouldn’t be.” You fired back, mimicking your sister's hand-on-hip stance from before. Sarah started to argue, but unfortunately for her, you’d learned a thing or two about scolding, and cut her off with a raised finger. “I’m sick and tired of pretending like there isn’t something more outside the Inn, and I’m sick and tired of living in the great Jim Hawkins’s shadow. We’re not supposed to be tavern wenches, Sarah, we’re supposed to be treasure seekers, and damn it all that’s what I’m gonna do! I’m gonna find the aurelac queen!”

“Oh please, just yesterday you were getting arrested-”

“Detained!”

“Shut up! You’re a rebel and a delinquent, and one of these days your dumbassery is going to get you killed! What makes you think for one harebrained second that you can go ~galavanting~ across the Etherium looking for space rocks that may or may not even exist by yourself?!”

“Pardon me…” Tillie, ever polite, finally cut through the bickering Hawkins siblings. “But uh, Sarah is right, there’s not a snowflake’s chance in hell you’ll survive a space voyage on your own. There’s man-eating whales and space-borne parasites, and not to mention pirates of course…” She said, counting off on her fingers to your dismay. Your sister’s ever-contorting expression had slid into a vile smugness that you would’ve loved to wipe off her face with your fist, but Tillie coughed quickly before a new argument could start. “That’s why I will be going with you!”

Next->

★TAGLIST★

[mithrilwren]

I really, really wanted to contribute something to Essek Week​, but unfortunately with two essays and a novel chapter due by Monday, I didn’t have the time or mental energy to write anything new. Cue me remembering that I’d actually started working on an Essek-centric shadowgast Pirate!AU last summer, that never saw the light of day! Though I did a whole bunch of research for it, summer ended before I could get farther than the first couple chapters. Still, I’m very fond of the premise, and I’d like to finish it one day. I can’t guarantee I will (life’s too busy to commit myself to another Big Fic Project atm) but in the meantime, here’s a little taste in the form of the first chapter.

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

For @essek-week Day 7: AU

Courts of Silk (Chapter 1)

Essek startled from his trance to the crackle of blistering thunder overhead.

Mind bled of all drowsiness in an instant, he unfolded his legs and slid off the berth, drifting to the center of the room and tilting his ear towards the boards above. 

A storm…  but the skies were meant to be clear for days, and he trusted Avus to know it. Could the weather have turned so–

Boom.

Essek’s eyebrows flew up as the deck visibly lurched below his feet. 

Not thunder.

Cannon fire.

More sounds now, hurried ones – an erratic tempo of feet pounding through the corridor outside his little room, the floorboards creaking dully under the weight of the crew scrambling over the deck above. He flinched as a louder noise pierced through the commotion: the rattling of a heavy fist falling against the door of his cabin, hard enough to shake the wooden frame. 

“We’ve been boarded!” Zel’ra’s guttural shout startled him out of his confused stupor, and he flew to the door and flung it open. The quartermaster stood outside, her snarling jaw dripping with whitish battle foam, the kind that bugbears of Rosohna so seldom have occasion to sport within city walls. “Come on, magic boy, time for you to earn your– Shit!”

Then she was gone, and Essek was left staring dumbly at the empty corridor, as Zel’ra raced back the way she came. A moment later, there was a yelp, and the grisly crack of metal hitting bone. Then there was no sound at all, save the rocking of the ocean’s pulse against the hull, and the thump of confident, unfamiliar footsteps, coming closer and closer to his open door.

He had only a few moments to make his decision. The fight might still be going on above deck, but if intruders had already made it below, there was little hope of a favorable outcome for the crew of the Barren Bow. He hadn’t thought the Empire would be brazen enough to attack a diplomatic ship in open waters, but there were soldiers of all ilks on the open sea, and no government to hold them to account so far from land. He would not put it past a Dwendalian crew to sight a Dynasty flag on the horizon and decide to take the matter of revenge in their own hands. If so, there was no telling what treatment they might expect at the hands of their attackers. Rage was rarely tamed by abstract rules of engagement, and he doubted anyone would care to ask what the nature of their mission was, once the killing began.

But perhaps…

Quickly, Essek drew aside his sleeve and materialized the leather–bound contents of his wristpocket into his hands. His spellbook lay beside precious components in their embroidered fold, and there, at the bottom of the pile: the folio. He whispered a quiet word and the paper folded apart, revealing its damning – and perhaps, in the right hands, lifesaving – contents. 

The letters. 

If the tides were so unfavorable that he could not fight, perhaps that might be enough to–

He vanished the whole affair back into the ether as two shadows fell across the door. 

From the darkness of the hallway, two figures stepped over the threshold. In front was a young woman: human, with swarthy skin made darker still by the weathering burn of long days at sea. Her hands were tucked beneath bare arms and her hip turned out to an unconcerned jaunt, adorned by a sash of deep blue. Behind her, and looming so tall that she had to hunch to fit through the frame of the door, was a giant of a woman. Taller even than Zel’ra, her bare shoulders glistening with rippling muscles and sweat, pale as moonlight – or as the steely glint of the broadsword at her back. The younger woman swept him over with piercing eyes, her confident grin not quite masking the focused gaze beneath. Though she bore no weapons, Essek could feel the stain of threat in every taut sinew of her body. He held still, waiting to see who would make the first move.

Her eyes finally paused, centered on the floor beneath his feet, and her grin dropped into something more like a startled ‘oh’. Too late, he realized his mistake – that his levitation, as natural and instinctive as standing on his own two feet, had just given him away. 

“Mage!” she sputtered, and her hand was gripping his arm and twisting it behind his back before he even realized she’d moved. Essek dropped the levitation spell, hoping to get enough leverage from the sudden height difference to slip out of her grasp, but before he could so much as shuffle to the left, the taller woman was at his right, clutching his other arm with a grip strong enough to break bone. 

“Shit,” the first woman spat as she stepped back, allowing the second to take both of his arms into custody. “Who the fuck did we just board?”

Essek kept silent, staring at her, searching for any sign of weakness and finding less than nothing. If he had just had his hands free for a moment longer… but that didn’t matter now. There weren’t many spells without a somatic component at his disposal, and cantrips wouldn’t save his neck, should the giantess move quicker to snap it than he could speak. 

Without a means of immediate escape, he looked next for any way to identify his captors. They were human, but their loose, subdued dress – for the younger woman, a vest of blue cotton, the other, a braided grey tunic, and frayed ribbons in both their hair – was nothing like the silver and crimson finery of the Righteous Brand. 

If not from the Empire, who were these people? Hired thugs? Mercenaries?

“Are there more of you skulking down here?” 

He didn’t ask the woman to clarify, though he wasn’t sure exactly what she was asking. More drow? Yes, but he was not about to reveal the nature of the delegation travelling under his protection to her. More mages? No. As always, he had convinced the Bright Queen that his effort alone would be sufficient. For the first time in a very long time, he wished he’d been a little more conservative in estimating his own skills. Given the current situation, someone else’s power at his back might actually be welcome, rather than distracting. 

Her burning gaze made it clear that he had to say something, and soon, but for once, the right words did not come. The truth did not matter: he knew that any unfavorable answer would be taken as a lie.

Still, Essek would not panic. The only way to regain control of the situation was by carefully gathering information, finding something that he could use to shift the balance of power at a more advantageous moment. That was his particular specialty. 

“I do not know,” he answered coolly. “For I do not know who is above and below deck at all hours of the day. I can only speak for myself.”

“Beau! Fjor– fuck– Captain Tusktooth wants you on deck!” A new voice, its timbre high and grating, like glass against cold iron, echoed from around the corner. The woman – Beau, he filed away – turned her head and shouted back out the door. 

“Just a second, we’ve got one more!” Then, “Tell him to get Caleb over here, we’ve got a goddamn mage to deal with!” 

The giantess at his back leaned down, so close that her dreaded locks nestled amidst the silver chains that hung from tip to base of his pointed ear. “You aren’t going to give us any trouble, are you?” she murmured, and despite every ounce of training he’d undergone for exactly this sort of intimidation, he still couldn’t help the way he shivered at her dark tone. There was a deep quality to her voice that sung of violence, for violence’s sake, and though he wasn’t yet truly afraid, he had no wish to provoke her.

“How could I?” Essek gently flexed his arms in her grasp: not enough to challenge, but enough to reassure her of his helplessness.

Her lips curled back, and… yes. There was a little fear gathering there, in the back of his throat. A good kind of fear – the prudent kind. It would keep him alert, and focused, and ready to strike back when the moment was right. 

When she started pushing him forward, he followed her lead willingly, and the two of them shadowed Beau into the corridor and up the steps that led back above deck. Essek winced as the bright noonday sun slipped into view, already anticipating the stinging burn that was sure to follow. He’d managed to avoid the deck for most of the voyage, much to the chagrin of the Assarian crew. He was not born into a body made for manning rigging, and certainly not under an unrepentant sky determined to scorch his face and hands and neck and leave him itching and miserable for days without relief. His better use was below deck, planning for the engagement ahead, and his hours of fresh air better taken in the evening, when the gentler light of the moons was merely a prickle beneath his skin, rather than a flame. 

Everywhere he looked, he saw mismatched bodies. Though Essek hadn’t met the entire complement of the Barren Bow’s crew, he had to assume most of the scattered orcs, goblins, and bugbears belonged to their side. Most of the ones on their feet were being held in the shallow recess at the centre of the deck, where great cannons might have been lodged on a more modern ship. A handful of unremarkable humans, each equipped with a rapier – or, in one man’s case, a salt-encrusted retort – stood above them, keeping watch. Amidst all that humanity stood a wild–eyed goblin in a blaring yellow dress, hefting a crossbow composed of whirring gears and levers of an intricate make that rivaled Waccoh’s own craftsmanship. She was currently in the process of shouting threats down across the heads of his cowed compatriots. Some were clutching broken arms or wiping blood from contusions and burnt welts. Lying at the center of the group was an unconscious Zel’ra, the goose egg at the back of her skull already angry and red. 

Finally, he spied the remainder of the drow contingent clustered by the ship’s rail. Diplomats, all of them, bound for a parley at sea and not trained for conflict beyond what it took to hold a dagger right-way up. He was the only one among them battle-tested, and even then, his means leaned more towards subterfuge than outright combat. Theoretically, the Assarian crew was meant to be their main line of defence in case of attack. Clearly they had not proven up to the task. 

Essek would be filing a very unfavorable report with their commanders upon his return, if any of them survived the day. 

“Captain!” Beau shouted, and a tall half-orc stepped away from the railing, his wide-brimmed hat only partially disguising the many scars that littered his face. 

“Weather’s turning,” he said, casting his eyes towards the – as far as Essek could tell – clear horizon. Those same yellow eyes flickered up, above Essek’s head, and for a moment seemed to narrow before turning back to Beau. “You finished clearing the hold yet?”

“Didn’t make it that far.” Beau jerked her head, and Essek was thrust into the sunlight all at once. The glare was blinding, and apparently not just to him. The giantess’s hands jerked around his arms, like they wanted to fly up and shield her eyes as well. That was all the opportunity he needed. 

With one quick motion, he jerked his arms from her grasp and drew his hands together, tracing familiar glyphs out of nothing but muscle memory as his mouth uttered an incantation, and the world exploded around him. The giantess was flung back against the doorframe, wood splintering beneath her weight, and both Beau and the half-orc slammed into the deck and began to hurtle towards the side of the boat. Forcing his eyes to stay focused amidst the chaos and the harsh light, Essek caught the glitter of a cutlass skittering along the boards as he took stock of his position on the newly reborn battlefield.

Nearly all of the boarders were in a concentrated area in front of him, and the rest of the Assarian crew were protected by the lip of the recess in the deck. The terrain could not be more advantageous. Essek allowed himself a small smirk as he raised his hand and prepared a vacuum blast that would level the whole of the upper deck, and deliver them all to safety in one swift stroke. 

How arrogant, that this petty group of mercenaries thought they could capture–

“Counterspell.”

The magic sizzled and died in his hand, and Essek whirled, searching for whoever had spoken behind him. Thugs he could handle, but it was always best to deal with a mage first, when they could do such infuriating things as what had just occurred. But once he turned, he found himself facing an empty doorway, and an empty deck above that. No trace of whoever had cast the counterspell. 

The giantess was gone as well.

He heard the click before he could parse what cold and heavy thing was tugging on his wrist, but he was horribly aware of what was happening by the time his other wrist was wrenched behind his back and small hands clasped the second iron band shut. A stomach-churning wave of exhaustion passed through him from scalp to toe, and he staggered, only barely holding on to consciousness. Head lolling towards the floor, he saw two soft-soled boots landing lightly on the deck in front of him.

With great effort, he managed to drag his head up from his chest, and found himself staring into blue eyes and dusty freckles, lips pressed into a thin line, all framed by tangles of copper-red hair. 

“Good work, Nott,” the man said. His accent was one Essek had only heard once before, though through the mire of exhaustion he could not remember where.

Behind Essek, the half-orc groaned and pushed himself up off the deck. “Next time you have a brilliant plan for subduing the prisoner, maybe let’s try not putting us all in the line of fire, hm?” 

The man ignored the sarcasm, still looking all too carefully at Essek.

“Are you finished?” he murmured, and though his body was lithe, his soft voice sung of as much violence as the giantess’s darker growl. 

With a sigh, Essek let his shoulders drop. He could still feel the pulses of magic coursing through the iron bands around his wrists. Even if he got his arms free again, the cuffs would not be easily slipped, or broken. These people, whoever they were, came equipped to handle wizards like himself. Was that what they were, then? Assassins in disguise? Privateers? The blunt instrument of some government or another?

Not that it made much difference now. Whoever they were, he was at their mercy. 

“Spin him around.”

Essek felt himself being maneuvered away from the man’s incisive gaze. Through bleary eyes he caught the looks of frustrated disbelief from the four drow delegates, lamenting their crushed hope in silent, huddled unity. He was meant to be their protection. Now that Essek was taken, what else could save them? Not one of them was brave enough to attempt it themselves. A shiver of disgust ran through Essek, as heady as the self-recrimination it concealed at having allowed himself to be captured so easily.

The half-orc strode up to Essek, the sword in his hand now replaced, though Essek hadn’t seen the man move to retrieve it. It was a silver cutlass, fine enough to cleave a person clean through and leave one half still propped up on the other. Too rich a prize by far for a simple mercenary – he must have come by it dishonestly, or been given it as boon or bribe. Neither prospect boded well. 

The hand that gripped the sword told an equally foreboding story, for only the thumb was composed of green flesh. The rest of the fingers were severed at the third knuckle, and replaced by metal imitations fixed to the wrist by a harness of leather cords. Still, he held the hilt with all the confidence of a trained fighter, and the surety of his grasp left Essek little doubt as to its effectiveness, mechanical augmentation or no.

“My name,” said the half-orc, “is Captain Tusktooth.” A hint of bright teeth flashed from below the wide brim of the hat. “And this ship is mine now. Its cargo, mine too.”

The answer about the identity of his captors, at last, became clear, for what little good it did him.

Pirates.

“By whose authority?” Essek shot a harsh look at the foolish dignitary who had chosen this moment to find their courage, but Tusktooth only grinned harder.

“By my own.” Behind Essek’s back, Nott and Beau slipped back through the splintered doorframe and down into the depths of the ship once more. “Now, my crew is going to finish taking a look through your cargo. I trust that your captain has been honest about the contents of your hold. Are there any other surprises I should be warning my people of? Anybody else looking to make trouble?”

Would that there were. “You will find little of value to take. We travelled light.” He spoke the truth, having no more useful lie at his disposal. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, and another wave of exhaustion teased at the edges of his mind. He fought it with all the strength he had – which was growing less and less by the minute.

“So your captain told me. But that wasn’t my question.” Tusktooth’s voice grew as keen as the blade in his hand as he lifted it and placed the edge to the shallow of Essek’s throat. “Are there others like you aboard?”

He did not flinch. Torment and torture were old friends: his own cherished instruments. He did not fear what this man would do to him, any more than he feared death itself. At least, that is what he told his errant heart, as sweat began to bead at the nape of his neck.

“No.”

Tusktooth stared him down for a minute longer, and Essek held his gaze as best he could with the sun still searing his eyes. But at last, the sword withdrew, and Essek’s breath came a little easier. “Then let’s call this an exercise in… mutual trust.” He smiled once more, and Essek returned the expression with a vague twitch of lips.

The tense exchange was followed by ten excruciating minutes of silence, during which Essek did his best not to fidget in his heavy robes, even when his exposed skin grew so heated he felt liable to burst into flames. As they waited, the redheaded man pulled Tusktooth aside for a private conversation, and Essek sweated, and watched, and tried to formulate a plan.

The pirates would find nothing of value to steal. The Barren Bow had provisions for the voyage, but anything else aboard was the purview of the Assarian crew, who had planned to head back towards the shores of Igrathad as soon as the parley concluded. There were no scheduled stops for trade, and thus, no trade goods in their hold. There weren’t even guns to offer. Essek would never dare to admit it aloud, but the Dynasty lagged sorely behind the rest of Wildemount in outfitting its fleet with the relatively new technology of cannonry, at least of the type that lacked a magical component. Firearms had only entered the sphere of weaponmaking some thirty years prior, and with Xhorhas primarily landlocked, the navy hadn’t been high on the priority list for refurbishment. 

His best hope was that some of the crew had hidden stashes of coin in their quarters. Otherwise, there would be nothing for the pirates to take, and without anything to satisfy them, well… he did not want to be in manacles when that news was delivered to a man who’d already put a sword to his throat. 

If only to convince himself he was not totally beaten yet, Essek watched Tusktooth and the redhead carefully, seeing what he could glean from body language alone. Their conversation was hushed but tense, and every few moments the redhead would turn his eyes towards the drow delegation, and then to Essek himself. He made sure to drop his own eyes before they could meet again, not wanting to spark another confrontation by appearing insolent. As for the pirate captain… there was confidence, yes, but the unwavering edge of confidence seemed to drop away from his shoulders as he spoke to the other man. His arms moved more wildly; his words were more rapid, and at a higher pitch. Perhaps his earlier confidence was not so unshakeable as it at first appeared.

At last, Beau and the goblin re-emerged from the staircase. “We got shit all,” Beau said, tossing down a half-empty sack by Essek’s feet. He winced as a few bruised tubers rolled out across the warped deck.

“...Shit.” Tusktooth ran a hand over his mouth. “Shit. Nothing?”

“Nott and I checked every inch of that hold, the crew quarters, everything. No money, no timber, no – fuck, I don’t know – fine silks or–”

“No cannons,” Nott added mournfully. “No black powder.”

“We went through all this for nothing?”

“Maybe someone’s holding out on us,” Nott said, brandishing her crossbow. “I could make ‘em talk for you, Captain. Make them squeal–”

“Oh–kay, Nott,” Tusktooth said, “let’s take it down a notch.” But despite his placating tone, his look was thoughtful. Again, he turned to Essek. “You never never did say what you all were doing out here, so far from home. You don’t look like a sailor to me.”

“Yes, friend,” said the redhead, stepping up to Essek from Tusktooth’s other side, alarmingly calm, and placing altogether too much emphasis on the second word to be trusted, “what is it you do here?” Essek took a half-step back, not liking the feeling of being pressed in from all angles, and walked himself straight into the chest of the giantess. 

Nowhere to hide. And with his hands bound behind his back, no way to levitate up to a level where he didn’t feel every inch of height his captors had over him. Which, at his firmly average height for a drow, was many.

Focus, Thelyss. Focus.

“Why should I answer your questions,” he sneered, “when you have not done me the same courtesy? Who are you, to board a vessel commissioned lawfully by the Bright Queen herself?” It was a dangerous ploy, but a considered one – a hastily calculated risk. If the pirates could not be convinced there was nothing of value to be found, they might decide to punish the crew for concealing their rightful prize, and when even a beating couldn’t drive his compatriots to forfeit non-existent gold, the pirates might well scuttle the ship and leave them all to drown at sea. He doubted simple brigands would care much for the particulars of a diplomatic mission if there was no treasure involved, so there was little harm in broaching a subject that might be far more dangerous to discuss with more educated captors.

But apparently, some aspect of Essek’s logic had failed him again, because the redhead immediately shot a wide-eyed look at Tusktooth, before looking back to Essek. “The Bright Queen?”

Essek gave a little bow. His head swam as he dipped back up – the handcuffs, no doubt, though it could just as easily be the beginnings of heatstroke – and he had to swallow twice to find the fortitude to speak without slurring. “Essek Thelyss, Shadowhand of the Kryn Dynasty and ambassador of the realm.” The last part was an… embellishment, and if he chanced a glance over at the true ambassadors, he imagined there would be many offended looks. But thankfully, all attention was solely focused on him. “I assure you, you won’t find the prize you’re looking for on a diplomatic vessel, gentleman. Your friends have already given you proof – we carry nothing beyond our own provision. Unless you have a particular taste for the delicacies of Xhorhasian fashion, I’m afraid we have little to offer you.”

Nott snarled, but the redhead put up a hand. “Captain,” he said slowly, looking at Tusktooth. “Might I… make a suggestion?” 

“You may.”

“It’s not something I’d usually propose, but times being what they are…” Tusktooth nodded grimly.

“We haven’t got many options left.”

“Precisely. I believe that our friend Mr. Thelyss here has lied to us.” He could laugh for the irony of it all; this was the most truthful Essek had been in years. “There is indeed something very valuable aboard this ship.” His blue eyes pierced through Essek, and it was only his determination to keep the – now violently pitching – contents of his stomach where they belonged, that stopped him from speaking up in his own defense.

“And that is...?”

“Himself.”

[soldmysoultootomeboys]

Demon MC with Human Obey Me Brothers Reverse AU

Okay but what if the brothers were all ‘normal’ humans who ended up summoning a demon, who is MC.

I’m in love with this idea. Lowkey might write a fic about this  jk...unless? Levi’s was surprisingly the most fun to write. Also I guess tw for normal demon things??? Nothing too graphic tho

Part 2

Lucifer

As a human he was a high ranking businessman. While still a formal person on the outside he had a perverse interest in the occult that he hid from the rest of his coworkers.

Due to his important position and large pay he manages to get his hands on some rare books on demon summoning. After a lot of research he tries them out.

When he summons you he doesn't look surprised or afraid and is quite clinical about it at first. The first thing he does is bind your powers so they can never be used against him. After he informs the rules you must follow if you're to be living with him.

Even as a human he is quite prideful and controlling and he wants to remind you who's really in charge.

At first he only sees you as a demon. He lets you do your own thing when he isn't ordering you around and when the two of you do go out in public he only introduces you as an acquaintance of his. People are rather surprised at this as he's not the type to walk around with others and rumors quickly fly off about you two.

It's not until you two are walking home from a shopping trip that you really start to bond. It was a late night and no one was around so the two of you take your time, enjoying the cool air and stars.

All too late that you hear the click of a gun. From the shadows steps a man, weapon pointed straight at you. Seeing your nonthreatening human form as well as Lucifer who practically reeks of wealth he thought the two of you easy targets. Wrong.

With inhuman speed you lunge forward shifting into your demon form. The gun clatters to the floor as you rip him to shreds with no remorse. It's only when Lucifer finally calls you away that you realize he's dead.

Once you manage to get home he is immediately lecturing you about how risky the actions you just did were. Someone could have seen you or more importantly seen him. What would you have done if the cops got involved? Eat them?

Once he's done though he thanks you and a few days later a gift ends up in your room. He never claims it, even though you can smell his cologne all over it.

After that night Lucifer treats you different. Not better, but not worse either. If anything he's a bit kinder but in a cold sort of way and he keeps his distance when anything gets too serious. At first you think its because he's scared of you. It isn't till he finally approaches you, a stern look on his face and orders you to transform that you realize he was working up the courage to see what you really looked like.

The pact urges you to turn, so you do and you let him examine you, circling several times. He's most interested in your wings, asking if he could touch them and when you consent he gently runs his hands over them. Despite you being a demon he treats you delicately shifting aside feathers with a careful hand and running a light fingertip over leathery skin.

It's a strange feeling at first, but not bad and you're practically purring by the end

After that he asks to see your true form more and more

Mammon

He didn't mean to summon you.

He just wanted to make a quick buck. It was getting close to Halloween people were starting to be interested in demons and spooks once again. That's why he thought it would be a great idea to start a seance business.

Twenty dollars for him to pretend to summon a demon, maybe shake a table once or twice, have some scary sounds playing in the background, nothing too big. Who would have known that the book he stole as his main prop would really work.

When he first sees you he screams.

He immediately tries to shove you back into the book to no avail. As he has no clue how to get rid of you he ends up stuck with you, a terrifying demon.

At first its very easy (and amusing) to scare him. Bear your teeth, mumble in a made up language, threaten to rip him to shreds.

You can actually see his soul leave his body when he faints.

However in typical Mammon fashion he gets used to you surprisingly quick, especially when you don't come through on your promise to eat him.

After that he figures that together the two of you could start scamming people for even more money. After all, he does own a real live demon now.

You two make bank stealing and tricking people. With his knack for creating schemes and your powers the two of you are rolling in money in no time, although it always seems to be lost pretty quickly thanks to his terrible gambling habits.

It's in the middle of a heist that something goes wrong. Someone, you don't know who you can only hear the click of a revolver, pulls out a gun. With lightning fast reflexes you’re tackling Mammon shielding him with the tip of your wing and just in time as something is shot into it tearing through muscle and sinew.

The urge to rip them to shreds overtakes you, growing with every second that your human is in danger. But there was so many of them and you couldn't protect Mammon and yourself at the same time. The need to get somewhere safe is much more important so you leave.

It's only your quick reflexes that get the two of you out alive.

When you finally get home Mammon laments over all of the money he lost on the deal. acts like it doesn't affect him. His complaints last exactly till he sees the blood staining your form.

He almost faints right there.

Once he recovers he's immediately running to get ice packs and gauze, fussing over your injured wing. It's obvious he’s worried even though he tries to hide it under his tsundere act. When you’re finally bandaged up he thanks you glancing at your wound the entire time.

It's hard not to appreciate the gesture.

You just don't know how to tell him that your going to be perfectly fine in like two days (thank Diavolo for demon healing)

After this you two are a lot closer. Even before you were friends, but now the relationship has morphed into something different.

The two of you do less dangerous scams and while Mammon doesn't act too different he gets super weird when you're too close. Blushing a terrible crimson and freaking out when you touch.

Even for a demon its not hard to see that he has a crush.

Levi

Also summoned you on accident.

He was actually trying to summon Ruri-chan. You have to admit when it comes to her he does his research. Drew a full pentagram and everything and as a final touch placed a little plushy in the middle.

He absolutely panics when you arrive here instead.

Used to humans being afraid you, you ignore him at first. You fall to one knee eager to pledge your loyalty in exchange for his soul when you land on something squishy.

Pulling it out from under you see a plushy??? Of some anime character??? TF???

This pulls him from his stupor and he snatches it from you and begins to lecture you on the importance of Ruri-chan and anime on human culture.

You have no clue whats going on at this point.

When he finally stops talking he actually gets kind of excited. He summoned a hot demon??? Woah! This is just like his anime 'I accidentally summoned a demon from Hell who became my roommate and now I might be falling for them.' 

At your confused look he immediately turns it on and has you watch it. You two end up having an entire movie night together.

After that the two of you mostly act like roommates.

He often compares you to his favorite series TSL where 7 humans summon a demon named Henry and go on crazy adventures with him. The first time he accidentally calls you Henry he blushes like crazy.

At first he acted like you were annoying him most of the time but it was pretty easy to catch on to his tsundere act. He actually loves having you around and will whine when you have to leave. He says its because he can't play two player games without you but you know the truth.

On the rare occasions the two of you go out he gets jealous of anyone with even the slightest interest in you. Your HIS demon why are you giving someone else your attention?

Its pretty easy to distract him though. Just the slightest touch and hes flushing and stuttering. You can do whatever he won't get the hint that you like him the most.

'There's no way you meant to do this. This must be some weird demon norm I don't know about. Yup that's it.'

Satan

Summoned a demon on purpose. And not just that summoned you on purpose.

With his extensive library he had more than enough information to figure out how to summon a demon. After that it was just a matter of choosing which one. He finally settled on you.

You don't need to worry about explaining how a pact works to him. He already knows everything on it. Maybe even more than you. Nerd.

Don't express this opinion out loud. He will be furious.

Even so he'll still make you tell him about summoning a million times just to see if you know anything different.  

Mostly you’re an over glorified assistant/labrat to him. MC grab that book. MC draw this summoning circle. MC stick your hand in this flame.

Of any of the brothers he is the one who sees your demon form the most and the one who asks the most questions about it. You have very sharp claws what are those used for? Four sets of wings? I wonder why you have so many. Slitted eyes? Do you have any idea why they are like this?

He is very interested in the differences between humans and demons so you end up performing a lot of tests.

He would also be curious about the celestial war and your part in it. Its up to you to choose to answer him or not.

If you ignore any of his questions he will get annoyed and be snippy. But just tell him an interesting tidbit about hell and he'll be back to normal in no time.

As for his actual job he works as a researcher at a big lab. You go there often to help him with his work. He used to have a lot of assistants but none could handle his terrible rage.

Its one of the reasons you work so well with him. An angry human? That's no big deal. Now if he was a demon that would be something to talk about

His tantrums are actually kind of cute. Like a fussy kitten.

Telling him this has a 50/50 chance of either making him blush or rampage.

If its possible he uses you to annoy his colleagues

Janice talked shit about his theories on planetary alignment? Poison her

Jk not really but maybe just, like, make her day a hundred times worse?

Thanks MC you're great

A power team at its best. His need to get back at people he hates works well with your general need to cause mischief 

Asmodeus

An orgy summons you obvious reasons. Although technically not the one who summoned you, you end up making a pact with Asmodeus before the nights over.

It was inevitable really, of all the humans there how could you not choose him? His overblown confidence and cocky insistence that he was perfect was practically adorable. I mean here you are, a demon of all things, and yet this little human is here insisting that he was perfection himself. You just wanted to eat his soul right up he was so cute.

To him its obvious why. After all, he was so beautiful that even demons fell in love with him, he couldn't blame you.

Even if you tell him the real reason he won't believe it.

Immediately starts bragging about how he could seduce demons

If you leave a pact mark on him though he will complain

As for actual duties you don't have a lot

At parties you work as his wingman but at home the two of you have more of a domestic role. He treats you more like a best friend than a demon.

He has a lot of spa days, something he immediately insisted that you take part in too.

One day you bring him a bottle of demon moisturizer. Big mistake

When he finds out about all the different demon beauty products he immediately orders you to get him some.

Your poor wallet.

He's always ordering new things. He really wants to go down to Devildom so he could look himself instead of having to order off Akuzon. One day you'll figure out a way to show him the eternal night.

He's also very flirty towards you, something your not surprised about. Hes always on your lap or petting your head or asking for affection, and he constantly alludes to the things the two of you could do. As time goes on he begins to get even more needy, sometimes ignoring others at parties just to flirt with you. He wants all of your attention all of the time.

Beelzebub

Did not mean to summon you but now that your here hes pretty okay with it

Of all the brothers he the one to treat you the most like another human.  

However you have one duty that you take very seriously

You must protect his brother, no matter what.

Other than that you two are like roommates. He doesn't really ask you of much except to keep the fridge stocked (which is a bigger job than expected this guy eats a lot) and he'll take care of the rent and everything else.

Sometimes he'll ask if you want to head to the gym with him. You thank your demon metabolism since every time you end up going he always stops for burgers and shakes at his favorite place on the way home.

He lifts a lot for a human, no surprise since you've seen how sculpted his body is. Seriously he's like a Greek statue. You spot him while doing reps and help correct his form while necessary. It's a bit of a switch from dealing with demon biology to human biology though so you have to make sure that you don't accidentally hurt your new friend.

Sometimes the two of you have movie nights, although its more of an excuse for him to buy a bunch of human food and you to buy a bunch of demon food and pig out. He still manages to out eat you somehow.

Occasionally the two of you will go out with his brother Belphie although it usually ends up with either you or Beel carrying him when he falls asleep. But it gives you time to chat with Beel on your own which you don't mind

The two of you end up with a good bromance, sometimes minus the b.

He treats you like an old friend and even ends up telling you about Lilith, his dear sister who died when a car hit her. He had only managed to pull his brother out of the way at the time and he still remembers it well. You can practically smell the guilt that hangs off him when he tells you that. It's hard not to feel touched after that story even for a demon.

He confesses a lot of things to you, things he has a hard time saying to other people. He never calls upon his pact to swear you to secrecy. He trusts you.

Belphie

Also summons you on purpose

When you first meet Belphie he's angry, uncontrollably angry. It's at the point where it almost surprises you. After all a human filled with so much wrath is no small feat.

His first order is a tough one but one you have no choice but to accept. 

Kill the man that murdered his sister

The two of you work hard to hunt him down, spending many days brainstorming late into the night. Although it always ends up with just you working, as Belphie has the strangest tendency to fall asleep while talking. (Narcoleptic maybe? Or just lazy?) Whatever the case you don't terribly mind.

Even just his presence helps, in some strange way.

When you finally track him down Belphie insists on going too. He wants to see the man die with his own two eyes.

It's not a hard fight but it is an emotional one. Through the bond you two share you can feel Belphies anger, his pain, his desire for revenge, and then finally an emptiness.

When its over the two of you go home, still covered in whatever bits of him were left. Belphegor shows no emotions and you wonder if hes in shock from seeing someone die so suddenly, but all you feel is a tired yet content thrum through your bond.

When you finally get home Belphegor immediately tries to go to sleep and its only through a little nagging and a lot of manhandling that your able to convince him to shower first. By now the bloods beginning to dry into a nasty goop and once he's done you jump in too, soothed by the steam and clouds of soap drifting around you.

To no ones surprise Belphie is asleep when you get out. It's then when you realize that you have nothing left to do. 

With that one action your purpose here is done, and yet your pact remains. Your thoughts begin to rise Belphie who clings stubbornly to sleep. It's no use though. The two of you are too connected for it to stop. 

You hear the sheets rustle and he raises one hand patting at the covers. A universal sign to come here.

"You're so loud" He mutters even though you haven't said a word. "Just sleep already."

A useless answer but a comforting one. You curl up at his side, feeling the tiniest bit like an obedient dog, but his arm settles over your shoulder and he drapes himself over your chest erasing the thoughts from your mind.

You eyes flutter close, at least for the moment. You can decide what you should do when you wake up.

[kinkykinard]

First Date Drama

Fandom: 9-1-1. Pairing: Evan “Buck” Buckley x Female Reader. Word Count: 2255. Genre: gen/fluff. Rating: teen+. Summary: you’ve had your fair share of disastrous first dates, but this one might just take the cake. Warning(s): mentions of blood, minor injury. Note: my first ever 9-1-1 fic!  Beta’d by @starshiphufflebadger​.

You hum quietly to yourself as you step into the shower, closing your eyes as the water hits your face and runs in rivulets down your body.  There’s an ache in your thighs that reminds you acutely of the preceding night’s pleasures and you bite your lip as your hand drifts downward, caressing your overstimulated core.  When you’d tumbled into bed with Buck the night before, it had been under the impression that the two of you would have a one night stand and part before either of you could catch feelings.  Now, though, basking in the echoes and memories of the amazing sex you’d had, you hope against hope that he’s open to seeing you again.

Closing your eyes, you let the water run over your skin for a while, loosening up your tired muscles until you’re limber enough to get to work actually cleaning up.  Reaching for the shaving cream, you uncap it and squeeze a generous amount into your palm, setting the canister aside before propping your leg up on the side of the tub.  You rub your hands together, lathering the gel before coating your skin from ankle to knee in an even layer.

Retrieving your razor, you uncap it and get to work shaving, finishing one leg uneventfully.  You repeat the process with the other side, lathering it up before gliding the razor along your skin in smooth strokes.  This time, though, there’s a catch.  A small bump on the inside of your calf snags the razor and you curse quietly as you feel the biting sting of the blades sinking into your skin, shaving cream running into the freshly opened wound and making it burn.

“Damn it,” you hiss, abandoning the razor on the side of the tub as you turn to rinse your leg.

The shaving cream suds are washed away in thick clumps and a wellspring of crimson follows, filling the bottom of the tub in moments.  You whimper as your stomach clenches, nausea gripping you as you watch the blood run.  You want to lean in and inspect the damage but you already feel dizzy and you don’t want to risk overbalancing.  Instead, you grit your teeth and drag in a breath, glancing away as you let the water run over the wound.

“No, no, no,” you mutter, considering your next move.

You pull the shower curtain back, glancing around the bathroom, cursing again.  The first aid kit that usually lives under your sink is still in the basement where you’d left it after your last DIY project had seen you catch a sliver deep in your palm.  You’ve got enough towels to keep a small army dry, but none that are practical for keeping pressure on your lower leg while you waddle awkwardly downstairs to fetch the kit.  You’ve got tissues, too, but considering the amount of blood that you can feel still pouring from the wound alongside the water, you don’t want to risk bits of paper getting stuck in your skin.

A knock on the bathroom door gets your attention and you instinctively turn your head towards it, startled.

“You okay in there?”  Buck asks from the bedroom beyond.

“I’m fine!”  You reply, your voice reedy even to your own ears.

“I heard a few curse words that say otherwise.”

You huff indignantly.

“It’s nothing,” you insist.  “I just nicked myself shaving.”

Buck isn’t convinced.

“I’m coming in,” he warns, giving you a moment to draw the shower curtain again before he opens the door.

“Honestly, I’m fine,” you say, feeling your face heat in embarrassment at your predicament.

“In my experience, the ones who try the hardest to convince you that they’re fine are the ones who need help the most,” he says sagely.

His shadow looms on the other side of the shower curtain and your heart skips uneasily at the thought of him seeing you so vulnerable.  You press the shower curtain to the tiled wall with your palm, preventing him from being able to pull it back.

“It’s stupid,” you say with a sigh.  “I’m sure it’s already stopped bleeding.”

“Let me see,” Buck coaxes.

You shake your head a moment before remembering that he can’t see you through the curtain.

“I’m naked,” you argue.

Buck chuckles.

“You didn’t seem to have an issue with that when I undressed you last night,” he teases gently.

“That was different,” you say flatly.

“I’m a firefighter, I see people naked more often than you’d think,” he reasons.

“Not better.”

You can practically feel him rolling his eyes.

“Come on,” he encourages, his voice softening.  “I just want to help.”

You debate on what to do for another few seconds before finally relenting.  Letting go of the curtain, you slide it back just enough to let Buck know he’s free to look.  He reaches over a moment later, pulling the curtain aside the rest of the way and glancing down at the pool of red water beneath your feet.  

His trained senses take the scene in immediately and you watch as he springs into action.  He reaches for the nearest towel, turning off the shower with his free hand as he moves to press the fabric to your wound to staunch the blood flow.  He presses it firmly into place and you yelp at the sharp sting on contact.

“Do you have a first aid kit?”  Buck asks.

“In the basement,” you reply.

“Can you hold this on here while I go get it?”

You nod and bend down, taking over holding the towel and putting pressure on the wound.  Wanting to avoid looking at it in fear of catching sight of any blood, you watch Buck hurry out of the bathroom and then set your focus on counting tiles in the trim around the sink.

Buck returns a couple of minutes later and comes back to your side, resting a hand on your back.  You shiver as a chill grips you, the ambient air sapping your body heat as the droplets of water on your skin start to evaporate away.

“I’m going to carry you out of here,” he explains.  “But you’re going to have to let go of the towel for a second.”

You nod shakily and let go, instead pressing your calves together to keep the towel in place as you straighten up.  You avoid Buck’s gaze and yelp a little in surprise as he sweeps you up into his arms.  You instinctively wrap your arms around his neck and cling on tightly as he makes his way out of the bathroom.  You can feel the blood from your wound beginning to soak the towel with less pressure on it and you bite back a groan, burying your face in his neck as he heads for your bed.

“I’m going to set you down,” Buck says softly.

You nod, hesitating on letting go of him for a moment as he leans down and lays you on a couple of towels.  Eventually, you reluctantly disentangle yourself from him and lie back, throwing an arm across your eyes in an attempt to hide your embarrassment at your predicament.  Thankfully, Buck has your modesty in mind and you relax a little bit as you feel him pull another towel over your body.  

The relaxation is fleeting as you feel his hands around your calf a few seconds later, pressing the towel firmly into place over your wound.  You hiss in pain as the pressure burns, the terry cloth biting into your skin.  The warm, slightly sticky feeling of the bloodied towel against your leg makes your stomach churn uncomfortably and you take a slow, deep breath in an attempt to quell the nausea.

“How’re you doing?”  Buck asks a moment later.

You can feel his concerned gaze on you and you squirm a little.

“Uh, okay I think,” you say weakly.  “I’m just not good with blood, especially my own.”

“Just keep those pretty eyes covered and you won’t have anything to worry about,” Buck says softly.  “I’ve got you.”

You nod and keep your gaze averted as Buck shifts his grip, taking over holding pressure on your wound with just one hand.  With his free hand, you can hear him shuffling through your first aid kit and tearing open a package.  You quickly realize he’s pulled out some dressing materials as he releases the pressure on your calf, peeling the bloodied towel away and replacing it with fresh, clean gauze.  It stings fiercely and you bite your lip to keep from whining in discomfort.

Buck shuffles around a bit, letting go of your leg entirely for a moment while he opens a few more packages of supplies and sets them aside to use as needed.  The pressure returns within moments, though, and you sigh softly as the minutes tick by with Buck gripping firmly to stop the bleeding.

“Alright, let’s see where we’re at,” Buck says softly a few minutes later, breaking the silence.

You hiss a little as he carefully peels the gauze back, exposing the cut to the air and making it burn.  You feel a little queasy as you anticipate the trickle of blood, but after a few uneventful moments, you slowly open your eyes and look cautiously toward your leg.  There’s not major bleeding in sight anymore, but the large, raw swath of angry, exposed sinew you’ve torn open with your razor looks like something out of a horror movie and you quickly shut your eyes again, trying desperately to banish the visual from your mind.

“Does it need stitches?”  You ask warily, breathing slowly to try and calm your racing heart.

“Nah, there’s nothing to stitch.  It’s too wide a cut and you left the overlying skin flap tangled up in your razor, so there’s nothing left to do but dress it and let it heal.”

The thought of a piece of tissue hanging from the shaver you’d been using in the shower almost makes you gag and you groan in disgust.  Buck pats your uninjured shin reassuringly and reaches for a clean piece of gauze and a tube of antibiotic ointment.

You chew your lip as he works, his gentle hands helping you relax into his ministrations after a few moments.  Eventually you open your eyes again, blinking in the morning light filtering in through your curtains.  You turn your gaze down, watching Buck work, smiling at the crease in his forehead as he concentrates on expertly wrapping your injured leg.

“Some first date, huh?”  You quip eventually, the silence becoming a bit much.

Buck chuckles, shaking his head before flashing you a friendly smile.

“This doesn’t even crack the top ten worst first dates I’ve had,” he assures you.

You raise an eyebrow, propping yourself on your elbows as he finishes puting the last bits of tape on the dressing he’s applied.  He glances over at you as he sets your leg down, noticing your expression.

“What?  It’s true,” he asserts.  “One time, I took a woman to a fancy restaurant on Valentine’s Day for our first real date.  An hour later I was in surgery.  The doctors had to close a hole in my throat after a steak knife tracheotomy my date had to perform because I choked on some bread so badly the Heimlich wouldn’t cut it.”

Your mouth drops open in surprise and you gape at him.

“No way.”

“I swear to God,” Buck says, holding up his hands.  “And if it makes you feel any better, it wasn’t a relationship-ender.”

Your heart skips again, but this time for an entirely different reason.  Buck’s kind eyes and easy, infectious smile make your knees weak and you’re glad for the support of the bed, even if you’re not in the most dignified position.  You giggle a little bit hysterically and hope that he doesn’t notice your sudden nervousness.

“Is that your way of saying you’d like to see me again?”  You ask coyly.

“I would love to see you again,” Buck says with a playful grin.

He holds out a hand and you take it, allowing him to pull you up.  You swivel, taking your legs from his lap and letting them swing over the side of the bed so you can get closer to him.  The towel covering you slips, folding around your waist and exposing you to his suddenly hungry gaze.  This time, though, the awkwardness is long forgotten.

You close your eyes as Buck leans in, pressing his lips to yours.  You moan softly into the kiss, leaning closer, shifting so you can wrap an arm around his waist.  He returns the favor, embracing you and pulling you into his lap, dislodging the discarded packets of first aid supplies.

As they flutter to the floor, crinkling as they twist and unfurl in the air, your injury is all but forgotten.  Buck’s hands on your skin, your bodies shifting against one another as you fall back into bed for another round of lovemaking, replace the uncomfortable memories with something far more pleasant and in-the-moment.  Even the sting of your injury is a distant echo as Buck rolls you over, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his touch driving all but the feelings of friction between your bodies from your mind.

As Buck’s kisses move from your lips to the curve of your jaw, slowly descending down your neck in a slow, teasing trail, you can’t help but think that maybe this hasn’t been the worst first date after all.

[k-atsukidayo]

sneaky peeky of parts of a fairy tale au fic i’m working on 👀👀 i offer you my heart and some spice 😌

You want him.

You want the man adorned in golden metals and sharp thorns and soft petals of red roses. You want the man crowned a champion, crimson irises deep and profound like blood and war. You want the man who is finely crafted of heavy muscles and dense sinews with a tongue so charismatic and so regal and birthed with magnificent ambition. You want the man respected and feared by many, who has a heart surrounded by hard walls, but is willing to show only you his innocence beneath the layers. You want the man that’s rough and sometimes stubbornly reckless; unbreakable. You want the man that’s tender and quietly fearful of failure; breakable.

You want all of him.

“Please,” is the last you can say before Katsuki’s lips capture yours in uncontrollable hunger. It’s hot. You’re burning in Hell, floating in Heaven. Stars are dying, stars are flourishing; clouds and dust and incredible gravity coming together to form new galaxies above those that collapsed. The mushy tissue in your skull is pounding, pounding, and pounding. Your stomach is overflowing with butterflies and, perhaps, somewhere in between the wet smack of his and your mouths, those butterflies are soaring over a bridge and passing through the canal of Katsuki’s throat.

You place a single palm to the crown of his hair, gripping ash-blond between your digits, and another endeavoring to undo his pants. He grunts, tension above and below unbearable. “Hips up, now,” he orders. There’s a fire at the pit of your stomach. The room is frigid, yet you just keep burning, and burning, and burning. The tone of his voice is imposing, and you appreciate even more his competence as a leader. Sophisticated and wild, a magnificent juxtaposition. He’s a living fantasy. A shock of electricity darts the entire column of your spine. Lower body suspended, he draws away your last article of clothing, lace hanging at your toes and falling into darkness.