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hawkeyetrained · 2 years

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SAM!

Sam Winchester x Fem!reader

Other Characters: Dean Winchester, Castiel, Jodie (mentioned), Donna (mentioned)

Warnings: kidnapping, blood, wounds, cannon level violence, might have missed something

Summary: She was tasked with a food run while the boys did research. Someone from the boys past comes back and causes issues

Word Count: 2,203

~~~~~~~~~~

I had been tasked with a food run while the boys continued to research on the latest case we picked up. We were all fairly certain it was a demon, but we just wanted to be thorough. As I was putting the food in the truck of the Impala, Dean had been so generous to lend me, I felt hands wrap around my mouth and something hard crash into my head. Before I knew what was happening, everything went black.

A shrill ringing woke me up, god knows how long after. My phone sat on a table a few feet away from me, the screen lit up and the ringtone cutting through the cold, silent air. I blinked a few times to clear the fuzziness from my head before reaching over to answer my phone, my hands not moving too much. My eyes glanced above my head to see thick rope wrapped tightly around my wrists, already digging into the skin. I could faintly make out the name on my phone, Sam.

A door slammed from somewhere above my head, telling me that I was in the basement of a building, most likely a house. I quickly scanned my surroundings, looking for anything that could help rid my wrists of the rope and get me the hell out of here. Thunks sounded on the stairs, footsteps coming all the way down before I was able to even wiggle my wrists free. “Ahh, you’re awake.” A younger man around twenty said, his dark brown hair slicked back with a black jacket over his shoulders. “I was starting to think you’d never get up.”

“What the hell do you want? Who are you?” He didn’t respond to me. Instead, his fingers wrapped around some rope and he pulled, stringing my hands high above my head with the toes of my shoes barely brushing the floor. I let out a loud groan at the rope digging further into my skin. “What do you want from me?”

The man smiled sadistically. “I want the Winchesters to hurt.” His fingers tightened around the rope connected to me. “They took everything from me, and now, I’m going to take everything from them.”

I scrunched my eyebrows together in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“Years ago, those boys were hunting a demon, a demon possessing my baby sister.” My heart clenched, this was personal, and personal was dangerous. “They didn’t even try to save her. She was tortured, for hours, before they killed her. I was chained up, watching them. They had the nerve to apologize to me after.”

I pulled against the rope around my wrists as best I could. “I’m sorry. I really am, but what do you need me for? I wasn’t there.”

That smirk flashed across his face again. “You know where they are.”

___

Three hours later, I had a bruise forming under my right eye, a split lip, and cuts across my chest, arms, and legs, the blood staining my clothes and dripping onto my white shoes and the floor. I now had almost twenty missed calls from Sam, Dean, and Cas. Jodi and Donna had even tried texting me, but my bloody wrists proved that I couldn’t get to my phone. “Seems like your boys are really worried about you. If you tell me where they are, I’ll take you to them.”

I took a deep, painful breath and glared at him. “Go to hell.” My ribs screamed in pain as I took deep breaths, trying to stand on my toes to relieve some of the pain in my wrists.

“Where are they!” He yelled, sliding the blade of his knife down my thigh. I bit into the fabric of my shirt, muffling the pain filled scream trying to leave my lips. Another shrill ringing interrupted the cutting of my skin, and I was grateful for it. “Looks like it’s your boyfriend again. Should we talk to Sammy?” He sauntered over to my cell and hit the accept button.

“Hello?” Sam’s voice was scared as it came through the speaker, calling out my name.

“Sam!” My voice screamed for him before I even thought of it, earning myself a slap across my face. The pain brought tears to my eyes, no doubt making my mascara run down my cheeks with the salty water.

I could faintly make out shuffling on the phone and I figured it was Sam putting us on speaker so Dean could hear. “Winchester?” The man said lowly, making himself sound more terrifying.

“Put her on the phone, right now.” Sam demanded, the Impala doors shutting in the background, I was grateful they found it because Dean would surely kill me if I had lost his baby.

“Come get your girl, she won’t last much longer.” The knife was held half an inch from my neck.

“Let me talk to her right now, or I swear to god I’m going to kill you.” Sam’s voice had dropped to a dangerously deep octave, threatening the man.

A smile crossed the man’s face yet again. “You better get here quickly then, she may not be around to see that happen.” With that, he hung up and threw my phone against the stone wall, effectively shattering it.

My heart pounded as the man got closer and closer to me with that knife of his. “Just let me go. Cut me down and leave. The boys will never know who it was, they’ll never know. I won’t say anything.” I had never begged for my life before, and I never thought I would. In the world of hunting, there wasn’t always the time if your life was on the line, and right now, mine was. “Please.” I was running out of fight; my eyes were getting harder to keep open and I knew I had already lost a lot of blood.

“Hold on till the Winchesters get here. I want them to see this, like I did.” He stepped back from me then, allowing the life to slowly drain from my body as we waited for Sam and Dean to get here.

At the moment I thought I would black out; the familiar rumble of the Impala engine filled the silence in the house. My breathing picked up and my eyes frantically scanned the room, hoping to be able to warn my boys before I was killed, or they were. The man in front of me pulled a gun from his pants and stepped behind my body, holing the knife to my neck and the gun towards the stairs. “Call for him.”

“Babe?” Sam yelled through the main floor of the house.

“Call out for us!” Came from Dean, fear evident in both their voices.

The knife was pressed closer to my throat. “Sam! Dean!” I called out, hoping they couldn’t come charging down the stairs.

Soon enough, their heavy boots stomped down the stairs. They rounded the corner, their guns raised until they noticed me and my position. “You ok?” Dean spoke first, his eyes locking with mine for a moment.

I nodded quickly, the knife pressing harder to my skin. Tears cut through my makeup and mixed with my blood. “Sammy?” My voice was cracked and broken, I was close to giving up.

“You’re going to be ok, sweetheart. I promise.” He was calm and collected as both he and Dean stepped closer. “Let her go, you have us now. You don’t need her.”

“Drop it. Both of you.” Both Winchesters held their guns up and placed them on the ground in front of them. “Kick them away.” The man waved his gun towards the stairs for the guns. “You remember me?”

Dean and Sam both shared a look with each other. “Have we ever met?” Dean asked, his hands in the air as to not set the man off.

I could feel the man stiffen behind me, anger radiating from his body. “You killed my baby sister. Didn’t even try to save her! She was just a kid! And you did nothing!” His voice was rising in anger and the gun shook a bit in his hands.

Sam stepped a bit closer, his hands still held high and his eyes glued to mine. “I’m so sorry we didn’t save your little sister. I know the pain of losing your sibling, and it’s not something that feels good. Please, don’t hurt her. She wasn’t even around when that happened. You let her go, and keep me, ok? She needs a doctor, or she’s going to die, and then you will.”

“We don’t wanna hurt you.” Dean helped. “Let her go.”

The man hesitated before dropping the gun and pulling the knife away from my skin and stepping back. Sam rushed over, his hands holding the sides of my face. “You’re gonna be ok. We’re gonna get you out of here.” Dean had began trying to untie my wrists while Sam kept my eyes open, talking to me. “Keep you eyes open, honey. Come on, look at me.”

Just as I felt the rope loosen, Dean dropped like a ton of bricks. “Dean?” I mumbled, gaining Sam’s attention. Sam stepped around me and I turned my head just enough to see what was going on. Sam and the man were fighting, the gun tucked into the man’s pants. “Dean, you need to get up.” I muttered, nudging his shoulder with my bloody shoe. Dean finally got up and began to help untie me again, just as a loud gunshot went off and both Sam and the man dropped to the floor, neither moving. “SAM!” My voice was high pitched and shrill as I screamed, my hands pulling at the rope yet again and it felt like all the air in my lungs was ripped out. “Sam! Get up!” Dean stepped away from me and rushed over to his brother, pushing him onto his back.

“I’m good.” I could hear Sam talking. “Blood’s not mine.” Sam got to his feet, quickly coming to my side and wrapped an arm around my hips and heaving me up to take the weight off my wrists. His other hand went up to fully untie me, letting my arms collapse around his shoulders. “I got you, you’re gonna be just fine.” He gently lifted me up into his arms and carried me out of the house. “You gotta keep your eyes open. Keep looking at me.” Dean rushed out of the house and got into the driver’s seat, while Sam sat us in the back. “Come on, honey, keep those eyes open. Dean we gotta get her to Cas, now.”

“I’m going as fast as I can.”

My vision became blurry and I tried my hardest to focus on Sam, keep my eyes open. The black was too inviting though, I couldn’t feel all the pain when the black was filling my vision. And before I knew it, I was out, just like before.

___

Soft blankets were tucked around me when I woke up. I blinked a few times to get the tiredness out then I sat up. It took a moment, but I was finally able to realize that I was back in the bunker, in the room I shared with Sam. “Sam?” I called softly, hoping I wasn’t dreaming and still hanging in the basement of the house.

My door opened quickly, Sam stepping in. “Thank god.” He mumbled as he rushed over to me, engulfing my body in a large hug. “I was so worried about you. I’m so sorry about everything.”

I wrapped my arms tightly around him, tucking my head into his neck and breathing in his scent that instantly made me calm, running my fingers through his long hair. “I thought you’d never find me.” He hugged onto me tighter, a few drops of his tears falling onto my skin. “I love you, so much. Thank you, Sammy.”

“I am never going to let that happen to you, ever again. I promise you that. I felt like I couldn’t breathe when you were gone.” He pulled back and looked into my eyes. “I love you so much.”

A soft knock sounded on my door, Dean and Cas both poking their heads in. I gave them both a soft smile and waved them in. Sam scooted to sit behind me, his legs on either side of my body and his back against the headboard. “Glad to see you awake.” Dean commented, sitting on the bed with Cas on the other side.

“Thank you for coming to get me, Dean.” I leaned back against Sam’s chest, his arm wrapping around my middle and a kiss being pressed to my head. “And you Cas, thank you for healing me.”

“I am just glad you are home, safe.” Cas smiled at me, his eyes growing soft at how Sam and I were sat together.

“I can tell you one thing.” Sam spoke. “You’re never going on a food run by yourself again. Never.” I cracked a smile and both boys in front of me laughed a bit, telling me what we would all be ok, that they would always keep an eye on me.

@thetallassgirl

#sam winchester imagine #sam winchester #sam winchester x reader #supernatural #supernatural imagine

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pengychan · 1 month

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[Baldur’s Gate III] Hell to Pay, Ch. 23

Illustration by @raphaels-little-beast

Title: Hell to Pay Summary: Assassinating an archdevil is a daunting task, even for the heroes of Baldur’s Gate. Some inside help from ‘the devil they know’ would be good, if not for the detail their last meeting ended with said devil dead in his own home. Or did it? Characters: Raphael, the Dark Urge, Astarion, Haarlep, Halsin, Karlach, Wyll. Rating: E Status: In progress

All chapters will be tagged as ‘hell to pay’ on my blog. Also on Ao3.

*** I may or may not have upped the rating from M to E. Should have done it a while ago, tbh. ***

“So, this town is-- was under the protection of Zariel?”

“As the words ‘Zariel, guardian of Idyllglen’ on the dais beneath her statue ought to make plain.”

The statue in question was difficult to miss, standing in the middle of the square before a temple to Lathander. Its feathered wings were spread open, and the right hand held a longsword; Karlach looked up at the visage sculpted in white stone, the expression serene even with the blindfold over the eyes. She stared, trying to see the Zariel she knew in it, and she couldn’t.

Somewhere to her left, Wyll was scoffing. “More history and less sarcasm, if you please.”

“Oh, now you want me to keep talking,” Raphael muttered, more than a little smug in the face of Wyll’s obvious annoyance, but he did resume speaking. “What we are bearing witness to is the sack of Idyllglen. This town was attacked by scores of gnolls some time before the events we’re witnessing now; they apparently prayed to Lathander for help with such fervor, he did something rather uncharacteristic of a god.”

“He listened?” Wyll guessed, and Raphael chuckled.

“Precisely. He sent Zariel to save them, and she drove the gnolls away - earning herself the statue you see now. Idyllglen was left in peace for… a few centuries, I believe. I’ll admit that was not something I paid much attention to. I was busy enough as the Steward of Avernus at the time.”

Durge raised one of the scaly ridges that served as their eyebrows. “Of Avernus? Not of Cania?”

There was a moment’s pause, and Raphael crossed his arms. Karlach couldn’t claim to be always terribly perceptive when it came to reading body language, unless it was to tell whether an attack was coming and if so where from, but she could easily read the defensiveness of the gesture. Even after all that time, Durge’s question had struck a nerve.

“... I chose to carve my path outside of my father’s domain. I am certain the apostate Chosen of Bhaal and the renegade son of a grand duke will understand,” he replied, his voice tight. He changed subject back to the history of Idyllglen before either of them could reply to that. “The peace lasted a few centuries, and no more. Gnolls attacked again, as you have seen, and destroyed most of the town. On the final assault, Yeenoghu himself came to deal the final blow - and that is when Zariel came to meet that assault, alongside the Hellriders.”

Karlach blinked, and finally tore her gaze away from the statue to look back at Raphael, eyes wide. “The Hellriders? You mean, this was the beginning of the Ride?”

A nod. “Precisely. Idyllglen was the last straw, or so I heard - the town she was sworn to protect, going up in smoke,” he added, making a brief upwards gesture with his hand. Around and above them, the air was indeed thick with smoke. “The Hellriders slaughtered the remaining gnolls and demons, and Zariel opened a portant to send Yeenoghu to Avernus. Then, as you can certainly guess, she followed him through it alongside the Hellriders.”

“Looking to end the Blood War, and keep demons from reaching the Material Plane ever again,” Wyll said, and Raphael nodded again.

“Indeed. Her main objective were demons, but she also fought devils rather than seeking an alliance with us. The only decision a celestial could make, perhaps, but a foolish decision nonetheless. Lord Bel was a practical being; he would have considered at least a temporary alliance, if it meant chasing demons back in the Abyss for some time. So our forces stood back, as we watched the Ride continue on without our aid.”

Wyll frowned. “You watched it fail.”

“Both Zariel and the Hellriders made plain that our approach would be met with sword and death.”

Durge nodded. “Fair enough. So, what then?”

Raphael shrugged, waving a hand. “The rest is history. Our forces hung back as we watched the Hellriders falter and fail. Not all of them, but enough to split their forces as a number of them panicked and fled back the way they’d come, closing the portal behind themselves. From that moment on, the Ride was doomed and so was Zariel.” Raphael paused for a moment, and glanced back at the statue before he spoke again.

“I will admit, I lost sight of her from my vantage point. I have only heard tales of how Asmodeus aided her recovery, and promised her more troops to continue fighting demons as the new archdevil of Avernus. I cannot say the news was met with much enthusiasm by lord Bel - he’d been holding up Avernus for thousands of years, only to be ousted by a fallen celestial whose greatest feat failed - but he kept some standing as an advisor, and you cannot refuse a direct order from the Lord Below. So he was the archduke of Avernus no longer, and I was no longer its Steward.”

“One could argue you still landed on your feet, from what we’ve seen when we first came to the Hells,” Durge muttered, and Raphael’s lips curled a moment in a smile.

“... I’d amassed enough experience, knowledge and connections to make the transition… seamless enough. I had great respect for lord Bel, but I’d long since learned to never tie my fortunes to any one devil alone. I had permission to remain in Avernus, in a residence of my own making, as long as I provided a set amount of souls for the war efforts each year. I never failed to meet my quota, of course.”

Karlach snorted. “Yeah, we noticed,” she muttered. “So that’s why this Bel is so happy to help us out. He wants Zariel out of the way, so he can take Avernus’ throne back.”

“It does seem like a safe bet,” Raphael replied. “He has never stopped striving for his old seat - and should he succeed, it may be for the best. For all her might in battle, Zariel never cared for strategy nearly enough. Bel held Avernus as long as he did because he could outmaneuver any demon lord; Zariel only cares to be where the fighting is most vicious, at all times. The demons of the Abyss never occupied the plane for over a day under his tenure, but now? They may overrun it for weeks on end before they’re beaten back. Which they always are, I do owe it to her to acknowledge. Still, it’s far from ideal. ”

Durge tilted their head. “You were not joking when you said you respect Bel greatly,” they commented, and Raphael nodded.

“Any devil worth their salt does, even those who do so grudgingly. He rose through all ranks, from leumure to archdevil, and it was not out of recklessness or luck. He can be a steadfast ally, to those whose goals align his own.”

Karlach hummed, and briefly glanced back at the statue before tearing her gaze off it again. “Well, ours sure do,” she muttered. She wasn't fond of the idea of allying herself to any archdevil, but she knew there would always be a ruler in Avernus - and to her, it mattered little who that ruler was as long as it was not fucking Zariel . “He’ll have Avernus once she's dead.”

There was a brief silence, a glance between Durge and Wyll. Karlach had expected that; it made sense, trying to turn Zariel into a celestial again. It may spare them a vicious fight they were not guaranteed to win. And yet, the mere thought made her want to scream - just handing Zariel a way out of the damnation she’d thrown herself headfirst into, before turning around to drag others down with her.

I can never be the same again. Why should she get that chance?

“Stop looking at me like that,” she found herself snapping the instant their eyes turned on her. “I’m not the monster here!”

“No one said you are,” Durge spoke out quickly, holding up their hands. “We didn’t agree to follow Lulu’s plan - if it can be called a plan - in the first place. As Raphael said, we’re just gathering information to weigh out options. It’s just…” Hesitation, and that made Karlach want to scream again, but she bit her tongue to let them talk again. “I remember how killing Gortash didn’t make you feel any better. I want to be sure--”

“Oh gods, don’t tell me Zariel was your girlfriend too!” Karlach snapped, only to regret it the next instant, when Durge trailed off and fell quiet. She groaned, and pressed the heels of her hands over her eyes. “I-- I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. It’s just--” A sigh. “Gods, I’m sorry. This entire mess you’re not your fault, you came to the fucking Hell to try and help, and I--”

“Karlach,” Wyll spoke up suddenly, and stepped forward. She felt his hands grasp her wrists, pulling her own hands off her face. He looked at her in the eyes, with that solemn expression he wore when he was ready to swear an oath. In another life, she mused distantly, in a world with no Tiamat and Zariel and Mizora, he may have been a paladin.

“We all know you’re no monster. You’re the most amazing creature I have ever met - I can say it aloud now that Astarion is not here to be offended,” he added, and somehow, absurdly, Karlach almost laughed. His hands slipped down her wrists to grasp her own, holding tight. “I was ordered to take Zariel out of the way, but you are the one she wronged most of all. Your suffering should be avenged - you deserve that. If her death is what you need, I will take that sword and drive it through her heart with no hesitation.”

Please do it, part of her wanted to plead, and yet words wouldn’t leave her throat. In the back of her mind, Durge’s words rang out - and her own screams while standing over Gortash’s body. The truth was that Durge had a point, and she hated it. Karlach swallowed, still holding onto Wyll’s hands, all too aware of the statue towering over her.

Gortash and Zariel - one is dead, and no sorrier than he was before. Would one who’s left to live on and be sorry make me feel better or worse? Or am I fucked no matter what, and nothing can make it any better?

“I…” she paused, and swallowed. “I need to think it over. Just for another bit.”

Wyll smiled faintly, and squeezed her hands. “Of course. We’ll see whatever is going on here through, take the sword, and--”

“Wait.” Raphael’s voice caused Wyll to trail off, and all of them to look over at Raphael. He was standing a few feet away, looking up at the statue… or rather, at the sword it held; a replica of the one they had seen on the dais in the Citadel, humming softly and emitting a faint glow. He drew in a deep breath, arms crossed over his chest, before he turned away from the statue.

“... Before you make such promises,” he said, avoiding their gazes, “there is something you need to know about that sword.”

***

“What do you mean, they’re not there? What is in there?”

Astarion’s voice was several octaves higher than usual, and Halsin wished nothing more than to give him a reassuring response - that they were not gone after all, that he just hadn’t noticed a second room, a hiding place.

But he could say no such thing and for several moments, Halsin wasn’t sure what to reply in the first place. All he could see was the circular room with its columns, the sword protruding from a stone atop a dais… and hovering by it, as though suspended in a blinding ray of light, was Lulu. Her eyes were open, glowing white, but she was entirely unresponsive. Her wings were not flapping, and yet she remained in mid-air. Their companions were nowhere to be seen.

It really didn’t take a lot of guesswork to tell there was some sort of magic at work, and not a kind of magic he was familiar with. Although something about it felt familiar in a way he couldn’t quite place. He’d felt something similar, sure enough, but when? Where?

“Halsin!” Astarion’s voice again, a little closer to panic, just as realization hit. Suddenly, Halsin knew precisely where he’d felt that specific sort of magic before. It was in the shadow-cursed lands, when he’d opened a way to the Shadowfell. It was not quite the same, but he now recognized that particular sort of electric sensation - the parting of a veil.

What kind of veil he could not tell, but a veil nonetheless.

“... Only the hollyphant is here, but she seems in a sort of trance. There must be celestial magic at work, and my knowledge of it is close to none. I hesitate to try meddling with it.”

“They’re gone! How much worse can it get?”

“The kind of worse where they never make it back?” Haarlep’s voice rang out. They seemed nowhere as concerned as Astarion, but there was a tightness to their voice that made them sound more like Raphael than they ever did before. Stepping back from the barely parted doors, Halsin turned back with a nod.

“Yes. I fear this may be something akin to when I entered the Shadowfell,” he added, glancing over at Astarion and speaking in a tone he hoped would be reassuring. “As you’ll recall, meddling to the portal - my one tether - would have forever trapped me in there. I believe something similar is happening now. Our companions are indeed someplace else, and Lulu is their tether.”

Astarion met his gaze, no longer close to panic but clearly dismayed. “So there’s nothing we can do?”

“Nothing but wait, and trust them to make their way back. They have made their way back from desperate situations before, and I do not think Lulu is the kind of creature who would actively put them in mortal danger.”

“Ah, you shouldn’t trust a celestial too much,” Haarlep muttered, and pulled the trigger of the hand crossbow Astarion had gifted them. Another bolt flew through the air, and hit its target - the corpse of a gnoll which was starting to resemble more and more a particularly ugly porcupine. There was a frown on their face that hadn’t been there before. “But I suppose we have no choice now, do we?”

Halsin sighed, and came to sit across them. “No, I suppose we do not. But I am certain they will be all right. Every single one of them has proven hard to kill, after all.”

No response from the incubus - only another bolt shot at the corpse - and Astarion sighed. “And Durge took all the interesting books with them,” he lamented, in a rather lackluster attempt at making light of the situation. Halsin dutifully chuckled, but the incubus did not.

“They should have taken the horn,” Haarlep spoke. “Although I suppose even Bel's guard may be unable to follow wherever the hollyphant sent them. So, now we wait?”

“Now we wait.”

And wait they did, in near complete silence. With the demons nearby vanquished, and no others venturing that far into the scab at the moment, there truly seemed to be no noise other than the faint humming of the Sword of Zariel inside the citadel, into that light neither fiend nor undead could venture in. It was not unpleasant, necessarily, but it felt… alien.

Unnatural, that was it. Then again, through all the weeks they had spent fighting their way across Avernus, absolutely nothing had felt natural. One ought to be used to it… except that he never would, never could. Even in the Underdark, even in the dreary streets of a besieged Baldur’s Gate, Halsin had never before felt that painfully disconnected from nature. There was life to be found in the Underdark, and in the city; here, however, nothing was truly alive.

If Raphael had spoken true and Avernus truly was fashioned to look like a paradise once, Halsin had to wonder if anything ever did grow there once, or if it was only a paper-thin illusion. He didn’t know what was worse: a place where nothing ever grew, or one where nothing ever would again. Both thoughts were daunting.

I miss home, Halsin thought, suddenly. A wanderer at heart until only months earlier, having a home to miss still felt odd, and bittersweet in a way he could not put into words. How were the children faring without him? They’d ask for stories of his latest adventure when he returned to them-- if he returned to them -- but would he be able to think of a story about the Hells to share which would not be too dreadful? He hoped Isobel’s stories would, at least, help them sleep well. So many of them still awoke screaming from nightmares, from the horrible things they had seen.

Nature and time could heal, but they’d had so little time. They needed more - they needed him - and he’d left them in someone else’s hands to go to the Hells.

What kind of father does that?

“... Halsin? Are you all right?”

Astarion’s voice snapped Halsin from his thoughts. He glanced up and realized only then that his vision was blurry. The incubus had stopped using the gnoll corpses as target practice to stare, too. Halsin cleared his throat, and wiped his eyes.

“Ah, yes, I-- apologies. I let my mind wander. My thoughts have been… dark, as of late.”

“Oh, Avernus does do that to mortals, I hear,” Haarlep muttered. “If you’d like me to help take your mind off things, we could certainly all use a distraction--”

“No we don’t,” Astarion cut him off, and Halsin couldn’t help but laugh.

“Hah! I’ll be fine, do not worry,” he said, and he meant it. “It must be as you say - the Hells certainly have a way to get into your mind,” he added, forcing himself to smother that guilt. He cherished those children, and he’d left them in more than capable hands. He’d come to the Hells to help the friends who had saved the lives of many of his young charges, and he would return home, whatever it took.

They had lost so much already; they would not lose him, too. He could not allow it.

With that thought firmly in mind, Halsin found it a little easier to breathe. He looked back at Astarion, and smiled again. “I’ll be fine,” he repeated.

This time, he almost entirely believed it.

***

“Are you saying that if he picks up the sword and attunes to it he becomes, what? An angel?”

“Something quite close to it, I suppose. He’d gain wings for certain, but that would be the least of the changes.” Raphael’s words were met with a few moments of complete silence. He paused, too, before glancing back at Wyll. “You opened the doors. Out of all of us, you’re the one most likely to be accepted as worthy by the sword. But the hero who becomes one with the blade exists no longer, as the warning goes. Should you attune to it, you'd once more be irrevocably changed - to a far deeper level than ever before. You wouldn’t just be trading those horns for wings.”

Wyll inhaled, exhaled, and finally nodded. “I see.”

“Wait-- wait.” Karlach spoke up. She sounded incredulous, still reeling from what she’d just heard. “How about-- we can just-- he can just not attune to it, right? Grab the sword and stick it through her?” she asked, only for Raphael to shake his head.

“It’s possible to hold the sword with no attunement, but that would render it pointless. If it is to kill Zariel, it needs to strike the blow whilst wielded by someone who is one with it. It holds powerful magic, but with no attunement the magic remains dormant, and it’s only a sword. Cutting and piercing as any other does - nothing more and nothing less. It would not kill Zariel any more than Balduran’s butter knife would.”

Karlach let out something akin to a growl. For a moment, she seemed only moments away from strangling Raphael.

“And this fucker conveniently left this bit out when he told you about the sword, didn’t he?” she asked, looking at Durge. Who, in turn, looked at Raphael.

He held their gaze, but it seemed to cost him some effort, as though he half-expected a hand around his throat again. In turn, they expected him to point out he’d only promised them that the sword could kill Zariel, and that he’d show them where it was.

He did not.

“Would you have accepted to help me,” he asked instead, “if I’d told you?”

Durge held his gaze a moment before they sighed. “No. We probably wouldn’t have. But it would have helped to know before--”

“It doesn’t really matter, does it? That’s not what the deal was about, and the sword really is our best bet,” Wyll spoke up, and smiled. “I mean, we don’t even know if the sword will accept me, but if it does, it certainly cannot be worse--”

“No.” Karlach cut him off, shaking her head. “No. Fuck no. You’re not doing that.”

“Of course I am. I was already changed once, by Mizora. Surely this would be an improv--”

“And it was one time too many!” Karlach snapped, and suddenly she grabbed Wyll’s shoulders, shaking him. “This would change you in every way, worse than before! It wouldn’t be you anymore! You’d be gone, don’t you see?”

Wyll met her gaze and for the first time, something in his expression seemed to crack - a hint of fear, the smile wavering even as he struggled to keep it on. And who could blame him, Durge thought - the son of Ulder Ravengard had given up so much of himself for his city, for the innocent, for his friends and his love, for the entire Sword Coast.

All that toil to find his footing, his mission as the Blade of Avernus, and now there it was - the prospect of yet another sacrifice to be made. A choice before him where doing what felt like his duty meant giving up yet more - everything that was left of him, or almost. And Karlach very clearly had the same opinion on the matter as Durge did.

“Absolutely fucking not. You’re not going to let some magic bullshit change you again for my sake.”

Wyll swallowed. “I have no regrets. I’ll take what Mizora did to me for defying her a thousand times over, and I promised you Zariel would die for what she’s done to you. If I attune to the sword, I can keep that promise and--”

“I don’t want it! Not if the price to pay is this, not if the one to pay it is you!” Karlach cut him off, her voice a cry of anguish. Her features were twisted, the hands gripping Wyll’s shoulders shook. “How can you be so fucking stupid to think I’d trade you for a dead Zariel?”

Ah, Durge thought, there it was.

“Ah,” Wyll said, and seemed unable to say anything more. It seemed that the thought of Karlach wanting him over the satisfaction of revenge hadn’t even crossed his mind. Which was, as she herself had said, really fucking stupid indeed.

“None of us has any intention to let you sacrifice yourself. If it means we have to leave you tied up here and come collect you later, so be it,” Durge spoke up. “It's not happening.”

Wyll swallowed and worked his jaw a moment. “... It would be the simplest way to--”

“And letting Gale blow himself up with the orb would have been the simplest way to destroy the Netherbrain. Would you have stood by and let it happen?”

“No, but--’

“There you have it. So get it out of your head,” Karlach cut him off. “Besides, the simplest way is to not fight her at all. So we're gonna try the fucking hollyphant’s way and see if it works. If it doesn't, fuck it, then we take our chances in a fight.” A pause, and she looked up at the statue. Her features twisted a moment before she managed a smile. “May be nice to hear at least one of the fuckers who screwed me over say she's sorry, for a change.”

Wyll hesitated before he nodded. “I see. But if need be, the Blade stands ready--”

“Never.” Karlach cut him off, and elbowed him lightly. Or at least, what she considered lightly. “You're not getting away from me, soldier,” she added, causing him to laugh, however shakily.

“I would never.”

“Good.” A pause, a long breath. She still seemed to be reeling, but Durge knew for certain she would not change her mind. Finally, she spoke. The flippant tone was gone, leaving behind something raw and vulnerable. “... Can I have a kiss?”

She could, as she did. More than one, really, and Durge found themself stepping back in silence. Raphael did the same, and soon enough they stood some distance away, giving the two of them a few minutes alone while they stood before the temple to Lathander. It was barred shut, the people inside too terrified to let anyone in.

They had good reason to be afraid as, according to Raphael, the temple would soon be attacked by another wave of gnolls and demons, their leader among them. And, speak of the devil… “Raphael?” Durge called out. There was a stab of something they could not quite name in their stomach when they saw how stiff Raphael’s back was when he turned.

“I know I should have told you more about the sword earlier,” he said. “But I assure you--”

“You told us now, before anything irreparable happened. It’s what matters,” they cut him off, and could see his frame relaxing a touch. “Thank you for telling us. And-- well. My apologies for earlier. When I heard Astarion scream, I couldn’t think straight.”

Raphael stared at him for a few moments before he cleared his throat and nodded. Only later would Durge reflect that he seemed embarrassed, rather than aggrieved, to hear them bring the incident up. “I suppose it was only fair for you to assume I’d known about that light,” he finally said, “given my tendency to know nearly everything.”

“Hah! Of course, of course. A veritable repository of knowledge.” A laugh, and Durge clapped a hand on his shoulder. The tenseness was gone, and it was a relief. “I’m glad Haarlep made it through as well. Giving them that ring was a good call.”

A moment’s silence, then a shrug. “... I had no use for it, with the ring of regeneration. I figure they may as well have it, to make up for the plain fact they make a poor fighter.”

“It probably saved their life.” Durge paused a moment, too, and took their hand off his shoulder before they spoke again. “I have given some thought to it - my mortality. And the fact that Astarion will almost certainly outlive me by far, as long as he doesn’t step into holy light.”

“I told you, that day is most likely a long way to come. If I were a betting man--”

“All evidence I have seen so far is that you are a betting man.”

A snort. “Then I’d bet you’ll live far beyond the mortal years of a normal dragonborn.”

“But I will eventually die, and Astarion is functionally immortal, as long as he lets none end his life - much like yourself.” A pause, then, “I’d like to ask you a favor.”

Raphael stared a moment before, slowly, he nodded. “Within my possibilities, ask away,” he finally said, but Durge suspected he already knew what they would ask before the words were even out.

“If Astarion does outlive me - if he outlives us all - please keep an eye out for him. I don’t want him to be alone again.”

Raphael held their gaze a moment before he let out a noise halfway between a laugh and a scoff. “You must be desperate indeed, to ask a devil to look after your beloved,” he commented, only for Durge to grin back.

“Not any devil, though. Just the one I know.”

A chuckle, and Raphael lowered his head in something halfway between a nod and a bow. “If we do live through this,” he said, just as more hollers and maniacal cackling began to ring out in the distance, as Karlach and Wyll reached for their weapons, “you have my word.”

Durge raised an eyebrow, and grasped Mourning Frost. “Can we truly die for good, in someone else's memory?”

“That I do not know. I'd rather not find out.”

“Fair enough,” Durge conceded, and readied themself for the fight.

***

When he opened his eyes to see Justiciar Bele’s pale, smiling face above him, there was a part of Raphael that knew he was dreaming. He was in Avernus, in the Bronze Citadel, sworn to Lord Bel as his steward; Bele would neither be able to come uninvited into his bed, nor foolish enough to try.

This was not real. That smile too wide to seem sincere was not real, the hands pushing back his legs were not real, the cock in him was not real. But it felt very much so nonetheless, and both the disgust and the shudder of want that ran through him were indeed very real. The rhythm was slow, lazy in a way that may be mistaken for gentleness if one did not know better. At the time, Raphael had not known better.

That was how Bele got him, after all.

“Oh, you’re awake, little prince.”

Raphael closed his eyes so he would not see him. “Leave me be,” he growled, or tried to. It only came out as a hoarse whisper. “Leave me alone.”

“You poor thing, is that not what you fear the most? You and only you, alone in the world. Discarded and forgotten about.” Another lazy thrust. “You feared it when you lived among mortals, you fear it now among your betters.” A tilt of his hips made Raphael hiss. “Among other cambions you might yet find kinship, but you think you’re so above your ilk. Yet you fool no one, little whore that you are.”

Had those words been spoken for true, Raphael may have attempted to tear Bele into pieces, diplomatic incidents be damned. But it was a dream, and Raphael only growled.

“Pleasure me and be quiet,” he snapped, or tried to. Suddenly the cock in him stilled and the grip on his thighs was vicious, icy yet threatening to burn. He felt something brush against his chest-- long, black hair -- and breath caught in his throat when Mephistopheles’ voice rang out, all cold disdain.

“Look at you - no wonder it took an incubus to sate you. You dared demand a position in my court, when the only one fitting for you would be that of a courtesan. But perhaps you would not have disliked that.”

Raphael opened his mouth to protest, to deny, but he could force out no words. His throat was closed, his mouth stuffed with cotton. A vicious thrust caused him to arch, and open his eyes.

Above him there was no Lord Mephistopheles, no Justiciar Bele. There was only a shadow, shifting and wavering, every face which had ever sneered down at him and yet none of them. He closed his eyes, opened them again, and he stared at his own face. It was not smiling.

“Call me archduke,” he said, as the skin cracked and burned away, as the eyes melted off sockets which were devoured by hellfire. Even so he thrust viciously, hips snapping forward. That felt like fire, too. “Tell me you love me.”

Raphael screamed, and the world exploded in flames before going dark. He felt himself fall, and hit the ground on his right side. He tried to roll but one of his wings was trapped painfully, awkwardly, between his body and the ground, sheets tangled around his legs. His struggle to lift himself ended when arms wrapped around him, pulling him against a chest he recognized as his own.

“There, there, master. It was just a dream. A very vivid one, it seems…”

Haarlep ran their hand down his stomach, and only then did Raphael realize that he was hard and leaking, heat simmering in his loins still.

“Shall we take care of it?” the incubus was asking, lips pressing a kiss just beneath his ear, and Raphael groaned.

Don't be gentle, not now. Don't you dare.

With a shudder, he grasped their shoulders. The order came out as a gravelly growl.

“Defile me.”

A moment of silence and then a laugh, cold, mocking. A hand grasped his horns and forced his head down, his cheek pressed roughly against the floor. His legs were kicked apart, and his heart hammered - but his head felt suddenly, wonderfully empty.

“As you wish,” Haarlep crooned, and defile him they did.

The first time of many.

***

“Can I ask something?”

“Oh, you may ask for anything.”

“A question.”

“Ah.” The stab of disappointment was so plain on Haarlep's face, it almost made Astarion laugh despite the worry. He didn't laugh, though, and looked back at the doors of the Citadel as he heard Haarlep speak again with a sigh. “Well then, ask away.”

Hansin was once again whittling, and spoke without looking up from his work. “I was always told that a devil who dies in the Hells dies for good. Our companions were rather certain that Raphael had died in the House of Hope. And yet, somehow, he lived.”

“Ah, that,” Haarlep muttered, reaching up to scratch their cheek. “Yes, it was unexpected. I believed him to be dead, as many others did. It came as a surprise when Mephistopheles announced he'd devour him.”

“How do you think that was possible?”

Haarlep hummed. “I was not made to think, plainly enough,” they said, their tone light despite the weight those words seemed to place in Astarion’s stomach.

You're not to think, boy, Cazador’s voice rang out in the back of his mind. You're to obey, and not to fail.

“But if I had to guess,” Haarlep was going on, unaware of Astarion's thoughts, “I'd say it has to do with his human blood. True devils… ah, he'd hate to hear me say it like that. Full-blooded devils like myself do not possess a soul, precisely. Not the way you may imagine. We are made of soul. When the body dies in Baator, then all of it is gone.”

“But half-fiends are different?”

A grin. “Oh, you are clever,” Haarlep crooned. “Yes, cambions and alu-fiends--”

“Alu-fiends?”

“Mortal father, fiend mother. Not that different from cambions, all things considered.”

“Like mules and hinnies,” Halsin commented, and Astarion had to wonder what Raphael would think of that comparison. Again, he held back a laugh and kept his eyes on the doors, looking out for any sign of change.

“I am certain you’re correct, whatever those are,” Haarlep replied. “Either way, half-fiends get something more from their mortal parent than a human form, abandonment issues, and more often than not a pesky need to be loved. They do have a soul that is indeed separate from their corporeal form. There is a tale of one time Lord Mephistopheles tore the soul out of one of his children’s body, bit half of it off, and stuffed the rest back in the body.”

It was a morbid mental image, and it clearly made Halsin uncomfortable. “I cannot imagine doing such a thing to one’s own child,” he murmured, only for Haarlep to laugh.

“Well, you’re no devil and certainly no Lord of the Eighth. Now, I don’t have any certainty, but I believe Mephistopheles simply yanked Raphael’s soul for himself the instant you felled him - right before he died, or right after. Whether he stuffed it back in his body or willed a new one into existence I do not know, but it makes no matter in the end, does it? He lives as a result. His sire planned to make an example out of him, but he slipped through his fingers instead, with a little bit of help from yours truly. Which he has yet to thank me for, come to think of it.”

Astarion glanced over. “I was told that devils usually sire children on mortals because they expect half-fiend offspring to never grow powerful enough to be a threat,” he said. “But Raphael was plenty powerful, and he survived what would have killed a full devil to boot.”

Haarlep shrugged. “Well, Raphael was always a bit special, I’ll give him that.”

“I have seen it happen in nature,” Halsin spoke. “Offspring of wolves and dogs growing larger than either parent, stronger, with greater endurance. Hybrid vigor, some call it.”

“I don’t think Raphael can boast anything greater than his sire. Although I’ll admit, I was unfortunately never given the chance to appraise his vigor,” Haarlep added with a long, heartbroken sigh.

This time, Astarion did absolutely nothing to hold back a laugh.

***

“Perure!”

Lighting came down in a blinding flash, the roar of thunder, the heart of the storm. Several wounded gnolls and all the remaining dretches were hit, fell to the ground in charred piles, and never rose again. It was magnificent, Raphael had to admit, witnessing what a powerful storm sorcerer could unleash on the battlefield.

Some distance away, Karlach and Ravengard had downed the gnoll’s pack lord, and the barlgura under Raphael’s control easily tore two more gnolls apart. Which was convenient, because Raphael himself was still staring at the dragonborn, at the lighting still crackling between their fingers while they stood over charred corpses, fangs bared in a snarl.

If not for the sudden, wild laughter suddenly ringing out through the sounds of battle, Raphael may have kept staring a fair bit longer than he’d ever meant to. But the creature charging towards them, matted in blood and with gore dripping from his maw, certainly did demand attention as it swung around a three-headed flail.

Yeenoghu may have looked like a giant gnoll, but he was much more than that. All demon lords were dangerous; even among them, he was known to be especially vicious. And vicious the fight was, but Raphael was not entirely surprised to find his companions could hold their own: he'd long known what they were capable of.

His own ability to keep up was less unsurprising. Little more than a couple of months earlier, stuck as a human with only half his soul and most of the power he'd always relied on beyond his reach, he'd have struggled to best a simple gnoll. He was far from the power who'd once yielded, sure enough, but making a demon lord bleed certainly made him feel less powerless.

And Yeenoghu didn't just bleed: he gushed blood, howled, bit, seethed, and swung his flail wildly. Sometimes it grazed, but mostly it missed while barbarian and warlock almost danced under and around the blows before delivering their own, while Raphael and Durge struck ceaselessly in a barrage of magic.

As Mephistopheles always said, there are few problems indeed which cannot be solved through overwhelming arcane firepower - but what ended the fight was the blow of Karlach’s swinging greataxe, hitting the demon lord’s forearm and very nearly severing it. Yeenoghu howled, staggering back… and right then, fashionably late to the worst party of the century, Zariel arrived.

Heralded, fittingly enough, by a beam of light that cut through the dust and smoke.

Yeenoghu glanced up in alarm, maw snapping shut, but it was too late for him to do anything. A solar with glowing wings and a blindfold over her eyes swept down from the skies into that beam of light, a very familiar sword in hand. The demon lord roared, trying to raise his flail, but the wound Karlach had delivered to his arm made it too slow.

The blade slashed Yeenoghu across the chest, tearing another howl out of him that almost covered the words of the spell that Zariel - the celestial she had been long ago, not the archdevil and warmonger most knew now - muttered under Karlach’s petrified gaze. A portal opened behind Yeenoghu like a wound in the fabric or reality, the familiar smell of brimstone and sulfur drifting out of it.

A winged, golden-furred mammoth whose identity really wasn’t hard to guess charged, and Ravengard jumped out of the way just in time to avoid being trampled. Lulu’s shapechanged form rammed into the demon lord violently enough to send him tumbling back through the portal, into Avernus.

Had Zariel stopped there, banishing Yeenoghu from the Material Plane and closing the portal, leaving him to be the devils’ problem once again, things would have gone quite differently. But she did not stop there… and she was not alone.

All around them were knights on their own war mounts, striking down any remaining demons; among them was the same woman whose ghost they had met in the Citadel, a deep cut on her cheek.

“The original Hellriders,” Ravengard murmured, stepping back, closer to Raphael. His voice was full of wonder. “Is this truly the beginning of the Ride?”

Raphael opened his mouth to ask precisely what else did he think they may be witnessing, but he never got a chance to. Zariel turned to them and spoke, her voice something akin to an otherworldly melody. Standing closest to her, Karlach still held her weapon, but her grip was slack.

“Thank you, for giving aid to this town whilst I gathered my forces,” Zariel spoke. “All that happened today, every innocent life lost, is my fault entirely. I could not protect them. Too long have Yeenoghu’s demons been allowed to roam this Plane - but no more.”

Around them, the battalion moved as one towards the portal - to Avernus, to the Ride, and to their doom. It was inevitable: everything they saw now had long since happened, history set in stone. Nothing they did could change a thing.

Still, Raphael was not surprised to see Karlach try.

“Don’t do this!” She dropped the greataxe and stepped forward. “Zariel-- Lulu-- listen to me, you must not do this. You cannot win. You will not win, and--”

Suddenly, everything and everyone around them stopped moving. The smoke stopped rising, the blood of the fallen stopped flowing into the dust; the Hellriders and their war mounts, too, were still as statues. One moment, frozen in time. Only Zariel still moved, and spoke, her face turned to Karlach.

“Yeenoghu slaughtered those I swore to protect. I can stop him and others like him. I might have to give up all I stand for, but I could stem the tide of chaos and save many lives from the demonic terrors of the Abyss. Were you in my place, would you risk it all to save others?”

“I…” Karlach’s voices sounded strangled, like it was too much, all at once. “No, you don’t understand, it will not work. You’ll become just-- you’ll become worse than--”

Ravengard stepped forward, and took her hand. “We cannot change what happened,” he told her, softly. Then, “You don’t have to answer.”

But she did, eventually, after drawing in a long breath. “Yeah,” she choked, and squeezed Ravengard’s hand. “I’d risk everything for those I love.”

A smile curling those flawless lips, and the blind face turned to Ravengard. He swallowed.

“... I did it before,” he replied. “I would again. But never against the will of those who matter most to me,” he added, and squeezed Karlach’s hand back.

A nod, and the face turned to Durge. They hesitated a moment before nodding. “I suppose I would, too.”

Zariel turned to Raphael, and so did the others. She waited for a response that did not come; Raphael only pressed his lips together and looked away, saying nothing. She did not ask again. She lifted her hands and murmured something, a blessing of some kind of which Raphael felt no effects. Then there was light again, blinding, everywhere-- and she was gone along with the town, the dead demons, the Hellriders, the portal. When Raphael opened his eyes again, blinking, they were once again in the Citadel.

On the dais, the Sword of Zariel glowed in wait, firmly planted in stone.

“Oh, we’re back!” the hollyphant spoke, fluttering a few feet away. “That was the day it all went wrong - I’d almost forgotten how it went. But now we can fix it, we can fix everything! Right, Yael?”

The ghost by the dais smiled, and turned to look at them. “You have faced many trials to claim the Sword of Zariel. I'm sorry to say, you face one more. As the inscription on the dais says, 'The hero who becomes one with this blade exists no longer'. Which of you is brave enough to draw the blade and be gone forever?”

Karlach spoke first, taking a step forward. “None,” she said. “None of us will go anywhere. We’ll take the sword to Zariel, see if there is anything left of her to save. But I’m not losing anyone else, ever again.”

For a moment, Yael said nothing; then, at last, she smiled faintly. “It is my fondest hope that she may be redeemed. Take the sword, then, and bring it to her. Any of you will be able to pull it free and hold it. However, fear not - it will not attune against your will, even if it finds you worthy of it.”

Karlach hesitated, and Lulu fluttered closer. “That’s true! You can trust her!” she exclaimed, only for Raphael to scoff.

“There is no greater foolishness than trust, in the Hells,” he muttered, and walked up to the dais. “I’ll pull it out, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Are you sure?” Durge sounded alarmed, and Raphael almost laughed. They were not expecting to see him sprout wings, surely?

“Oh, come now. It’s a celestial artifact. It would never deem me worthy in the first place,” he replied, and grasped the sword’s handle before anyone could protest.

The Sword of Zariel came out of the stone in a single pull. It felt warm, it glowed and hummed, but nothing else of note seemed to happen - no otherworldly connection to the sword, no burst of light, certainly nothing as dramatic as a transformation. There was a sensation of mild disgust that Raphael could only assume came from the sentient sword, directed at him. He wrinkled his nose.

“Entirely mutual, let me assure you,” he muttered, and glanced over at Durge. They held out their bag of holding, and he was all too glad to let it drop in it. A bit anticlimactic, perhaps, but efficient.

“Yes! Now we can take it to Zariel!” Lulu cheered, and turned back. “I’ll bring her back, Yael, I promise. And I’ll tell her what you did. You can rest now.”

The Hellrider’s scarred face opened up in a smile. “Thank you, Lulu. I wish all of you luck,” she said, and closed her eyes.

A long sound, like a sigh of relief, and she faded away into whatever afterlife awaited her, leaving behind only the empty dais and the rock which had held Zariel’s only hope for redemption since the day of her fall.

***

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olindabell · 2 years

Text

The Knight and the Necromancer ch. 2

chapter 2/?: The Start of the Adventure – read on ao3 or below

fandoms: bones x dungeons and dragons

pairings: seeley booth x temperance brennan, jack hodgins x angela montenegro, lance sweets x james aubrey

summary: when a cannibalised skull is thrown from a bridge in waterdeep, necromancer temperance brennan and paladin seelie booth are tasked with assembling their adventuring party and hunting down the prime suspect, the lich gormogon.

warnings: general fantasy violence, angst, slow burn, description of dead bodies.

---

‘Do you make a habit of waking people up at the crack of dawn?’ ‘I don’t have to answer that.’ Jameson Aubrezar yawned, a long, loud yawn, his orcish tusks on full display. Booth turned away, stifling his own. ‘Was that a yawn I just saw?’ ‘No.’ Booth’s jaw clenched. ‘Alright, yes, but I was working all night. You know, work? The thing we get paid to do?’

Aubrey chuckled. They were crammed into two little chairs in the foyer of Castle Waterdeep, chairs which were definitely made for rich pansies and skinny servants, not for a human and a half-orc, both in full plate and armed to the teeth, or the tusks. Booth tried to shuffle closer to the gnome sitting beside him and away from Aubrey’s strangely pointy pauldrons. Aubrey yawned, again, and this time, Booth couldn’t hold his in. Aubrey sniggered. ‘Shut up,’ Booth said, through the yawn. ‘I didn’t say anything!’ ‘Seelie Booth?’ A nasally halfling with skin like an old lemon called from across the foyer. ‘The Open Lord of Waterdeep will see you now.’ Booth sprang to his feet, Aubrey glumly trailing behind. Booth turned and said, ‘Stand up straight.’ ‘I’m tired,’ Aubrey moaned. Booth sighed. ‘Can you at least try and look like you enjoy your job?’ ‘I didn’t know when I signed up that I’d have you dragging me out of bed before dawn.’ The halfling cleared his throat pointedly, then knocked on the huge wooden doors leading to the Lord’s office. Booth made a motion like be quiet, then turned, plastered on his serious talking-to-my-boss face, and followed the halfling inside. Piergeiron Paladinson sat behind a ridiculously huge desk in a room made entirely of dark wood and glass. Behind the desk, windows overlooked the city outside, framed in thick, dark purple curtains held aside with gold cord. The left side of the room was crammed with thick historical tomes, while the right side sported two paintings, one of Piergeiron and another of a bloody battlefield, an alter to Piergeiron’s god Tyr between them. The room smelt faintly of pipe smoke and incense. The Open Lord of Waterdeep watched them enter with his sharp black eyes, his fingers steepled and elbows on the desk before him. He was draped in diplomatic clothes instead of armour, dark purple and white robes with gold trim and a red collar. Booth strode to the desk and held out his hand, and Piergeiron grasped it and shook it firmly. ‘Please, sit,’ the Lord said, gesturing to the chairs before the desk. Booth and Aubrey sat, armour squeaking. Piergeiron said, ‘So, this skull.’ ‘Bones completed a preliminary examination during the night,’ Booth said. ‘She found evidence of cannibalism, sir.’ Aubrey paled. The Lord said, ‘Is she certain of this?’ ‘I’m afraid so. Her assistant, Mage Zackryn Addlepatch, agreed with her findings.’ ‘I see.’ Piergeiron pressed his steepled fingers to his chin, his eyes fading into the distance, and fell silent. Aubrey raised his eyebrows. Booth gestured be quiet again. Aubrey rolled his eyes. Booth kicked him. It was a good kick, right under the greave, to the soft part of Aubrey’s ankle. The half-orc screwed up his nose but said nothing. ‘Well,’ Piergeiron said, ‘I was going to ask you to go to Asbravn, to help the Red Cloaks with that snake monster.’ ‘Send Flynn, he’s more than capable.’ ‘I want my best man on this, Booth.’ ‘Respectfully, sir, I believe whoever did this is a greater threat to Waterdeep than a monster miles away from here.’ Piergeiron narrowed his eyes. ‘You’ve heard the reports from Fort Morninglord.’ ‘I have, sir.’ ‘I haven’t,’ said Aubrey. Piergeiron studied Booth for a moment, then said, ‘Fine. I’ll ensure the Lords don’t get in your way, but you won’t have any official backup on this one, unless you can prove there’s a legitimate threat to Waterdeep. I take it you have a party in mind?’ ‘Yes, sir, I do.’ ‘Good luck to you then.’ Booth stood, shook Piergeiron’s hand and left the room, Aubrey scrambling behind him. ‘Now what?’ ‘Now,’ Booth said, ‘we get our people.’

Booth shouldered his way through the thick Waterdhavian crowds, past street vendors and loud merchants and nobles with their servants trailing behind. ‘Fort Morninglord have had undead wandering out of the Wood of Sharp Teeth for months now.’ He had to shout to be heard over the endless conversations, gull screeches and ship bells.

‘You think it’s related?’

‘Some of them had been chewed on.’

‘Oh, gross.’

‘And, two weeks ago, they sent some scouts in to have a look around. Only half came out, and they said they saw a man, seven and a half feet tall, thin as a skeleton, with grey skin, red eyes and teeth like a shark.’

‘Great.’ Aubrey closed a fist around the pommel of his sword

Booth stopped at the edge of a small circle of people watching a bard who sat on the edge of a fountain, plucking a quiet tune on his lute and reciting poetry in Elvish.

‘Sweets,’ Booth called. ‘You got a minute?’

The bard glanced at Booth but continued the poem.

‘You know what he’s saying?’ Booth asked.

‘You don’t speak Elvish?’

‘No, I speak practical languages, Common and Dwarvish. Not that flowery stuff.’

‘It’s the second-most spoken language in Faerûn.’

‘Do you speak it or not?’

Aubrey listened.

‘Mortals still worship his beauty as they watch his golden climb into the sky. But when he staggers away, old and feeble, from his highest point with weary horses, the eyes that were dutiful before, now turn away from him and look elsewhere. So, you, yourself, declining from your noonday glory, will die disregarded.’

The bard finished, bowed his head to the quiet applause, and thanked the few watchers who tossed coins into the hat by his feet. Aubrey turned his face away from Booth, hiding the rush of emotion there.

‘What was it?’ Booth asked.

Aubrey shrugged, then cleared his throat.

The bard came over, emptying the coins into his purse. He was a half-elf, his ears slightly pointed under a nest of dark curls. His face was boyish, and he carried himself with a spring in his step, an excitement contained beneath the surface.

‘Sweets, this is Aubrey, one of my men. Aubrey, Sweets is an … associate of mine.’

Sweets pointed to the medallion strung around Aubrey’s neck, a gold circle pressed with the image of a road leading into sunrise. ‘Lathander,’ he said. ‘You’re a paladin too?’

‘Cleric,’ Aubrey said.

‘It’s not important,’ Booth interrupted. ‘We’ve got a job, and I’m putting the party together. You up for an adventure?’

‘Depends how long it’ll take. There’s a flute player who keeps trying to steal my fountain.’

‘Not long,’ Booth said. ‘We’re hunting a cannibal.’

Sweets’ face fell. ‘Seriously?’

‘Are you in or not?’

To Aubrey’s surprise, Sweets looked over at him, then said, ‘Who can say no to adventure?’

‘Good man.’ Booth clapped him on the shoulder, causing his knees to buckle slightly. ‘Let’s go meet the others.’

‘Others?’ Aubrey asked.

But Booth was already striding away. Sweets patted Aubrey’s lower back and followed, leaving him to trail behind in blushing confusion.

‘And then, watch closely…’

Angelica leant over Jack’s shoulder, her tall tiefling frame towering over the dwarf. Jack pushed some of her long black hair out of the way, then gently opened his hand and blew across his fingertips. Tiny spores, glowing with faint blue light, rose from his skin and settled on the dead rat’s body. He muttered something in Dwarvish and made a shape resembling a triangle with his fingers, and, with a sound like pudding hitting the floor, the rat’s body bloated, collapsed, and began to disintegrate. Blue lacelike mushrooms sprouted from beneath its skin, unfurling into a network of soft, delicate fronds. ‘Cool, huh?’ Jack said.

They were in Jack’s lab, a long thin room crowded with glass cases containing glowing flowers, brightly coloured funguses, chittering insects and flowers that waved in non-existent winds. The room was bathed in the blue light of the enchanted candles dotted around the room.

Angelica nodded, masking her disgust behind a big smile. ‘Yeah, so cool. Shouldn’t we get going though?’

‘Get going where?’

Angelica sighed. ‘Lunch, Jack. You promised.’

His face moved through several emotions – confusion, scepticism, realisation, then fear. ‘Oh, shit.’

‘You forgot?’

‘The skull, and then the teeth marks.’

Angelica raised her eyebrows.

‘And Zack needed my help with–with his notes!’

‘Seriously?’

‘And Cam’s going to be here soon–’

‘You got distracted by a dead rat!’

‘It’s a new spell!’ Jack waved his hands at the mushrooms. ‘I just learnt it.’

Angelica rolled her eyes. ‘Let’s just go. Maybe we’ll have time to drink half a cup of tea.’

She turned to leave, but the lab door was blocked by a beautiful half-elf, her dark hair cut in a sharp bob, wearing a tight yellow and black dress.

‘Oh no,’ said Angelica.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Camille. ‘Duty calls.’

The sun was high in the clear spring sky; light poured through the glass ceiling into the lab. Temperance stood on the platform, the skull mounted on a stand, frowning at a set of white glyphs hovering in the air before her. Zack perched on his stool by her side. She ran her fingers softly over the surface of the skull, feeling the barely perceptible grooves left by the cannibal’s teeth. She knew what the results meant – the glyphs were incapable of lying – but they yielded no motives, no suspects, no leads, only pure facts. She closed her eyes, searching for something, anything, that would tell her more about this man and how he died.

‘Mage Brenwynn?’ Zack said.

Temperance said nothing.

‘Mage Brenwynn, they’re here.’

‘Who’s here?’ she muttered.

‘Bones!’ Booth yelled from across the lab. ‘Found anything?’

She jumped out of her reverie and turned to see a crowd of people hovering at the edge of the platform steps. Grimjack Hodgemoss, the dwarf druid, bearded and stocky and surrounded by a cloud of mushroom spores, and Angelica, the tiefling bard and resident artist, her skin the colour of bronze and her horns as jet black as her hair. Camille Saeroyan, the half-elf sorcerer who ran the Waterdhavian Mage’s Institute, stood to the side in one of her smart dresses, her posture perfect as always. Another half-elf with a lute strapped to his back – Lancelot Sweetwater, a bard and one of Booth’s crime-solving consultants – lounged with his hands in his pockets next to a tall but thin half-orc wearing the blue cloak of a City Watchman – Jameson Aubrezar, only recently recruited to Booth’s team of associates. And Booth, at the front of them all, grinning and puffing out his polished gold chest plate.

Camille stepped over the wards and muttered the enchantment that permitted access to outsiders. ‘Don’t touch the remains,’ Bones said to Booth.

‘Why’re you singling me out?’

‘You’re impulsive.’ She pulled off her gloves and waved at the glyphs in the air, which drifted to the side of the platform.

‘So,’ Booth said, ‘did you find anything?’

‘Yes, actually.’ She pointed to the glyphs.

‘Come on,’ Booth sighed. ‘We both know I can’t read that.’

‘I used an enchantment that highlights markings, one that Angelica invented to restore degraded artworks,’ Bones said. ‘I took a magical mould of the teeth marks.’

She took a sprig of sage from her component pouch, scrunched it in her fist, and drew a square in the air with her thumb. A white screen appeared and hovered over the obsidian slab. Bones waved the glyphs over to the screen, where they dissolved into two images, side-by-side comparisons of enlarged teeth marks.

‘Oh, that is not good,’ said Camille.

‘Someone explain, in Common, if you don’t mind,’ Booth said.

‘This skull was gnawed on by two different people,’ Bones said. ‘This cannibal,’ she pointed to the teeth on the left, ‘has some kind of implant in one of his canines. The other has … unique dentition.’

‘Unique?’

She hesitated. ‘It seems that the second cannibal has a full set of canines.’

‘Teeth like a shark,’ Booth murmured.

‘You have a lead?’ Camille asked.

Booth sighed. ‘More of a hunch that Bones just confirmed.’ He turned to face the party. ‘I know everyone has work to do here, but I’m taking this case, and I’m not getting any help from the Lords or the City Watch because some lizard monster is more important. I get to choose my people, and I choose everyone here.’

‘Are we going on an adventure?’ Jack asked, nearly bouncing on the soles of his feet. Angelica rolled her eyes.

‘It shouldn’t take longer than two months,’ Booth said.

‘Two months?’ Sweets cried. ‘But my fountain!’

‘I’m in,’ said Aubrey.

‘Me too,’ said Jack.

‘If he’s going, then I’m going too,’ said Angelica.

‘Same here,’ sighed Sweets.

‘I would like to go on an adventure,’ said Zack. ‘Even though my strengths are not physical.’

‘If all my best mages are going, then I guess I’m coming with,’ said Camille.

Everyone turned to stare at Bones.

‘What about the lab?’ she said.

‘The lab will still be here when you get back, sweetie,’ said Angelica.

‘And we’ve all got enough adventure leave,’ said Camille.

‘And we can’t do this without you,’ said Booth.

Bones took a deep breath. ‘No, you most certainly cannot.’

Booth knocked on the door to Bones’ office, his gauntlet harsh against the wood. ‘Come in,’ she called, in her lilting elven voice. Booth ignored the familiar skip of his heart at the sound.

She was crouched in front of a bookcase, pulling out stacks of leather-bound tomes stamped with runes and held shut by buckles stained with verdigris and rust. ‘I have a question,’ she said.

‘Shoot.’

‘No, I don’t want to shoot you.’

‘It means ask, Bones, just ask me the question.’

‘Oh.’ She stood and faced him. A white lace-up shirt was just visible under the black leather coat worn by all necromancers at the Institute, the collar sticking up lopsided. Booth had a sudden urge to reach under her coat and pull the shirt down–

‘The other cannibal, the one with the tooth implant.’

‘What?’ Booth flushed, then said, ‘Oh, that guy. What about him?’

‘He’s here in Waterdeep, isn’t he?’

‘He’s probably long gone by now. Why?’

Bones picked a sheet of parchment off her desk. ‘While you were preparing to leave, Jack swabbed the groove made by the implant and ran it through a series of ritual spells. The implant is a diamond. Were there any witnesses at the bridge?’

‘Two. They both described a half-elf with brown hair, maybe in his twenties.’

‘Combined with the diamond implant, that might be enough for Angelica to cast locate creature on him.’

‘As long as he’s close by.’

‘Yes. But you think he’s left the city.’

‘Anything’s worth a try.’ Booth nudged the stack of tomes with his boot. ‘What’re these for?’

‘I’m bringing them.’

Booth gaped. ‘All of them?’

‘Of course. You said we could be gone for two months, I need reading material.’

‘Surely you can find books on the road, in libraries or something.’

‘These books are the most detailed accounts of spellcraft in all of Faerûn, there are no books like them.’

‘But you’ve read them before!’

‘Books are very important to me, Booth. I’m bringing them.’

‘You can bring two.’

She shot him a glare. ‘Five.’

‘Three, and that’s all we’ve got room for. You’ll tire the horses out within the first mile.’

She continued to glare, then relented. ‘Fine, but only because you asked.’

Booth blinked. ‘What does that mean?’

She simply dropped three massive tomes into his arms. ‘Those can go out to the wagon. I have to finish packing. I’ll see you in the morning.’

As he staggered out of the lab and round the back to the stables, weighed down by the books, Booth’s mind ran circles around what Bones had said. Where was the emphasis, on the ‘you’ or the ‘asked’? I didn’t even ask, I negotiated. Does she think of me … like that? Does she think of me at all?

But when he reached the horses, he banished those thoughts from his mind. ‘Adventures are dangerous,’ he said to himself. ‘There’s no room for distractions.’

One of the horses whinnied.

‘Exactly, Muffins.’ He let the books thud into the wagon, then left Bones to her packing.

7 notes · View notes

messers-moony · 3 years

Text

Annotated Books & Sleek Hardcovers | R.B

Paring: Regulus Black X Fem!Lupin!Reader

Summary: Everything told them to be apart, but they said fuck the world.

Inspiration: Click

People would describe the younger Lupin sibling as warm and bright. She shined like the sun and was warm like a sunny summer day. She was the breeze on a warm summer day and the sun on a chilly autumn morning. She was worn books with annotations in the margins, highlighting, and scribbles. She was dependable, sweet, kind, and loving.

Dependable like a best friend. Sweet like Honeydukes chocolate. Kind of like a puppy dog who had been just adopted and as lovable as soft blankets. Her brother was no different. He oozed shyness, charisma, and intelligence. His tousled sandy hair and gleaming green eyes made everyone bend to his will. He didn’t even know that he was doing it.

But by fifth year, Remus Lupin had come out as gay. A month later, Sirius Black was on top of the Gryffindor table with a blushing Remus announcing their relationship. Remus had given his sister a sheepish look as he sat back down. Y/n had just kissed his cheek and smiled.

Y/n and Regulus had been sitting beside each other when Sirius had taken the Great Hall by storm. Instinctively, Regulus tightened his grip on her hand, and Y/n allowed her thumb to run along his. She watched as his shoulders relaxed a prominent amount.

“Well,” Regulus whispered, “I wasn’t expecting that. Did you know?”

Y/n shook her head, “No, but I’m happy for them. Are you?”

“I ‘spose.” Regulus shrugged, “When do you think they’ll find out about us?”

“Remus is a bit oblivious.” Y/n replied, “Sirius doesn’t really turn his head in your direction.”

Regulus looked down at his lap, “So if anything, we’ll have to tell them.”

“Do you think,” His voice was lower than a whisper, “That he’ll ever be my brother again?”

“I do.” Y/n leaned her head on his shoulder, “Siblings have a special bond.”

“I hope you’re right.”

She snorted, “I’m always right.”

At that, he cracked a smile.

Maybe it was her warmth that melted the ice surrounding Regulus’ heart. The icy, cold, Regulus Black. It wasn’t like they were hiding their relationship, but people were terrified to talk about it. They didn’t want to face the wrath of the young Black brother.

Regulus was described as the dark, cold winter nights people despised. The winter nights that were so low in temperature that even staying inside with the heat on, blankets on, and layers of clothes couldn’t warm. He was sleek, hardcover books and soggy leaves in the fall that left you disappointed when the satisfying crunch didn’t echo through your ears.

Regulus Black was everything but warm. He was your least favorite color. Your least favorite food. He was everything you hated. Perhaps it was Y/n’s sweetness that brought some of the crunchiness back to his leaf, the pen to his book, and the folded pages.

They were star-crossed lovers. Everything in the universe was trying to keep them apart from the colors of their robes and the clashing of their personalities. Regulus was the dry autumn and brash winter. Y/n was the prospering spring and hopeful summer. Perhaps they were the best of both worlds, and that’s why they worked together so well.

It wasn’t until their sixth year when their relationship had become the talk of the school. Regulus had begun wearing long sleeves even in the hot months, and people grew suspicious. Only he and she knew what laid beneath that crisp white button-up. Beneath the cold ice he kept around his heart.

Y/n looked around Platform Nine and Three-Quarters for her raven-haired boyfriend as Remus joined his friends on the train. When she did find him, it wasn’t pleasant. Walburga had been fussing with his sleeve, making sure it stayed down, and she had slapped the back of his head for slouching over. Regulus had rolled his shoulders to stand up straight. Orion didn’t look impressed, and Walburga murmured something along the lines of, “Good enough.”

“Now, what do we say, Regulus?”

Regulus caught Y/n’s eyes for just a split second, and he looked away hastily, “Toujours Pur.”

“Good.” Walburga stated, “Now go.”

He nodded and began walking toward Y/n’s general direction. Regulus took her hand in his directing her on another path, “Meet at our usual compartment.”

Y/n gave him a smile in response as she walked away. It left Regulus with a pink hue coating his usually pale skin. His stomach fluttered, and his heart palpitated. They entered the train on opposite sides and met in the middle at their compartment. She was already sitting down when he plopped down beside her. His head was leaning on her shoulder.

“Missed you.” Regulus slurred, sleep evident in his tone, “Wish I could’ve escaped.”

“I missed you too, Reggie.” Y/n took his left hand in hers, “But I know that we have a lot to talk about.”

He tensed, “I suppose we do.”

“Things like what’s on your left forearm?”

“Y/n, please-“

“I’m not mad.”

“But you’re disappointed.”

Her light laugh confused him, “I’m not either, actually.”

Regulus lifted his head to look at her, “You aren’t?”

“I just want to know what you plan on doing with that mark.”

“I don’t have a choice.” Regulus stated, slumping down again, “I have to serve him.”

Y/n hesitated, “You have choices.”

“What are they?”

“Be a spy.”

“A spy?” Regulus queried incredulously, “Are you serious?”

A silly smile graced her features, “Actually. Forget I asked that. Are you daft?”

“No.” Y/n replied, “I’m actually top of our class, so.”

“If he finds out I’m a spy. Then I’d be killed, Y/n.” Regulus said softly, “It’d be different if I didn’t care about anyone. If I had nothing to lose, but I do, and I don’t want to lose a chance at a future with you because of it.”

Y/n took his face into her hands, “You can’t do this. You can’t work for him. You’ll kill yourself slowly anyway.”

“I don’t have a choice.” He wiped a tear from her cheek, “This was bound to happen. This was my fate.”

“Who gives a shit about fate.” Y/n chuckled tearfully, “Professor Trelawney always said that you could change fate.”

Regulus cracked a tiny smile, “You would pay attention in Divination, wouldn’t you.”

“Someone’s gotta give Sirius the notes.”

“Sirius… I didn’t even think about-“ Regulus stopped, “He’s- He’s gonna hate me.”

“Hey, Regulus, look at me.” His breathing sped up, and his hands began to tremble, “Sirius isn’t going to hate you.”

He shook his head, “No, he’s- he’s gonna- I’m gonna-“

Y/n wrapped her arms around him. Regulus nosed at the crook of her neck, breathing in the sweet perfume. The fragrance smelt of crisp apples mixed along with her scent of caramel, chocolate, and marshmallow. It gave him something to focus on, and with his muddled mind, Regulus fell asleep.

Regulus was still asleep three hours later when Sirius came barging into the compartment stopping in his tracks. Y/n brought her index finger to her lips, ordering him to be quiet. Sirius shut the door and sat in front of them. Regulus’ face was out of view from his older brother's. His nose was nuzzled in Y/n’s neck, and his hair hid his face.

“So,” Sirius began quietly, the atmosphere had never been so thick, “How long?”

“Fourth year.” Y/n thought Sirius’ eyes were going to bulge out of his head.

“But you- and him- you don’t-“

“Don’t belong together?”

Sirius nodded, “Who are you to say? Technically I could say the same about you and my brother.”

“Fair point.” Sirius muttered.

It was quiet again, and all that was heard was the slashing of rain on the window of the train, “How- How is he?” Sirius’ voice had never been so quiet before.

“He’ll be okay.”

“What’s that suppose to mean?”

Before Y/n could respond, Regulus began to tremble again. He was trying to dig his nose deeper into her neck and reaching desperately for something to hold onto. Y/n allowed his hand to grasp hers tightly. His trembling subsided, and Y/n gently kissed the crown of his head, allowing him to relax finally.

“How did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“I never-“ Sirius looked shocked, “I could never calm his nightmares….”

Y/n gave him a soft smile, “Perhaps it’s a Lupin talent.”

“Perhaps.” Sirius replied, “But, is he okay?”

“He will be.”

“What does that mean?” Sirius questioned loudly, and Y/n hushed him, “They didn’t- did they?”

She nodded solemnly, “We’re gonna- We’re gonna work through it together.”

Sirius could see her swallowing the lump in her throat. Sirius could see the dullness in her eyes, the same dull that Remus’ eyes got after the full moon. Sirius could always read Remus through his eyes. They were a tell-tale of his emotions. It seemed that he could do the same with Y/n. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, untold trauma, and unspoken words.

“Take care of him, yeah?” Sirius requested quietly as he stood up to leave the compartment.

She nodded, “Yeah.”

He closed the sliding door quietly. It was a quiet walk back to his own compartment with the Marauders. The task of getting the summer homework to copy turned into an entirely new adventure. Sirius opened the door to his compartment to find James and Peter talking animately. Remus sat with his head against the glass and head in a book. He had some muggle markers beside him that Sirius liked to draw with.

Sirius slumped beside Remus putting space between them. That was the first tell. The second tell was that Sirius didn’t speak, and he stared out to the train's hallway. Remus closed his book, placing it back beside him, and wrapped his arm around his boyfriend's shoulders.

“What’s wrong?” His voice was low and hot in Sirius’ ear.

“Nothing.” Sirius replied, still not looking into Remus’ eyes, “Your sister was no help. Said I needed to do the homework on my own. Said I was a tosser for not doing it.”

Remus snorted and nuzzled his nose into Sirius’ cheek, “Well, perhaps I ought to tell her that’s not how she should speak to my boyfriend.”

“No.” Sirius hated how distant he sounded, “She’s got other things to worry about.”

The lycanthrope furrowed his eyebrows, “Like what?”

“Like you.” Sirius lied like it was nothing, “Who do you think puts hot cocoa and Honeydukes chocolate at your bedside after the full?”

“Then I should give her a sister of the year award.” Remus corrected, and Sirius nodded, “Perhaps you should.”

If only I could get a best brother award, Sirius thought. It was selfish. He knew that. It was wrong to envy Y/n and Remus’ relationship. Unfit to be jealous of his brothers relationship, but he couldn’t help it. Sirius wanted to be the one to chase all of Regulus’ demons away. Sirius wanted to hold him during every thunderstorm as he used to as children. Sirius should be happy for Regulus even if it weren’t because of him.

It took a month before Remus was storming into the common room and yelled insanities at his sister. Remus wasn’t thinking, words fell from his mouth so carelessly, and the entire common room stared as Remus had his sister pushed against a wall, hands holding her up from the collar on her shirt, seething at her.

“You must be one of the stupidest people I’ve ever met.” Remus seethed, and Y/n flinched, “You must be fucking insane.”

Sirius could do nothing but stare, “Maybe I should’ve disowned you as my sister the minute I saw you hanging out with him.”

Tears ebbed at Y/n’s eyes, “But I gave you the benefit of the doubt. I trusted you, and you betrayed me.”

James couldn’t tell what was worse, the fact that Remus was so calm and his voice was so low or when Remus yelled, “You were my everything. My sister, my partner in crime, my other half, and you fucking destroyed it.”

“Mate, stop.” James tried to interject, but Remus just shoved her against the wall harder, and streaks of silver appeared on her cheeks.

“Wonder what dad would do if he found out.” Remus taunted, and Y/n shook her head, “You know how much dad despises them.”

Y/n choked, “Remus-“

“Don’t.” He snarled, “My name isn’t allowed to fall from your mouth. Fucking traitor.”

Sirius had enough, “Remus, stop. That’s enough.”

Remus whirled around, Y/n sliding to the floor, knees to her chest, “Who are you talk? You did the same thing back in fifth year.”

“I’m not your bloody sister.” Sirius snapped, “She’s been there with you through everything. Maybe if you let her explain, then you could understand.”

Remus pointed at her and looked at Sirius with fire in his eyes, “She isn’t my sister. She’ll never be my sister again.”

Sirius could remember the exact same words falling from his mouth only a year earlier, and it crushed him. Y/n was sobbing, and her knees were pulled tightly under her chin. James was trying to console her, but it wasn’t working as Remus and Sirius went toe to toe. Y/n didn’t deserve this for loving who she loved.

Remus scoffed when Sirius wouldn’t back down and stormed up to the boy's dormitory. Sirius knelt before her and lifted her head from her lap. His thumbs wiped away the tears, and he took her into his arms. So much built-up pain, built-up trauma, built-up lies. She was finally crumbling like a tower on an unsteady foundation. Y/n was a one-hundred-story tower that was collapsing from the bottom up.

Debris falling everywhere and soot clouding the atmosphere. He could see the smog slipping in her mind, clouding up her judgment and thoughts. Sirius could see the debris cluttering and scraping away at her heart. With every scrap and every tear, her heart began to give out. It felt like being crushed in an elevator, with no room to breathe and no room for moving. She was stuck, and that was it.

Y/n couldn’t remember much after feeling Sirius’ lips on the top of her head. But she woke up on the plush of the common room couch. The rough maroon fabric was felt beneath her fingertips. Beside her was a boy in an armchair. He was curled up, and a black fleece blanket covered his body from the coldness of the Gryffindor common room.

Beside her was a glass of water and a note. She picked up the water and allowed it to glide down her throat, soothing the ache from her earlier crying. Her nose still felt stuffy, and she willed herself to sniffle quietly, trying not to wake the boy beside her. The parchment was ripped at the edges and was written in beautiful calligraphy.

"Il y a toujours des ténèbres avant que la lumière brille."

She folded the note and placed it back on the side table with the empty glass. The fire had gone out fully in the common room, allowing the temperature in the room to fall. It was cold, dry, and dark. Y/n had never seen the common room so dark. Not a candle was lit, and no light was shining from the windows. Just the slightest bit of moonlight. Gently she stood up and reached for the boy's hand in the armchair.

“Reggie.” Her voice was smooth and soft, “Reg.”

He stirred and opened his eyes to meet his girlfriend's warm ones. Sirius had rushed to the Slytherin common room despite all prejudice. Some of the Slytherins spat at him when he asked for the password. It took ten people before Regulus finally answered to the incessant knocking. He was shocked to be met with his older brother.

There Sirius had told him what happened, how Remus had shoved his sister against the wall accusing her of betraying him for dating him. Regulus felt ashamed. He didn’t want to be the reason they didn’t get to be civil with each other. Sirius even uttered the exact words Remus had, “She isn’t my sister. She’ll never be my sister again.” Regulus had to bite his tongue to stop himself from saying anything.

People stared at the younger Black brother as he walked into the Gryffindor common room. The Gryffindor’s glared, spat, and insulted, but he didn’t care. He found his girlfriend lying on the couch with a thick red blanket surrounding her. Sirius had claimed that Marlene had brought it for her, and Sirius had been the one to move her to the couch. Regulus saw the dried tear stains, the swollen eyes, and the bruised lip.

“It wasn’t pretty.” Sirius had muttered, “Remus isn’t one to hold back.”

Regulus smoothed her hair back, “This is because of me….”

“Reg, no.” Sirius had replied, “Remus will come around. He just doesn’t know how to digest this.”

The common room was silent, and Regulus just held her hand. His thumb stroked the back of her hand softly. Sirius watched as Regulus went through a wave of emotions. He was hurt, confused, concerned, and terrified. It was like watching the seasons go by. Watching everything welt, die, grow back and prosper just to repeat the cycle. It was like watching a new book turn into an old one as the ink was embedded onto the pages, the papers getting folded, tabs being placed, and the spine being cracked.

Regulus appeared to be a sleek hardcover book, but she was his person. She turned him into a used paperback. One with highlighting, tabs, folded pages, a cracked spine, and a loved cover. His heart beat for her. She was the reason he woke up every morning, the reason he ate, the reason he got good marks. She was his reason.

“I tried talking sense into him.” Sirius confessed quietly, “He just brought up the incident in fifth year.”

Regulus closed his eyes tightly and tried to withhold his tears, “Maybe I should talk to him.”

“No.” Sirius said sternly, “You’ll be asking for death.”

“What do I do, Sirius?”

His blue-grey eyes were glittering with desperation, “Nothing… Take care of her.”

With that, Sirius left a kiss on his younger brother's head and left the common room, retreating to the dormitory. Regulus sighed and placed his forehead on the back of her hand. Tears slipped from his eyes and onto the material of the couch. Everyone was gone at that point. The common room wholly cleared and the fire slowly decaying in the fireplace as Regulus Black finally allowed himself to break.

He woke up on an armchair with a soft thick black blanket covering his limbs. Red rimmed e/c eyes met his blue-grey ones, and he felt a wave of relief. Y/n reached her hand out, and Regulus took it, keeping the blanket around his shoulders as she brought him to her dormitory. The girls were sleeping, and Y/n sat down on her bed, Regulus doing the same. She drew the curtains and muttered a silencing spell.

Regulus laid with his head on her pillow, pulling her to lay on his chest. He wrapped the fuzzy black blanket around them. Y/n nuzzled into his side, and he placed a kiss on the top of her head. They didn’t need to exchange words for expressing how they felt. They knew how the other felt. There was no need on elaborating. She fell asleep not too long after, and Regulus laid awake trying of solutions.

Even when the sun broke the horizon, Regulus still had nothing.

They continued the year like this. Remus and Y/n didn’t speak at all anymore. Remus went as far as to change his schedule and ignore the sweets left on his bedside after the full moons. Sirius would pretend it came from him, but Remus still would budge. He would chuck the chocolate in the trash even though he knew that Y/n barely had money in the first place to buy it. He’d dump the hot chocolate in the waste bin and smash the mug to get out any frustration.

Sirius thought that the worst part was Remus never grieved for his sister. He never saw Remus cry or get upset about what he did. It was like Remus had no remorse for what he did. Sirius had grieved. He had sobbed in the midst of twilight with shit silencing charms. Sirius had wailed and clutched his blanket close to his chest, hoping it would soothe the aching of his heart.

When they graduated, Remus didn’t look for his sister in the crowd. He didn’t care if she was there or not, but she was. Y/n was there holding Regulus’ hand tightly, watching her brother shake Dumbledore’s hand. She watched as Sirius embraced Regulus in a tight hug in the shadows. Y/n smiled bittersweetly at their embrace as Regulus took her hand back in his.

Sirius began to open his mouth, “No need to lie. I know he doesn’t care if I was here or not.”

Y/n shuffled on her feet, and Sirius took her into his arms. Sirius was shorter than Regulus, and he didn’t smell the same, but his hugs were just as comforting in a brotherly way. His hand caressed her hair, and Sirius couldn’t help the way his heart ached. He shouldn’t be the one hugging her, Remus should, but he isn’t. Sirius kissed her forehead and released her from his hug.

“I’ll write to you guys.”

“Don’t get into too much trouble.” Y/n replied with tear-filled eyes, “I can’t imagine you gone.”

Sirius smirked, “Yes, ma’am. Don’t you know I always obey the rules?”

“She’s being real, Sirius.” Regulus didn’t crack a smile, “This war isn’t a joke, and I’d- I’d like to see you next year when I graduate.”

“I’ll be there.” Sirius said solemnly, “I won’t leave you guys. They won’t take me alive.”

Y/n cracked a smile, “Good.”

Regulus nudged his girlfriend, and she wiped the tears from her cheeks, “Protect him. He gets reckless and forgets about himself. Don’t let him do anything stupid.”

Sirius could still hear Remus’ voice in their first Order meeting, “I swear on all Merlin if they touch her, they’ll be sorry.”

“‘Course. Don’t forget he’s still my boyfriend.” Sirius replied, and Y/n smiled, “‘S why I’m asking you and not James. Keep- Keep my brother safe, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

They joined the Order of the Phoenix without looking back. Remus, James, Sirius, and Peter quickly became some of the best Aurors of the Ministry of Magic. Sirius had made the Daily Prophet multiple for putting Death Eaters in Azkaban. Many citizens of the Wizarding community thought of him as the next Alastor Moody.

Seventh year was the worst one yet. Most of the Slytherin Death Eaters were attacking the younger kids. Most of the older Gryffindors, Ravenclaws, and Hufflepuffs had to defend them from the unforgivable curses. It seemed normal to hear the crucio curse being thrown away and seeing green flashes. It made Y/n sick to her stomach.

It got so surreal that Y/n and Regulus had begun sleeping behind tapestries or hidden tunnels. Dormitories and common rooms were no longer safe. Their backs ached, and body’s sore from lying on concrete, but it was better than dying. Graduation was not a celebration, and no one from outside was allowed in, but Sirius waited for them at Kings Cross.

The next time Y/n saw Remus was when she was being sworn into the Order, and he barely spared her a glance. Not long after the speech was being spoken, another person entered the meeting point. He was shockingly familiar with wavy black hair and blue-grey eyes. Remus jumped out of his seat, and James had to hold him back. Regulus released a breath and stood beside his girlfriend.

“Now. I’m sure there’s a lot of confusion.” Dumbledore began calmly, “Regulus has sworn to be our spy.”

Remus growled, “He’s a Death Eater.”

“Exactly.” Remus glared at the old Professor, “Therefore, he can enter and participate in their meetings. Then he can come back here and report what he knows.”

“I don’t like it any more than you do.” Regulus said, “I don’t want to put anyone in danger, but someone needs to do it.”

Remus went to speak, but Regulus cut him off, “Someone needs to protect your sister.”

Everyone stared in shock at the bold statement that came from the young Black brother's mouth, and Remus leaped from his seat, “She is a traitor. Just like you.”

Instinctively Regulus moved her behind him as Remus was now face to face with him, “She’s everything but. Wasn’t she the one who stopped Fenrir Greyback from killing you?”

“Shut up.”

“Wasn’t she the one who cleaned your wounds after the full moons before the Marauders?”

“I’m warning you.”

“Wasn’t she the one who used to make you hot chocolate when the nightmares got too bad that you couldn’t sleep?”

Remus snapped, and Sirius pulled him away from Regulus. But they all saw how Y/n cowered when he lunged forward, how she flinched back, covering her face with her hands. Regulus kept a tight hold on her hand, and they watched as Sirius calmed Remus down, bringing him upstairs. When Remus was gone, Dumbledore spoke again.

“Well, the first Order meeting will be announced in just a couple of days. It allows Y/n and Regulus to get in their positions.” Dumbledore announced, “It allows Y/n to get some training and Regulus to get Voldemort’s trust.”

Everyone dispersed. Y/n and Regulus apparated to a flat they had bought in London. It was relatively modern for the time and had everything they needed. The place was clean and brand new. When they landed in the living room, she went straight to the bedroom. Regulus prepared her a hot drink and set it at her bedside table with a warming charm. He laid beside her, placing her head on his heart.

“Je Vous Aime.” His french accent was so smooth and gentle, like a baby blanket, “Je t'aime aussi.”

Everything just got more stressful as time passed. Regulus’ job got more and more dangerous, making Y/n worry profusely. It got to times where they had to pretend to throw curses back and forth so he could prove that he was loyal to them. It wasn’t until a rumor of a spy for the Death Eaters came out that Regulus’ job became crucial. It took three more meetings, and on October 15th Regulus knew who it was.

He could remember the day vividly how Voldemort welcomed Peter Pettigrew to the Death Eaters with open arms. Regulus had stared in mock happiness but, in reality, had been shocked. Someone so close to the Potters had gone and betrayed him. So when Peter was absent from one meeting, Regulus brought it up.

“They spy is Pettigrew.”

“No.” James chuckled, “You’re lying, right?”

Regulus shook his head, “He plans to kill you, Lily, and Harry on Halloween.”

Everyone stiffened. The air was tense, but Dumbledore smiled victoriously, “Beautiful work, Regulus. We’ll apprehend Pettigrew when he’s seen again.”

They had set up a false meeting where Peter got sent to Azkaban only two days later after Regulus announced he was the traitor. That sparked the war between them, and this time, Regulus was on the right side, the side he always wanted to be on. A week later, and on Halloween, Voldemort was dead. Many people's lives were lost, but many were saved.

After the war, Remus had proposed to Sirius, and yet Y/n was still not invited to the wedding. Sirius had begged Remus to make amends with her. The war was over. This nonsense was not needed anymore. But Remus was stubborn, and Y/n was too afraid to approach him, so James gave her the invisibility cloak to watch her brother marry. Not the ideal way she planned on watching her brother and his love get married.

A couple of months later, Regulus and Y/n did the same. Except they did it alone, with Sirius being their only witness and the person marrying them. Sirius couldn’t help but feel awful for Remus not being able to walk her down the aisle, not to see her in the pretty dress she had picked out. It wasn’t until fifteen years later when Y/n had two teenage boys, and a little girl did someone came knocking on her door during the winter holidays.

Both boys were running around the house, and their little sister was trying to keep up. Two twin boys who were fifteen - Romeo and Romulus. A little girl who was just about ten named Ascella. Romulus was a carbon copy of Sirius. Romeo had the Lupin sandy hair and the Black family eyes with the Black family defined face. He was the best of both worlds. Ascella looked like a female Regulus.

Romeo was the Keeper of the Slytherin house for Quidditch. Romulus played Beater for Gryffindor, and little Ascella would get her Hogwarts letter in just about a year. Regulus and Y/n both predicted she’d be in Gryffindor with her brave, mischievous nature. Y/n was the one to get the door with her two boys behind her. Ascella had been called into the living room by her father.

Y/n was shocked to meet familiar green eyes, “Um- hi.”

“Hey.” Remus said nervously, scratching the back of his head, “I hope I’m not intruding.”

Both boys behind her looked confused, “Mum, who is this?”

A pang of hurt hit Remus, “This- This is my brother.”

“Brother?” Romulus questioned, “Like he’s our uncle?”

“Yes.” Y/n retorted, “Now you boys grab your sister. Go do something upstairs while we talk, yeah?”

Romeo looked crestfallen, “Mum, we aren’t five.”

“I know, but we have a lot of talking to do.”

Romeo sighed, “Fine but be safe.”

She kissed the tops of their heads, “Of course.”

Ascella was running to her brothers within seconds after Romulus called for her. Remus saw her black hair flutter around as she followed her brothers up the steps. Y/n smiled and motioned for Remus to come inside. The house was lovely and decorated for the holidays. Y/n walked through the hallway to the living room, and Remus followed.

“I apologize for the mess.” She chuckled, “Having the boys home makes the house messy.”

Remus saw the pictures on the wall, “A Slytherin and a Gryffindor.”

Y/n smiled, “Yep. Romeos the Slytherin, and Romulus is the Gryffindor. We have a feeling Ascella will be in Gryffindor too.”

He placed the picture back down and sighed, “Merlin, what did I miss?”

Regulus was still stiff and stern, “A lot if you couldn’t tell already. That’s what happens when you call your sister a traitor and decide to disown her.”

All three children were listening secretly and grimaced at their father's words, “But don’t worry. I’ve done your job. I’ve been there for her, protected her, and made sure she was happy.” Regulus snapped, “And Sirius did your job of being the children’s uncle.”

“He didn’t even tell me you guys had kids.” Remus muttered, “‘Course he didn’t. In case you don’t remember, you didn’t want anything to do with us.” Regulus retorted.

The children had never heard their father speak this way with so much ice in his words. Regulus was blunt and unapologetic, “We wanted you to be a part of our family, Remus, we really did. But we didn’t know how you’d feel.” Y/n informed.

“Plus, the last time you saw us, you tried to kill Regulus.” Ascella covered her ears, and Romeo ushered them to his room to stop listening, “Yeah, so forgive us for not inviting you to be a part of our family.”

Regulus punctuated his statement by putting his arm around Y/n’s waist, “I’m sorry.” Remus murmured.

“I’m really sorry for how I acted. It was immature and stupid of me.” He continued, “I didn’t know how to feel when I heard my sister was with a Death Eater at the time, and I was just scared.”

Y/n stood up and hugged him, “Remus. What you did isn’t going to be forgiven. I’m sorry.”

He had tears glazing in his emerald green eyes that dulled with age, “I know we were young, but that doesn’t excuse the words you said or how you acted. Trying to kill my husband and saying god awful things about me.”

Y/n took her seat beside Regulus, and Remus sniffled, “You did this. Not us.” Regulus reminded, and Remus nodded.

“Okay, I just- I’ll go.” Remus stood up from his seat and walked down the hallway to the front door; he took in every family portrait.

When he got to the door, Y/n opened it for him, and he walked out, “Remus.”

He turned, and Y/n hugged him one last time. His chin rested on top of her head, breathing in her shampoo that still hadn’t changed since third year. The same perfume from fourth year. Her arms fit around him just the same way as they had when they were little children running around the lake. Y/n kissed his cheek and released herself from his embrace.

“I may not be your sister.” Y/n repeated with tear-filled eyes, and Remus allowed the tears to fall; her two boys were standing beside her, “But you’ll always be my brother.”

The door had closed, and Remus decided that that was the end of his chapter. He had underlined, circled, highlighted, and folded every significant page, but this was the end of the chapter. He was flipping to the next page, where the new chapter began. The new chapter where he had to live without his sister or his niece and nephews.

Remus always loved fragile, cracked paperbacks.

3K notes · View notes

yanderenightmare · 4 years

Note

Can you write some more about nice guy jock kiri? Please and thank you. Have a good day!

yandere ! KIRISHIMA EIJIRO - RED RIOT

goodiebag WARNINGS: nsfw, dubcon/noncon, suggestive language, manipulation, coercion

THAT ESCALATED QUICKLY

He said she could pick the movie this time.

He said she could pick out any movie at all. Whatever she wanted, they were going to watch. Yet in the time she’d spent making lunch, Kirishima sprawled lazily in her bed, browsing half-mindedly, eyes sliding from viewing the screen to looking at her round grabbable ass dancing as she padded about the small kitchen, begging for him to come pinch as she put the stir-fry in bowls and walked over to plot herself down next to the muscly block of man, he’d already picked a movie, far away from something she’d choose, though when eyeing what puppy-dog look he gave her, she couldn't very well say no.

Kirishima has always been clingy. She wouldn't like to call it suffocating, or controlling, though it does border on the word. But she cannot blame him for being handsy and suggestive when they’re alone, in her apartment, in her bed. He’s always been needy, always touching her, so very big-hearted and forward, easily distracted, easily discarding of tasks in favor of doing what new activity calls for his attention, like a dog.

She was becoming quite used to his confident nature, how hap-hazardously he would go about touching her, kissing and licking at her the way he so often went about doing, so much so it was strange to think that they hadn't ever actually slept together.

They had been dating for a couple weeks, and Kirishima was clear about his intentions and aspirations and wants and needs from the start, being a very open honest person, but she couldn't help but feel as though he was pushing her, nudging her, guilt-tripping her with candid words of how horny he was because of her, how frustrated he was, how frigid, how it was effecting his schoolwork, how good a boyfriend he was for waiting, for being patient and tolerant, how she couldn't blame him for wanting something in return, even though that something was a thing she wasn't ready to give him.

It would be wrong if she said he didn't respect her wishes, because he had, albeit begrudgingly. Each time she invited him over, or... he invited himself over, when he became rowdy, it would always take a good amount of bargaining and persuasion on her side, which was always met with even more coaxing and encouragement from him. How he would message his hand into the inside of her thigh, and she would push ever so gently to keep him at bay until he finally laid off, the mood stiff and awkward as he left her apartment to walk to his own place, alone, with a rejected boner he would have to take care of alone, then go to sleep alone, and wake up alone. He had still respected her wish in the end, or... maybe not respected, but at least accepted it.

She hadn't picked out the movie, and it being something she hadn't really invested very much thought into, she didn't try and stop him from nuzzling into her neck, kissing and sucking on the tender flesh found there. She allowed him to lift her shirt up to rub circles into her stomach with his warm roughened hand, let him grab and grope and mold her breast through the fabric of her bra, let him swing his leg over her body, to lock her position beneath him and his brawny heavy frame as he cuddled into her.

She could already feel the stiff bulge bump into her thigh, tried to forgive him for always riling himself up when he knows what her answer’s going to be, knows how she isn't ready to give him what he wants. Hearing his breathing picking up, becoming rugged and raspy, hot against her neck as he tried humping into her, having rolled and positioned and handled both their bodies so he could lie between her thighs, face mushed into the soft skin of her neck, nipping at her collarbones , spiky hair poking into the underside of her chin, hands abrasive when squeezing at the flesh of her ass and thighs, gripping them to lock around his torso, venturing to grab at her waist and breasts, becoming more and more frenzied, more and more rugged, forgetting his strength, forgetting her protests, getting more and more carried away.

She jolted once she felt his fingers hook into the band of her panties, having slipped up her skirt and spidered playfully up her thigh. She grabbed his arms loosely, small hands obviously not able to wrap around the thickness of his muscles, though applying what strength she deemed necessary to make him take her seriously, lightly digging her fingernails into his skin. “Uhm, Kiri-” She squeaked unsurely, breaching the shapeless noisy silence of heavy breathing and rugged groans and building growls that had filled the room, movie still quietly playing in the background, white noise completely ignored by the burning of her ears.

“Come on, let me feel.” He purred into her ear, giving her lobe a nibble.

“Uhm, I don't think-” She shoved at him, balls of her feet digging into the mattress, trying to sit up.

He laid his weight down on her, immobilizing her movement, keeping her under him. “Come on...” He drawled, voice rumbling. “Please?” Mumbling into her skin, knowing how it always makes her giggle from the tickle by the light scruff on his chin, knowing it makes her sweet and pliable. “Pretty please? It’ll feel good, I promise.”

He didn't really wait for any response, his face mushed into her neck, seeming cute as he pleaded but also acting as a great trap, his hand succeeded in pushing her panties aside, warm worn fingers, foreignly larger cuddled with the sensitivity kept there. His breath shuddered, lips spreading into a toothy grin against her neck, so wide she could feel it.

“Aww.” He moaned. “That’s so warm and wet.” She cringed, but hadn't the time to tell him to stop, hadn't the time to decide that she valued her limits more than maintaining the good vibe, and then she hadn't the mind to really think about it at all, too preoccupied with wrapping her thoughts around the fact that Eijiro had just pushed one thick knuckled finger inside her, roughly at that, pumped it in, stuffed her with it, with an equally chaffed thumb-pad laying heavy pressure down into her little beading clit.

It would probably have felt awful, the brutish boyish clumsy inconsiderate rubbing, but having him dry-hump into her for the better half of the entire movie made for a little messy spill between her thighs, perfectly ready to make whatever rough movement he gave seem like God’s touch, enough to have her moan at once.

“Does that feel good?” He asked, cocky undertone almost completely smoked out by livid lust, his arousal so very clear in his voice as he removed his weight when feeling her body melt and comply to what his hand was giving her of bliss. His large muscly frame rising to kneel between her legs, having her thighs hiked up and spread atop of his, forehead resting against hers. She bobbed her head in a series of quick sporadic nods, teeth biting harshly into her lip as she watched with a bowed head his finger disappear in and out the vulnerable sensitivity found between her spread thighs, the smell of beer on his heavy hot breaths fan over her face before he kissed her head. “You wanna cum?” She gave a moan, indicating an unspoken yes as he rubbed his thumb over and over her tender pearl, pushing another one of his long fingers inside her, making her gasp out a moan, mewing as he curled and scissored the two digits inside her, making her inevitable unraveling arrive much quicker.

He wiped his sticky hand on his pant leg with a small smug smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth, watching as her head fell back to rest against the pillow again, beginning to unbutton his jeans.

The sound of him sliding down his zipper pulled her focus back, eyelids fluttering open just in time to watch him pull his throbbing hard erection out with a sigh. And though the red-head had gone about the reveal in an unceremonious manner, whether it was out of lack of showmanship or Kirishima deeming it unnecessary, it didn't really matter to the virgin beneath him. She took one look and she wasn’t able to look away. A surprising black bush drew her focus at first, what more the two easter-eggs that seemed to be nestling there, but not before long her eyes felt the need to follow what bulging pumping purple vein ran up the underside of the thickness, almost like a spine, or a pin that reached up to a red-blushed head, glossed like a candy-apple, with a slit running though it and a spill of pre-cum dripping down to disappear in the dark forest below.

She could swear it sized up to her whole arm’s-length.

Her eyebrows knitted as she continued eyeing the hard pole, watching it bob with strength, straining against his stomach, standing proudly on it’s own as he lifted his shirt off his arms and shoulders, throwing it to the floor, revealing what mouthwatering washboard rock-hard abs he kept beneath.

His hand once again reached out, this time to grab her wrist, guiding her shaking hand back to his thick member, watching her hesitate to wrap her delicate little fingers around his length once he squeezed her wrist too hard in impatience, seeing her bite her lip at the feel of the almost rubbery-smooth texture of his length in her palm, warm to the touch. His larger hand wrapped around her smaller one, guiding the movement as he started pumping up and down.

He groaned, head hung and resting atop her shoulder where he knelt with her sitting form in his lap, red eyes with wide pupils locked on watching her small hand loosely holding onto him, his cock looking so unbelievably huge in her tiny grasp, like some beast, where the more he thought about it and the more he looked, it was big compared to all of her, he could only imagine what she was thinking as she eyed his length with that cute childish level of curiosity and sweet tinge of virgin anxiety. She needed to bite her lip to prevent it from trembling, wanting to squeeze her thighs shut when they too became unruly, wanting to protect what was kept between them.

It only made his cock throb even harder.

“I- fuck-” He grunted, thrusting shallowly up into her hand by angling his hips up, looking down upon her enticing pretty silken dew-kissed heat, his finger greedily reaching to touch the tender entrance only to hear her whimper out a small whine at once when his rough digits brazenly made contact. “You’re so shy, it’s adorable.”

The loosely given hand-job felt good around his priorly ignored arousal, what with how sensitive he was, but was missing what her pussy was welcomingly dripping with.

He lowered himself, hand grabbing his base to steady the attack, yet was declined by her placing her own hand in front of the poor unsuspecting virgin tightness. “Uhm, Kiri- I-”

He shushed at her, prying her hand easily away, replacing it with his own, rubbing those electrical patterns he did before into her pretty budding pearl. “No, no, Baby. Come on. Pretty please, it’ll feel so good, I’ll be gentle okay? It’ll be good, I promise.” He swirled his thumb over her clit, an act far from gentle, though sending those sharp involuntary spikes of pleasure into her core, giving to something pooling in her stomach, something warm and sticky and heavier than before, almost burdening with how it strained in the muscles of her thighs, making her shake beneath the man’s mere thumb. “I love you, Baby, don't you want us to take the next step?”

“Uhm...” She gasped as he abused the sensitivity under his course strength.

“Thank you, Baby.” He purred, lips carved into a smile fit for devouring, planting kisses down her face and into her neck, his cock pushing into the velvet folds.

But she backed up, balls of her feet pushing into the mattress, her palms doing the same, but Kirishima had other plans, none of them including letting her up.

“Kiri, no-” She pushed lightly at his chest then, as she’d done before, trying to soothe and smooth over the feathers she’d ruffled, trying ever so gently in those small soft caresses to apologize for having riled him up so.

But seems this time he wouldn't have that either, her hands cupped and pulled rather dismissively out of the way, dominated by his own and how he intertwined his digits, raking them in with her dainty ones, locking their hands, or rather securing hers, before pushing them flat into the sheets beside her, giving him full access to what lied beneath him without her bothersome fists getting in his way. “Come on, Babe... stop being a little tease...” Her hands slipped their confinements in his as he rather needed them to manage her body, felt that twitching itch to grab and grope and tug and pull at all her doughy flesh. She gasped as he groped a mans handful of her ass, bumping his bare cock into her, rubbing it up and over her pussy, bobbing between their stomachs.

His face was still so adamant on nibbling at the flesh of her collar, leaving what she knew to be ugly swelling purple stains that turned into those vile green and yellow marks looking like fungus blooming on her skin. “I’m sorry-” It was all too much to have his warm skin pressed against her, his naked hardness, all of him, his rough hands, his brutish needle-sharp teeth, that thing that poked at her, humped into her where he’d made a sticky wet hot mess, with her underwear put somewhere out of sight and most definitely out of reach. “I’m not ready to-” Her hands tried softly but with increasing effort at getting him off, trying to get her discomfort across to the seemingly clueless baboon who was handling her body to his own selfish ends on top of her.

“It’s fine.” His voice was heated, soft despite trodding over her own, as he tried calming her down, again with his hands tugging at her wrists and pushing the annoying things away from him, again so he could lie himself down on top of her. “We’ll try something-” His efforts at soothing her weren’t appreciated by the girl beneath as she continued pushing, bordering on thrashing beneath the giant red-head.

“Kiri, stop. ” There was an edge to her voice this time, an edge he didn’t appreciate.

Large hand wrapped their fingers around her wrist and crushed it with a strength she couldn't hope to match, a dark chuckle following, rumbling just beside her ear alongside a small smile carving his lips at the cute pop of bones followed by her whimper. “Stop being so difficult, Babe.” He chastised, voice dismissive and completely unbothered by her spiked struggles, treating her reluctance like it was nothing but a minor inconvenience he could simply swat away like a fly. “I know you’ll like it, you just need to-”

“I don’t need to do anything!” She cried now, adorable small whines as she tried prying her hand out of his hold. “Get off me!”

“Kinda feels like you’re trying to piss me off here.” His tone darkened, and so did the look in his eyes, and though she was just short of bawling with the lump of hopelessness and fear caught stuck in her throat, the adrenaline gave her such a rush of confidence as her leg finally managed to shuffle under his, allowing her to knee him right in that swelled thick slug he was so transfixed on appeasing.

And though she managed briefly to slip out from beneath him, it was no victory, and she felt that ounce of triumph that fluttered in her heart snuff out at the feel of his brawny taunt and rock hard arms wrap around her torso, hoisting her off the ground, only to throw her right back where she’d been laying not moments ago.

“Please, Eijirou, please, you're scaring me, stop.” She kicked now, flopping beneath him like a fish hauled up on a boat, tried prying her hands out of his grasp yet couldn't stop him from holding her down, rolling her on her stomach while he pulled off his uniform necktie, bending her arms behind her back and tightening the noose around her wrists, pulling the tail between them to secure the knot tightly, before rolling her back with her hands being crushed beneath her.

Her face reappeared tear-slicked and panicked. “There we go, all pretty and perfect for me.” He lightly tapped her face as he stuffed her mouth with the panties he fished back up from his pockets, settling between her legs again as she whined through the make-shift gag.

Rough course hand, like sandpaper, like rock, slid down between her thighs, slowly in their venture, pushing and kneading into the softness, hungry as they groped and pushed her open, wrapped her around his torso so he could slap his rock-solid cock onto her vulnerable little opening.

“Let me paint a picture for you, Babe.” He started, catching her attention.

Her eyes so unbelievably wide as she looked up at him through the thick hazy ominous darkness of the room, a darkness that once seemed so cozy now so overwhelming, the sun having gone down, the TV turned to black, the lights left off and the only glimmer coming from the streetlights and the dim white glow of the moon shining in through her window, leaving Kirishima’s sharp teeth to hang above her and how they seemed to drip, eerie shadows cast upon his face, eyes red and hazy, drooped to slits, drunk and cocky as he continued rubbing his cockhead up through the lips of her pussy ever so causally, like she wasn’t bound and bawling beneath him.

“So listen up and listen carefully. Can you do that, Babe?”

She felt cold suddenly, chilled to her core by his tone, reduced to shivering beneath his confident touch, shuddering where she laid, chest pushed upward above the support her arms gave, head drawing in the dune of her pillow, thighs lifted to straddle her boyfriend’s waist, his hand keeping her there by curling his thumb into the underside of her knee.

“The way I see it, you have two options.” He leaned in, voice sturdy but soft like a straight-jacket. “Either you be my good girl and give me what’s mine.” Tone swooping low into a growl. “Or...”

His hands moved steadily as they began unbuttoning her shirt from the bottom up, planting a kiss on the newly exposed skin of her tummy, just short of her belly-button. The light scruff of his chin tickling the thin skin it rubbed against as he continued licking and nibbling on the flesh the more it was exposed to him.

“You run along to your friends, tell them what a bad bad guy I am. They ask for proof, but silly little you have no proof to give.” He chuckled, warm breath breezed on the peach-fuzz of her chest as he kept sucking his marks into her, hands fingering the last of her buttons. “People love me, Buttercup, so let me ask you this...” The crimson spikes of his hair stuck into the underside of her chin as he licked up her throat, kissed her jaw and bit at her earlobe, whispering. “Who’s side you think they gonna take?” Humming as he watched another fat tear run down her cheek. “You go to the teachers, they ask for proof, something you still don’t have because there is none. And even if they did believe you... no saying they’d do anything about it. I’m destined to be a billboard hero. Do you really think they’ll throw all that away on some ditz from general studies?” Question after question, answer after answer, each one another stab and twist of the rusty blade in her hope. “Think again.” With her shirt open she witnessed him morph his hand into sharp rock, a jagged finger burrowing beneath the bridge of her bra and cutting the thick fabric loose, now fully exposed to his mouthful of teeth and slobbering tongue. “Hate to break it to you, but that’s not how the world works, Sweetheart.”

She closed her eyes, clamped them shut, but it only helped her feel all his entitled actions even more, how he moved, rightfully, regardlessly, without regret or remorse. She swore she could feel him pulsating against her, his cock pumping against her swollen clit, where she could argue that the rip of him tearing apart her skirt was the loudest noise she’d ever heard in her life.

“And perhaps it ends there, but I know you. You continue, trying to make anyone believe you, eventually ending up in management for crazy obsessed fanatic fangirls -of which I have many- or you give up.” His mouth enclosed her nipple, tongue swirling around the bud, fingers tweaking the other breast with boyish greediness. “Either way, you end up missing. With no friends to bother coming to find you, thinking that your delusional ass offed yourself, when in reality...”

Large hand curling around her neck, squeezing as he rose to look down at her, rock his hips to allow his cock more friction, sliding up and down between her thighs, bobbing against her stomach, thrumming and spilling thick whiteness, dripping and smearing onto her skin.

“You’re right back here with me.”

Her heart skipped, seemed to stop, everything seemed to stop. His words hung poised, forgetting how to drop, like dust settling, lingering about the air as she looked up at him, thinking he looked like the onset of hell, like a demon, his hair like horns, his eyes like hellfire, and those teeth, those sharp unforgiving teeth.

“You see, if you don’t give, I will take.” He juggled her head with the tight grip he had on her jaw, playing with her as his other hand swept through her delicate sensitive folds, made her cringe, try and shimmy away, all to his disgusting amusement shown in the snaggletooth that hooked over his lip as he smirked a grim curled line. “And right now it looks to me like I might just have to show you just how defenseless you are to stop me.” His digits wiggled inside her, and she whined into her panties as she sucked on them, her eyes clinging to the dangerous heat simmering inside his. “Aww see? You’re already getting so wet. Your body sure knows who it belongs to, I’m sure you will too, very soon.”

#yandere eijiro kirishima #yandere kirishima #yandere eijiro #yandere eijirou #yandere kirishima eijiro #yandere red riot #kirishima smut #yandere kirishima eijiro #bnha eijiro kirishima #bnha kirishima #eijirou x reader #kirishima eijiro x reader #eijirou kirishima imagine #eijirou x you #bnha eijirou #yandere boku no hero academia #yandere mha #yandere my hero academia #yandere bnha

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cafeinthemoon · 2 years

Text

More Myself Than I Am - Chapter II

Chapter 2/?

Wordcount 3,5k

Title A Good Guy

Fandom Bungo Stray Dogs

Pairing Ryuunosuke Akutagawa X reader

Previous chapter

Symbols ⭕ . ➕ . 💛

Warning (s): brief mention of panic attack in a public space

Tagging @lasidollily @darling-imobsessed (if you want to be tagged in any of my stories, just send an ask or a message 😉)

N. A.: So he's finally among us! Yay! I hope I haven't failed in giving Akutagawa a proper introduction, though this story is simple, direct if compared to other stuff I've wrote before. In this one I want to concentrate in the facts above everything, without leaving the passionate trait of my personal style aside though. Since there's some mystery included, things and people will be introduced little by little, maybe not with the same richness of details from other stories of mine, but just enough to make them important to the whole.

Also, about their names: I know, I KNOW the BSD Japanese characters have the names of Japanese writers, but there's a reason why I chose non Japanese names for my original characters, as you will see.

Anyways I hope you enjoy this new chapter :)

While you cleaned the tables, you were silently thanking the calmness inside the bakery at the last hours of that day: most of the costumers already left, and the few ones still there were preparing to go.

Your boss and your team mates didn’t make any comments, but they sensed you weren’t in the mood for conversations. Two days passed since Virginia’s last crisis and you were still embarrassed for suddenly requesting a day off in order to stay with her. Since things were complicated those days because of the employee on vacation, you knew you were granted with a big favor – but you didn’t like how it felt: most of your colleagues were familiar with your situation and even understood it, but it was always a reason for tension, at least on your side. When those episodes happened, you would always try to compensate working twice as hard and not causing any problems, but that didn’t contribute much to your relief.

On the other side of the street, the sun was almost gone behind the buildings; as you saw it through the glass wall, the redness of its last rays would spread as a vivid background to the rosy, thick clouds above. People were now going back to their homes, some of them entering to buy treats for their children or for themselves, then leaving quickly.

That day left a strange feeling in you, not only for the already mentioned reasons, but for something else. Everything was the same, of course, but you couldn’t shake the idea that something was missing. Were you forgetting to do some tasks or anything?

You were finishing the cleaning session before the end of the shift now, and were back to the thoughts about your sister. While you stood with her the other day, you noticed some strange marks on her skin, like the ones one gain when they bump into the furniture or such. You were going to ask her about it, but other matters kept you occupied and you forgot the fact, only recalling it now. Did she talk about it to the doctor at some point? This could explain why he prescribed a medicine that worked for physical pain… You sighed. Your head has been so noisy those days that from time to time you had to stop it before you got paranoid.

The sound of the front door being opened pulled you out of these thoughts. When you turned to it and saw who was coming in, a silence took over your mind and your surroundings as well, for you understood where that sensation of lacking something was coming from.

You still haven’t seen him today.

Through the door passed a young man dressed in a black coat with high collar, having a white jabot around his neck and frills of the same color covering his wrists, setting off the natural paleness of his skin, only visible on his hands and face, this latter framed by his short, dark hair that ended in thin, greyish locks on each side. Grey was also the color of his eyes, above which he had a pair of light eyebrows, almost absent; his thin lips, as pale as the rest of the skin, only emphasized the serene dignity in his posture.

In fact, it was a curious appearance: one could say he was a hero who escaped from the pages of a gothic novel, but his modern hairstyle would leave no doubts about his true place and time. When he entered the bakery, some people glanced toward him, but the not so friendly look with which they were received was a quiet sign for them to go back to their own business.

When he closed the door behind his back, his gaze passed through the place and stopped on you; your cheeks burned and you were forced to look down to the table.

You continued to work while hearing his slow steps toward it, only raising your face when he spoke to you.

– Evening, y/n-san – he nodded.

You replied accordingly.

– Evening, Akutagawa-kun.

Akutagawa Ryuunosuke was his name. He used to come earlier and spend some time on the same table – that one you were cleaning right now – enjoying his own company with a cup of tea and a treat while observing the people outside.

You still remember, it took weeks of frequent visits until you discovered your respective names. You also found out he was one year younger than you and had a sister; you even suggested him to bring the girl one day, but until that moment he only appeared alone.

Despite his reserved manners, he was the one who first introduced himself. It was funny, now that you thought of it: since his first day there, he took the initiative in every interaction between you, from asking to be served by you to engaging in conversations that would only last until the second or third question and answer. However, months have passed and he still maintained the formalities of the beginning. If you were asked about the reason behind his preference for your services, you would say you hadn’t the slightest idea, but since no harm came from this strange friendship you just followed the etiquette and gave him the good treatment a loyal costumer deserved.

You asked what he was going to have this time and he replied he wanted the same, except for a bottle of water instead of the usual tea. You were about to offer him the table, but he explained he wouldn’t stay that time and asked for a plastic bag to keep the order. You arranged everything and gave it to him.

After thanking you for this small gentleness, he found appropriate to exchange a few words with you before heading to the exit...

But the way he did it made your eyes widen a bit.

– You didn’t show up yesterday.

Though there was politeness in his tone, you couldn’t help sensing a demanding trait in it. What an uncommon way to express preoccupation, you thought to yourself.

Still, you told him the truth.

– My sister had a crisis, so I took the day off to take care of her.

– I see – he replied – I hope she’s feeling better now.

You smiled.

– She does. Thank you.

– Did you call the doctor?

– Yes – your fingers clenched around the cloth you were using to clean the table – He prescribed some medicine, which she’s going to take for this entire week.

Akutagawa was the person who gave you the doctor’s number. There was this day when you came to work moments after helping Virginia with a crisis and tried to concentrate on your tasks as best as possible, but your uneasiness didn’t go unnoticed by him. When you told him what happened, he gave you a small card with the doctor’s name and phone and told you to introduce yourself mentioning his name in case you needed his services.

When Virginia panicked again, you were in the middle of a street, with no apparent source of stress or triggering elements around. The first thing you remembered was the card.

This was the conversation you had on the phone:

– Hello?

– Hello? Is this Dr. Ougai’s number?

– Yes. Who is it?

– I’m y/n s/n. Akutagawa Ryuunosuke gave me your number. He’s a client of mine. I have my sister with me and she’s having a panic crisis. We’re far from home now… can you please come and help us?

– Of course. Tell me the address and how she’s feeling now.

You gave him the requested information and stood with Virginia until he arrived.

You always thought you haven’t appropriately thanked your costumer for such favor, so you took the opportunity now.

– It was too gentle from your part to indicate him – you commented – He’s been helping us a lot these months.

Akutagawa didn’t give you a verbal response, but nodded in acknowledgment. He was about to leave, but still had a request.

– May I ask how long you will stay before your shift ends?

You were a bit surprised, but didn’t refuse to answer.

– A few minutes. We're already finishing here.

– Would you mind if I walk you home? – and, as if justifying his request in face of your surprise, – I've heard that some delinquents have been seen around lately. It is already getting dark. It might be dangerous to walk alone.

You didn’t make any effort to disguise your feelings when you sensed the warmth raising to your cheeks: that was the first time he suggested anything outside the bakery. It was curious, even funny, how things worked with him: his quietness could be taken for shyness by someone who is not familiar with him, but once you established some bond, his honest, direct manners would show, and you would end up understanding that he was far from shy. Akutagawa’s line of action was a counterpoint to your own hesitating nature, and despite not having him as an intimate friend, you found some sort of comfort whenever you interacted with him, as if the daily stress, the countless minutiae around which you were often trapped had no importance when you spoke to each other.

And as a sign of respect for this feeling, you could only give him a positive answer.

– It would be good to have company.

It was then decided that you would organize your things while he waited for you in the bookstore on the same street.

***

When you entered the store, you went through the shelves looking for him, but he was nowhere at sight.

You passed by a shelve with classics, still looking around, until a book caught your attention and you stopped to take a look at it. It was indeed a beautiful work: a reddish-brown hard cover decorated with a delicate floral pattern on the edges and the spine; the title, carved in golden lettering, shared the front with an oval illustration of a countryside landscape, with the silhouettes of a young couple under a tree and a mansion on the top of a hill in the background.

You were so fascinated with the volume that you almost forgot why you were there…

But you were soon reminded.

– Wuthering Heights. Hm.

You startled a bit when you heard him mumbling over your shoulder, but smiled at the fact that he was familiar with the title.

– It is the best and the worst book I’ve ever read in my life – you commented without taking your eyes off the cover – It’s a beautiful story about terrible people. But can we say we’re better than them?

Akutagawa seemed to think of this.

– Sometimes I’m tempted to think we’re worse.

Despite being familiarized to his steady speech, you weren’t expecting such comeback: that was the tone of someone who knew what they were talking about. Was he referring to himself, or to some people he met? If you were a closer friend to him, you’d certainly ask, but you had to keep silence about it out of respect for the circumstances.

You spent a moment looking at the cover, then turned to see the back. You found the price tag... and swallowed.

– I really wanted to buy this edition, but I guess I’ll leave it to another day – you put it back on its place on the shelve – Shall we?

He nodded, not without a last look at the book, and followed you outside.

***

There was less movement on the sidewalks now. The sky was yet to be covered by the blackness of night, but the streetlights were already working: under them, some workers were still heading home, and the sellers were saying goodbye to their last clients before pinning the closed signs on their doors. The streets would be darker and quieter if it wasn’t for the traffic; at some point, a horn was heard, followed by loud swearing: an accident almost happened, but soon the cars moved away from each other and the case was forgotten. You were still looking at the street when a cat appeared out of nowhere and crossed your way, disappearing into an alley; you stopped right before stumbling in the animal, then chuckled at your own distraction.

None of this were new to you. That was what you would find in all the evenings after leaving the bakery. Your eyes were so used to those things that they were no longer seen by them. That time was different only because you were not alone: the quiet presence of Akutagawa somehow changed your impression of everything, as someone who introduces a stranger to their personal space, allowing him to discover a part of their daily life that though had moderate importance, would help to understand who they were outside their usual meeting point.

You didn’t talk much, yet there was no embarrassment between you. Instead of the expected strangeness of a first encounter in a new environment, there was curiosity: why did he choose to walk you home that day and not before? Was he expecting something? Should you ask him about it? Well, truth is that a conversation that starts with such questions would be rather annoying, so you soon left them aside.

At first, you limited your sentences to indicate the directions you should take, while he would make simple, brief questions about the places you were passing by.

– So… you always take this very path to come and go?

– Most of the times, yes. I change it once or twice a week, when I need to go to a store or have other appointments.

– It’s quite a walk.

– I agree. But I don’t have many opportunities to work out, so I walk as much as I can – and after a moment in silence, – Sometimes, when I am too tired, I take the bus and reach home in five minutes or less. But, if I’m being honest, walking alone through these streets is my way to rest.

Akutagawa didn’t reply to that, less because he didn’t know what to say than because there was nothing to add. You didn’t mind it: part of the comfort you felt in his company came from the fact that you both recognized your inability in making small talk, even if you’ve never said a word to each other about it.

At some moment, you heard him cough. He reached for the water bottle right after. You waited until he put it back in the bag to say something.

– Your health seemed okay in the previous days.

Contrary to the expectations, he showed no irritation towards the subject.

– These good periods happen from time to time, but my condition is chronic. It is a consequence from the environment in which I spent part of my childhood.

You didn’t ask for details nor questioned where he used to live. Wherever this place was or how long he had to live in it, it didn’t matter now; all he could do was to take care of what remained form his health now, even if it was little. That was something you sort of respected in him, too: the practical treatment he would give to most of the things. In one of his first visits to the bakery, he had a coughing crisis while you were serving him; the first thing you did was to offer him a glass of water, which he accepted, and since then you would bring water alongside his orders, unless when he said it wasn’t necessary.

You crossed a street and recognized the top of your building ahead.

– We’re almost reaching my home – you indicated the building – It’s in the next corner.

You were approaching the entry when you saw a group standing on the sidewalk, engaged in a cheerful conversation: the first, a girl with curly, brown hair, wearing an elegant dress with flowing skirt, had her arm entwined with a young man’s, a bit older than her; the man, a blonde, tall individual with a large smile and a high pitch tone, was now occupied in telling some funny story to her and to the second girl, a brunette creature with her hair tied in a high bun and dark blue clothing.

You recognized your sisters and Virginia’s boyfriend, Arthur.

The three interrupted the chatting and greeted you with gentleness, but were a bit surprised to see you had company.

You made the introductions.

– Guys, this is Akutagawa Ryunosuke. He’s a client at the bakery. Today he offered himself to make me company on my way home.

Arthur said a low “Evening” to the other man and the girls gave him modest smiles. Akutagawa nodded at them.

You turned to him.

– Akutagawa-kun, these are my sisters, Virginia and Frances, and this is Arthur, Virginia’s boyfriend.

Arthur opened his largest smile and was the first to speak after the formalities.

– Hey, y/n-chan! Virginia-chan needs to cheer up a bit, so we’re heading to that new restaurant at … Street. Wanna join us? – and turning to your partner – The gentleman can come if he wishes, too!

Akutagawa’s gaze turned to you, waiting for you to reply first, which you did.

– I’m sorry, Arthur, but I’m tired. We had one less member in our team today so I had to work twice as hard – and adding a smile to compensate the group’s frustration, – You three, go and have fun!

As you imagined he would do, Akutagawa made his decision according to your own.

– Thank you for the invitation, but I have my own appointments as well. Goodnight – and turning to you – See you, y/n-san.

You smiled in response.

– See you. Get better.

He mumbled a “Thank you” and left with steady steps. There was a second of silence after that and, before you could find an excuse to enter the building, the conversation continued.

– You have such a lovely clientele, my sister-in-law – Arthur commented, raising his eyebrow in a manner that didn’t please you at all – But I bet he’s a good guy. There are a few who do small favors like this to a girl they barely know nowadays.

You wouldn’t describe your own connection with Akutagawa that way. It was true that you weren’t the closest friends, but you weren’t strangers to each other as Arthur suggested. In any case, you sensed it would be useless to try and explain this to him or to your sisters, so you decided to not reply to that.

You were about to pass to the front door and end the talking, but you couldn’t ignore when Frances added a comment that was certainly lingering in her tongue since your client turned his back on the group.

– Maybe he enjoys acting like he’s in the wrong century, Arthur. Didn’t you see those clothes? – she chuckled – Who are you to judge?

Arthur shrugged, oblivious to her cunning tone.

– And who said I’m being judgmental? I’m just pointing a fact!

Sometimes Arthur’s lack of perception – or the purposeful cluelessness in his attitude – used to irritate Frances to the point she would stop speaking to him as if he wasn’t even there, then find someone else to continue her train of thought. That time, she chose you.

– By the way, why did you wish him to get better, y/n-chan? Is he sick?

You gave her a brief reply.

– His health is fragile, that’s all.

The girl frowned, not satisfied.

– I see. He indeed looks like someone with consumption.

That comment, though the seriousness in which it was made, provoked in you an angry that scared even yourself, for it was a feeling that you only thought to be possible in case Frances has insulted an intimate friend or a lover of yours.

Now, you really had to end that conversation.

– Well, whatever it is, his condition is none of our business, since he doesn’t talk about it even to me. But you don’t need to worry, because he’s not helpless in this sense – you turned to Virginia – Dr. Ougai, who treats you, is his friend. He was the one who indicated his services.

Virginia’s eyes widened a bit in genuine surprise, since you haven’t share this fact with her until that moment, but she didn’t say anything; she wanted that chatting to end as much as you. Frances opened her mouth and closed it again, only managing to mumble a “Well...”

Arthur, though he swallowed when Dr. Ougai’s name was heard, was the one who had the most decent reaction among the three.

– So, it seems that he has been a great help for you, girls – and with a cheerful laugh – A gentleman, really!

You passed by them and headed to the door, again wishing them to have fun.

When they moved away on the sidewalk, you glanced to the direction took by Akutagawa to see if he was still under your sight. And for some seconds, he was: you saw when a black car stopped beside him; he opened the right door, on the back seat, and entered.

The car moved and disappeared after turning a corner.

#bsd akutagawa #bsd x reader #bungo stray dogs x reader #akutagawa x reader #akutagawa ryunosuke x reader

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bubblyhoney · 3 years

Text

win for me

warnings: lAnGuAgE, alcohol consumption (both reader and all other characters are of age to drink), marijuana use, Making Out™️, a miniscule Flowers from 1970 reference. PSA: WHEN UR INTOXICATED AND/OR AT A PARTY, TELL UR FRIENDS WHO YOU WILL BE WITH AND WHERE YOU WILL BE AT ALL TIMES. DRINK AND PARTY SAFELY!

tags: sapnap x fem!reader

summary: a collection of moments throughout the beginning of your relationship

words: 5000

A/N: even though this isn’t my most organized or perfect fic this was so incredibly fun to write. and it’s a college!au!! one of my favs. hope you guys like!! let's pretend the pandemic doesn't exist for this one too (please wear ur masks btw)

Sophomore Year:

Smells like shit in here is your first thought upon entering the laundromat.

It does, in all honesty. What would you expect a place where college students wash three months of dirty clothes and comforters with vomit to smell like? Urine and just a hint of marijuana, incidentally. The door closes noisily behind you and a guy in a black baseball hat turns his head at the noise. Half of his face is hidden underneath the shadow of his scruff and he says nothing, but you still offer an obligatory polite-stranger smile. The place is pretty deserted, what for it being nearly 4 in the morning. And you’re a rare kind of customer; only a few things to wash and you brought your own detergent.

There’s an empty washer next to an old woman in an acid-trip of a parka, and you sweep past the few other patrons with your mesh bag close. The man in the hat nods at you as you pass, looking up from his phone.

Okay. Dark load in one and delicates in the other, you remind yourself. The quarters get pushed through the slot (not without dropping three and having to scramble to pick them up before they disappear between the machines) and you fill the dispensers with a flowery laundry detergent your roommates hates. Oh, and the clothes go in. Done. You relax into a cracked plastic booth around the corner of the machine, pulling a book of crosswords from your bag.

Somebody yelps halfway through filling out a five letter word (“a series of thoughts, images, and sensations occurring in a person's mind during sleep”) and you jump. Baseball Cap rips open the dryer, fumbling around and supplying a pair of gray sweatpants. You can’t help but watch. He digs through both front pockets, pulling out a wad of dollar bills. He sighs, shoves the pants back into the dryer, and starts it with a hard push.

“Gut feeling?” You ask. He looks around for a second and settles his gaze upon you. Nice eyebrows, you think.

“Yeah,” he laughs, slightly nervous. “Yeah. I wore them yesterday and just remembered I put some tip money in my pocket.” Leaning back onto the shelf behind him, he shoves his phone into his pocket and folds his arms tight to his chest.

“I feel you,” you empathize, and set down your pencil. “I washed a parking ticket with my underwear last week.”

He stutters out a laugh, nodding.

“That must’ve sucked,” he adds.

“Yeah.” You shrug. “I wasn’t going to pay it anyways, but would’ve been nice to keep it for memory’s sake.” Rubbing at your knee offhandedly, you just watch him. He’s cute. And easy to make conversation with.

“Hey, um,” he mutters and clears his throat. “Do you by chance know some guy named Karl? Tall, messy brown hair and a horrible laugh?”

You open your mouth, then close it.

“Actually—,” you start but huff out a laugh. “Yeah, he’s uh, he’s dating my roommate. Why’d you ask?”

Reaching a hand to rub at his neck, his face twists into something sheepish.

“I’ve seen you at some parties this semester. I didn’t mean to sound creepy like that— I just—yeah.” His cheeks flush pink and he looks down to the ground.

“No worries,” you say, barely even thinking. “I think I’ve seen you too. You’re in Delta Tau Delta, right?”

“Nah, nah,” he laughs. “Just got some friends in there.”

“Ah.” You nod.

The conversation falls into silence, but not uncomfortable silence. He pulls out his phone again, and you look back to the crossword in front of you. The old woman between you leaves with a humongous load of blankets and a small family leaves with a cart full of bags; now it’s just you two.

When the washer with your delicates ding you nearly jump two feet in the air. Exhaling, you set your work down and open the door.

“Shit,” you curse as two bras fall onto the tile. You reach down to get a hand on a black lace bra and hide it quickly under your elbow. A sneaker squeaks loud in the almost-empty room and you see Baseball Cap’s shoulders.

“Here.” He’s kneeling as he hands you your pink bra and you accept it, biting your lower lip.

“Thanks,” you mumbles, slightly embarrassed, and step back to shove those bras and a couple pairs of your underwear into your bag. He offers you a small smile and backs off to his own machines, humming an off-key version of Unchained Melody to himself. Your other load of laundry gets shoved right on top of your delicates.

It’s when you’re nearly out the door, bell jingling, that you think to look back.

“Hey,” you start, almost stuttering for no reason. “What’s your name?”

He turns, dark eyebrows raised.

“My—uh… My friends call me Sapnap. You can call me that too.” Rosy cheeks once again; you seem to be making him awfully nervous.

“Sapnap.” You try it in your mouth, pursing your lips. “Okay. I’ll see you around Sapnap.”

He nods, affirming your statement.

“See you around Y/N.”

It doesn’t hit you until you’re buckling your seatbelt and starting your car that you realize you didn’t tell him your name.

Perhaps he knew more about you than you thought.

Yeah, you laugh to yourself. Karl’s got a big mouth.

Junior Year:

It takes you a collective twelve minutes to go talk to him.

It’s quiet in the library, students that happen to come here to study or procrastinate few and far between the scattered tables. Your poison today is a 4 page history paper on Normandy that you’d been staring at the instructions for for days. You’d already written a bunch of, frankly, horseshit for the body, but the introduction and conclusion were throwing you for a loop.

The vibes in Ridgeback Hall were also certainly off, today more than any other day; the main help-desk was empty and everybody had to do the tedious task of locating niche textbooks themselves.

Lifting your head from the wood of the table, you squint and focus your vision on the guy in the white tee and denim jacket that had been the focus of your thoughts for minutes. He chews at the end of his pencil, mouth screwed up into a ball, and shoots daggers at the empty notebook in front of him. You’re surprised it hasn’t caught on fire yet just from his gaze.

“Sapnap!” You whisper-shout, stretching your arms across the table as if it would make him any closer. A person with purple hair jumps at your voice but turns back to their laptop. “Sapnap!” you try again, tapping two fingers on the table. His head jerks up, eyebrows furrowed and an angry expression on his face, but softens at the sight of you.

“Y/N,” he counters, equally as loud but with a smile on his face.

“What’re you doing?”

“Calculus.” He sticks his tongue out, making an awfully tortured face. You laugh and wave your fingers at him, gesturing for him to come closer. He just huffs out a sigh, stacks all his papers in one pile, and gets up. The trek over to your table is short but he takes it so slowly you wonder if he always walks like that. Like a varsity basketball player who just got off a horse.

“You’re so slow.”

“Shut up,” he grumbles and settles into a chair across from you. “It’s 2 pm, give me a break. I need a Redbull.”

“Those are bad for you, you know,” you say matter-of-factly and drop your chin onto your hand. He’s even cuter from this angle, you think briefly. He just rolls his eyes.

“Whatever, Miss I’d-like-some-coffee-with-my-sugar-and-cream,” he teases, pointing to your venti iced coffee. It’s about as pale as the color of a band-aid. You just sigh and close your eyes. “You tired?” He flips his pencil in his hand and leans back into the seat, sighing.

“Yeah,” you mumble. “I haven’t slept yet today.”

“Wow, you’re dumb.” He looks scandalized. You just shrug.

“Perhaps. I don’t really know why I did it actually— just for funzies!” You raise an arm but let it drop back down. “I stayed up playing Sims.”

“Feel that. I play Minecraft with my buddies until like 2 am every night too. It’s nice,” he decides and folds his arms across his chest. Your eyes flit over to his strong arms, admiring the way his denim shirt looks around them. Thick.

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

“What?” He says too loudly and it warrants a ‘shush’ from another student. He reddens, but looks back down to you. “I—why do you ask?” You shrug, eyebrows raised.

“Just wondering. You’re too cute to not have one.”

“Right,” he huffs, but his cheeks stay pink. You two fall into easy silence, his eyes trained on the notebook in front of him and yours closed peacefully. “Are you dating anyone?”

They snap open not-so-peacefully.

“Nope. You wanna submit a boyfriend application?” A smile cracks your lips and he grins back.

“Maybe,” he replies and stares at your mouth. “I have to say—,” He stretches into a yawn. “I think I’m qualified.”

“Oh, yeah?” Your eyebrow quirks. “And why are you so qualified?”

“Well, first of all, I work at Ace Hardware. That’s where cool people work.” He presses one finger into his palm. Then two. “And I have a bunch of free time because said job at Ace Hardware only likes scheduling me in the mornings. Plus, I’m hot.” He shrugs.

You nod faux-seriously, considering his list.

“Those are very good qualities, sir. I’ll have to get back to you on that.” You pause. “Okay, I’ll schedule an interview. How’s 7 pm at the Chili’s on Main? Chili’s is the designated interview place.” You wiggle your eyebrows. He just smiles at you, shaking his head in disbelief.

“That was smooth.”

“Yeah, I know.” You carefully study your nails. “I’m pretty impressive.”

“Clearly,” he mutters and chuckles. “But I do like their salsa. And margaritas. We got a deal?” He holds out a large hand. You take it, squeezing tightly.

“Hell yes.”

When you see the man called Sapnap a week later, you are very obviously in a different state of mind.

Same state, same college town, but very different blood alcohol contents.

“Sappy!” You shout, raising your arms above your head with a stupid grin on your face. He turns, that familiar look of surprise evident in his expression.

“Y/N,” he laughs and approaches your group of friends in the kitchen. It’s Greek Wedding night at Delta Tau Delta, and you assume Sapnap came to support Delta’s “groom” Alex. You’d gotten uncharacteristically drunk, trading air for sangria, and you were now in the incredible stage where everyone was both your friend and your favorite person.

Throwing an arm around his shoulders, you mash your face into his bicep and giggle.

“Missed you so much,” you try to manage out of your mouth, but it comes out slurred and stuttered. “So much.” You’d gone to Chili’s two days before and promised another ‘interview’ in the next few days, but it felt like two months away from your beloved. Beloved friend, that is. Only one date.

“Yeah?” He places a hesitant hand on your back and nudges you into a standing position. “How much have you had to drink?”

“Oh, shhhh,” you mumble and close your eyes. “Only— a lot.” Blinking them back open, you zero your gaze in on a bottle of Ciroc half-empty and looking very tempting on the kitchen island across from where you’re leaned up against the kitchen sink. He catches your gaze and steps in front of you, pleasant face filling your vision. You gasp.

“You are so cute.” Sliding your palms up onto his face, you hold his scruffy cheeks in your hands and smile all dopey at him.

“Is that your brain or the alcohol telling you that?”

“Uh,” you swallow. “Both. And my heart.”

He just shakes his head and his chest moves with a heavy laugh.

“Glad to hear it.”

“Are you having fun?” You ask, all concerned and furrowed eyebrows. You look like you’re genuinely interested and worried about if he’s having a good time or not, and it makes his expression melt.

“I’m having lots of fun,” he passes over his shoulder as he flips on the tap and fills a red solo cup with water. “In fact, I’m gonna have a nice, cold glass of water right now.” He shakes it like an owner offering their dog a treat.

You eye the cup in his hand, having half a thought that this might be some sort of backwards psychology move. The other half wins.

“That sounds so good right now— can I drink some?” Your eyebrows pull together and your bottom lip drops into a pout. It makes him blink for a second. He remembers the little game you’re playing and just hands it over, smug. You gulp it down quickly and crush the empty plastic into your palm with an exaggerated exhale. “Hit the spot,” you sigh, and pat your stomach fondly.

“You hungry?” Sapnap asks you as he steadies you with two hands on your shoulders. Something pops into your head at his words: a set of two McChickens and an Oreo milkshake.

“Oh my God,” you gasp, and mirror him by placing your hands on his shoulders. “Can we go to McDonald’s?”

He just shakes his head, grin wide on his lips, and shrugs. Perfect teeth, you think.

“I haven’t drank anything, so I’m good to drive.” He pulls his keys from his pocket. “I know you’re smashed right now so—do you feel safe with me?” The question falls from his mouth and you truly consider it, pulling your lip between your teeth.

“Yeah. I’ll take this just in case,” you say, and take a large dinner fork from the counter next to you. It has some red liquid on it that you brush off onto the fabric of your jeans.

“That’s actually gross.”

“Yeah.” You grip it tighter in your head. “But it’ll do the job if you try any shit. I’ll put this in your eyeball.” Brandishing it, a smile stretches onto your mouth. He just shakes his head and heads for the back door, jerking a hand in your direction to get you to follow him.

The cool night air explodes on your face when you step onto the porch and it makes you blink rapidly. Sapnap is right at your side, offering a forearm as you slowly make your way down the two back porch steps. A tall blonde smoking half of a blunt makes a grunt noise as you two pass and your knight-in-shining armor looks up.

“Gonna go get some food. Want anything?” Sapnap stops on the rocky path to the sidewalk, tilted up to hear the blonde’s response. The other guy shakes his head but nods to you in passing.

“I’ll tell her friends where she went,” says the blonde, and disappears through the sliding glass doors.

Your hand falls from his forearm to his hand and grasps it tightly, swinging back and forth as you stumble to his car. You flash him a grin that he just chuckles at.

“Watch your step,” he warns as you yank on the handle of the passenger door and nearly fall off of the curb.

“I’m fine,” you huff, and scramble to get yourself upright into the seat and buckled. He closes your door and jogs to the driver’s seat, climbing in and starting the engine quicker than your head comprehends.

The small space fills with the sound of Letters to Cleo as he’s maneuvering out of his parking spot and he slaps a hand at the stereo button almost immediately. His cheeks redden as he glances at you once.

“I love Letters to Cleo,” you admit, and switch it back on. Ah, Co-Pilot. A classic. “Be my co-pilot!” You sing, loud and sharp. He shakes his head but huffs out a reluctant laugh.

“My older sister loved them. Bit old for my taste, but—you know. Can’t deny that I love a little bit of 90’s angst.”

“Absolutely,” you nod vigorously and pick at your nail. “Oh!” The fork magically reappears at your side and you grab at it. “For my McChickens.”

“And for me,” he adds.

“Yup. You too.” But you drop it onto the seat and lean forward, fumbling with the volume dial until you feel the lead singer’s voice thumping into your heart. “I love this lady!” You shout and rock your head to the beat.

Shaking his head, his shoulders move in an easy laugh. The drive-thru line is kind of busy for 2 am, he notes, pulling in right behind a navy BMW sedan. But it moves quickly, especially when you’re moving in your seat, scream-singing the lyrics to I Want You To Want Me.

“Yeah,” he says, loud into the mic. “Two.”

“Alright.” The voice reports from the speaker, a background clicking joining their bored tone. “Two McChickens, a double cheeseburger—ketchup and pickle only— , a medium fry, and an Oreo McFlurry. Anything else, sir?”

Sapnap chews on his lip, and glances at you. You just give an encouraging thumbs up.

“That’ll be all,” he reports.

“Second window, and your total is $9.67.”

He barely has time to call a “thank you so much!” before the line ends with a click. Rude.

“Jesus Christ,” you moan the second you sink your teeth into your first sandwich.

“Agreed,” he mumbles and pushes as much cheeseburger he can fit into his mouth.

“This,” you start, swallowing. “is the sexiest thing I’ve encountered in all of my years. I thank all higher powers when I consume McChickens…” Trailing off for dramatic effect, you stare down the sandwich before mimicking a dinosaur war cry and practically shoving it down your throat. He just nods in agreement.

“It’s so nice out tonight,” Sapnap comments, swinging a look out his rolled-down window. He parked right in front of the Campus Quad, large bubbling fountain the show to your dinner. And some geese fighting each other for half a rotting hot dog.

“Mhm.” You crumple up your wrapper trash and toss it into the empty paper bag. “Could totally go for a swim.”

He turns and gives you a look. You look right back.

“Should we?” It’s barely a question.

“Um, hell yes,” is all it takes for you to say before you’re clambering out of the car and starting for the fountain. He follows closely after, jogging to catch up with your borderline track-star sprints.

“Wait up!” He calls as you reach the border of the fountain.

“Ugh,” you sigh, impatient. “Hurry up.”

“Mouthy,” he grumbles before kicking off his shoes and bending to fold his pants up over his knees. You just climb straight in and brave the cold.

Squealing, you hop from one foot to the other, shoulders tight as you get used to the freezing water. He laughs and climbs in right beside you.

“Shit,” he curses, and shivers. “This sucks.”

“You suck,” you quip right back and splash around. He stares, disgusted, at the water soaking up your jeans all the way up to your knees.

“You’re gross for wearing jeans in a fountain. That’s worse than wet socks.” He starts to move around as feeling comes back into his toes.

“What, would you prefer me taking my pants off?” A sassy look paints your face and he rolls his eyes.

“No, but you could’ve folded them up like a normal person.”

“I think you forget,” you start, and splash a palmful of water his way. “I’m quirky.”

He gasps, face twisting as the water hits his thighs.

“You’re dead.”

If campus police were patrolling the Quad right now, they’d see two college juniors wading around in a fountain, water up to their knees, having a competition to see who can inflict the most damage. He won, it seems, because your shirt is drenched all the way up to your ribs.

“Okay!” You shout, hands spread to brace yourself. The water in his palm falls. “I’m cold and I want my other McChicken.”

“Fine,” he sighs, and with some difficulty manages to get out of the fountain and back into his shoes. You just make your way back over to his car barefoot, braving the mulch and poorly-sanded concrete.

You both finish your food quickly, discussing menial things like how fast food restaurants always skimp on the pickles and how it’s truly a disservice to the world that so many people don’t know it’s Biggie singing the song Kat dances on the table to in the 1999 classic 10 Things I Hate About You.

When Sapnap pulls up to your house, he shifts the car into park and lets loose a heavy sigh. You whip around, hand on your buckle, and sport a very confused look on your face.

“I’m tired,” is all he says. Head falling onto the seat, he rolls over to give you a half-lidded look. You nod empathetically and climb very carefully out of his passenger seat. Your drunk muscles haven't caught up to your mainly sober brain, which is impairing your ability to look like a functioning human being.

“Thank you for tonight,” you chirp, smiling in at him with your arms folded on the open window sill. The half-drank Oreo McFlurry is lukewarm in your hand. He stares at your flushed lips.

“Anytime you want a drunk McChicken let me know.” He winks. “I have a gift card.”

“You spoil me,” you coo, and step up onto the sidewalk. “I’ll see you sometime soon, yeah?”

He nods, pursed lips fighting a grin.

Cute, you both think at the same time.

Sometime soon, somehow, means the very next day.

It’s breezy yet uncharacteristically hot out, and certainly way too bright for a hungover Y/N.

You’re sat on the porch swing, nursing a hot decaf coffee with lots of sugar and cream. Sunglasses sit comfortably on your nose, but you still have to squint. The pills you took have yet to kick in, so all you have to do is wait and try not to vomit into your mug. Suddenly, your phone lights up and buzzes to life. You press the green button and lift to your ear.

“What do you want?” Your voice is awfully froggy, you realize, and clear your throat.

“Good morning to you too.” Sapnap’s voice rings clear yet husky into your ear. The corners of your lips twitch up into a smile. God, you’re whipped just for the sound of his voice.

“It is definitely not a good morning,” you grumble and switch him into speaker phone. You drop the phone into your lap and stretch out further on the swing.

“Good morning for me,” he chirps cheerfully. “Take anything for the headache?”

“Yes,” you report, sounding like a pouting child and rubbing two fingers into your temple. “Some idiot fed me ice cream last night so this morning I woke up having to both shit and throw up.”

“Aww,” he sympathizes, sounding way too entertained. “That sounds like a you problem.” You stuck out your tongue, but upon realizing he can’t see it, make a ‘hmph’ noise into the mic. “Anyways. I called to see if you wanted to go get breakfast with me. Waffle House, specifically.” You make a face but lift yourself up off the swing, wincing.

“I saw a rat eat an entire piece of french toast there once. But—sure. I’ll pay.” He starts to whine, but you scoff. “Let me love you, bitch. You pay for my McDonald’s and I pay for your pancakes. Easy trade.”

“Whatever. See you in five.” He hangs up right as you twist the front door open and drop your phone onto the couch.

“Who’re you talking to?” comes from the kitchen and you jump, pressing a hand to your chest. A shirtless Karl enters the living room with a bowl of fruit loops in his hand.

“Jesus Christ,” you breathe, and duck into the hall closet for your pair of dirty tennis shoes. “I was talking to Sapnap.”

“Oh,” he says around his mouthful of cereal with a grin. “You guys dating yet?”

You pass him a weird look, bending to tie your shoes.

“Gimme like two weeks. I’ll have him at my beck and call,” you laugh and collapse back into the couch.

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” He quirks an eyebrow and exits stage left into your roommate’s room.

The few minutes it takes for Sapnap to come to your house are short but filled with contemplation. Do you really want to date him? He’s certainly cute enough. Nice enough. And smart enough. He seems to like you too—

A honk interrupts your thoughts. Always having to be obnoxious, huh?

“You’re annoying,” you mumble as you buckle your seatbelt. He just shrugs, tiny smile tugging his lips, and shifts into drive. The short trip to Waffle House proves more quiet than lively. He seems awake, actually, so you attribute the silence to your tumultuous thoughts. The music is nice, though. Bikini Kill is perfect for 10 am.

After you two order (three chocolate chip pancakes for him and two regular waffles with a side of hashbrowns for you), he finally breaks the silence.

“Hey, are we dating?”

You pause with your lip on the rim of your orange juice. Your gaze falls from his lips to his fingers wrapped around the coffee mug. Two silver rings adorn both his middle fingers and they glint underneath the fluorescent lights.

“Do you wanna?” You squint back up at him. The tips of his ears flush pink.

“I-uh… Yeah. Yes,” he says simply. You try to hide a smile, but realize there’s no point.

“Okay.” You take a long drink of your orange juice. “I really like you. A lot. A surprising amount, actually; I haven’t really dated seriously since highschool.”

He nods, shuffling his feet on the tile. What else does he have to be nervous about? you wonder.

“I’ve… kindasortamaybelikedyousincesophmoreyear,” he mumbles and you swallow.

“Huh?” Leaning forward, you set your glass down.

“Um,” he starts but doesn’t finish.

“Did you say you’ve liked me since sophomore year?”

“...Maybe.” His coffee becomes the most interesting thing in the world, apparently. “Do you remember that one time during the Summer Carnival where Karl lost his phone?”

“Uh—yes! Yeah, actually. I do remember that. He found it in the porta-potty. What about it?” The waitress sets down both your plates in front of you and you offer her a smile in thanks before she trundles off to the drink station. You pick up your fork and wait for him to continue.

“I left two hours early because you invited Michael from your computer science class.” You pause around your mouthful of potato and he just stares back, trying not to grin. “Yeah. I thought you were hot and left early because you brought another guy.”

“Michael is gay,” you say slowly.

“Yup.” He nods and shoves a forkful of pancake into his mouth. “Isn’t that so stupid?”

“So stupid,” you tease but your cheeks blush pink.

“Anyways. Now I’m dating you, so. Win for me.”

“Ditto,” you murmur, and manage to fit half of your first waffle into your mouth. “This is the easiest it’s ever been to start dating someone.”

“It’s ‘cause we’re cool, I’m pretty sure,” comes from a mouthful of pancake.

“That’s facts.”

The rest of Pancake House is bustling, a few families with young kids and some other hungover college students scarfing down similar breakfast foods and confections. You two barely give any other customers the time of day, too wrapped up in conversation and each other. The waitress gets a heavy tip after an hour and a half of struggling to swallow dough soaked in syrup and chocolate.

Sapnap walks you to your door after breakfast, hand on your waist and pressed to your side. It feels good. Right.

“I’ll see you Wednesday right?” You ask, turning to him with hopeful eyes. How could he resist?

“Definitely. Wouldn’t miss Game Night for the world— I can’t wait to beat your ass at Uno.”

“You’re insufferable, you know that?” You murmur but you’re already slinging an arm around his shoulder and bringing his mouth down to yours.

You taste like sugar, he thinks. His hands find the small of your back easily, pressing you further forward into him. You hum at that, tracking a hand up the back of his neck and into his hair to grip it between your fingers.

He smells both musky and sweet and cool at the same time: heaven. One of his hands slides up to grip at your neck, thumb rubbing at your jaw, and you make a pleased noise into his mouth. There it is.

“Y/N!” Shrieks from inside your house and you jump, pulling away from Sapnap with a smack.

“What?” You yell back, irritated, and he just laughs as he dips to press a kiss to your cheek.

“Stop tonguing your boyfriend and come help me with my photography project.”

“God damn it,” you sigh and drop your hands. His slide down to just rest on your hips, comfortable. “I have to go.” You're annoyed, that’s for sure, and he prays you aren’t too mean to your roommate.

“Alright.” He dips for a quick kiss one last time. Okay, two more times. Maybe three. But he pulls away, grinning. “I’ll see you Wednesday.”

And then he’s stepping off your porch, walking to his car with his hands in his pockets. You watch his back fondly.

God, boyfriend. He’s your boyfriend. Boynap. Sapfriend. You can’t decide on a name, but all sounds perfect.

Perfectly him.

A/N: ask or send me some stuff!! requests, rants, anything. :D comments = welcome!

#sapnap #mcyt #sapnap x reader #sapnap x fem!reader #sapnap x you #sapnap fluff #sapnap fic #sapnap oneshot #mcyt imagine #bubblyhoneyfics #mcyt x you

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luminnara · 3 years

Note

I wonder what Dick would be like trying to flirt on the lead up if the mission, trying to be smooth and cool before screaming next to Weasel. The back track of trying to be cool again after than freak out would be glorious and I would probably fall for it, lol

Dick Hertz x fem!reader

This ended up way longer than intended and I am not mad about that lol

Sfw but raunchy!

Requests for oneshots and HCs are open!

You were no stranger to the concept of the suicide squad.

Thanks to your own colorful past, and powers that you couldn’t always quite control at first, you were stuck serving out a long ass sentence at Belle Reve, the shittiest shit hole of them all. Your only escape from the mundane, high-security monotony was the occasional mission from Waller.

The Suicide Squad—more officially known as Task Force X—was the latest installment in Amanda Waller’s series of highly classified, top secret, black ops teams. She chose Belle Reve’s most infamous criminals, many of whom had extraordinary powers and even more extraordinary reputations, and tossed them together on incredibly dangerous missions. You knew she didn’t care whether you lived or died, but successfully completing such impossible tasks always cut time off your sentence, and with nothing else to do with your time, you always thought it was worth the risk.

And besides...you hadn’t died yet.

So when Waller approached you during your daily yard time, you already knew what to expect.

“Yeah, yeah.” You grumbled as you followed her into the exam room and plopped down in the same old chair. “I know the drill. I go off mission, you blow my brains out.”

“—with the explosive device implanted in the base of your skull. Correct.” Waller said, unimpressed.

“And what, you have to give me a fresh one?” You raised an eyebrow as the doctor made you lean forward. “Lose the button for the last one or something? Or are you afraid that just one won’t do the job?”

Waller looked even less impressed. “I suggest you put a lid on that attitude today.”

“Why?” You winced at the feeling of a thick needle pushing into the back of your neck. “Jesus, fuck! Seriously, how many little bombs do I need in my head?”

“Good luck, puppy.” The doctor sneered as you stood up to follow Waller back out into the corridor.

“This is a black ops mission.” She continued with her usual spiel. “Your commanding officer is Colonel Rick Flag.”

You gasped. “The Colonel Rick Flag?”

She turned to glance at you.

“I have no idea who that is.”

You could hear her sigh in exasperation. “Suit up and go outside to the transport. You’ll meet the rest of the team and fly out to Corto Maltese.”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes. Yeah, the Suicide Squad was a nice distraction from your shitty everyday life...but putting your ass on the line for someone who didn’t give a shit whether you lived or died, and who was always hovering above the button that would splatter your brains all over the wall, wasn’t exactly the greatest feeling in the world.

Waller waited as you ducked into a room to change. There was a black box waiting for you, and upon opening it, you couldn’t help but grin at the sight of your old gear. The dark gray leather suit fit like a glove, and your gun had been cleaned and polished after your last mission, the painfully bright fluorescent lights reflecting off of the barrel with a gleam. You grabbed your gloves and strapped your ammo belts on before buckling a gray carbon fiber mask on.

Wearing your own stuff always lifted your spirits. It was the suit you’d been arrested in a few years ago back in Metropolis, and after seizing it, the feds had been nice enough to give it some upgrades with newer tech. Anything to make you a better government-sanctioned killing machine, you guessed, and it’s not like you were gonna turn it down. After all, killing was how you ended up in Belle Reve in the first place, and it was one of the only things you were good at...it just made sense for Waller to want to put your near-inhuman skills to good use.

You walked out to join her again, lugging a canvas bag of equipment and supplies along behind you.

“Pick that up and carry it correctly.” She snapped as the doors at the end of the hall opened.

“Why don’t you eat my—“

You interrupted yourself by groaning at the bright sunlight as it hit your eyes, raising a hand to shield your face as you managed to spot an armored truck waiting for you.

“You’ll have a lot of new teammates.” Waller called after you. “Be on your best behavior. I’m not responsible for anything they do to you.”

“Probably just a bunch of old farts like always!” You yelled back as you jumped up into the back of the vehicle.

Two guards sat down on either side of you as you got yourself settled in. There was another woman already waiting, her skin orange, her hair in a high ponytail that seemed to be pulled through the top of her helmet. She was regarding you with very little interest, and that was absolutely fine with you. You had a few friends within the Belle Reve prison complex, and you weren’t necessarily looking for more.

The ride was short and uneventful. You passed through a few gates that took forever to open, waited for a few security checks, the usual shit. When the truck came to a halt and you hopped out again, you were at a small airbase hosting a few hangars for planes and helicopters, one of the latter already sitting outside. Guards from Belle Reve were lining the circle of armored vehicles, and as yours joined them and the back doors were opened once more, you grimaced at the bright sunlight.

“Afraid of a little sun?” The orange woman laughed, baring her teeth at you.

“Hurts my eyes,” you mumbled, jumping down after her.

You landed on pavement, looking down at your feet in an attempt to avoid the oncoming headache you knew was imminent. When your shoulder rammed into someone, though, you had to look up anyway.

What you saw wasn’t exactly what you were expecting.

A good looking blond guy was looking down at you, a cocky grin on his face. “Whoa, didn’t realize we were getting a babe this time!”

You glared at him, grateful for the mask covering the lower half of your face.

He couldn’t see you blush that way.

“Little girl’s got some ammo, huh?” He reached for one of the belts strapped across your chest,

Your hand flew up to grab his wrist and you held him in a Vice-like grip, your glare more pointed now. “Touch me, and you can see some of it from behind your eyeballs.”

Blondie whistled lowly, relaxing his arm. “You’re tough, huh? I like that in a girl.”

You dropped his wrist and rolled your eyes. “Still gonna like it when I’m ripping your balls off?”

You could swear he was swooning on his feet. “Baby, you are a goddamn tease...”

“Oy, Dickhead!” An Australian voice rang out, “back off!”

His grin faltered for a moment, obvious disappointment flashing over his face. “Oh. Got a man already. Damn.”

“Who, Boomer?” You grinned, unclipping your mask as you turned to wave at one of your only friends. “Nah, I’d never fuck that wanker.”

“I heard that!” The gold-toothed Aussie yelled.

You let out a loud laugh as you looked back to blondie.

You were caught off guard by the actual, genuine look on his face. He was admiring your smile now that your mask was off, his eyes lingering on your lips for a fraction of a second longer than they should have. He was trying to be smooth, you could tell, and most people wouldn’t have noticed something so slight...but you were an assassin working your way through a couple life sentences, and you weren’t most people.

It all only lasted a moment before the cocky grin was back. “So, after this, you wanna come back to my cell, maybe we could, you know...” he waggled his eyebrows at you, making a hip thrusting motion you almost couldn’t believe a grown criminal was making.

“Maybe focus on not dying first, slim.” You patted his chest before turning towards Boomer, leaving blondie to stare after you—or more precisely, your ass—with a dramatic, longing look.

Your friend was regarding you with an amused expression. “Flirtin’ on the job? Didn’t think you had it in ya.”

“Shut up.” You punched his arm a little too hard and he winced. “Who is that guy, anyway?”

“Dick,” Boomer said, rubbing his arm.

“Don’t call me a dick—“

“No, dumbass, that’s his name. Richard Hertz.”

“...very funny, Boomer, but there’s no fucking way his parents named their kid Dick Hertz.”

Boomer shrugged. “Believe me or don’t, I don’t care. Either way, it’s the truth.”

You scoffed and stole a glance over at your new admirer. He was tall and pretty well built, platinum blond hair short, lips pulled back in a grin that showed off straight white teeth. He was dressed in all black, two guns holstered to his chest, and as he messed with a Belle Reve guard by pretending to reach for one, he looked like an overgrown child who should not have been allowed to hold onto firearms.

“Please tell me he’s got a cooler name,” you groaned.

“Why? So you can scream it at night?” Boomer cackled. “He goes by Blackguard. He’s pretty strong from what I hear. Prolly pretty fun in bed, too.”

You wrinkled your nose and rounded on Boomer. “Shut up.”

“You like him.” Your friend grinned. “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me. Just remember to name your kid after good ol’ Uncle Boomer.”

You gave him a rough shove and he stumbled back a few steps, laughing like a madman the entire time.

“Hey!” One of the guards barked at you.

Rather than pushing your luck with your armed babysitters, you huffed and crossed your arms over your chest. More cars were pulling up, dropping off the rest of your comrades, and while Boomer was distracted with them, you stole another glance at Dick.

He was still messing with the same guard, and was receiving some harsh warning glares in the process. Was he a complete idiot, or was he so cocky because he could actually handle it? He had to have ended up in Belle Reve for a reason. It wasn’t the type of place you went to for innocent misdemeanors. And if he was chosen for a Suicide Squad mission, that meant that his sentence was long enough to warrant risking his life to lessen it...and it also meant that he was useful.

When he winked at you, you realized with a start that he had totally noticed the way you were checking him out.

Fuck.

“Time to load up!” A voice yelled, saving you from any further embarrassment.

A few minutes later, you were strapping yourself into your seat on the chopper, pretending not to notice as Dick struggled with his seatbelt across from you. The guy sitting next to him had to help, and when you finally couldn’t help yourself, you let out a quiet laugh from behind your mask.

Dick’s head shot up to look at you, that cocky grin plastered to his face again.

“Wish you were over here helpin’ me,” he said bravely. “Rather have your hands down by my—“

“Dick.” Colonel Flag warned as he stood above you all with his gun in his hands.

Boomer let out a loud laugh at the unintentionally dirty euphemism and you snorted.

“What? Just makin’ some conversation,” Blackguard said, leaning towards you with a wolfish glint in his eyes. “You don’t mind, do ya, Princess?”

Your cheeks were heating up behind your mask, and he could see the way your eyes crinkled slightly with your smile.

God, he wished he could see your smile again.

“Hey guys, sorry I’m late!” A familiar voice said. “Had to go number two.”

“...Good to know.” Flag sighed as none other than Harley Quinn herself hopped in.

“Harley!” You called, reaching for her with grabby hands as she looked for her seat.

“Hey there, baby!” The pale blonde woman greeted, slamming her equipment bag into Savant’s head. “Hey, Boomer!”

“What’re you doin’ back in prison, Harls?” Boomer asked, hanging onto the nylon mesh cage behind him as he stretched his arms out.

“Got road rage. In a bank.” She finally found a spot between you and Javelin, and as Flag checked everyone over, the chopper took off into the air.

The lighting was dim and red, the thrumming of the helicopter blades blending in with the white noise of the pressurized cabin. Save for that, it was quiet for a while, everybody either sizing each other up, or, in Dick’s case, imagining how you looked under your suit.

“So, uh...how much longer you in for?” He asked you.

You raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because I don’t exactly think I should be talkin’ about sneakin’ into your cell while Flag is here to rat me out about it,” Dick grinned.

You caught the colonel rolling his eyes.

“Hey, that never stopped anybody,” Harley said brightly.

“Boutta be in a whole big ass jungle,” Boomer elbowed you in the side. “Plentya room in there to be alone.”

You groaned as Dick gave you a sly grin.

“Y’know, this mission’ll be over in no time.” He said, stretching his arms out behind his head. “I’ve got some wicked ass powers. I got this.”

“Oh yeah?” You asked, recognizing the way he was trying to peacock and impress you. “Not worried about anything?”

“Baby, I’ll carry this whole team. Just you watch.”

“I’m looking forward to it, Dick.” You bit his name out as more of an insult, but he didn’t seem to care, giving you another wink.

He obviously thought that his flirting and posturing was working...but you were pretty sure he was just annoying. Cute, but annoying. Maybe good for a hook up here or there...but that was about it.

“We’re in a butcher’s freezer, Harls!” Boomer called from the other end of the bench. “Surrounded by dead hogs hangin’ on hooks. Only they don’t know it yet.”

“Leave ‘em alone, Boomer!” She called back with a laugh.

You chuckled at your friends, leaning your head back as you settled in for the flight. Harley was complimenting Javelin’s accent, you still didn’t know what TDK stood for, and Boomer was just starting to mess with him about the fact that all names were made of letters when the freaky weasel-thing next to Dick stole everyone’s attention.

It was one of the strangest creatures you had ever seen. Human height, covered in mangy brown fur, with big bulging eyes and a mouth full of sharp little teeth all made it both fascinating and concerning to look at, and as it made a few disgustingly wet retching sounds, Dick nodded towards it.

“Yo, is this a dog?” He asked.

“...What?” You asked in disbelief. He had to be fucking with you, right? There was no way he meant it.

“Is this thing a dog?” He repeated.

“A...a dog?”

“Yes.”

“What...what kinda dog do you think it is, mate?” Boomer asked.

“I dunno, I’m not familiar with all the breeds.” Dick gave him an incredulous look.

“I’m gonna go with Afghan hound.” TDK said.

“Since when does an afghan hound have bloody thumbs?”

“Oh my god, is it a werewolf?” Harley asked excitedly. “I’ve wanted to meet a werewolf for ever!”

Dick was already up and struggling against his restraints. “Yo, they sat me next to a werewolf?!”

“That’s not right,” TDK agreed as his neighbor slammed into him in his desperate attempt at an escape.

Boomer was laughing loudly, and you couldn’t help but join in. “You’re seriously scared of werewolves?”

Dick glanced up at you as he tried to unbuckle his seatbelt. “Yes, I fuckin’ am! So fuckin’—get me out! I do not fuck with werewolves, there is no fuckin’ way—“

“Maybe you should hop onto your new girlfriend’s lap!” Boomer cackled, jabbing a finger towards you.

“Poor baby,” you cooed, and as you saw the look in Blackguard’s eyes, you were pretty convinced that he was about to try to tear his way out so that he actually could.

“Hey, hey, he’s not a werewolf!” Flag yelled over the commotion. “He’s a weasel, he’s harmless! I mean, he’s not harmless, he’s killed 27 children, but I—I think we got him to—I think he’s agreed to this, so relax.”

“Thought you were super tough?” You asked as Dick calmed down and caught his breath. “Gonna carry the whole team?”

Rather than the snarky flirtation you expected, he actually looked a bit defeated. When you raised an eyebrow, though, he took the prompt, and the most desperate backtracking you had ever seen began.

“Yeah, well...” he scoffed, trying to give you a cool look. “Caught me off guard, that’s all. No big deal.”

“Off guard? Isn’t guard, like, in your name?” You teased, your smile genuine behind your mask. Alright...he was winning you over now. He was an idiot, but...maybe he was a lovable one.

He faltered for a second. “I-I mean, yeah, well...”

Flag was shaking his head. “Get into position to drop!”

Everyone unbuckled themselves and collected their things, lining up to jump into the ocean off the coast of Corto Maltese. When you saw that Dick was back to struggling with it, again, you smiled to yourself and leaned down in front of him.

“For what it’s worth...” you said as you pulled up on the metal tab, your hand dangerously close to his crotch, “I wouldn’t mind shacking up somewhere in the jungle with you.”

He stated at you with wide eyes, disbelief written all over his face. He really was cuter when he wasn’t putting on such a dumb, cocky facade, and he jumped up as quickly as he could to follow you.

You just laughed as you straightened up and walked away, Blackguard right on your heels. As the door opened and the big, dark ocean came into view below you, you felt a hand brushing against your hip and a firm chest press up against your back. You realized you could have stayed right there forever, patiently waiting to see how far he was brave enough to go...but you were both members of the Suicide Squad, and you had a job to do.

“I’ll see you down there, Dick,” you said, turning your head slightly to glance at him.

“See you on the other side, baby,” he grinned.

#dick hertz #dick hertz x reader #richard hertz #Richard hertz x reader #blackguard x reader #blackguard #the suicide squad #the suicide squad x reader

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dorimena · 3 years

Text

𝕻𝖗𝖊𝖙𝖙𝖞 𝖕𝖙.𝟏

𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔯𝔞𝔠𝔱𝔢𝔯; monoma neito

𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔡 𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱; 5.1k of filth,

𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰; nsfw, Overstimulation, edging, dacryphilia, degradation/humilliation, cursing, cockwarming, crossdressing, school girl kink (?), mommy kink, pegging, cum play+eating, dom!fem reader, sub!character

𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔱𝔞𝔤𝔰; whiney Monoma, loud sex, Monoma in a skirt, soundproof dorms, mentions of other 1B characters, aged-up character, Monoma is 18 in this

𝔰𝔦𝔡𝔢 𝔫𝔬𝔱𝔢; this was meant to just be some long fic, but I find it easier to just divide it into 2 parts while I figure out how to write out the scene I actually wanted to get to. I got carried away. This is what I've been doing during holy week. My religious school would be ashamed of me. This has been proofread, but if there are still any mistakes, I apologize.

𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔦𝔦.; incomplete/in progress.

Monoma had a shit week.

It all started on Monday when his school pants ripped conveniently from the back as he bent down to pick up his fallen notebook. They didn’t even look like they would rip! So how did they...? All he could hear during his inner turmoil and growing embarrassment were murmurs of pity, whispers of curiosity, and his homeroom teacher calling his name countless times to send him back to the dorms to change. Permission slip in hand and underwear out, he silently nodded and made his out, all while ignoring a burning sensation in his eyes and sudden dryness in his throat.

(Walking out the doors with his blazer tied around his waist, he swore he heard a familiar giggle and mockery coming from a smart-mouthed girl.)

Tuesday came bulldozing so suddenly that it ran over him. Well, really it was Yaoyorozu’s canon that almost ran him over.

The day, in general, was normal, none of his classmates made comments about the minor incident the day before, well, except for Y/N who asked if he sent his pants to be fixed or not. (He didn’t, so she demanded him to hand it over to her.) He didn’t go back to the dorms after their last class, since he has to carry out classroom cleaning duties after he accidentally pushed Bakugou into the mud last week. No, seriously, it was an accident. First off, he didn’t see the mud. Second off, he was messing around with Kaibara’s quirk, which spooked Nirengeki who was somehow walking close by to the hot-headed explosion man- and… well, Monoma mistook Bakugou for Honenuki. For some odd reason. How insulting to his intelligence and great memory skills.

So after such a tiring task of brooming, wiping, dusting, and inspecting, he expected to be knocked off his feet with whatever Kendo decided to cook for dinner, not Yaoyorozu’s canon. God, and he shrieked! Who fucking shrieks?! He’s 18, he’s not supposed to shriek! Unless you’re pegging him just right-

Wednesday only sucked because you canceled your biweekly study session in favor of hanging out with the girls in 3A. Now, regardless of what people still say, he has matured and slowly grew out his competitiveness and “jealousy” over class A, and doesn’t really have much issue with most of them (mainly because Shinsou somehow helped him become more “friendly”). However, how dare you choose the girls over him! You’ve never done that.

(And whether or not he was moody and pouty is just a hallucination of yours, he swears it.)

The only bad thing, if you could even call it that, that happened on Thursday was that it slipped his mind how much time he had left to use Tsuburaba’s quirk and lost against his good ol’ pal.

Friday though… Friday was just really weird and he hated how it only felt weird for him. Maybe it’s pent up frustration with how the week went? Maybe it’s the pouty baby in him still being butthurt over Wednesday’s missed study date? Maybe it’s you staring at his legs and ass? Maybe it’s the way you look so delectable in your hero outfit? Maybe- well, now he was just overthinking it, and he rarely ever does! He was tempted on asking Shinsou to, y’know, brainwash him so he could forget this weird feeling of him feeling weird.

Now comes Saturday.

Today is Saturday.

Today is 10:06 pm on a Saturday.

You’re over at his dorm for the already mentioned biweekly study date. He should feel happy, considering you brought over some snacks, ordered take-out from his favorite French restaurant, even played with his hair every time you guys had the 15-minute study break.

But he’s not happy. He’s not unhappy, but he isn’t happy? Again, the weird feeling he felt the day before hasn’t really left and it’s been crawling around his skin, only getting worse when he saw you coming in with pants.

It’s not supposed to make him feel not happy, but you usually come over with a cute skirt or dress, showing enough of your thighs and panties to keep him up at night, fantasizing about them wrapped around his head, suffocating him as he eats you out so delicately or ferociously, littered with his desperate bites and kisses, making him whine out in horny pain-

“Monoma?” you asked, eyebrows furrowed in worry as you ditch your phone to look over at your whining boyfriend. “You okay there?”

Shit. He must’ve gotten lost in his thoughts. “Yes, I am perfectly fine, darling.”

Now that’s weird. He’s speaking so softly, and he only ever does that after he’s cum at least a few times, or when he’s totally relaxed and ready to call it a night. Well, there are those few times where he lies and he speaks about the same.

Humming, you smile sweetly at him.

“Are you sure about that, baby boy?”

Oh, that sent a shudder through his body, his white shirt suddenly feeling too thick and his shorts feeling a bit constricting. In other words, he’s now turned on.

He stays quiet, however, because he feels like his voice will give away his actual feelings, whether it continues being soft or it decides to crack and show how he’s ready to give himself away to you.

“Neito. I asked you a question.”

“No, mommy! I-I mean, I don’t know…” He huffed out, embarrassment now outweighing his neediness. God, why did you have to pull out the mommy card?! You’re so wicked. Did you not know how horrible his week was and now you want to be mean to him?

“What do you mean by that, baby?”

“Well, I’ve had a horrible week, mommy! You should know that!”

“Don’t dare yell at me, Neito. Mommy’s trying to be patient and understanding, but if you’re going to just be a brat, then I should just leave you in time out, right?” Monoma gawked, his whole body and attention turned towards you as you got off of his bed, arms crossed and disappointment showing on your face. Really? You’re disappointed? Just as he opened his mouth to talk back, you spoke first.

“And here I brought one last gift for you. I’m here trying to be such a caring, doting girlfriend, and you start making assumptions about my efforts? Bad boy!”

Wait, gift? These were gifts? Oh! You… you were trying to comfort him? God, guess he was a bad boy.

Seeing him deflate, eyes losing whatever snark they possessed, you sigh and walk towards your bag near the door. And this made him stand up so quickly he lost his footing and slightly fell forward, shocked that you could be leaving already, which you aren’t. Startled by his sudden movement, you quickly take out a plastic bag and hold it in front of him to show the last gift.

It was quiet between you two, staring at each other before looking down at what you are holding.

“What is that?” He’s the first to speak, blinking as he tries to figure out what the dark blue item could possibly be. It’s pleated, though, so-

“Is it the skirt you’ll change into?” And you laugh, shaking your head as you walk back to the bed and sit.

“Not me, baby. You will change into it.” He’s going to be wearing a skirt?

Blinking once more in confusion, he giggles awkwardly before frowning.

“You’re joking, right?” Now it’s your turn to frown.

“No.” And you smile confidently. “I promise, if you wear the outfit in here, it’ll lead us to the actual last gift, hm?” You bat your eyelashes like a little girl asking her dad for a new Barbie doll, or whatever it is they bat their eyelashes for. You’re curious to see what he’ll do.

And you didn’t have to wait long for his decision to be made.

Sitting on your naked lap, thighs trembling in either overexertion or overstimulation, is a certain sweaty, defiled blond male with gorgeous teary, periwinkle eyes trying their best to focus down on you.

After he swiftly and elegantly changed into the outfit, it came to show on his mirror that this wasn’t some random crop top and skirt combo, but a whole schoolgirl uniform: apart from a cropped school girl top and the pleated navy skirt, there were white thigh highs and cute hair clips.

Turns out, you misunderstood his ‘subtle’ hints of some kinky schoolgirl skirt sex; you thought he was offering, with the way he’d bat his pretty eyelashes at you and stare at your skirt during lunch. Really, he was implying you stay with it on, somehow.

Regardless of who was wrong, the fact your pretty boy is squirming uncontrollably with your strap-on deep inside him is something you just have to engrave in your mind. Who knows when you’ll be able to buy another skirt his size? You can’t wait to render it useless.

“Y-You’ve been thin-thinking for too-oo long!” Monoma whines, bringing a hand to wipe away his bothersome tears he doesn’t want you to see, huffing at the end before moaning loudly as you roll your hips upwards, the tip of the dildo teasing his sweet spot.

“Mm, I didn’t say you can speak yet, did I? Guess mommy spoiled you too much.” Sneering, you shift on the bedsheets under you while placing your hands on his thighs, slowly raking your nails upwards. You try your best to avoid the white thigh-high socks, not wanting to make him ticklish and forget why you’re even touching him there.

Monoma shakingly gasps, squirming even more as he tries to have his pathetic, precum weeping dick grab the attention of either one of your hands but ends up staining the clothing covering it. Rolling your eyes, you smack the hairless skin hard enough to watch it quickly flush red and hear him groan, whether in pain, arousal or both.

“Stop it. You’re making me angry with how selfish you’re being. Isn’t mommy supposed to be satisfied first? Or did you forget our rules, baby?”

“N-no! No! No, I- no!” Is whining all that he can do? He’s been whining or moaning for the past hour, with the occasional groans or gasps. You don’t want him to only whine, you need to see him cry.

Cry prettily as he did on Monday when he thought no one was looking back at the dorms. Watch him struggle to keep his whimpers of humiliation at bay. Make him forget all about his silly pride and stupid competitiveness against a class who doesn’t really see him as a threat, but just a crazy motherfucker (or so says Hagakure.)

“No what, Neito? ‘No mommy! I do know the rules!’ or ‘No mommy! I forgot the rules!’ C’mon, baby. I thought you knew how to speak properly? Now you’re making Bakugou seem eloquent.”

Oh no, you’re upset at him. Monoma gasps in offense, though, at the implication that the anger and pride-driven Bakugou is better than him at speaking. Ouch, okay, that actually kind of hurt but it was kinda hot? Kinda not? What’s wrong with him?

Yeah, what’s wrong with him? You’re expecting him to go on with his speech of how Bakugou isn’t anywhere near his expertise and social skills, how he’s clearly more coherent than the other, or the typical ‘how dare you’ sentences. What you didn’t expect was him to whimper and clasp his hands together as if asking for forgiveness so soon.

“No mo-mommy! I do know! Th-The rules, th-that is! I know ‘em!”

“Then you’ll stop moving so much and let mommy continue marking you? If you do, and I’ll be repeating this for the last time, Neito, mommy might let you cum first, mm? Sounds good?”

“Ye-ES!” Okay, maybe you should’ve waited until he answered to land another slap on his thighs, although this one was close to his dick. Oh well, at least he’s making other sounds, but no struggle or tears.

Leaving nail marks around the pale, smooth skin, even carving your name on both thighs with light scratches, you’re in awe at how he’s trying not to move too much. Then again, he is your sweet baby boy, who thrives and gets off of making you proud of him and cumming because of him.

Lifting your eyes from the satisfying reddening skin to his face, you’re struck with awe again: finally, as if some god were listening to your wishes, you see him blinking rapidly as a new batch of tears quickly accumulate on his lashline and slowly trickle down his red cheeks before being furiously wiped away by him. Seems like this has been going on for a bit, seeing how his eyes are slightly red and his hands, clasped back together, if not tighter, look kind of wet. He didn’t want you to know he was trying not to cry and then failed so beautifully.

Gosh, and here you were expecting him to be a brat, to defy your authority over him, to challenge you like he usually does.

(If only you had some mind-reading quirk, you would’ve known he actually had been planning his next moves.)

“Good job, baby! You let mommy mark you so pretty with her hands, and look! Mommy’s name is on your thighs, so that next time you touch yourself you won’t forget who you belong to- I mean, who you’re a baby boy for.”

You’re basking in happiness, in pride, in complete bliss while he thanks you in small whimpers, hips twitching and hole clenching around your strap. Right, you forgot how long he has been cockwarming you; guess he deserves an even better award. He never manages to hold back for so long when sitting on your silicone cock.

Rubbing your palms around his thighs without moving your stare from his face, you command him to put his hands to use and lift the hem of the skirt, getting a good show of a new dribble of precum dropping heavily onto your pelvis. His dick is even shaking just as much as his body, pulsing even more than any other past encounter. It’s also competing against Kirishima’s red hair for the title of the “most red thing ever to exist”.

Monoma’s opening and closing his mouth, eyebrows furrowed in question and silent begging.

“You can speak now.”

“M-Mommy, you pro-hah-mised t-to make hn-me cu-um!”

“...Watch that tone, little boy.” You glowered before continuing. “Remind mommy what she promised you and explain why you deserve it.”

Now you’re being unfair again and Monoma doesn’t want to deal with how you’re suddenly trying to milk out his responses to the way you want. Crossing his arms and glaring down at you, he mutters, “Wh-why should I? Did y-you forget?”

Humming, you move your hands to his hips, rubbing your thumb on the cheap material covering them before beginning to lift him off, at least trying to. “Guess mommy should go back to her room since her baby boy decided to be a little bitch.”

“No!” That’s startling on both your ends hearing such a loud, anguished tone come out of him. Bottom lip trembling and quickly putting his hands to grip tightly at the skirt, Monoma holds back a sob.

“I’m so-sorry, mommy! ‘m not a-a, um, little b-bitch. I’m sorry.” Ending with a whisper, he slowly puts all of his body weight down on your lap, wanting to keep you there and make it impossible to lift him off, and hangs his head in defeat. (Really, it’s because of shame, but you’ll never hear that from him.)

Do you not realize how hard he’s shaking? He can feel his heartbeat in his ears and hear it from his brain. He’s all sweaty and flushed red, his pupils dilate every time you look deep into them. He’s seen the way your eyes light up when glancing at his weeping dick, and he loves how wet it looks, it feels, it sounds, whenever he shifts.

Most importantly, other than his neglected manhood slowly turning a shade of purple, his prostate has been teased for so long that he just wants to ride you hard enough to find bruises tomorrow and hypothetically ‘destroy your cock’.

“If you’re sorry, you’ll tell me what I want to hear. I’m not going to repeat what I asked for.”

Gulping to ease down the shame building up in his body, he lifts his head enough to catch your gaze before softly responding.

“Mommy, um, promised I-I get to cum… she’ll m-make me cum if I-I stopped movin’ s’ much.” Goddamn it, Monoma, get yourself together! “I d-deserve this be-because I stopped. Was a g-good ba-um, baby boy.” He loves hates it when you make him do this, even if not often.

Satisfied with the answer you’ll probably only ever hear once and as clear as possible, you nod your head.

“Then fuck yourself on my cock, Neito.”

No need to repeat yourself. Every little noise he tried so hard to hold back, every twitch and shudder he tried so hard to subdue, every twist of his face to show off the agonizing pleasure is quickly overcoming his insides and dick.

He’s whimpering so loudly, so shamelessly, as he bounces greedily on your lap. Loud and wet skin slapping against each other, and you at first thought, through every lost huff of air, that it’d be his ass connecting to your lube-covered thighs. Instead, your eyes shift towards his crying cock, the way spurts and spurts of precum are left on your lower abdomen, how this furiously blushing extremity keeps slapping itself onto you with every one of his desperate bounces. It’s even wetter than moments ago, you would’ve thought it’d be lube.

Monoma opens his eyes, which seemed to have closed at some point, and looks down at your face, huffing out airy whines of ‘what’, not knowing what you’re looking at. His dick has been wet with his precum for the past hour, so what could be new?

Until he looks down at himself and is mesmerized with how his dick, heavy with unreleased cum and flushed with blood, is tainting and slapping against your beautiful skin with his horny juice- wait, how stupid is he to refer to his precum as ‘horny juice?’

Stupid enough to forget to close his mouth and make his built up drool mix in with the mess below, his whimpers and whiny moans turning into high-pitched cries of your name and loud moans, a normal person would worry about their neighbors. The more he stares at himself, the louder he gets and the sloppier his hips gyrate.

Until he suddenly feels the tip of the toy punch against his prostate.

“Ahn! AGAIN! A-aga-again! Nngain!” Monoma screams, eyes crossing and welling up with old and new built-up tears, ready to drip down. He’s gripping and pulling the hem of his skirt in all directions, his hands never staying still even when a light rip could be heard upon a harsh pull. He recreates the same move, thighs quivering and tensing, begging to be closed. Each accurate hit to his sensitive spot forces out a louder cry and threatens his tears to let loose.

His movements get sloppier and lazier. Seems like he’s tiring out, which isn’t good. Sure, you’re hoping to make him cry with pretty tears and ugly sobs, but you were also hoping to make him do so repeatedly. Then again, if he’s tired out, there wouldn't be much fight or snark from him and maybe you can still make him cry freely.

Good thing you know how to execute fantastic sneak attacks against him.

Under the pillow where your head is situated, you reach for a not-so-small device that kind of looks like a walkie-talkie. Monoma sees this when trying to focus his sight, tensing up at the thought that maybe you were recording this for some benefit or blackmail. But why would you want to blackmail your own boyfriend? Had he done something not to your liking?

The answer came in the form of loud buzzing and sudden quaking starting from deep inside him.

“Wh-wh-wha-what is- hnngh, st-sto-op!” Monoma wails out, almost falling onto your body with how powerful the vibrations are churning hot inside of him. His vision is getting blurry, blocked by the tears that finally, finally are let go and kiss his cheeks with every hot trail left behind.

“You, oh, want me to stop?” He can kind of see your wicked grin, the mockery in your tone and amusement oozing out making him let even more tears fall. Why would you want to stop?

“St-sto-op?! No? N-no! No! P-pluh-plea- nnnghh!”

Ah, so he’s gone dumb. He doesn’t realize he said to stop. Well, now you can either continue watching him break on your lap and admire the waterfall of precum and fresh tears and make him continue working for his orgasm; or, you can tease him some more while turning up the intensity of the toy, now that it’s pleasuring you for once. The way it tickles your clit is enough to make your panting much more noticeable and thighs tense. You wonder how a setting at 4 could already drag out such reactions from the blond male. Enticed now, you decide to go with the second choice.

“P-pluh-plea…? Didn’t think y-you’d be stupid! Where did m-my smart-mouthed baby go? Ugh.”

“N-n’where m’mmy! ‘m h-here- Fuck! Fuck, pl-please! Please! Mo-more? Nngh!”

“You’re slurring, b-baby. But, you a-asked politely.” You hover your thumb over the ‘+’ button, hips grinding upward to drag out some more tears, more cries, more whimpers as you melt into the bed.

“Mommy’s g-gonna count to 10, al-alright? Ugh, then you’ll c-cum, mm. Understand?”

You’ve never seen so much eagerness come from Monoma before, well, not unless it’s because he knows he’ll win at something or get to prove his worth even more. But the way he nods reminds you of a bobblehead: empty in the head, cute to look at.

“G-good. Don’t forget t-to keep riding m-mommy’s big, th-thick cock.” You then lower your voice, sending shivers down his spine even with how hot he feels. “Understand?”

You don’t wait to see more of his eager nods. You press down on the button until it reaches the maximum intensity, which makes your hips jolt up so harshly, thrusting the silicon toy back up to him that it’s enough to make him squeal. Now that’s new.

As much as you’re enjoying how satisfying the stimulation is on your wet cunt, you can’t help but moan out loud Monoma’s name as the boy’s reduced to short-lived squeals and rapid hiccups, so rapid that you’re beginning to think he might be hyperventilating. Worried, you bring your thumb to reduce the intensity before feeling him grind so desperately on your lap. So without any more distractions or hesitations, you quickly begin the countdown.

“Ten.” Monoma repeats with a strained moan, his hands flailing about as he tries to grab purchase onto something, letting go of his ‘forgotten’ skirt.

“N-nine.” Monoma finally plants his trembling hands onto your shoulders, pinning you down enough to give enough strength to his arms. Hovering over you, you frown at his skirt-covered dick.

“Ei-eight.” Monoma tenses his thighs as much as possible to stop the shaking. Even if it didn’t do much, he begins riding you again with more vigor and desperation than previously. A high-pitched whine of your name quickly leaves him as his sensitive dick receives friction from the fabric covering it, the stain that had dried over time reviving as more precum marks it.

“Seven- shit.” Monoma’s trying to look down at you. He can’t really see much of anything, not with his tears never stopping or his mind not setting back into an intellectual phase. He can barely think to say anything else but lewd chants of your name and ‘please’, ‘more’, ‘faster’. It’s not until he moans out a timid “f-fu-ugh- fuck!” that you pay mind to the rapidly growing heat in your stomach.

“Six! Fuck, Neito!” Monoma’s continuous chants and growing volume suddenly sound babbled as he drools down on you, his saliva hitting your chin before you growl up at him. No words are exchanged as he swallows the liquid that had accumulated, although with difficulty. His thighs are beginning to burn and shake with exhaustion, quaking even worse than when he was cockwarming you. His riding turned into hard bouncing, finally stealing your breath away physically and providing some movement on the other end of the silicone toy to press harder onto your clit.

“Fi-five!” Monoma’s eyes cross for the second time, staying longer in that position as he chokes on his scream, all because you’re beginning to meet up with your own thrusts. Your feet planted on the bed as you let go of the control for the vibrator, gripping onto his hips tightly to match him with you. You’re beginning to moan so sweetly, gasping out his name loud enough for him to-

“Cl-clo-ose! F-ugh-fuck! Fuck! Clo-oooose!”

“Ho-hold it! Hold i-it, baby, a-almost the-there!” God, the heat is growing so deep in you that you know this will be violent.

“Four- shiiit.” Monoma’s sobbing now, ever since you told him to hold it. Mission accomplished, so far. He’s blinking rapidly, trying to get rid of the tears and allow him to actually see you. He needs to see your lewd faces, ignoring the fact he is probably rivaling yours. The intense need to cum is building up far too quickly for him to even catch up and he just wants to cum right here, right now. But if he does, you’ll punish him. So, he tries his best to hold it.

“Three! Three, Neito!” Monoma’s trying so hard to not cum, to not even think about it, but how can he if his prostate is being overstimulated and his cock keeps receiving such familiar friction, enough to make him sob even louder. He’s not going to make it.

“T-two! Lif-ft your sk-skirt!” Monoma can’t or else he’ll fall on you. But you’re grabbing onto him so hard that he hasn’t felt the need to support himself on your shoulders. Using whatever energy he has left, he throws himself up to his old sitting position, making his bouncing sloppier and unsynchronized with your thrusts. He quickly grabs onto the wet hem, biting his lip as he tries to swallow and control his sobs. Lifting it, he’s rewarded with the sight of his slick covered cock, so red and noticeably throbbing that his eyes slightly roll to the back of his head.

“One! Fuck, one!” Monoma’s mouth opens wide, his throat constricting as every choked moan and cry tries to escape while his ass begins to tighten alarmingly fast around the toy. He jumps when he feels something wrap around him, quickly looking down at himself again to see, then feel, you viciously stroke him. And that does it.

“Cum.”

Monoma gasps as he relaxes his thighs and lets go. One more hit to his prostate and he’s…

He’s quiet.

Your eyes are as wide as dinner plates as you watch him reach his orgasm: on you, in all his beautiful glory, is Monoma Neito. A guy whose back is arched at a certain angle you’re sure it’s uncomfortable. A guy whose nipples are completely being seen through the drenched crop top. A guy whose mouth is leaking trails of drool, but not as much as his eyes are leaking streams of unstoppable tears. A guy whose face is so red and sweaty, his bangs are striking to the skin and his eye color pops out more. A guy whose only warning of his cum leaving his body, as much as his soul had, is to roll his eyes so violently to the back of his head and convulse forward.

You forget about your orgasm as you try your best to support his body in the current position, not wanting him to fall on you or backward. Well, maybe you should’ve let him fall onto you.

His cum spurts seem to be gold medal Olympians in ‘how far can we reach’ and ‘how much can we be’. The first one barely misses your eyes, but the second one hits you on the forehead. With each spurt leaving his twitching cock, Monoma hiccups whiney and loud words of gratitude and mercy, hips jumping up, torso jolting forward. His knuckles are white upon the unforgivable grip he has on his absolutely ruined skirt, slowly but surely being dirtied with each load forced out of him with the still-buzzing toy inside him.

This whole scene is enough to remind you about turning down the intensity of the vibrations while grinding slowly, both to help milk him out his incredibly overwhelming high and to bring you back to the tip of paradise.

By the time he’s done, he nearly collapses on you but first lifts himself, somehow, off of the toy before leaning back onto your lifted thighs. He’s still twitching, the color of his face slowly coming back as his eyes dry up from the tears. The socks have moved a bit down on his legs and most of the pretty hello-kitty themed hair clips are barely fastened on his hair. You’re pretty sure some are littered around the bed.

Monoma’s eyeing his mess curiously and taking in a cum-covered you before he scoops up some of his cum, tastes himself and you both moan softly. You turn the toy off, still rolling your hips as much as possible to ride out your harsh, hot, and wet orgasm. You’re pretty sure you somehow squirted, but that doesn’t matter too much right now.

Because the moment Monoma came back to his senses and made eye contact with you, you find yourself living in a slow-motion picture: with a shaky hand, he uses the same fingers to write down his first name before scooping up as much of his excess cum and, without any warning, moves forward to thrust his fingers in your mouth, dragging the pads of his fingertips down onto your tongue as you swallow.

Pulling his fingers out slowly while giggling breathlessly, his signature smirk grows onto his blissed-out face.

“H-how do I ta-taste, m-mommy?”

#bnha smut #mha smut #monoma neito smut #monoma smut #sub bnha #monoma x reader #monoma neito x reader #ლ; blasphemy #𝖒𝖔𝖓𝖔𝖒𝖆

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thefanbasewhore · 4 years

Text

Safe Haven.

Summary: [prompt from the list a reblogged “Breath with me yeah? Come on. Breathe. You got it - there you go.” Reader finally convinces Din to let her go come on a bounty after being shot months ago but at the first sign of danger, she realizes she wasn’t ready.

Warning/Content: soo much soft Din, like ya’ll man is in LOVE, blasters, major panic attack, prior injury. Comforting Din is a sweet angel.

Paring: Din Djarin/Female Reader

Tag list. || Master list.

Din’s eyes feel hot, intense even through the shield of beskar that is definitely hiding the way his face pinches, unamused as thick arms fold across his chest. His stance stops you from pulling the laces of your boots tight, dropping your foot from the bunk completely as he walks close, biting the inside of your cheek, knowing exactly what backlash is coming. “I thought we talked about this.”

“It’ been months. I can’t take one more minute in this ship.” His hesitance comes with reasoning, months ago after experiencing the blinding, gut wrenching feeling of loosing the person you love the most, he was paranoid. At one time he used to embrace danger, welcome it with open arms but now he finds himself staying clear of any planet he hears rumors about in cantinas, engages emergency protocols on the ship to secure no one can get in.. but with every growing day, the walls seem to be moving, growing closer and closer until you can’t take it. More as if Din is trying to keep you in. It’s suffocating.

It’s not his fault, every time his eyes fall to the small welted scar against your lower neck it brings him back to holding his hand against it as blood squirts from the nick, screaming and yelling as droopy eyelids finally close. He knows it’s unfair, he’s selfish but will never, ever see you like that again. Helpless, lifeless in his arms as blood mats his own skin. It happened months ago but the pain if just too fresh.

“Sweetheart you -.”

“Stop.” It’s unamused, chest letting go of a big sigh as you give into his words, not really sure how many more times you can hear them. It’s either along the lines of “I want you safe,” or “Next time baby.” It’s only to put himself at ease, keep peace in the Crest and honestly you don’t quiet understand, you’re healed, left with an ugly scar that still swells, ripped skin binding purple but none the less okay.

There is no escape from it, his willingness to protect the ones he loves until the day he dies and unapologetically will do so, no matter how angry you get with him, scowl and side eye him. You know you shouldn’t be frustrated with him, but can’t help as teeth bite nervously on the fat of your lip, slightly red from the outburst. Starting to turn but not before orange tipped gloves move the loose strand of hair behind your ear, fingers press against the smooth skin of where your jaw and cheek meet, nimbly sliding until his thumb and pointer pinch your chin. It’s gentle, a small amount of pressure applied under the chin to catch what would be the excuse this time, the apology and the cute pet name that makes your knees week. He’s between your legs, the close proximity used to make his words meaningful, but the way his other hand reaches down to your thigh to catch your attention makes butterflies flutter in your stomach.

It surprises you, with a sharp turn of your head see him tilt his head towards the ramp, a silent but meaningful gesture. It’s sweet, the smile that reaches eyes, crinkling as you meet his eyes with joyous bulbs. “Really?”

With one singular nod, you’re slipping past him. The smell of outside is so breath taking, of course Din didn’t keep you locked in here, you were allowed outside but never too far from the crest but this, this adventure was what made all those months of being here all by yourself while Din sought bounty after bounty worth it. It’s like a baby foul learning to walk, free and spreading your legs away from the metal piece of junk. It was so close, the tree line visible, a thick fog sits on the outskirts of it, the smell dewy and grassy - you’re almost there, a few more steps and you’ll feel the grass squish under boots but not before Din is pulling you back into the crest with a hand that finds your bicep.

“Din!” You whine but the Mandalorian doesn’t seem to care much, only sits you down in the exact spot as before with a huff. His sinks to his knees, orange fingertips mixing with the black lace of the boots you neglected to tie before, when he’s done he presses his hand to his own knee, staring right back at your own reflection as he tilts his head.

“I have some rules.” You huff back, arms stretch across your chest, noticing the way the swells of your breast pushing up momentarily freeze the Mandalorian in front of you but he breaks his gaze, stern as ever. “If anything goes wrong you come right back here.”

There’s something be pressed against your lower thigh as he lays the heavy blaster down onto your lap, urging it forward to take but not before switching the safety on. “Only for emergencies, I do the shooting if need be. This is the safety sw -.”

“I know what the safety switch is, Din.” Clearly unamused as his fingers tighten around your knee cap as he rolls his eyes but that soon changes as he slides his hand down the outside of your thigh, giving it a small squeeze. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”

“I promise, there’s no need to worry.”

“I have every reason to be worried.” Din argues as your hand slips over his own squeezing it reassuringly your other hand finds the bare patch of skin between where the his helmet and tunic separate to twirl the soft ends of his hair with fingertips. His own reaching up the feel the puffiness of the scar on your neck, a reminder to what is really at stake here.

“It won’t happen again.”

Din wants to believe that, wants to trust that he can be enough to protect you but it’s hard when he still sees it in his dreams, feels the blood beneath his fingers and remembers just how lifeless you looked that day. “You don’t know that..”

Before anymore words can be said, anymore thoughts can creep up and make him change his mind small hands lift the helmet, just enough to reveal his moustache and press a soft, meaningful kiss against his lips. It’s unexpected, mouth open for the majority of the kiss but meeting yours at the last second, it’s almost painful to not experience what was intended. “I’ll be fine, my love.”

He does not like it, not one bit. Din is not a soft man. He’s kind, cares a little too much about those he loves. He’s passionate, fun, smart and kind but in moments like these he feels like slipping out of the beskar for good, leaving it all behind to spent everyday like this, so wrapped up in each other that the world is forgotten but the red flashing that beeps from his belt reminds him it’s not possible.

A man of few words as he stands, towers over your sitting figure but none the less extends a hand towards you, gladly accepting his offer as he feels your finger fill the gaps between his own as he pulls you along. The first step of freedom is a relief, a small sigh falling from your lips but the burning gaze you felt has you turning you head to meet his own but he doesn’t say anything, not even when your eyebrows raise in question.

“Come on pretty girl, not much longer it will be dark.”

***

The Mandalorian is patient with you, allowing small detours only because of how beautiful the planet really is. The vibrant oranges and mixes of purple flowers catch your attention more then he would like but watch your smile and pull him towards the direction of the fields is so serene he can’t even remind the task at hand, all of it seems to disappear, the thought is how pretty your skin looks when the sun touches it, how light your eyes shin against the sun, wants to count every little crystal inside your deep orbs.

The fob does that, it beeps but you don’t seem to care as your fingers press against the hard cracks of the tree, feeling the growth of decades under finger tips, taking a deep breath with an even bigger smile as the small animal hops towards your direction but the sound of heavy boots at your every turn, so close behind you he’s practically attached at the hip scare it away.

“The bunny!” You frown, creating as much distance as possible between the Mandalorian in hopes that the white, fluffy animal will come back.

A hand tugs on your own, turning to face the source but he doesn't move, sinks his fingers deeper into your skin, bringing you forward until he's almost pressed chest to chest with you. "What is it Din?”

"Nothing.." It’s vague, almost awkward until he’s reaching forward, flushing his metal covered forehead against your own, the cool of the beskar feels nice compared to the sun that taunts your skin. His voice falters, unsure as word slip from past his lips. “It’s not too late to go back, we can go a different day.”

“Why for you can just leave in the middle of the night without me?” You can’t see his expression but by the way his shoulders drop, head slightly tilts to avoid has you almost feeling guilty.

He doesn’t ask again, presses soft gloves to squeeze your waist, it’s gentle and fast, just enough to let you know he understands, that he’s sorry for even asking before facing the opposite direction but this time he doesn’t give you the chance to explore or look, he continues on, tugging you by your hand if you in any way get distracted by the pretty flowers and small animals.

When you do finally arrive at where the bounty is supposedly hiding you look at Din with raised eyebrows, as he crouches down next to you, hidden by the tree line. He would answer but the bright, flashing red gives it away. By the look of this place, it’s empty, an old run down town that is clearly owned by the forest. The trees have started to grow around it, leafy vines cover the bricks, a thick layer of moss that hasn’t been touched in years. All the windows are busted, either by the trees that grew into them or the many years of abandonment. The soft breeze howls through the edges of broken glass, it’s a little off putting, the haunting feel that seeps into the pits of your stomach, nervous but the silence is eerie, it’s too quiet, something isn’t right. The boarded doors with a exception of a few split down the middle were pale in color due to ears of weathering.

“Stay behind me.” Before the words can even touch your ears he’s leaving the camouflage of the trees making you stumble behind until you reach the center of the lonely town, you’re not even in three feet of him when he suddenly stops. Catching you off guard, walking right into his towering figure with a small huff as you face plant into his backplate.

“Why did -.” The words don’t even make it out before his gloves press against your mouth, muffling the soft noise you make upon impact. His eyes search around the rattling building as another gush of wind raised goosebumps against your bare arms. Ears alert, seeking the crunching of dirt from the heavy, unexperienced shoes that didn’t belong to you.

“What is it?” You mange to mumble as his hand starts to loosen but at that exact moment something hits the ground with such force it has both you and the Mandalorian’s heart jumping.

“Shh!” But it’s too late, the red shot that whips past you comes before the loud echoing that burns your ears. It comes from the opposite tree line you hid behind but now seems miles away as the danger of blasters shooting past you. It’s almost instant as the Mandalorian tucks you into his chest, shielding you from the same direction as he pulls the blaster from the holster, extending it but there’s no one there. His arms stays wrapped around your shoulder, cheek against the cuirass as you squeeze your eyes shut but the other presses into the side of the helmet activating the heat sensors but it’s not until he’s pushing against your back urging you to the nearest building that you realize how dire the situation is.

“Go run!” It’s too late, rays from blasters hit the ground, dirt gathering in a cloud around you, burning your nose, eyes watering from irritation but allows for just enough cover to run, seeking protection into one of the eerie homes. The blasters follow in your and Din’s direction, hundreds of round miss instead they char the ground black and poke through the thin walls of the safe house as Din shoves you inside the threshold of it, flipping an old table over to use it as protection. Din never falters, using his own body to shield yours by pressing his back against the underside of the table, pulling you into his chest and wrapping his arms around your waist.

It’s suffocating but that’s not the reason your chest is burning or the fact that you ran so fast that even Din himself would be impressed. It’s the same reason to room spins, eyes blurring as something heavy crushes your chest, throat closing with squeezed eyes. You can’t think, can’t function properly only pushing away by placing two hands against his chest plate and pushing with all the strength you can manage as the blasters stop. Your own hands find your chest, trying to sooth the burn through the shirt, wild eyes filled with panic meet Din’s which are as equally concerned.

He’s right there but so far away as you let out a panicked breath, a small wheeze whistles through your nose as your throat begins to close, spits sitting at the back of your mouth as you panic, unable to swallow, unable to move but like always he keeps you grounded. Large hands take your wrist, pressing them against his chest as he sits up on his knees to hold you from falling to the floor. Sliding down to gentle grasp your elbow, the other hand rubbing against your back with slow, precise movements.

“Breath with me yeah? Come on -” Feeling his own chest slow under your palms to match a more appropriate rhythm for you to follow. The hand moves under your shirt, the bare skin of his hand with the glove thrown lazily onto the floor with more pressing matters at hand. “You got it - there you go, that’s it.”

It’s frustrating, makes tears sting against your waterline as a choked breath finally expands your chest and makes Din release a soft sigh of relief. His fingers never leave the comfort of your skin, just pull you closer as another warning shot fires outside the building. It’s barely the time but he asks anyways. “You okay?”

Hands tremble against his chest but nod unsurely, hoping to convince him it really wasn’t that bad. False pain makes your neck throb, the scar tingle with the memory of searing pain, hot blood that rushed down your skin, the lightheadness that fell over you that day. There isn’t much time to believe you so instead he pushes himself up from the floor, hand never leaving yours as he drags you along the house. It looks worse inside, walls bare, wires pulled from behind them, the ceiling caved down and scattering the floor in some places but somehow you still manage as he pulls you into the kitchen. The back door is slightly open, the tree line is only feet away, there is no backyard just woods that seem to run for miles and an urging hand walking you towards the direction on the small of your back.

“Go to the Crest, use the gun if you have to but I only heard one set of boots. He must have a machine gun. I’ll be there.” While is tone is stern, doesn’t leave room for argument you can’t help it.

“What about you?”

“I’ll distract him, just go!”

***

While it was difficult to find the crest as you ripped through the thick ropes of the forest with watering eyes that impaired your sight, your feet never stopped moving through the thick foliage until they once again press into the comfort of the Crest but even there you couldn’t seem to catch your breath.

Hot tears rush down your cheeks as you lean against the create in the cargo bay, sliding down the length of it until you plop against the floor and pull your knees to your chest. You’re not sure how much time passes, but when the wetness of cheeks start to dry you begin to worry but can’t seem to move, glued to the floor while hysteria pulses against your neck, fingers reach to rub the rigged scar with a soft huff.

You barely notice the boots that rub your shins, too stuck in your head as you look up to meet the Mandalorian’s tilted gaze. He sighs as he finds himself next to you, sharing the same create for support as he sits shoulder to shoulder with you. He doesn’t say anything like you expect him to, just offers his presence as comfort as his hand squeezes your own.

“You were right.” The barrier of silence finally breaks, head falling to his shoulder for support, for warmth, actually for any kind of comfort he brings. “I wasn’t ready, I heard the blasters and just, lost it.”

“You don’t have to say anything, it’s okay.”

“No, you were right. You always are. All the pain from that night came back, I...I felt like I was dying again.” Smooth fingers glide down your waist, squeezing gently as he pushing you onto his lap, helmet falling to the ground with little care as he urges your face into his neck. The smell of cleanness, his soap fills your entire being as his still bare hand finds it’s way under your shirt running soft, lazy patterns on the curvature of your spine.

Uncharacteristically, lips press against your own. Soft, gentle, filled with so many words he doesn’t know how to say instead he shows you, tilting his head for the bridge of his nose bumps your own, it’s lingering, savoring every minute against them. Foreheads pressed together as he murmurs against them, “I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise, sweet girl.”

For a second your mind stills, just feeling the fanning breath from his nose blow hot air against your lips. Just to press forward to feel the tickle of his moustache as his pout meets yours once again. Those lips are a safe haven and at this very moment have you trembling for security.

tags:

@victias @altarsw @coonflix @mudhornchronicles @buckysalefty @capsheadquarters @godohammers @ilikemymendarkandfictional @rogertaylorsfalsettogivemehives @maileecabudol @itsfangirlmendes @mermaidbrina @nikkixostan @moonlightnumbsthepainifeel @dinsbeskar @est19xxshit @owloveyounever @engie115

@nerdalert-andi

@impala1967666

@akatasukilove

#din djarin #din dijarin x reader #din djarin fan fiction #din djarin x reader #din djarin imagine #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character #the mandolarian #the mandolorian x reader #the mandalorian imagine #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian

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imagine-it-to-be-true · 3 years

Text

Fix You - Caius Volturi x FemOC Three Shot: Part 1

Hey guys! Thanks so much for reading. Hope you like the one shot. I do take requests! Please have a look at my list of characters, and the rules. Feel free to reach out.

Notes about the One Shot:

Summary: As Caius walked around the streets of Volterra, he came across a girl being assaulted and badly injured. He couldn't explain the pull he had towards her, but all he knew was that he needed to save her. Caius Volturi x Fem!OC. Mentions of blood, injury and death. Nothing too gruesome though. Also posted on my Fanfiction page.

Word count: 2679

Firstly, I don’t own Twilight, the Volturi, or the image used.

I sincerely apologize for my Italian and Greek phrases; I don’t speak a word of the languages and was at the mercy of Google Translate.

Caius’ wife Athenodora does not exist.

Also, imagine him how you want but I much preferred his appearance in New Moon, so that’s how I described him.

~ Enjoy :)

Cloud cover in Volterra was a rare sight. Most days the sun shone brightly, making the town not particularly an ideal place for vampires. Yet here they were, the powerful three, the ancient kings who were tasked with up-keeping and enforcing secrecy of the vampire world, in a town where they remained inside the walls of the Volturi Castle. Caius often wondered why the coven chose to remain there, and not move to a less sunny place. A lack of opportunities for outings meant that he was falling intellectually behind. One need not look further than his clothes, not to mention his mentality to see he was not one for modernity. Not that he cared. Humans and their achievements were so minuscule in his eyes. Nevertheless, he enjoyed the opportunity to venture out into the town, feel the cool breeze on cloudy days like today and observe the lesser kind. It was remarkable for him how the world changed since his childhood in Ancient Greece, yet the scape of Volterra harked back to it with its old buildings.

Caius was lonely. He was angry and cruel; many would even say sadistic. But no, the last part was not true. After over 3000 years of living alone, never aging, never moving forward, being forced to hide himself, and never seizing to hunger, it’s no surprise that one would become angry. But he was not a sadist. He did not enjoy the pain of others. He fed only when he could no longer contain his thirst, not over-indulging himself. But he understood the need for justice, and was not tolerant when punishment was due. This was often mistaken for sadism.

Volterra was extra busy lately due to an overwhelming influx in tourism. One could no longer walk in peace. The pushing and shoving of the crowded streets became too much for Caius. He looked around him, and noticed a less busy street to his right. The more he followed, the less people were there. He kept going until he was left alone, in peace, and stopped, and leaned his back against the wall, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, exhaling through his mouth. He took a moment to collect his thoughts. And that is when he heard it.

From his right, came a feminine scream. It snapped Caius out of his thoughts. It sounded desperate, and then quieted down before he heard the female’s voice again, yelling in English with an American accent, “PLEASE! Somebody help me!” In one swift motion, Caius pushed himself from the wall and walked towards the pleas. He rounded a corner and between two buildings, there was a thin, dark alleyway. It was there that he found the source of the commotion.

A tall, heavy-built balding man had a significantly smaller female pinned up against the wall with his body. His left hand grasped her around the neck, while the other clutched a gun to her head. Caius spoke Italian - one of the many languages he’s mastered - so he understood plainly the filth coming out of the lowlife’s mouth as he barked at the poor girl. She, however, was clueless and sobbing, begging him to leave her.

In the split moment that he observed the scene, Caius’ eyes landed on the female. She was small, about 5”2, looked to be in her early twenties and very slim. Her hair was golden blonde, long and fell in thick, luscious curls down her back. She did not appear to be wearing much makeup, yet her eyebrows were naturally prominent and neat, and her lips were full, petal pink in colour. But it was her eyes which Caius noticed immediately. They were large and the most captivating colour: a mix of emerald and sapphire. It was as if staring into the waters of a deep, stormy ocean. However, when they met his eyes, they were full of terror. She quieted her struggle and looked at him, as if calmed by his presence, mentally begging him to save her.

Typically, Caius did not give two thoughts about humans. Yet this time was different. The girl before him stirred something inside of his frozen ancient heart. His eyes shifted from the girl and landed on the lowlife.

“Togli le mani da lei, feccia.” (Get your hands off her, Scum.) he snarled.

The man jumped in surprise and turned towards Caius. When he saw him, the lowlife sneered. Compared to him, Caius did not look all that threatening. He was tall and well-built, but thinner than the scum. His fashion choices didn’t help either. His near-white blonde hair combed to perfection and pushed behind his ears. He wore a blood-red dress shirt, paired with a black blazer and black dress pants, topped off with a silky red scarf. He looked like an escaped runway model, not a man that could do damage.

The man Caius addressed continued sneering and chuckling.

“Cosa hai intenzione di fare al riguardo, bel ragazzo?” (What are you going to do about it, pretty boy?)

Caius took a large step forward and retorted, “Strapparti la testa e bere il tuo sangue è divertente?” (Does ripping your head off and drinking your blood sound like fun?)

The man raised his eyebrows in surprise at the viciousness, but still obviously not taking the situation seriously. He laughed and turned back to the girl.

“Vedi, bella ragazza? Sta cercando di mettersi in mostra per te. Ma è solo un ragazzo. Lascia che ti mostri cosa fanno gli uomini.” (You see, pretty girl? He's trying to show off for you. But he's just a boy. Let me show you what men do.)

Before Caius had a chance to comprehend or react, within a fraction of a second, the gun pressed against the girl’s temple was lowered. The scum aimed it at her stomach and shot twice. She screamed in pain, and dropped to the ground, gasping.

Caius took a second longer than normal to realize what had just unfolded. The man had the gun pointed at him now. He aimed at his chest and fired. When Caius was hit, he did nothing but stand there. Then came the second shot and to the scum’s surprise, he did not drop. A smirk began to form on the vampire’s face, before he simply said, “Avresti dovuto scappare quando ne avevi la possibilit��.” (You should have ran when you had the chance.)

As the man continued pointlessly shooting at Caius, the vampire closed the distance between them in less than a second. He grasped the man’s neck with his right hand and pressed him up against the wall, lifting him up with one arm. The man squirmed and groaned, futilely attempting to free himself. Caius didn’t enjoy hurting people. But this time was different. He snapped the man’s neck and threw him down, like discarded trash. He took a breath and turned to the girl on the ground.

She was no longer making sounds nor moving, but lay there motionless, face down on the ground. Caius could see a large red spot in her stomach area, with blood seeping through the thin fabric of her white summer dress, her blonde curls hanging like closed curtains over her face. Caius leaned down, extending a hand to gently move them aside. He pushed the curls behind her ear, running his knuckles down her soft cheek. Those beautiful storm eyes were closed.

“Can you hear me?” He whispered to her, but she did not stir.

Caius felt a deep pain in the pit of his stomach, and a pressure rising up to his throat. He felt anger, rage, but most prominently sorrow. He had this feeling like he never wanted anything more in his life than for her to look at him and say she was alright. The situation was not made easier by the fact that her deliciously smelling blood was pooling more and more.

Quickly, he reached into his blazer pocket and pulled out his iPhone. Alec had gifted it to him the year before, and this was the first time he’d use it. He couldn’t figure out the damned thing; books and scripts were more useful anyway. With some effort, he found the number he was looking for in his contacts and dialled it. The ringing seemed to go on for ages, until finally…

“Dr. Carlisle Cullen speaking.”

“Cullen. You are speaking to Caius.” He barked into the phone. A silence followed before Carlisle hesitantly responded, a hint of fear in his voice at what the Volturi king might want.

“Lord Caius. I was not expecting you. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I am with a human. She was shot with a gun in her stomach twice. There is a significant amount of blood. She is not responding to me. Her eyes are closed and she is not moving. What shall I do?” He spoke in a hard, fact-based tone.

“Well Caius, it sounds like she might be dead…” before Carlisle could finish his thought, Caius cut him off.

“You are foolish to think that I would waste my precious time calling you to hear something so unacceptable. Tell me how to fix her!”

“Okay, I’m not sure if she can be. But let’s try. I need you to put the phone on speaker.”

“What is that?! Talk quickly Cullen, her bleeding has not seized!”

“Okay, Caius, you see the small picture of a loudspeaker on your phone? Push it.”

Caius did as he was told. “Now what?”

“Put the phone down on the ground. I need you to turn her on her back. GENTLY! Don’t forget you’re a lot stronger than her.”

Caius gently pushed the girl’s shoulders and was able to turn her on her back, grabbing her head so it did not hit the concrete. It was then that the significance of the wound became apparent, as did the scent of her blood. It became nearly too much for the vampire. He was close to damning it all and indulging in her sweet taste. But then he looked at her perfect face. How he longed to see those beautiful eyes again.

In a struggling voice, he spoke, “Alright, it is done.”

“Now, take your index and middle finger and push both to her neck, under her chin, on the side of her throat. You should feel her heartbeat if she’s alive.”

Caius did as he was told, but initially could feel nothing. After a few failed attempts, he hung his head. Just as he was about to remove his fingers, he felt it. So faint and tiny, but it was there.

“I feel it! It is very faint! But I feel it.”

Carlisle waited a moment before speaking. “Can you describe the wounds to me? Where are they specifically?”

“They are both in the same place. One is at the base of her ribs to the left, and the second is just under it.”

Carlisle sighed and softly spoke, “Caius. She’s not going to make it. She’s on her last few breaths now, and we can prolong her suffering, but we can’t-“.

“No!” Caius cut him off, “She will not die. There must be something to be done!”

“Well… you could always change her.”

Caius let out a breath. He would not wish his own endless existence on anyone. Not to mention the unbelievably excruciating pain of the process. After 3000 years, there was one thing he remembered with vivid accuracy: his own change. But at the same time, he was in a panic. He was not sure what it was, but the thought of her dying was destroying him inside.

He swallowed and spoke in a gentler voice to Carlisle, “Is there any way to manage her pain during the change?”

“Morphine. It needs to be injected before the venom. Give it 5 minutes to take effect and then change her.”

“Thank you,” Caius whispered before hanging up.

He immediately gathered the woman into his arms, lifting her up with ease, and began running back to the castle. He made it in a matter of minutes, storming through the doors of the great gathering hall, where Aro and Marcus were speaking to Jane. Immediately, all eyes were on Caius and the little bundle in his arms.

“Brother,” greeted Aro with his child-like smile, “you came home with takeout, I see,” he cackled.

“No! Do not approach me now brother. I wish to change her, and so it will be. No one comes near her!” Caius exclaimed. His two fellow kings looked at each other, befuddled. “Jane,” Caius turned to her, “find me a shot of morphine immediately and bring it to my chambers.” With this, he stormed out of the hall.

Aro, with a confused look on his face, took a step to follow, only to be held back by Marcus. “He cannot just bring some random off the street and claim her as his own!” He exclaimed, but Marcus shook his head and smiled.

“I felt their bond. He has bound himself to her. Neither might realize this yet, but they are mated. She is his now.”

———

Caius rushed her to his room. He gently placed her on his bed, which he hadn’t used in years for obvious reasons. As he laid her down, the girl began to gain consciousness. She began feeling the pain of her injuries. Tears started fall down her cheeks and she softly, weakly moaned in pain.

Caius sat down next to her, brushing her tears away with his thumb, gently pushing her hair back away from her face.

“Shh, it’s alright. Breathe.” She seemed to respond to this by attempting to open her eyes, yet not having enough energy to do so. Caius was dying inside, seeing her suffer. He couldn’t explain why. This was the first time in 3000 that he cared so deeply about the well-being of anyone, let alone a weak human.

“Breathe for me. That’s it. You’re alright.” He whispered. She tried, but couldn’t. She attempted to say something along the lines of “I don’t want to die,” but was only emitting squeaks.

“Shhh, don’t talk. He’s gone, I’ve got you. There is not a place in the world safer than here with me.”

Just then, Jane burst through Caius’ doors with a large syringe filled with clear liquid. She quickly handed it to Caius and stepped back, lingering. Caius turned to her and harshly barked, “Leave!” She bowed and turned on her heels, heading out the door.

The girl had opened her eyes briefly and saw the large syringe. This frightened her, and she attempted to cower away. Caius returned his attention to her.

“Shhhh. Don’t be afraid. This will help you stop hurting. I will fix this. I will fix you,” As he spoke those words, a tear formed in his own eyes and rolled down his cheek. He was about to change her. Was it really fixing her, or was he selfishly wishing she would fix him? Give him companionship he so longed for? He didn’t care. He took the syringe and injected the morphine into her quickly, being as gentle as he could. Then, he waited. He needed her to stop crying. This would indicate the pain was gone and the morphine had taken effect. He held her hand, whispering sweet nothings to her. When she began quieting, he gently asked her.

“What is your name, omorfiá mou?” (My beauty), the last part in his native Greek.

She gasped and whispered, “Andromeda.”

Caius smiled and thought about how fitting the name was. The pain was gone now. He turned to her and brushed her hair out of her face.

“Close your eyes, my beauty.” He gently brushed her hair back away from her neck. Leaning down, he brushed his lips on her ear, whispering “do not be afraid. You will live forever. You are mine now, and I will never let anything hurt you again.”

With that, he sunk his teeth into her soft skin, and the journey to her transformation began.

#twilight #new moon #eclipse #breaking dawn #volturi #caius #caius volturi #one shot #hurt comfort #romance #caius volturi imagine #vampire

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pascalpanic · 3 years

Text

‘Nilla Bean (Agent Jack “Whiskey” Daniels x gn!Reader)

Summary: A cowboy in your coffee shop is not the way you’d expected your morning to go, but you’re not complaining; especially not when he’s as attractive as he is.

W/C: 2.1k

Warnings: talk of food/eating, brief allusions to alcohol, lots of flirting, sexual innuendos, I think there’s like a single use of fuck

A/N: okay I’ve been thinking about this FOREVER but I finally went ahead and wrote it!!! hope u guys like it, I’m a sucker for a coffee shop AU as a barista myself :) thx @theteddylupinexperience for helping me name it and motivating me to write it lol

When you started your shift this morning, you’d groaned as you tied the apron around your waist, expecting an uneventful day. Most were. If you were lucky enough to see someone you knew or to have an especially nice customer, you’d consider it a good day. You didn’t know when you walked in that it would be the good day to end all good days: nothing could top this one.

Weekday mornings in the fall aren’t particularly busy. The majority of your customers come around the morning rush, and the remaining ones are usually retirees or house-spouses and their young children. It’s enjoyable, days like these, that don’t require you to dash about the shop.

The only problem, really, is having nothing to do. You clean the coffee grinder, wipe down tables, wipe down everything else, then do it all again. Restocking, usually an endless chore, isn’t even an option; no one’s using anything in the first place. You and your coworkers chat, deep-cleaning the coolers, washing the blender stations, and doing the dirty work. When a customer comes, you’re the lucky one who gets to go take their order and put your task on hold first.

It seems like you’ve done every task twice, even when your manager introduces yet another idea for you to deal with. To bide your time, you prep coffee for later, rearrange the case of pretty little pastries that sits next to your register, and doodle on your station with a paint pen, humming to the soft music playing in the shop.

People come and go, some picking up mobile orders and some ordering from you, some choosing to eat inside and some taking their food to go. You sip your drink happily between customers- a white mocha with caramel.

At one point, you’re in the back and washing dishes when a coworker peeks his head into the back. “Hey, you got someone up front!” He informs you, and you nod and wander out through the swinging doors.

Well. That’s certainly a sight for a Tuesday morning.

The man standing at the register is wearing a painfully well-tailored suit jacket, with gray tweed and patches on the elbows. Beneath it is a white top and a black tie, and the man wears jeans on the bottom half. Interesting.

Perhaps more interesting is the large cowboy hat perched atop his head. The man’s face, below the brim of his Stetson, is incredibly handsome. He has an aquiline nose, a neatly trimmed mustache that wouldn’t work on anyone else, and warm brown eyes that make you smile softly.

“Hi,” you comment as you log into the register. “Are you a part of our rewards program?” You ask as part of your regular spiel.

The man furrows his brow then shakes his head. “Uh, no. No I’m not. Can you sign me up now?” He asks, and his voice makes your chest flutter with the tone. It’s rich and smooth, with a beautiful southern twang.

Looking at your register and back at him, you shake your head. “It’s just an app on your smartphone, really easy,” you tell him.

“Ah, damn,” he groans and pulls it from his pocket. “I’m shit with technology. Why don’t you just… type it in here?” He says, handing you his phone with a notes page open. His thick fingers accidentally lock the phone as he hands it to you.

You tap the screen to wake it and find the background to be a picture of a cute little pig all covered in mud. “Uh, you locked it,” you chuckle. “What’s the password?”

The man looks down shyly. “1-2-3-4. Don’t make fun’a me, I’m like a grandpa with these newfangled phones.”

It’s endearing, you have to admit, and it makes you giggle. “Not a problem. I’m not here to chide you on your security choices,” you shrug. You type in the code and find the app, starting the download for him before handing back his phone. “Can I get a name to start your order?” You ask as you look up at him.

His eyes hold a warmth there, radiating off of his smile. “Whiskey.”

“Your mother named you Whiskey?” You tease as you type in the name, returning back to the main page of beverages. “Some kind of legal name.”

The man shakes his head. “Nah, that’s just what I go by at work.”

Whiskey likes conversation, you notice, and it makes you chuckle a little. “You got a real name then?” You ask him, raising an eyebrow beneath your visor.

The man tips his hat. “Jack Daniels, at your service.” He says and offers you a hand, which you take and shake.

“That’s a lie. You’re telling me your nickname is Whiskey and your real name is a type of whiskey?”

The man shrugs. “My momma had a real funny sense of humor, I guess. My daddy loved the booze so they went with it. I work for Statesman, so I suppose it’s fitting.”

“Ah, the distillery,” you nod with a smile, not grasping the depth of what Statesman actually does. How could you? “Well then, Jack,” you say with an honest grin on your face. “What can I get you to drink?”

Whiskey, Jack, whatever his name is, looks up at the menu, scanning the different beverages. “Well. That sure is a lot of choices. I’m new to the area, so I don’t know the menu yet, and I don’t know the first thing about coffee other than how to make it in a machine,” he admits to you. “What would you recommend, sugar?”

Sugar. Your heart beats a million times faster at the man’s words. You’ve had lots of weird and creepy men call you different things, but you’ve never been flustered and enjoyed it. This man is getting to you, quickly. “Well, how strong do you take your coffee?”

He thinks about that for a second, fiddling with the button on his suit jacket. “Pretty strong. A little sweet, with cream. I usually take it Irish style,” he admits with a chuckle, tapping a belt buckle that you realize is a tiny flask. Jesus. That’s not cheesy.

“Well, we don’t serve alcohol,” you laugh and look down at your screen. “We have all kinds of flavors.” You list them all off, off the top of your head, now staring at the ceiling to recite them all. “And our seasonal drink is pumpkin spice.”

The man raises an eyebrow. “Wonderful and all, but what do you like? You seem like you’ve got a good taste, darlin’, tell me what you’d recommend.”

God, these names are going right to where they shouldn’t, especially not when this handsome man is leaning on your counter and flirting with you as he orders his coffee. “I like vanilla.” You shrug.

The man laughs and stands. “I hate to say it, sugar, but I’m not a very vanilla man,” he says, his head tilting down and his dark, sultry eyes peeking out at you from just below the brim. His voice is seductive, implying something else other than the flavor.

Oh fuck. “Oh, not like that,” you laugh as your face floods with warm blood, anxiety coursing through your veins. “Not vanilla in that way.” Fuck, that’s even worse, you think and grip the counter so as to not physically cringe at your words.

“Not like that, huh?” His words are still so seductive and flirtatious it makes you want to combust. Maybe you will, if he keeps this going.

“N-no,” you stammer, looking down at the menu screen again. “I mean, I just think it’s underrated. People dismiss it as boring, but it’s really just as interesting of a flavor as anything else. It tastes really good with our espresso.”

Jack tilts his head to the side, a smirk on his face. His lip pokes out just slightly to wet his lips and you shiver involuntarily, your skin pricking up all across your body. God, you hope he can’t see it. “I’ll trust you on it, ‘nilla bean,” the man drawls and stands up straight again. “Triple espresso with vanilla and cream.”

You nod and ring that in. God, if he keeps going with the nicknames, you’re going to melt into a puddle here and now.

“What are these?” He asks as his fingers trace over the drawings on the counter, lifting them and finding the pink and green powder of the dried paint has transferred to his fingertips.

God, he makes you nervous, but in a good way. In the best way possible, a way that makes you want to knock that cowboy hat off his head and find out if his lips are as soft as they look. “I draw when I’m bored. It’s been a slow day,” you chuckle as your own fingers trace the crawling vines and flowers you’d painted there. “Sorry about the transfer,” you chuckle and your fingertips brush his, making you involuntarily shudder again at the contact. His fingertips are calloused and radiate warmth. “Uh, can I get you anything to eat?” You ask and gesture at the bakery case.

The man inspects it for a moment, looking at the various foods lined up under the soft white light. “I’ll take one’a these,” he says and pokes a finger towards the chocolate chip cookies through the glass. You nod and take one out for him, putting it in a little paper sleeve and handing it over. “How much is this gonna hurt my wallet?” He asks, pulling it out from the back pocket of his jeans.

“Give me one second.” You type in your code for your employee discount, which takes a moment.

“What’re you typin’ there, ‘nilla bean?” He asks, brow furrowing.

Looking up at him, you push your visor up your face and smile a little. “Oh, I’m giving you my employee discount. It’s ridiculously priced here.”

Jack frowns. “You don’t have to do that for me, sugar. I’m just a regular ol’ customer.”

It’s your chance, you realize, to say something or stay silent forever. “Well, I like you,” you admit and take the credit card he hands you, swiping it through the machine. “And I’m hoping you’ll at least become a regular. I’d like to see you more,” you tell him with a grin.

The man’s face lights up, even beneath the shadow of his brim. “I’d like that too,” he nods and pockets his card when you hand it back.

A beat of silence passes as the two of you smile at each other, both of you lovestruck immediately. “Uh, your drink will be right up over there,” you say and nod to the other end of the café. “Are you going to drink that here or take it to go?” You ask.

“Oh, here,” he nods.

“Perfect,” you say with a small smile. “Then I’ll just bring it to you when it’s ready. Nothing better to do today,” you shrug and wander down to the other end before Jack, Whiskey, whatever can refute you.

You take the cup from your coworker, humming to yourself as you put some vanilla and cream in the cup, pulling the espresso shots. When it’s ready, it barely reaches the halfway mark of the small cup, so you top it with a little whipped cream. You suspect the man has more of a sweet tooth than he lets on.

Pocketing a pink paint marker, you put a lid on the drink and walk out to the dining room, setting the coffee down across from him. He’s munching on the cookie he’d ordered, looking up at you with unintentional puppy dog eyes. “Hey there.”

“Hi,” you smile and pull out the chair across from him, sitting down and pulling out the paint pen. “I put a little extra whipped cream on top. I thought it would go well with the espresso, make it a little creamier or something.”

As you uncap the paint pen, Jack’s brow furrows as he watches you. “Whatcha doing there?” He asks as you bring his cup closer to yourself and write something on the top.

“Being brave,” you chuckle and cap the pen, sliding it back. “I gotta head back. Enjoy it,” you say as you stand and pat him on the shoulder.

Only as you walk back to the register does Whiskey comprehend exactly what you put on the top of his cup. It’s your phone number, in that chalky pink paint, and a smiley face beneath it.

Jack may not be great with technology, like he told you, but he immediately pulls out his phone and takes a photo. Then he enters the number into a contact, filling out the name: ‘Nilla Bean.

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systlinsideblog · 3 years

Text

Part 7

The fall of the great walled city of Turia came on a day shimmering with heat, but with storm clouds building on the horizion, looming heavy as they built into great mounds over the prairies. The air smelled of the promise of rain; that was good, Systlin thought. A good heavy rain later would wash the blood off the streets.

Turia’s towers glittered white in the sun. The walls were high and proud and in excellent repair; the warriors manning the top of it were said to be skilled. Everyone she’d spoken to had told her the same; Turia was home to a million and a half people. Turia was the jewel of the prairies, the Ar of the South. Turia was home to marvelous markets and one could find any luxury one wished there. The people of Turia were grand and wealthy and proud, and though they loved luxury their fighting men were excellent.

Its walls were high and thick. Its wells were deep and never ran dry. There were food stores to outlast the greatest of sieges. The nine gates were thick and strong and guarded zealously; while attackers died at the walls, the people of Turia would relax in their bath houses and dine on delicacies and laugh.

Turia was splendid. Turia was rich. Turia had been sieged many times, but never once had Turia fallen.

Systlin rolled her neck and shoulders, cracking any tension out.

She remembered Myr. Turia reminded her strongly of it. Myr too had been rich, and strong, and undefeated. Myr as well had thought itself safe behind tall, thick walls and strong gates, guarded by skilled fighters. Myr as well had laughed at the army camped on the plains before it. The walls of Myr had famously been bound in Power, power laid so deeply and thickly by generation after generation of Myrish earth witches that there had been more power than stone to the walls. Breakers before her, born to the desert, had tested those walls. Breakers before her had exhausted themselves against them and failed and died.

She had tried herself against them anyway. She had not failed. There was a hundred foot gap in the walls of Myr now, named for her. “The Mitraka’s Gate,” they called it. The legend of how she’d brought down the famously unbreakable walls of Myr had spread north to the Skyfire reaches and south to Sielauk before she’d even left the deserts.

Turia’s walls were not as high or thick as Myr’s, and they were not spelled for protection. Against a Breaker of the least power they’d be useless, and Systlin was the strongest Breaker ever to live. She eyed the warriors on top of them, still out of bowshot, and for a moment felt a flash of pity for them.

It was gone quickly. She wondered how many of those proud men had women chained to their beds. A million and a half people, but that number did not, she knew, count slaves. Counting slaves, it was said that the number was at least twice that, and likely higher.

Foicatch was watching her. He had not been at Myr when it fell, but he had been there since. He’d ridden through the Mitraka’s Gate. He knew, of course, that she was remembering.

“Been a bit,” He said at last, as they waited for Myr to send out its famous tharlarion cavalry, and honestly though she found herself growing fond of the kaiila the Wagon Peoples rode and could admit that the vicious reptilian tharlarion were impressive, she wished she had a good, normal horse. “Since we had a real battle before us.”

“Hmmm.” She agreed. The last time, indeed, they’d been fighting a mad god and his creatures. She’d killed a god, in that battle. Killed one god and threatened another. “Do try not to die. I’d hate to have to find a new royal consort.”

A snort. “I’ve no intention of dying today. I want to see you on the throne of that city.” A pause. “I’ve always had rather a fantasy, actually, of you on the throne of freshly conquered city, and me on my knees…”

Oh. Well. That did sound interesting. She gave him an appraising look. “Have you? You could have said something.”

“Well. It’s always been so busy when we’re breaching a stronghold, and things were all happening so fast at the time. You were so intent; I wasn’t sure you’d take it well.” A shrug. “Early days of us and all. By the time I knew better, you had the North in line again, and when we fought the Fallen One there weren’t many strongholds to breach or thrones to make use of.”

That was fair. “I’m going to hold you to that.” She said thoughtfully, even as the great gates ground slowly open and ranks of fighting men on those two-legged sharp-toothed reptilian beasts began to file out. She eyed the gleaming lances they carried disapprovingly; those were, of course, going to be the first thing she did away with once things got going.

Using her power in pitched battles was risky; she did not like doing it to kill. Not more than needed. But shattering some lances was no issue at all.

He grinned, that familiar and beloved flash of white teeth against that dark beard. “Oh, excellent.” He shot the enemy cavalry a look, and then looked back at her and raised an eyebrow. She nodded once. He leaned over, and she leaned to meet him; they exchanged a kiss, brief but sweet, and he peeled his kaiila away and headed to take command of the left flank.

She looked back over the prairie. There were several thousand riders now, forming ranks. A few men wearing particularly gleaming armor with extra gold leaf seemed to be conferring in a huddle; she waited.

“Ubara?” Dina said softly, from her side. “Ubara, should we…” There was nervousness in her voice.

“Not yet.” Systlin was the veteran of many battles of this scale; Myr was much larger than Turia, and that had been only the first city she’d taken. Dina was not. Even in a seasoned warrior, nerves before battle were normal, but Dina had taken up a spear only a year and a half past. She’d fought and killed, but the other tribes and towns and cities they’d taken were nothing on the scale of Turia. “They’ll send someone to talk, like all the others have. I’ll either kill him or send him back, like all the other times. I’ll break their lances; that will be the signal to charge.”

She looked to her side. Dina’s face was drawn tight. Systlin remembered that Dina, before slave chains, had once been a free woman, and had been born in Turia.

“You have a father, don’t you?” Systlin said, more softly.

“I do.” She whispered. “He never took a slave. He loved my mother, a Free Companion, and never took a slave; he has mourned her since her death. He is of the baker’s caste, as was my mother. He makes sweet rolls and gives them to children, and the best bread and pastries. I do not brag; he was famous in the city, and rich women and men came to buy from us. He and my brothers and I worked hard and were proud of our work.” She paused a moment. “I do not know if my brothers have taken slaves. And if they have…” Another, longer pause, and she looked away. “If they have, I will not beg mercy for them, but I will mourn what they might have been had their minds not been poisoned.”

Systlin thought of her own brother, dead so young. Of laughing and competing and playing with him, of the friendly fighting between close siblings. Of his smile and his laugh, and his sharp wit. She wondered, if her place and Dina’s had been switched, if she could have watched him killed for slaving and rape.

She probably could have. She knew it in the deepest place in her heart, where she worried sometimes at her own coldness. She probably would have done it with her own hands, at that. She’d executed her uncle and aunt with her own hands, in that battle to bring the warring lords tearing the North to bloody scraps to heel. But she was a famously hard and coldhearted bitch when it came to matters of justice, as any noble in the North of Ellinon would tell. “The Iron Bitch”, she knew they called her behind her back. “The Iron Bitch with the frozen heart.”

She’d have done it, yes. But she’d have mourned intensely after, for what might have been.

Dina was loyal and dear to her, a good friend. But if her brothers were rapists and slavers, Systlin knew that even if Dina begged, she would not grant mercy unless the offended girls asked it. It ran counter to everything in her to do so.

Goddess of Justice. The Lady’s voice whispered in her head.

Fuck off, she thought in return. I’ve shit to do.

“We can hope,” she said. “That they take after your father. And we’re not here to loot; if your father is in his shop and not with the fighting men, he’s quite safe.”

That seemed to ease Dina slightly. The woman was still used to the Gorean idea of war, where taking a city meant sacking it utterly, looting and burning and slaving. No army under Systlin’s command would ever fight so, though. She’d kill the soldiers responsible with her bare hands.

“Baker’s caste,” Dina said. “Do not fight, not unless they must. They will not be on the walls. Those on the walls and on the field here are warrior caste.”

Systlin would have to investigate this caste system more thoroughly. She did not like the idea on principle, but it seemed a force of social stability that most Goreans were very attached to. From what she’d gathered there were provisions for moving through castes if one wished. However, she’d heard that some, such as weavers and spinners, were considered ‘low caste’.

Systlin had attempted such tasks before; her mother was fond of spinning and weaving, though she was Queen Mother and needed never touch a spindle if she didn’t wish. After fifteen minutes spent at it, Systlin had come to the conclusion that the work that went into cloth was absurdly complicated and skilled, and had never touched a spindle since. She did, however, have a reputation for never haggling when it came to buying cloth or paying her seamstresses.

Low caste her arse. The idea of any of the most essential tasks…potters, farmers, fishermen, herders…being lower than any others raised her hackles. Perhaps the idea of low or high caste could go…

Across the grassland, a small party of men, led by one of the men in gleaming gold-chased armor began to ride towards them. Systlin put aside other concerns and nodded once to Dina, who nodded back and went to lead the right flank.

Her kaiila could sense that battle was coming, and shifted under her, tossing her head in eagerness. Systlin held her steady, and waited.

They headed, of course, for Foicatch. Systlin sighed and rolled her eyes, and nudged her kaiila forward. The creature sprang forward in that long, loping predator stride, and she headed them off in moments. They glared at her, all hostile intent. She regarded them in what was probably a dismissive manner, but so far as she was concerned these men were already dead. They were nothing that she had not seen on this world already, in the smaller towns that lay outside Turia. She’d killed a thousand like them since coming here.

“You know full well that I lead this army.” She said bluntly. “You’ve heard the stories.” She sighed. “It makes me curious…”

“Stories of trickery and nonsense about sorcery.” The man with the glittering armor said loftily. “A few villages might fall to some unnatural woman, but this is Turia. We will not be afraid of a tribe of women who think themselves the equals of men.”

“…As I was saying,” Systlin raised her voice slightly. “It makes me curious as to the full degree which you, meaning men on this world, are capable of deluding yourselves. I’ve been halfway through conquering towns and tribes and the men would still be telling me that I couldn’t hope to carry through, because I was but a woman.” She shook her head. “Almost sad, really. I’ve an army of twenty five thousand camped before your gates. I know you have heard the stories of how I’ve conquered cities across the prairies and brought all the tribes of the Wagon People under my rule. I am Ubara-Sana of the plains, by my own hand, and I’ve crushed every force sent against me. And yet here you are, still claiming the same old tired thing.”

She looked him in the eyes. “This is the part where, if you are smart, you will confer with your people and you will open the gates, lay down your arms, and have a chance to survive this.”

He scoffed. Entirely predictably. “This is Turia, woman. The plainsfolk may not have been able to humble you, but Turia will. We’ve ten thousand cavalry, and that is not counting the fighting men on foot. You and your slave girls with swords can batter yourselves to ribbons against us, and we’ll put collars on those of you not killed.” A slow, lewd smile, because apparently he felt he hadn’t dug his own grave deep enough. “Maybe I’ll put mine on you, woman, and teach you to obey a master’s word.”

“Well.” Systlin shrugged. “I did give you a chance.”

She’d learned knife throwing from Stellead, but the Arms Master of the Bloodguard had been dubious of its effectiveness and the instruction had only been basic. It was at the Iron Mountain, under the tutelage of the master assassins of the Master of Knives, that she’d learned how to properly throw a knife.

She’d killed the Master of Knives, of course. He’d taken the contract on her father, and sent out one of his Shadow Hands to kill a king. She’d killed the Brother of Shadow who’d wielded the knife, as well, and many others besides. The Iron Mountain stood empty now, the bones of those she’d killed gathering dust in the halls.

Her knife took the golden-armored warrior through the eye. He looked quite shocked as he slid from the saddle and fell. His men started in rage, and went for their lances.

Systlin smiled at them. Her power rose, a cold sweep through her bones, tingling under her skin. She raised her hand, and flicked her fingers negligently at them, mostly for show.

Their lances shattered into splinters. So did at least five thousand other lances of the leading ranks of the famed thalarion cavalry of Turia.

A great confused sound went up, and thalarion shied at the strange scent of Power in the air, sharp as ozone. And as fighting men scrambled for their secondary weapons, Systlin’s forces charged.

Ice took the first man before her just under the chin. She didn’t quite behead him as her coal-black kaiila shot past, but slashed the big artery on his neck open. Blood pumped, and the sound he made as he fell was a terrible gurgle.

She wheeled her mount and ducked the frantic sweep of a sword. The riders were startled, off balance, and that was death when facing a warrior of her caliber. Her kaiila darted in and took the throat of one of the slower High Thalarions, tearing it open. The beast went down, and its rider with it. Systlin kneed the sides of her kaiila and it leapt; the final warrior managed to parry her first blow, a slicing cut at his neck.

She twisted her wrist, reversed the grip on Ice’s hilt with a little twist and clever movement of her fingers that Stellead had made her practice ten thousand times, and drove it into his chest under his ribs. Drew it back with a sharp jerk as she wheeled her kaiila again, and flipped it back around in her hand. She did not have to think about the motion; she had not missed the catch on the twist since she had been a child training under Arms Master Stellead.

Then her kaiila was running, and she pushed it hard for a few paces until she regained her place leading the center. Lances glittered to either side of her, and she felt a fierce pride in the women she’d trained.

She eyed the gates of Turia, behind the regrouping lines of thalarion cavalry. Arrows arched from behind, as her mounted archers began picking off the front ranks of the Turian forces as they came into range.

Arrows returned, from on top of the walls, and one bounced off of her wraithen-scale armor. She lashed out with her power, still simmering under her skin, and five hundred bows shattered. Cries of dismay went up a second time.

She eyed the great gates of Turia, even as her kaiila gathered itself to leap and the first of her lance-fighters neared the front lines of the Turian cavalry. She eyed them for a half a second before she hit the front lines of the Turians, and she Broke them.

The great gates of Turia, and fifty feet of the wall to either side, crumbled into splinters and sand. There was a great cry of horror and dismay from the city, and cries of “UBARA! UBARA!” from her own warriors, delighted.

And then her front line was smashing into the Turian cavalry, and there was no more time for thought.

The Turians were skilled, but they were off balance, had lost the advantage of their long lances, and had not truly been expecting a proper fight. Systlin and her best lancers hit them like a hammer, and pierced deep into the ranks before the Turians quite knew it was happening. The Turians were down to swords now, and only a few of the rear ranks still had lances. Systlin’s riders had long lances with reach, and their kaiila were faster and more nimble than the high thalarion the Turians rode.

And, of course, they had her.

Systlin was no stranger to mounted combat. She’d ridden with the tribes of the desert at Sura’s side for years, and was as deft a hand at mounted combat as any Rider. She’d never have been accepted, otherwise.

It felt, she had to admit, as she turned a sword aside with Ice and flicked the sword around, down, and up, taking off the man’s sword hand at the wrist, very good to be at it again. The man screamed, but she was past him. A lance glanced off of her armor, and she wheeled her kaiila. The beast snapped, catching a leg, and tore the man off of his mount. His thalarion turned and went for her mount, but her kaiila shook its head and was leaping away before it could do any damage.

Systlin fought with all the skill and speed and cunning she had. She fought viciously, the whole time willing that her army would not fail now, would not quail because this battle was larger and closer-fought than any before. She willed it, imagining that she could throw wide her arms and take under her shadow all of her proud free mounted warriors, and through sheer will alone keep them fighting.

And she did what she had always done, in battle. She led on the front line, and fought like nothing the Turians had ever seen before. Men rose before her and men fell; she was past Power now, and killed with pure hard-won skill and naked steel. She cut faces, necks, torsos, limbs. Ice’s blue-tinged blade was purple with blood, and blood spattered her all over. She killed, and killed, with all the skill of those long hours of training and decades more of fighting for her life. She fought, and killed, her blood sang with it.

You were never made for peace. The Lady’s words. It was true; she knew it was true. She loved battle, though she knew it spoke of her basically coldhearted and vicious nature that she did. She was a warrior born and trained and blooded, and she was at home on the killing field.

She’d fought three wars, leading from the front. She’d won each, and the sight of her at the forefront of her warriors, in her element, bloody and screaming and bringing death with her, was absolute horror to the men of Gor.

The sight that horrified the men of Turia stiffened the spines of her warriors, and to the endless horror of the men of Turia, the former slave girls, now screaming warriors with lances and swords, cut into them with a fury they’d never seen.

With her at their front, her mounted warriors smashed the Turian lines apart, just as the left flank led by Foicatch drove hard at the gap left at the rear, pushing the cavalry of Turia away from the broken gates and cutting them off from retreat into the city. Foicatch himself set himself in the middle of the smashed gate, and Systlin caught glimpses of him engaged in fierce close fighting now and then as foot soldiers pressed forward from the city to try and relieve the cavalry she was driving like a herd of sheep across the prairies before Turia.

But the fighting men of Turia were skilled, and proud, and they began to regroup. Men were shouting orders, and the remaining lances managed to form up defensive lines. The fighting grew vicious, even after Systlin Broke more lances, and their advance ground to a crawl. Their armies were nearly matched; Systlin’s warrior women had better armor and better reach, but the Turian fighting men had more experience, and it began to show as they got their feet under them. Systlin’s troops fought like mad wildcats, and she was so proud; they were still winning forward, inch by inch, but she was not about to spend more lives than she had to.

The Turians began to press back, and her advance ground to a halt. Systlin smiled, because she heard the galloping of the kaiila, and knew.

Dina’s mounted archers swept past, and the women turned on their kaiilas with those short but powerful recurve bows of wood and bosk horn. Strings slid from thumb rings, and three thousand arrows hammered home through that light leather armor that the men of this world favored. The kaiilas wheeled, and the women turned again, as they’d practiced a thousand times, sitting backwards on their mounts. Strings sang again, and arrows flew as thick as rain.

Turians died. Systlin yelled and plunged forward again, and to shouts of “UBARA! UBARA! WHIP-BURNER! CHAIN-STRIKER!” her warriors followed.

The Turians had nowhere to retreat from Dina’s archers, except back onto the lances of Systlin’s mounted spear-women. No rescue came from Turia; Foicatch was stacking the bodies of fighting men four deep in the ruin of the shattered gates.

The fighting outside the city drug out a big longer; it took time to slaughter ten thousand cavalry and their mounts. But caught between Dina’s wheeling mounted archers and their storm of arrows and the lances of Systlin’s cavalry and Systlin’s own sword, they were cut to bits.

It was then that Systlin regrouped her lancers and led them to the shattered gates, where the foot soldiers of Turia were approaching more cautiously than before. The shattered gates themselves were a charnel house; fighting men and women both lay dead alongside wounded and dead and shrieking kaiila, and blood was red over the stones of the road and the rubble of the gates and walls. Foicatch and his warriors held, and the fighting men of Turia seemed reluctant to approach within reach of Foicatch’s sword.

They parted to let Systlin through, and her lancers flowed around to guard the sides of the ranks of warriors.

Systlin joined Foicatch at the front lines. She must look a terrible sight; she was head to toe blood and mud, the colors of her wraithen armor dulled under the coating. Foicatch’s own set of wraithen scale armor was similarly filthy. There was a cut high on his temple, a glancing blow that was not serious but bleeding freely. Even as she joined him she felt a trickle of Power as he flicked droplets of blood away from his eyes.

A lull in the fighting; the soldiers of Turia drew back, appalled at the sight. Foicatch eyed her, gaze flicking head to toe to check her for injuries. She gave him a slight reassuring shake of her head, doing the same to him. The cut on his temple seemed to be the worst of it. She turned to eye the soldiers before them.

“Your cavalry,” Systlin informed the fighting men before them. “Are dead. My throat slitters are making short work of any survivors this very moment. You did not hear the offer I made before, I think, so I will make it one more time. Lay your weapons down now, and you may find mercy. I will not give you another chance.”

Not one fighting man moved, save for the one who yelled in defiance, pulled a knife from his boot, and hurled it at her head.

It was a good throw, she thought, as she twisted her head to the side even as his hand swept up with the blade. It was a good throw. Had she not been taught by Stellead and the Shadow Hands of the Iron Mountain, it might have struck home. As it was, it simply scraped her cheekbone in passing; a shallow cut that would heal quickly and cleanly.

Answer enough, she supposed. Foicatch was already moving, and fell on the knife-thrower with a single-minded viciousness that was poetry to see. Systlin was moving almost as quickly, and that was where the battle in the city began.

It was nasty work. Street by street, driving the fighting men before them. Many of the freed slaves in Systlin’s forces had been from Turia, and as planned they now took the lead. As Systlin had suspected, their knowledge of the city was invaluable; meeting places and baths where warriors gathered were found out. Attacks from small alleys were anticipated. Cobbles went slick with blood. A nasty dagger opened a long cut into Systlin’s left forearm, and some of the slick blood under their boots and the kaiila’s paws was her own. She bound it with a strip torn from her own shirt, cinching the knot tight with her teeth, and pressed on.

Turia was a city of millions; it took hours to work their way through, even with the size of her army. It was late afternoon when at last she realized that any warriors found out were fleeing rather than fighting, and being quickly ridden down by archers. Systlin stopped, at last, sitting high on her kaiila, and knew that she was Ubara of Turia, and by extension all of the plains in truth, by right of conquest.

Dina was staying close now, guiding them through the streets. She saw the same realization dawn on Dina’s face; Foicatch was already smiling that grim satisfied smile she remembered well.

“Take me to the throne of Turia.” Systlin said, and Dina did.

The first drops of the storm hit the bloody dust and thunder growled low when the reached the great palace of Turia. It was in a vast central building, half law chambers and half a throne hall. It was all in the same white stone that the city seemed to favor, with a great dome over the hall where the Thrones of Turia sat. They were very fine; there was, Systlin was sure, wood somewhere under the silver and inlaid semiprecious stones, but it was difficult to make out. She left footprints of blood and mud across the spotless tiled floors.

She’d made instructions clear before the first spear was lifted; her warriors knew what to do. One part of being a leader, her father had said long ago. Is finding competent people that you trust, and then trusting them to do their jobs without your having to hang over their shoulder.

He’d been right. Her people were competent, and she did trust them. So while she waited for her warriors to ferret out the various guild and caste leaders and other important persons, Systlin ascended the nine steps to the dais…it was gorgeously carpeted, and inlaid with ivory and gold…and sat herself down in the larger throne, the throne of the Ubar of Turia.

Foicatch eyed her. There was an answering warm pulse that went down her spine and pooled insistently between her legs; there was nothing like battle to get the blood up. But…She raised her eyebrows back at him. “Not yet.” She said, somewhat reluctantly, and motioned with her chin at the smaller throne, the throne where traditionally the Ubara sat. “Not quite yet. It’s not properly conquered until I explain things to the important people, is it?”

“I suppose not.” But his eyes were lingering on her lips, and slid down over the length of her legs and the curve of her hip even so. She could feel the heat of it, and dearly wished to answer it.

But it was about at that point that people…some of them bedraggled, some begging and pleading, some silent and apparently numbly shocked into silence, all led by her fierce and triumphant warrior women, began to file into the great throne chamber. All were drenched; Systlin could hear rain rattling against the roof now, and thunder rumbling quite often.

They stared. Systlin knew what she must look like. She sat, and waited. Her shoulder ached; she’d been slammed into a wall at one point, and probably had a spectacular bruise. Her arm where she’d been cut stung. Her muscles burned from exertion; she’d been fighting on and off for hours. The cut on her cheek had scabbed, and pulled when she moved or spoke.

None of it mattered. Victory was pounding in her veins along the adrenaline. Even now, she knew, her warriors were removing chains from slaves; she could taste it on the air, and it was as sweet as honeyed wine.

Goddess of justice and war.

She ignored the voice of the Lady whispering.

Dina was conferring with the other women native to Turia. They looked fearsome; all were armored and armed and bloody. Most of the blood, to Systlin’s immense pride, was not their own. They had wounds, true, but most were not serious, and every warrior will earn scars. They were standing and moving and speaking with a new edge of confidence that had not been there even this morning, and Systlin knew why.

Stories would be told of this, she knew. Stories would be told, and the warriors who’d fought with her to take Turia would be legend in their own right. And they knew it as well; had proved something to themselves that could never be taken away.

Yes, these warrior women would say, years from now. Yes, of course I know of the Fall of Turia. I was there. I fought at the Ubara’s side. There would be looks then, as awed as any Systlin herself had ever received, and she knew in her bones how the legends would be told in decades to come.

Dina of Turia, who led the Ubara’s archers and broke the Turian cavalry with the Ubara.

Sabra of Turia, the first of all who had her chains struck off, who rode with her lance at the Ubara’s side, in her honor guard, and who fought so fiercely that none could stand before her. Never in the battle for the city did she leave the Ubara’s side, and she walked through blood ankle-deep that day.

Hula of Turia, Doreen of Turia, Hireena of the Tuchuks. Tamra of Ar…

The list went on and on, and pride was a bright warmth in her chest.

Dina said something to Sabra, who nodded and turned to cross the hall and climb the steps. Systlin remembered that first day; Sabra clutching, terrified, at her sleeve. There was little trace of the frightened and beaten slave girl now; Sabra was one of her best with a spear, and she wore thick bosk-hide armor sewn with metal plates. Her arms and shoulders were strong, and her blonde hair braided tightly back. There was blood and mud crusted in it, and a vicious bruise showing around one eye. Her nose had been broken at some point, and hastily reset,. The dried blood from it was still on her chin. She was smiling a smile of victory.

“Ubara sana.” She said. “The guild leaders, councilors, and other important leaders of the city are assembled.”

“Thank you, Sabra.” Systlin smiled back, just as fierce. “And well fought. Fierce as a she-panther.”

The grin widened. “Thank you, Ubara-sana!”

“I told you,” Systlin said, still smiling. “You doubted me, but here you stand. When I secure the treasury, you are to take as much as you can carry, as a mark of my esteem. I name you now to my personal guard, for as long as you desire the post, but you must promise to tell me if you ever wish to leave. You were the first to have her chains thrown off, and I’ve no wish to ever bind you with others.”

Sabra blinked rapidly, and Systlin realized that she was blinking back tears. “I will, Ubara sana.” She said. “But I do not think that day will come.”

“Well. If it does, let me know. And I’ve another duty for you; you were the first to take up weapons, even before Dina. If you will, once things settle more in a few days, go among the women of Turia and tell them your story. And if any of them wish it, bring them to me, and help me train them as warriors, as you trained yourself.”

A light like fever lit in Sabra’s eyes. “Ubara sana,” she whispered. “You honor me, and I will do this.”

“You won your honor yourself, with your own hands and by your own actions.” Systlin said. “I merely handed you the tools to do so. Bring them all forward, then.”

Foicatch, she realized, was staring at her with an intensity that was scorching.

“You will never have any idea,” he breathed, very quietly, as her warriors herded the frightened rich and powerful of the city to the base of the raised dais the thrones sat upon, “the effect you have on people. What it’s like to see, from the outside.”

“Hush.” She murmured back, just as softly. “You’re biased.”

“I am. But I’m also right. Every woman in your forces would have followed you to the death this morning, but after this they’d follow you past it as well.”

“Hmm.” She allowed, but it was a pleased sound. “I try only to be what they deserve.”

“Yes.�� He said. “Yes, and that’s why.”

She eyed the small crowd at the foot of the dais. They were frightened and soaked from the storm, bedraggled and sullen.

“Foicatch, darling.” She said. “Our guests appear to be soaked. Could you give them a hand?”

He made an agreeable sound and lifted a hand. She tasted Power on the back of her tounge, ozone and burnt cinnamon.

There were gasps and screams as the water streamed and spiraled off of the huddled leaders of Turia. Foicatch pulled it into a hovering globe above his hand, and then rather negligently flicked it aside. It splashed to the tiles, leaving the people in the crowd quite dry.

Dina clicked her tounge against her teeth. “Are you all sorcerers, on your world?” A year and a half of following Systlin, one of the strongest fire witches and the strongest Breaker ever to live, had rubbed the novelty off of seeing Power worked.

“Not all of us.” Systlin lifted a shoulder. “But a good many.”

“My mother’s a stronger water witch than me,” Foicatch said absently. “I’ve only half her gift.”

“Wait until you see him really angry,” Systlin said. “And see him tear the water from a man’s blood.”

“I have.” That was Hireena, herding the Turians forward. Her voice was low, and she looked at Foicatch with deep respect. “At the gates, as we fought.”

“Did you?” She said, with interest. Systlin had seen it done before. It had been….compelling. Hmmmm.

Later. Later. More important things first.

“Turia.” She said, her voice clear. “I greet you.”

Furious, frightened faces looked up at her. Mutters went around. Systlin remembered well what she’d been told.

“I greet you,” she said. “As Ubara Sana of the plains, won by my own hand. But of course, you are Turian, and the power in Turia lies with the merchants.”

“It is so.” One veiled woman said. She was looking up curiously; her robes were of exquisitely fine silks, and embroidered with gold. Pearls hung from the edges of her sleeves, and crystal beads glittered across her gown.

“That,” said Systlin. “May change. I understand, of course, that you’ve already well established trade routes, and I’ve no wish to interfere with them. But I am Ubara Sana now, and the old laws will change. You may have heard that, on the plains, slave chains have been outlawed, and all slaves freed. It is true, and as of this moment by my decree every slave in Turia is freed.”

There was a roar of arguments and shouting and disapproving noises.

“…cannot simply…”

“…My business is slaves! How am I to…”

“…an outrage!...”

Systlin waited them out, patient. As she did, another of the Turian women jogged in through the great door; the rain had washed away most of the mud and blood, but she was limping, a strip of cloth bound around one thigh. She murmured something to Dina, who nodded once and took the nine steps up to the dais two at a time.

“There is a problem.” Dina said. “Saphrar, a wealthy merchant, one of the leaders of the Merchant’s Caste in the city. He’s a fortified compound, and has walled himself up with his mercenary forces.”

“Tell everyone to pull back.” Systlin said at once. “Keep an eye on the compound; let no one escape. After I finish here, I’ll come and tend to his gates myself.”

Dina smiled thinly, and went back down, murmured this to the other woman. The other woman grinned like a wolf, and hurried out, swift despite her wounded leg.

“Have you all finished?” Systlin raised her voice above the crowd.

“I will contract with the Guild of Assassins for this!” A man with thick dark hair and wearing gold and white robes said furiously. He had a hand raised and was shaking a finger at the sky. “I’ll have your head in my vault. I swear it on the Priest-Kings! “

“I take it that you deal in slaves,” Systlin said dryly.

“I do! It is an honorable trade, and I have been dealing in slave meat for…”

Systlin nodded at Dina, who moved quickly. Her knife gleamed, and the man’s throat opened ear to ear. A gurgle, and a red rush of blood, and utter shocked silence.

“Slavery,” Systlin said mildly. “Is one of the greatest crimes, and slavers are condemned to death. Those who procure and deal in slaves for their own wealth are doubly damned. Throw his body to the kaiila; they must be hungry after the fight. What was his name?”

Silence.

“I asked,” Systlin said, voice going cold. “For his name. I expect an answer.”

Another moment of silence dragged out, and then…“Kazrak.” The veiled woman who’d spoken before said. “Kazrak of the Merchant Caste. His mansion is next to mine, and his warehouse is in the low streets, near the slave market.”

“Did he have a Free Companion, any children?”

“Both.”

“Then half of his estate shall go to them, and they shall maintain their home. The other half of his assets are forfeit, and will be redistributed between his slaves, who are now free.” Systlin raised an eyebrow. “Might I have your name?”

“Aphris.” Said the woman. “Of the Merchant Caste. I deal in silks and wine, not people.” She shot a somewhat vicious look at the dead Kazrak, as he was dragged off, leaving a smear of red on the tiles. “And he was cruel, and it does my heart good to see justice done him. I take it then that we, the free women of Turia, are not to be put in slave chains?”

“Bloody pits, no.” Systlin said, repulsed.

“I did not think so.” Aphris said, cool and collected, a point of calm in the angry and terrified crowd. “But many freewomen feared the worst. It is, after all, how war has been done on Gor for a very long time. You can understand the worry.”

It was a reasonable worry, Systlin supposed. “Of course. But have no fear, no hand will be raised against you. You are free, and will remain free. Aside from that, by my laws it will be punishable by death if anyone, from anywhere, ever attempted to enslave you, and I would hunt that man down and kill him for daring to put chains on one of my subjects.”

There were many free women in the crowd, and at the words there was sort of a sigh that ran through them, and a sense of some great tension lifted. The men looked startled. Systlin gestured, taking in the concealing robes all of the free women wore.

“It is no longer required,” she continued. “That you wear full Robes of Concealment in public. A free woman may dress as she likes and go where she likes. If you feel more comfortable in your robes, of course, then you are welcome to wear them, but it is not required. If you choose to set them aside and experience difficulty from anyone, you may make a formal complaint and the matter will be dealt with. I will make people and resources available to deal with such matters.”

A murmur. More looks of outrage from the men.

“Many,” Aphris said. “Will welcome this. But for myself, Ubara, I think I will choose to wear the robes, at least for some time longer.”

“Of course.” Systlin inclined her head. “And I am afraid, of course, that Turia will be judged.”

“Judged?” One man snapped. “Like you judged Kazrak?”

“Yes. Precisely how I judged Kazrak.” Systlin smiled unpleasantly. “There are three great crimes; the murder of an innocent who has done no harm, the rape of another, and enslaving another. The penalty for all three is death.”

Silence. Dead, horrified silence. And then,

“You cannot mean,” another man said, carefully. “That every man who held a slave will be killed.”

“No.” Systlin shook her head. Sighs of relief, but she continued. “Because some slaves, for whatever reason, beg mercy for those who held them. It will be up to any slaves you hold what your fate is. But,” and she grinned again, more horribly. “If a single slave you’ve held and raped chooses death for you, I will put a knife in her hand and hold you down myself for the sentence.”

“What.”

“You cannot mean…”

“Not all…”

“All.” Systlin said, merciless. “Every man in Turia. If a freewoman held male slaves…I’m told it happens…then her life is forfeit as well. I will not abide it. Have no fear; I will establish many courts to see to it. It will take us months to work through the city, but it will be done. And those of you who are guilty, I will hang your bones from the white walls as a warning.”

“You,” Said one man, who had until then been silent, staring angry daggers at her from the front of the crowd. His robes, she noted, were the finest in the room, and edged in purple. “Are mad.”

“Not the first time I’ve been called that.” Systlin said easily. She looked him over, matching up features with descriptions. “Phanius Turmus, I presume?”

“Ubar of Turia.” He confirmed, chin high. “You are defiling my throne, woman.”

“You were.” She shook her head. “But you lost. You’re simply Phanius now, and you’ll be judged with the rest.”

“I think that perhaps I shall contract with the Assassin’s Caste for your head.” He didn’t flinch or break eye contact. “Your head would look well in my vaults, I agree with Kazrak.”

“Oh, please do. I ought to make their acquaintance. It’s been some time since I trained with the assassins of my own world, and tore their master’s throat out with my knife. So yes please, do. It would be an exciting challenge.”

Foicatch sighed resignedly. “Really, love?”

Phanius was giving her a stare of pure and utter horror. “What are you?” He almost whispered. “What terrible hell did you crawl from, to plague us? Have you no respect for those of high caste?”

“My mother would be terribly offended by calling her a ‘terrible hell’.” She made steady eye contact with each person in her horrified and enraptured audience. “The terrible hell is her sister, who taught me to fight. And no. Every caste. From low to high. All will be judged the same. If any have offended in these ways, I will see justice done upon them. No one is exempt.”

“You’ll kill thousands!” One man cried. “Tens of thousands!”

“Oh,” Systlin said, cold as steel in winter. “Hundreds of thousands, I expect.”

“You cannot…”

“Poor choice of words.” Foicatch sighed again. “I could have warned you; there’s no better way to get her to do something than to tell her, earnestly, that she can’t.”

Systlin stood, and let Power rise. Not the terrible cold of Breaking, but her other gift, hot and furious and wild. Fire bloomed around her for a moment, and was gone too quickly to set fire to her clothes. But it had the desired effect. Silence fell. Horrified silence.

“I am not bargaining with you.” She said softly. “I am not suggesting. I am not your old Ubar. I stand here by right of conquest. I breached your walls and killed my way to this throne, and I am going to kill a great deal many more before I am through. The merchants and caste-masters are not ruling Turia any longer; I am.”

She moved a step down, drawing closer to them. “To put this in terms you understand, which I gathered from women you had kidnapped from a world not yours and forced into slavery; you had best get used to this new way, or you will die. I am telling you how things now are. You can flee the city, if you wish, but I will not stop here and I will find you. Be it when I take Ar, or Ko-Ro-Ba, or any other city, I will come. I am going to end slavery on this world, and I fully expect to do it at the point of a sword. I am Ubara Sana of the plains. I rule this city now. These are the great crimes that will be punished, and how they will be punished. This matter is not open for negotiation. If you dislike these words, you are free to take them up with any of the twenty thousand of my soldiers in your city. They’ll be thrilled to discuss them, I am sure.” She descended another step. “Until the courts are established and judging begins, no one is to leave the city. I control the entirety of the plains and other bands of my warriors have seized trade routes. I have the wealth of Turia at my disposal; you will not go hungry. And now, you are free to return to your homes; I have things yet to do tonight. One of you has decided to fight tooth and nail; I’m off to crack him out of his nutshell. Dismissed.”

She swept past, not looking back, and felt their eyes on her back as she went.

57 notes · View notes