#I just need to lick my metaphorical wounds for a while

[goron-king-darunia]

Eggtober 22 Impressions of Broccoli Quiche Clip Studio Paint, Gouache Brush, Dry Gouache Brush, Freckle Pen. 12 Colors. Not nearly enough time (30 minutes or less?) I did not have a very good day today and I wanted to do a much better job on this than I ended up doing. But I just don’t have much energy for this. Had the time, but I’m just really not in the mood for art after some stuff that’s out of my control happened. I wanted to do something easier, but I couldn’t think of anything else, and I didn’t want to put it off. I might redo this one when I have time and a better mood. But for a bit I just wanna lie down and forget. I don’t mean to be a downer. Even art that doesn’t meet standards I set for myself can still be a joy for others, even if I’m not very joyful myself today. Hopefully, tomorrow is a better day. Maybe I’ll even like this piece better tomorrow. Until then, @quezify and all the other lovelies can bring me a little comfort with their eggs. Today was no good for me. But one bad day is not a bad Eggtober, especially not with so many contributing artists. Stay safe, stay warm, and try to enjoy the day, even if life slaps you across the face and strangles you like it did for me today. Gonna make some poached egg or enjoy some pineapple and just have a good cry, and hopefully that helps.

[13as07]

Object #1

(Akatsuki Smut)

[Art work is not mine! Credit to sajol201460]

Requested by: Myself

Keys:

None

Word Count: 5,228

Warnings and/or Pre-Notes:

I have no relational explanation for this short series besides the reoccurring thought of being the akatsuki's free-use doll so sorry not sorry

Characters: Pain/Nagato, Konan, and Sasori

Sadism (biting, choking, hair pulling, slapping)

Blood Play (licking up blood)

Nicknames: Princess, Good Girl, Master, Sir, Lap Dog, Mutt, Puppet

Domination (varies levels)

Oral/Fingering

Cock-warming

Degrading (object, cumdump, whore, bitch, dumb, disgusting)

Exhibitionism (public sex)

Bondage (wrist restraints)

Creampie/Cum Shot

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The feeling of teeth grazing my inner thigh roughly snaps me out of sleep. "Who's..." I start, my head still foggy with sleep. My hands sink down my body, being met with a head of hair as I try to push the person off of me.

"Knock it off, Princess," Nagato's voice rings out before his teeth sink back into the tissue of my leg.

As the fog of sleep slips away, my senses start to wake up, painting the unseen picture in the dark room. My thighs tingle in pain, a promise that Nagato has been nibbling at them for a while. His arms are wrapped around my legs, keeping them in place as he does as he pleases.

His room is mostly silent, the only noise being the suction of his mouth on my skin. I shouldn't call it his room, it's our room - unofficially. I don't have a room in the hideout; another degrading reminder that I'm not viewed as a person by its members. I'm not a person here, I'm an object, something to be used as wanted by the murderous group.

Nagato's jaw relaxes for a second, a gentle kiss being pressed into me before his teeth clamp down on the same spot. The warmth of my blood trickles out this time, proof that my skin has been ripped by our lovely leader. Their leader.

I do not leave the grounds of the hide-out unless Pain requests my presence or he accompanies me. I do not fight for whatever cause he formed the group around. I do get to spend my day as I please, filling my time as I wait to be used again. I do not get a say in what happens or when. I am here to be used, to ease the member's needs, to be a warm body for Nagato to sleep next to.

I do get whatever I want; jewels, clothes, food, entertainment, company. Outside of being used, the answer is always yes. I do get to leave on request. My life has led me to many beautiful sights, all it takes is me to ask. I believe it's a fair trade, how wouldn't it be? Most of the time I get pleased as the members' needs are met and I get treated as a princess, as Pain's nickname for me signifies.

"Good girl," he mumbles against the torn skin, his tongue sliding out to lick it up.

Once the blood is done leaking out of my wound, Pain shifts his attention to my other thigh and quickly lives up to his name. Bites are littered over my skin until he finds the spot that satisfies his requirements. He goes back to his favorite pastime, bruising my skin with his teeth until it gives away and tears.

I let my mind wander, trying to keep my focus off the sizzling pain between my legs. With Nagato keeping the room so dark I never know how early or late it is. Is my day starting early? Or right on time? Is it even the daytime? Perhaps it's the nighttime and Nagato simply needs some relief.

"Pull your head out of the clouds," he orders, a usual demand from him. Pain thrives on attention, most notably mine, as do most of the members.

I do as I'm told, despite my want to ignore him. As I focus back on my metaphorical leash holder, the burning from my marks fills my head again. His hands push up my nightgown, resting it just below my chest. The chilled air of the room brushes over my usual bareness.

I don't see a point in keeping myself covered if I'm going to spend a good chunk of my day uncovered. This mindset has led to a lack of underwear and a lot of dresses and skirts.

Fingers ghost over my pussy as Nagato nibbles his way up my stomach. Not many of the members are gentle with me, but a good handful are nice, occasionally pleasing or stretching me to take them easier. Part of me thinks it's cause they care, but most of me knows it's so they don't hurt me. What use does a broken toy have, even if it is your favorite?

     "You'll be my breakfast today," Pain whispers into my skin, kissing his way back down my body. "Stay still, Princess."

     "Yes, Sir," I answer back, sliding my hands into his hair. I keep my fingers light, not wanting him to misinterpret it. He doesn't, which means he's in a good mood today.

     Nagato's lip piercings snag as he dips down, tearing a strip of skin on my stomach. This seems to only improve his mood, small licks working to clean up the accidental mess. When he's happy with his clean-up duty, his head jumps down to hover over my pussy. "Princess?"

     "Naga?" I hum out, testing the waters for today.

     He stills for a moment, processing the nickname. The thought of today being good is set in stone when Pain presses a kiss into my torso. "I would like to hear about your plans for today."

     "Well, Sasori is off duty today so I'm sure I'll spend a good chunk of it with him," I say, starting my ramble. I don't know why but Nagato seems to like hearing my voice as he pleases me.

     A reward for my compliance comes, a soft lick to my clitoris. Once the kitty lick is over, Pain wraps his mouth around it, gently sucking on me. "I'll probably take a hot shower when Sasori gets bored of me. He tends to leave a mess." He hums a slight encouragement to keep going. The vibrations jerk my legs closed, squeezing the head of the man between my thighs.

     A pop fills the room when I'm released from Nagato's mouth, signifying the end of his gentleness for now. "How disappointing," he mutters to himself before dipping back down.

     This time around his head doesn't hover as much. He dives right in, head buried deep to ensure his face piercings snag on me. They do snag, tugging at the skin of my pussy as he continues his meal.

      Pain sets a constant pace, his tongue swirling around the rim of my hole a couple of times before dipping the tip of it in. His head nods, his nose clumsily rubbing my clit, and his piercings tugging on my folds as he moves. The constant snagging releases small sparks of pain, not enough to hurt but enough to cause discomfort.

     "Continue," he orders, his hot breath coating my growing slick.

     "I... um..." The words stick in my throat as I flutter my eyes shut, in an attempt to focus out my sentence.

     "Why are you being difficult today?" He asks, head lifting to look at me. "I'm being nice because you had a rough day yesterday and you can't even obey enough to watch me please you."

     "I'm sorry," I whimper, blinking my eyes open and coasting them downward.

     A hum of disapproval leaves his lips, quickly followed by his tongue poking out. It slides over my clit again, this time with a lot more pressure. "Perhaps we need to take a trip. Maybe you're being used too much. You shall pick a place by dinner." The order is clipped and matter-of-fact. Nothing more than needed maintenance.

     "If you act like this all day, we might have to leave tomorrow. You will be sore," his tone is calm, still even, and straight to the point. "Continue."

     Nagato's head dips down again, this time hovering so that the metal punched into his face doesn't cause me more discomfort. It's a bit disappointing since his tongue can't plunge as deep as it could before, but I don't complain. Pain is right, he is being rather nice today.

     "I... I might... reread my newest book," my eyes flicker with the sentence but I make sure they don't stay closed too long. I don't want my orgasm to be taken away, especially since it might be the only one I get today.

     "Reread?" He asks, tongue stopping long enough to get the word out. Naga starts nodding his head again, stimulating my clit as he slurps me up.

     "Ya... I... finished it yesterday." My fingers tighten around the red locks wrapped up in my hands.

     Pain stales for a second, eyes glancing up at me in a warning before he goes back to pleasing me. "Do you not have another?"

     I hum a no, trying to focus on not letting my legs shake. I hate how easily I cum, the disadvantage being courtesy of nonexistent attention to my needs most days. "No... I finished... all my new... books." My heavy breath fills my ears as my lungs pump faster.

     Naga shifts back up, his mouth wrapping around my clit again. The feeling of him sucking on me and his tongue swirling over it is enough to finish me off. Despite my efforts, my legs cage his head again and my hands shove his face down further.

     His hands rub my thighs as he stays put, letting me do as I please, not for very long though. As soon as my pleasure is washed out of me, dripping down Pain's chin, I'm met with a pissed of Akatsuki member. "You are quite the disappointment today. You will not get any more attention from me today."

     That's a lie and we both know it. Before bed tonight he'll be buried between my thighs again. If I wake up to head, I'll be put to sleep with head too. After all, Nagato is a man of routine.

     "I shall be back," he tells me before climbing out of our bed. My eyes trail after him, enjoying his bare back as he walks away.

     With the attention-hungry man off the bed, I let my eyes close once again. The couple minutes of peace soak into my body, almost putting me back to sleep. "We are awake for the day. Be awake," my needy master says, tugging me to the edge of the mattress.

     "I am awake," I mock, sitting up straight.

     Pain is pissed again, his eyebrows scrunched together as he looks at me. Like I said, he's a man of routine. Every semi-nice thing he does for me is followed by unprovoked anger.

     He drops what he's holding into my lap before leaving me again for the closet. I look at the pile of cloth now present in my view. It's Pain's - unofficial - favorite skirt and one of his nightshirts.

     Maybe he doesn't think I need a break, maybe he's just pissy I've been busy with the other members of his 'Make the World Great Again' group. I don't know though, Pain is too bi-polar for me to keep up with his mood swings, let alone what he wants.

     When Nagato flips the lights on, the room starts buzzing with us getting ready for the day.

     It's the same routine every day. Pain picks my clothes, then his clothes, somehow 'accidentally' matching me every day, even if you can't see it under his robes. He dresses me, and then himself before doing my hair in whatever way he wishes. The last stop of the morning is his steady hand painting my face before he does his eyeliner. The whole time I stay under his feet, following him around the room as he moves around.

     On days I get used enough to shower before he gets home, I'm always met with his usual pissy look. Pain doesn't like it when I change his choices throughout the day, but he's never told me not to.

     "Princess," he calls, making me perk up from my resting spot. As he did his makeup today I decided on sitting on the floor, resting my body weight against his legs. "It is time for breakfast."

     I follow the routine, crawling to my feet and waiting for Pain to lead the way. Once his eyeliner pen is tucked back into place, he stands up too, hand sliding under my collar to hold onto my throat. Naga decided on a thinner one today, a light-weight black chain to match his face piercing; another unofficial favorite.

     His hand stays light as we putter our way down the hallways, occasionally squeezing my throat as a reminder I'm there. The walk is boring, nothing new to look at or talk about.

     When I'm tugged into the kitchen area, it takes me a second to adjust to the natural light outside. The sun shines through the huge windows of the kitchen, my first notification that it is morning time.

     "Sit," I'm ordered, being shoved into Pain's chair before he disappears into the cooking area.

     Eyes of the Akatsuki snap to me, all of them present for their mission orders. I happily smile, waving at all of them. "Good morning my boys! And Konan!" I get a range of reactions from 'Good morning beautiful' to ignorance.

     A cough from the kitchen echoes throughout the room, ripping 'good morning's from the half that didn't respond. Aside from that, the members ignore me, knowing better than to play with me until Pain has had his fill.

     Soon Mr Bi-Polar is back, pissy face as present as ever. "Up," the order comes, one in which I quickly respond to. Nagato sits down in his chair, tugging me into his lap after setting down his coffee and my breakfast. Scrambled eggs, cinnamon toast, and bacon; it must be Tuesday.

     I'm shifted around, placed how the head of the table wants before he turns his attention to his coffee. "Eat quickly, Princess." I'm ordered like I am every day. My plate must be cleaned and Pain must be buried deep into me before he starts his morning meeting.

     Eyes flicker to me as the members enjoy their breakfasts and conversations. Everyone knows that everyone else uses me, but that doesn't mean any of them would be caught dead using me by Pain. It's a confusing demonic. I'm public property, but only when Naga says so. Naga who hates me half the time and plans his decisions around me the other half.

     Once my plate is clean, Pain's coffee cup is lowered to me. It's half full like I expected. I let the bitter taste slide down my throat as the sound of Naga's clothes shifting slid into my ears.

     A hand is placed against my hips, pushing me upwards. I follow the movement, leaning over the table as the man under me adjusts himself. When he's ready, I'm pulled back down, Pain's dick burying itself into me. "Don't be a distraction, Princess."

     "Yes, Sir." I stay put like I'm supposed to, being nothing more than a sleeve to keep Nagato warm. My mind wanders, scanning over the room and the members as everyone drains on about the plans for today, none of which concern me.

     This little scene is Pain's reminder to the members that he's in charge, that he's the boss. It's a test for disobedience of his employees. When someone's eyes flicker to me, I'm used until everyone looks away. Some days we make it through the whole meeting, leaving me to be used afterward. Some days we don't make it past the first thirty seconds.

     I scan the members again, being met with the newest member's eyes. Deidara's cheeks go pink, not unnoticed by Pain. "Princess."

The single word puts me into motion. I rock my hips, shifting myself up and down Pain's dick. More eyes snag on me as whimpers and moans tumble out, the whole time Deidara's eyes stay locked on mine. I swear that boy never learns.

When people don't fall back into place fast enough, hands grip my hips, slamming me down faster than I can move on my own. "Pain," I whine, glancing behind me at him. That gets eyes snapped away from me. No man likes hearing someone else's name fall for the lips of their lover.

"Silence," Nagato hisses, anger back on his face as he drops me on him again, hands keeping my hips pressed down.

The rest of the meeting is uneventful, everyone keeping their eyes off of me and Deidara's staying locked on the table.

"Dismissed." Chairs screech as people rush out of the room, leaving Pain, Konan, and me behind.

"Princess." My hips shoot up, jumping back into motion. Konan's eyes are locked on me, watching me fuck myself on her leader's penis.

     She's interesting, partly because she uses me the least and partly because I know my very being pisses her off.

Just like before, Nagato's hands grip my hips, moving me at the pace he likes. I let my focus stay on the woman across the table from me, my noises and calls for her boss purposely coming out louder and needier than they usually do. I find it entertaining, watching her get pisser and pisser.

     "Princess," Pain hisses, dropping me backward again before keeping me in place. His head dips, lying against my shoulder as his warmth spills into me. "Perhaps you're not as disappointing today as I thought," he mutters, hands snaking up to cling to my throat again.

     "Thank you, Naga," I purr, shifting myself on his lap.

     He stays like this, buried into me and panting against my shoulder. It's almost sweet, aside from the pity party being thrown at the other end of the table. "What a pretty little object," he whispers into my ear, pressing a kiss to my jaw before shoving me onto the table again.

     I stay leaned over as Pain slides out of me, using my thighs to clean himself off.

     "I must go. Be good," he orders, hands gripping me as he picks me up, placing me on my feet before he disappears to do God knows what.

     "Did you enjoy the show?" I ask Konan once I'm sure Pain is out of earshot. I don't need a lecture about my attitude or for Konan to get into trouble because I feel like picking a fight.

     "Aren't you disgusted with yourself?" She asks with venom in her words.

     "Aren't you pissy cause Pain will fuck me but not you?" I throw back, a smirk crawling across my face. Konan's face scrunches up as she climbs to her feet. "Oh no," I tease, a giggle following my words. "I'm oh so scared of you. Please don't hurt me, paper lady. I don't want to have to spray you with a water bottle."

     "You really think you're hot shit don't you?" She asks, stomping over to me.

     "No, but Pain's semen sure as hell is." That gets me a jaw click from the angry lady, how fun.

     "Don't forget you're nothing but a lap dog. At least he trusts me enough to help the Akatsuki."

     "Oh yes, how I crave to go commit murder instead of living my best life as a house pet."

     My eyes light up at the sight of Konan's fists clenching. They light up even more as she huffs in anger. "Listen here you little lap dog. I am treated with respect, I am Pain's right-hand man. You are nothing but a cumdump, a sex toy, a fucking object to be used. You're nothing."

     "Ya? Then why are you so mad? Are you pissy 'cause none of the guys will eat your pussy?"

     That gets a reaction out of her. Konan leaps forward, grabbing a fist full of my hair and snapping my head backward. "Fine, you want to act like a fucking mutt, I'll treat you like a fucking mutt." The words make me tingle, my pussy clenching, forcing Pain's cum to leak out of me faster.

     Konan uses my hair to drag me down to my knees. "Dogs belong at our feet," she hisses, eyes sharp as she looks at me. "Stick your tongue out, Lap Dog," she orders, face still drowning in anger.

     "And why would I do that?" Once the question is out, I'm slapped across the face.

     I whimper as my cheek stings with pain, all of which seem to encourage her more. "I said, stick. Your. Tongue. Out. Mutt." The words are hissed, as my hair is pulled harder. I silently curse at Pain for leaving my hair loose today.

     Reluctantly, I do as told, sliding my tongue out of my mouth. "Look at what a whore you are. Big 'fuck me' eyes with your mouth wide open. A dumb little bitch in heat." Konan's hand dips down as she degrades me, her pants being tugged to her knees. "Sniff, dumb dog," she orders, using my hair to shove my nose into her pussy.

     I clumsily fall forward from the movement, my nose falling right where she wants it and my hands clinging to her legs for stability. "Fuck you," I hiss, digging my nails into her thighs.

     "Just a little reminder, Lap Dog, but you're here to serve me as much as you're here to serve the guys. We'll spend all day like this if we have to. Sniff."

     The repeated order is followed by me being shoved further into her pussy. I go to nip at her, but Konan beats me to it. She moves her hips, her clothed pussy falling against my mouth. Against my wants, her pussy is pressed on my tongue, the salty wet spot of her underwear soaking against it.

     "Go on, Lap Dog. Eat my pussy. Act like the dumb mutt you are." Konan uses my hair to shove my face up and down herself, my tongue sliding against her as she does so. "That's it you fucking cum dump," she moans, her head leaning back as she uses me to get off.

     I'm shifted again, pulled away from her long enough for her panties to be pushing down to join her pants. My face is pressed back into place, her juices leaking onto my tongue. "Lick, Dog." I try to tug back but fail miserably because of Konan's hold on me. "Go on, dumb dog. The sooner you do it, the sooner you can go back to being a dump for the male members."

My eyes jump up to her face, sending a glare Konan's way as I slide my tongue out. The sour taste of her coats it as I slide it through her folds.

"Fucking mutt," she moans, hips bucking forward. "You're nothing but a dumb object, aren't you?" She continues, voice pitched as she grinds against my tongue.

     My pussy drips as I'm being used, making the spot between my legs burn with need. "Rub yourself, Lap Dog. I'm sure you're getting off on this too, mutt," Konan orders, eyes flickering open long enough to look down at me.

     This time I'm not as reluctant to do as ordered. I reach my hand between my legs, my fingers eagerly colliding with my clit. I rub circles into myself, using my tongue at the same pace on Konan. Sounds of pleasure fall from her being shot towards the ceiling.

     When that's not enough, I slide my fingers backward, plunging them into my pussy. A greedy moan slips from my lips, colliding into Konan's pussy. Like before, I slip my tongue down to keep pace.

     My tongue plunges into her, pumping and curling the same as my fingers. "Fucking Christ," she mutters, her pussy starting to clench around me.

     Unlucky for me, my orgasm comes before Konan's, filling the kitchen with the sound of my cum dripping to the floor. "What a dumb dog, making yourself finish before me," she hisses, tugging on my hair before grinding against my mouth again.

     Despite her bitching, I keep slurping her juices up, working quicker to push her over the edge too. It doesn't take long for Konan to come undone, her tangy juices draining down my throat. "Dumb fucking Lap Dog," she bitches, keeping me in place as she catches her breath.

     "A greedy, disobedient dog," Konan continues, pulling me off of her before dragging me backward. "Look at what you did," she barks, shoving my face into the mess I left on the floor. "Look at the mess you made. Lick it up, mutt." My face is still shoved against the floor, mine and Pain's cum rubbing against my cheek.

     "Lick it up," she repeats, picking my head up just to shove it back down. I let my mouth fall open, my tongue slithering out to desperately clean up my mess. The taste of Nagato's cum mixed with mine relights the fire in me, quickly making me horny again.

     "What a good, Lap Dog, cleaning up after your disgusting self," Konan teases, finally letting go of my hair. "Dumb bitch," she mumbles, straightening herself and her clothes before walking away, leaving me a spread-out, horny mess on the kitchen floor.

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The feeling of Sasori's paintbrush sliding over my bare stomach is soothing, as is the cold paint being gently placed on my skin. I like when Sasori has a day off or is on medical leave. He's one of the gentler members, both in and out of his use of me. That, and the fact he usually spends our time together covering my skin in whatever new paint idea he has.

     "Puppet?" He calls, making my eyes snap open. "Are you sleeping?"

     "No, just resting my eyes, Ori."

     He hums in disapproval, getting upset with the lack of my attention on him. I swear this whole murder band is attention-starved. "Don't do that."

     I don't, instead, I let my eyes trail down to my stomach, taking in Sasori's newest artwork. I'm not quite sure what it is that he's painted today. It kind of looks like a raccoon made out of sand. "Ori?" Another hum is my answer, the murderer too busy adding in his details to pay me much mind. "What are you painting on me?"

     "The one-tailed beast." Well, that's not a raccoon, though I did get the sand part right.

     My eyes trail after Sasori's hands, watching the way they dip and flow over me as he paints. Once he's done, I'm left to continue lying in the grass as he cleans up his supplies.

     Ori doesn't like being cooped up inside, which usually leaves us in the stretched-out field surrounding the hideout or next to the lake a couple of yards away. He insists being outside helps the paint dry better, but I think that's just an excuse.

     When my current companion comes back, he slides himself back between my legs, hands on my knees to press them against his sides. "I'm bored, be of use." He orders, head tilting to scan over his work again.

     "How would you like me to do that?" I ask, squeezing his sides with my legs. Another hum, this one long and drawn out as Sasori's eyes dance over me. Hands slide down my legs, clinging to my thighs before pushing them wider. "Ori?" I call, trying to shift his hand off of the open bite mark gifted to me by Nagato earlier today.

     "Be quiet, we wouldn't want someone finding our headquarters because you can't keep your mouth shut," he says, the slightest bit of teasing laced into his words. This is another reason I think Sasori likes to spend time with me outside. I think the thrill of possibly being caught in the act by an enemy ninja excites him.

     He shifts around, body lying on top of me and arms scooping my knees from underneath. "You've had an eventful day," Ori mutters, his lips brushing against my thighs, purposely kissing every bite and bruise left behind by Pain.

     "I guess you could say that," I whisper, hands snaking down to grab ahold of him. Sasori tips his head, letting my fingers come into contact with his hair. It's ironic, that the puppet master enjoying being puppeteered while between my legs.

     His kisses trail up me, the final one being pressed to my pussy before his tongue replaces it. It swirls around, skirting across my clit before sliding down to tongue fuck me. "Ori," I whine, bucking my hips upward.

     I don't get a verbal response, but Sasori does tighten his grasp on my legs. He keeps himself busy, skipping between fucking me with his tongue and licking at my clit. Strings of whimpers and whines pull out from me because of this.

     "You are taking forever," he groans, head raising to look at me. "Are you not enjoying yourself?"

     "I am, I swear," I murmur between huffs of air.

     "Doesn't seem like it," Ori says, sitting back up.

     "Hey!" I whine, gripping his shirt and trying to pull him back down.

     He clicks his tongue in disapproval, hand shooting up to clench my wrists. "Stop doing that. Don't let my kindness make you forget you're an object for my use. My little puppet." The words make me squirm, my teased orgasm very evident to being left unfinished.

     Sosari's free hand dips under me, flipping me over. I land on my knees, my ass prepped up as the top half of myself is pressed against the soft grass. He shifts my hands behind my back, crossing them before the familiar warmth of his chakra threads wraps around my wrists, keeping them in place. "How pretty," he mutters, hands falling to my hips.

     They only stay there for a second before they're pulled away. Clothes shift behind me before my skirt is flipped up. The first approving hum of the day falls from Sasori, a hand wrapping around my bound wrists as he enjoys the view. I'm tugged backward, his dick quickly slipping into me as I'm manhandled.

     "Ori," I whine, squirming around under him.

     "Puppet," he sighs, hand holding on to my wrists tighter as his other one settles on my hip. Sasori sets a slow pace, thrusting into me at a steady pace as I'm held still. Kisses are pressed along my spine, paired with murmured praises.

     A grunt falls from Ori, his thrusts suddenly stopping. "Damn it, Puppet," he hisses, pulling himself out of me. The hand on my hips falls away again, soon falling to jack Sasori to his finish, evident from the sloppy sounds that were previously being made by my pussy. “Puppet,” he hisses again, the back of my thighs being coated with his semen.

The field is left silent, Sasori leaning against me as he tries to calm his breath. His hands wander across me, clinging to any skin can get in contact with.

“I’ve made a mess of you,” he mutters, his head finally lifting. “I’m sorry,” the apology is followed by the sounds of his chakra strings snapping, letting my hands lose once again.

“It’s fine, Ori,” I coo, shifting my joints around. They ache and creak as they’re shifted around.

Another line of kisses is pressed against my back as his hands work on tugging my skirt down and pulling the shirt he discarded forever ago back on. “Get yourself cleaned up,” he orders, a kiss pressed into my neck and a soft hip tap to encourage me to my feet. “Then I’ll repaint you, puppet.”

“Yes, sir,” I murmur, shakily climbing to my feet. Today is going to be a very long day it seems.

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[koukaimagines]

Hi!! Can I have your headcanons of how Jae ha and Kija would take care of their injured s/o? (Not sure how she got injured but thank you for opening your inbox love!!!)

Hi anon! Sorry for the wait, you absolutely can have headcanons of that! I think Kija and Jaeha especially would be fun watching when it comes to an injured s/o, so thanks for sending this in!

Because anon has used she/her pronouns, I will also be employing that in these headcanons where applicable!

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Kija

When Kija finds you with Yoon treating your injuries, he is immensely and instantly worried. Kija's the type to fret a lot about small things, so if he could take ten thousand arrows to soothe your pain, he would do it.

But that's unfortunately not how healing works, so he refuses to leave your side until Yoon finishes dressing you and tells him that it'll heal without an issue. He may refuse to leave your side after that too.

He'd ask Yoon about several things and try to change the dressings himself based on what he's learned. Unfortunately, his abilities are no where near as skilled as Yoon's, and the claws bestowed on his right hand do little but wear the bandages or tear them. He's clumsy trying to take care of you, to say the least.

He'd feel frustrated at how useless he is, how only Yoon can help you and how he failed to prevent your injury in the first place, no matter what he was doing at the time.

Until you recover, he does everything in his power so that you rest. You're forced to concede to his adorable authoratative tone every time you try to move. "Do not move! Yoon has instructed that you rest! I shall fetch that for you, Love." He attaches that pet name to each of his sentences like he's happy to be at your beck and call while you heal, and he unabashedly is.

This is exclusively figurative and metaphorical— but he's sort of like a puppy that tries to lick at your wounds if that makes any sense. The licking is more like staying by your side, making sure you have everything you need and keeping you company. Note the futility of the wound-licking in terms of actual wound-healing. It's just nice because he very obviously cares.

"It's only natural for the duty to be mine to care for Y/N until she recovers!"

Jaeha

Jaeha would be fascinating to watch. Despite his usual attitude, he's visibly shaken when he sees your bandages soaked in red. Soaked in red on your body.

He'd revert back to himself once he registers that you're in Yoon's hands and alive, making a snarky comment on what you've gotten yourself into this time. "I leave you for a mere moment and you've gotten hurt? Looks like I can't let you out of my sight now, Dear."

Although he wants to stick by you and take care of you, he can't seem to forfeit his pride as he does so. He makes himself more composed than how he really feels as he changes your bandages. And he didn't volunteer to, nor had he asked Yoon about it. Yoon simply told him to, of course, and who was he to deny Yoon and refuse time next to you? Even though he could just do it if he wanted to and it would make no difference.

While you're injured, Jaeha's fraught with a silly internal conflict as he navigates his feelings of worry towards you and a fear of acting like he's too worried. That explains why he'd rather you didn't know about how intentional his close proximity to you is. How he'd keep the herbs Yoon used on you in mind and excuse himself and leave for the fields without telling anyone what he was up to.

If you're injured and unable to use your hands, he'd feed you while teasing you about it. As if he's not absolutely ecstatic to be in the position he's in right now.

Throughout your recovery, he'll let his walls down here and there, often while griping about how hopeless you are, when he more means to convey how hopeless he is— how hopelessly carved into his being you are, and your injury would only serve as proof of that.

[endmeprettyplease]

Best Behavior

A/N: I played COD as a kid, I never thought it’d have me whipped as an adult, but here I am. I hated this, then I liked it, so just posting while sleep deprived before I change my mind. Also Price is daddy, just a fact.

John Price x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Daddy kink, oral sex, p in v sex, power imbalance, implied age gap, rough sex, no y/n, no codename for reader

Summary: After a stressful mission you take a risk to comfort your Captain.

The conclusion of a mission had a few probable outcomes. An overtly successful endeavor would have you, and the rest of the 141 at the closest bar or pub. An absolute failure with injuries? Then you’d all be squirreled away in your own quarters or infirmary, licking your literal and metaphorical wounds. But when they ended like this? The job completed, yet so many lives lost? It was just empty. The team shared the feeling, you were sure, given the atmosphere on the trip back. Even now, with Soap pouring shots and Gaz poking fun at Ghost, you knew they felt it. It was why they were still here and not at the dive twenty minutes down the road. 

You could hear the conversation down the hall before you had even reached the common room. Normally you’d have been happy to join in on the distraction, but you had another in mind. Whether or not the mission had technically been successful, it hadn’t felt like it. Not with seven hostages dead and a bomb that leveled three city blocks. You inhaled, slowly, letting the thought pass with your breath. It didn’t matter now, what mattered was your next mission. One that would be quietly stewing a few doors down.

“There ya are, c’mon we need someone to settle the score!” Soap called as you passed the doorway. Waving you into the shared space as Kyle smiled in agreement. Fighting the urge to join you reminded yourself of exactly what you had planned.

“Sorry, not tonight, boys. Dropping off my report, then I’m passing out.” Waving the papers in your hand. 

Gaz rolled his eyes. “You can take one night off being an overachiever, you know? Cap said we could turn them in tomorrow.”

“And yet I’ll have the day off, and you'll have homework.” Smirking, you bid them a goodnight and continued down the hall.

Butterflies fluttered in your stomach. It was risky, you knew. Your relationship with Price was complicated, to put it lightly. He was your Captain, your superior, your mentor. Even a whiff of this and Laswell would probably have your heads. Neither of you have been so bold, rarely going further than lingering touches and gazes while on base. You’d both been as diligent as possible in separating work from your private lives. The weight of what you were about to do sat heavily on your shoulders. And yet you still stood at the captain’s office door.

He needs this. You reasoned. The look in his eyes as you’d stepped off the plane hadn’t escaped your notice, nor the way he’d immediately fled to his office. No one on the force took failure as hard as he did. It was his team, his responsibility. He needs this. You repeated, lifting your hand to knock before you could talk yourself out of it. 

It took a few moments longer than usual to hear his gruff response. “Who is it?” Feeling sweat bead on your back you let out a shuddering breath before answering. 

“It’s me,” Nearly immediately Price gave you the go ahead to enter. 

His office was messier than it normally was, maps pinned to the walls, little notes tacked up with them. Mugs piled high and the lingering fog of his cigar smoke hanging in the air. Yeah, he needs this.

“How can I help you, Sergeant?” Pice had his noise in a file, a glass of whiskey wrapped in his hand. You hoped he didn’t notice the blush his rough voice caused to rise in your cheeks. You also hoped he didn’t notice the click of the lock as you pressed the door closed with your back. 

“I just wanted to drop off my field report for today, sir.” You spoke slowly, taking careful steps toward his desk. Suddenly, a little less confident in how successful your mission would be. John looked awful, hat tossed somewhere, hair still sticky with sweat stuck up randomly, bags under his eyes adding years to his age. He looked in absolutely no mood for your shenanigans, but that's exactly why you were doing this.

His lip lifted a bit under his facial hair, “Thought I told you that could wait til tomorrow, to get some sleep.” Eyes lazily rolling up from the papers in his, whatever horrors reflected with them passed to curiosity as he took you in. You stood stiffly at his desk, knuckles white as you gripped your report. 

“You did, Captain.” He was onto you, you knew immediately. You never were good at getting anything past him. Not that it was really part of your plan.

“Set it wherever then. Anything else?” Price asked, eyebrow raising as you carefully moved closer. Swiveling his chair he followed your steps around the desk.

“Ah, yes, sir. I also wanted to see how you were.” Your voice shook, tossing the papers onto the pile on his desk. Finally working up the courage to meet his gaze. He looked a bit more intrigued. The reassurance fueling your confidence for the next step. 

“I’m fine, soldier. Like i said-” The way his voice had lowered was the last straw. Dropping to your knees not even a foot from him. Gently, like approaching a startled animal, you rested your hands on his shins. 

“Are you sure, Captain?” Your head already felt fuzzy, being this close to him always did this to you, further exacerbated by the absolute taboo of the situation. Off duty it was easy to pretend he was just a lover. Someone you’d met on an app, or at a bookstore or even the grocery store maybe. But here? Kneeling in front of him, still splattered with dirt, oil and blood, he was your Captain. 

You watched Price process what he was seeing, throat working and pupils dilating. Eventually his nose twitched with the threat of a snarl. “You can’t do this to me, baby.” His words sounded forced, slow and strangled. Sounding nearly as desperate as you felt. 

Slowly you traced your hands up his legs, past his knees to his thighs, squeezing firmly. “If you tell me to go, sir, I’ll go.” You shuffled forward, finally meeting his boots. “If not… I want to take care of you, Daddy.” 

The ‘D’ word was a cheap shot, but when you watched John’s head drop back you knew you’d won. Adding a ‘please’, to really dig your grave. 

Price picked up his glass, taking a long slow drink, looking anywhere but you. You could feel the tension vibrating through the muscle of his thighs, tense and strung high. Always so quick to tell his team to rest and relax, though never taking his own advice. 

When he met your gaze again his eyes were filled with a familiar heat. “Is that right, sweetheart?” 

Nodding eagerly you massaged his thighs, ignoring his already growing bulge. “Uh-huh” 

Price tisked, relaxing back into his chair. “Here? That's a dangerous game.”

“I’ll be quiet, promise.” You breathed, eyes solely focused on your prize. 

John huffed, rolling his shoulders. “You? Quiet?” He raised his free hand to your flushed face, gently caressing the heated skin. “You come in here, beggin’ for my cock like a whore, and expect me to believe you’re planning on behavin’?” He laughed, a genuine smile cracking his exhausted exterior. 

The drawl of his words sank down though your chest, pooling in your sex. You had been so focused on him you hadn’t realized how desperate you’d already become. Shifting you let out a sharp breath, kneeling had pulled your pants taunt. The seam pressing torturously against your clit.

Price groaned, yanking you up into a kiss before you could process his movement. Messy and desperate. Moaning in return at his taste, whiskey, expensive cigars and home. When was the last time you’d had him like this? A month, maybe more, this assignment had been so taxing, time barely seemed to matter. Though, your body seemed to disagree. Lighting up with the familiar attention, begging for more. 

Your hand twitched, intending to reach for him before you remind yourself. When you came here it was for him, you needed to behave. Take only as much as he was willing to give. 

Price pulled back, lips wet and swollen already, face reddened under his beard, it seemed he’d shared your thoughts. Relaxing back into the chair he let his legs spread wider. “What’s it you said?” He grunted. “That you wanted to ‘take care of me’? C’mon then, take care of daddy.”

You breathed a quick ‘yes, sir’, settling between his spread thighs. Drowning in his musk before you'd even unclipped his belt. Blood, sweat, nicotine, gun metal - a cologne so uniquely his. Something you rarely got to enjoy at this intensity. He was hard and ready, a hot brand against your hand through his boxer briefs. Not realizing how lost in him you were until Price wrapped a rough hand in your hair. Shoving your cheek against him, rubbing himself against your face.

“Don’t tease.” He hissed, a tone you’d heard more than once on the battlefield, but never in the bedroom. Jolting, you quickly freed him. Mouth watering at the weight and sight of his cock in hand, thinking of how sore your jaw would be in the morning from his girth. How you’d get a sick thrill every time you spoke to the team. None aware that your Captain was the reason you’d keep rubbing your cheek to soothe the ache.

True to his order, you didn't tease. Spitting and letting it drip down his head, slicking your hand and working up and down his length. The moment your tongue met his tip he snarled, the noise echoing through the room. He let you start at your own pace, allowing you to swirl your tongue around the head. Working more and into your mouth, hand stroking what you couldn’t reach yet.

Being on your knees for your superior, for him, in his office, had been on your mind since you’d met. Since he’d first approached you with the offer of a position on his task force. A sharp tug on your hair pulled your eyes to his face. Any anguish, stress, and worry were gone. His brows furrowed with pleasure, fist to his lips as he rocked up into your mouth. You throbbed at the scene, moan vibrating his cock. 

You pulled off, much to his despair. Fighting a smirk you move your hands to grip the pockets of his cargo pants, “Please fuck my mouth, daddy,” Giving your best puppy eyes while you took him back in. 

His hands were in your hair in a flash, shoving himself into your throat. Releasing a sound so low and guttural as he started a brutal pace. Gagging was inevitable, as hard as you tried to breathe, his speed and ruthlessness unfamiliar. But very, very welcomed. Price moaned every time your throat constricted around him. Never taking his eyes off your face.

“T-that's it. Take it for daddy. Fuck, such a slut, baby. Look at you… my girl. God, doing so good for me, sweetheart.”

You felt your eyes roll, head hazy from the lack of oxygen and absolutely intoxicated by him. Price’s praise was the most valuable commodity. Whether on the field, handing in paperwork, during training, but most importantly in bed. You didn’t care if everyone murmured about you being a kiss ass, as long as he kept feeding you those sugary words. Kept making you feel like this.  

When he’d finally pulled free, you were gasping and heaving for air. Dizzily you looked up at him, watching him pant nearly as hard as you. “Daddy?” Your voice was raw and foreign even to you. John’s eyes rolled back as he groaned, roughly pulling you up. Sloppily kissing you, uncaring of the shared fluids dripping down your chin. 

“I need to cum in you, off!” He snapped, yanking at your sweats until you’d kicked them away. 

You’d never seen him so… needy. It was addicting, you knew this would not be the last time you would come to him after a mission. Not if it was like this. 

On his lap you felt how truly soaked your panties are, sticking to your skin as he ground you against his cock. You needed him so badly, tears stinging at your eyes. “P-please, John- daddy!” Quickly correcting your mistake when his hand landed on your ass with a harsh crack. 

With little effort your panties were torn, gripped in his fist and shoved in your mouth. Your own taste invading your sensitive mouth as you bit down on the fabric. 

“Quiet, remember? The boys are a couple doors down.” Price huffed. The swollen head of his cock finally met your sex, slicking himself with you. “Hell, I’d be surprised if they haven’t already heard ya,” You whimpered at the thought. It’d taken so long to prove yourself, what would they think?

Suddenly every doubt you had vanished, your Captain’s thick length stretched you. Lifting you so your nearly limp weight would spear you open. You’d never taken him without some preparation, even dripping wet the stretch was almost unbearable. Barely able to hear his soothing coos past the blood rushing in your ears. The fabric on your tongue doing little to muffle your noises.

Price, still the caring man he always is, gives you a moment to adjust. Kissing the tears from your cheeks, a sting of ‘good girl’s falling from his lips. You relaxed easily, you trusted him, knew he’d only give what you could take. Push you to your limit, but never past. 

With no other warning than him planting his feet he picked you up and dropped you, slamming back down on his cock. You wailed, clawing at his t-shirt as he used you as he pleased. You couldn’t fight the noises clawing up your throat even if you had the sentience to want to. It was everything, so much, overwhelming waves of painful pleasure pulling you under.

“I bet you’d love it if they - ah - heard ya, huh sweetheart?” Price moaned when you clenched around him, grinding up into you as his belt buckle ruthlessly abused your clit. “They talk, I’ve heard. Wonderin’ how you’d… fuck - sound on their cocks. But it’ll never be them,”

You shook your head rapidly, clinging to him for dear life as your release built. You wanted to tell him that they’d never have the chance, that it was only him. But it was intelligible past the gag. So instead you pressed your forehead to his, noses bumping against each other with his violent thrusts. 

“S-such a good girl, just for daddy, yeah?” 

Every word he uttered hit you deep in your gut, where his head abused your sweet spot. Spots dancing in your vision you knew you were agonizingly close. Sobbing past the gag you tried to warn him, but Price knew. He always did. Slouching back he rutted into you fervently, thumb finding your tender clit. 

“Go ahead, cum. Make a mess on daddy’s cock.” His voice and one more swipe of his thumb had you hurtling into bliss. Unaware of the cries you let out, cunt constricting his cock almost painfully. Milking him for his release a few beats later. 

Shakily, you pulled your ruined panties from your mouth. Enjoying the afterglow, the Captain still twitching inside you, nuzzling into your throat. You were unable to keep the silly smile off your face, high off endorphins. Your face felt raw from his beard, body sore in the best way.

“Feeling better, Daddy?” Your voice was hoarse, it hurt to speak, but it was so worth it for the chuckle that bubbled from his chest. 

“What the hell did I do to deserve an angel like you?” Price pulled back, looking at you so reverently you had to fight to hold his gaze. 

Blushing again you remembered exactly where you were. “Do you think they heard us?” 

Price snorted, refilling his glass before bringing it to your lips. Encouraging you to take a sip. “Honestly? Probably. Don’t worry about it, not now.” You savored the burn and warmth it brought you, grounding you in the moment. “We can take the roundabout way to my room, shower, and sleep. Anything else? We’ll handle it in the morning.” 

His words were resolute, law, no room for argument. Not that you had the energy to argue now that the adrenaline had worn off. 

Pulling you in close he pressed a kiss to your forehead, “Right now, I want to take care of my girl.”

[amelee23]

Things Stray Kids members remind me of <3

Pairing: none

Genre: poetic prose

Warnings: uh? fish? and lots of metaphors and read about koi fish pls, you might get in your feels reading this, i was a 2000's kid, i mentioned a needle like once, food

Word count: 1300

A/N: an idea i started a few months ago. I actually poured my heart into this and got tears in my eyes multiple times while writing. I feel this is actually super personal and more like a love confession to the members lmao

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

╭┈─────── ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ-

╰┈─➤ Contents:

┈┈┈► Chan - sheep

┈┈┈► Lee know - surprising acts of kindness

┈┈┈► Changbin - gold

┈┈┈► Hyunjin - band t-shirts

┈┈┈► Han - koi fish

┈┈┈► Felix - pearls

┈┈┈► Seungmin - teddy bears

┈┈┈► Jeongin - the color green

Chan reminds me of sheep.

Have you ever heard the saying of a sheep in a wolf's clothing? Well, he's the complete opposite. He wears the skin of a wolf, he carries out the actions of a leader, keeping a close eye on all his pups and making sure to lick away every wound they would get, playing around in the tricky maze of roses. He bares sharp teeth and fangs at opposers and would not stop - even at his own expense - to make sure his family is looked after. But on the inside, he's merely a sheep, maybe even a lamb. He's sociable, friendly, gentle and affectionate, and would love you wrapping your arms around his fluffy wool, petting his head and telling him how cute he is. There's a skip to his step, as he runs over to greet you over the fence, and he wouldn't mind donating his wool to you, so that in the cold harsh winters, he could aid you in staying warm and protected from the snow.

I love you, Chan.

Lee know reminds me of surprising acts of kindness.

Like that time my childhood best friend lied he needed a shopping buddy at the mall just so he can trick me into buying me a plushie for Christmas; like that time my friend sent me a surprise package all the way from another county and I had no clue about it until it arrived; like the time you receive a birthday present that is so flabbergasting that you wonder if you can force the person to take it back, for it's too good, too expensive, too unworthy of your possession. Lee know is all of those things - he's a gift that comes at no anniversary whatsoever, he's like a kiss that isn't saying anything like good-bye, hello or good morning. He's that moment when someone reads your mind and knows exactly what you need without you saying a thing, he's the tub of ice cream your friend buys to cheer you up, he's the cupcakes your mom makes because you're sad. He's like when someone offers to do your share of the workload because you're tired, he's like the person who gives you their last sandwich just because they want you to eat. Lee know is the most unexpected and yet the kindest gift one could ever receive.

I love you, Minho.

Changbin reminds me of gold.

Like the golden chandelier above a manor ceiling, he illuminates even the grandest of rooms. Like the soft golden pattern on marble, he can make any room feels like a castle. There's something royal about him, so medieval about how he keeps his morals like shield and sword. He's mighty like a gold clad king, confident and ready for battle like a knight in golden armour mounted on a white horse. He marches forward, knowing the weight of his responsibility, his decisions affect an entire kingdom. But he's not above anyone else, no. His status does not matter for he aims to be the most fair and loving king of history.

I love you, Changbin.

Hyunjin reminds me of old band t-shirts.

He's that t-shirt you bought as a kid in the 2000's, that you could barely afford and promised you'd protect with your life. It had a print catered to your favorite band, and you wore it oh so proudly to showcase to everyone how much you loved their music. It wasn't just a fashion statement though, it wasn't just to look cool (although it made you feel like a badass). You were wearing your heart on your sleeve, and if someone made fun of you and your interests, the band you expressed your personality through, you'd get upset. But it would be worth it, because one day you'd meet someone who wore that same shirt and think, oh you're just like me. You understand me. But even though you took so much care of it, the shirt, now sitting in the back of your wardrobe, has some tiny paint stains on it only you can notice. It reminds you of the courage of expression you once had, in a world where everyone is terrified to show who they really are. You would never want to erase that part of your past, it is still a part of you.

I love you, Hyunjin.

Han reminds me of koi fish.

They're cold water fish, but cannot live in freezing waters. So then why is he, a different color, a different species, struggling to breathe in the freezing waters of other fish, which are not of his kind? He's often felt out of place, uncomfortable and hurt in this world he's been put in, like an alien of sorts. But someone so special and vibrant should be adored, should be the subject of art and poetry, should be kept in a warm mystery of fantasy. He belongs with those who will appreciate every color he wears in his soul, those who accept the beauty of someone so complex and unique - so that he too, can become a dragon.

I love you, Jisung.

Felix reminds me of pearls.

He's the white shiny beads you put on a friendship bracelet. Next to the round imitations of pearls there are other beads, with mismatching colors, and then - there's an initial of the friend you love the most. But the thing is, you, with an untrained eye in jewelry, you wouldn't be able to tell if the bead you carry is made out of mere plastic or picked out from the seabed by a mermaid of folktale, who has blessed your pearl with eternal love; perhaps what you carry around your wrist is something humanity has never seen before, something humanity cannot even put a price tag upon! But how can you accept such gift, so rare and mystical...? The sea deities have whispered that they want you to have it, they wish you to know how precious it is to love.

I love you, Felix.

Seungmin remind me of teddy bears.

The type you've loved way too much, and tried to take care of like your own child even though you were a kid yourself and knew nothing about parenting. When the teddy got a stain, you'd cry, you couldn't bear to see it in a washing machine; your parents would have to hand wash it and you'd stay close to make sure he doesn't get harmed; and if the teddy needed a stitch, it would be the end of the world - it's like the needle pierced your own skin, you could feel its pain. And when you grow older, you promised the teddy to never forget about him; but in the end, you still did. And years and years later, when you see him again, dusty and ruffled by age, with stitches and stains, you love him all the same, even though he's flawed, even though you couldn't keep him perfect, even though you hurt him, even though the world changed him. He's still your perfect childhood love in your eyes.

I love you, Seungmin.

Jeongin reminds me of the color green.

Like a fantastical eternal summer, the grass is always green. The leaves are always young, never to grow rusted, for autumn does not exist. Leaves don't fall, flowers don't wilt, the world is forever young, beautiful and warm. You can't understand it, the magic of this world - it's a mystery he keeps close to his heart. Maybe there's a large price he must pay to keep this up, but he'll never tell. For to him, all that ever matters is that everyone can smile. We can have picnics on the flower fields, we can take shade under the willow trees, we can sip on mint flavoured ice tea and weave baskets full of memories blessed by the sun and its eternal flame. And around our necks, there's an emerald necklace, said to protect us from all evil in the world.

I love you, Jeongin.

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

oop i confessed my love

What do the Stray Kids members remind YOU of? Let me know!

If you like my work, consider donating to me so I can continue writing!

[prvtocol]

❛ I’m just saying, murder is an option. ❜ // what if Quaritch 👀

𝟐𝟎𝟎 𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐌 𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒 ✿

At least SecOps had the decency to involve the Director of SciOps in this briefing on Project Phoenix’s objectives. Scratch that — most likely Stringer pushed and General Ardmore obliged. It’s no secret they are under the RDA’s version of Marshall Law; what once was a corporate-run entity, is now under military control. The Na’vi resistance's continued boldness, from the welcome party in orbit to hitting supply lines, mining, and researcher facilities gave them a reason enough to deem that necessary — a chokehold that’s going to be hard to rescind. 

But here she is, in the Bridgehead Ops Center standing with Colonel Miles Quaritch back from the dead sixteen years later. The hybrid’s tall blue form may be a shadow of his former aged self, but everything else — personality, memories, the insatiable desire for revenge — is completely intact. The Recom Program is the next wave of human/Na’vi hybrids. No need for a driver like avatars and the potential for immortality if you grow them right. The first “squad,” with squad being the operable term, is all military in basis even if her own backup Recom is in an amino tank as they speak — an insurance policy for higher-ups to continue their job in the face of death. Until colonization is complete, and the capacity to house two million at Bridgehead City is fulfilled, humans remain in short supply on Pandora. Can't say the same for the endless supply of firepower and other machines getting 3D printed every minutes.

The Recom Leader’s remarks concerning eliminating the Na’vi resistance —  essentially the entire clan of Omatikaya that supports their leader, Jake Sully — shifts a concerned gaze from the interactive holograph projector displaying the Hallelujah Mountains, to Ardmore.

“If I may, General.” Leave to speak is granted by the stern woman who despite Stringer, pulls more and more of the operation’s strings. Eyes turn to the non-militant, much to the skepticism of the only Recom in the room. 

“Forgive me in advance as I only seek clarity.” Politely she starts, a soft though assured tenor which is often noted of the director. “Genocide of an entire Na’vi clan, which is who Sully is leading when we say resistance, could provoke more of a response than is prudent. It’s using a bulldozer to find a china cup.” The metaphor is spoken while matching Quaritch’s intimidating yellow stare with her own calm questioning gaze. Brianne may be petite in form, and unassuming in appearance, but she wields the Landry name and lineage making her corporate elite compared to others here from more modest backgrounds (job opportunities being so sparse on earth). Her posh accent is enough to sound as if she's speaking above them Not fully her intent. “If hunting down the leader of the resistance is the primary goal, I wholeheartedly support it. If we are lucky, they will run and lick their wounds and lose their stamina with it.”

The blunt switch in her voice and the harshness of her words are all a facade of military support. With SecOps and CetOps’ overreach, there is a need to be strategic. She is not going to be caught appearing as another Grace Augustine, whose Avatar Program was shut down due to interfering (leading the researchers to commit treason and their Sully problem to begin). SciOps is already losing control, she knows to be discrete.

“As you may assume, my primary concern is with my researchers in the field being able to continue their job. To find the next amrita, if you will.” It’s a boon to her subdivision to claim a discovery that is funding this entire operation, even if CetOps carries the quota forward. “But further stroking the flames of war prevents that. I support the squad but especially if they remain smart with this. I’m sure you will. I only encourage the colonel to consult me with xeno-cultural questions of engagement before more trouble is caused.”

Brianne knows that won’t happen. This invitation is a briefing, not a planning session but at least she made her voice known.

[mademoiselle-red]

Chapter 5 reread (part 2): thoughts

“Long afterwards, when he knew more, this was a thing he always remembered about Andrew, that he took it for granted one would regard maturity as a thing to be desired.” Haha I definitely also went through this phase during my quarter life crisis years 😅, classic Peter Pan Syndrome: “Forget them, Wendy. Forget them all. Come with me where you'll never, never have to worry about grown up things again.”

Speaking of Peter Pan, this bit from the play reminded me of part in the The Phaedrus that describes how the horses would grow wings and enable to soul to take flight towards heaven, but only if the charioteer remains chaste

Jane: Why can't you fly now, Mother?

Wendy: Because I'm grown up, sweetheart; when people grow up they forget the way.

Jane: Why do they forget the way?

Wendy: Because they are no longer young and innocent. It is only the young and innocent that can fly.

“‘I thought I wouldn’t bother with a car.’ He recognized, sinking, her defensive voice. ‘It was rather extravagant, you know, with the buses running so conveniently.’” Laurie resented how being with Straike has changed his mother’s behavior. This also plants the seeds of fear that he would lose his own judgement if he entered into a romantic relationship. Obviously it’s not good to lose your identity and let your partner tell you want to think, but growing closer in thinking and sensibility under each other’s influence is also a natural result of intimacy (not limited to couples). It’s about finding the right balance between “I” and “we”. But for most of the book, Laurie is convinced that there is only a choice between two extremes, the fully independent self-reliant “I” and the collective group-think “we”. Like with the charioteer metaphor, Laurie discovers at the end of the book that there is no choice between the white and black horses: the key to moving forward is to find ways to make them work together.

“She would never now, as he once had dreamed, say to him […] “tell me nothing, it is enough that no other woman will ever take you from me.” Like with Andrew, Laurie uses his love for his mother as an excuse to avoid acting on his sexuality. The oedipal excuse allows him to both rationalize (to his mother and society) his disinterest in women and his devotion to her would give him a “legitimate” reason to reject relationships with men.

Andrew, opening the subject rather shyly since Laurie had not seen fit to do so, said, “I hope it was alright today, when your mother came.”

“Yes, thanks,” said Laurie. “Yes, it was quite all right.” But lest Andrew should feel snubbed or hurt he produces a few limp platitudes, which Andrew went through the form of accepting as real. It was a sad little session; but he could feel Andrew thinking as he thought, that tomorrow it would be all right.”

Third time is the charm right? Nope. Andrew does not know how to emotionally support and comfort a friend who clearly needs it. Combine that with Laurie’s “hard logic of love” comment later in the book, I am reminded of the Puritans and their belief that comfort leads to indulgence, which is supposedly sinful. Ralph also seems to share this belief, but while Ralph only denies comfort to himself but provides it to others (Laurie, Bim, Mervyn) on a case by case basis, Andrew denies it (in his usual insistence on moral consistency) to everyone, most notably Laurie and Charlot.

It’s very clear by now that it’s not just queerness they can’t discuss because of Andrew’s “innocence”. Laurie cannot talk to Andrew about anything that actually matters to him, because Andrew always makes it about himself and his pacifist moral choices (that Laurie doesn’t actually give a shit about). So now Laurie just tells Andrew everything is fine and licks his own wounds alone 😭

“Her spinsterly no-nonsense kindness was independent, intact, and did not stir his unacknowledged sense of betrayal. Before the end they got quite gossipy together.” I read this as Laurie believing in the back of his mind that his enjoyment of the physical therapy and Miss Halliburton’s company is a betrayal of his earlier apprehension about the treatment and his disappointment in losing time spent with Andrew. It’s an early and subtle example of Laurie feeling a sense of self-betrayal when he finds himself liking something that he had decided he isn’t supposed to like.

“Though the Charles episode had been disillusioning, he hadn’t given up hope of finding himself club able after all.” Another indication that Laurie actually enjoys being flirted to and likes the idea of parties, but feels that he ought not to, and resents everyone who actually flirts with him and tries to have fun at the party.

"Who did you say?"

"Oh, d'you know Ralph Lanyon?"

As if he had been drifting in uncertainly-eddying water, and felt the sudden, authoritative pull of an ocean current, Laurie said easily and clearly, very much."

Raaaaaaalph!

I love how Laurie is so powerfully drawn to Ralph before the man even shows up! It’s like those things people put in love songs: I was drifting along until you found me~

I also I love how Laurie went from his faux nonchalance about Ralph earlier in the chapter with Andrew to “Omg did you say Ralph Lanyon? 😍😍😍”

[avataroftheswarm]

Zazie had spent a good several hours curled up with Nico after he'd woken up and been properly lucid. Keeping an eye on everyone immediately after the events of July had been exhausting but they couldn't just stop moving to lick their metaphorical wounds like everyone else could. They had people to check on, people to search for, and growing to do. They'd gone somewhat reluctantly but they didn't really want to spend time around Punk yet and there was just too much to do and see to.

For all that they were many eyes, they were only one mouth. Any time they needed to communicate they had to actually be there in person.

Audrey was going to need them there in person at the very least. Nico would be okay with Punk. They'd promised to come back and check on him in a while.

A while ended up being almost a week but helping Rook with Audrey and growing their new form had taken a bit longer then they'd anticipated.

Since it was the middle of the day, they didn't fly in, just walked into the inn and slipped past the innkeeper with all the ease their small form allowed. Maybe they'd show Nico their new shape and see what he thought of it. Maybe they'd just crawl under his blankets and nap on him again. He was really good for that.

It wasn't like they could currently nap on either of their brothers right now.

They were busy musing when a scent tickled their senses. Familiar and easily identified but confusing in a place like this. Old blood, the faint beginnings of rot, the stench of stale fear. They slowed their steps as they got closer to Punk's room. It wasn't so strong that it would be obvious to a human unless they lingered but... it was getting there.

And it was coming from Punk's room.

They try the door, frowning when it opens easily and cracking it to peer inside.

"Nico!!" The door is flung open carelessly as they lunge inside, past a corpse pinned to the wall like some macabre hanging. Blood is absolutely everywhere, soaking into the floor and the walls, and the puddle they dart through is only very faintly tacky. Days old, mostly all dried despite the lack of air circulation in the closed room. Nico is sprawled gracelessly on the floor, blood soaking his clothes just as much as the three unknown bodies nearby.

That utter terror they'd felt when they'd watched Punk get ripped apart surges through them again. There's a high buzzing whine emanating from them as they drop to the floor next to him, small hands searching for reassurance that he wasn't gone, that he hadn't survived July only to die alone trapped in this room, without help where was Punk!?

He breathes and makes a vague noise and they almost lose cohesion in the face of the wave of relief that crashes over them. He's alive. An absolute mess and hurt and hardly what they'd call conscious but he's alive.

"Nico, fuck, Nico! I don't even know if you can hear me but I'm going to get help! I don’t want to move you and hurt you worse! I'm leaving some of my swarm here, you'll be okay, they'll keep you safe. I'm coming right back!" They surge to their feet and let go of very nearly half their swarm, damn glad they'd grown enough to do that much. The Worms shove the door shut again as Zazie pushes the window open to leap out, breaking apart as they go. A few of the avian Worms take their place, one perched to guard the open window and another taking a spot right next to Nico, in case he wakes up enough to see it.

Fear turns to fury as the swarm flies. Where was Punk!? He was supposed to be taking care of Nico while he healed! That blood was too dried, the stench of rot too far along for this to have happened too recently! Days! He'd left Nico alone for days! And Nico had clearly been attacked and nearly killed after he was already hurt!

WHERE THE FUCK WAS PUNK!?

"Knives!!" They shout as soon as they reach their destination and reform into a shape able to form words. Worms shift and crawl in and out of their guise, eyes glowing poison green, and their voice hums and echoes oddly with too many individuals just slightly out of sync in their anger.

"Knives!! Nico needs your help! He's hurt and Punk is gone!"

@nicholas-wolfwood @insilentruin

[voicesandthoughts]

I feel this one needs a preface - I'm doing alright, am taken care of, and I don't promote eating disorders or disordered eating in any manner. Recovery is so much better than anything skinny can give you, I promise. This poem is a reflection of how I felt at the time of writing, and not the actions I intend to take now. Among other reasons, I fight this side because I want to have a chance of kids one day 🥲

-

Every test says "at risk for"

but never a diagnosis, never a completed checklist

and I've been here before, I know everything I won't gain

I know that no inflicted pain is deep enough to bleed demons and watch the ghosts trickle out

I dance between metaphors, drowning while in all sorts of drought

I want to starve myself but I'll sit in my room and eat three cans of Pringles

I want to starve myself so I'll replace them with black bean chips, they taste too bad to eat

I'll convince myself for a second the fears are finally beat

I want to starve myself but I eat every meal with my family, just enough to stop how the doubt lingers and they all point fingers

I'll drink lots of water, but I'm not good at that either.

The doctor says I need to double it, I wonder what she'd say about food

I wouldn't listen, because anything else is overrun by the echo chamber my thoughts become

I'm never sick enough to eat them up

Every bite and every refusal only buys another megaphone

I want to apologize in advance for where I end up

I'm sorry I couldn't quit, and I'm sorry for all of it

I'm sorry that I want pain of a new name, that empty feels so good

I'm sorry that I felt like passing out in class, I didn't plan on that.. to feel like I'm looking through foggy glass

I'm sorry for the permanent damages and I'm more than sorry if you ever got that call

This isn't what I wanted at all

It's not even all about being thinner, I want to be so much sicker

If it was just that, I'd simply eat well and burn fat

I want to paint my nails over and pretend it's because I chew them, not to hide blue

I want to wear baggy clothes because I'm always cold and I'm covered in bones

I want it to hurt to get out of bed and be overtaken by fear laying on the bathroom floor

I want the wounds to lick my ribs and count every single one

So I'm sorry that's it's never enough, that I never was

I'm sorry to my younger self. I'm sorry to my older self. I'm sorry to my love. I'm sorry to everyone who knows me.

In wrong and right, I'm sorry that the tests all say I'm at risk for an eating disorder.

[sleepytimepoet]

Hello. Here is smthn written and posted on the same day. Tw: metaphorical violence and cannibalism. (I promise it's not that bad I swear) Please enjoy.

You know, i shoud really stop extending my hand to people. What do i mean? I mean extending it open palmed and vulnerable and stretching my muscles to their limits just to reach someone or have them reach for me.

It hurts. The stretch, I mean. Pulling my fingers apart, tearing the sinue in an attmept to reach someone who has barely moved their hand from the body at all.

Now stretching isnt all that bad. Keeps the body nimble, less resistant to change or sudden movement. The main reason i want to stop is because they cut a piece of my arm off each time I reach.

Not every time, but when the person doesnt reach back they keep a piece of me. As a trophy or to embarass me further I cant decide.

Currently im missing everything past my left elbow. But thats only bc the first person i reached to took my entire hand in one go. My right arm is missing everything a little before that point.

It hurts even more when i was expecting to leave that situation with the same amount of arm i began it with.

But no.

Instead these beautiful women take dull cleavers and aimlessly hack at my arm until the piece they want has fallen off. It takes a while for my nerves to decide they were tired of feeling that intense ache.

Ive gotten used to it. The first time it hurt. I squirmed and fought back and called for help but was disregarded. This woman had called herself my girlfriend, my wife, my love. For months ! And now here she was taking my hand.

But now, as i watch blood spurt out of my stump and land on my face and hear my bones cracking and tendons screaming as she takes her earnings. She took earnings for the girl she actually wanted too.

Whats left is my shoulder to above where my elbow was on both arms. It hurts, the wound hasnt cauterized and my nerves are remidning me of my loss.

My face is wet too. I think im crying. I havent done that since the first time. But, i will get over it. I always do.

The wound crusts over and falls away, revealing my new skin and shorter stump. The pain subsides but it returns for a body part i no longer have. Almost like my body misses it.

I learn to live without those things lost. I learn to eat, feed, read, dress, clean, please with my stumps. And im miserable. And awful. And anxiety ridden. Worrying about if someone will soon return and take whats left of me. What will they do once they reach my shoulder ? Keep cutting ? Dig inside the stump for pieces of flesh and organ from the source rather than bothering with my skin, a reminder that im human.

The only constant is that they or she or he will stuff their maws of my meat and savagley lick away the remnants of me with a hand over my mouth to not spoil the meal (or to hide from the reminder that im unwilling, displeased, and alive). Only to discard me with less than i began with. Which already wasnt much.

And yet. I always find myself reaching a short time later. Always needing something that seems to be forever out of reach.

[havenoffandoms]

Hey congrats on 900 followers! Would I be able to request the touch starved prompt from your list with the pairing Aiden/Lambert please? Love all your writing!

Hello!! Thanks for requesting this prompt and this pairing! I’ve been on a right Lambden kick recently, so I felt inspired. I hope you like it! 

Prompt 13: Touch-Starved

Pairing: Aiden x Lambert

Warnings: None

Prompt List

Lambert was apprehensive about many things concerning Aiden when the two started travelling together. Being stabbed to death in his sleep comes to mind, or having Aiden go all batshit crazy if Lambert dared to beat him at Gwent. Lambert has heard many rumours about Cat witchers in his long life. Cats are batshit crazy. Cats are emotionally volatile. Cats are backstabbing sons of bitches… literally and metaphorically. Cats are bad. Cats are evil, etc, etc. All these rumours circulated in Kaer Morhen long before Lambert even set foot in that ramshackle castle. He was too young to have witnessed the Tournament, but he heard the older witchers talk. Later in his life, when only a handful of wolf witchers were left after the sacking, Eskel gave Lambert a more detailed account of the Tournament.

“The Cats betrayed us, went on a rampage. Killed many wolf witchers in the process. Geralt and I lost many friends that day,” Eskel told him one evening, when the oldest surviving wolf was too far in his cup to notice that he was oversharing. “Radowit’s court mage Astrogarus promised the Cats monopoly on killing monsters within Kaedwen in exchange for attacking the Wolves during the tournament. Turns out Radowit was a backstabbing motherfucker himself. He ordered his soldiers to shoot all of the remaining witchers of both schools in the arena.”

“Lemme guess,” Lambert spoke, his own speech slightly slurred, “pretty boy saved the day?” 

Eskel shook his head. “Fled. Mousesack helped him escape the massacre. Poor bastard never forgave himself for abandonin’ our brothers, but what choice did he have?”

Don’t get Lambert wrong. He’s not saying that Aiden is harmless, far from it. The guy’s lethal with his swords, deadly with a pair of daggers, not to mention a stealthy and clever thief. Aiden is mercurial, hot-tempered and a bit feral when he wants to be, and his morals are at best dubious. Whereas wolf witchers had their emotions beaten out of them at a young age, cat witchers feel too much, too strongly. Lambert’s witnessed Aiden flip tables when peasants beat him at Gwent, but he’s also witnessed the Cat shed a tear after bringing the news to a mother that her son did not survive the ghoul attack two villages down the road. 

Lambert was apprehensive about many things concerning Aiden when the two started travelling together, but the Cat had never ceased to surprise him. The most unexpected trait Aiden has displayed to date is his insatiable need for physical contact. It’s not like Lambert hates being touched - he’s only human, albeit a mutated one, but still human. He enjoys a hug as much as the next person, especially when said hug comes from one of his brothers (or, dare he say, Vesemir) at the end of a long and difficult year on the Path. Lambert has also never begrudged a bed partner a post-coital cuddle session. Aiden’s need for physical contact is… on a whole different level. 

The first time it happened, Lambert almost shoved the Cat off him and sent him packing, until he realised that Aiden was not only hugging him, but clinging onto him. His sharp nails were digging in the soft material of Lambert’s shirt, the fabric creaking in protest under the firm grip. When Lambert looked down, he noticed the pinched eyebrows and tears trailing down Aiden’s face. It wasn’t until a broken sob pushed past the Cat’s lips that Lambert reluctantly returned the embrace, arms wound tightly around Aiden’s trembling body. Aiden eventually settled in the safety of Lambert’s arms, his features softening as he sank back into a peaceful slumber. 

Neither mentioned the previous evening’s impromptu cuddling session, but from that moment one, it was like someone had flicked a switch. Aiden came up with every possible fucking excuse to touch Lambert. Their hands would always accidentally graze each other when they packed up camp, or tacked up the horses. Aiden would bump shoulders with him when they were travelling on foot. If they sat next to one another in a tavern, Aiden would press his leg against Lambert’s, and if they were facing each other, a tentative foot would gently nudge Lambert’s shin and linger there. It’s not like Aiden was trying to hide his intentions, either. They rarely paid for two rooms anymore, because even if they did, Aiden would always end up in Lambert’s bed anyway, arms wound around Lambert’s body like a koala clinging to its mother.

Lambert doesn’t hate Aiden’s need for physical proximity, he’s just… confused by it. Aiden rarely takes any lovers to bed, even though he clearly craves physical intimacy. Lambert is more than happy to cuddle with Aiden, especially when they are forced to sleep under the stars and the early autumn frosts begin to settle over the region. It saves them from lighting a campfire, which may attract the wrong kind of attention to them. That’s all that’s ever transpired between the two, though… cuddling. Lambert enjoys the cuddling as much as Aiden does, but for Aiden it seems to be about more than mere enjoyment. The Cat simply refuses to go without physical intimacy which at times can be… alright, it can feel overbearing, but Lambert’s not about to complain, not when most humans turn away from him in disgust and contempt when he tries to chat them up. 

Over the course of the next few weeks, Aiden almost develops a form of separation anxiety. He refuses to let Lambert out of his sight, going so far as to follow the man everywhere, and that’s the moment when Lambert snaps. 

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” he asks, his tone hiding none of the irritation he feels at being tailed by this overgrown tomcat. Aiden stops dead in his tracks, his eyes growing wide at Lambert’s words. 

“Huh?” 

“You’ve been following me since this morning… I have errands to run and it’s hard to do that when you’re breathing down my neck!”

Lambert instantly regrets his words the minute they leave his mouth. Aiden’s shoulders visibly sag at Lambert’s comment, his content expression melting into something sadder and the sight tugs at the wolf’s heartstrings in all the wrong ways. Aiden averts Lambert’s eyes shyly, the tip of his ears turning a pretty shade of pink as embarrassment washes over him. Lambert heaves a sigh. Way to act like a fucking dick. 

“Sorry, Aiden. I… I didn’t mean to sound like an ass, but-”

“It’s alright, I… I knew this moment would come eventually.”

“What are you talking about?” Lambert asks, a confused frown etched on his face. Aiden doesn’t look at him when he replies in a voice far too small to belong to the lethal, cocky witcher Lambert has come to know over the past few months. 

“You’re gonna ask me to leave for good. I get it. I… I’ll go back to the room and pack my things.” 

As Aiden turns around to leave, Lambert’s hand shoots out and grabs a hold of Aiden’s wrist. Before Lambert’s brain has a chance to catch up, he finds himself pulling Aiden into a nearby alley, away from prying eyes of judgemental humans meandering the stalls of the midweek market. Aiden looks so unsure now, so vulnerable like this, and it makes Lambert want to wrap the Cat up in warm blankets and cuddle him and forget the world for a while. Instead, he settles on pressing Aiden’s back against the wall and draping himself around the Cat witcher as much as he can. 

“That’s not what I meant,” Lambert breathes in the air pocket between them as he locks eyes with Aiden, “you’ve just been… especially clingy recently. Are you sure you’re alright?”

Aiden averts his eyes once again, but Lambert is quick to grip the other man’s chin and force Aiden to meet his gaze. Even that simple touch pulls a small hiss from Aiden, whose eyes flutter shut as he relishes in the feeling of Lambert touching him anywhere. Lambert purses his lips, eager for an answer. 

“Aiden-”

“Winter is around the corner,” Aiden whispers, his tongue darting out to lick his suddenly dry lips. Lambert’s frown deepens. 

“And?”

His question is met with a pointed eye roll from Aiden. 

“And… wolves return to their dens for winter, don’t they? I was just… enjoying the last few weeks in your company before you leave and never come back.”

As the final piece of the puzzle slots into place, understanding dawns on Lambert. He pulls away from Aiden and the small whimper the loss of contact triggers does not go unnoticed. Something old and fragile aches in Lambert’s chest as the meaning of Aiden’s words sink in. Aiden isn’t just worried about being separated from Lambert for a few months, but he’s worried that Lambert will never come back.The wolf links his fingers with his Cat’s, squeezing softly as he leans into Aiden’s space and rubs his bearded cheek against Aiden’s jawline. The latter quickly melts under the soft ministrations, the soft content rumble deepening into a continuous purr as Lambert nuzzles the crook of Aiden’s neck. 

“Why didn’t you say something sooner?” 

“Yeah, right,” Aiden snorts in response, “cause you’re so good with feelings and shit.”

“Not everyone’s a sappy sentimental bitch like you are,” Lambert teases gently, earning himself a half-hearted slap up the back of the head. “I don’t have to go back to Kaer Morhen this winter.”

Aiden tenses, his soft purring stopping abruptly as he takes in Lambert’s words. Lambert continues to rub his cheek against Aiden’s jaw, his neck, his cheek… wherever he can reach, the action meant to soothe the brewing storm in Aiden’s mind.

“It’s your home,” Aiden offers weakly, “I don’t want… I… it’s your home.” 

“I can send a letter to the old man. Let him know I’m alive. We could find a den somewhere else… an attic somewhere, or an abandoned castle.” Lambert nuzzles the spot right behind Aiden’s ear, earning a pleased hum from the Cat. “Or you could come with me.”

“Sure. Cause that’s gonna end well…” 

“That’s settled then. I’m spending winter with you.”

Aiden pushes Lambert away, their eyes meeting once again but this time, Aiden searches for any trace of a lie in Lambert’s amber gaze. He finds none, because Lambert is one hundred percent honest in his offer. He would ditch Vesemir, Geralt and Eskel for a year to spend it with Aiden… and the thought should scare him more than it does, truthfully. He’s only known the Cat for a few months, and yet… well, maybe Lambert was dreading the winter as well. How about that? It’s not like he felt equally anxious about leaving Aiden, it’s just… fuck off. 

“You mean that?” 

“Mhm. Fair warning… I hate the cold. If I’m spending the winter with you, you’ll have to find a way to keep me warm or I will bite your head off.” 

In Aiden’s defence, he does keep Lambert warm all winter long. Their cuddling finally turns into something more, and from the moment Lambert and Aiden cross that fateful line there is no going back. Aiden becomes insatiable, always seeking Lambert’s body in some shape or form, never letting the wolf out of his sight again.  Lambert may have been apprehensive about many things concerning Aiden when the two started travelling together, but it turns out that all his worries were for nothing. Turns out Cat witchers are still crazy, and feral, and mercurial… a tad possessive as well, something Lambert doesn’t hate... but they’re also the cuddliest sons of bitches on the Continent. 

Lambert can live with that, he thinks. 

Request a prompt.

[harrysgloves]

Three to tango

story summary: You, Harry, and Florence have a good time in your makeup trailer.

warnings: Language // THIS IS P*RN WITH LIKE ZERO PLOT // Threesome // w|w // spitting // oral (female receiving) // i have no idea what a production company is so don't come for me.

a/n: Brushing off the metaphorical cobwebs and finally getting back into writing! Woo-hoo! Ending could have been better but... meh. Also, I'm posting from mobile. If it looks weird, blame Tumblr ✌😍

REQUESTED: by @iwannaholdyoutight- and @hazgoldenstyles

And also by all these people... sorry it took so long.. 😁

>>><<<

"Stop movin'." You grumbled for the millionth time that morning. Your focus on covering up all these damn tattoos that you loved had become one of the worst things you had to do almost every morning.

"It tickles." He whined as the makeup brush ran over the inside of his arm. He instantly flinched away from the brush the moment it glided against a particularly sensitive spot.

"Harry!" You groaned, your eyes closed in frustration when he shot you the most adorable puppy eyes.

"'M sorry, kitten." He cooed, his lower lip pouted out when you sighed loudly, grabby hands tried to enclose around your waist before you smacked them away.

"H, I gotta get this done or you're gonna miss set time." 

"Wanna kiss." Those big green eyes flashed up to you from his spot in your makeup chair and you knew there was no way you could say no.

"One kiss." You clarified, knowing damn well he'd use kissing you as a distraction from being tickled again. 

He nodded eagerly before leaning slightly up to your level. Your eyes narrowed, still not sure you could trust that he wasn't going to divert your attention but his lips. 

God, his fucking lips.

They looked so memorizing. The light sheen of chapstick he'd applied earlier was still lingering across the plush pink cushions. His tongue wetting them, taunting you to come closer, and it worked.

You were so naive to think he wouldn't do this.

You squeaked as his hands gripped the fleshy curve of your hips. His lips twitched up into a smile against your own when he pulled you forward onto his lap as quickly as he could. 

You knew you should have tried to protest a bit more. You should have attempted to keep him on track but when his thigh pressed against your clothed core, you knew you were done for. His tongue licked into your mouth as his hand got a firm grip on the round flesh of your ass.

"I see what you two do in here." That sweet voice floated through the thickening air in your makeup trailer as she opened the door. Your eyes lazily blinked open to see your smug boyfriend smile wide across his face. 

Whatever snarky come back that was sitting on the tip of your tongue was quickly choked down to the back of your throat when you looked up to see her wearing that. 

Who knew a robe could turn you on so much?

"Damn." Harry finally commented after your not so subtle shifting of your hips against his thigh. Now he completely understood why you'd suddenly gone silent. 

"Shut up." She mumbled under her breath. Her cheeks flamed red from your shameless stares. 

"You look great, baby." You smiled brightly, your hand extended out for her to take. "Mhm." Harry's quick agreement had both you and Flor rolling your eyes, but a small smile formed at the corner of her lips.

"Wait til you see what he's got to wear." She smiled brightly, her silky soft hand wrapped tightly in yours as she walked towards the both of you. 

"Better hurry up then," you practically jumped off Harry's lap, his lust filled eyes quickly turned fearfully as your eager hands reached for your set of brushes. "Hold him down for me."

"Gonna pay for this later, sweetheart." Harry grumbled as Florence's hand held down his arm. 

"Sort of counting on that, Harold. Now, be a good boy and hold still."

>>>

The rest of your day had been absolute torture. Your core ached, your underwear were beyond ruined, and you couldn't wait another minute for the both of them to finally be off set. 

Instead, the both of them casually took their time, leisurely hanging around to talk to other cast and crew while you were basically jumping out of your skin to get them back into the privacy of your trailer. 

After 30 minutes of them both shooting you sweet smiles and well disguised sultry eyes, you'd had enough. Your feet carried you as quickly across the lot to your haven, your fist clenched in your hand almost as tightly as your core.

You were dripping and the both of them knew you were having a hard time keeping your hands to yourself.

It started out innocent enough, Harry's tattoos needed to be touched-up about a million times with the edge of his suit rubbing away the makeup there. You had been practically drooling over the both of them all day but when he saw your legs tighten together, he could help but lay it on thick. His hand rested on the small of your back as he circled around you, nose pressed almost completely against your ear as he whispered a raspy thank you. 

Florence was just as bad and she wasn't ever the instigator out of the three of you. She couldn't help it when she heard a soft whimper leave your lips when she brushed a few hairs off your forehead when you were redoing her makeup after lunch. 

She smiled sweetly, too sweetly, before those plush lips pressed tightly against your own. Her hand laced around your jaw to pull you tighter into her kiss. 

She pulled away from you before you were even close to being done. "Only fair that I get to makeout with you in this chair if Harry gets to do it all the time." 

You felt like you could combust from how turned on you were and you were done waiting for them to do something about it.

You practically slammed the door to your trailer behind you, making sure to lock it before laying yourself out across your couch that sat in the corner of your room.

If they weren't going to do something about it, you would. Your hands fumbled around with the pesky pants that covered your legs, until you were finally free enough to touch where you needed.

The sigh of relief, shuddering feeling that ran through your body from the contact you were craving only lasted a moment before you heard a metal key fumbling around with the locks on your door. 

"Couldn't wait for us?" Harry chuckled, his keys to your trailer thrown on your table top.

"You two were taking forever!" You glared at him through your open legs. 

"Told you she couldn't wait any longer." Florence giggled as she pushed her way past Harry. Her hands on her hips but a smile danced on the corner of her lips.

"Are you two going to help me here or?" You were cocky, impatient, and your fingers weren't anywhere near as good as theirs was.

"Might just watch." Harry shrugged with a smug smile as he plopped down on the end of the couch. The furniture was barely big enough for the three of you to sit normally. His hands moved your legs to lay over top of his own. Your eyes could have shot daggers through him as he loosened his tie, his legs spread wide enough that your hand bumped his thigh with every slow circle around your clit.

"Baby." You whined, your pleading eyes flashing towards Flor. Who was already wearing nothing but a smile, her robe abandoned on the floor, and if you weren't so insanely turned on you would have turned to stick your tongue out to Harry. Gloating that at least one of them was nice enough to help you.

Having sex with them always seemed to be frenzied, blurs of quick paced moments that seemed to fly by.

Her thighs rested on either side of you as Harry peeled away the drenched lacy fabric between your legs. 

Her tongue dominating your own as she pulled down your top enough to free your breast. Her hands pinching and kneading across them as your back arched further off the couch.

You could hear Harry mumbling out a slur of curses, followed by the sound of his zipper. Your legs were bumped up and down in time with his strokes along his swollen cock.

"Soaking my leg, kitten." He groaned at the sight of your cunt soaking the thin material of his brown suit.

"Thought you were just gonna watch." Florence chuckled, her perfectly pouty lips swollen from how hard she'd been kissing you. The edges of them barely touching your own as she talked to Harry.

"Was gonna but she's so fuckin' wet, Flor." His voice was deeper than usual, gravelly, slow, "Bet I could jus'...." 

Your jaw fell open, your back arched off the couch when his fingers filled you. A wild moan ripped from your lungs when he curled them just right.

You could already feel the cord tightening in your lower stomach. You had been so wound up all day long from looking at them you were practically ready to snap within seconds. 

"Awe, poor thing's already about to cum." Florence cooed, her hand around the back of your neck, teasing your jaw with the edge of her nose. 

You always loved hated how well they could read you. How their teasing words made your face burn and your pussy flood with need. 

When she was harshly shifted down further into your chest, her own sweet sounding moan falling from her lips, you couldn't help your own snide remark, "who's the one going to cum too quickly now?"

She probably would have snapped right back at you but she couldn't utter out anything more than whimpers. You knew the feeling, Harry's tongue had a way of doing that, making you both shut up and he had proudly used it on more than one occasion to get you two to stop bickering about dumb stuff. 

Your hand laced through her blonde locks, her lips attached to your neck whenever she could control her mouth long enough to kiss your sweet spots. Your nipples peaked at the contact of her breast against your own, Harry's hand still pumped lazily against your sweet spot, his thumb running tight circles around your clit, and while it wasn't enough, you weren't complaining. You weren't ever sure how he managed to focus on eating one of you out while fingering the other when you knew damn well he was about to combust himself.

You knew she was close when her breathing became erratic, her chest heaving against yours. Her whole body shaking as her orgasm washed across her, her panting barely broke when you felt his warm tongue slipping through your folds.

You moaned at the feeling, your hips instantly shifted downwards, craving every bit of contact you could get from him. 

You could feel your walls fluttering around his fingers with every thick swipe of his tongue across your clit. Your eyes barely staying open when soft kisses were pressed lazily against your neck. 

Such a contrast to the harsh grasp of Harry's free hand digging into your one thigh. His gruts and groans were only muffled by the deafening sound of your soaking core.

Florence perked up her head from your chest, carefully turning herself completely around. Her legs on either side of your head as she draped herself across you to watch Harry at work.

Her sweet honey only inches from your face and fuck did you want a taste. You wet your lips, hands pushing her thighs down but she wouldn't budge.

Your huff of protest was quickly choked down when Harry's tongue ran tight circles around your clit.

"Gonna share?" That sweet voice asking that innocent question about broke you. Your walls clenched tightly trying to not get Harry to stop his fingers from slipping out of you, almost crying when they did anyway.

"Course, baby." 

You squeaked, your legs pushed backwards by your thighs, your body almost folded in half.

"Fuck, you got her soaking the couch." 

You were suddenly very appreciative about the fact neither one of them could see the embarrassment burning through your face. Your forehead pressed to Florence's leg as you whined, not wanting them to point how just how turned on you were.

You heard two simultaneous shushing sounds before your lower lips were pulled apart, the cool air licked across your slick, only making you whine louder.

When you heard and felt Harry's spilt against your core you thought you were done for. Lip tucked so tightly between your teeth you could taste the faintest hint of metallic against your tongue.

Then the softest kitten lick had you losing your mind, her tongue collecting all of his saliva on your clit before swirling around your entrance.

"Fuck," you cried, your nails digging crest moons into the flesh of Florence's thighs. "please, just fuck me already!"

"Don't think she can take anymore teasing Flor." Harry chuckled, yeah, chuckled, from between your thighs. 

"But I was having fun." She pouted, her tongue stopping its mesmerizing movements.

"Can 'ave fun with her after." Harry said as he started to shed the layers of his suit. 

"I'm literally right here!" You complained, your huff of annoyance jammed down your throat when Harry pulled up by your legs. Your face now exposed to his smirking, mischief filled eyes. 

"We know, baby," he cooed, almost too sweetly, something about the look behind his eyes made your pussy flutter but your mind anxious about how sore you'd be tomorrow. "Ass up for me."

You eagerly nodded your head, trying to roll over in your place before the tsking clicks of his tongue stopped your movements. 

"Like this." He said, pulling you off the couch. Your knees on the hard linoleum floor, your elbows resting on the seat of cushion in front of you. Giving Flor just enough space to sit pretty right in front of you.

Your arms instinctively circling around her thighs, pulling her core down to mouth. Her moans filled the small space around you. Vibrating off the walls with an echo. 

"Should 'ave done this in 'ere before." Harry mumbled more to himself than to either one of you as his tip teased your entrance. Your hips swayed instantly at the contact, slowly backing up the little bit you could to feel him slip inside of you.

He hissed, his fingers gripped the round flesh of your ass tightly before he surged forward, stuffing you to the brim with his cock.

"I ruin this pussy 'most everyday and you're still so fuckin' tight." He gritted out through his teeth, your walls clenched down around him at his words.

"Guess you're not fucking her good enough then." 

Your eyes widened in disbelief belief, disconnecting from her core so your mouth could gape in shock.

Did she hate you being able to walk?

"That so?" 

"'S what I said."

"Kitten," You squeaked when you were lifted by your shoulder, your back against Harry's chest. His hands snaked under your shirt just long enough to rip it off. "you can thank Flor tomorrow for why you won't be able to sit." 

"She'll probably be thanking me." The blonde rolled her eyes playfully teasing but enjoying the fact she was getting under his skin.

"Need me to stop, just tap my leg," his deep voice husked into your ear. Your hand tapping his leg, showing him you understood,  before you were hurled back in front of Florence's core by the back of your head. "good girl, now lick." 

You had Harry go hard on you before but when he sheathed himself fully inside of you in one go, you knew you were really going to be in for it. 

Your tongue tried to desperately get Flor off as fast as you could, your fingers slamming into her sweet spot, as your eyes rolled to the back of your head. You had a hard time knowing where to focus. Her addictive taste or his marksman worthy precision thrusts into your g-spot.

Your body felt like warm liquid was being pumped through your veins. Both of them gripping onto you at different ends, his hips grinding against your ass as he sat balls deep in your pussy. Her hips dragging against your mouth, fucking herself against your face. 

The sound of their collective moans slicked through the sticky, sex filled, air around you. Your mind lost in that space of non-thinking as your body moved back and forth between the two of them.

"Gonna cum all over my cock, sweetheart?" Your walls tightened around him as her fingers dug deeper into the back of your head. Her own cord snapping only moments before your own.

The white burning light washing through your body followed by the familiar gush of fullness in your lower tummy. 

"Holy shit," Florence breathed out, her arm dropped across her forehead. 

"Why haven't we done that here before?" Harry asked through short breaths.

"'S company property." You mumbled against the couch, your head buried into the soft material as your legs gave out to lay on the heaven-like cold floor below you. "We literally just said fuck you to New Line Cinema." 

You heard chuckling from either side of you, both of them still slightly out of breath.

"Hope we don't work with them again then." 

[bored-storyteller]

Alternative version of this one shot (or part of it)

Warning: mention of blood and violence

67- Tokyo Ghoul, Uta x human!Reader

The smell of your blood was enough. This was enough, and the world around Uta had darkened and there was for him that dangerous red trail that led him to you. And even if his face seems calm and focused, the terror of never seeing you again grips him.

Why are you there in the first place? You don't have to be there, he warned you. He always warns you, to keep you safe - so you don't see.

It's hard for him to hold back when his mental state is in that situation. When he needs blood, fun and killing, and as much as he wants it, not even your presence can satisfy that need.

Indeed, you are a stimulus. Your eyes that silently scrutinize him from your hiding place are a charge for him to do better. To do more.

He never wanted to show you the monster. No, it's not just about something metaphorical and moral like the monstrosity of ghouls. His monstrous body, he never wanted to show it to you.

Yet now it's there massive and awful on his victim, and your attacker. And it’s precisely because you are there.

Uta from the fourth ward is not a ghoul that the others don't take seriously, it wouldn't need him to use his strength with a being as lowly as that, but he needs it.

He can still smell you. He knows exactly where you are and what you feel, he smells your fear, and he likes it.

Are you afraid of him? Are you afraid of what you see even though he is saving you?

"Where do you run chick."

Uta's laughter is chilling, transcendent, as the ghoul with your blood-stained hands whizzes by his side.

Your crouched form shrinks against your makeshift barrier to clear the way for the substitute victim before he overwhelms you.

You are so confused and afraid that what happens just slips before your eyes without really making sense. And when something rushes forward with a violent rush to capture the unfortunate ghoul, you have neither the ability nor the readiness to escape it.

The first thing you perceive is the heat that surrounds you and the light that dims.

Someone giggles and someone shouts.

You forget to breathe.

"Oops ..."

It's a voice you know all too well, it's a voice you hear every day, filling your life like color fills a blank canvas. Yet now you would swear you never heard it.

“How did you end up here, my beloved? Did your delicious smell make me catch you too? "

Beloved is not a word that flows often between you two, it is suspended in your gestures and in your looks, but it is truly exceptional that your lips pronounce it. Maybe that's why it now sounds so unreal from those lips you should have known for a long time.

Those lips that move threateningly beneath you and your tormentor, in the depths of that flesh so hot and so inhuman that surrounds you.

"Tell me, my love, what pains in hell do you want this toy to undergo?"

That word continues to resonate in those muscles along with the angry moans of the captured ghoul.

Love, love, love. Such a rare word, so unconventional. Yet he seems to like to say it as he prepares to kill.

It clashes like a broken bell, screeches against hearing like teeth in terror. But no, you can't say he's not being sincere.

Those red tentacles squeeze in on you, and you don't know if it's sadism or some other dark emotion he's feeling about holding you there.

You do not answer his smallest question and rather you turn around, clinging desperately to that merciless cocoon, looking for a way out.

Maybe it's still sadism, those noises you hear so visceral and close to you, while an unequal fight is taking place a few inches from your body. If not even the ghoul can escape the monster, how can you fragile human?

You don't want to see what's happening, what he's doing. You can't even imagine how the hell he can do to cause those screams of terror and that slaughterhouse noise of flesh and blood. The sound is already ignoble enough to make you squeeze against the viscous envelope, closing your eyes and pressing against those walls that you don't even know which area of his body they belong to.

Even when the disturbing silence falls on you, you don't move. The awareness of being alone there strangely makes things even more difficult.

"Don't you want to watch?" Uta's voice is still distorted by an unhealthy amusement "So weak ... there was no need to even fight him ..."

Your fingers cling to the tentacles as if they could protect you.

"Uta ..." his name sounds uncertain in that too narrow cave.

"Hm?" A light laugh, this time addressed only to you "are you afraid?"

He knows you're scared, terrified. He feels it in his lungs, the smell of your anguish mixes with that of your blood, of that wound you seem to have forgotten about.

And he keeps you there, because he knows that if he were to let you go, you would run away. The smell you have on you is that of the victims when they try in vain to escape the predator.

For a moment, a fleeting insane moment, he really thinks that the only solution is to devour you, that this is the only way to keep you there with him.

But that moment falls into his own horror when your question caresses him: "Can you come back please?"

Come back.

His heart stops for a moment.

Come back.

That scent of prey becomes your perfume again, which invades him like a raging river.

"But I ... I've always been here."

Now his voice is no longer scary, and although you still do not dare to look beyond your eyelids, you can finally feel the safety of that delicate and gentle tone.

"Uta?" You call him again, like you want to make sure it's him for real.

And he wonders what the hell he's doing. Because you are there, in the first place, in his trap.

Finally his shell opens, freeing you in the evening light, and all that grabs you are his hands, to bring you back to earth safely.

When you open your eyes, nothing is left of that cluster of tentacles and arms; all that is in front of you is that dear face that you have come to know so well. It's a blood mask that covers his chin to his nose, but at least you can see his eyes.

"It's me ..." the sweet note of his voice echoes in the calm after the storm "It's just me."

It's just him. No hero ready to save you, only Uta in his natural madness.

His instinct to grab you before you run away is contradicted by your sudden gesture pushing you against him.

"Uta!" Your arms surround his neck in a desperate attempt to hold him back as your head snuggles against his neck as if that were your only refuge.

"You never came back ... I came looking for you."

Your words are so docile and sincere that Uta almost doubts he has heard them.

He asked you, he asked you what you would do if he never came back. He hadn't believed you had taken his words to heart so much.

The imaginary of you, finally free human without him, dissolves in his mind with every particle of you that your body transmits to him.

It seems that nothing is wrong with you in any of this; neither the danger you ran, nor the wound on your shoulder, nor his inhuman violence. You seem to completely ignore the blood that covers him, which now dirties you too, and you are not bothered by the gaunt remains that surround you. You were looking for him. You were afraid that he would never come back to you, and you looked for him, as you said.

You did not remain silent and wait, you did not hope for a while to get rid of him, nor did you plan to remain without him. Instead those words of his had remained inside you to the point of putting you in danger.

"Forgive me." His voice is little more than a whisper as his palm gently rests on your head in a protective gesture "Does it hurt a lot?"

You shake your head in dissent as he leans over your wound to lick the blood away. Not a threatening gesture, but a cure, a desire to perceive you as close to him as possible.

You who sought him, you who did not run away, you who remain so calm in his hands.

"You won't go away, will you?"

Your question is innocent as you curl up in him, likewise seeking your presence.

His nose cuddles against your temple, continuing to perceive you with all possible senses.

"Not as long as you want me."

[perlukafarinn]

for the sake of this fic, let’s pretend angels can’t heal monsters.

Their luck had been bound to run out sooner or later. 

Dean had known this, had felt it with every beat of his heart since he first arrived in purgatory, and somehow it still caught him off guard when it finally happened.

 They’d been cornered by a pack of monsters he couldn’t even identify, things that looked human and moved like a nightmare, their monsterhood betrayed by a mouthful of razor-sharp teeth.

Already at the start of the fight, Dean found himself cornered alone, and with a quick glance around saw Cas and Benny had similarly been sectioned off. The monsters outnumbered them almost two-to-one and Dean barely had the time to raise his knife before one of the ugly fuckers was on top of him, pinning him to the ground.

Whatever those things were, they’d been smart enough to ambush and divide, but Dean’s humanity was working in his favor for once. The monster on top of him was chomping eagerly for a bite of flesh, eyes glazed over and mindless with hunger. It didn’t even seem to notice that Dean’s blade was now digging into its throat, as it inched itself closer to its own demise.

Dean clenched his fingers around the handle of his knife but before he could strike the killing blow, a terrible scream pierced through the air.

“Benny!” Cas called and Dean looked up, heart pounding in terror, catching the sight of Benny sinking to the ground just in time before three monsters were on  him.

Dean jolted as he felt a sudden pain in his shoulder - the fucker on top of him had bitten him, teeth just barely piercing through Dean’s leather jacket to graze the vulnerable flesh underneath.

Fueled by fear and pain, Dean grasped his blade tightly and drove it into the neck of the monster. It froze, staring down at Dean in confusion, its blood dripping dark and viscous down Dean’s hands and staining his skin.

“That’s my favorite jacket, you asshole.” 

With another surge of strength, Dean pushed himself off the ground, rolling them around and straddling the monster, driving his knife in deeper until he’d separated the head from the body. 

No time to waste, he got up on his feet and ran towards Benny. Cas was already there, grabbing one of the monsters by the head and lighting it up from the inside out. Dean got to them just in time to deal a killing blow to the last of them, decapitating it smoothly as it raised its head towards him.

And there was Benny, lying in the pile of corpses. He was soaked with blood and what little of his skin shone through was deadly pale. His arms looked torn to shreds but his right leg seemed to have taken the worst of it, looking utterly mangled from the knee up.

“Fuck,” Dean muttered. He knelt, reaching for Benny with trembling hands as if he could stem the flow of his blood with them, somehow. “It’s - it’s okay. Cas can heal you, it’ll be okay.”

“Dean,” Cas said. “I can’t.”

Dean turned around, sure he’d misheard. Cas looked down at him, genuine regret in his eyes.

“What the fuck do you mean you can’t?” 

“Benny’s a vampire,” he reminded Dean gently. “I can’t heal monsters.”

“Brother.” Benny’s voice was quiet and raspy. It sounded like it took all his energy just to speak. “It’s fine. We always knew it might end like this. You gotta leave me, I won’t -” he coughed, droplets of blood landing on his lips. “- I won’t be able to heal quick enough. I’m a liability.”

“Like hell,” Dean muttered. He looked around desperately, as if the solution might present itself. He shifted on his knees, pain flaring in his shoulder as he moved.

Dean stilled. 

He knew what he had to do.

“Cas can’t heal you,” he said slowly. “But I can.”

Benny squinted up at him. “What?”

“Dean...” Cas said, clearly understanding Dean’s train of thought. “He would need to take a lot. Too much.”

“And then you heal me,” Dean said, pointing between the three of them. “That should work, right?”

Cas didn’t answer, which was answer enough.

“Help me get him upright,” Dean told him.

He wrapped his arm around Benny’s shoulders, moving carefully as Benny groaned in pain at the movement. In a moment, Cas was on his other side, helping Dean haul Benny into a sitting position, propping him against a nearby tree.

“Wha-” Benny blinked, squinting at Dean as he started removing his jacket. “What’re you doing?”

“Saving your sorry ass.” 

Dean handed his jacket to Cas, then paused as he considered the best way to do this. His neck would be quickest, he knew, and they needed to get this over with as soon as possible. 

Well. What happens in purgatory...

Before he could think too hard on what he was about to do, Dean climbed onto Benny’s lap, straddling him in order to keep most of his body weight off of him. As if on autopilot, Benny raised one hand to grasp Dean’s waist, supporting him.

“Come on, buddy,” Dean said, cupping the back of Benny���s head and bringing him in close. “Drink up.”

Benny’s hand tightened its grip on his waist and there was the flicker of hot, wet tongue against Dean’s skin. That was all the warning he got before Benny sank his teeth in, ferocious and hungry, and began to draw deep sips of blood. 

The pain of it was blinding for a moment, sharp and intense, but it didn’t last long. What was left was a strange sensation, a pull and a tug, and Dean’s head swam with the realization that he was feeling the blood being sucked from his body. 

Benny’s tongue was still pressed against his skin. He shifted, growing strong enough to move as he drew more of Dean’s blood, and his arm wrapped tighter around Dean’s body, hand moving from his waist to his lower back. 

With one hungry, insistent pull, Dean felt his knees give way but Benny just tugged him even closer, wrapping his free hand around the back of Dean’s neck, holding him still as he drank. 

Dean swallowed. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected from losing so much blood but it wasn’t for his body to grow hotter, for his stomach to tighten in excitement, for the sounds forcing their way past his lips, small pants that sounded almost like groans.

And it sure as hell wasn’t for his dick to get hard.

Maybe he’d been in purgatory for too long. Maybe it was just that it had been a while since he’d last had another body pressed against his like this. Maybe it was Benny’s hands on his body, so strong and assured, or the burning touch of his mouth on Dean’s skin.

Maybe it was the fact that Benny was getting hard too, erection pressing insistently against Dean’s ass through two layers of denim.

“That’s enough.”

Dean startled. He’d forgotten that Cas was there, watching them. 

Oh, shit. Cas was there and Dean was sitting in a vampire’s lap, dick hard enough to pound nails, with no way of getting out of the situation without showing his ass.

Well. Metaphorically speaking.

Benny pulled away, the release of his fangs sending another sharp stab of pain down Dean’s spine. He leaned against the tree, licking the blood from his lips and looking way too smug for his own good. 

“You okay there, cher?” 

Dean shifted uncomfortably and oh, wrong move, because now his hard dick was pressing against Benny’s stomach. There was no way Benny couldn’t feel it but he just grinned, eyeing Dean with a lazy sort of curiosity.

“I’m fine,” Dean said, voice coming out weaker than intended. He was feeling a little light-headed, come to think of it.

Then, an arm was wrapping around his waist and yanking. Dean stumbled, trying to get his feet under him as he was hauled up but it didn’t seem to matter; Cas was handling all of his body weight just fine.

Dean peaked over his shoulder. Cas was glowering at Benny, arm tightening almost imperceptibly around Dean when Benny just winked in response. 

“Cas?” Dean asked. 

At the sound of his voice, Cas finally looked his way. His eyes were almost impossibly intense so close up, threatening to swallow Dean whole.

Rather than say anything, Cas raised his hand, cupping Dean’s neck gently and for one crazy moment, Dean was sure he was gonna pull him in for a kiss. Instead, warmth started streaming from Cas’ palm.

Dean closed his eyes and couldn’t help the groan of relief as he felt his body heal, the wound on his neck knitting itself back together and fresh blood rushing through his veins.

The warmth slowly receded but Cas didn’t move his hand. Dean opened his eyes and Cas was still staring at him, that dark, inscrutable look.

“Should I leave you two alone?” Benny asked.

Cas huffed and then he was pushing Dean to his feet, letting go off him so quickly he almost stumbled right back down his knees. He caught himself at the last moment, watching Cas’ retreating back as he stalked towards the trail ahead.

Benny whistled. “Touchy.”

Dean rolled his eyes but offered Benny his hand, helping him back on his feet. Before he could let go, Benny grabbed his shoulder with his free hand.

“I just wanted-” Benny swallowed. “Thank you. I don’t think anyone else would’ve...”

Dean averted his eyes, uncomfortable at the naked display of gratitude, and gave Benny a curt nod. 

“Don’t mention it, man.”

[roanniom]

hi pal can I request the reader showing sackler how to take things a little more slow and sensual in the bedroom (possibly ft some sub!sackler bc yum) dialogue line: 'easy tiger'

Hey buddy, yes – let’s teach our cutie sub!Sackler a lesson. (p.s., sorry to you and everyone else who requested stuff - I’m getting around to all of these, I swear lol)

Sweet

Adam Sackler x Reader

Word Count: 4,291

Warnings: NSFW, dirty talk, mutual masturbation, PIV sex, light light light dom/sub, mentions of food, shitty day angst

You love riding Sackler. It’s a fact and you aren’t shy about it. The way he feels beneath you – hard and wound out so tight, just a second from breaking – makes you feel like a goddess. You love messing with him and bossing him around, too. The way his eyes widen and his lip quivers as he thinks up a taunting reply or considers the reward that might come if he is good and acquiesces instead. You love rewarding and punishing him equally.

Sackler takes punishment better than any man you’d ever been with. While most men play along for a while, it’s been your experience that many tire eventually. Not Sackler. Sure, he’s a brat about it, but that’s exactly what you love. How receptive he is. No matter what you do, your Sackler reacts and it makes your heart and pussy clench in equal measure.

But every once in a while, riding Sackler isn’t what you’re in the mood for. Today is one of those days. It’s been a long one, full of meetings and paperwork and all the things that make your teeth set on edge by the time you climb up from the subway, up from the street, and up to your fifth floor walkup. When you reach the knob to open the door, it turns in your hand and moves inward without any effort on your part. The door pulls back to reveal Adam, standing with a huge grin on his face and a steaming mug which is promptly pushed into your free hand.

“Fucking finally! I’ve been waiting for you to get home.” A kiss is pressed hurriedly to your lips and your bags are pulled off of your shoulders. The whirlwind of motion and activity almost make you dizzy and you laugh. Despite your shit day and despite yourself.

“What’s all this?” you ask, gesturing the scene that his wall of a body, now moved aside to stow your bags, has revealed. The table is set for two, with flowers and a fucking lit candle in the center. Two stemmed glasses sit beside a sweating bottle of sparkling grape juice. Adam steps back into view, his grin even wider.

“Ray and I were fucking around at the café and I came across this recipe in a magazine -” he begins, but you cut him off.

“I can’t picture you flipping through a magazine.” He flips you off and continues.

“Well anyway, Ray said it was too delicate and I’d never be able to make it because I’m a fucking ox in a china shop and I was like the saying is ‘bull in a china shop you dickweed’ and then we wrestled a bit and scared his customers away which was pretty fucking hilarious -”

You grab Sackler’s chin to stop his manic rambling.

“The food, Sackler.”

“Well I was getting to that! So I said fuck you, ripped the recipe out, went to the store, and now nine hours and three cut fingers later we have this fucking feast!”

Sackler claps his hands together before gesturing grandly to the table. With the gesticulation you’re able to see the three aforementioned fingers swathed in shoddily placed bandages. You grab his non-damaged hand and lift up on your tiptoes. He gets the message, bending down to press his lips to yours again. He closes his eyes to savor the kiss, but as you back away yours dart over his figure and you let out another laugh.

“Sackler, is that my apron?”

~*~

It turns out bulls in china shops can, indeed, cook delicate dishes. The food is really good. Annoyingly good. Proving again, for the umpteenth time, that your tornado of a boyfriend can be good at things when he focuses all of his boundless energy on one thing.

“You shouldn’t have done this, you know.” You smile at him over the rim of your glass of sparkling juice, the remains of your meal littering the table before you. Sackler watches you, full and self-satisfied, shaking his head.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m never going to accept a shitty takeout meal again now that you’ve fed me this well.”

Sackler sits up straighter and leans over, reaching his hand between your thighs. Your legs open instinctively, without any effort from your brain, but as you lurch forward and metal scrapes against wood, you realize he’s grabbed your chair and is pulling you closer to him.

“It was really that good, wasn’t it.” His smile is ear to ear. You laugh at his smugness.

“Do I need to lick my plate to convince you? Because I will.” You drag a finger through the last bit of sauce on your plate and move to bring it to your mouth. Before you can, however, Adam grabs your wrist and reroutes it to his mouth. His lips close over your finger, tongue lapping up the sauce before it can drip down into your palm. He maintains direct, blazing eye contact the entire time and your stomach swoops. After a moment a sucking, Adam releases your finger with a pop, biting the tip playfully before dropping your hand back to your lap.

“Fuck I’m talented.”

The chuckle you release is a tad too breathless for your liking. It really has been a hard day, and Adam’s attention is getting to you quicker and more than usual. He can see it in your eyes and in the incremental quickening of the rise and fall of your chest.

“Yep. You’re fucking talented,” is all you’re able to muster, biting your lip.

The large hand that had pulled you closer to him has spent this whole time gripping your chair in the space between your legs. Now it slides to smooth over your thigh. His hand is hot enough you can feel the heat radiating beneath your pants. Despite the warmth you shiver.

Adam notices and pulls back his hand so that only his index finger remains in contact with your leg. His index finger which he drags up your inner thigh only to run it up and down the line of the pants seam at the apex of your thighs.

“A little needy tonight, are we babe?”

This is exactly what you need to loosen up so you grab his wrist. He stiffens immediately, assuming he’s done something wrong. But instead you pull him closer to close his whole hand around your clothed cunt, pushing up and down on his hand to provide a wider surface area of warmth and friction.

“A lot needy tonight…babe,” you correct him.

~*~

When you migrate to the bedroom, Sackler is on you like an animal. This is his usual modus operandi – he does everything he possibly can to trigger your reprimands, your slaps, your warnings. It’s partly to see what he can get away with before you tighten the leash (metaphorical but sometimes literal) and partly because seeing you riled up turns him on so much.

Right now he’s got you bent over the bed, cheek smashed to the mattress, legs spread, ass out, as he grips and pinches and squeezes the curves of your body.

“I’ve been thinking of you all fuuuhhking day, baby.” His voice is gruff to go along with the handfuls he grabs of your ass.

“I thought you were thinking about food all day,” you manage to tease, despite the fact that his hands feel like heaven.

“Yeah but like when I went shopping for example.” He flips you over then and you squeal in surprise. Your back hits the bed but your legs remain dangling off. Adam steps between them and drops the weight of his whole upper body on you, effectively smothering you. “I just kept wishing you were there with me.”

Your stomach flips and your heart flutters, not expecting that sweet a statement. You also register your cunt getting wetter.

Oh.

So that’s the mood you’re in.

“You wished I was there?” you ask quietly.

“Of course,” Adam replies, tucking some of your hair gently behind your ear. “I imagined fucking you up against the inside of the freezer section so we could leave obscene handprints on the doors and freak people out.”

You whack him in the head in response, which is exactly what he’s going for. He picks you up and throws you unceremoniously more fully on the bed before climbing on as well and crawling up the length of your body.

“You’re an asshole, Adam.”

“I thought that was your favorite part about me.” He waggles his eyebrows at you. Out of spite – and lust – you reach between you and grab his dick through his jeans.

“No, this is my favorite part about you.”

Adam throws his body to the side, locking his arms around you in a roll that roughly brings you to rest on his chest while his back hits the bed.

“Now you’re talking, baby.” His mouth latches hungrily to your neck and his hands take forceful hold of your breasts. Beneath you Sackler begins rolling his hips, thrusting his hardening cock up into your pelvic area.

The aggression and the friction feel good, you can’t lie. But you can’t ignore the nagging feeling of disappointment lingering right at the corner of your mind.

“Adam,” you prompt. He doesn’t pause in his ministrations. He’s still playing the game. At this point you’re usually just getting started and, being the brat he is, he never actually listens to you this early. It would ruin his fun. No, instead Adam continues to nibble at your collar bone and untuck your shirt.

“Adam – slow down, please.”

The please comes out muffled because it occurs right as he tries to pull your shirt over your head, effectively covering your face.

“Are you trying to say something?” Adam asks with a chuckle, purposefully keeping the shirt tangled up in your arms and swathed over your head. “I can’t hear you.”

You wrestle your way out of his grip and the shirt straight jacket he’d fashioned, irritated but unable to suppress your own laugh.

“That’s not funny, asshole.”

“Again with the asshole.” Adam rises up to a sitting position with you still straddling him, moving to place soft kisses on your now-exposed chest. “Might I point out that you are laughing. I would argue that means it is funny.”

Adam deftly unhooks your bra and continues to drop open mouth kisses on a path that leads him up your throat. His softer actions cause you to roll your hips lightly, your eyes closing with the mounting satisfaction.

“Mmm haven’t I already taught you that you shouldn’t argue with me? You’ll never win,” you reply quietly, tone of voice matching the softness and heat that’s building between your bodies.

In quite a juxtaposition, Sackler growls and bucks roughly up into you, a motion you’re not prepared for and one which throws you off balance.

“We’ll see who wins, baby.” His mouth descends on you and it’s like he’s trying to suck your very soul between his lips. Like he wants to swallow you whole and usually? Usually this kind of thing would rev your engine and make you want to fight for control. But today your body is craving something different.

And you’re not about to deny it what it wants.

You press your palms down on Sackler’s chest, pushing down and pulling back with enough pressure that he finally releases your lips. His chest heaves up and down and he moves to kiss you elsewhere but you grab his jaw.

“Easy tiger. Easy.” Your fingers curl down and around his throat delicately. You’re not squeezing and you’re not gripping, but his eyes are wide and fixed on you. You hold him down with your gaze as much as your hand and, without breaking eye contact, you lower yourself slowly, slowly, slowly, to press a kiss to his flushed lips.

“We’re going to take things slower tonight.”

“Slower? But why!” Sackler moves to sit up again, but you push him back down, this time more firmly.

“Because I say so,” you answer bluntly. Sackler goes to talk back, defiance dancing in his eyes, but you speak up before he can interject.

“Because I need this.”

Your assertive tone comes out less firm and more genuine this time, allowing some of your vulnerability leak through despite your intentions. You watch Adam react, however, and you’re pleased to see his eyes soften.

“What do you want me to do, baby? Tell me.”

You mull this over from your perch above him, straddling his hips and looking down at his still clothed body. Swinging your leg up and over, you dismount him, much to Adam’s displeasure, as expressed with a groan. You, however, stand resolutely at the side of the bed and fold your arms.

“I’d like you to get up and take every piece of clothing off – slowly.”

“You mean like a strip tease?” he asks with a crooked grin, lumbering off the bed. You hop back on and settle down so that your back is now reclining against the pillows comfortably.

“You don’t have to make it sound so crass but sure. Like a strip tease.”

Adam takes a cheesy bow before pulling his shirt of by the back collar.

“Woah woah woah, I said slowly, mister.”

Adam huffs in agitation but does as you ask, dropping the collar and lifting the front hem of his shirt inch by inch, slowly exposing the abdominal muscles which, let’s face it, make you want to drool. You eye him like a piece of meat and without a trace of shame as he finally discards the garment.

“I hope you’re enjoying this,” he grumbles, but you see the amusement in his eyes.

“Oh I am, baby. Trust me.”

The show continues until his boxers ultimately join the pile that has accumulated at his feet. The slow clap you give him as you eye his stiff cock makes him let out a strained laugh.

“Now you,” he says through gritted teeth. You can tell he wants to stroke his cock, but you haven’t told him he can yet. And since you’ve changed the game on him, he feels less comfortable bending the rules.

“Can you come over and take my clothes off for me?” you ask through hooded eyes. He clambers onto the bed and you touch his shoulder as a reminder. “Slowly.”

Adam nods and reaches to unbutton your pants before pulling them slowly down your legs, hooking his fingers beneath your panties to bring them along, too. Having already been divested of your shirt and bra, the job is short and sweet.

You crook your finger in a come hither motion toward him, ushering him to move up to you, which he does. You settle deeper down into the pillows and he hovers above you, uncertain.

“What now?”

You pull him down by the back of the neck into a kiss. Your tongue encourages his to move, which it does. He takes his cues from you and the kiss morphs from sweet to sensual. When a strangled groan bubbles in the back of his throat you push him to sit up in order to bring things back down to the pace you’d worked so hard to establish.

“Now, I’d like you to drag two fingers through my cunt. Get them nice and wet.”

Adam inhales sharply and moves his arm quickly at first before catching himself and bringing his hand calmly between your legs. You let them fall open and sigh happily at the feeling of his fingers running up and down your dripping slit.

“You’re so wet and we’ve barely done anything,” Adam comments, awed.

“That’s how bad I want you like this.”

“Baby…” Adam practically whines. You can see his muscles tensing as his patience wears thinner.

“I know, honey,” you purr. “Now I want you to take your hand and stroke your big, fat cock for me.”

Adam inhales sharply again, but he doesn’t forget this time. This time his hand drags slowly from your cunt, trailing your slick over your thigh and up onto his in a path to his own cock, which he smears with the remaining juice.

“Oh fuck, I can’t take it slow for much longer.”

“Yes. You can.” You tease your own nipple now as you watch Adam’s hand close around the glistening, throbbing head. His muscles ripple beneath the skin of his abdomen and your cunt clenches.

“I saw that.”

Your wrench your eyes away from his cock to meet his eyes.

“Saw what?”

“Saw your little pussy squeeze around nothing.”

“Yes, it did.” You’re not about to deny it. Instead, you move the hand not playing with your nipple so that it comes to rest on your mound, fingers dipping down to feel your own wetness.

“Holy shit.”

His cock twitches in his hand and he comes to lean lower over you, bracing himself with one hand against the mattress next to your body as he picks up the pace on his cock. The shuck shuck shuck sound of his fist passing over his length makes your breath quicken and you push two fingers inside you, placing your thumb on your clit and beginning a rhythm of tight circles.

“Oh god, do you hear that?” Adam moans as your cunt begins making squelching sounds with your efforts. “That’s your little pussy telling me it needs me.”

“Mmm it talks to you?” you ask, trying not to think of how ridiculous this is and lose your concentration too much.

“Yes. It’s saying your fingers are two fucking small. It needs to be stuffed. With my fingers, with my cock -”

“Adam.” You interrupt him abruptly by grabbing the back of his neck and forcing him to look you in the eyes. He zips up and waits for you to say something but you don’t. Instead you maintain the eye contact and continue move your fingers in and out of your cunt. Though you won’t agree with him right now, Adam’s right. Your fingers are too small. But the in and out motion, combined with the pressure you are putting on your clit, combined with the way the bed shakes with the effort Adam is taking to jerk himself slowly but strongly, combined with the way he is now devouring you with his eyes – it all still feels pretty fucking good.

Adam’s breath becomes more ragged and the sound makes you let out an involuntary moan. Fuck you love hearing him react. You decide you might as well let him know. It’s already the tone of the evening.

“I love hearing you.”

“I was just about to say the fucking same about you. You’re the one who just moaned, though,” Adam says, letting out a breathless chuckle.

“Yeah but I like it all. I like when your breathing is all ragged like right now. I love it when you groan and growl. When you moan and it sounds like it’s coming from deep inside of you.”

“Fuck, baby,” he grunts, and you laugh.

“I like it when you curse, too. I love that filth spills from your brain and you don’t bother – oh! You don’t bother stopping it from falling out of your mouth.”

“You’re the inspiration for the filth, kid, I can’t take all the credit.”

You feel your heart stutter in your chest then and you drag your finger over your clit slower. Harder.

“I like it when you call me kid. You haven’t called me that in a while.”

“Oh fuck, I’m sorry, kid,” Adam’s face scrunches and you’re not sure if it’s out of guilt or because of the way his hand his now wringing his cock, twisting at the end of each stroke in a sad rendition of the technique you use when you jerk him off. “I didn’t know you liked it so much.”

“I do.”

“I’ll call you that more often.”

“Good.”

You both are breathing heavily now, a light layer of sweat covering skin that aches to be touched by the other. Your eyelids flutter and you try to keep your sight focused on Adam’s face. You’re feeling your inhibitions leave you as the pressure inside your core mounts, loosened up by the warmth of his breath on your cheeks and the way you’re speaking so openly to him. You decide you might as well continue.

“I also like it when you’re sweet to me.”

Adam falters at that, his hand coming to an abrupt stop on his cock. He blinks down at you.

“I am sweet to you.”

His voice sounds hurt and you bristle, wanting to take the words back.

“You are sweet to me. You are, Adam,” you reassure, grasping his arm. He remains still, watching you. You feel weird continuing to finger yourself, but your so close you are afraid to lose your momentum. “You’re always everything I want. And most times I want to be thrown around and I want to yell and stuff. It’s just sometimes…”

You trail off, but you don’t need to continue because Adam is kissing you. A slow, deep kiss. Lips moving against lips, tongue moving against tongue. His hands find your face and hold you softly, keeping you against him, leaving his cock to bob freely against your stomach. Your fingers abandon your cunt as well and you wrap around Adam, arms and legs both, pulling him down into you.

When Adam finally pulls back, his face no longer looks hurt.

“I can be whatever you want. Let me be what you want.” He kisses your forehead, then the tip of your nose, then the curve of your jaw.

“I want you inside of me,” you finally admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

When he slides in, you don’t have to remind him to go slow. You moan about your walls stretching and he moans about the way you squeeze so tightly around his cock. Your sounds spur each other on and you rock against him, urging him to move.

He pulls out so far that only the tip remains nestled just inside your entrance. When he pushes back in, it feels like he’s pushing in for the first time of the night again. Your walls stretch to accommodate him and you clench instinctively around his length. The process repeats itself, over, and over, until you’re pretty much completely unraveled beneath him.

All the while Adam rains soft kisses on your face, neck, and breasts. Without a chaotic rhythm of thrusts to keep up with, he has the attention span to shower you with even more affection. The hoarse whispers in your ear are by far your favorite:

“You’re so fucking beautiful.”

“You feel so good, you take me so well it doesn’t make fucking sense.”

“Fuck, did you feel that? How tight you’re gripping my cock baby?”

“That’s it, yes make those fucking gorgeous sounds for me.”

It’s not exactly textbook “sweet,” but it’s Adam and it’s what you need. It’s Adam giving you what you need.

You reach down at some point to rub your clit, working yourself up to the edge, but Adam pulls your hand away so his can replace it.

“Not on my fucking watch,” he mutters gruffly. A laugh bubbles in your throat but it bursts into a moan as the dam breaks and you fall apart, crying out his name over and over in the process.

“Yes, baby, yes. Ride it out – fuck you’re hot when you cum.”

You fight to catch your breath and you gaze back up at Adam through the stars in your eyes. The resulting effect makes him both blurry and sparkly in your vision and your muscles continue to contract around his massive cock, which he’s been kind enough to keep stuffed inside you for you to lock onto.

As your muscles begin to relax you blink away the stars and allow a smile of the deepest, most well-fucked satisfaction to slide across your face. Adam watches and his smile matches, though there is still some tightness in his features due to the fact that he is still achingly hard.

“Adam, that was…” you try to catch your breath. “That was…thanks. I needed that.”

When Adam meets your lips for a kiss, however, you yank tightly on the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Now I want you to take what you need,” you say louder. “I want you to cum.”

With your permission, Adam doesn’t need more than a second to switch gears. He lifts your legs straight into the air against his shoulders, bending you into a right angle that becomes more and more acute with each passing second. His cock pounds in and out of your dripping pussy, your slick sliding between your thighs and making the fucking smooth and wet and oh so fucking good for him.

“I still like being sweet to you,” he says through gritted teeth, his thrusting becoming more erratic.

“I know you do, baby,” you hiccup out.

“But fuck! Do I love pounding this pussy.”

You laugh and he cums. All over you. He pulls out, dropping your legs down, and it spurts hot over your stomach and tits. It’s messy but he’s satisfied and you’re satisfied and fuck it, that’s what towels are for.

Once he’s gotten you nice and wiped up again, Adam pulls you to him in the bed, wrapping his arms around you tightly and giving you no room to move away. Not that you’d want to move. Why would you when you can lay here in this bed, tangled up in the man that wrung pleasure from your body and laughter from your lips.

~*~

Tagging some lovely people (please let me know if you’d like to be tagged or untagged in future work!): @mariesackler @direnightshade @safarigirlsp @sacklerscumrag @paper-in-ashes-fanfiction @historyandfandoms50 @clydesfavoritegirl @wayward-rose @hopeamarsu @thegreenmatt @barbers-glimmerin-darlin @finn-ray-nal-beads @fizzywoohoo @maybe-your-left @aliveandlonely 

[corpsentry]

ao3 mirror

fandom: botw rating: t
 pairing: zelda/link
 notes: post-canon, getting together, mild descriptions of injury. cooking. dancing. crying. and so on. “Let’s say you’ve been asleep for a hundred years and when you wake up you’ve lost all your memories, but you defeat the big bad monster like you’ve been told to, because a girl told you to, and because you were in love with her. And after defeating the big bad monster she comes back, only she’s not the person she was a hundred years ago. And you’re not the person you were a hundred years ago. And yet every time you look at her, your chest hurts so bad you think you might be dying.” He looks up from his breadstick. “Am I dying?” “No,” Beedle says. “I think you’re stupid.”

All roads lead to hateno.

“I ate the frog.” Is the first thing he says to her in a hundred years, because he can’t stop staring at her hands, and his head isn’t working properly because he can’t stop staring at her hands, and he doesn’t remember what he had been planning on saying before he walked into the castle and killed two versions of evil incarnate in a room with a domed ceiling and a field with a domed sky, but he’s pretty sure. He’s pretty sure it wasn’t this. “I’m sorry,” Zelda says. “You what?” “I, uh.” He takes a step back, and then a step forward. Hyrule castle looms like a corpse behind her, hulking and majestic and dead. It distracts him, though not as much as Zelda herself, pale as winter and glowing behind a halo of sun. “There was a frog you wanted me to eat.” A hundred years ago. “You said it would be for an experiment.” A hundred years ago you told me to eat a frog and that’s all that I remember. That’s what’s kept me going all this time. When things got hard, when the weight of the curse you had given me grew too great, I cooked a frog in a pot over a fire. She stares at him for a moment, her expression unreadable. “You’re more talkative than I remember.” He panics. “Should I stop talking?” “Oh no! No, just— how do I put it—” This probably isn’t what she had in mind for their reunion. He feels the sudden need to apologize. He should have tried harder to hold onto himself while he was sleeping off the blood on his back and the world retreated into a corner to lick at its wounds, but it was hard. He didn’t know what he was doing. He doesn’t remember, actually. He doesn’t remember going to sleep, and he doesn’t remember what he dreamed of. That’s two question marks in one head, and only one answer to go around. There were two shadows on the wall, though they belonged to the same boy. Zelda twists her hands together, almost as if in prayer. Her white dress billows heavily in the wind, covered in wounds from another century. “I’m sorry,” she says to his feet. “Please keep talking.” He nods, though she isn’t looking. After a moment, they make their way across the trampled, dead-looking field to his horse, who’s had half of her mane seared off and looks like she desperately wants a carrot. He hauls himself onto the saddle, then holds out a hand to Zelda, who stares at it like he’s just offered her the rest of his lifespan. Then she takes it, letting him pull her up behind him, and her hand is so warm, and the sky is so blue, and everything is so strange, he almost lets go. Of the girl. Of the reins. Of his grip on reality, this new, unexplored reality, the carcass of the castle slowly growing smaller in the distance. When he walked into the sanctum with a plan to kill Ganon he had been thinking about how the stalhorses on Tabantha Snowfield run faster than the horses near Kakariko, how a bokoblin will choose a freshly roasted chicken over the skin of your teeth, how stables are a metaphor for family. Now all he can think of is angels. She asks him where they’re going a little while later, and it’s only then that he realizes he doesn’t know. It’s a cool, starless night. No moon, no blood. His horse snickers at a boar by the side of the road, and Zelda tightens her grip on his waist. God, what have they been doing for the last hundred years? “Home,” he answers. “We’re going home.”


::


The house in Hateno is a small and modest affair. This is probably the only reason Bolson and his construction company were willing to sell it to him at an equally modest price, with modest display stands for his modest weapons, and a modest bed beside which he hung a framed photograph of him and his dead friends. He’s fine with it, though. The only thing that really matters to him is the photograph, though there are now two living people in it instead of one and a half, and if Bolson had not graciously included a bedframe and mattress in his modest homemaker’s package, then Link would have slept on the floor. He says as much to Zelda, who blinks at him sleepily and throws a pillow at his face. “Please don’t do that,” he says. “Sleep in your own bed,” she replies. He peels the pillow off the floor and pats the dust away before replacing it carefully on the bed. “I promised your father I would take care of you.” And Daruk. And Mipha. And Urbosa, who would kill me if she found out I let the princess sleep on the carpet. Like a dog, she would probably say, her voice low, her eyes slanted. How could you treat her like a stray dog? This is the princess we’re talking about. She deserves better. He opens his mouth to say as much, but Zelda gets there first. “My father is dead,” she says, her voice unexpectedly raw. She seems surprised at herself despite her best efforts, and clears her throat in an attempt to hide it. He finds himself overwhelmed with the sudden urge to hug her or blast a hole through the roof with his sword, but can’t decide on one, and ends up wringing his hands together behind his back while Zelda sits on the side of the modest bed in the modest house in Hateno, and presses the folds of her dress into a clump. There should be more he can do for her. What is it? If only Urbosa were here to tell him what it means when Zelda takes your hand like a promise, when Zelda pinches the side of your waist, when Zelda announces that her father is dead, has been dead for a hundred years, died a long time ago. But Urbosa is dead too. The old world is gone, though its survivors have finally emerged from the twilit field. What now? Zelda rubs her eyes. He picks at a cuticle and holds his breath. Despite her best protests, she agrees to the bed-floor arrangement. Zelda will sleep on the bed, because he didn’t think that far when he walked into the castle and defeated evil incarnate, and she doesn’t seem to care. Meanwhile, he will sleep on the floor. Which floor? The first floor, he decides, but when he tries to go downstairs he almost throws up. His heart’s uneasy, of course, but he had underestimated the side-effects of meeting an angel. Over the past few months, he had gotten used to getting mauled by things to the point where it had become part of his daily routine: get up, have a minor crisis about the fact that everyone you know is dead, have a minor crisis about the beautiful voice in your head, get mauled by a bear. Get mauled by a bokoblin who stole your spear. Get mauled by Mount Lanayru, which has a thing for spitting giant snowballs at him when he’s trying to talk to the Koroks in the region, pleading with them through chattering teeth to stop giving him more tiny golden shits and start letting him talk about his feelings. Zelda is not daily routine. Zelda was the girl in the dream, then a face in a photograph, and now Zelda is sleeping in the house in Hateno with her hands pressed up to her cheek, breathing softly. He’s overcome with emotion, though if you asked him to tell it to you, he wouldn’t know how. And as for the matter of her hands, were they always this lovely? Impa didn’t tell him what to do after he saved the girl, though he knows she’ll want to hear about it from him and not the Sheikah warriors she has spread out throughout the kingdom, keeping an eye on their dying gods. Impa wanted him to look forward, which meant knives and teeth and forests full of bodies. She didn’t tell him what he could or couldn’t do in the presence of the sun, and he, having spent his whole life sitting in a dark room, didn’t think to ask. In retrospect, he should have. In retrospect, he should have asked Bolson to build two beds. But the thought didn’t occur to him, just as it didn’t occur to him that his heart might not be the dead thing the world told him it was, and so he never did.


::


“I had a dream.” He flips the eggs. “About what?” “About a world where I made it in time.” Zelda peers over his shoulder. “Are they done yet?” “Almost, if you could please—” “—Ah, excuse me—” She dances out of the way of the big cast-iron pan, which he holds in one hand while he reaches for the plates with the other. In her haste to create space she walks into the counter and winces, bending over to touch the side of her foot. “Oh. I stubbed my toe.” She sighs. After breakfast he goes to look for Uma. He finds her sitting under the same old tree beside the bridge, cradling a cup of tea and humming along with the cicadas. Uma is the only person in Hateno who remembers the Calamity as a name with a face, and not a dream. She also had a daughter once, whom she lost in the years after the Calamity, when the rice fields had not yet begun to flourish, and the winters were long and cruel. He asks her quietly about the weather, which she tells him is her favorite kind. Spring’s never felt quite so lovely, she informs him, as she pries open an old dresser and leans forward to peer inside. He holds her cup of tea with both hands, the mellow sweetness of chrysanthemum tickling his nose and making him sneeze. After a moment, she returns with a set of clothes in the signature Hateno blend of oranges, blues, and warm, earthy browns. She places them carefully on his head and then retrieves her tea before he has the chance to drop the cup. “I hope your friend is taking well to Hateno,” she says warmly. I hope I have a friend, he thinks with his heart stuck halfway up his throat. He’s barely keeping himself together, in pretty much every sense of the word, but he thanks her all the same, and means it.


::


He did, in fact, eat a frog. Several times. Once on the Great Plateau, after the spirit of the old king had left him to fend for himself with a pickaxe and half an apple, and again while he was in the Hebra mountain range, because it was too cold out to hunt and one had hopped into his pack while he wasn’t looking and died there. Then there was another time, at one of the stables up north, where he met a traveling salesman who offered him a stamina-boosting trick for ten rupees. The first time he obediently closed his eyes, and could only describe the texture in his mouth as ‘soft, with hints of viscosity’. He returned several weeks later, ran away on his horse immediately after making payment, and was mildly alarmed to discover that he had not in fact been presented with a breadstick, but rather a leg. A very long leg. With joints. And skin. And a big, webbed foot. Once, while sitting on a raft headed out to sea, he considered hurling himself into the water. It had been raining for several days by this point, which itself wasn’t a problem as he had come to quite like the sound of rain bashing on the outside of his tent with bloody fists, but this rain was relentless. Like a ghost which tries to kill you and fails, and, in a fit of bitter resentment, resolves to throw rocks at your window each night for the rest of your life, the water got into his boots and it got into his eyes and then it got into his pack, which spoiled all of his carefully-preserved meat and caused the stopper in his bottle of milk to rot. Under the present circumstances, all the game had either gone off to find shelter or been washed away by the floodwaters. There was nothing for him to hunt, and nothing for him to eat. His stomach growled faithlessly. While stumbling along some beach or another, he bumped into Kass, who told him about some treasure further out at sea. He looked blandly in the direction that the parrot pointed out for him, and found his eyes drawn to the island that lay beyond it. “I’m going to go there,” he said. “I hope you find good treasure,” said Kass. “Yeah,” he said. So he hauled himself onto a raft (he was too shy to ask the people in Lurelin for help, and too proud to talk about his circumstances) at the crack of dawn and began to blast a Korok leaf at the sail. And then he got tired. He sat down. He leaned over the edge of the raft. His reflection in the water was gray, because the sky was gray, and the sky was gray because it was raining. He had begun to shiver again, but he had spent most of the week shivering anyway and so didn’t pay it any attention. His hair was matted to his forehead, and there were bags under his eyes. One of his piercings was smarting; it must have gotten infected. “What if I just stopped trying,” he suggested to the sea, which ignored him. What was the point of it all, anyway? All of his friends were dead and the girl in the photograph was stuck in a castle in the sky. He didn’t remember a single thing about the first seventeen years of his life. Only the things that happened in the last three months, only the things that were deemed important, and even those he remembered in fragments. Like what if he had a sister. What if his father had been kind to him, or doting, or an alcoholic. What if he had been in love with someone, and what if he had had a heart, and what if he had cared. It was hard to discern the world’s sympathies for him when he spent most of his time alone. Sometimes, at night, he drew a face on the rock-wall and gave it a name. “I’m tired,” he said. “I’m tired, and I’m hungry, and I feel more dead than alive, even though I’m the only one still breathing.” But the sea continued to ignore him. The wind continued to ignore him. The rain continued to ignore him, pelting at his wet shoulders with wet hands and wet teeth, clawing at the skin on the back of his neck, telling him to go to sleep and stay there. Eventually the raft drifted of its own accord to the shore of the island he had spied in the distance, and then some thousand-year-old mummy stripped him of all his belongings anyway, so it no longer mattered that he had nothing in his pack or his head or his heart, as long as he was able to replace it with something new.


::


A few weeks later she’s standing in the kitchen and staring at the vegetables in the pot, humming to herself, while Link rearranges the condiments on the table. She’s swaying from side to side, holding up the ladle like a sword. She seems happy. He leans back in his chair until he can just about see the top of her head. “What song is that?” he asks, casual as a house on fire. A pause. Something clatters to the floor. Picture two figures in a forest full of thorns and teeth. Picture the knight carving a path through the trees, the princess stumbling behind him, his clammy hand tight around her wrist, their feet bruised and dirty. It’s raining, of course, because it’s always raining in the dream. They’re being chased by mechanical monsters with knives for eyes. And they’re tired, both of them, so tired they could hurl themselves into a pond and drown there, but instead she walks into a tree. The bark scrapes the length of her forearm like a kiss, tearing at her skin and pouring blood down the back of her hand. Something clatters to the floor. Something breaks. Picture the old dream, the one he knows like a memory, the reason he’s less afraid of bears than people. He whirls the chair around to the sight of Zelda’s hand in the fire, her posture rigid, her face hidden by a curtain of hair. “I’m sorry,” she says, crestfallen. “It’s just—” He’s on his feet and halfway across the room before she can finish her sentence, pulling her away from the counter, reaching for the faucet with his other hand. “—It’s the first time you’ve asked me a question since you found me,” she says quietly. The skin on the back of her hand is bright red. If Urbosa were here, she would tie his arms and legs to four horses and then ask them to run in four different directions, and he would die in such a memorable way, it would eclipse even the deaths of all his old dead friends, who were trapped in machines with voices for a hundred years while their bodies turned into dust. If Urbosa were here then he likely wouldn’t be, would be in the next room, his ear pressed to the door, his heart pressed to the roof of his mouth. It’s a good thing, then, that she isn’t.


::


It’s spring, so the water from the faucet is cold enough to cut yourself on. The water from the faucet is cold, so it should sting on skin as red as this, but Zelda doesn’t say anything as he holds her hand under the stream of water, his thumbs resting on the curve of her wrist, his eyes searching her blank expression for. A sign? A reason? Why the ladle on the floor; why the hand in the fire? “It’s fine,” she finally says, brushing her hair behind her ear with her unhurt hand. “No,” he says before he can stop himself, bristling a little, feeling slightly outrageous. “It’s not.” Zelda looks somber for a moment. Then she hiccups a laugh. “We’ve had this conversation before, haven’t we?” Yeah, I remember when you [the path that leads to Hateno is wet and winding] and I [your hand on the back of my head was cold and dying], he wants to say. But he would be lying if he did, because he doesn’t remember. He doesn’t remember anything except the sixteen stories she left him, sixteen shards of a seventeen-year-old life. If she’s referring to something funny, then he’s missed an opportunity to make her laugh. If she’s referring to something important, then it’s no wonder he can’t seem to bridge the gap between the frog and the girl, no wonder his head hurts like someone stabbed it with a pitchfork and forgot to take it out, no wonder Hyrule still feels so far away, even as he milks the chickens and he chases the cows and he collects the eggs from the bears. He turns this thought over in his head as he goes for the medicine cabinet, which he had not asked for and Bolson had installed as a courtesy. Despite his best efforts, the blood on his back never quite washed away. She’s gone by the time he closes the cabinet, and he begins to feel that telltale sickness in his stomach, the sudden urge to throw up. He walks briskly out of the house in Hateno, salve and bandages tied to his wrist, his heartbeat ringing in his ears. The moon is a crescent tonight. Hateno rises and falls with each breath, pressing flowers into the palm of his hand. He folds each one unevenly in half. Zelda’s halfway up the ladder when he finds her. He waits for her to get onto the roof before he starts heading up, and is surprised all the same when he reaches the top of the ladder, and finds her face inches away from his. “I didn’t know you had a ladder,” she says pleasantly. “Why did you follow me up here?” She smells like Goron spice and sun. He is three seconds away from plummeting to his death. This is nothing he is used to, and a part of him thinks that if he knows what’s good for him then he will never get used to any of it. Not the silent, dead castle, not the long black shadow of the future, not the girl. She leans back after a moment. He breathes out. Half an inch of space will not keep either of them safe. Zelda watches him retie his ponytail expectantly. “So?” The ladder is from the Great Plateau. He found it at the back of the Temple of Time days after the old king asked him to climb to the top of the ruined structure and revealed to him that he was, yeah, the old king, and that all of his friends were dead, and that he would have to get the girl out of the castle before she could even think to save him, and by association, the rest of the world. At that point he was still naive enough to think defeating Ganon would take a stick and an apple and a really fast horse. He had also not yet learned of the myriad ways in which he had failed everyone he had ever cared for, and so spent his days wandering from place to place, pointing at bugs in the leaves and laughing. The ladder pissed him off. Who put it there? Why didn’t the old king tell him about its existence? What was the point of leaving a ladder behind the statue of Hylia when you could’ve put it in front, so stupid soulless people like him could use it to reach the end of the story faster? He returned to it much later, after he had purchased the house in Hateno, and yanked the whole thing down. Hacking it into four sections with a pickaxe he stole from a bokoblin (it had probably belonged to him first anyway), he piled all of them on his horse and then walked through Hyrule field, past Fort Hateno, all the way back to Bolson, who stared at him like he’d just asked him to kill a man. What do you mean you want me to fix this ladder, he asked. I mean I want you to fix this ladder, he replied. So Bolson did. Zelda laughs so hard she almost falls off the roof. She gets right up to the edge of it, leaning over the side with her face in her hands while he scrambles to keep her from toppling over. She only let him wrap up her arm because he was talking, because according to Zelda he never did much talking, but maybe he’s said too much. He’s embarrassed. Defeated, he lies down. There’s a star, just above the crown of trees at the other end of the village. He reaches out idly, trying to pinch it between his thumb and forefinger, but his fingers brush against skin instead of sky. Zelda, half-goddess, half-miracle, turns her face into the palm of his hand for the briefest of moments, like a butterfly alighting on the surface of a pond. The cicadas sing ballads. His breath stops in his lungs and dies there. “I like the ladder.” “Oh.” “Please keep it.” “Oh.” “You know,” she says, still leaning over him, close enough that if he gave her hand a tug, she might fall right out of heaven. Her head is tilted, her hair falling into her eyes, splaying across the tiles on the roof like a satiny strip of sun. “What?” he asks hoarsely. She smiles at him like a secret. “I—”


::


He used to be in love with her. As each piece of his sixteen-part past was returned to him and the last day of his life emerged slowly into the light, it dawned on him like a horse falling out of the sky that he had been very lucky to be her knight, that he would have willingly given his life for her, and that he did. Only his final, heroic act of sacrifice failed to accomplish anything meaningful in spite of his best efforts. He had died with her hand cradling the back of his head, his tunic wet with blood and tears, believing that the ending could be salvaged still. Maybe this is what it takes to reach happiness, he thought dizzily. Maybe you have to be pushed to the end of the line, before you can start walking back towards the center. But when he opened his eyes, it was to a world which had not moved an inch from the precipice. His back was covered in scars, water streaming down his skin like blood, and his head was so light, he worried for a moment that if he stood up too fast it would float right off of his shoulders. The only thing that remained was old skin, the thin aftertaste of fear, and a bone-deep anxiety that wouldn’t come off no matter how many times he threw himself into the river. The only thing that remained was a voice in his head, calling his name through the dream, reminding him that there was still something that could be salvaged from the fire. He used to be in love with her, though it took him a while to admit it, because being in love with her meant admitting that he had failed not only on a prophetic level, but on a personal level that cut to the wound at the center of his chest. It was a matter of survival in those first few months. Him, or a kingdom. His selfish and worthless pride, or the world. Naturally, he chose the world.


::


“Let’s say you’ve been asleep for a hundred years and when you wake up you’ve lost all your memories, but you chase after fairies and you dig up shrines and you defeat the big bad monster like you’ve been told to, because a girl told you to, and because you were in love with her. And after defeating the big bad monster she comes back, and you take her back to your house, and you fry eggs for her. But she’s not the person she was a hundred years ago, because she spent a hundred years in a dream. And you’re not the person you were a hundred years ago, because you forgot everything you could possibly forget, and then you got mauled by a bear. And yet when you look at her, every time you look at her, your chest hurts so bad you think you might be dying.” He looks up from his breadstick. “Am I dying?” “No,” Beedle says very seriously. “I think you’re stupid.” Beedle retrieves a string of petrified armored beetles from one of the pockets on his back, and holds it abruptly in his face. “You can fall in love with someone twice, you know.” Link wrinkles his nose. “How do you know?” Beedle sticks the lower half of a beetle in his mouth. “I’m five hundred years old.” He bites down. “I know things.” Chews thoughtfully. “I’ve eaten things, too. Things you’ve never even dreamed of. “Point is, Link, you’re being stupid. Get it together. The world’s not ending anymore.” “Oh,” says Link. He watches Beedle eat the rest of the beetles. There are five in total. He doesn’t have to chew very hard, which is weird. He turns Beedle’s words over in his head. Beedle has a point. The world isn’t ending anymore. The world isn’t hanging on by a thread, waiting for the boy in the story to haul it back up the side of the cliff. They hauled it back up, him and Zelda and their old dead friends. They hauled it out of the well. And now look at the flowers.


::


Once, while sitting on a raft headed out to sea, he considered hurling himself into the water, but here’s the other half of the story. He had recently been into the castle again, up to the princess’ room, where he found, among other things, a moblin, a bow, and a single Silent Princess, growing at the end of the hallway. He also found a diary, which he really shouldn’t have read. He shouldn’t have read the diary. It’s common courtesy. It’s the mark of human decency, respect of personal privacy, respect for the dead, et cetera. But he did. So he hauled himself up to that tower in the sky, and he mistimed several guardian laser parries before finally getting one right and yelling in triumph and getting a beam to his ass for his efforts, and then he cried, standing over that tattered old book while a cold wind blew in through the man-sized hole in the wall. He had spent so long working towards the abstract idea of salvation, he had forgotten that salvation was also, inextricably, a person. A girl with the hands of Hylia, praying in a castle in the sky, stuck in a hundred year cycle from hell. She had thrown away everything so he would float back out of the water with his face to the sky, and he couldn’t even remember how to shoot a bear without getting his face clawed off. What had he ever done to deserve this? What had he done for her? The answer was he couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember anything. The conversation they had about skin-deep secrets, the day it was raining and she told him about the hypothetical nature of failure, the morning of her seventeenth birthday, as she slid the gold cuffs onto her wrists and strode grimly out of the castle, her shadow clinging to the wall like it could keep her from leaving if it did. Did he even say happy birthday? Did anyone bring her candles? Did she make a wish, and if so, for what? He felt suddenly angry, and disappointed, and lonely. The fireplace was full of rubble and the table was covered in dust. The bed frame had collapsed, probably at the very beginning of this whole mess, and the mattress was sunken in like a face with no flesh, the sheets torn, the gold trim reduced to tatters. This place used to be a sanctuary. Now it wanted him dead. He wiped his eyes furiously, though there was no one there to point at him and laugh. He wiped his eyes with the back of his clumsy, scarred hand, pulled the diary shut, and walked back out, into heaven’s line of fire.


::


He takes her to the Kochi dye shop on her request, but Sayge gives them a name and an address and herds them out of his store, and so they find themselves in Tarrey Town again, exchanging nods with the people he tricked into leaving their old lives behind while Zelda describes her old outfit to Rhondson, who takes notes on her husband’s arm in erasable ink. Several days later, a new set of clothes arrives in Hateno by donkey. He helps her do her hair, by which he means he holds a mirror behind her back and she does her hair, occasionally instructing him to tilt it several degrees in one direction or another, but it’s the most useful he’s felt in weeks, and when she’s pulled on her gloves and done up the buckles on her boots, she stands up and does a little twirl. It’s a perfect replica. She’s glowing. Rhondson is god. “I feel like I could defeat Ganon,” Zelda tells him. I already did that, he thinks. He nods. “You probably could.”


::


“So, are you going to do something?” Beedle retrieves a string of soft-shell crabs from his pack. “Do I have to?” Beedle waggles his finger at him disapprovingly. “The question is, do you want to?”


::


He has a dream where she falls from Shatterback Point. He runs as fast as he can down the side of the mountain, cutting his palms on coral and bruising his knees on the wet rocky path, but when he gets to the bottom, no one’s there. You were too late, Muzu tells him, stroking his beard somberly. You tried to reach her, but you let go, and then you were too late. The water in the lake is bright as blood. The sky crackles silently above Muzu’s vacant eyes. A voice emerges from the lake. You let me die, the voice says. I saved the world for you, and you let me die. He wakes up sweating. He curls up on his side, bracing for the cold, hard floor against his cheek, but Zelda’s slipped one of her pillows under his head while he was sleeping. She’s murmuring in her sleep, something about fruit halves and grams of sugar, her hand dangling over the side of the bed clenching and unclenching itself earnestly, kneading imaginary dough, cutting imaginary apples. “Zelda?” Too soft. He won’t call again. He refuses to. In a moment of weakness, he reaches for the side of the bed, but stops just shy of her hand. Beedle’s bright, angular nose appears before him, carrying with it the wisdom of his ancestors. What do you want to do, Link, Beedle’s Nose asks him. What do you want? I want to pull her out of the burning house, he thinks. Is that too much to ask for? Moonlight trickles down her throat and vanishes under the collar of her tunic. His chest implodes and his heart bursts into a thousand tiny pieces, as he wonders how it is that planets were made before people. Beedle’s Nose is indifferent. What burning house, it asks. Where’s the smoke coming from? Look around you, Link. There’s smoke, and fire, and windows with broken glass. But who’s still inside?


::


Uma’s hundred-and-ninth birthday arrives on the coattails of fall. On her insistence, they keep the decorations sparse and the cake disarmingly large. Streamers are put up and butterflies corralled into glass menageries. A traveling band with a bit of a reputation further west is invited. There are three musicians with ocarinas and one with a cowbell, and all of them are wearing pink overalls and big yellow sun hats which hurt to look at for too long, unless you work for a construction company, in which case you want to look at them forever. After Bolson has finished taking down all of their contact information on his forearm (they prefer to be called for via messenger pigeon, but if you don’t have one then a snail is fine as well), Zelda drifts across the grass to stand in his place. She’s wearing a white dress, borrowed from Uma, who said it would complement her eyes. Uma was right. The dress is made from a thin, glittery fabric that billows around her ankles and makes her look like she’s floating. Like a fairy in a forest clearing. Like a cat perched at the top of a clocktower. Their conversation lasts for several minutes. She says something, and the others laugh. The guy with the cowbell pretends to look embarrassed. Everyone else at the party is dancing, including Uma, who is holding hands with a small child in a green frog-suit and swaying like a palm tree in the wind. While Zelda keeps the ocarina ensemble preoccupied, one of the adults in the village has gone and retrieved a guitar. He begins to play a warm, meandering tune that reminds Link, distantly, of grassy fields and white skies. “Are you not going to dance?” He looks down. Nebb tugs at the edge of his tunic with one hand, pulling him in the direction of the crowd. He squats down. “I don’t have anyone to dance with.” “You can dance with me. Duh.” “I don’t know how to dance.” Nebb looks at him like he’s stupid. “Then learn.” “What if I don’t want to?” “What if you meet someone who does, and you like them too much to say no?” He squints suspiciously at Nebb. Nebb’s atrocious bowl cut hasn’t grown any less atrocious with time, though it does have the effect of making him look far less menacing than he would be if he were bald or sporting a mohawk. The boy knows too much for someone so small. This cannot do. If this goes on, he will reveal a secret to the gods, and then they will kill him for his hubris. “Shhh,” Link says to him, holding a finger up to his lips. He digs around in his pockets until he finds a piece of honey candy, wrapped in a palm leaf and tied together with twine. “Take this, and go dance with someone else.” Nebb gives him the Stare of Judgment, but takes the candy. “You’re terrible, Link.” He sticks out his tongue. “Bye.” Then it’s back to demolishing the cake, which he’s still not convinced Uma didn’t order expressly so that he would have something to do with himself during the course of the evening, as the dancing progresses from cheerful to insane and a small group of guests begins to construct a spaceship out of empty wine glasses. No one else has gone for thirds, though a handful have gone for seconds. There’s a big fondant chicken perched on the highest layer. He sucks on his fork thoughtfully. He wants it. Last week they went up north, in search of forgiveness. Despite their best efforts and the gift of crabs and crocuses they brought along, their reception in Zora’s domain was cold and gray. It reminded him of the way they had received him when he first stepped out of the rain and into the blue glow of the domain’s hallways, armed with only the knowledge that he had been sent to prevent a tragedy that had already happened. He didn’t yet know that Mipha was dead. He thought he could still save her. They called him failure and fool and living reminder of Hyrule’s downfall, laughing at him in a language called mourning. He had thought they had forgiven the Hylians and their king for letting their Champion die, especially after he walked out of Vah Ruta with a black eye and a bloody nose to show for it, especially now that the evil had been defeated. Apparently the knight by himself was tolerable. The knight and the princess, together, made things too raw. Too immediate. “Mipha’s dead,” they said. It was a Tuesday. “I’m sorry,” Zelda replied. Tomorrow they’re headed for Goron City. He closes his eyes and wills away the taste of sweet cream and berries, tries to picture the winding path up Death Mountain, the grooves hammered into the ground, the rubies in their metal caskets. Flame-resistant armor is a given, so it’s a good thing he bought two sets on accident last winter. He wants to trap a few fire lizards in a bottle and bring them back for a friend. As for what he will say to Zelda before he hands her off to the city’s protectors, their hands half an inch apart but not touching, never touching, there isn’t much. Goron City will be better, he thinks. He licks the cream off his fork. It’s sweet. “What are you thinking?” He opens his eyes. Zelda looks at his plate, then the cake, then his plate again. She points at the chicken. He shrugs. “I was thinking that I hope Uma lives forever.” Someone has invited the dog onto the dance floor. He isn’t trying very hard to keep to the beat of the guitarist, who has been joined by two of the ocarina players with brown hair and blue eyes, but he doesn’t have to. Spinning very fast in a circle is actually the smartest dance move of them all. There’s no beginning, so there’s no end. Zelda plucks a berry from his plate. “It’s not very fun, to be honest,” she says, chewing thoughtfully. “Living for that long.” He watches the dog chase its own tail and she watches him watch the dog, though neither is aware this is happening. “Sorry, I didn’t know. I was asleep.” The dog is easily the best dancer in the crowd. He experiences neither shame nor hubris, and is thus freed from the stresses and seasonal anxieties of being known by others who might fear him or like him. He also runs very fast. Zelda punches his shoulder weakly, her hand lingering, her eyes soft. “That’s a terrible joke, Link.” He pinches the inside of his wrist. “I’m trying my best.” “So am I.” After a beat, the dog who has been invited to the party to spin in tight circles on the dance floor and be a nuisance to the other guests goes careening into the rotisserie chicken. In a wondrous, gravity-defying moment, the chicken sails not away from the dog, but towards him, flying in a swooping arc over his head at a height of several hundred feet above the ground. The plate clatters to the floor before the chicken can find its bearings and, awoken by its war cry, people scramble into action, evacuating themselves to the other side of the buffet table or under the veranda with their legs between their tails, until Uma is standing alone on the grass, still swaying to a song only she can hear, still smiling. The chicken reaches the highest point in the sky, pauses for a heartbeat, then pitches downwards. She catches it. The crowd goes wild. And then Zelda is tugging on his sleeve, like Negg, but not like Negg, because Zelda walked out of the mouth of the monster, because Zelda left her hand in the fire, because Zelda looked at the miserable, vulnerable world that he had yelled at until his voice was hoarse and dying and even the pigeons were something fiercer than him, that he had tended to with clumsy, scarred hands in spite of all the dead things on the ground, and decided to stay. “God,” she says, her eyes bright. “Link, look. In the sky.”


::


Picture two figures in a forest full of night. Picture the princess carving a path through the trees, the knight stumbling after her, her hand tight around his wrist, their feet fast and flying. The sky is clear, of course, because someone pulled the mourning veil off its head and threw it in the river. They’re chasing after a column of light, poured by the hand of Hylia from the heavens. And they’re tired, both of them, so tired they could hurl themselves into bed and lie there, half an inch apart, watching each other in the dark with waiting on their tongues, but instead he trips on a branch and goes down, face-first, into the dirt. She doesn’t realize he’s let go until he lets go, but when she turns around he’s already pushed himself off the ground. Hands and knees and boots digging into the grass. The woods outside of Hateno are still teething. The princess gives him her hand, and he stares at it for a moment like she’s just offered him the rest of her lifespan, and then takes it. He’s fine; of course he is. It would take much more than this to kill him. It would take another hundred year cycle of pain. She points at the column of light. It’s still there. Still glowing. So they keep going, picking their way through the undergrowth, climbing over branches and pushing boulders out of harm’s way, doing what ghost children like them do best, which is pointing at something in the distance, and then chasing it. Chasing hope. Following it back to the center. And when they reach the place where the sky has spat out the blood in its mouth, the knight gets punched in the face with nostalgia. He caught a falling star once, when he was all alone and the world was grim and unknowable. Then he gave it to a fairy, in exchange for less blood on his tunic, in exchange for stronger teeth. He approached heaven from afar once, a solitary figure burning darkly against the pale yellow water, but there was no way for him to go home when all was said and done, so he pinched the inside of his wrist and kept walking.


::


The thing is you can’t go from swinging a sword around and dreaming about dead people to waking up and frying eggs and searching for ways to heal the cracked earth beneath your feet. Not that fast. Not that goddamn fast. You can’t just flip a switch and not be scared anymore, not wake up sweating anymore, not wake up wanting to hold her hand. Fear is a country and you’ve lived in it all your life. There’s a reason kingdoms keep such a close eye on their borders. You’re either in, or you’re out. Make up your mind. Pick up your sword. Save yourself.


::


The star fragment is stuck in a tree. Zelda wants to climb it and he wants her to stop; naturally, she wins. She hauls herself up the trunk while he circles the bottom like a hawk with an anxiety problem, waiting to catch the star, or the girl, or both. But neither comes pitching out of the sky. The dream stays just out of sight. “So that’s what star fragments look like,” she says later, her voice muffled by the sound of crickets. She turns it over in her hands, running her fingers along each point and indent. “They’re warm.” Smells it curiously, then wrinkles her nose. “No smell.” Tries to break off one especially thin-looking point with little success. “Sturdy.” She spends ten minutes staring at the star. He spends ten minutes staring at her. She gets bored, puts the fragment on the ground, and looks up. He looks away. “The party’s probably over now, huh.” He nods to his left. A sigh, very small, very lovely. Like a firefly under a bridge. “I didn’t get the chance to dance with anyone.” Beedle’s Nose is staring at him from a gap in the trees like the red eye of the devil. It’s singing a nursery rhyme he doesn’t remember learning. What do you want/what do you want/what do you want. Link! Link! Open your eyes! He has to break every bone in his body just to turn his head three inches to the right, but for the first time in this life, this new life, this second chance at everything, he gets it right. Zelda’s knees are drawn to her chest, her head pillowed on her arms, her gaze heavy on his face. He sucks in a breath. “Do you still want to?”


::


Dancing without music sounds reasonable in theory, but generally requires one party to be exceptionally good at keeping count while the other has to be in possession of at least a rudimentary grasp of the steps. This is, of course, assuming that there are redeemable qualities to both parties. For example, if one is the knight from the fairy tale who has spent his whole life swinging sharp objects at people, and the other is the princess from the fairytale who has spent her whole life praying sharp objects find their way to the right people, then there may not in fact be anything redeemable between them. Her counting is off, his hands are clammy. Her voice is wavering, his feet are too slow. It’s disaster after disaster after disaster, first the champions in their divine beasts, then the castle, then the king on the Great Plateau, a knife through the heart, et cetera. Dancing without music sounds reasonable in theory unless you’ve spent the last three months of your life chasing angry moose down mountains, so it’s a good thing no one’s here to laugh at them. It’s a good thing they’re alone, surrounded by starlight, half an hour by foot from Hateno, village of lights and wonder. Spring has come and gone without them. The night is young and the air is cool and the forest is sweetly indifferent to his tendency to crash into inanimate objects. This would be embarrassing if he left himself think about it, but more importantly it’s unfair, how neither of them knows what they’re doing but Zelda can smile her way out of a clumsy turn, how he has to keep his hand on her waist but hers is doing an elaborate dance on his shoulder, how every time she leans in and her hair parts down her back, a sliver of neck peeks out and steals the lungs right out of his chest. He is going to die trying to keep his hands to himself or they are going to fall off the edge of the forest and into a ravine with no bottom. There is no option to walk away. “You’re a terrible dancer,” she says, smiling up at him from under her lashes. He chews on his lip. “I’m sorry.” “That’s fine.” He twirls her and her dress floats up past her ankles like a cloud of tiny stars. “I like you anyway.” He walks into a tree. Decides that’s not enough. Slaps himself generously across the face, hard enough to leave a mark. Decides that’s not enough. Kneels on the grass, letting go of her hand, to look for a stick that might help him end things faster. “Link?” It is too much and too little all at once, and therefore unbearable. He is going to fall off the edge of the forest right now. He tries to stand up just as she begins to bend down, reaching for his shoulder. They fall off the edge of the forest together. Oh god. Oh fuck. Oh no. They’ve fallen off the edge of the universe together. Her face is in the crook of his neck and her hair is stuck to his clothes. His skin is on fire and his butt is sore and he’s dying. Hylia, can you hear him? There’s a name for the place children go after they leave this world. He’d like to know what it’s called now. “Hey,” comes the small, muffled voice. Her arms are on either side of his waist, and they’re trembling. “Can you say something?” He looks up. Always up, always forward, towards knives and teeth and forests full of bodies. Always past the blurry face in the dream, to the nightmare that follows after. Someone will tell you when to breathe. Someone will tell you when to swing your sword. Someone will tell you when it’s all right to stop being scared of everything, and start looking for angels. Like right now. Like right-right-now. Your heartbeat fluttering in your throat. Your throat an ocean of knives. Eight weeks and three days after he walks into the castle and defeats two incarnations of evil, first in a room with a domed ceiling, then in a field with a domed sky, he steps out of the burning house, and finds himself face to face with the sun. He presses his cheek against her hair. “Do you want me to?” “Yes,” she sighs. “Yes, I do.”


::


He tells her about the way the world looks from atop the back of a bear and the gray of the ocean from a raft and the conversation he had with her dead father about how cooked apples taste sweeter. He tells her about the first time he shot an arrow at a bomb barrel and the second time he shield-surfed down a hill and how Urbosa made him promise to take care of her, even in death, even after it. He tells her about being so lonely it hurt to breathe and being so bad at breathing he passed out in a river, and being so hurt he had to be saved by a stranger on the road, tied to the back of their donkey like a piece of merchandise and carried to the nearest stable to be burnt back to life. He tells her how no one believed he was the boy in the story, even when he pulled out the sword, even when he showed them the blood on his back. He tells her about how the stalhorses on Tabantha Snowfield run faster than the horses near Kakariko, how a bokoblin will choose a freshly roasted chicken over the skin of your teeth, how a sword is a metaphor for forgiveness. He tells her how a hundred years ago she told him to eat a frog, and he never forgot about it. Not once, not ever. Walking through the Breach of Demise, looking for Koroks in Fort Hateno, praying for her heart at the Spring of Wisdom, he never stopped thinking about the damn frog, and by extension, the girl. The first thing she says is why didn’t you tell me all of this earlier? The second thing she says is why the hell didn’t I ask? She presses a hand to his forehead, pushing his bangs out of his eyes and glaring at him. The third thing she says is that she really wants to see a stalhorse, and the fourth thing he says is he’ll take her there one day, and the fifth thing she does is cry. Big, heaving sobs. Arms tight around his shoulders, tears smearing the front of his shirt, while he pretends he isn’t half as insane, gives up, and resolves to hide his face in her hair forever. And it’s dramatic as hell, it’s an ancient tapestry on a wall in Kakariko, but hasn’t it always been that way? Haven’t they been through enough shit to justify the heartfelt reunion, the face full of tears? If the conversation they had in the field outside the castle was a blueprint for what it looks like to meet someone you wanted a hundred years ago, then this is the aftermath of that war. Do you remember me? Of course I do. Do you love me? Of course I do. Ask me a question, any question. Crack my chest open. “To make things very, very clear,” Zelda says, wiping her eyes furiously. She’s pushed him flat onto his back and the light’s not hitting her face so he can’t make out her expression, but he can imagine the pinched brow, the bitten lip. “I didn’t fall in love with you because you were conveniently there, like, I don’t know, an armchair when you’re tired, or a glass of water when you’re thirsty.” Her hands on his chest are very beautiful, even in the moon-lit dark. “I didn’t take one look at the prophecy and think to myself, well, if I’m going to tie my happiness to someone then it might as well be him.” Now he’s the one who’s embarrassed. He brings a hand up to cover his face but she tugs it away. Takes a deep breath. Counts to ten, probably, maybe fifteen, maybe a hundred. “I fell in love with you,” she says, softly, each word falling from her lips like a star, each star plucked from the highest point in the heavens. “I don’t even know why I fell in love with you.” She fists her hands loosely in his shirt. “It just happens, you know? One day you look at the boy with the stupid pretty hair, and you think to yourself, oh no.” His head is spinning so fast he feels like the dog at the party. Maybe he is the dog. Maybe he finished eating the cake and shoved the fondant chicken in his mouth and then he passed out, and had to be carried back to his house, and had to be laid gently on the unmade covers. He gathers his thoughts. “I’m not a very good person,” he says quietly. “But if you would have me, I would gladly give you my life.” “You’ve already done that once, Link,” Zelda says, laughing with the sun in her mouth. “Do something else.” What do you want, Link? Open your eyes. Save yourself. “Okay, then. Can I kiss you?”


::


His name is Link, and he died once when he was seventeen. It was pretty traumatizing. He got slashed several times across the back with some very sharp weapons, and then he got mauled by a forest full of screaming metal, and then he collapsed, right in front of the person he was supposed to protect, who ended up protecting his dead body by the skin of her teeth. Because he died. Somewhere between the laser on his chest and her hand pressed against the seal of the sky, his body made one last stand against the stark inequalities of the world, and he died. The only reason he knew his name was Link when he woke up was because it was the first word she said to him. “Link,” she said. “Wake up.” He concluded through logical reasoning that “he” must be “Link” and that “Link” had to “wake up”. So he did. He went traipsing around Hyrule with a ladle and a pot lid, seeking out places from a photograph and trying to find ways to bring every four-legged animal in the land to a stable, but he never really felt like “Link”. He felt like a corpse that had received a very shiny, very thick coat of paint. Half-here, half-there. Half-me, half-something-else. What else? A bird, maybe. A horse. One day Link got bored and decided that he was going to defeat all the forces of evil. He fought his way into the castle, where the guardians shot lasers at his earrings, and he fought his way past the lynels, who hissed fire and called him rude words, and he fought his way into the sanctum, where he met the asshole who had put him through all this shit in the first place. And he kicked his ass. And he kicked his other ass. And the asshole died. His name was Ganon. Ganon dying brought Zelda back to life, because the law of equivalent exchange governs half of the children in this world, while the devil gets the rest. The devil got to him: his life will always carry the weight of hundreds of thousands, he will always feel like lead for the first three seconds after he wakes up. But it didn’t get to Zelda. Zelda got the other bargain, the one where your dead father dies but you get your knight back. One or the other, left or right. In the end, you always have to choose. And he’s still pretty traumatized. And dying at the age of seventeen with a sword still stuck in your hand is pretty traumatizing. And the Zora are still mourning and the Gorons are still eating rocks and the Gerudo still think he’s just a really short girl, which he can live with, which he doesn’t particularly mind, but the trauma has a place on the shelf now. And the shelf is in his house. And the house is a modest one, with modest display stands for his modest weapons, and a modest bed beside which he’s hung a framed photograph of his friends. But some things are different, even if the foundations stay the same. No more rafts on gray seas. No more sleeping on the floor. No more standing in the burning building, and wondering why the shadows aren’t moving. No more shrines full of dead monks. No more monsters full of dead bodies. No more waiting for someone to tell you when to breathe, when to stop, when to get mauled by a bear. Pick up your sword, boy. Now put it down. Now pick it up. Now put it down. You’re going to be doing this until the day that you die. Are you all right with that? Are you all right with your god? [Thank you for helping my sister.][They say the leviathans died thousands of years ago.][Get me a horse. A big, strong horse. Any horse.][BROTHER. THE ROCKS ARE READY.][Find me someone whose name ends with ‘-son’.][I’ll sell you rushrooms for diamonds. Fifty-five for one.][Have you heard of the story of the bird on the mountain?][Do you already have someone special in your heart?][They say if two people visit this pond, they’ll be together forever.][Do you believe in miracles?][Do you believe in magic?][Do you believe in me?] [I believed I would see you again.]

It’s a cruel, unforgiving world. People die and don’t come back. But you did. Now get up. Someone’s waiting for you.