#a kind of star traced image of a wolf

[halinski]

Yesterday i got a tattoo I've been wanting for 10 years now! A part of it at least - a wolf (Derek) and on the right coming soon will be a fox (Stiles) - written in the stars forever

[hey-there-22]

GALLIFREYAN IS THEIR LOVE LANGUAGE

Gallifreyan, the last language of the Time Lords, able to burn stars and rise up empires and topple gods. But it was never just that. It's the first language he ever spoke, the language of his childhood, the language he taught his children and granddaughter. It's the language that brings him home. But his home is long gone and when Gallifrey fell, the language was lost with it.

What had meant family became the reminder of his loneliness. But he never stopped using it. He used it as a reminder of what he had lost, as a reminder not to let anyone else have to make the decision he made that day.

Gallifreyan means so much to the Doctor... And all the companions have sensed that at some point.

Rose used to stare at Nine writing on sticky notes, delicate tracings of all she didn't know about him, perfect circles and lines that fascinated her. She never dared to ask, though. When Jack joined them, not knowing the Doctor was the last of his kind, he had no problem doing it.

"What are you writing?" He asked peering over his shoulder. "Oh, Doctor, do you have a secret code you use to look enigmatic?" Smiling as he said it. "Is it even a real language or are you just using it to impress us?" It had just been their normal banter, he hadn't meant to hurt him.

The Doctor had turned serious for a moment, trying to make clear that Gallifreyan wasn't banter material-

"It's the language of my people." He answered simply. "Now," he added, a smile on his face and changing his tone completely while pressing buttons in the TARDIS controls, "who wants to go to the beach?"

Jack was confused, wanting to ask, but Rose took his arm, signaling for him to let it go.

"You're finally taking me somewhere I can get a proper tan." Rose said smiling to the Doctor, letting go of Jack's arm.

Jack understood Rose and went back to his normal harmless quips.

"Only if he's able to land the TARDIS in a real beach without an emergency crisis going on this time."

The Doctor had seen the interaction between Jack and Rose and he silently thanked her for it. He decided at that moment that if Rose ever asked, he would answer. The image of him teaching her how to read Gallifreyan even crossed his mind for a brief second.

"Oh, Jack, I'm going to land this TARDIS in the most beautiful beach you've ever seen.

And he did.

They never talked again about Gallifreyan with the Doctor, but the beauty of the circles always Intrigued them. They used to joke about what they thought was written on the sticky notes when Doctor wasn't there and that led to them trying to figure out how to read it, which circles where words and which ones where letters, failing every time to decipher it.

Rose understood it when she was Bad Wolf but it all faded away too quickly for her to remember it afterwards. Then, Jack was left behind and Rose stopped trying to figure it out. Ten would have taught her, but she never asked. Tentoo taught her without her needing to say anything.

Jack never stopped trying to understand it. Using the Torchwood files they had about Gallifreyan just like Martha used UNIT's. Working together and knowing what some of the messages said they made some progress at recognizing patterns but not enough to translate other messages.

Donna didn't give Gallifreyan a long thought while she was travelling with the Doctor. Just a Martian language. Sometimes Wilfred finds her doodling perfectly organized circles and lines when she is distracted. He hates not being able to tell her about the Doctor when she gets angry at herself after realizing she is doodling nonsense again.

When Ten met River she told him his name in perfect Gallifreyan. He thought he should have had to really love and trust her not only to tell her his name but to teach her Gallifreyan to the point of speaking it daily, judging by the accent. What he didn't know was that River had born with the ability to talk Gallifreyan, she was, after all, the daughter of the TARDIS.

Jack and River came across each other a couple of times, forming a close friendship over the years. Their love for the Doctor made them create a special bond. At that point Jack had lost all hope in learning Gallifreyan; his adventures with the Doctor had happened centuries ago and understanding sticky notes around the TARDIS had no sense anymore. He had given up the thought of travelling with him again. When River offered to teach him anyway his face lit up with a smile.

Eleven hid his past inside himself, so when the TARDIS redecorated he made sure not to have Gallifreyan anywhere visible. Amy learnt about it when River used it to contact the Doctor but she was more interested in the adventure so she never thought to ask. That's what Eleven loved about her. (Because Army didn't ask, neither did Rory.)

When they got trapped by the angels in Manhattan, Amy's way to cope with loosing the Doctor was listening to the stories her daughter told her. She started to get interested in the little things she hadn't been able to appreciate with the adrenaline of the moment, trying to hold on to anything that reminded her of that moment of her life. When River understood it, she taught Amy to read and write Gallifreyan. Soon, the Pond's house started filling with messages: reminders and recipes written in a language only Amy, Rory and their two children could understand and a letter from Amy for only her Raggedy Man to read once he was ready.

When Eleven met Clara he fell for her, every time. He redecorated the TARDIS for her to ask about Gallifreyan, ready to share that part of his life with her. Clara was like Amy, though, always invested in the adventure, slowly falling for the Doctor. But when he changed, she changed too. Twelve eventually accepted Clara was never going to ask, so he started to write in English in the blackboards of the TARDIS for her to understand what he wrote but still leaving the Gallifreyan in the console's decoration. He adapted to her but he quietly hopped she would do the same one day.

Clara was forced to learn Gallifreyan in order to fly the TARDIS. Me taught her. She had learnt it many years before from her old friend, the Face of Boe.

The first time River spoke Gallifreyan in front of the Doctor was during their night in Darillium. She called him anidiot. She had gotten used to insulting people in Gallifreyan and switching languages was an instinct. River saw the Doctor cry for the first time that day. She hugged him in the floor while the Doctor told her about his kids and his marvelous granddaughter, all in the language of his people. At that moment she had thought that she had reminded him of everyone he had lost when she spoke Gallifreyan. Now, however, she understands the Doctor was thinking about how he was going to lose the only person he had left with whom he could speak it.

When the Doctor let Missy into the TARDIS with Bill, she made a comment about him having the names of his companions as decoration in the console. It took the Doctor a second to realize that Missy understood Gallifreyan, he had been guarding the vault for years and he had never spoken to Missy in their native language.

"We don't speak Gallifreyan." The Doctor mentioned once they were alone in the vault.

"Always so observant, Doctor" Missy rolled her eyes.

The only time he spoke Gallifreyan with Missy was when he was trying to convince her and the Master to stay and fight with him against the cybermen. The next time they saw each other, O spoke in Gallifreyan ("I did say the spy... master."), Thirteen didn't give him the privilege of answering in Gallifreyan.

In the year 2023 a giant graffiti of circles appears in London. It says "You are not alone". Yaz wrote it. She doesn't know Gallifreyan but she asked Jack to translate that sentence after one of her Companions Meetings.

The Doctor knows about the graffiti but she doesn't know who wrote it. She doesn't know that almost all her companions know Gallifreyan. She thinks it's something from her future, not realizing she has already Inspired so many people, not realizing that her companions can sense how much Gallifreyan means to her. Not realizing that Gallifreyan is their love language.

[icefrozendeadlyqueen]

The Dove for The Vampire: Prologue

Pairing: Rosalie Hale x Stacy McCain (oc).

Warning: Fluff, Swearing, Mates, Broken.

Words count: 5101 (I am so sorry).

Summary: Rosalie believes through the centuries her forever was Emmett only to finds out Forks has other plans. Throughout her Vampire life she had no doubt about it. Stacy has lived her Reservation High School experience to the fullest knowing that despite having beta blood running through her very veins – there is no wolf in her very future. Starting new year in forks high of all places thanks to her sister.

A/N: I couldn’t resist bringing up I find it full off fluff. I am so sorry in advance. I did added a lot in the past, and I am so sorry about that if it was to much please let me know. I will try for next time not too go overboard. The gif doesn’t belong to me! Thank you so much for stopping by. I will be writing the first chapter sometime over the weekend. I need to head to bed now

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

Stacy laid her head back onto Rosalie’s lap watching the clock tick by without a set worry. Rosalie’s manicure hands run through Stacy blonde locks; a shoulder length cut a memory of a promise. Rosalie’s rest her back on the coach while holding Stacy’s head. The family left to hunt an hour ran past not a single word spoken from neither woman, Stacy rolls her lips into a smile followed by a sudden chuckle. December was rushing every bone in her body with that familiar ice-cold reminder of her humanity.

“Rosalie,” Stacy whispers under her breath which matters not vampires and their super hearing.

“Hmm?,” Rosalie answered. Her eyes close appreciating the sound of her mates beating heart music to her vampiric ears. A calming lullaby nothing not even heaven compares to it. Stacy peers up to Rosalie pale face despite the lack of color on her cheeks or the dark circles under her eyes it amplifies her beauty. Stacy loves Rosalie’s wavy blonde hair loving to run her hands through it, she is proud to have the bragging right of been the only person that can change Rosalie hair style without the following suit death glare. A beat then another breaks Rosalie from her calming lullaby as her mates’ heart beats become even more rapid than they were a second ago. Rosalie opens her eyes her eyebrows furrow scanning the room finding absolutely nothing in the room other than Stacy and her. Her ears did not catch a single soul in the house even though she was prepared to fight if she needed too everything to keep Stacy unharmed.

Rosalie glimpse down at Stacy baby blue eyes locking with her golden ones, Rosalie takes a deep breath even if she does not really need to do it. It’s an instinct at this point an automatic gesture her body makes unconditionally of being dead or alive. If emotions could be explain in words Rosalie couldn’t put hers into words just looking into Stacy eyes fixes everything to perfection, Rosalie traces her possibly cold fingers over Stacy warmth cheeks, a smile paints Rosalie cheeks waiting patiently for Stacy to speak her attention plaster on her mates waiting didn’t sound bad at all. Rosalie thanks her lucky star that allowed her to meet her mate; she believed for a long time that Emmett was her forever how wrong was she loving another that truly was not her to possessed.

“Do you think the world will ever find about your kind?”.

Rosalie eyes soften tracing Stacy’s face with one finger as she watches Stacy takes a deep breath, her head moves closer to the touch. Silence fills the room once more though their eyes lock themselves like a needly to a magnet with an unspoken understanding. An immersive ocean with the morning rays is the images filling Rosalie’s minds staring into such breath-taking eyes, “The Volturi will never allow for that to happen. Nonetheless, we have kept the secret of our existence to the minimum.” A smile painted itself onto Rosalie’s face changing the atmosphere as the room fills with both Stacy and Rosalie’s laughers a knowing look do they share knowing the Volturi would do anything to stop human from finding out they co-own earth as well.

“I would prefer to talk about how you safe my life”. Rosalie declares leaning back on the coach. Stacy abruptly seats up a chuckle escapes her lips. Rosalie leans on her hands keeping a close eye on her mates, “That’s not what I remember…” Stacy tries her best to explain herself as to what really happen that afternoon when their lives cross each other. Stacy pushes her short blonde hair behind her ears. Her eyes glance down at the coffee table in front of Rosalie’s legs seems way more interesting than Rosalie herself for some reason, “Remember Vampires have an excellent memory, my dove”. Rosalie whispers on Stacy’s ears, her breath tickles Stacy as her heart picks on speeds Stacy had no idea was even a possibility. Stacy looks to Rosalie golden eyes registering every little movement she makes not even the minimal it is; her legs shift or a shiver rans through her back. There is a possibility Rosalie saw that too.

“You never told me your side of the story.” Rosalie reminds Stacy.

“Well, it was new year’s…” Stacy softly whispers a sigh escapes her lips starting the long journey of the reason she got a mate and a checkmate something she really believe would not happen. Stacy would never forget the events prior to meeting Rosalie her lips move before her mind or heart could register as she finally tells Rosalie her side.

                                                          -x-

“Happy New Year, Houston!!,” Stacy calls out into the empty room. She claps her hands a smile wears her lips staring directly at the laptop screen seating on the kitchen island. A warm smile wears her sisters clapping alongside her.

“Happy New Year, Stacy!!,” Houston quickly A warmth envelopes Stacy’s heart as her sister laughs. A person she knows will always have her back no matter what. Life may through rocks at Stacy, but she knows in her heart her sister will always have her back. A new year canvas to paint with new adventures if this year starts as empty as the last; there isn’t much she can say other than there is only one year until she moves away from forks, the one more year this brand new year is her 18th birthday in which she will finally be old enough to leave this forsaken depressive town with its history following wherever she goes. Fuck family lineage, fuck werewolves, fuck the fucking pack it has only ruin her family as small and broken as it is now.

Stacy inhales deeply the happy smile that wore her lips got turn into a tempted frown as tears fight to ran down her eyes.

“I am so tired of been here, Houston. Isn’t there a way for me to do my last year over where you and dad are?.” Stacy pleads one last time before she finally gives up. A couple of tears ran down her cheeks dropping on the kitchen island. Stacy moves the hem of her sweater to clean her tears away trying her best to stop herself but no matter her tears continue. “Werewolf treaty states that dad has no say in anything relating to taking you from the reservation grounds without a sign letter from mom. I hate that specific facts, and the rules we have to go through. I wish I could help you sis; however, I can’t really leave LA”. Houston resides the rules place upon them since they were children. Stacy glances up at the laptop seeing the gold bracelet tightly lock on her sisters left wrist it has odd symbols engraved on it.

“I am sorry… I forgot you are in prison because of me..”. Stacy places her hand on the laptop screen as Houston does the same pretending, they could touch palms. Houston shakes her head tears filled her eyes, “I would have done it again if I got the chance too..”. Houston stutter her words out tears ran down her cheeks as Stacy and her cry in union fresh tears running down Stacy’s face.

“We would have made it if it wasn’t for that Cullen child.” Houston blurts bitterly.

“It is a year. In my birthday, I will take a flight straight there then we will never be separate ever again”. Stacy proclaims a nod Houston sends her sister.

“Oh! I have news! I convince mom to transfer you to forks high. I heard some werewolves go to Forks High School, so I thought it would be better than the reservation with the fucking judgement,” Stacy eyes widely open at such happy news. Stacy uses the hem of her sweater to clean the tears from her face just to see her sister clearly, “Can the werewolves outside in the house can hear us?”. Houston shouts though she tried to whisper it failing miserably. Houston runs a hand through her brunette hair, her hazel eyes search Stacy baby blue ones. Stacy moves her head back laughing Houston did not find such reply amusing at all.

“I learn from the bed a simple spell to make the dumb werewolves not have a clue what we are saying. I am not making the same mistakes again”. Stacy swings her hand back flipping her hair as Houston laughs resonate in the kitchen. Stacy glimpses back at her sisters moving the laptop closer to her face, “Just a couple more months till your birthday then we will be together forever”. Houston whispers sweetly resisting the need to stare at the golden bracelet. Stacy stares directly at the object her. She glares at the evil object her father handmade to keep Houston stuck in the place keeping her from trying to disturb the treaty that separates families and mates all together.

“Houston?”, Stacy inhales deeply her hands sweat profoundly as her heart beats increases. There are some things Stacy knows she should not say or talk about, but there is a part of her that wants to know what her sister thinks or what she believes. Stacy loves Houston to death looks up to her sister that got away from the hell of this life living among humans with dad.

“Yeah, Stace?”.

Stacy rolls her eyes for a mere second forgetting the question she wanted to ask despite the nickname her sister tag along since she was 9 years old. Houston pulls her hands up running her fingers through her hair fixing her hair into a ponytail, she holds the hair tie with her lips waiting for Stacy to tell her what’s in her mind.

“Do you think mom and dad will ever find each other’s again? I mean, they are mates…” Stacy stops midway through her thoughts not knowing how to proceed the following truth of something that should be natural a werewolf other half is the heaven and earth of their existence. Houston pulls her hair in a long ponytail; she plays with her fingers looking away from the screen like a toxic wasteland a topic Stacy knows for a fact is simply impossible to bring up without confusion from both sisters.

“I am aware we promise never to bring it up again! I get it... I jus-“. Stacy stops herself once more looking anywhere else but the laptop screen.

“If it’s any consolation dad stares at our pictures every night, he just doesn’t say anything about mom’s decision,” Houston voice reaches the corners of Stacy’s brain when she remembers last week mom hush cries from her room as dad and her anniversary day passed like previous years same outcome since that day nothing has change.

“Mom stills cries in their anniversary. She just busies herself with pack work.” Stacy answers.

Houston nods a ding plays from Houston’s phone. Stacy watches her sister apologize looking at the notification a smile plasters her lips. Stacy raises an eyebrow curiosity creep through her bones wanting to know who this might be, “Is it dad?”.

“Huh.” Houston glances off, she blinks a couple of times before putting the phone down again. Houston looks around then brings the laptop closer to her face. It is like making sure dad is not around or in hearing distance. There is a twinkle of light Stacy has never seen before in her life, “Do you remember two years ago when I took a trip to Italy?”. Houston starts slowly taking a short breath between every word hushing her tone down a couple of times before continuing.

“How did dad let you go to Italy with the bracelet again?” Stacy interrupts Houston explanation short. A chuckle escapes Houston playfully glaring at Stacy. Stacy burst out laughing soon after loving these little moments, “If you must know there was an independent short film shooting in Italy, my agent notifies me of the potential exposure to my career. I ask dad.” Houston explains another ring from the background Stacy can only assume is her sister’s phone. Houston’ hazel eyes ran to stare at the phone but looking back at Stacy.

“Plead. Let us be honest, sis. Dad would NEVER let you go alone to Italy”. Stacy adds softly correcting Houston who nods slowly but continues her story. Stacy stands up from her seat and walks the short steps to the refrigerator taking a water bottle from inside closing the door behind her with her foot. Houston clears her throat as Stacy takes a sip from the bottle. She seats back down, “His only condition was that I keep him updated of my location, where abouts at all times from the film shooting then my hotel room and obviously he asks me to stay away from Volterra”.

“Volterra?” Stacy reaches over for her phone clicking a new tap to open after the external search for her history paper for Winter Break, fun not. If Houston had told Stacy earlier, she would not even need to do it, she isn’t going to the reservation high school anymore. She wastes good hours on that dumb paper, she would have preferred sleeping. Stacy types the place wondering what type of place would make her father just prohibited Houston from going. Stacy reads through the information about the city, “It’s beautiful! Tell me you went.” Stacy checks different places of the city taking every detail in.

“Stop! Let me tell you what happen!” Houston screams outload annoyed at her sister. Stacy raises her hands defensively nodding whispering a soft, “sorry. Proceed.”

“Okay. Thank you. Dad allows me to go not before tinkering with the bracelet to allowed me to be in Italy without excruciating pain. I told my agent, and I got sent the first script which dad read through it checking with my agent that I would not be anywhere near Volterra. Talita reassured dad that any changes; she will notify him of any substantial changes. It was a fair exchange and dad let Talita pick me up and we took a flight to Italy a week early than what was plan”. Houston takes a deep breath a chuckle escapes her lips giving the room over her computer a once over.

“Stop looking around and continue! It is not like dad will poof into the room or anything.” Stacy calls out inching closer to her laptop. Houston glances down at her sister giving the room a once over again, “The shooting went as one expected amazing. I found out my paper in the film changed completely with that the script changed too. I assume Talita told dad because she assured me, he knew. The script writer watches some of my perform videos and request that I do an Overture in the steps of Volterra specially the fountain that is closest to the castle there.” Houston takes another deep breath as Stacy mouth stood ajar at this latest information.

“Oh shit! Dad was convinced just like that. I need to know what type of voodoo shit your agent did because she is superman”. Stacy puts the water bottle on the counter, jumping from her seat shaking her body. Stacy takes deep breath alongside Houston then seats back down to listen to her sister story when it’s getting good, “I didn’t know about the details I just know when I blink, I was in the most magnificent dress I have seen in all my life like I belong to there. The piece I was to play was about a woman calling out for her lover. I had to sell that piece, and the director notified me I only have two chances to sing the song. Talita asks them not to show my face. I found that extremely weird as a woman calling for her husband, I had to show emotions; however, I didn’t ask her why the sudden change”.

Stacy leans forward on her seat catching Houston looking down at her phone then back at her sisters. Houston claps her hands together before she continues once more, “I was expecting to find an empty area. It was late at night, and I had just finished battling my nerves. Talita assured me there wouldn’t be anyone seeing my performance at such hour everyone is probably at the opera… how wrong we were”.

“There were people?”. Stacy asks softly locking eyes with her sisters. At this point completely devoted to her sister’s story. Stacy has forgotten what they were chatting prior to this.

“That is not the problem. Before I even started, we were approached by guards from the castle asking us that we were granted permission to perform in the Volterra’s Gardens. The director said yes without asking anything. I found that stupid because that was not in the script or the plan; however, he said it is a once in a lifetime chance or whatever. Talita came alongside me. I thought she had left, but we entered this magnificent castle. They took the crew and us through so many different passages so extremely confusing. Talita kept asking questions which only a very tall guard was answering her curiosities. He had short black hair, tall as a freaking house and every single one of them wore these ominous uniforms black and red with long capes. He kept staring at Talita too, so it was really creepy”. Houston stops abruptly. Her body shudders from a memory. Stacy raises an eyebrow, “and you didn’t say anything why?”.

“There was a high chance my big mouth would cause me to lose the role, so Talita told me not to worry. She assures me her karate training when she was 8 years old has never failed her. I have never laughed so hard in my entire life. We reach this open throne room not the gardens. There were 3 older gentleman seating at the back with two more guards in between them. The crew didn’t ask questions as the director asked Talita to ask the tall guy if they can perform here? Talita did as ask, and he introduced himself as Felix while Talita nodded excusing herself and going to help me prepare then she move away from the shot”. Houston takes a deep breath before continuing, “Continue. I need to know who is texting you.”

“I am going. Felix moves to Talita. She recorded my performance on her phone just a little bit, but she told me they didn’t notice her recording. A guy as gorgeous as everyone in the room or even more took a couple of steps towards me speaking to me. I look to Talita as she is my agent and translator. She said he loves my voice. I smile and say thank you. The guy on the left with long black hair too seating by the thrones at the back said a phrase. The 3 of them look towards Talita and Felix while then look at me and the guy and female standing by their thrones. Talita walks to me locking her hands in my arms. She looked petrified and did not told me what they were saying she just stare at me grabbing my left wrist taking the bracelet off without saying a word”. Houston stops glancing at Stacy waiting a bit. Stacy eyes wide open at such revelation.

“You can’t perform without the bracelet off! Dad prohibited that!.” Stacy opens her hands performing some type of unexplained language as Houston shook her head.

“To make the story short. I had look at Talita shaking my head at this because doing such a thing would signify, I break my oath to dad. I grasped the bracelet once more from her shaking hands. She started whipping, holding me to her. I look back to see Felix approaching us. While I look to my front two other guards approach us. Now we were the only ones in the room; I didn’t even notice where the crew disappeared too. The female walks up to us introducing herself and her brother as Jane and Alec. She reassured me we will be leaving the castle unharmed.” Houston stops scratching the back of her neck looking over at her sister. She puts a leg crossed over the other as Stacy raises an eyebrow, “excuse me, unharmed? What the flying fuck”

“At that very moment when her red blood eyes stare back at my hazel ones even if it’s impossible, they soften along her brothers. They guided us away Stacy. Their eyes, all 3 of them were blood red, and I got the most vomit infused feeling that I should have listen to dad because I understood why Talita was in whimpers. Which creatures Dad always warned us about, and he tells us to be careful of. He tells us to not go out at night, especially be home before the sun goes down”.

“Oh shit!” Stacy holds her head in disbelief staring at her sister trembling from the memory.

 “I took courage from the deepest side of my stomach and straight up ask are you going to drain us. Jane and Felix stop moving staring at me while Alec shakes his head reaching for me saying a softly, we would never in perfect English this idiot made me believe he didn’t spoke English. Anyways they guide us to the outside. Talita held my hand rushing me away from them towards her rental car. She buckled me in before going to the driver’s side. She rushed us out of there. It was like the floor was lava.” Houston takes a breath glancing down at her phone then back at Stacy.

“Dad can never find out about this. He. Will. Set. Volterra. In. Fire.” Stacy softly replies, her mind stops looking over at her sister not sure what to say. Stacy stops then proceeds to open her lips once more, “Wait.. You left without exchanging phone numbers. How is he texting you?”

“After Talita internal shock and nervous breakdown. She realized we left our passports in our bags back at Volterra with our phones. Talita went back to get our stuff because without it we wouldn’t be able to leave the country. Talita took that chance to tell me Dad had no idea that we were ever in Volterra. She drove back to Volterra for our stuff telling me to call dad if she didn’t return to me”. Houston picks up her phone opening the message sending a text then looking up at Stacy raising an eyebrow at her sister.

“You do understand keeping a history with vampires usually leads to death, right? Dad was specific about that.” Stacy states out the obvious glancing out to her sister shaking her head. Her baby eyes wore disappointment for the first time ever.

“Did Talita return at least? How are you still doing anything without your agent?”. Stacy asks, crossing her arms over her chest. Stacy glares at her sister, “They kill Talita and you mingling with the enemy. Are you fucking serious?!” Stacy opens her hands widely shouting at the top of her lungs, not sure if her sister is faking stupidity or just a good actor. Hazel eyes shakes her head vividly opening her mouth to quickly respond, “No! Talita is fine! She lives in Volterra now. She comes every so often to help me. She is in charge to keep me safe trying to convince dad to take the bracelet off, so she can take me to Italy. Jane and Alec texted me wherever they can we had to teach them how to use a phone and a computer”.

“Sis... you stay connected with Vampires not 1 but 2. What exactly do you tell dad when they call? Do not tell me you say friends from Italy.” Stacy feels her heart shattered into a million pieces after the disappointment that her sister is mingling with what their father considers the worst kind of supernatural creatures. Dad really hates Vampires with a passion like merely saying he will prefer anything else even werewolves over vampires.

“You are probably right but look. Hear me out.” Houston tries to explain herself as she grabs her phone looking up something from it.

“You are going to defend leeches that can potentially suck your blood”. Stacy rolls her eyes not sure why is Houston defending Vampires now. Stacy phone dings, she reaches for it seeing a message from Houston a picture. Stacy sighs heavily unlocking her phone to catch a glimpse of a good-looking guy with dark brown hair and red eyes a smile on his lips next to a girl with younger features, but Stacy could really get behind how pretty she was blonde locks up on a bun red eyes too. The first picture Alec wore a smile while Jane wore a serious face; Stacy slides her fingers to the new set of pictures Alec lowers to Jane the pictures show them chatting then Jane poses once more next to her brother smiling this time, “She smile because the photo was going to be sent to you huh?”.

“I can only assume. They are unfamiliar with phones, so I got over fifty pictures.” Houston shrugs her shoulders a smile wore her lips glancing down at her phone. Stacy rolls her eyes, “Dad will go hunting red coats if something happens to you”. Stacy blurts, annoyed at how the conversation changes. She is happy for her sister to have found something nice. There is a tug on her heart that she does not like any part of this. Stacy glances at the clock on top of the refrigerator on her left, “It is 2:55 am. I need to close the call mom is almost home.” Stacy speaks loudly enough for Houston to hear her. Her fingers reach out to her laptops as she lowers the screen.

“Good night, Stace! I’ll add you to the chat!”. Houston excitedly calls back chuckling in the background like a high schooler on their next fix. Stacy stops blurting the first thing that she thought really not giving it much a thought, “Sure whatever floats your boat”.

Stacy closes the laptop picking it up under her arms grasping the water bottle rushing out the kitchen; her feet take a straight right turn up the steps just as the front door open slowly. Stacy hurries even quicker hoping she could reach her room before her mother decided that they needed to have a heart to heart; however, she wasn’t as lucky tonight as she thought.

“Stacy. Happy New Year, my treasure! How is Houston?”. Lucy calls out from the bottom of the stairs. Stacy stood on the middle of the stairs counting the 6 stairs left to be on the second floor far away from these meaningless conversations that lead to nothing in the end her mom will be long gone in the morning not even a good morning. It is a fable trying to expect some type of familiarity through her.

“Happy New Year, mom.” Stacy words felt like chalk in her lips not even something she wanted to say. Her throat was dryer than the Sahara, Stacy gulped whatever saliva she had but it absolutely made no difference. She takes a deep breath whispering the first thing that came to her mind, “You would know how she is doing if you had call; however, you don’t really care do you mom?”. Stacy resumes walking up the stairs.

“Stacy McCain!”. Lucy shouts

Stacy continues walking up the stairs not even caring that her mom would retaliate like if she would tempt that.

“I am sorry!” Lucy cries out. Stacy stops before taking the last step up the stairs to finally be free from this façade of faces and smiling without a necessity is not like her mother cared for her the pack came first.

“I am sorry for 4 years ago. I had to set an example of your sister… it was either that or her exile from the pack forever. She would not have been able to step in forks again. She kidnapped a member of the pack! I did not want to lose my daughter forever”. Lucy shouts, trying to get a reaction.

“I don’t have a wolf, Lucy. She was not kidnapping anyone at all. You were incapable to sustain your mate with you for long, and you won’t be able to keep holding onto me once I turn 18 years old. I will be leaving this dumb to be with dad and Houston”. Stacy informs her mother before continuing to walk turning right into the hallway in the back Lucy screams, “what? I have done everything to save you!”. Lucy runs up the stairs. Stacy closes her bedroom door locking it for good measures. Lucy stops at Stacy door knocking on it, “Stacy. Please, I beg you.”

“Go beg your mate mom. Oh wait. You cannot! You choose the pack take the fruits of your labor.” Stacy screams at the door at the top of her lungs. Tears threaten to paint her cheeks with their droplets from her already rosy cheeks. She falls back into her bed hugging the laptop to her chest.

Stacy has no idea how long she has been crying for. Her chest is heaved no crying seems to stop her chest from breaking into a million pieces. She can’t wait till she leaves this rotten place forever and never looks back. Forks has taken everything from her. This fucking pack has taken everything from her, and she is not going to give them anymore of her tears. It stops now. Stacy reaches up to her pillows pulling one down to lay her head on it. Her eyes felt heavier by the knocks on her door she welcomes sleep to a dream world where her family isn’t as broken anymore.

[cjsinkythoughts]

FATWS One Shot #5 - Reminiscing

Word Count: 1195

Warnings: Mention of The Fall, Cursing, Teasing, Fluff, Not Much Else

Setting/Characters: Takes place before they moved to D.C., so before Stars, Stripes, and Bubbles and CA:TWS; In New York City; Reader, Steve Rogers

A/N: I didn’t post any writing today so I whipped this up because I wanted to at least put a dent in the One Shot list. I know it’s a bit out of order, but I got this request and I wanted to make it separate from the movie scenes because I felt like Steve would’ve told her this before. They also hadn’t visited the museum yet, obviously, or else she’d know about him already. It’s just a cute little thing about the good ole days. It’s a bit shorter, but there wasn’t much more to add and I like it the way it is.

I’ll try posting more this week; I’m babysitting my little cousin tomorrow and Tuesday, but I’m off work Wednesday, so I’ll be able to write more then. The next One Shot is already being worked on; it’s back in order so it’s gonna take place during TWS. I have to update the One Shot list to accommodate the ideas brainstormed between myself, a couple friends, and you lovely readers.

This isn’t beta’d, as usual, so please excuse any mistakes! Be kind to yourselves and others! Enjoy this one, thank you for reading, and stay tuned!

FATWS Masterlist

cjsinkythoughts Masterlist

You let out a wolf whistle, leaning on the back of Steve’s chair. “Who is that? He’s pretty cute. You know, for someone from a hundred years ago.”

Steve scoffed and rolled his eyes at you with a smile on his lips. It fell when he looked back down at the black and white picture that was fraying at the ends and had a tint to it from the time it’s spent on the earth. The young man you were pointing at, probably mid-20s if you had to guess, was grinning at the camera, looking sharp in an Army uniform, hat tilted on his head.

“That’s…Bucky.”

“Bucky?” You snickered, but then you caught sight of the far off look in Steve’s eye and found yourself frowning. “Who was he?”

“He was…” Steve sighed, leaning back into the chair, his head falling back onto your forearm. “He was my best friend.”

You set your chin on his shoulder, looking at another picture, yellowing with time. He was in that one too, over to the side with a cigarette in his mouth, his arm around two other soldiers, dark hair slicked back. You had heard about the Howling Commandos, who you were guessing were the other guys in the photo. Everyone learned about them in history class in grade school. Captain America and his Commandos fighting against HYDRA, beating the Nazis and saving the day. “Did you meet in Italy?”

“No.” Steve shook his head, carefully setting down the beat up picture. “We…we met when we were kids. We grew up together. In Brooklyn.”

Humming, you studied him, noting the tightened jaw and the crease in his brow, you looked down and tilted your head, spotting another picture of the two of them smiling. Tracing it gently, you tenderly inquired, “he meant a lot to you?”

“He was my brother. He was always there for me. At my lowest, he held me up. I never was truly alone. I always had him.”

You could hear the grief in his voice as he spoke in adoration about the man, frozen in time with a smile on his face in a frame to protect him from fading. “What happened?” You asked softly, running your fingers through Steve’s gold locks that were falling in his eyes.

Steve gave a heavy sigh, closing his eyes. “A mission went sideways. To catch Zola?” He looked up at you to see if you had read about that particular operation of theirs in a file somewhere. You nodded, remembering vaguely the mission he was talking about.

“A train in the Alps, right? I thought you caught him, though.”

The man nodded, sad eyes avoiding your gaze. “We did. But…we were ambushed. Bucky…Bucky and I were separated. I tried to get to him…I couldn’t-” He stopped talking, closing his eyes to compose himself. “He fell and I couldn’t reach him in time.”

“Steve…” you shook your head, scratching that spot at the nape of his neck you knew helped him relax. “It wasn’t your fault, bubs.” He opened his mouth to argue, but decided against it and nodded. “May I?”

He nodded again when you gestured to the box he had on the desk in front of him, letting you look through the other pictures he had. “Tell me about him.”

The blonde gave a little chuckle, smiling fondly at the memories spinning around in his brain. “He was a jerk. He always tried to keep my outta trouble. We met after some kids tried stealing my lunch money. I-I kinda tried fighting them. He beat ‘em up for me.”

“You never did like bullies.”

He grinned at you. “No…no I didn’t. There was this one time…”

You leaned your cheek against his shoulder and watched his face light up as he told you stories about him and Bucky being boys. Playing in the mud, racing through Central Park, going to Coney Island, eating ice cream, sitting on the fire escape. 

“He used to read to me. A lot. When I got sick and stuff. He liked reading. He told me it was his way of taking me somewhere without getting outta bed. I used to draw him scenes from his favorite books while listening. It gave me something to do with my hands. That’s why I picked it up. I could do it from bed.”

“Did he draw too?”

“Hell no! Pal could barely draw a stick figure! I made him take this art class with me and all he did was mope about it because it was the only class he had trouble in. But it was our agreement; he could take me to the gym he went to if he came with me to class.”

You giggled at the image of scrawny little Steve in a gym. “You went to a gym?”

He gave you a bemused look. “You’re not funny. Yes I went to a gym. I didn’t do much. Bucky trained a lot though. He was the YMCA welterweight champion three years in a row.”

“No kidding.” You picked up a picture of Bucky sitting on a couple steps, a t-shirt tucked into pants being held up by suspenders. “Look at those arms.”

“Shuddup!” Steve laughed, pushing you playfully. 

You sniggered. “I’m just saying. I bet he got all the ladies.”

“Are you kidding? Dames lined up at the door to dance with him. You would’ve too,” he poked your side. “If you lived back then.”

You shook your head, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. “He’s cute, but I’d much rather watch you draw.”

Steve snorted. “Trust me. You’d be singing a different tune if you met him. You would’ve liked him. He would’ve liked you.” He went quiet, his expression morphing into one of contemplation.

“Well anyone willing to stand up and hang out with that stubborn kid from Brooklyn has my vote.” You joked, ruffling his locks.

Steve didn’t say anything. He just looked at you for a minute, before turning back to the pictures and starting to clear them away. “I’m gonna put these away and we can go for that run, alright?”

You nodded, getting off of him and stretching. “Alright. But you can’t lap me again!” He chortled at that, smirking not so innocently. “I’m so serious, Rogers! That was mean! I feel so out of shape when you do that!”

“Alright, alright. I won’t honey. I promise.” He grabbed your hand and placed a kiss to your knuckles. “And you’re beautiful no matter what, okay?”

“Sure, bubba.”

“I mean it!”

You smiled at his insistence, his eyebrow knit together in seriousness. “Okay. Meet me outside when you’re done.”

“Yes ma’am!” He nodded, spinning back to his keepsakes and adding as an afterthought, “wanna go see a moving picture?”

You gave him an amused look, trying not to laugh. “Yeah, Stevie. I’d love to go see a movie with you.”

He blushed, the tips of his ears turning bright red. “Movies. Right.”

“Don’t worry about it, Steve. It’s endearing.” You winked at him as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Now hurry up. I wanna get out there before it gets too hot.”

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All Works Taglist (Open):

@happygoreading​ @bibliophilewednesday​ @breadqueen95​ @marvelettesassemble​ @w-wolfhxrd​

[pleasantanathema]

Pray to Me

Pairing: Shinsou x Fem Reader

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Gods!AU, Rough Sex, Too Many Norse Mythology References

Word Count: 8.5k

         The frigid waters were laden with blood and ice, the salty waves licking the bows of long boats as they accosted the shores. The dark waters of the bay looked black against the fresh snow, churning oars sending sprays onto the docks as warriors returned home.

           You stood among the crowds, whips of snow billowing past your reddened cheeks, your arms crossed in protection across your chest. Despite losing the men within your family to raids and battles long ago, you always came to welcome back those who were fortunate enough to receive homecoming. Upon the sails of the ships was the symbol of your earl, dancing proudly against the winds of winter as the men and women beneath them hailed their successes from summer and autumn.

           High upon the prow of the leading ship was a carved figurehead, meticulously crafted in the image of Skoll, the wolf who hunts the moon. The wolf’s jaws were wide and within his wooden tongue was an etching of a crescent moon; the wolf with his prey in his maw was a symbol of Ragnarok, a symbol of the return of chaos. And upon the prow was a man you had never seen before.

          The man was all shades of violet and violence. His hair was the color of crushed mulberries, the long strands pushed back and wet from the sea, so deeply purple that it looked as if you were to touch him, your palms would stain with color. Blood, russet and old, crimson and fresh, was splattered across his cheeks. A warrior’s tattoos stained the expanse of his chest and arms; the thick, blue lines were heavy and sprawling from the wood ash buried within in pale skin. And his eyes, they were purple and bright, painted with black kohl. The dark smears ran down his impressive cheek bones and curled up from his eyes, appearing catlike. The curious orbs resembled the farthest stars that lined night sky.

           You expected murmurs from around the docks, but it was as if the man belonged there, towering over all the rest, hands pulling at the mouth of the wolf within the wood. He was silent power within the snow, lean and muscular, body on display as if the storm did not touch him. You felt drawn to him, like he was looking for you high upon the prow. Your feet moved before you could think. You wanted to be closer, to have those violaceous eyes upon you.

           You moved in front of the crowd, standing by the edge of the water, sand and ice crunching underfoot, but when your eyes darted to find him, he was gone. There was no trace of slick purple hair within the throngs of people. Disappointment settled into your spirit and wearily you traveled home to rest.

           For weeks you dreamt of him, saw shadows of him within the corners of your vision; illusions of a dark cat in your windows, a tawny owl upon barren branches.

            Some nights you dreamed you were sinking into a vast violet sea, trying to swim upwards to break against the surface, to breathe air into your lungs and call to Odin to rescue you. But you were stuck, some unknown force pulling at your ankles and keeping you in a watery, nebulous purgatory just below the surface. You would always give up, allow yourself to float within the celestial unknown of the eerie, mauve waters, allow yourself to feel weightless and accept that you were no longer in control. The undercurrents would push you, bring you into strong, waiting arms, and you would awaken, breathing in and feeling like for a brief moment you were whole.

           No one you asked had seen the purple haired man, save those who returned from raiding in the East. One warrior told you that the man you saw upon the prow of the ship was a land spirit, brought with them from the Balkans after blessing them with the gift of fire and aiding their struggles to survive as the weather turned bleak. Another relayed that the man was a spirit of the Wild Hunt, a straggler from the ghostly procession that attached himself to the fleet and brought the callousness of winter with him. No matter what they believed him to be, they had all seen him, the man with violet hair and violent eyes.

           You knew that the sisters were calling to you from The Well of Fate, whispering the future that they had laid before you. Something about the purple haired man, whether he be man, vestige, or spirit, made you believe that you were fated to meet him again.

           Nearly a full moon cycle passed before your curiosity could take no more. In the dead of night, you wrapped yourself in your cloak, ignoring the shadows and wisps of eyes in the dark as you made your way through the sleeping village.

You found yourself before the Seer, ancient and decrypt, asking for him to translate the gods’ wishes and intentions for your life.

           “What questions do you have of me?” His voice was as rickety as the bones that adorned his hut, rattling from stray winds. He had lived hundreds of years and now dwelled between life and death, an interpreter between gods and man.

           “Wise one, I desire to know the gods’ plans for me. I have dreams.”

           “What dreams have come to you?”

           “I dream I am drowning within the bay, and that a man saves me, but only after I stop fighting the currents.”

           There was a pregnant pause between you. The Seer considered your words. Your thumbs fiddled within your lap, and you felt heavy, like you were under the gaze of more than just the ancient one.

           “A precarious quest awaits you, one that will take you between worlds, to the land of the gods.”

           “But I do not understand. I do not adventure, nor travel. I am only a simple healer. What kind of quest could await me?”

           Below hooded eyes you watched a black tongue escape his mouth, worrying across dry lips as he pondered your words. Only a few times in your life had you visited him, well aware that fate was already the master of all, even the gods, as even they were subject to fate just like any and all other beings.

           “You shall go past where the fence separates us from the place of self-willed beasts, finding refuge in that which is chaotic, anarchic, and wild.”

           “But, Seer, I do not—.”

           “Yes, child, I know you do not understand. But such is the way of prophecy, only to be understood when it has happened, and it is too late to change it.”

           You stood to leave, seeds of fear sprouting within your spirit.

           “But do not forget there is order within the chaos.” His voice crackled like fire, calling out to you as you left his home, forging a path through the snow to your own.

           The foresights of the Seer lingered within your disposition, the cryptic words reverberating through your mind and taking hold in your daily life. You started to fight the currents in your dreams, only to wake gasping for breath after monstrous beings pulled you into the abyss. The warm arms of your illusory savior felt farther away than ever before. The murky glooms in the crevices felt stronger, grimmer, the oppressive eyes of darkness following you from every corner, every winter shade.

           Your hands began to slip as you tended to the wounded, your thoughts becoming absent as you crafted medicine or supper, often burning yourself over fires or forgetting ingredients. You felt lost, abandoned by the gods, but still yet you prayed.

           Winter continued to rage on, with the moon living within the sky at all times of day and bathing the world in a constant dusk during the desolate midwinter. Every night before you made for bed, you trekked behind the village to the isolated temple to the gods. No one was ever there. The summer raids were over, the men safely returned with riches aplenty, which, along with the great harvest, had left many believing that the gods were in good spirits and were bestowing ample blessings upon their dedicated supplicants.

           But you, you felt no love from Asgard, felt no promise of Valhalla waiting for you.

           The temple was hardly a sanctuary at all, just a hut overrun by dormant vines and overgrown with dying grass, with an altar for blood sacrifices tucked away against the back wall. Despite being a devoted village, most saved their prayers for their pilgrimage to the great temple in Uppsala, but you had become desperate. You needed to feel closer to the gods, to find the place beyond the fence that was foretold to you.

           You knelt upon a broken stone, obedient hands upon your knees as you began to pray.

        “Odin, all-father and far-wanderer, may you grant me wisdom, and    courage,

         Thor, grant me your strength, wield your hammer to break the barriers that hold my mind,

         Baldr, the beautiful, beloved by all, please bestow upon me joy and light,

         And Freya, mother of beauty, the völva, help me to discern my fate—.”

           Your prayer faltered as you heard steps crunch upon the grass. But the sound wasn’t of footsteps coming towards you, more like someone shuffling, shifting their weight within the temple.

           You were not alone.

           All your instincts began to fight one another. Your mind wanted to flee, to spring your legs and send you running to safety, but your heart felt like you needed to stay, to speak into the twilight for answers. The conflict led to you staying still and being silent. Your hands fisted upon your thighs, your eyes closing tightly. Whatever was there would go away, whoever was there would leave. Maybe there was nothing there at all, only the spirits playing tricks on you again.

           “And why haven’t you called out for me, little one?”

           The voice sounded like vibrations from within the deepest ocean; deep, unfathomable, and a little wicked.

           He was there, before you, arms across his tattooed chest that was on display under emerald linen and violet head cocked to the side. He was grinning, like a cat would upon discovering new prey. His purple hair was arched into wild plumes, his skin rubbed clean but the kohl still upon his cheeks and around his eyes. He was handsome in the firelight, fiendishly so.

           “Who are you?” Your voice was a whisper, so light and airy it floated away into the darkness.

           “Who am I?” He laughed, leaning against the sacrificial altar, a blatant disrespect for the gods.

           “Who am I…” he repeated it, drawing circles in the dirt with his toe. He shifted his weight back and forth for a moment, eyes closing as he picked up an imaginary rhythm.

           “A creaking bow, a burning flame, tide on the ebb, new ice, a coiled snake…”

           Your breath caught in your throat, fingers twitching in your lap. You recognized the pattern and knew what words came next. It was an old saying your mother used to whisper under her breath, a chant for the old women and those who held superstitions. It was a warning, a rhythmic song to help children remember to stay safe, to avoid perils.

           Your mouth opened before you could stop it, finishing the proverb for him.

           “The sons of a king, an ailing calf, a witch’s flattery. No man should be such a fool as to trust these things. For they are the trickster in disguise.”

            “Aha, so you do know me, girl. Yet after all this time, I’ve never heard you pray to me. Why is that?”

              He crouched down to your level, his startling, devilish eyes gleaming like amethyst. He was too close and you felt yourself leaning away, back arching and neck aching as you tried to pull yourself from his gaze.

             “No one prays to you, trickster god.”

              He merely shrugged, a strong hand reaching for you. Rough fingers found your chin, pulling you closer as his eyes danced across the planes of your face. You began to shake, overwhelmed by being in the presence of perhaps the most dangerous god.

            “And how do you know I am he?” he laughed, thumb running over your lips, “I could be Heimdall, sent by Odin to watch over such a devout and…fascinating little creature.”

           “Because you’re so…” you paused as you looked for the words. You felt like you were drowning within his gaze, falling to the ground even though you hadn’t moved since he appeared.

           He stood quickly, turning on his heel and smirking.

           “Because I’m so what? Handsome? Charming? Surprisingly muscular for a god who uses wits and magic to seduce his subjects?”

            He pouted at your silence, wanting more of a reaction.

          “What if I told you I could be beautiful instead? Would that hex you?”

           This time he didn’t give you an opportunity to respond. Within a haze of smoke, he transformed.

           A languid, sensuous body appeared between the mists. Voluptuous breasts met your eyes, smooth thighs peeking from beneath an exquisite olive dress. Long, violet tresses fell down the woman’s back, curling so perfectly she looked to be unreal. But his eyes stared at you from the feminine face, dark lavender and sinister upon high cheekbones.

          “Hmm,” she sighed, holding her hand out for you to take.

          You took the soft hand outstretched to you, surprised at the strength behind the grip as she pulled you to your feet. The goddess was tall and slender, and she gazed at you while she pondered whatever was on her mind.

          “Still not as beautiful as you…” her voice was melodic as she looked over her own body, swaying within the graceful skin for a moment before catching your gaze and stopping. You stood still, heart pounding in your chest as you gazed at the hermaphrodite before you. Her lashes fluttered as a familiar smirk spread across her features.

          It was as if she was floating when she neared you again, purple hair uncontrollable and suspended within the air. Her tender hands came to your cheeks, pursing your mouth with her thumbs.

         “No…nothing is as beautiful as you, little servant.” Her supple lips overwhelmed your own. You gasped, hands flying to her chest to stop her, only to have your fingers sink into the luscious valley of her breasts. A chuckle fans across your face, more masculine than feminine, and the mixture of the voice had shivers of excitement and pleasure racing down to your toes. You were too shocked, too scared to kiss back, but she didn’t seem to mind. Her lips moved against yours gently, pleadingly, only becoming more active when the delicate hands upon your cheeks converted to thick fingers and rough calluses.

           Before your eyes the god shifted again, returning to the fetching masculine figure that he was before. You could smell him now, taste him, like smoke from smoldering coals and the residue of rain from within a summer’s forest. Your hands were still upon his chest, your fingers brushing against the skin that was on display between the open buttons of his tunic. His kiss was intoxicating, a hum of magic upon his lips as he drank you in.

           “You’re a greedy little thing, aren’t you?” He chuckled, licking your lips wantonly before pulling away.

           “Why have you been haunting me?” You demanded between heavy breaths, emboldened by his kiss.

            “Haunting you? No, no. I’ve been watching you. Observing you. You looked so…sinless among the throngs when I sailed in all those weeks ago. I must say I am very pleased by the things I have seen.”

            “And what have you seen?” Your voice snapped; tongue sharp.

            His hands caressed your upper arms, eyes glancing across your body as if he was admiring a pattern within runes that he had seen a thousand times before.

           “You serve…everyone. The gods, the people in this village, you tend to the weak spirited and the broken bodied, you serve everyone but yourself.”

            The god grew quiet, leaning forward to inhale the sweet scent of your hair. His lips pressed to your temple, thumbs stroking your arms through the thin fabric of your clothing. His breath fanned into your hair and you suddenly felt your heart begin to beat more slowly. It was as if his presence alone, his touch, could calm the raging turmoil within your mind.

            “Now, I want you to serve me.”

            “Yes,” you said too quickly, a knee buckling as you prepared to kneel, “of course, anything for a go—.”

           “Shinsou.” His hands held you in place, kept you from bowing to him. He watched as your head tilted and your brow furrowed, obviously wanting to please him. “Shinsou is the name my friends call me, and as shall you.”

          “Shinsou.” You tentatively said the name back to him. Your people knew him as Loki, but to know a more intimate name made tingles of warmth spread across your chest, like he was entrusting knowledge unknown by mortals into you.

           He became violet and beautiful as you said his name, a warm smile decorating his striking face. The safe feeling of your dreams washed over you. These arms, his arms, his hands and his body, were the safety you had been dreaming of that saved you from the tumultuous seas. You stared at him for a moment, hands feeling a heartbeat within his chest. He looked so human, felt so real, yet still an otherworldly air swirled so poignantly around him. Everything inside of you wanted to fall into him, to feel enveloped by his spirit.

        “I’m going to take you away,” he whispered it, hand trailing from your arm to your face, tucking hair behind your ear in a most affectionate way, “you’ll never have to come back here, unless you want to.”

        “Take me away? To Asgard?” Your breath hitched as you said the name of the haven of the gods.

          He laughed, the sound like honey dripping across your soul.

         “No, little one. I am of the giants; don’t you remember the ancient stories? To Jotunheim we will go.”

          Your brow lightened, remembering the words of the Seer. Jotunheim, your brain wracked over the word, letting it roll within your thoughts until it revealed what you were looking for. Útgarðr, you realized, the name of that same place given by your ancestors. It meant the world outside your own, the world of chaotic wilds that surrounded Midgard. The place beyond the fence.

         This Loki—this Shinsou—was indeed fated to you after all. You felt the connection from the moment you saw him sailing in the winter winds, felt it even more profoundly as he held you before him in the temple. For some reason, the trickster god had chosen you, or perhaps he was merely following fate, testing you for all this time to see if you were truly the human girl destined for him. He was a sign of change, his hands wrapped around the prow of the ship that was carved into a symbol of Ragnarok, the end of the cycle of this world. He was proving to be a carrier of the end times, at least the ending of your own mundane life. And just like Ragnarok, you had a feeling that with this end would come a new beginning, that Shinsou was taking you away but leading you to a new life, a new destiny, far beyond what you could ever imagine.

          “Take my hand,” it was a polite command, his words weighty but light enough to promise that you could decline.

            You felt something between his fingers, a quietness, a wickedness you could not quite name. It was like a dull thrum of lightening humming between your skin and his. Billows of smoke weaved between your bodies. Just as quickly as he transformed into a woman, Shinsou had you whisked away, transported so rapidly you felt dizzy. You clung to him, your godly refuge, light flashing as your feet found new purchase upon what felt like a floor.

            For a moment, you thought the room was a mirage. It was unlike anything had ever seen before, so lavishly decorated with lush furs, viridian curtains, polished stone and warm fires. Books lined every wall and the air smelled of perfumes and incense, even a fountain sprung from stones in the far corner. It was truly unearthly, but his arms around you felt like home.

           His head rested upon your shoulder from behind, his palms flattening on your chest to feel your heartbeat as you took in the sights around you.

           “This is…this is your home?” One of your hands gripped a muscular forearm.

            “Mhm, more like a home away from home, a safe haven.”

             He uncurled himself from you, a stout hand pushing at your lower back to urge you to explore. You padded around the room, fingers caressing the spines of books along the walls, finding many in languages unknown to you. Between many of the tomes were vases and trinkets, some glowing with mystic hues, humming with magic well beyond your comprehension.

           “What will you have me do here?” Your breath caught as you turned to find him. He seemed so large and ominous within the space, like was the commander of the room and the only ornament to be admired within the vast collection around you.

          “You haven’t figured it out? My, and I thought you were keener than most mortals.”

            He rolled his shoulders, sighing with content as he removed his tunic, tossing it into the air to only have it dissipate before your eyes in a bright flash of magic. His tattoos seemed darker in the dim light, like the blackest earth pressed into his skin. A serpent trailed down one of his impressive biceps, his other arm decorated in a swirl of runes and etchings of a wolf and a horse, his chest covered with a dark, ethereal depiction of Yggdrasil, the world tree, it’s branches spreading across strong pectorals and its roots weaving between the hard muscles of his stomach.

         “Come,” he motioned to you with his fingers, “come back and touch me.”

          You had no hesitation, coming to his call like a pet would their master. It felt safe to be back in his arms again, to have your fingers running over the indigo lines of art upon his handsome skin. He proudly showed you his arms, eyeing you with great interest as you admired him.

         “Your children,” you mused softly, tracing the pictures so marvelously stretched upon his musculature.

        “Yes,” he laughed softly, “my children. Call me sentimental, if you must.” The enormous snake was no doubt Jormungand, the serpentine dragon that encircled all the oceans, all of Midgard. Then there was Fenrir, the ferocious wolf that was chained away somewhere from all humanity and gods alike, in wait to break his binds and eat the world as the end began again. And then there was Sleipnir, the eight-legged horse that bore the weight of Odin in all of his battles. They were all wild creatures, the offspring of the unfathomably powerful god before you. They were all beasts of anarchy, yet they looked so beautiful upon his skin, so harmless within the ink.

       “Order within the chaos…” you whispered, echoing the words of the Seer.

       “I want you.”

       His powerful voice rumbled from within his chest. It startled you, caused your wandering hands to cease upon his arms and become still before him.

       “Why?” Breathless. You felt breathless.

        “I have traveled every inch of the nine worlds, regarded every corner for fascinations and enthrallments, yet it was in the homeland where I found what I wanted. You are the most beautiful, pliant little create I have ever beheld, and I want you within my bed.”

       “No, you can’t! I’m nothing, no one of importance, you…you can’t.”

        He left you then, smirk adorning his features as he sauntered to his bed, waiting for you to follow. And you did, an unspeakable urge to touch him, to follow him, to feel him, to be overwhelmed by him, drawing you to him like a fox to its den, to its safety.

        “Well, if you don’t want me, my brother Katsuki would give up his fates in order to have such an alluring woman within his sheets.”

       “Katsuki?”

        He paused, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms, that playful grin still upon his lips.

         “Thor, if you rather. We all have many names, but I only want mine to come from your tongue. So many nights I waited to hear you pray to me, call out to me within your dreams, but I tired of lingering. So now I will have you say it, scream it, for me, little servant.”

         He pulled you into his lap, hands greedy upon your flesh, pulling at your thighs and sinking between your ribs. He looked untamed upon the bed, hair almost purposely unruly and muscles rolling and ready to hunt what he wanted to take.

         “Do you think you can do that for me? Pray to me? Call out for me like you need me?”

           Thick fingers gripped at your cheeks; violet eyes hazy like storm clouds above the ocean. You were reminded that he was a devious deity, a shapeshifter, a trickster, the one thing that your elders warned you about as a child. A burning flame, tide on the ebb, new ice, a coiled snake, he was all those deceitful things and more. He was the epitome of chaos, yet he had chosen you, desired you, and you knew that deep within your spirit you wanted him as well. He was handsome beyond compare, but his physical splendor was not all that had you holding onto him. Behind those eyes was a promise of release from every woe, a chance to experience pleasure like you had never known before.

         “Yes, Shinsou, whatever you desire.”

          “So devoted to the gods,” he whispered, bringing you flush against his body, “now I’ll make you feel like one.”

          Slowly, he ran his hand downward, finding the intimate, remarkably soaked place between your legs. He could feel your wetness from beneath your wool coverings and a satisfied groan builds within his throat as his lips curl even more sharply, devilishly.

         “So wet for me already,” he chuckles, wrist flicking and sending your clothing away.

         You gasped, feeling the threads peel away from your body by what felt like imaginary hands. Just like his tunic before, your shirt and trousers were gone, whisked away to perhaps another dimension never to be seen again.

        “Look at you,” he boasts, keeping one hand tucked between your slick thighs as the other rakes across your curves, pinching, pulling, teasing at your flushed skin, “not even the goddesses compare to you. Mhm, thank the All Father for breathing life into you, I must thank him for creating such beauty.”

         Your mouth could barely stammer a thanks. You were beguiled, stunned within his lap, your legs stretched over gloriously muscled thighs. You almost felt shameful to be on such display for him, but the hunger in his eyes and the hardening cock underneath told you just how pleased he was to have you.

        A deft finger began to circle your most sensitive spot, making you bite your lip as a groan burned within your throat. He was slow and deliberate with his movements, gaze catching every breath you made, every shift and roll of your body. You felt hot, unbearably so, as his finger toyed with you so languidly.

       His other hand found your breast, cupping it and testing its weight within his giant palm. His thumb grazed your nipple, circling it at the same pace and movement as your clit. He grinned as he watched you slowly come undone, felt your walls and insecurities crumbling away at his touch.

        Shinsou then took your sensitive clit between two fingers, rolling it so perfectly that it sent sparks of pleasure racing across your nerves, surging from your thighs to your toes and back again. He kept going, stroking sensually, purposely, with such expert skill that you felt you could cum just from his slightest touches. Is this what being with a god felt like? Like you were constantly on the edge of euphoria, every touch and stroke like the gift of life within your body?

      Your head tipped back as you moan, giving in to the overwhelming pleasure. He watched with glee as the column of your throat was on display for him. He took a moment to press his hot mouth against your flesh, sucking roughly against the side of your neck like he was taking your pleasure for himself. You could only moan again, the sensations already drowning you in such bliss you were surprised your inner coil of pleasure hadn’t broken for him already. He was an expert in giving pleasure just like he was the art of manipulation and sorcery.

      All too easily he moved you below him on the bed, his impressive body now hovering over your own, mouth still biting at your neck, fingers still circling your nipple and caressing your pussy.

     “Tell me what you want,” it was a soft command against the slick skin of your neck.

       “You,” you breathed in deep, breasts pressing against his tattooed chest with your inhale, “please, more.”

       “More of what? Of this?” he pinched at your nipple, tugging it and twisting it so wantonly that you couldn’t help but to shriek in pleasure for him, “or this?” his two fingers danced along the lips of your pussy, sliding between the wet folds before returning to your aching clit, swirling against it so proficiently that you felt your inner muscles clenching and begging for release.

        “All of it, I want everything.”

       “My, my, you are a greedy little thing.”

        All at once, he ceased his motions, easing the pressure upon your body and leaving you wanting, burning, begging for more. But he is not gone from you. His fingers, coated in your slick, tauntingly trace over your clit once more, so light it’s like the kiss of life just barely brushing over your delicate flesh. You began to writhe in response, needing more friction, needing more of his touch, but he moved his weight upon your body to suppress you. He was teasing, purposely neglecting to give you the stimulation you so desired.

         “Any time you want more, you say my name, little one. Say my name and I can give you everything you desire.”

         “Shinsou, please.”

          He groaned, he himself coming undone at the sound of your voice. He couldn’t even begin to explain how gratifying it was to hear his name come from your lips. He was no fool of a god, he knew no one prayed to him, but he wanted you to pray to him more than anything he had ever desired before. Your songs of praise would fill him in ways a mere mortal could never fathom; your prayers, his name from your mouth, was more intoxicating than any substance Odin had ever created. To have you, a devoted child of the gods, calling his name while he stole your faith away from every other god and claimed it all for himself, fulfilled him beyond measure.

        His touch trailed lowered, finding your puckered pussy pulsing and waiting, ready for him. He entered a single finger, a heavy moan of approval ghosting against your neck as your inner walls contracted around him, pulling him deeper into you.

        “So fucking tight,” he lifted his head, finding your eyes closed and pretty mouth agape, “I can’t wait to have my cock in you.”

          Waves of pleasure rocked over your body as he moved his finger within you, curling it to massage the fleshy walls, quickly finding a sensitive spot to stroke against. His palm pressed against your clit as he buried another finger into you, the two digits working in tandem to spread you, spear you onto his thick fingers, pushing them far into your depths. Every plunge had you gasping, bursts of bliss spreading across your skin like flames.

         His mouth returned to yours as he fingered you, hot and heavy, but his kiss felt controlled, like he was holding back. You reacted quickly, pushing up into him with all your strength, arms circling his neck and pressing him for more. You wanted what he can give, all of it, and you showed him with your actions. Your hands fisted into those vivid purple plumes of hair, tugging as your hips began to match the speed of the hand working within you. You moaned, loud, desperately, your tongue prodding his lips. He graciously accepted your tongue, opening his mouth and wrestling against you. His tongue licked your own, slow and wet, tasting you and groaning at the sweetness.

        “Shinsou,” it was a murmur against his mouth, but he heard it, soaked it up and began to thrust and curl his fingers faster than before. You cried out at the pleasure, mouth falling from his.

         “You like it a little rough, hm? You’re so easy to read, my dear. I am going to make you cum so hard you’ll be begging for all that I have planned for you.”

            His words had your cheeks and ears burning with a blush. He only grinned, choosing to prop himself onto one arm so he could watch you. With every flick of his wrist, every move of his fingers inside of you, he watched your face. He watched how your lips curled, how your jaw clenched. He felt your hands twist in his hair; felt how you would pull on the violet strands in desperation when he touched the perfect spots. His eyes scanned your body as well, watching what made your breasts bounce, your stomach clench, your walls tighten around his fingers. It didn’t take the god long to discover exactly what made you tick.

          He rapidly increased his pace, using his newfound knowledge to make your body feel like it could explode at any moment. He touched you just right, plunged his fingers so perfectly as to keep you on the edge of your euphoria for as long as he could. Truthfully, he could’ve kept you in suspense forever, but Shinsou was not a god known for his patience. He wanted to watch you cum, wanted to see your face when you came around the fingers of perhaps the most reviled deity. One even you wouldn’t dare pray to.

        “You ready?” He called your name, making your eyes flutter open to see him. He saw the lust within your brilliant irises, your dilated pupils, and that sight alone had his cock harder than it ever had been before. He was no longer sure he could keep his composure as he watched you come undone.

        He leaned down closer, close enough to catch your breath within his mouth. He would’ve expected you to kiss him had you not been so far gone, so close to otherworldly release that your lips could no longer form words.

        “Cum for me,” that wicked tone of voice was back, his fingers now slamming into your body, “cum for a god, little mortal.”

         His thumb returned to your clit, showing it no mercy as he rubbed tight, fast circles against it. His words, his fingers, his body, his breath, it was all too much.

        “Sh-Shinsou!”

          You reached a high you had never felt before as you came for him. Your head felt dizzy, like you were back to drowning within your dreams, waves and waves of euphoria crashing over you so roughly you felt like you were sputtering for air amidst the onslaught of pleasure. Your walls clenched and unclenched around his unceasing fingers, your chest tightening, your core exploding, heat blooming from every patch of skin he had dared to touch. You screamed. Over and over, the bliss felt never ending, and he baited you for even more.

       “That’s right, cum all over my fingers, just like that, just how I want you.”

        It felt like he was drawing your orgasm from your body, pulling everything he could from you. His thumb still stroked your clit, fingers still buried deep within your body as you quivered around him. Your thighs clamped around his thick forearm as you finally began to descend from your high, body loosening and sinking into his bed.

         He finally stilled his movements. He merely smirked as he watched your chest heave with breaths as you basked in the afterglow of your pleasure.

         “Good girl,” he cooed. In the haze you realized how much you wanted to hear those words again, recognized how much you wanted to please him. You wanted more of those encouraging words, more of his admiration, wanted to know how much of a good girl you really were. Your spirit suddenly craved even more, despite the world-shattering orgasm still lingering within your muscles, your blood, your soul.

        You felt empty when his fingers left you, but watched in shocked delight as he brought the digits to his awaiting mouth. He sat up before you, sucking at his skin and cleaning your slick from his fingers with a very greedy tongue. He looked wild, uncaged, like the wolf Skoll had finally eaten the moon and brought the world to end.

       “Fuck,” you whispered in awe, scrambling for purchase against his sheets as you propped on your elbows to watch him.

       He quirked a brow as he slid his tongue between his fingers, relishing your slick as if it was the sweetest honey.

       “I’m sorry, did I make the pious girl curse?”

        “I’m not pious!” You countered, feeling flustered, shaking your head and pouting as he only laughed.

         He smirked as he finished cleaning his fingers, crawling up the bed and pulling you into his lap.

         “I dare not argue, not after those delicious sounds you just made for me.”

          Shinsou quelled any words that were forming in your mind with a kiss, his lips tasting of you. You moaned against him, feeling his arms snake around your back and hold you to him. His cock was hard and heavy, now prodding against your still pulsating pussy.

         “Mhm, how will I take you?”

          It was a pondering to himself, but the words still made you tremble. Your nails bit into his shoulders, your nipples hardening as they brushed against the downy hairs of his chest. His strong hands found the flesh of your ass, lifting you to hover over his large, throbbing erection. You held in a breath, waiting, expecting him to take you hard and fast and now, but he merely teased your entrance.

        “This way?”

          The head of his cock began to spread your lips apart, warm and silken and making you drip even more than before. He sat there for a moment, using the strength of his arms to lift and drop you just ever so slightly onto his cock, each little movement making you gasp.

          But then the anchors of his arms were gone, sliding down your thighs as he laid you back on the bed. So easily he moved on top of you again, one hand gripping your thigh, the other slithering up your body to wrap around your tender, kiss bruised throat.

        “Or perhaps like this?”

         He held you against the bed, cock still hard and waiting between your spread thighs, sliding ever so gently against your pussy. His fingers flexed against your throat and he watched how your eyes flashed with want, with need.

          “I could always take you as a woman. You fell so easily into my kiss when I transformed earlier, hm? Would you like that?”

           He could feel your gulp underneath his palm, shaky and deep.

          “No,” he was smirking, plotting. His deft fingers took your hip into his hand and flipped you over, both hands skimming down your body and pulling you up onto your knees. With a stern hand he kept your breasts pressed into the mattress by applying pressure to your shoulder blades, positioning you just how he wanted. You felt even more exposed than before, your pussy open and wanting and waiting, spread before his hungry eyes like a meal ready to be devoured.

          The head of his cock was back at your opening, prodding your lips apart and slowly sinking into you with agonizing slowness. You held your breath, hands fisting into the sheets. He continued to open you more and more, his cock thick and hot. His hand on your hip constrained you securely, keeping you locked into place. The hand on your back did the same, his hold strengthening as he felt you writhe before him.

        “Yes,” he purred, cock easing into you, “this is how I want my little servant.”

          But the rocking of his hips stopped, the head of his cock now barely pressing inside of you. You breathed heavily against the sheets, sweat trickling down the back of your neck in anticipation. Without being able to see him, face him, you could only feel him. You felt his fingertips press deeper into the curve of your ass, as if readying himself, or perhaps attempting to use restraint. The hand on your back was steady, keeping smooth pressure on your skin. His thighs were solid and strong against your own, his breaths even, his cock so fucking hard.

        You cried out in anguish, your aching pussy clenching around the head of his cock.

       “Please, Shinsou!”

       “Pray to me.”

         His tone was nefarious, teasing, almost inhuman in how deeply it reverberated from within that broad chest. You closed your eyes and imagined how the sound must have climbed the dark branches of the world tree upon his skin.

      “Pray to me like you did to the other gods in the temple. I want to hear that pretty voice beg for me to fuck you.”

        That breathless feeling returned. Your heart began to race, mind rolling around too many thoughts at once that couldn’t be comprehended within your lusty haze. You hastily mulled over words within your head.

         “Shinsou…” you began, feeling his fingers begin to mark crescent moons into your flesh, feeling the tip of his cock throb within your core, “wielder of cunning, god of mischief, I beg of you, please bestow upon me great joy and pleasure, take my body as this offering to you, so that I may serve you and grant you the indulges of the flesh—!”

         With your final praises tumbling from your lips, he slammed his cock deep inside of you, stretching and spreading you and making you feel like he had set your body alight with magic. Your body lurched forward, nearly toppling over from the power of his thrust, but his strong hands kept you in place, allowing him to begin a brutal speed. Your ass bounced forcefully against his hips, breasts jostling with every thrust. One of his hands curled around your waist to your lower stomach, and he groaned when he realized he could feel his cock bulge from inside of you. He became heedless then, impaling you with reckless abandon, eager to feel your belly swell from the onslaught of his cock.

        The forcefulness of his fucking left your muscles aching and your lungs breathless. You were now moaning with every plunge of his cock, as with each stroke he lit a fresh burst of pleasure that rippled across your entire body akin to the streams of enchantments you had seen him wield.

         You felt like you were slipping away, having to fight to keep your thoughts alive as he brought you up the mountain of euphoria with just the heavy strokes of his cock.

        “Don’t fight the currents. Let go for me.” He grunted the words between thrusts.

         You allowed ecstasy to fully wash over your body, allowed his hands to guide you, hold you, take you to far beyond what you once thought the limits of pleasure entailed.

          Shinsou moved the hand from your back to your shoulder, using the leverage to pound your body back against his. You could only moan at the feeling, of being so full of his cock, of hearing his groans join the chorus of your own. You clung to the bed with what strength you have left, allowing him to completely take the reins of control and have his way with you.

          With each and every thrust, he pulled you back at different angles, trying you, testing you, watching you, seeing which way he fucks you makes you react the most. He listened for sharp cries and deep moans. He felt for your walls to flutter, your abdominal muscles to tighten, learned your body and fucked you with a chaotic yet controlled force.

         He leaned over your back, hand moving to your neck, pulling your face up from the sheets. This position has him somehow deeper, head of his cock kissing where the curve of your cavern meets your cervix, farther than any had ever gone before. He filled you to the brim, stretched you so wide you felt you could burst, the intense pleasure of it all bringing tears to the corners of your lashes.

         He brought your face closer to his, so that he can kiss your cheek as he fucks you, feel your hair against his chin, watch your breasts bounce so unabashedly from his force.

         “You like this, hm? Serving me? Letting me fuck you like this?”

         “Yes, yes!”

          He squeezed the hand on your stomach, making you moan as you felt the massive cock from inside of you press against your belly.

        “You like being so full of my cock? No mortal could ever fuck you like I do!”

        “Yes—fuck—you feel so, so good, Shinsou!”

         You could feel sweat on his skin, feel his heart beating like a caged raven within his chest. He felt so human, felt so real, but the euphoria he brought you was transcendental.

        “You’re such a good girl, such a dirty girl, for me, only me.”

         His powerful words were becoming whispers within your hair, vestiges upon your skin. You could only nod, the plowing of his cock into your core now leaving you more breathless than before. You could feel your release nearing, the flames being fanned by every stroke of the head of his cock against your walls, every push of his hand against your belly.

        Your slick was dripping down your thighs, pussy so wet that every time his cock assailed your core your ears were met with the sinful sound of drenched bodies meeting one another in animalistic rut. You were climbing the orgasmic ladder again, aided by the sublime feel of his crushing hands upon your neck, your stomach, his vast chest against your back, rough lips pulling your face into him, and his thick, repetitive cock drumming into you.

      Your mind was on sensory overload, your body uncontrollably bucking against him, begging for another otherworldly release. You could feel your walls clenching around his cock, your body pleading on its own. Pleasure was singing down your body, bringing pure delight and bliss with every pulse, every push of his cock. You were so close, so fucking close, all you needed was for him to allow you to go over the edge. You had submitted to his currents and knew only he could bring the ebb and flow of release.

     You began to chant his name in prayer.

    “Fuck yes, little one, just like that. Oh you’re so good, aren’t you?”

    “Yes, yes,” you choked out, nearly sobbing for relief, “so, so good for you!”

     “Then cum, cum for me!”

      He roared the words against your cheek, his command overwhelming you and sending you spiraling as the waves of euphoria returned, crashing over your body like a tumultuous sea. Your body crumpled underneath his and he held you, the violent tightening of your body sending the god himself over the edge. Hot cum poured inside of you, making you cry out at the magnificent feeling of being completely filled by him. Your snug walls struggled to flutter around the girth of his cock, prolonging your orgasm and making you feel suspended within his arms, gasping for breath and reveling in every dull thump of his cock inside of you.

     He held you for a long moment, hand against your belly, hand around your neck. It was his turn to bask in the afterglow of sex, to feel wholly spent and satisfied with the girl he had handpicked for himself. You were perfect in his arms, hands fisted into his sheets, lips swollen, his seed dripping from where he was still lodged within your depths. You’d let go, allowed him to have you, to take you, and there was no way in the nine fucking realms he was ever letting you go.

     Shinsou kept you within his embrace as he collapsed to the bed, inked chest heaving and Jormungand curling around your back to hold you against him.

    “Mhm, all the scheming I had to do to get you here, in my bed, filled with my cum.”

    “Scheming?” You asked into his chest.

    “What, you didn’t think all those dreams were coincidence, no?”

     You sat up to look at him, all tussled violet hair, kohl on his cheeks smeared, grin upon his lips.

     “And the cats? The owls? All those eyes on you in the dark? All that time spent waiting for you, little one. I even had to whisper my indecent plans to the Seer. Can you imagine that conversation? At least he put it into fun little riddles for you to decipher.”

    “I—I can’t believe you would do all of that, for me. You could’ve just taken me.”

    He snorted at your remark.

     “I did. My hand was forced to interrupt your fucking daily prayer time and beguile you away.”

     You nestled back to him, sinking into his skin, his touch.

     “Well, I am gleefully bewitched.”

      “And to think,” he chuckled, curling a finger under your chin and bringing your eyes to his, “all you had to do was pray to me.”

      You were far too tired for rebuttal, choosing to instead settle with a kiss. He had chosen you. And for that you were filled with adoration, filled with a need to please far greater than you had ever desired to find the veneration of any other god. It was all for him, for a god who had no doubt tricked you into his bed.

__________________________________

This was written for the Citrus Dome writing collab.

[blue-bird-kny]

How You Spend Days Off

I stuck to only the three main peeps, but I’m looking forward to writing for more JJK characters. It was actually really nice to write for them, so I hope you enjoy~Amanda

P.S: Be safe out after dark!

Warning: N/A

( 2.1K+ words)

   ↳{shenanigans you and your S/O get up to on days off}

Yuji:

Days off with Yuji are unpredictable and always either involve something thrilling and very energy consuming or it can be some of the simplest things a person can do- no in between.

Yuji usually is the one who makes plans during your spare time (though he always gets your opinion, of course), he just really values time with you and wants to experience so much together while he can

It was common knowledge that this coming Friday, all the students would have the time off to rest as a reward for all their hard work with the recent influx of curse activity. Yuji wasted no time in planning the perfect day together, from the moment you woke up next to him to when you both fell asleep, he had something ready.                               

“Ah that was delicious Yuji, thank you” you cheered, arms stretched high above your head in an attempt to work away the sleepiness the food had made you feel. “No problem! Only the best for you, princess” Yuji’s smile reached past his shining eyes, thrilled you enjoyed the assortment of plates and bowls filled with your breakfast favorites he’d surprised you with. “Well then, my prince, to what honor do I owe your company today?” you asked leaning against your balled fist and bent elbow on the table, amusement and adoration laced on all your features. “For one day only, yours truly scored us tickets to…! Drum roll please!” Yuji posed dramatically, eyes cast down while crouched and pointing in a funny manner.

You proceeded to bang your fist against the table, laughing lightly, “We’re going to spend all day at Monster Con!” he pulled out two floppy pieces of paper from his back pocket as you gasped, “Oh I’m not finished yet, princess, we’ll also be wearing matching costumes I hand selected” You stood quickly, clapping at his theatrical performance as he bowed, repeating, “Thank you, thank you”. You made your way to infront of the boy, your arms wrapping around his broad shoulders while he enveloped your waist tightly, pressing you against him. “Not going dressed as your pesky alter ego, huh?” you joked staring up at the taller kid, earning you a slight pout, “No, he’s not invited” he grumbled. “Sorry, that joke was in poor taste” you apologized, shifting to run your thumb along his juted bottom lip to smooth out the lines.

“No worries, I know ya didn’t mean anything by it” your hand stayed cupping his cheek, both star-filled eyes trained on each other as you both wore the cheesiest grins. Just as you stood on your tip-toes to close the space between each other, a warm gust of breath blew against the palm holding Yuji still, “I was wondering why you hadn’t spoiled the moment” you sighed, lowering yourself to lean your forehead against Yuji’s chest instead. A small mouth carved into its host cheek frowned, now free to speak without your hand suffocating it, “I can handle the women’s teasing, however what have I done in my many lifetimes to have to suffer through this painful love-sick puppies act” Sukuna complained. “Many things actually” you responded, muffled by Yuji’s shirt that smelled of a citrusy-warm blend you couldn’t get enough of. “Why do you always kill the mood?” Yuji  groaned up towards the ceiling, earning himself a scoff from the demon king. “Oh? You mean like that I wouldn’t let y-” “SHUT UP!” Yuji slammed his hand against his own face to silence the man, his cheeks inflamed.

Now clad in matching costumes, you as frankenstein's wife and Yuji as Frankenstein, from the hair to the clothes to the make-up, you both spent the day without any further hiccups; how Yuji kept Sukuna at bay, you didn’t know, but I didn’t really matter. The stares from passengers on the train to the convention center was obvious to everyone but you two, lost in your own little love-sick world of old-fashion horror movies, delicious food, and pure, unfiltered content.

Megumi:

Megumi is a simple guy who likes simple things; he’s overworked and more exhausted than he even realizes, however he doesn’t acknowledge that...ever. In fact, you could run a mile ‘too quickly’ by his standards and he will have you take a break and drink his bottle of water (though you had your own and he knew that).

On your rare days off together, Megumi would silently stick to you like glue; he wants to do something for you in the creative way Yuji does and definitely wants to spend the time with you, but he can never come up with a complete idea of how to ‘wow’ you.

Except you didn’t need to be wowed, in fact you really were burnt out, so when the day came when you had  nothing to do but be together, you planned a whole day of nothing with a side of Netflix and take-out.

You knocked on the door to Megumi’s dorm that was just a few paces away from your own. It was almost noon and you still wore your pj’s from last night, cookie monster shorts and an old shirt of Megumi’s you took last week, having made no attempt to fix your hair. “Umi~!” you whined, banging on the door a little harder, the plastic bag from the convenience store rustling at your side. “Coming” Megumi opened the door in a similar state; pj’s still on and hair sticking in even weirder directions than normal.

“Mornin” you greeted with the faintest grin, “sorry to wake you” “ I was just getting up” he yawned while he tried to rub the sleep from his eyes. “Sure I can tell by the bed head” you teased, earning a playful eye roll from the boy. You waved the bag of goodies in front of his face, “Let me in, I’ll make it worth your while~” he chuckled, “I doubt it” despite his words he stood to the side, letting you past and closing the door behind you.

His dorm was dark and a little stuffy, clearly Megumi hadn’t had time to do the in depth cleaning the little neat-freak was so fond of. The continents of the bag clacked together and scattered around as you tossed it onto the small table in the corner, making your way over to his comfortable futon that smelled of his signature eucalyptus soaps. You flopped about for a moment, stretching, snuggling into the sheets still warm from Megumi, who was watching the small scene from the door, “C’mon Umi’ I wanna get through at least two episodes of SVU before we inevitably fall asleep wrapped in each others arms” you called dreamily with lidded eyes, already tired again as you buried beneath his sheets and pillows.

Megumi could feel his chest ache and stomach flutter at the image of the one who he cared for so much that it physically hurt laying there in his bed with soft, kind eyes just for him- it was almost too much. “Umi, I will eat all the sour snakes if you don’t come over here, your sheets are getting cold” Megumi was cut off by his own thoughts of admiration by your voice. He chuckled at the cute way your face cringed a bit at the sour-sweet taste of the candy before sliding into bed too, your head laying on his chest as he held you close. A small, genuine grin spread across his lips as the sound of Netflix starting rang from the TV, holding you even tighter, ‘this is perfect’

Nobara

Be ready to put on your best dressed because you and your girlfriend are hitting the town! Of course Nobara would find her way into the city whenever she could, foreign to the endless wonders the busy streets had to offer and luckily for her, you happened to be far more native with the many sights to see.

She’d let you sleep in, holding you tender as she traced her nails across your skin to form intricate patterns until you woke. You both would totally be the couple that wears matching outfits, the same colors and patterns tailored to your personal styles- of course this would also lead to thousands of pictures for Nobara’s instagram.  

You two would laughed, eat delicious foods, and would spend way more than either of you cared to admit nor did you want to because the price of absurd, unfiltered laughter and the feel of just a good time, was one both of you could pay a thousand times (and a new pair of shoes too)

The sun hung lower in the sky than it did when you started this little adventure before noon, having been sold on the idea by Nobara that she “only needed a few things” this morning. Now, exhausted perched on a steel chair outside some cafe you’d never heard of with your sore feet elevated on the other empty one you waited for your girlfriend who was inside somewhere.

“Jeez even my fingers are cramped” you groaned flexing your numb digits; shopping was a grueling vice because no matter how much you’ve already bought, more cute sweaters, tops, and matching accessories called to you by name and the art of saying ‘no’ wasn’t exactly in Ms.Kugisaki’s vocabulary. “Here ya’ go babe” Nobara emerged from the shop with two cups, handing one to you before sipping gingerly from her own. You brought the plastic straw to your lips, sighing in relief as the contents quelled a thirst you didn’t even know had been building up. “I don’t think we did too much damage” your face fell and eyes bulged, flailing your arms out around at the brightly colored parcels that littered the table and surrounding floor, “Nobara there are at least fifteen bags here”

She laughed, her hand falling on top of your thigh, giving a gentle squeeze, “Still no that bad”. She scooched her chair closer to yours, her thumb rubbing nonsense circles into the denim of your jeans, “What next?” she asked leaning into her seat, her brown irises watching yours fondly, “Food? We haven’t eaten since a lot earlier and I could turn into a wolf any second and eat you” you teased, though food sounded better and better the more you thought about it. “Eat me? You promise, baby?” Nobara’s smirk earned herself a not-so-graceful, but light kick from you.

“An impromptu picnic sounds great” Nobara decided, tapping against you in finality. It became a game: You both had 30 minutes to run around the delicious food district to pick out each other's favorites, as many as you liked (which would be more food than two can eat), then you’d reconvene at the same cafe. Nobara offered to pick up a blanket at the convenience store because she ‘knew you so well she wouldn’t need the whole half hour.’ The game was on and time was ticking as you both rushed in opposite directions with several bags and a hunger to please the other.

You scurred around each vendor, selecting different meat dishes and veggies, cakes and watermelon, and even splurged on some fancy sushi from the place she'd wanted to try. Your arms quivered under the weight of the many shopping bags and take-out boxes, but you were determined to get back first. “Just around the corner- Are you kidding me?!” you yelled. In the exact steel seat she sat in earlier, was Nobara with an array of bags around her, boxes and the blanket stacked neatly on the table with dark sunglasses adorning her face and her legs crossed cockily as she spoke smoothly, “Beat ya”

Both of you grossly overestimated the amount of food you could eat in one sitting as practically unopened boxes lay stacked on top one another on the blankets while watermelon rinds and used plates were thrown into a garbage bag. The sun was low, almost at the horizon, painting the sky in pastel oranges and pinks with hints of purple and blue; the spring chill had blown a little heavier now that the sun was setting and it was getting harder to stop the shivers. Nobara laid against the trunk of a tree with you between her legs, holding you as her manicured fingers idly massaged your scalp quietly- you would have fallen asleep at the small gesture had you not been actively keeping your eyes open. “The boys will be grateful for the food, I’d hate wasting it” she yawned to which you only hummed.

“Hey” you turned your head up slightly, only enough to meet her gaze, “today was really fun” she smiled, slithering across your arm to grab your cheeks gently in her fingers, forcing your lips to pucker, “yeah it was.” Your wobbly smile made Nobara feel things, too many things at once, and a lump began to form in her throat, “I love you” you mumbled, Nobara’s breath caught for only a moment, whispering a thick “me too.”

Masterlist 

[marshmallow-phd]

Catching Rain

Part of The Untamed - EXO Wolf Universe

Genre: Wolf!AU

Pairing: Minseok x Reader

Summary: You were more than satisfied with your life. You attended a nice college, had nice friends, a nice boyfriend. That’s what your life was: nice. You weren’t looking for anything more, so what were you to do when this seemingly harmless boy walked into your life and turned your nice little world into one much more dangerous?

Part: 1 I 2 I 3 I 4 I 5 I 6 I 7 I 8 I 9 I 10 I Epilogue 

**

Cheerful mess was the understated way of putting the current scene. Tonight was the first evening of a long sleepover at the farmhouse. It was a holiday weekend which meant you had unlimited access to Minseok for three whole days. 

The two of you had been "together" for about a few weeks but it felt more like a lifetime. You and him fit together like puzzle pieces, like that Greek myth of the origins of people and soulmates. Both of you had walked the earth for years, not even realizing what you could have been missing. You didn't feel complete, necessarily, but… more. 

"You're going to run out of battery here soon," Minseok teased.

You were sitting up on your knees clicking picture after picture of your favorite subject. How could you stop when nearly every angle of his face was so fascinating? He looked sharp then soft then older then younger. You wanted to capture every possibility. 

"It's not going to die," you said as you checked the focus. "It's still on full battery. You're stuck with this for a while." 

"I'll endure it. Only because it's you."

"Are you camera shy, wolf boy?"

Minseok's answer was a low growl. He reached out and pulled you down for a kiss, careful to not crush your camera. Somehow he managed to pry the device from your hand and place it on the floor while keeping you occupied. 

"(Y/n)?"

"Hm?"

With soft eyes, he caressed your cheek. His lips were taunt, tension creating the tiniest lines around his pink mouth. 

You propped yourself up on your elbows. "What is it?"

"There's… something we need to talk about."

"Okay?" Sitting up all the way, you braced yourself for whatever he was about to expose.

Minseok kept his eyes down, fidgeting with the sheets between his fingers. "I'm sure you've noticed how… protective I've been lately?"

Protective was probably the soft way of putting it. Since you and Minseok officially accepted the bond between the two of you, you'd spent nearly every day up here at the house, soaking all the time with him that you could. It was impossible to ignore the way he shifted closer to you when one of his brothers walked into the room or the subtle growls if they said something cheeky. While it took time to get used to, you'd shrugged it aside, owing it up to his supernatural nature. It had never gotten too much out of hand or uncomfortable for you. Apparently, there was much more to it than a simple instinct.  

"The reason I've been like that is because you're my mate."

You snorted. "Yeah, I kind of figured that."

"But not just my mate." He let out an elongated sigh. "My unmarked mate."

You held up a hand, palm facing out. "Okay, hold up. Unmarked? Like… I have to get a tattoo?" 

Minseok snickered. "No. There's no ink involved." He sat up. Fingers soft and tender, he traced the outline of your neck and shoulder. "When a wolf finds their mate, they are protective. And… we need a way to tell other wolves that their mate is under that protection and not to… touch them… for a lack of a better explanation. So, we mark our mates. Once that happens, our instincts calm down a bit. Or so I've been told." 

"Okay." You clicked your tongue a few times, processing this new information. "You're asking to mark me? Is that it?"

Minseok chuckled. "Yeah, I guess I am."

"Okay," you said. Nerves were brewing in your stomach. Though the answer seemed obvious once ink was ruled out, you still asked, "What does that entail?"

Scooting closer to you, Minseok kept eye contact. "I have to…." Blush exploded on his cheeks. He scratched the hairline behind his ear. 

"To do what?"

"I have to bite you."

"BITE ME!"

"Shshshsh." Minseok pounced on you, covering your mouth as he pinned you to the bed. He cocked his head to the side as if listening for additional noise. Right. Supernatural hearing. The house was full of extraordinary ears. When no one came, he eased off. "It won't hurt. I'd make sure of it."

"But you have to bite hard enough to leave a scar," you said. 

Minseok nodded. "I'd… distract you."

You started to imagine what he meant by that. You cleared your throat. "I guess I can go along with that." 

Those were the magic words, apparently. He grabbed your face like he did that night downtown and kissed you deeply. A rush of giggles bubbled in your throat. They grew louder and louder until-

Bang! Bang! Bang!

"Can you guys keep it down? Its getting annoying!"

Minseok half-groaned, half-sighed. "Jongdae."

"Just let him be," you said, though you were feeling a little embarrassed yourself. "Some people just don't like being around couples."

"You're right." A mischievous smirk pulled at his lips. "But I still hope that he's next. It would help loosen him up."

"Maybe."

"Until then, we'll just wait until the house is empty." 

You smiled. "Sounds like a plan."

**

On the morning of the last day of the holiday weekend, you were a little sad. The nonstop Minseok time was coming to an end. But alas, it was inevitable so you rolled with the punches. 

Minseok was already downstairs when you woke up. You freshened up before deciding to join him. 

Several of the boys were sitting around the table eating breakfast as they chatted happily. Minseok had a full plate in front of him waiting for you before the others could shovel it down. When he saw you enter the kitchen, he waved you over. You took the empty seat next to him. 

"Hungry?" he asked. You nodded. He slid the plate over to you along with eating utensils. 

Junmyeon walked in then, a newspaper in his hand. He must have run to town early this morning. Tossing the newspaper down on the table, he sighed.

"What is it?" Sehun asked. 

"There was another death on Saturday," Junmyeon announced. 

"What? Why are we just hearing about it?" Minseok asked. 

"The police kept it quiet. Its just now hitting the newspapers. I got an email last night from the university."

Baekhyun frowned. "Why did you get an email?" 

"The hiker was a pre-med professor from the University. The board wanted to prepare the rest of us."

Yixing reached for the newspaper and scanned through the article. 

“We need to find this guy and stop him," Chanyeol said worriedly.  

Kyungsoo nodded in agreement. “He’s bringing too much attention.” 

“The last thing we need is for some vigilante hunter coming into the woods,” Jongin added. 

You swallowed, unable to keep eating. The image of a hunter with a gun was making your stomach churn. “That won’t happen, right? Minseok?” 

“Everything will be alright.” Minseok reached over and squeezed your hand reassuringly. Rolling his eyes, Jongdae stood up and left the room. 

“He just doesn’t like me, does he?” you asked quietly. Though the two of you would joke about Jongdae needing a mate of his own to loosen him up, you couldn’t help but feel it was more personal than that. 

“Jongdae takes a long time to warm up to anyone," Junmyeon said. "Don’t stress about it.” 

You pursed your lips. “Easy for you to say.” 

“Don’t worry, the rest of us like you.” Baekhyun said happily as he munched on a cookie. “Especially if you keep making goodies like this.” 

You had gotten a little bored last night while the pack went on a run, so you went through the cabinets and found ingredients to bake a few… dozen cookies. There were approximately three left at this point and you were worried that it might become an outright war for the morsels. 

Minseok starred at Yixing, who was lost deep in thought, reading the article over and over again. “Yixing? Is something wrong?” 

“This hiker was my professor," he explained. "I’m just worried about what the consequences of another death could be.” 

“You sound so morbid,” Sehun complained.  

“Campus will be in an uproar tomorrow when we get back,” Minseok commented. To Yixing, he asked, “Do you think they’ll cancel your class?” 

Junmyeon answered instead. “No. In the memo we got they said they would combine her classes with others.” 

“Seems a bit weird,” Baekhyun said. 

Junmyeon shrugged. “It's the option they went with. Yixing, you should be getting an updated schedule and syllabus in a day or so. As for us, we're going to up our presence in the woods. Take shifts running perimeters."

"Is that safe?" you asked. The last thing you wanted was for Minseok to get hurt. Or any of them, really. You were growing attached to the pack as a whole. 

"We're supernatural creatures," Minseok smirked. "There's more of us than of him. If anything, its him to be worried about."

You nodded, but your concern didn't ease up. Your own instincts told you this wouldn't be as cut and dry as the pack was making it sound. They may know what they were capable of, but they weren’t invincible. You had to agree with Yixing. There were to be consequences of this new death. But that was the thing about consequences: they could be either good or bad. Only time would tell what they would be. 

[terrence-silver]

poor little lamb, so lost and afraid… bleating for help that never came.

For Terry, please?

You had a severe lapse in judgement.

The hundred acre semi-wild, overgrown patch of unused land on the perimeters of his mansion's lot was like a goldmine for The Valley's standards, real estate-wise. Terry Silver could sell his backyard's own backyard for an estimate so incredible and outlandish it would make most people's head spin, but you apparently thought that that piece of dirt inhibiting the occasional barren woodland, sharp, rugged chunks of rocks and not much else but dry, bare dirt was going to be your escape and salvation, after he's shown you enough kindness to let you roam his garden under supervision. He believed you'd behave. He believed he was being humane. Being locked indoors for months, even if your chosen room was the size of a soccer terrain had everything you could desire was making you apathetic. Unresponsive. Depressed, even. Terry Silver didn't require a broken toy. He needed you present, aware, in the now. In layman terms, he didn't think you'd have the actual balls for this;

But, part of him was glad you attempted.

What you didn't count on, of course, is that the forgotten, forested area behind the Western wall of his mansion was fenced down with barbed wire. For percussion's sake and privacy, mostly. Now, in the dead of night, you wouldn't realize you'd hit an actual obstacle miles ahead, until after you reached the end of your track and start feeling you've found freedom and actually escaped. Oh, how cruel it was. How perfect. How very bemusing. Terry had to smile to himself as he slowly followed suit behind you, under the cover of darkness. He wanted to play with you a little. Fuck with your head. Let you wander around in a state of panic, eagerness and fear because you had no clue where you were going and just catch you off guard when you had the most hope in your little break-out. Just shatter all your dreams of leaving him. Sure, he could simply send Milos and the hired house security team to fetch you exponentially and wait for them to retreat you, but really where was the fun in that?

And it was, admittedly very fun. Watching your heavy breathing recede. The fine, thin fog of your gasps against the cool night air disappearing. Your frightened, terrified, beautiful little face take on an expression of flushed enthusiasm now that you concluded the woods were silent and dark enough that you could slip away unnoticed, almost. You, really, really, really thought you were going to pull this off, huh? He allowed you to savor your hopes as he observed you carefully, from behind a massive, half-collapsed oak. He used to do tours like this in the jungles of Vietnam's outlands. Having a penchant for hunting was a professional deformation for him. He was literally knew how to make you regret ever stepping foot unto this plot of land. But, Terry was going to start out slow, he decided. Mess with the sudden relief on your face by making the occasional nose. The cracking of dry branches under his foot. The subdued hushing sound of distant breathing to slightly throw you off.

Then he decided to up the anti; He started mimicking the howling of a wolf. Terry Silver barely held back from chuckling to himself as the look you threw into the shadows where the sound vaguely stemmed from melted into a look of sheer horror; Were...there...dogs...on the...plot? What? What was going on? Were those your desperate, haunted thoughts? He could bet they were, just judging by your stance instantly taking on the feral, hunched approach. You were like a wild animal about to walk into a trap. Deer caught in the headlights. You were ready to dash for it. Oh, but, no, no, no. He wasn't done just yet. Even though he enjoyed the image of you shivering among the trees like Little Red Riding Hood hiding from the Big Bad Wolf on the way to grandma's house, Terry Silver wanted you to know it was him. He wanted you to know he was watching. That he had personally followed you. That he's coming for you. He wanted you to fear for your life. So, he did the most terrifying thing he could think of doing on a whim; he laughed.

An unhinged, full-hearted, loud laugh. Echoing through the woodland. You were instantly on alert.

So pale. So scared.

Poor sweetie.

You deserved it.

-"Terry!? Terry is that you!? I'm just -"-

You stuttered anxiously, almost with a tinge of regret, enclosing your arms around your own torso for comfort, shivering like a leaf on the wind.

You didn't have to worry whatsoever - he'd warm you up real soon.

-"You're what? Going for a midnight stroll?"-

He walked out from behind his hiding place, choosing to stand precisely in your line of sight from afar. He was being leisurely. Casual. He wasn't in a hurry. It wasn't until two hours from now that he had a meeting. He had time. You could do one of two things now; come over, apologize and get ready for your punishment back indoors or pick to be stupid and bold and try to outrun him with your last vestiges of strength. Although, to try and outrun someone who was a track runner all-star back in collage was pretty idiotic, Terry was going to enjoy catching you regardless, smiling when you picked just that. You ran. He gave you a head-start. How predictable of you - you fell for his little bluff and really started sprinting for your life as far as your little legs took you. Of course, toying with you by jumping out from the occasional tree with a shrieking, deliberate hyena-laugh or a crazed look on his face was just a cherry atop of the cake, alongside of him circling around you, making you stumble and lose your focus, unsure of where to run, lest you run into him. Psychological warfare as foreplay. Which you eventually did.  You were like a lamb slipping around on thin ice. You ran into Terry Silver after he grabbed you and pushed you down to the cold, hard ground below. He felt like a little child in a candy store. There was way too much glee in this. Way too much sugary sweetness. He felt like he was about to hit a literal adrenaline high.

Of course, what he did next blurred the lines of consent. With the tears of absolute, overwhelming fear gracing your face, he was on top of you pinning you down with his size, hand squeezing your neck to subdue you, while the other was ripping away at your clothes - his lips smothering your face in kisses even though you hardly deserved the touch of his mouth right now. You didn't deserve anything from him anymore. He knew was the pinnacle of every fantasy you ever had. The man of your dreams - he's made sure he'd be. In a twisted sense, you probably wanted this. Wanted to be violated like this. By him. Even now, so torn, exhausted, sweaty and defeated. Terry Silver understood you were enamored with both him and your precious freedom, but you'd have to chose one. Either or. His way or the highway. And before this incident, maybe he'd be considerate. Somewhat merciful. Channel his good, darling, mild-mannered Terry for your sake. Maybe, just maybe, he'd allow you a small trace of liberty. A little something to call your own. A little breathing space. But, now? Now he wasn't going to give you anything and he'd be the only thing you'd have. And after he was done with you out in this forest, he'd make sure to implement new rules for you to live by. Fittingly enough, a pale, foggy moon was above head as living testament to his deeds that night - probably the last one you'd see in a while.

-“Poor little lamb, so lost and afraid… bleating for help that never came. “-

Terry added finally.

Never has a set of words been so entertaining to utter.

[scribeofmorpheus]

Himmeløyne [20/?]

Pairing: Loki Odinson x Reader

Catch Up Here | Masterlist

Warnings: None

A/N: Nothin’ to report Cap’n

Taglist is open! Reblog, comment or leave a like please ☺

~Y/N

Heimdall’s grip on your forearm seemed impossible. Strong and restrained all at once. One ounce of added pressure and you thought he’d splinter your arm to the marrow of the bone. A little less and his hold would feel none-existent.

Maybe it wasn’t just strength you were feeling from him. Maybe it was his mind. Your magic was returning faster than you’d anticipated, and it was returning changed. Sharper. More attuned to the senses, not just gut instinct.

“What are you thinking?” he pulled you aside to a corner of the room. Sif and Hogun took their time getting closer. They were letting the two of you air things out, in what little air space you had.

You were too preoccupied with the prospect of having a way to wake Loki so close in hand to answer him. Brushing his words aside, you asked instead: “What did the mirror show you?”

“This is not the time to be putting trust in prophecies or tomes of magic,” he cautioned. “Magic is never to be trusted.”

“It felt familiar,” you brushed the pads of your thumbs against your bristling nails. “Like returning to a moment I know has happened before.”

“Y/N, are you even listening to me?”

“What did the mirror show you?” you pressed again.

Heimdall sighed, taking a moment to gather himself. Sif spoke on his behalf, pleading his case further.

“Heimdall is right, magic is unknowable, especially dark magics. It was dangerous for us to simply open a portal into Odin’s throne room, this is extradimensional travel. There’s always a price, and not just the one The Collector is asking.” She glanced over at the eccentric man with noticeable blue powder painted on his eyelids. His fur coat seemed extravagant for a such a steely place as Knowhere. With your sight back, you could see the architecture of it; the Celestial head. It was wrought, like the inside of the village blacksmith’s melting pot. “He cannot be trusted. He always works an angle, always to his benefit. We found Bestla’s amulet, we’ll find another way.”

“An amulet we traded for with a stolen heirloom,” you shot back, staring at the archaic design of beads and wolf fangs strung onto rope the likes of which you’d never seen before. It looked like such a human thing, rather than a god’s piece of jewellery. You couldn’t help but notice that you sensed nothing from it. No magic. No pulse. No power. Most objects sung or cried or whispered in their own way, some objects held the essence of magic wielders long after they had left, but the amulet was silent. “Once Odin realises what we have done…” you shook your head clear of unnecessary thoughts. “He is probably already looking for us. There is no other way. Not if we mean to save time.”

“But an eye?” Heimdall’s voice came off louder than even he anticipated. His brows shot up in surprise of his outburst.

“I’ll still have the one,” you cracked a wavering smile.

Heimdall clenched his jaw. From the look on his face, you knew he wasn’t going to try and talk you out of it. You were too stubborn. Too much like your mother. Too much like him as the days passed.

“We should hurry,” you turned towards the emporium.

“Endlessness,” Heimdall said suddenly. “As always. All I saw in the mirror was the endlessness of space. The endlessness of my watch. These eyes, they see everything, everything but my own fate. What did it show you?”

“That we succeed.”

  The extraction was painless. A side effect of the strange poultice The Collector’s assistant had given you. It was the hollowness thereafter that felt strange, other. A subtle sting began to grow increasingly more noticeable, the throb and heat were concentrated around your left temple—where you were now eyeless. A simple wrapping of cloth was used to hide the fresh wound.  

“Magnificent,” The Collector had placed your eye in a skull made of quartz and azure, a likeness to your face. How he managed to make it so quickly eluded you, but something told you this man’s ways would continue to do so. An invisible aura refracted the light off the skull in endless streams of rainbows, the kind seen on water surfaces, not skies. An enchanted item no doubt, the only way to preserve your eye.

“I trust you will fulfil your end of the deal.” Heimdall looked at The Collector with menace.

“Of course, of course,” The Collector stopped marvelling at the skull and directed everyone from the back of his emporium to the mirror. He reached into a concealed pocket sewn inside the sleeve of his coat and pulled out a small blade, talon shaped. “Your hand.”

Reluctantly, you presented your open palm towards him. His blade cut deep into your finger. A rivulet of blood snaked around the endless spirals of your finger’s lines. You thought of the snake in the cave. Before it fell, The Collector guided your finger to draw a runic symbol on the back of your other hand, and another on your forehead that was the tracing of two circles, one within the other.

Sif’s eyes went large when she saw the symbol, “Those are—”

“I know,” Heimdall said gravely.

Hogun tensed up as well. The show of bravery you’d been putting on began to crack. You took a double-take at the rune and realised it wasn’t Asgardian, neither was it Nordic. The symbol was of a language you’d never encountered before.

“The mirror is ancient, and magics were always much cruder before the Asgardian ways,” The Collector explained. Something about the way he said those words sounded off. Heimdall let out a hum. Disapproving as they were of late, this one sounded different. It wasn’t directed at you but The Collector. “Now then, this rune will bind you to your body. Entering the mirror is dangerous. You will see all manner of visions. What was, what is, what will never be and what is yet to be. It is said, the mirror world is built on the ranches of Yggdrasil itself. Do not stray from the path or you will be lost to the worlds within.”

“Heimdall,” Sif kept her voice controlled as she grabbed his wrist, shooting him a warning glance.

“This is her choice,” he calmly removed her arm from his wrist, but his jaw clenched again. He was rattled too.  

You swallowed, focusing on the mirror and its three reflections of you instead. “How will I know not to stray from the path?”

The Collector smiled. That worried you. “I do not know. I have never travelled inside the mirror myself.”

You walked up to the mirror. The blood rune began to glow the colour of a red sunset. The sting in your hollow eye-space forgotten for a new sensation that bristled through you. That tell-tale prickling beneath the skin. That ominous sense of power coursing through your veins and rushing to your head before a spell was cast. That cold shiver down your spine when you instantly thought of the husk you’d turned into in the throne room—to the void-self burning with the desire to do one thing, and one thing only: destroy.

Your heart ached, and you had to grab ahold of the pedestal where the book laid. When your glowing hand came close to the leathery cover, a rush of air swept through the room. The book slammed open, and pages upon pages tore themselves from the bindings, floating in the air like tattooed, browning clouds. There was a reddish dye that branched unevenly, as if drawn by chaos across every page. Instinct told you to raise your hand. Magic followed after. All the pages aligned themselves to form a tapestry that would have been impossible to realise if the pages were still bound. The dye formed an image of a tree with nine rings bisecting its largest bough. Yggdrasil bloomed into view, the pages wafting that distinct scent of sap from the tree that wept near the village meadow during autumn.

Five runes burned themselves into your mind. You couldn’t read them, you knew you couldn’t, but every fibre of your being said otherwise. Your voice trembled, anxious to speak words you’d never spoken before. It was a kind of possession. One of knowledge, a hunger to understand.

Is this what it feels like for him? You wondered, imagining Loki in his library, always yearning to learn more. Always reaching into the beyond spaces, trying to understand the very mechanisms of the universe itself.

Speak the words, the whisper returned to circle like a flock of ravens in your head. Its voice was clearer, more demanding. Speak the words!

You did as the voice commanded. Throaty, drawn-out words unfurled from your lips. It was then that the spark ignited in your memory. These were words you’d heard before. In the village, during the massacre. You were speaking Jotun, the language of the giants.

With the ending of the final word, the drawing of the tree turned to solid light. The burn of a star’s heart shone into the entire room. It was so intense you thought everything would burn in a blaze, but there was no heat. A muffled scream rippled behind you. The pull towards the light blanked out all thoughts, and with almost divine clarity, as though stepping forward were all that mattered, you followed the pull into the burning tree of light.

It has begun, the whisper said victoriously. The undoing of the past. The undoing of the sins of the father!

[katsukikitten]

A/N bbs we are on day 4 of Kitten's Valentine's Day event! Enjoy the little picture I made and the fic I whipped up (was gonna do some Todoroki comfort but....🌶🌶 happened instead) NSFW BBS

Sweat beads down the nape of your neck, causing your hair to become damp as it clings to your heated skin. Glitter dances in the low light of flashing lights. Music blares loudly as you and the rest of the sweating bodieds sway to the beat that slowly crescendos.

When the beat drops you catch blue eyes that send shivers down your spine despite the burning intensity of their gaze.

Unbeknownst to you his gaze has been glued to you since he first spotted you, wearing a small black and extremely short jumper that exposes your sternum.

Normally he would fantasize about crushing a sternum, of hearing the satisfying crunch echo back to him followed shortly by a sharp gasp.

But yours, donned in nothing but winking blue glitter drives him mad as he thinks of drawing a different kind of sharp gasp from your kissable mouth.

Of his own tracing down it agonizly slow until he runs into the fabric.

His next thought is what he would do once he runs into that constrictive material.

He smirks as he knows he will burn it to ash beneath his hungry blue flames.

"Are you thinking of slicing someone up?" A familiar giggle interrupts his thoughts but his gaze does not waver, holding into your body like a prayer.

The blonde licks her knife as she looks over the crowd before leaning against a toned arm.

The dark haired man leans further back into the plush bench, long legs resting atop a low table littered with empty bags, bottles, and obscene amounts of cash.

You notice the blonde who giggles, curling herself against him and even whispering into his ear. He leans closer to the blonde but keeps his gaze on you.

For some reason you feel as if you're under the influence of more than booze.

You feel as if you're under the suggestion of a quirk. For whatever reason you cannot look away, as if a lamb staring in the face of a haughty wolf.

His eyes glimmer, smile widening as if he could read your thoughts. You swallow thickly, never sure what entrapment feels like considering you've always been powerless.

"Whose that?" You yell over the music to your friend, she squints before spying the hungry wolf. She makes an obvious face before shouting back.

"He is the woman eater I've been telling you about. Has a new girl each month. Just ignore him."

You turn to give him your back just in case, now hyper aware of his lingering eyes. Feeling their weight even this far away. The song sways your mood, asking you to forget him as the hours pass on.

As he watches he wonders when you'll leave? Will it be at last call or long after?

But what he doesn't know is that while he's looking you're not going home.

You lose yourself to the music, forgetting about him for a few moments before you glance up, just happening to catch his eyes again as he shamelessly stares. Bodies pass between the two of you, suddenly you've lost him before you spy the back of his head ducking through a back door.

Curiosity gets the better of you as you push through the drunken and high crowd towards the door you just barely saw him slip through.

Two guards stand in the way between you and the mesmerizing pair of eyes that you still feel on your skin. You shudder from the thought before a guard puts out a meaty arm to block the door.

"Restroom is that way." The other says gruffly pointing to the opposite end of the building. As a lie begins to form on your tongue a slender arm is slipped through yours.

"She's with me boys." A sugary voice purrs as a blonde head presses against your exposed arm. Both guards look visibly disturbed as they look at the woman who clings to you. The same one who clung to the blue eyed man. You swallow thickly as you stare into her face, noticing her ever flushed cheeks, golden eyes half mast as they glitter with manic glee even in the low light.

You especially notice the belt of a blades of several different sizes with hilts all decorated differently snugly wrapped around her slim waist. Briefly you question her age as she wears a school uniform but quickly you realize that there is a kink for it.

You smile politely if not awkwardly as the guards part their arms, allowing the odd duo to enter.

She slips from your arm, wrapping delicately strong arms around your torso, a knife now resting against your throat as she sing songs into your ear.

"Not everything you seek is good for you." She giggles, she pushes the knife with enough pressure and accuracy that a single drop of blood wets her blade before she pulls it away slightly to examine it. You watch her cheeks flush in the mirror of the blade as her eyes flutter from the sight.

From the small copper tang smell.

Your breath hitches, body frozen beneath her touch as she admires her work. The image of cold iron plunging into your throat, tearing apart your flesh with white hot swipes has your throat closing up while your heart free falls into your twisting stomach. Still you make no move to break free before she jerks her wrist in front of you causing you to both flinch and clench your eyes tightly shut.

When the kiss of her blade does not come you peek with one eye, vision slightly blurred as tears threaten to fall.

She points with her knife giving you a small shove, your hand automatically flies to your throat. Small beads of crimson dot your shaking fingers before the bleeding slows to a stop.

"He's that way. And if he doesn't choose to keep you. You'll be all mine." Another manic giggle before she let's her tongue slide up the length of steel grabbing every molecule of blood that she can. She shudders from pleasure, toes turning inward as she savors your life force.

"Oh how I hope he doesn't pick you...." She coos as you take a few steps back before turning to sprint.

Ragged breaths have your hands grabbing onto the nearest door knob before you slip into a darkened room. You stare through the small window, back to the room as you wait for her to pass by.

Once you realize she is not going to give chance you stop to catch your breath. Hands on your knees as you replay the most horrific moment you've encountered thus far.

Of her pink tongue lapping at the blood on the blade.

Lapping at *your* blood. Fingers press into your throat as you try to even your breathing. You pull your hand away for your digits to come clean easing a bit of your pain.

"My my, what is the little lamb doing in the Lion's den?" You shudder at the voice behind you, knowing exactly who it belongs to despite having never heard it.

He wastes no time, hands on your hips, pressing your toned ass against him as his tongue laps up the lingering droplets of blood from your encounter moments ago.

A gasp escapes your lips, head swirling as you feel him harden against you. The bass just barely reaches the two of you in the small room, lit only by the light from the hall and now candles in flickering blue flame. You gulp down another moan as his hand slips through the V, warm digit swirling over your perked nipple as a mouth steadily marks you as his.

You give into pleasure when you catch glimpse of his burning blue eyes in the reflection of the glass. Moaning as his heated hands explore more and more of your body as you brand him in your own way with lingering glitter. He growls in your ear as he tugs at the fabric of your jumper before it ignites, instinctual fear and panic pull at your stomach before you realize you're not burning. The blue flame is pleasantly warm as it licks up the fabric before it falls to ash at your feet. You feel his lips curl up against your hear before he speaks.

"That's more like it."

His hand finds your dripping core causing your throat to tighten. Not in panic but in fear of being too loud as he wets his fingers in your slick. Teasingly pressing agaisnt your throbbing clit before plunging them into your core.

"Aaaahhh." Your breath comes out hot, now of all times you wish you knew his name. As if he could read your mind whispers what to call him before nibbling on your ear.

"Dabi or Master is just fine." His tone dips cruelly before seizes your throat, hard enough it may leave a bruise.

But in that oxygen deprived moment you can do nothing but let this mesmerizing man have his way with you.

"Is that fine with you my little pet?"

"Y...yes master." You struggle to get out past moans as he increases his pace, separating his two fingers every now and again to make sure your cunt is ready for him.

"Good. I figured from how wet you are but I wanted to make sure." His voice is velvet in your ear before he removes his fingers from you, causing an aching feeling to settle both between your legs and in your chest.

"Here convince me that I want to make you a meal." He says presenting his fingers into your sight line. He separates them to show your clear juices string between two fingers. Blush dusts your cheeks as he connects them again moving them closer. You lick up the length of his fingers before sucking on them hard, he forces his fingers in further hitting your gag reflex to which you barely respond. He smiles from ear to ear as he thinks of all the ways he is going to ruin you.

He moves to bend you over what must be a low filing cabinet, the counter's edge bites into your hips as he spreads your legs to his liking. He bites his lip as he watches you twitch before he swirls his fingers a moment more. Removing them again as he eats you alive.

*"He's the woman eater...." *

Is this what your friend had meant when she called Master that?

You weren't sure, the only thing you were sure of is how quickly your release approached, all the while your gasp out his name and title interchangeable.

"Mmmmmmaster....." You cry out as he sucks harshly on your clit while you see stars. Finally convulsing and bucking agaisnt his mouth before he pulls away. You lean up, ready to drop to your knees to return the favor only for him to slam you down onto the counter with his strong hand, overstimulating you with his tongue to coax another crescendo out of you. He removes his belt, slapping it agaisnt your ass until gorgeous welts appear before he tenderly wraps it around your throat, holding onto it as if it were a leash. He drops his pants, stroking down the bead of his precum to wet himself although there is no need as you begin to wet your own thighs. You sway your hips, hoping to be filled like the slut you are earning a grin before he pulls harshly on the belt causing your head and upper body to come up a few inches from the cool surface.

"Hands stay on the counter, pet." He snarls in your ear, as he presses himself against you. You whine in response before he finally sheaths himself with one harsh thrust.

"Fuuuuuuck." He drawls out, stroking both your ego and G spot as he pulls out to plunge into you again. Quickly he sets an unforgiving pace as he pounds into you. Squeezing your hips and pulling on the belt ever now and again. You moan loudly, borderline screaming as he pounds into you, pulling out every animalistic desire you have. Especially so as you hear yourself echo in the room paired with his deadly grunts and the wet slapping sound of you taking him so well.

"Who do you belong to?" He hisses as grows closer to the edge.

"You master..." You cry out, feeling his dick twitch sends you ever closer to yet another cum of the night. He leans over, pressing himself into your back as he whispers in your ear.

"Damn right. You belong to me and no one else. You got that little slut?" You can do nothing but nod before he bites down onto your shoulder harshly sending you over the edge to convulse around him. Attempting to milk him for all that he's got. His hips begin to pound into you harsher and more sloppy as he continues to chase his own relief.

"Fuuuccck. My little slut has the best pussy.." He slurs before biting you again, cock endlessly twitching as he fills you to the brim, some of it oozing out to collect on your thighs. His hips stutter as he rides it out causing you to whimper, filling you with the desire for more, more of him and more of his seed. He slips out of you and leans away only for you to turn around and bring your mouth to his in a searing kiss. Tongue sliding across his in an attempt to tell him through hushed whimpers that you want to fuck all night.

Need to.

"Little pet." He smiles, wiping away the extra spit from your lips before he yanks you by your "leash".

"Let's get something to eat." You nod in response although your face is obviously crestfallen. He yanks on your leash, pulling you closer to him as he kisses you with lustful fever, hands exploring your breasts and hips before he pulls away completely before dressing in his over sized fur lined coat.

"And then I'll fuck you all over again. Okay my needy slut?"

[kbstories]

impression//expression

“It’s not like Kirishima had come all this way to U.A. to immediately break the promise he made to himself upon arrival.

It’s just that Bakugou is as feral as they come, and the moment Kirishima recognizes it’s fear he felt crawling up his spine that day, he makes it his personal mission to face it head-on until it’s gone.”

(Or: Being friends with Bakugou Katsuki is anything but a linear experience. Kirishima Eijirou would have it no other way.)

Tags: Kirishima POV, Developing Friendships, Post-Kamino Arc, Hurt/Comfort, Domestic Fluff and Recovery, The Boys Discovering Unbreakable Via Questionable Training Methods

Chapter 1. Chapter 2. Chapter 3. Chapter 4. Chapter 5. Content warning for nightmares and generally traumatic experiences (both only mentioned). Chapter 7. Chapter 8. Chapter 9.

***

Three days into U.A.’s new dorms, Bakugou hasn’t crossed Kirishima’s path a single time.

Don’t fuss, Kirishima had reminded himself that first night, crimson eyes following Bakugou as he slinks off to the elevators. Hands in his pockets, duffle bag slung over one shoulder, his typical slouch executed to perfection – the same as always yet achingly out of place against the buzzing excitement of the dozen and a half heroes-to-be at his back.

Under his breath, Kirishima muttered, “Give him space”, as he heaved boxes of manga, multiple sets of weights and his punching bag into his room before dedicating all his attention to stuffing a suitcase worth of brightly patterned shirts into the standard issue closet U.A. provided them with. He worked for hours and hours, unpacking and reminiscing and decorating until the room was satisfyingly his and the gel in his hair drooped with how sweaty he got.

It’s fine, he thought, pinning the last poster to the wall he shares with Bakugou. It hadn’t quite sunken in yet that they’re neighbors, now. Bakugou is antisocial on the best of days. He’s fine.

The thought of the white headband he’d lost had been fleeting at most, a lamenting little sting as he wiped his brow and saw his roots were starting to show. It came back full force as he stepped out to join the others in the common room and found an identical one hooked on his knob, the tag still attached.

Right. Kirishima gave the door to his right a soft look, firmly shut as it was. The tag was snapped off with ease and the headband was back where it belonged.

It goes on like that for a while. With the administration accommodating their move and the new term weeks away, Kirishima invests his free time into catching up on his gaming hangouts with Kaminari and the re-watch of Fullmetal Alchemist he started with Sero before everything went haywire. He helps Mina sort through the abundance of gossip flooding in with everyone’s mundane habits and routines suddenly much more apparent, and talks to classmates he hasn’t had the time to get to know all that well over shared breakfasts and class-wide movie marathons.

It’s like he gained a whole new family overnight – a notion that’s healing in and of itself, the rift that disastrous training camp tore into them scarring shut with every moment spent together.

(Still, Kirishima misses his moms and Riot something fierce. Their goodbye had featured a total sum of zero dry eyes between them; Kirishima’s face had been a blotchy red mess for hours afterwards.)

And then there’s Bakugou.

The guy is like a ghost, those first days, his absence felt as much as the odd trace of his presence he leaves behind. A mug drying next to the sink in the mornings; the thrum of guitar riffs and double-base beats muffled to indistinctness by the thick concrete between them; carpet-dulled footsteps down the hallway, that stomp familiar even without an intended audience for its passive-aggressiveness.

Little bits and pieces of evidence Kirishima takes note of and memorizes just for the sake of it. For the moments that’s not enough, he texts.

Best Bakubro 💣💥

baku my man (sent 13:05)

got too many dorayaki by accident, u want some? (sent 13:05)

(from the store) (but still pretty yum) (sent 13:05)

nah (received 13:11)

ok no probs ❤️ (sent 13:11)

One time, he couldn’t come up with a valid enough excuse and spent minutes agonizing over the empty text box only to type a short u good bro? that was answered with an equally short fine a while later.

Kirishima is very, very glad Bakugou has dropped the habit of leaving him on read. This way, his frayed nerves only have to withstand the background stress of what if he’s downplaying it that seems moderate in comparison to–

Yup, not thinking about Kamino again. Moving on.

“Is he like… okay?”, Sero asks him eventually, YUI’s Again playing as they wait for the episode to start. He’s lying belly-down on his bed, his laptop positioned in a way Kirishima can see the screen from his chosen spot in the hammock. “Not gonna lie, it’s a bit freaky how quiet it’s been. When he’s around at all, which isn’t much.”

Not moving on, then.

Kirishima doesn't need any clarification who is meant. Sero isn’t the first (or the last, most likely) to approach him about this; for once, even Midoriya has been beaten to the punch by Todoroki. It doesn't matter who it is, though, the answer is always the same:

“I don’t know.”

A little hushed because it’s the truth and a confession at the same time. The mild surprise on Sero’s face makes Kirishima look down in search for words, his hands wringing the pocket of his threadbare hoodie just to have something to do. Half the intro flickers by in silence.

“Baku isn’t exactly a people person, y’know?” Kirishima scoffs at himself. What an understatement. “He likes to do stuff his way and fight his own battles, lone wolf style. So, it’s been a bit, uh, stressful for him. To have everyone – and I mean everyone, heroes, police, the media, you name it – be in his business and then have all of us around all the time, too.”

That’s pretty much what he can say without outright speculating or infringing upon the things Bakugou told him in confidence. No matter how much Kirishima appreciates Sero as his friend, his lips are sealed unless Bakugou decides otherwise.

About two minutes into the episode, Sero hits the space bar. The screen pauses on a frame of ambiguously European-looking buildings.

“Okay, sorry, it’s just. How is Bakugou the one with the biggest cryptid energy in 1-A right now? Even Tokoyami emerges from the shadows sometimes and being a cryptid is like, his whole deal.”

Wrapped in humor as it is, Sero’s concern brings a smile to Kirishima’s lips. It’s good to know he – and Todoroki, and Midoriya – care, even when Bakugou is being elusive and hard to reach on purpose. It’s what makes all the difference, sometimes.

“Dunno, he’s a pretty complex guy once you give him a chance. Plus, I’m pretty sure he spends 90% of his time either training or studying or thinking about training and studying so it’s not like he’s not doing stuff. It just doesn’t really involve any of us.”

A thumb on his chin, Sero muses: “Not a cryptid but a closet nerd, huh? That… makes a lot of sense actually. I always thought he’s some kinda genius but I guess even geniuses have to work hard to get good.”

“Dude, he’s such a nerd”, Kirishima agrees with an enthusiastic grin. “Like, I’m pretty sure he wakes up with the sun and gets right to it. Being around him is so motivating, I wanna shoot for the stars and achieve my dreams simply because he’s doing it, too.”

“Okay, I get it. Blasty’s the best.”

Kirishima nods so hard the hammock moves with it; Sero snickers and shakes his head. His smile dims, then, more pensive than before.

“Listen, man. I know it’s over and done with and like, getting bent out of shape over what ifs is pointless but – I wish I’d been there.” Sero traces the borders of his laptop, a repetitive and thoughtless motion. “To help him, I mean. Watching him fight for his life on TV was really freaking miserable, I was shaking the whole time. To think you guys were there as well and how much worse it could’ve gone… How bad things are, even now… I don’t know. It’s haunting, honestly.”

It’s entirely silent, for a while. Kirishima’s mouth is dry, his eyes starting to burn with how quiet Sero’s voice got towards the end there.

“I’ve, um. I’ve had nightmares about it, actually.” Admitting it feels right, despite the heaviness that doesn’t belong in a room smelling of fresh paint and new beginnings. “I don’t know how much I’m allowed to say here. It’s all a blur anyways, I was freaking out until we got there and once we had him we just ran. But… We were there, hiding behind this wall with Midoriya doing his mumbling thing to figure out what the fuck to do. All for One was there, too.”

Just the memory makes Kirishima want to hurl. Images flash before his eyes, there and gone and seared into his retinas all the same. He looks at Sero, at eyes gone wide with worry.

“That guy’s presence… It felt like dying. I don’t know how else to describe it, it was like standing on a cliff knowing you’re about to lose balance and go splat and it wasn’t going away. Katsuki talked to him directly, fought villains outnumbered six-to-one with him right there.”

Somewhere in their periphery the laptop’s screen flickers to darkness. Kirishima takes a deep breath, mentally counting down on the exhale.

“I’m worried, too. I’m trying not to fuss because it makes Bakugou uncomfy when I do but it’s hard. He’s answering my texts, at least. And he, uh, didn’t mention all the embarrassing shit I sent him while he was gone. So, that’s something, I guess.”

That makes Sero’s brow perk up from a somber frown to vague curiosity. “Embarrassing shit?”

“Really embarrassing shit.” Kirishima’s face flushes so hard his cheeks practically glow with heat. “Full on you-might-be-dead-and-I-don’t-know-how-to-cope-with-that embarrassing. I was a total mess, dude.”

Sero breathes a sympathetic sort of noise. “Oh, that.” He reaches over to pat his head. “Yeah, you kind of were. It’s okay, though, Kiri. I’m pretty sure you’re allowed to be a mess when your best friend– Well, y’know.”

“Mmh”, Kirishima makes, his hands framing his own face in a bid to cool it down a bit. “I swear if he ever brings it up I’ll perish on the spot. Goodbye sweet world, it was nice knowing ya.”

“Pressing F hard for you, man.” Sero nods along solemnly. “Don’t worry, I’ll let Riot know you loved him.”

“Thanks, bro!”

They share a grin, not as bright as it could be. Given the state of the world, it’s a damn miracle it’s there at all. Kirishima sighs a little and juts his chin at the laptop.

“C’mon. Let’s watch the Elrics do cool alchemy stuff and/or cry about how depressing their life is.”

Sero finger-guns at him, “You got it”, as a line of tape goes for the touch pad and the freeze frame comes unstuck. The rest of the night is lost to the comforting nostalgia of a story they both know by heart.

* 

Best Bakubro 💣💥

u ok? (sent 22:00)

yea (received 22:02)

oh!! ur awake (sent 22:02)

? (received 22:03)

hhhh isn’t it way past ur bedtime? (sent 22:03)

💦💦 (sent 22:03)

🖕 (received 22:11)

GASP (sent 22:11)

did you seriously just type out “gasp” (received 22:11)

uh yea??? this is an important moment (sent 22:12)

i’m so proud of u (sent 22:12)

fucking hell (received 22:12)

 go to sleep already (received 22:14)

aaa ok (sent 22:14)

night nitro!! (sent 22:14)

🔪 (received 22:17)

❤️ (sent 22:17) 

*

The alarm jolts Kirishima out of fitful sleep.

A hand searches the bedframe with clumsy pats, eyes squeezed in a bleary squint as the screen flashes to life in the dark. The notification reads Gym w/ B!!! besides a big, glowing 5:00.

Kirishima groans. It’s a critical hit to his still-recovering sleep deprivation, making his arms bend like limp noodles under his weight. He crashes back into bed and lets the void swallow him.

*

Knocking. Hard, incessant, escalating in volume and frequency until–

“Oi! Shark Teeth! Get up already!”

Kirishima is ripping the door open before he’s even aware he’s on his feet and awake enough to do so. A breathless “Bro!” fills the space the knocking occupied a moment before.

“About fucking time.”

In the shy light of a sun peeking over the horizon, the phantom of the 1-A dorm becomes solid and real in the shape of one grumpy-faced Bakugou Katsuki: a towel over his shoulder, a bottle of water hanging from two fingers by its handle, looking whole and rested and average amounts of ticked off and oh, Kirishima missed Bakugou.

Kirishima’s also staring. Which he realizes because Bakugou shuffles in place, gaze drifting to the side, a hand scratching his neck. “It’s Saturday”, he says a little awkwardly, offering nothing else to follow it up with.

Saturday. Gym day, which Kirishima’s phone remembered and Kirishima did, too, the night before when he’d wondered if that’s still a thing now that they moved together and Bakugou went into stealth mode and everything is constantly shifting under their feet.

Not everything. Most things, apparently not this one, this thing that’s been theirs since the start. Kirishima smiles, bright and relieved. He promises:

“Be right there. Two minutes!”

He runs because what if Bakugou changes his mind? What if he decides to go ahead without him, and Kirishima loses that glimpse only he gets, of Bakugou being in his element and relaxed and happy?

Then he’s back and Bakugou is still there, leaning against the wall and scrolling on his phone while he waits. A glance, lingering on the all-caps SWEATING print on his red tank top over neon aqua shorts – Kirishima flexes to show off his outfit properly. “Pretty rad, right?”

Bakugou blinks, slowly. The verbal jab Kirishima expects never comes. Instead, he gets a low, “You done or what?”

“Yeah, man! Let’s go.”

Maybe Bakugou missed him, too.

*

“Push it!”

Kirishima clenches his jaw, the serrated line of his teeth grinding to the point of pain. He pushes, skin pulling tight and muscles screaming as they bunch up and split apart in harsh ripples. His vision fractures into two, three distinct shards.

The blast engulfs him between one heartbeat and the next. Nitroglycerine-fueled flames lick over every inch of exposed skin, his arms and face and chest registering the heat before the pain, dull and frustratingly there.

It’s over in a flash. Bakugou wipes sweat off his chin with his arm, palms still smoldering. “And?”

“Still feelin’ it”, Kirishima rasps out. His quirk drops, leaves his body softer and aching; breathing is a bit of a challenge, inhales and exhales coming quick and hard. Arms crossed over his head, he lets out a groan, his voice dipping into a growl.

“I can go further! I know I can. It’s right there but I can’t. Quite. Grasp it. Urgh!”

“Fuck”, Bakugou mutters with feeling. Exactly, Kirishima thinks, fuming at himself. Fuck.

They’ve been at it for hours. Gym γ is in ruins, which is fine since Cementoss can fix it up in seconds once they’re done but still. By this point, Kirishima expects more progress than aggressive indoor renovation via explosions.

A hero’s Ultimate Move is supposed to be this grand, show-stopping technique to turn the tides and save the day. Finally, finally, they’re in the clear to develop their own. There’s an idea in Kirishima’s head, a concept he’s worked on for almost as long as his aesthetic as a hero. An extension there-of, in a sense.

It’s badass, it’s manly, it’s invincible–

It’s not this. Kirishima is starting to doubt he’ll ever get there.

“What’s wrong with me, man? Like, I see you coming and my quirk kicks up a notch ‘cause it’ll hurt if I don’t harden enough and then it just. Stops? Before it gets where I want it to be? Are explosions to the face not dangerous enough, or something?”

Bakugou is shaking out his hands and loosening his shoulders, a wince making his nose scrunch a little. “You’ve taken more of ‘em today than you could at the Festival”, he notes in that neutral tone he uses when he counters Kirishima’s whining with facts and logic. “Pretty sure any of the other extras would be dust by now, including that steel fucker.”

Kirishima appreciates the Bakugou-version of a pep talk, he really does, and he’s probably right (he usually is). But it’s not what he wants. He wants his Ultimate, and he wants it now.

And, eyeing Bakugou’s grenade bracers, he might know of one way to get there.

“Use those.”

“Hah?”

Kirishima pats one of the clunky devices, hand hardened just in case. Bakugou bares his teeth at him but doesn’t pull away. “These. Hit me with ‘em? Full blast.”

Bakugou’s expression sobers. Dead serious. “Don’t fuck with me. They’re not made for people.”

(And Midoriya is what, a house plant? Kirishima doesn’t voice that thought out loud. He has some sense of self-preservation, thank you very much.)

Besides, Bakugou didn’t say no. The possibility is there, if heavily guarded – and where there’s a chance, Kirishima will always at least try.

“Look, dude. For better or for worse I’m too used to anything else, and adrenaline alone is clearly not cutting it right now. I’m…” Kirishima laughs, a little embarrassed despite himself. “I remember what that explosion did to Ground β. Not gonna lie, it was pretty wild and I’m a bit, uh, scared. But I’m also ready. I can take it, I know I can.”

Bakugou is looking at him, intense in a different way, searching Kirishima’s face for… something. “You’re scared of me?”

What? Kirishima rewinds what he said in his head and oh no. He waves his hands in front of him, like he can physically wipe away the notion. “No. No, Katsuki, I’m scared of what I saw back then. You, I trust. With my life.”

Which is a sappy thing to say, even Kirishima will admit that, but it’s also true. Asking Bakugou to use the bracers on him is literally placing his life in his (very lethal) hands.

There is a line between sparring and actual combat, and while they’ve come close to it, have toed it and tested its give in pursuit of greater heights, they’ve never taken that leap. They’re back at it now, balancing on that edge, and Kirishima can guide Bakugou there but he won’t push him across because Bakugou is hesitating.

“Once I pull the pin, I can’t stop it”, Bakugou says, locking Kirishima’s eyes with own. “I can redirect the blast but it won’t stop.”

Kirishima nods. “I know.”

“They’re all the way full. It’s gonna be brutal.”

“I know”, he repeats, chest warm despite the tingle of nerves in his gut. “I can take it. I swear.”

Bakugou spits on the ground. “Fine. Fuck it. You better fucking push it this time or you’re literally dead.”

“Oof, did you have to put it that way?”

A cold look is all he gets. Kirishima stands a bit taller on instinct. No time to joke, got it. Bakugou rolls his neck and explosion-jumps a good twenty yards away before turning back towards him. His right bracer is checked over in brisk and efficient moves.

“Get ready. I’ll count down from five. On go, you go. Plus fucking ultra.”

Legs apart, knees locked, back in a straight line. The stance comes to Kirishima as easy as breathing, as does the rigid feeling of his quirk taking hold. He braces his arms, hands up with his fingers sharp and claw-like.

A grim smile. “Plus ultra”, Kirishima confirms.

The safety slides off with an audible click. The pin emerges, Bakugou’s index limp on the trigger. “Five.”

Inhale.

“Four.”

Kirishima knocks his hands together, the rock-like smack reassuringly familiar.

“Three.”

Exhale. His limbs go stiff, his skin having long lost feeling as the keratin in it grows solid. Tough. Bulletproof.

“Two.”

Harder. Harder. Like a mountain. Like granite. Like raw fucking diamonds. Harder than that.

“One.”

Inhale, inhale, inhale. Kirishima’s chest locks into place, his heart pumping away as his innermost remains unchanged and everything else goes rigid. Be strong. Be invincible–

“Go!”

 A hiss, a spark, flames – the explosion roars to life and Kirishima roars back, sees it coming in a wave of light and destruction coming for him and only him. It’s not enough, more, more, but his quirk is buckling as it crashes into that wall inside him he can’t break–

“Push it, Kirishima! Push it, damn you!!”

He’s in Kamino, back to the wall and head full of death. Himself, dead, his classmates, dead, Bakugou, dead dead dead–

Never!

A second before impact and it fractures, splits apart. Time passes in slow motion as his vision bursts into a thousand unique and unknowable shades and–

Everything is so sharp, fragmented and crystalline and bright. The explosion hits, a kaleidoscope of red-yellow-orange that makes sense, somehow. Kirishima watches as it rolls over his hands and wrists and arms; it pushes against his chest like a gust of wind, playful, almost, like it could carry his weight if he leans into it, so he does.

One step. His body is heavy, so heavy, rumbling and grinding against itself at every point of contact – at his joints, between his fingers, along the knife’s edge of his teeth. Another step, again, again, moving through it like it’s the ocean lazily lapping at his legs in molten waves headed to shore.

It couldn’t have lasted more than a few seconds. Kirishima doesn’t register it’s over until he catches a shouted “Eijirou!” and Bakugou is there, sliding to a stop right in front of him. There’s shock written all across his face.

“Holy shit.”

Maybe Kirishima died, after all? It’s hard to tell with him being head-to-toe numb – he is pretty sure that feeling in his chest is his heart beating like the wings of a caged hummingbird. His lungs are screaming for breath, actually, and Kirishima tries but breathing is not working right now, which is fine. He opens his mouth all the same.

“Did it work?”

His voice is this low rumble that he himself barely recognizes. It’s okay, Bakugou understands him. Bakugou laughs, in fact, a short, incredulous huff of air.

“Did it work?! Did it fucking–”

A gasp, like Bakugou realized in that exact moment it’s Kirishima in front of him. Then he grins, big and toothy and so excited it’s making Kirishima dizzy.

“Holy shit, it worked! You fucking survived! And you’re a dragon! Or something! You have claws and fucking fangs and– That’s so badass, what the fuck!”

“What?!”

“YEAH!”

Kirishima looks down at his hands – his claws, long as daggers and curved inwards. “Oh fuck. Is it cool? Dude, I can’t see myself! Is it cool?!”

“You’re a fucking dragon of course it’s fucking cool”, Bakugou yells at him in one breath. “Shit, wait. Wait, wait, where the fuck is my–”

He takes off his cloves and fumbles for his pockets, like fumbling is something Bakugou does. The world is still weirdly precise and crystal-like and starting to spin, uh oh, that can’t be good. Bakugou’s got his phone out and Kirishima smiles, a Pavlovian response to being in front of a camera, and his jaw creaks with the movement.

Creaking is not a noise a human body should do. Then again, surviving a blast like that is also something that should be impossible.

Holy shit indeed.

“I made it.” Kirishima continues to stare down at himself, at the jagged plains of his chest where he tore through his shirt. It doesn’t feel real but it is. “I’m alive. I got my Ultimate.”

Bakugou is back and closer than before, his face mere inches from Kirishima’s. “Fucking woah, dude. Not a single scratch. This is insane.” The grin is still there, his voice quieter and dripping with pride. “Did ya feel it at all? How’s your mobility? Is there a time limit to this or–”

It’s getting hard to focus, Bakugou’s words running into each other and flying right by without his brain processing any of it. His spiked vision is blotted out in places, increasingly stained in black ink dots.

“I think I’m… I’m about to pass out.”

“Wha– Drop it. Kiri, drop your quirk!”

I’m trying, he wants to tell him but there’s no air left to say it with. Kirishima goes to his knees an instance later, his stiffened body resisting the way he wants to fold forward. Sounds are muffled, the darkness closing in–

By impending unconsciousness or by command, it doesn’t really matter: Kirishima feels his quirk fade and his entire body soften. He’s falling over until he’s not, strong hands catching him around the shoulders. A moment later, a semi-gentle slap to his cheek reminds him that there’s something he should be doing.

Kirishima breathes.

It feels really good, even if it hurts, too. His chest is flexible enough to expand now but clearly not happy about it while his lungs lurch for every bit of oxygen they can get. Breathing is a lot of work, then, but it’s worth it. Kirishima has an Ultimate Move, and he knows how to turn it off. Kind of.

“Why didn’t you tell me you can’t fucking breathe in it?!”

“Ah”, Kirishima mumbles, in-between pathetic pants of air, “That would be… because… I didn’t know… I couldn’t… Wow, I’m so dizzy.”

Bakugou groans. “Yeah, it’s almost like you just nearly suffocated yourself to death. Sit your ass down, idiot.”

A flick to Kirishima’s cheek has him whining. Every inch of himself is prickling with oversensitivity, the polar opposite to how it felt to exist in that explosion.

Because he did that. That happened.

By now he’s aware he’s leaning on Bakugou, his legs wobbling even as he’s held steady until he can plant his butt on the floor. Bakugou doesn’t push him off after he sits right next to him, either; he nudges him aside to take off his bracers and his collar but otherwise, Kirishima is free to stay where he is.

Kirishima takes the invitation for what it is and lets himself rest against his shoulder, thoroughly exhausted. “It felt so cool”, he tells Bakugou once he can inhale without shaking out of his own skin.

“Like. My vision went nuts just before the blast hit, I think that’s when I activated it. Everything was all bright and, like, broken apart? Kind of like shards of glass or something, it sounds weird now but it made sense in that moment. I was standing in the explosion and it barely moved me.”

Bakugou’s eyebrows go all the way up. “Seriously? That shit usually levels a whole building.”

“Yeah! I walked a bit, too, so that’s what I’ll work on next. Breathing would be good as well, I guess. Just have to get used to, well, everything.”

Looking down at his naked arms and the red outline around his right wrist, Bakugou nods, pensive. “Were you scared?”

Kirishima winces. Still thinking about that, huh? He almost regrets mentioning it at all, even if it’s the truth and part of them. Their starting point, all those months ago.

“At first, yeah. And then it was gone. Like, I feel I can face down anything when I’m like that, y’know? I won’t break no matter what. It’s exactly I wanted.”

Kirishima’s laugh comes out wheezy. There’s a headache pounding away at his temples, his throat raw from yelling and everything else. “Unbreakable. That’s what I called it when I thought of it. And it’s reality now.”

“You’re fucking crazy.” A shake of Bakugou’s head. He digs out his phone again, flicking to the most recent entry in his camera roll. “Here. That’s how it looks like.”

What he sees wipes the smile off Kirishima’s face entirely. He gestures to the phone and Bakugou shrugs, dropping it in his hand. Kirishima holds it close to his face, almost cross-eyed with his need to drink in all the details. The red spikes of his hair. His eyes all intense and turned to stone. The teeth, holy hell. Layers and layers of armored skin shifting over each other like tectonic plates.

No wonder he sounded like rocks tumbling down the mountainside in that form.

Bakugou nudges his side. “Okay, spill. What’s the sad face for this time?”

“I don’t know.” Kirishima swallows. “It’s scary, isn’t it? I know why you got dragon from this and it is cool. It feels cool, too. But is it something people would feel safe around?”

“Uh, yeah?” The device is snatched back. “Civilians are morons and fickle as fuck but if this is standing between them and certain death, fuck yeah they’ll feel safe. Besides, you’re like Riot.”

“The dog or the hero?”

“Fucking both but I mean the dog. You’re like, stupid friendly and all”, a vague gesture to his face, “wholesome and shit, whoever doesn’t immediately get ‘hero’ from that is dumb as hell and deserves to die.”

“Okay, okay, I hear ya.” Kirishima chuckles, rubbing the back of his head under the praise. He hurries to say: “Well, minus the wishing-civilians-dead part.”

“Nope. They can definitely die.”

“Dude.”

Bakugou is grinning, though, knocking his phone against Kirishima’s forehead. “Get your head outta your ass already. That Ultimate is badass as fuck. We’re trying my AP shot on it, next time.”

“You mean the one that goes through concrete?”

“Ye-up, that’s the one. Now get off me, you’re all sweaty and gross.”

Kirishima oofs as he’s pushed to the ground. He stays there, for a minute or two. Staring up at the far ceiling and musing how okay things feel right now. Hoping that they’ll stay that way, for a little while at least.

Then Bakugou is standing over him, offering him a hand. “I’m not carrying you back, asshole. Get up.”

Kirishima groans as he’s pulled up. The tingling has firmly settled into soreness and it’s everywhere. Still, when Bakugou makes to let go, he holds on tighter.

“Bro, wait.”

A questioning glance.

“We gotta do the thing!”

The glance turns almost concerned, a silent have-you-finally-lost-your-marbles sort of look. “The… thing?”

“Yeah!” Kirishima imitates an explosion between their hands. “The sparking off thing!”

All confusion disappears. “Ah”, Bakugou says. Then he turns around and marches right out the gym.

“Baku, no! Don’t leave a bro hanging like that!”

(In the end, Kirishima gets his handshake. Bakugou complains about his ‘shitty ass puppy eyes’ being ‘effective as all fuck’ the whole way to the dorm.)

>>Chapter 7.

[voltagesmutter]

Gavin - Hot with a gun

Request from @stehkotori​ and annon!

THE GIF BECAUSE IMAGINE A DOMINATING GAVIN DRESSED LIKE THIS😥

‘Can I request a drabble or fic where MC see Gavin using his gun (even if he doesn't shot it) and getting REALLY turned on?‘

‘a smut with 3,9,81 and Why don’t you stop worrying about your life and worry about mine’

Prompts: Orgasm delay, Dirty talk, Consequence

Smut and NSFW

You chatted pleasantly as you walked down the street, Gavin had just parked up sparky and you were making your way back to your apartment, one of the rare days you actually walked rather than flew. You had walked to the station after work to meet him, both of you finishing your jobs for the day. He squeezed your hand reassuringly as you crossed the road to avoid a group of men but as you passed wolf whistles and cat calling was directed to you and you rolled your eyes.

“Gavin ignored it,” You said, tugging him along as he glared at the men. It wasn’t until a few of them yelled extremely lewd comments to you Gavin flipped.

“Shut your mouths!” He yelled, letting go of you and standing of to them. 

“Gavin please,” You whispered and you pulled his arm but he shook you off. He snapped back at every comment, his reaction was something you’d never seen before, never had you seen him angry. Truth be told you found him incredibly sexy, his muscles tensing as he kept his stance, his jawline defined by his gritted teeth, how his hair fell over his forehead. His arms were shaking as he stormed over, the men clearly unthreatened continued to tease him over you. It wasn’t until his took his gun out of his holster that you heard them scuffling away. He stood there, solid as a rock, the sun glinting off him with his gun in his hand. You honestly thought your panties might drop there and then. You bit your lip innocently, unable to take your eyes off him, there something about him standing there, gun in hand in his uniform that turned you on to no-end. 

You shook your head shaking the lewd thoughts away you quickly run to his side.

“Gavin, it was fine, you didn’t need to do that!” You yelled softly at him.

“They angered me, them being so crude about you,” He replies, lowering his gun and turning to you.

“And what would have happened if they had guns back?” You snapped, he was so caring towards you and you loved him dearly but sometimes he was reckless. Take into account the newly occurring scars and wounds on his body.

“Why don’t you stop worrying about your life and worry about mine, you never consider the consequences !” You cried and looked at you heavily confused.

“You are so protective over me Gavin and I love it, I love you but what would happen when you get hurt, what… what happens if you get hurt and don’t come back to me,” You bit your lip which was trembling, this had been an occurring worry to you. You lived in fear something would happen to him, you don’t know how you could survive without him…

“Bella, I’m not going anywhere, I swear it to you,” He hushes you by cradling you into his arms, whispering sweet words into your hair as he kisses your head. You sigh and pull back, stroking your fingers up his chest.

“You know… I’d never resist arrest against you,” You giggle, your cheeks slightly flushed. 

“Oh really? Well, maybe I should arrest you for being so sexy,” He chuckled as he held your waist.

“I don’t know what it was but seeing you there, so protective, so authoritative… it really did something,” You raised your eyebrows as you glanced up to his, yours eye had a slightly foggy glaze over them. You couldn’t deny the pooling between your legs, regardless of your little spat all you could image was Gavin taking an authority figure over you. The thought of his hands being rough on you, his fingers thrusting into you as he held a dominating stance over you with his words.

“Really now,” He growled before picking you up and throwing you over his shoulder.

“Gave!” You squealed as he made his way to your apartment.

“Hush now pretty lady, your under arrest,” He chuckles as his hand slaps your ass. 

You tore off each other's clothes the minute you got into his apartment, lips and hands flying all over each other, desperate to find each other. His hands tugged at your exposed nipples as his other hand kept you close to him, his mouth sucking violently at your neck.

“Don't be- don't be gentle,” You moaned as his mouth came down to your breasts, his tongue tracing down you before pulling your nipple gently with his teeth. You grinded yourself up against his growing erection, desperate to find some friction for your throbbing core. He pulled you onto the sofa, one of his hands pinning your above your head whilst the other traced down your body before dipping between your legs, you spreading them for him.

“Your soaking,” He growled, his fingers pressing around your slick slit. You moaned softly in pleasure as his fingers delved into your slit, pumping in and out of you.

“Yeah, you like that,” He asks, his hand working you whilst your back arched slightly, “Do you want me to tell you what I’m going to do to you?”. His fingers working faster into you and buckled your hips slightly from him casually thrusting against your sweet spot. Your fingernails dug into your hands as you squirmed under his touch. 

“First I’m going to make you cum all over my hand,”. His fingers curling inside you and you cry out slightly.

“Then your going to suck my cock,” The sound of your wetness visible under his voice as his fingers grazed over your spot, your stomach tightening.

“Then I’m going to fill you with my cock and fuck you so hard this sofa is going to break,”. You cry out, from his tortuous words and movements, his fingers bringing you onto the brink.

“You like the sound of that?” He asks, smirking down at your thrashing body, feeling you tighten around him. You was unable to see or think straight from the foggy glaze in your mind, seconds away from your undoing.

“Answer me,” He growls, removing his fingers fully and you cry from the loss, trembling at the need. His fingertip lazy makes its way up to your clit before swirling around the sensitive nub.

“Yes, yes Gavin please,” You pant, your hands trying to free themselves but Gavin keeps them pinned down. 

“I can’t do anything if you don’t tell me what you want,” He smirks, darkness had glossed over his eyes, never had you seen Gavin like this. You grinded your waist against his teasing touches, desperate for any kind of help but he removed his fingers from your clit.

“Make me cum, please, please,” You whined, you had never begged but the pressure between your legs building up was too much. He chuckles lightly and goes back to your clit.

“I think we can do better than that,” Two fingers applying pressure to your sensitive nub making a circle motion, a movement he knew would have you panting in seconds.

“Oh~Oh god,” You threw your head back, your toes curling from the fire burning up inside you once more.

“Beg,” He smirked, watching your body withering under his touch.

“G-gavin make me, make me cum~fuck~please!” You cried as his fingers continued at an agonising pace before one dipped down and re-entered your tight core. The other joined and they began to thrust into you as his thumb made shapes against your clit. His strong grip over your hands kept them pinned down as your back arched on the sofa, your heels digging into the cushion as your body began to tingle.

“I’m the only one who gets to see you like this,” He growled, his fingers working at a pace that made you see stars, your whole mind going numb as the lustrous build up continued. 

“Cum for me, show everyone you are mine,” His fingers curling against your spot, hitting it repeatedly as your body shook from the intense pleasure. Your orgasm quickly followed, Gavin continuing to ride it out as long as he could until you cried begging him for no more, your essence coaxing his fingers and on his knuckles slick with your juice. He let your hands go but you was unable to move, panting vigorously against the sofa, your legs quivering. You watched as he licked his fingers clean, groaning slightly at your sweetness. 

“Lets continue shall we,” He smirks as he pushes you onto his knees. “Open wide, show me what these pretty lips of yours are capable of,”.

It was fair to say you definitely saw a different side to Gavin that night, by the time you had finished the sofa was stained with essences of both of you and would heavily need washing or simply replacing, how it supported you through multiple rounds of Gavin roughly taking you you'd never know. You spent the next morning cuddled up together in bed, Gavin pressing kisses to your face.

“Did I hurt you yesterday? I got abit out of control,” He blushes with slight embarrassment, he had quickly retorted back to the shy Gavin you knew.

“I um, I actually really enjoyed it, you taking control,” You whispered back, “Especially when told me what you were going to do to me,”.

“Really? I was scared you would think it was too much,” He pulls your naked body close to him.

“What can I say, I love a man in uniform,” You giggle as share a sweet kiss, basking in your sexual afterglow bliss from the night before. 

But neither of you knew the challenges you would come to face later that day, as you had said to Gavin before he never considered his consequences, a fact would he have to face when the gang from yesterday kicked down his apartment door...

[mercyparkgirl]

the roommate

Pairing: Logan x MC (implied)

Warnings: angst, ptsd

Word Count: ~1835

Summary: Set after the events of Ride or Die, my MC (Ellie Wheeler) adjusts to her new life, from the perspective of herself and her roomate, Sophie.

Notes: So... this is the first fanfic I’ve ever written! Always been too nervous to post but with @rodappreciationweek I figured why not. Hope you enjoy!

_________________________

sophia.

My roommate’s name was Ellie, from Los Angeles. We only texted a little before move-in day at Langston, and I really hoped we would get along. My older brother had told me horror stories about his freshman roommate, some of which I believed, most which I guessed he made up to scare me. Still, those stories had taken root in my mind and I found myself with a little more than first-day anxiety as mom fussed over the fitted bed sheet and position of the throw pillows in my new room. 

“Hi” a soft voice spoke from the door and I turned around quickly to greet the girl in the doorway. Her hair was pulled back and I squealed as I noticed her Langston sweatshirt, gesturing at the identical one I was wearing. She laughed at that, and to her surprise I launched forward to give her a hug. She only tensed for a moment before hugging me back, and with the ice seemingly broken we settled comfortably into unpacking and setting up the room.

I felt definitively uncool as my mom chattered on and on, immediately conscious of the fact that Ellie apparently didn’t need her mom to make her bed for her. I caught her a couple of times smiling softly at my mom with a longing look in her eyes I couldn’t quite place and I wondered what she thought of me. 

Ellie certainly didn’t seem to have as much stuff as I did, and certainly not my plant habit that was rapidly turning into an addiction. The only thing she set on her desk was a framed photograph which she removed from a box full of tissue paper with great care, running a hand quickly over the glass before setting it down. I snuck a look at it as I pushed a succulent into her hands, insisting that she have something else to liven up her side of the room.

She and an unusually attractive boy, both dressed in formal attire, stared fiercely into the camera as if daring someone to oppose them, his arm wrapped protectively around her. His eyes were dark and powerful, while hers were full of a righteous fury and passion that seemed both completely out of place and extraordinarily natural on her features.

Ellie and I spent that night and the next few weeks getting to know each other. We bonded over both being from the West Coast, though Tacoma is very different from LA. She was smart, though she had the air of a student who wasn’t used to being surrounded by people at her level. We had no classes together but it was easy to fall into the rhythm of studying together in the library or student union building every night. I was so lucky to have her for the transition to college, and I hoped she felt the same.

She wanted stories about my siblings, my parents, the plays I’d been in during middle school, and I was more than happy to talk without realizing that I was learning very little about her in return. Still, I managed to pick up on some things. She spun her charm bracelet when she got excited about something, and fiddled with some strange object on a chain around her neck when she thought no one was looking, a far-away look on her face. 

For a girl who owned so many leather jackets and an apparently very impressive car (The only thing I care about less than cars are the Kardashians and essential oils) she was surprisingly sweet and funny, enough that I was shocked the first time I saw her in short sleeves.

“Is that a real tattoo?” I exclaimed, not giving her time to answer. “That is so cool. I really wanted one when I was 16 and my sister told me she’d poke me with a needle for free. What is it? A wolf? Badass. Do you have a whole pack of them?”

She laughed and pulled a jacket on. “It’s a lone wolf, I’m afraid. Ran away from its pack.”

I’m a light sleeper which I always considered a curse in a house full of noisy siblings, but I was glad of it the first time I woke up in the middle of the night to a scream, sleepily flicking on the light to see her writhing in her bed. I threw back the covers and sat down on her bed, gently shaking her shoulder until she woke up gasping, nails digging into my arm. For just a moment I swore I could see the ghosts of great flames in her eyes, fading back into embers as she realized where she was. 

I wrapped my arms around her and she sat still for a few long moments before squeezing my arm and standing up. 

“I think… I think I’m going to go for a drive. Thank you Soph.” I wanted to wait up for her but I fell asleep on top of my sheets. 

The nightmares happened again, and then again. Some nights she would just curl back into the blankets, or open the window before falling back to sleep. 

And some nights she would grab the keys from her nightstand and leave without a word. I’d be asleep before she came home, or maybe she never came back to bed those nights. Maybe she drove until the morning sun stretched her fingers above the horizon and began her slow crawl to the other side.

ellie.

When I left LA, it felt like the ending of a story. The closing of a book. But I’m starting to realize life doesn’t work like that. Nobody gets happy endings or tidy conclusions. Life just… keeps going. And it’s up to us whether we can stay afloat or get lost in the riptide, losing ourselves in the memories and regrets. 

Don’t get me wrong, nothing could take away the magic of stepping out of my car at the place I had dreamed about since I was old enough to dream, completely and terrifyingly on my own. No curfew, no explanations needed. I could reinvent myself. It would be a brand new start. But as I subconsciously ran a hand over the smooth hood of my Widow I remembered the first time I had seen her, sleek and dangerous and mine in Kaneko’s shop, how the leather of the seats smelled like home, and I knew forgetting wasn’t an option. And maybe I didn’t want it to be.

I had never shared a room with anyone, unless you count sleepovers with Riya or the week I spent in Logan’s loft above the shop. But Sophia made it feel like I’d been missing out. She was kind and open and welcoming from the moment I stepped in the room. She was brilliant, too, even for Langston standards which were far above what I was used to at Mar Vista Prep. I quickly realized that there would be little time to fully appreciate the lack of parental control given my heavy workload. 

I had a couple classes with Ingrid and was surprised by how happy I was to see her. I needed to get out of LA but it would always be the place I was from and she represented a piece of my past. A reminder of a time in my life that I might have convinced myself never really happened if not for her. We were friendly and the fun kind of competitive, but didn’t hang out much outside of class, though I felt that either one of us would be happy to if the other one asked. I made a lot of acquaintances very quickly, a few of which turned tentatively into friends, but I mostly hung out with Soph when I wasn’t in class.

My dad and I talked nearly every day for the first couple weeks, which gradually turned into every weekend. We never talked for long, classes were “going well”, work was “busy”. I loved him, of course, but I found it hard to shake the image of him pointing a gun at the man I loved, face tight with bitter fury. 

I knew Colt was still in LA, and I hesitantly tried to inquire about the specifics of my dad’s latest assignments. He must have figured what my real question was because he got quiet for a moment then said “I think it’s best if we don’t talk about that. Best to leave it in the past.”

I didn’t mention it again, or ask about Mona which had been my next idea. But it was hard to leave Logan in the past when I’d spent so much time seeing him as my future. I texted his number a couple times even though I knew he’d no longer have it, pitiful ‘I love you’s when I felt so lonely it was hard to breathe. 

At night my fingers would trace the places his had until the memories of his rough hands on my body were blurred with my own and I was no longer sure if he had ever touched me at all. If not for the spark plug I wore around my neck and the picture of us at prom I kept next to a succulent Soph had given me, I wouldn’t be sure he ever existed at all. 

I was ok most of the time and on occasion, I wasn’t. I cried sometimes and I didn’t even know why. I grew to fear lying in bed because the thoughts threatened to crush me, my brain forcing myself to relive every moment of that spring and asking me what I should have done differently. And when I finally, finally got to sleep I had nightmares. 

Jason looming over me, larger than life, hands reaching out as my feet stuck to the ground, my car nowhere to be seen. Or a blazing inferno on the bridge, Colt’s screams of pain and grief pounding in my ears, his face twisted in an agony I could have prevented. Kaneko’s voice a whisper in my skull “Once you’ve made your choice it is made. You hold true until the end.” 

The fire from the explosion spreads, higher and farther than I remember it, the flames taking Jason’s shape, and my father’s, consuming me completely until I wake up, sweating and throat hoarse with Sophia’s soft hands on my shoulder. 

Sometimes I can get back to sleep, but sometimes I know I won’t be able to. On those nights I grab my keys and run down to my Widow, no jacket so I can feel the wind on as much of my body as possible. At that hour the streets are sleepy and I can make it to the freeway in 10 minutes. And as the lights passing by turn into stars, spinning above my head, I drive. And in that moment I can hear their laughter, their whoops and cheers. In that moment, as I fly into the night... I’m not alone. 

[5lazarus]

White Nights, Chapter 3: The Broadsheet

A year after Trespasser, Lavellan takes a new lover to a quiet inn in Val Royeaux. She steps out to the balcony for a quick smoke under the stars, looks over to the balcony adjacent to hers--and who is there but the Dread Wolf himself, slightly disguised, with a glass of wine? Despite themselves they talk, and do not stop talking.

“Entertain me,” Solas says. “What ending will Master Tethras write for us? Because I do not know how to leave this gracefully. Though I suppose any ending is better than the last one, when I left with your arm.” Chapter 3, The Broadsheet: Lavellan leaves, and Solas wanders. He goes to a barber shop, he is accosted by a drunk young man, and settles down to read at the Cafe Vhenadahl--where all roads in Val Royeaux lead.

Read on AO3 here. Click for Chapter One and Chapter Two.

She leaves and he lays down on the pier listening to the tide til he can breathe again. He should not have come here, but how often he thinks that, how often he regrets. The city will wake soon, and she will leave, and he will have only a miracle to marvel over--that they were contemporaries, born three millennia apart, that what was once an encampment of wattle-and-daub turned into plaster islands. What a miracle, that these vast blinking buildings witnessed the two of them talk. He pulls himself up and crosses his legs, forcing himself to stare out to the horizon and ignore the city at his back. It does no good to mythologize. Val Royeaux has grown. It has witnessed many great loves. She had met her husband here, Solas knows. He cannot pretend he has marked this landscape for her, and he cedes that his interpretation of this place is now totally shaped by her. He may have been here first, of course, catching a glimpse at those rather fetid quicklings, but she has made this world hers.

Solas thinks, I live in a world of her intervention. His lips quirk into a rueful smile: is a pun bad if there is no one else to hear it? Don’t think about what she would think. Invention, intervention:  he sees is, shapes it in his image, and she intervenes. The black sky begins to purple, and the horizon becomes distinguishable. Solas stands up and stretches his weary back. He is growing old by everyone’s standards. He strokes his beard thoughtfully. Truly he should not have underestimated their ability for recall. He always assumed he was little more than a pair of pointed ears to the Inquisition, and that if he softened his strongest features, he could pass unnoticed. Arrogant, foolish, he sighs. It had been fun while it lasted. He needs to get a shave, and barbershops have always been wonderful places to measure the pulse of a place. He does like to wax dramatic about battlefields and the like, but he loves the little clinging wisps who bite, curious, into a memory of a vain man regretting his weak chin, or a woman laughing as she is presented with a balding head. He touches his hairline self-consciously. He is aging, by everyone’s standards. Perhaps he should shave it again too. The things of the body distract from the unsolvable misery of the mind. He turns back into the Val Royeaux alienage, thinking about dying. The world has been in decay: true, but what is living but a slow death? It is moronic, cheap philosophy, an excuse for despair. He has met a woman he would rather not live without, and so, chose a quicker death. Mythal’s justice will see that his sacrifice has meaning. Solas passes by a shrine built into a recess in the wall and pauses, curious to see whom it commemorates. The All-Mother as the dragon stands, wings outstretched, flanked by two halla rampant. All three stone figurines are garlanded with flowers. Mythal wears a necklace of what the humans call Andraste’s Grace. Ghilan’nain wears embrium. In the plaster framing the shrine, someone scratched a snarling wolf, directed towards the docks and the alienage exit. Solas sours. He ripped the world asunder so the people may be free. He thought he had banished the remnants of the false gods to the Beyond, locked in the eluvians of Arlathan. He had thought wrong. All that remained of Elvhenan were its most egregious acts: the brand of the vallaslin and the haughty silence of their gods. And he is not even allowed within, he who had shaken them to freedom in the first place. But isn’t freedom a sin? His agents tell him of the horror and disgust they felt, when they found that the vallaslin was a slave mark--that that was what their revered ancestors had decided to preserve. Some petty lordling kept marking his serfs, even as their cities fell out of the sky, and that was all that remained--the need to brand ownership on each other. Solas clenches his fists, the usual rage stirring his skin too taut. He ripped away what had made them them. Brutality was his only legacy. As soon as he fell into uthenera, the People fell upon each other--and to Tevinter, and to the Chantry, and to the Blight. He mutters to himself, “Banal nadas,” and walks away from the shrine. Nothing is inevitable. The Void is inevitable. Small comfort, in times with little comfort: but he must endure. Solas walks through the quiet shuttered streets, pulling his cloak around him. He huffs. He does not enjoy journeying through the night anyway, not as he had as a youth. He likes to sleep, not only because his body only seems set and under his own agency when he returns to the Fade, but because each day takes so much from him. He is not so lost as he had been with the Inquisition, he tells himself, but of course he does not know where he is in these spiralling streets, he does not know where he has left his heart, he does not know when he will return to that hotel. He had not left anything he needs, he could keep moving. He cannot afford the risk of seeing her again, but of course he must, because he finds himself tracing her footsteps. This had been her home. She had lived here for her most formative year, learned that Orlesian drawl from quietly serving in the kitchens of the Val Royeaux nobility, met the father of her children and galvanized her whole life. Solas puts a hand over his face, grimacing. She is dying, she will die anyway. When he raised the Veil, he took away her right to life. His beard feels greasy, like costume make-up. He catches sight of himself distorted in a puddle and sighs. He had always been minimalist in his appearance, besides his dress armor, which is admittedly ridiculous. Mythal had commissioned that for him, and he had loved her for it, because it was exactly the sort of camp he adores. He looks at the gray in his hair and his beard and smiles ruefully. He has grown too old for that flamboyance, perhaps, though he will always love a dramatic costume. But this is who he is now: a tired man, running sick in middle age, wearing muted but well-tailored robes. His head itches and he wrinkles his nose. It was popular both in Elvhenan and this strange new world for men to shave their heads; back then, it had made him anonymous. But now he is too tall, and Lavellan always told him his swagger is unmistakable. He once heard Iron Bull giggle to Dorian that he shakes his ass while he walks, which well--it is amusing that Iron Bull was looking. Solas resolves suddenly to shave his head and beard. There is no point in keeping the hair if he is still recognizable with it--yet another useless vanity, like how well-fitting his tunic and leggings are. Luckily, the barbershops of Val Royeaux are still open. They are part of the social fabric of the city and the alienage, and he stops at the first one he finds. The occupants glance at him curiously: a man reading a cheaply-printed broadsheet that he recognizes as Lavellan��s own paper, a barber carefully cutting a woman’s hair, and a half-undressed harlequin, who has taken off their cowl but not their greasepaint. Solas smiles slightly. He does enjoy what has become of Val Royeaux. The barber is talking politics, as one does. He looks up briefly to flick Solas with his eyes to the next chair. Solas sits in the chair and makes himself comfortable. He watches and listens. “Mythal knows Briala won’t be able to keep Gaspard in check for much longer,” the barber says. The woman, his customer, grunts. “Particularly with the Inquisition troops discharged. Mind, I don’t mind having those boys back in the Dales, especially since they know how to be led by an elf. Pious, sure, but not hateful. But what will they do when the guards come? What shem turns against their own kind?” “The Divine did,” the man with the broadsheet says. He folds it in half, ink on his fingers. “She restored Shartan.” The woman snorts. She sits up in her chair and pushes the barber’s hand away. Turning to him, she says, “Lovely. So we can go into the Chantry and sing Shartan’s canticle in Orlesian now, and if you want your daughter can join and spread the Maker’s light.” “Not my daughter,” the man says, amused. “She’s going to Manon’s school, and the Keeper’s college after that.” “Then you see my point,” she says. “The emptiness of the gesture. We’re allowed to worship in their spaces. What about our own? I’d believe it if she had them all singing Shartan in Dalish Tevene.” “Do you even know Dalish Tevene?” the barber snorts. “Not even those Fen’Harel types speak that.” Solas watches silently. The man with the broadsheet asks, “Which types? Fen’Harel’s Teeth or those...agents of the god? Because I’ve met Imladris Ashallin, and heard her sing it in the original--her Mahanon wrote the music, remember him?” “The god’s people.” The barber waves the scissors at him. “That cult that keeps prophesying a new Elvhenan. I’ll take the Freemen of the Dales over that nugshit. Who cares what we were two thousand years ago? If Briala doesn’t do something soon, we’re all fucked. You remember what they did to Halamshiral. I’m telling you, if you start seeing guards at the gates again--it’s time to run.” Solas crosses his legs and holds his head up. “Where?” he asks. “Where will you go if the guards block the gates? Where will you go if the fight comes your way?” The barber says, “You want a trim or a shave? Looking a little greasy, lethallin.” The harlequin suddenly gets up and heads to the back. The woman in her chair sighs and stands. She pats the back of her bobbed hair, and swings her head side to side. “Good job,” she says. “Loved the talk. Now, I’m going to head to the Vhenadahl and see if the revelry’s stopped. By now, they’ll be playing the ballads, and you know how I like to be sad.” She pays. Solas recognizes the flash of coin as a new mint. It has a Dalish mask etched onto it. He knows they are popular in the alienages across the Chantry’s remit. He knows few use them outside what passes as elvhenan. The barber says, “So. Shave? Haircut? Both?” “Both,” Solas says. “As you said yourself--I have seen better days.” He leaves the shop a few coins lighter and a copy of the broadsheet under his arm. Dawn is breaking. The wind is cool against his scraped skin. He wanders towards the center of the district, picking out narrow side streets, pondering what he has heard. The elves of Val Royeaux remember the pogroms, what the Inquisitor had called the Harrowing of Halamshiral, and he knows the emperor’s men hunt Dalish for sport when the Marquise is otherwise detained. He has had plenty of Dalish come his way, seeking justice otherwise denied to them, and though he has no plans for war with Orlais once Tevinter and the Qun are finished throttling each other, perhaps he should coach his recruits to change their approach. Religiosity certainly works amongst the slaves of Tevinter and the disenchanted of Ferelden. In Orlais, they need something more ecumenical. He has never been fond of cults, but has allowed his lieutenants to adapt to their condition as they deem fit. It is clear he must instill some sort of discipline, because this reputation has gotten well out of hand. He would rather they call them terrorists than cultists. Elvhenan will return, not from the devotion of the People, but their sheer bloody-mindedness. Dawn creeps rosy-fingered through the blue as best it could. Solas’ leg aches, a very ancient injury, and he stops to stretch. He glances worriedly upwards, anticipating rain, and then someone flings himself over his leg. Solas grabs him by the collar and steadies him onto his feet. “Ma serannas, hahren,” the young man says. “I am very drunk.” Solas is amused despite himself. “I can smell that,” he says. The boy smells very strongly of aniseed, and his collar is stained. He is carelessly good-looking, in a way that makes Solas envy his lost youth. It has been a very long time since those white nights spent carousing through Arlathan, between endless campaigns and before the last war. The drunk young man stares at him blearily. “The bald,” he says. “It suits you.” Solas laughs. “Yes,” he says. He nudges him gently forward, but the man slopes and grabs at him unsteadily. Solas instinctively takes him by his wrists. The young man licks his lips. Solas very quickly releases him, but does not back away. He does not want to give him a reason  to step closer. “You have eyes like a pride demon,” the young man says. “Do you want to get a drink?” Orlesians: Solas cannot stop himself from groaning aloud. Besides the hidden truth that Solas is at least three millennia his senior, he looks at least twice his age. Solas himself had always fished around the young, when he was a wild youth. “No,” he says. “Please sober up.” “Now you really do sound like my father,” the young man says. Solas says, “Have you ever met a man called Dorian Pavus? I do truly think you would enjoy each other.” “Ugh,” the young man says. “I am done with dread Tevenes with flighty hearts. I will--fling my emotions to the dungheap,” he demonstrates, pressing both hands to his chest and flinging them out, “and then seek passion only for passion’s sake. No intimacy, no late-night confessions, no building plans.” Solas is intrigued despite himself. Mythal would call it his insatiable appetite for gossip; Solas prefers to think it is his generous love for people, in all their forms. The drunk young man sees his interest. “Yes, for he wanted to go into business, in my own father’s house! As if my father would ever condone the match.” He feels like he has stepped into the prologue of some wonderfully silly Orlesian opera: a prodigal son, a forbidden love, and an angry father. Solas asks, “What sort of business?” The boy smiles. “Mask-making, of course. For the elves of Orlais.  To celebrate the dawn of the restoration of our natural nobility. I could make one for you, though you have such an interesting face, it’d be a shame to mask it.” He laughs, staggering back a bit. “Love and profit! What am I saying? My father would love the opportunity. True artisans, we could become. Who cares that he’s Tevene, and at least three-quarters shem? He loves me, and I might love him!” It is almost a tragedy that this boy met his “dread Tevene” rather than Master Pavus, though Solas knows he is quite happy with his occasional rendezvous with the Iron Bull. He empathizes with the boy: he has loved many people, but that has not made them partners. Love does not necessarily make a relationship steady enough to commit. He hesitates, Lavellan as always a step away from his mind. She would be utterly amused by this scene. He wishes he could tell her. She looked like she needs to laugh. “Da’len,” Solas says, “it would be better if you do than if you do not. Take what happiness you can, while this world still lasts.” “Fenhedis,” the young man says, “you’re not one of those Fen’Harel cultists, are you?” He waves a hand dismissively at him, as uniquely Orlesian as any courtier Solas spotted at court. “Go off to your reckoning, lethallin, I’ve got my life to live.” Solas says, “I truly hope you do,” and walks away. The morning has come upon him, thin and cool. Solas is irritated from lack of sleep and, he must admit, the blow to the ego this night has been. What had he expected? Lavellan always surprises him, leaving wrong-footed and reaching for excuses like he has never had before. The elves of Val Royeaux view him with disdain, and brand him a hypocrite. He has not amassed a cult. He has always avoided the worship, even when Mythal would force him to perform, and it has been a long time since he has been bound by the vallaslin. He touches his face, comfortingly smooth. Removing the brands left little scarring. What remains are his own mistakes. He has bungled the whole approach, but at least he has learned a lesson: though flamboyant and cynical like the People always were, the elves of Val Royeaux do not trust any lost promise, not like the Dalish of the Dirth, or the elves of ravaged Halamshiral. They may be doubtful of Briala, but they trust in her, even as they prepare to flee when she fails. Solas sighs. He wonders how so many have heard of his agents so quickly, and how their reputation has been so quickly established. He glances at the broadsheet he took from the barbershop. Perhaps this cheap printed pamphlet will answer his questions--and he has always enjoyed an excuse to analyze how Lavellan’s mind works. He ambles to the Vhenadahl and finds himself a table at a near-by cafe. Val Royeaux is renowned for its cafe culture, and its alienage is no exception. The waiter insists on bringing him a milky cup of java, some drink the Qunari popularized, after their expansion into Seheron, and a fresh croissant. He folds the paper and begins to read the editorial, written by the woman he unabashedly still loves: “The Dread Wolf does not lie but omits the truth. I should know. I slept with him.” He snorts. He continues to read, sipping gingerly at the cup, “We know the truth that our gods were slavers and our markings the mark of our ancestors’ slavery. But, my people, we are not our ancestors. The Dalish wear the vallaslin with Pride,” the missprint catches his eye, “because we know it is the mark of those that survived. Though he does not understand it, he has let the children of his fallen empire survive more wholly than they could have under any reformation of ancient Elvhenan. Because the people, the ordinary laboring people, who fought for their freedom to begin with, outlasted those that had bound them to their will. Shartan rose, and in constant mien’harellin the People have followed. We know that though we are occupied, we have never been truly conquered. For we are the Elvhen, and never do we submit.” Solas places the broadsheet down onto the table and slams his hand over it, angry now. He stares unseeingly at the piazza, barely registering the flowering Vhenadahl reaching taller than even the alienage walls. The slow arrow has struck, and he is the monster. Felassan clearly got around more than he assumed. Felassan knew Briala, and Briala knows Lavellan. He had never supposed them such good friends, but of course they must be strategizing together. Briala wants her Elvhenan firmly in Orlais, and Lavellan--Lavellan always has the world to save. But he does, too. She must have written it, because she folded a compliment into it. He looks at his hands and sees the ink has smeared onto them. Sighing, he dips a cloth napkin into his water and washes his hands and face. At least the croissant is fresh. At least this city is beautiful. At least she is his contemporary. The wind takes up, and he closes his eyes and breathes in the taste of the sea and petrichor. When he opens them, the rain has begun, and he draws into himself to keep warm. Solas wraps a hand around the cup and takes a sip. It is bitter, but it makes him feel better. The rain dots the flowers held in pots delineating the cafe grounds; he brushes a drop off a pansy. It is good to be alive. He does not deserve it, but it is good. The rain whispers the early morning, and Solas leans back in his chair and revels in it. He has the cafe almost entirely to himself, and the waiter approaches his table to watch others scurry from the Vhenadahl and their stoops and their balconies. Shutters close and other shutters reopen. A woman with bobbed hair glances out from one window. Solas recognizes her, she does not see him, and after surveying the piazza, she closes the window firmly. He smiles: such life, all beyond him! He supposes she found her revelry. A human man and an elvhen woman dart into the cafe. They are clearly together, but they do not touch. The man reaches for her hand when they settle at a table, her back to Solas, but he sees the woman pull the way. “What do you want?” Lavellan says. “I didn’t mean for this to turn to such shit.” Solas quietly leaves his table and pays his bill at the bar wordlessly. He leaves, knowing it would not matter if he hides his face--she has his walk memorized. He glances at their table .She is reaching for Anders’ hand now, and as he goes she looks up. His eyes meet hers but she looks away.

[houseofhurricane]

ACOTAR Fic: Bloom & Bone (13/32) | Elain x Tamlin, Lucien x Vassa

Summary: Elain lies about a vision and winds up as the Night Court’s emissary to the Spring Court, trying to prevent the Dread Trove from falling into the wrong hands and wrestling with the gifts the Cauldron imparted when she was Made. Lucien, asked to join her, must contend with secrets about his mating bond. Meanwhile, Tamlin struggles to lead the Spring Court in the aftermath of the war with Hybern. And Vassa, the human queen in their midst, wrestles with the enchantment that turns her into a firebird by day, robbing her of the power of speech and human thought. Looming over all of them is uniquet peace in Prythian and the threat of Koschei, the death-god with unimaginable power. With powers both magical and monstrous, the quartet at the Spring Court will have to wrestle with their own natures and the evil that surrounds them. Will the struggle save their world, or doom it?

A/N: This chapter includes descriptions of physical and emotional abuse towards Vassa. If you find this potentially troubling or triggering to read, I'm providing a summary of the chapter at the very end of this chapter, so that you're able to skip it and keep following along with the story. You can find all previous chapters here, or read Bloom & Bone on AO3. If you'd like to get an early peek at chapter 11 and all future chapters, follow me on Instagram at @house.of.hurricane. Thank you for reading! ❤️

When Koschei claims her, the fire rages in Vassa’s veins, threatening to consume her. She hates that Lucien’s last impression of her will be the screaming of a wretched, frightened woman, but in those last moments in the Spring Court, Vassa is certain that Koschei will turn her body into filaments of bloody flesh. She can feel her flesh separating from bone.

When she opens her eyes again, she is back at the lake and Koschei looms over her, silhouetted against the full moon. The only indication that any time has passed is the white gossamer gown that Koschei has always dressed her in, translucent even in the moonlight.

“You put up quite a fight, my darling,” he says, nearly purring the endearment. Bile rises in her throat. Before, he never touched her except to strike. He’d never called her darling. “I had to force you to sleep for days. And you will notice that the enchantment on you is more tightly wound than before. After all, I was asked to keep you from escaping.”

“Briallyn is dead. The rest of the queens have left their thrones behind. Who still binds you?” She imagines herself in the throne room. It’s the only way she can keep her voice level.

“You’ll find I always keep my promises, little bird. Unlike your ragtag group of friends. You should know that they have not appeared to try and claim you.”

“I told them not to rescue me,” Vassa says, injecting as much fire in her words as she can bear. Inside she still feels ragged, every joint and sinew sore and tender, though her skin is still unmarked, the moonlight making her skin unnaturally pale, even against the white gown. An image, her golden brown hand on Lucien’s bronzed arm, the way they were shining and alive together, streaks across her mind. She banishes the thought quickly. Vassa has never been sure if Koschei can read her mind, especially now in this weakened state.

“Surely you are scheming,” the death-lord says, curling a finger and using it to raise her chin so that she’s forced to meet those depthless eyes, “but I will warn you, your cadre will not find me quite the fragile opponent that plagues this world.”

“Why am I so important to you?” she asks, forcing herself to meet his gaze, to keep from looking away. Best to keep him talking. Maybe then he’ll reveal a key part of his strength or magic, maybe somehow she’ll be able to pass it on to Lucien and he will know what to do, will know whether the words are sincere or a carefully baited trap.

But Koschei only gives a little smirk and turns away from her, sweeping his cloak in a gesture she knows means she is to follow.

Vassa had always been dimly aware of her relative weakness as a human, but now, unable to remember what has happened, unable to free herself, unable to focus on her goal with the same single-minded passion she’d had during her first captivity, she feels weak as a wet piece of paper, ready to dissolve at the faintest touch. She’d trained with a sword, once, gave speeches that brought her people to their knees. But no words can save her now, and even if she had a sword, what use would it be against a magic so powerful that none of the fae in this world could find a way to overcome it?

It was a hard lesson to a woman trained to be a queen, but in her first captivity, she learned how to be powerless, how to bide her time. So Vassa heaves herself to her feet with as much grace as her throbbing joints will allow and follows Koschei.

The sorcerer is bound to this lake, so Vassa has never been sure how he manages such a richly appointed table, more elegant than anything she has witnessed in her own court or in Prythian. The food, too, is exquisite, and though she is worried it has been drugged, after three days without a meal, she wolfs down everything so artfully arranged on her gilded plates, trying not to notice the gleam in Koschei’s dark eyes.

When she begins to feel sleepy, Vassa hopes it is merely the effect of being sated, the wine she drank. Koschei did drug her before, in those first days when she had not yet realized the futility of fighting him. After a week, the helplessness was enough to break her. Still, she thinks, as a heavy unconsciousness claims her, this means he thinks she can escape. That somehow, in some way she still cannot parse, the death-lord is vulnerable.

She wakes submerged in the dark waters of the lake, weeds clinging to her ankles, her lungs burning, and Vassa barely has the strength to hoist herself to the surface, pushing the water away from her body until she can gasp in the air. Above her, the stars are brighter than she’s ever seen.

Taking in the beauty as she paddles to shore, Vassa thinks of Elain. A peace that is nurtured by beauty, the legacy she’d wanted. At the time it had seemed a lovely wish, if a little anemic, the kind of thing that girls dream of. But now, as Vassa watches the stars fill the great dome of the sky, glittering above her, she thinks that maybe Elain knew all along, the necessity of this wish. If all along she was lost in her pragmatism, while Elain Archeron, the sweet-faced gardener, was the one who really saw the world.

She does not know if she will ever see Elain again.

She’s still not sure why Koschei let her leave with Gabriel Archeron, though Vassa has wondered if Hybern’s magic, their command of the cauldron, was too great a threat for even the death-lord to allow. But perhaps, in spite of all his promises, Koschei will let her go, or perhaps Lucien in all his cleverness will find a plan, and Elain will wield whatever fearsome gift is inside her, and Tamlin will storm the gates alongside them, the sword under which all their cleverness and strategy can thrive. Her companions at the Spring Court could be the stuff of legends, she decides, if only they’d realize their own capabilities. Perhaps this is nostalgia, but still it glows inside her, an ember of hope.

It’s this hope that allows Vassa to steel herself for the dinner with Koschei, that keeps her from fully slaking the growling hunger inside her. So that she pretends to fall into the drugged sleep early, her limbs sprawled heavy on the table, her face on the half-laden plate for effect. She knocks over the wine and worries this is one flourish too many, but once she’s really evened her breathing, Koschei begins to croon over her. The tone, which reminds her of her fellow queens exclaiming over babies and puppies, makes her skin crawl, but she cannot understand what he’s saying, the language unlike anything she’s ever heard on this earth. She wills her muscles to stay relaxed. Even a twitch will give her away.

Without warning, he picks her up by the back of her dress, the delicate seams digging into her skin, and flings her across the room.

For a small eternity, Vassa is in the air. Eyes closed, she tries to keep herself from panicking, from anticipating the fall.

When she hits the wall, and then the ground, the pain in her head is bright in her eyes, an explosion of pain that shoots through her body. The food she ate rises, burning, in her throat. Her joints are clanging. All the while, she tries not to make a sound, to keep her breathing low and even, though each breath is its own sharp pang.

Boots cross the room. Will he kick her next? Is this what Koschei does every night?

Somehow Vassa wills herself to stay still, nearly relaxed. She wanted to know what was happening to her. If he continues with a beating, eventually she will lose consciousness, but at least she will not be some limp doll with only a few precious moments of clarity, of starlight and beauty and memory.

But Koschei does not kick her.

Instead, he crouches down by her.

“I know you’re awake,” he murmurs, his voice so gentle it could belong to another person, not the sorcerer who flung her across a room as if to shatter her, “I am at least a bit more clever than you think I am, little bird.”

She stays quiet. Koschei has never rewarded reluctant obedience.

“Do you know what I think? I think those faeries convinced you of their friendship and now you mean to spy for them. Perhaps that’s why you offered so little resistance when you felt my call. I want to believe you missed me, but as I said, I am not quite as foolish as you believe.”

His fingers are on her face, tracing her cheekbone, the line of her jaw. The pad of his thumb presses into her bottom lip.

Lucien touched her like this, only a few days ago. Your lips are perfect for kissing, he’d said, how is it that they’re so soft?

“I smell that faerie on you, Vassa,” Koschei says, obliterating her thoughts. His voice approximates a song. “I know you took him into your bed. Did you think the fire would burn off my enchantment? Or did you know that your lover’s true father is known across this world for his acumen at breaking spells? Did you think they would find a way to free you?”

He brushes his thumb against the seam of her mouth, so lightly that her lips do not part.

“The creatures of this world are weak. I would have thought you’d know better by now.”

Vassa does not whimper or cry out, only waits for him to speak again, to strike or violate her. She will be limp as a doll, she tells herself, a dead weight in his hands.

Instead, there is silence for one laden moment, then another. She hears the sound of his boots on the floor, walking away.

Then he turns back. Before Vassa can register the sound of his quickened steps, his booted foot is at her stomach and his fingers are in her hair and once again, she’s flying.

This time, oblivion claims her before the pain.

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Vassa wakes up inside the firebird. The world is still alive, the water of the lake spangled with rainbows and the afternoon sun, and the absence of pain is a miracle. She tries to remember why she is so glad to notice all these things but she cannot remember. Instead she wonders why the lake is empty, why the other birds scatter when she draws near.

Why, if she has wings, does she not fly?

This time, when the sun dips below the horizon, Vassa’s mind is ready and she swims to shore before the fabric of her dress is soaked through. The pain from the previous night’s assault has vanished from her head and her stomach, her back and her shoulder, even in this form. She realizes that perhaps more than a day has passed, that it could have been weeks since she was last conscious. Somehow this possibility is more appealing than Koschei healing the damage while she was incapacitated. Even when there’s magic involved, a healer needs to put his hands on the patient, skin to skin.

When she hoists herself up on the bank, Koschei looms over her.

“How was your day?” he asks, as if they were completely different people in completely different circumstances, friends parted for a day by their respective obligations.

Vassa is careful to modulate her voice so that it’s all sweetness.

“Did you know that birds can see more than humans?”

“I have heard the shapeshifters among the High Fae make such a comment, but I suspect their own vision is relatively weak. Particularly if they’re devising artificial eyes.”

She takes a deep breath of the evening air to buy herself a bit of time to think, notes the chill of autumn beginning to creep into the summer evening. Soon, the water of the lake will be frigid and she will have to stay in her right mind if she wants to avoid swimming those waters when winter comes.

Koschei misinterprets her silence as acquiescence and holds out his hand to her.

He does not decide what her gestures mean. It’s what she tells herself as she grips his palm with her cold fingers, allows him to pull her upright. When he turns away from her toward his home, she follows without comment.

Let him think she’s already broken, she thinks with a little smirk, trying to keep from tripping on the sodden skirts that cling to her ankles.

Koschei passes his entry hall, the dining room, leads her deeper into the house, further than Vassa would expect the walls to extend based on the outer dimensions of the structure. He ascends a spiralling staircase, passing the hallways to two shadowed floors, then leads her to a landing that would be beautiful in the day, with high windows and wooden floors that would gleam red-gold in the sunlight. The color of her own hair.

But this moment of enjoyable vanity is destroyed when Koschei stops, gestures with elegantly pointed fingers at an open door. The room lit with candles is a bedroom, the bed large and inviting.

During her first captivity, she slept outside, under the stars. Even the freezing nights were preferable to this implicit threat. Nausea rises through her, the remembrance of those fingers caressing her face. She tries to keep these thoughts from appearing on her face, knows that she’s probably failing. Her queen’s training only preserved a certain lack of respect, not the threat of capture or abuse or even rape. Her tutors did not prepare her for this scenario when they taught her how to modulate her voice.

“I only thought that you would like to change into a dry gown before dinner,” he says, his voice a perfect simulacrum of charm.

“And deny you the pleasure of drying the fabric through your own magic?”

“I am given to think that you human women detect such interventions as unpleasant. Unless you have learned otherwise during your time in Prythian.”

She thinks of Lucien, the way he’d warm his hands or feet so that he never caused her a single shiver of cold, only of pleasure.

“I learned many things in Prythian,” she says, trying to keep the expression from her voice. “Will you wait for me, or should I meet you at the table?”

“Are you planning on escaping through the window?”

“I’m sure you’ve already considered this possibility and warded the room.”

He smiles at her, runs his tongue along his pointed teeth. She has to work to hold her resolve. There is a benefit in letting an enemy think he has won. Even if it feels like a real loss.

“Join me at the dinner table. I expect that you will not linger unduly.”

She nods, dips into a curtsy for good measure, then waits until she hears him pass the second landing before entering the room. Quickly, quietly, she opens every drawer, looking for a weapon, a document, anything that could help, but there are only washcloths and cosmetics and jewels and perfumes and handkerchiefs and underthings. Because of course what she needs most at this moment is a functional corset.

She does not, cannot, ask herself how Koschei acquired so many items of a woman’s toilette. At best he summoned them to himself with whatever magic populates his flawless table. The worst options will wreck her utterly.

On the bed lies the dinner gown, sumptuous in a deep green velvet, no adornment but a line of pearls at the wide collar, which she knows will glow against her skin. The gossamer gowns are for virginal princesses. This is a dress that a queen wears when addressing her subjects.

She lets her sodden dress and underthings fall to the floor with a wet slap. The velvet is heavy enough that she does not bother with undergarments. They will only leave her itchy and haunted by the women who wore them before her, why Koschei kept them prisoner and how he managed to make their lives miserable.

In all her time with Koschei, she’s never seen another woman. Only the sorcerer, until Gabriel Archeron negotiated her freedom.

Nevertheless, and perhaps it is only her imagination, but Vassa swears that she can feel the spirits of these unknown women around her while she fastens jewels around her neck and in her earlobes, arranges her hair into a coronet. Their spirits gild the air around her when she fashions a stiff necklace into a diadem that’s pleasantly cool against her forehead. She has never liked bracelets or rings, which have always felt constraining, especially after Koschei, but when she looks at herself in the mirror, she looks passably queenlike. She even manages to muster a haughty expression, the kind that would send Lucien rolling his eyes at her whenever she aimed it towards him in the bedroom. A traitorous clutch of hope pounds in her heart, just at the idea of him.

I believe you will find a way to free me, she thinks in his direction, hoping one of the clustered spirits will pass the message. Their presence does not scare her. They have not assembled to do her harm.

Finally, heaving a deep breath into her lungs, Vassa exits the room, descends the winding staircase until she’s in Koschei’s lavish dining room.

Koschei is alone at the table, angling a goblet of wine to his lips.

“You look lovely, little queen,” he says, rising as she walks toward the table. He pulls out a chair for her, brushing a kiss to her temple.

For a second, his beard snags on the chain of her diadem, and Vassa forces herself to smother a smile, her first in days. Then she forces the hair free and sinks into her chair, letting her palms sprawl on the arms, the way she’d sit on her throne, the youngest and most willful of the seven queens who ruled the human realms of this world. With her people she was all easy grins and drawling delivery, witty and clever and sure, but with six other queens, Vassa knew enough to keep herself in check, to hide the whirling of her brain behind flawless manners.

She eats the food before her, her bites demure and chewed in silence, and eventually Koschei begins to speak about nothing in particular, the harvest in a nearby village and the berries of the forest, the signs which predict the weather in the coming days and seasons. Vassa sips her wine and makes encouraging little sounds in the back of her throat, watching for the small detail that will signal disaster.

This evening is practically a kindness coming from Koschei. His kindness is always suspect.

Vassa waits for a drugged sleep to claim her, but the meal continues the way a state dinner does, a new course periodically revealed as the most boring guest drones on and on about subjects that interest him only. Luckily, Vassa has had years of practice at smiling and nodding while crucial diplomatic relations can crumble over the improper acceptance of a compliment.

When dessert is finished, along with the smallest sip of port Vassa can manage, Koschei says, “I would like to offer you a room to sleep in, as a symbol of my faith in you.”

“That is a great kindness,” she manages to say, though all her senses are screaming.

“It would not do, if you were to sleep outside in the coming days. The nights are growing colder and colder. I would hate to see you freeze. Do you know what happens to a human body in such conditions?”

She expects him to continue speaking but he looks at her as if he expects to answer. She lets her eyes widen, as if the thought is too horrible to consider, as if he himself has not flung her across the room and allowed her bones to fracture.

“Believe me, little bird, you do not want to experience this pain. I insist you take the room.”

How she makes herself murmur a thank-you, Vassa will never know.

She climbs the stairs slowly, turning to look over her shoulder, but Koschei does not follow. When she reaches the room at the top of the staircase, she removes her jewels, pulls the blanket from the bed, and wedges herself against the closed door.

“If you have any ghost-magic, I would appreciate your protection,” Vassa whispers to the spirits that thicken the air of the room.

There is no silence. There is also no attack.

Vassa wakes into the gray pre-dawn, and manages to make her way outside before the world, her mind, all dissolve into a haze of colors and movement which overwhelm her thoughts completely.

The next few weeks fall into this routine: a new dress for every dinner, Koschei’s endless small talk, peppered with increasing yet innocuous questions about her mundane preferences and youthful memories, and a night spent curled on the floor with her back to the door, sleeping and yet alert to every sigh and creak of the house in case it’s an alert to Koschei’s presence. He never comes, and Vassa never feels more feral than in those half-dozing hours, when she realizes the way animals must sleep in the wild. Luckily she’s able to sleep on the lake as the firebird, which she realizes as her human mind learns once again how to work within the confines of the bird’s mind.

One night, when Vassa is preparing herself for dinner, there is a voice inside her mind.

Have you seen my sister? The voice sounds like Elain but with more gravity. Feyre.

You know I am a captive, don’t you?

Elain wants to rescue you more than anything. She and Lucien. I am worried they have made some terrible decisions in the course of pursuing your safety.

A death-lord holds me as his captive, High Lady, she says, not bothering to hide the derision in her voice. Once, she’d asked Feyre to free her. She’s not convinced that Feyre took her plea seriously. She’s heard the stories, of course, which tell of Feyre Cursebreaker, who, as a human, bargained for Tamlin’s life against Amarantha. Her trials and the torture she endured before she was reborn as High Fae have become legend, to the point where Vassa wonders how much is true, or if Feyre has given up the memories of her experience. Because if she endures this, if she ever leaves Koschei, there will be no women in captivity in her lands, no girls locked in strange rooms at the behest of men.

We are working on a plan to rescue you.

But you have lost Elain and probably Lucien, as well.

A silence, and then a sound like a sigh, so deep it’s nearly a groan.

Is he… harming you?

At first. Now he is being too kind.

There’s a silence. Vassa doesn’t know if Feyre understands or thinks she is being ridiculous. She has never been more aware of all her weakness than in this moment, when she cannot so much as parse a simple mental conversation.

We will rescue you.

There are only a few moments before Koschei will be suspicious, so Vassa decides to blurt out everything she knows. Let Feyre and her court work out the implications.

Lucien is working on parsing the spell that binds me. He’s working with Helion in the Day Court. And your sister -- I cannot detect power the way the fae do, but your sister is much stronger than you think. Koschei knows about her powers, probably more than you do. He will want her at his side.

Has he mentioned Elain to you?

Not yet. He doesn’t trust me with much information. She blows out a breath, fogging the mirror so that she’s only the red mass of hair and golden skin, the heavy purple folds of her dress. I am late to dinner and I am sure he will detect this conversation.

I’ll erase it behind you.

When you see your sister, tell her she was right about beauty. And Lucien has not betrayed you. I think Lucien is the best male in all of Prythian.

There’s a tug at her chest, the harness of the spell pulled tight.

I’m being summoned, she thinks toward Feyre, and then, as she descends the stairs, Vassa begins to wonder why it is that, despite the perfect ordinariness of the day, she feels a spark of hope inside her like a flower unfurling its petals.

Dinner with Koschei is a little quieter than usual, and Vassa finds herself worrying that Koschei will notice the difference in her, the lightness. As usual, she makes sure to keep quiet, hum her acquiescence in between careful bites.

“It is not so terrible being here, is it?” he says, when the plates of their entree have vanished and the dessert has not yet appeared. She longs to reach for her glass of wine.

“The forest is lovely in autumn,” she responds in a voice like honey, keeping her barb well-cloaked. “There’s a certain angle of the light that is quite beautiful at this time of year.”

He scoffs a little, the smile on his lips revealing the points of his teeth. Whatever Koschei was in the world of his origin, he was never meant to have an endearing grin.

“I am speaking of this life you have, every night. The dinners and dresses, the well-appointed room. You would like it to continue?”

She wants to say you know I am a captive, don’t you? The words feel familiar but she knows they are not safe in this place.

“You keep the finest table I’ve ever known, Koschei.” She meets his eyes when she says this, tries to make them earnest as she offers this one tiny pleasant truth.

“There is so much more I could offer you, little queen.”

He leans toward her, across the table, reaches out her hand. Vassa allows him to clutch her fingers. He runs his thumb against her fingertips, his skin against hers. She does not wince. She forces her face into a pleasant expression.

“Tell me more.” She cannot say what are you talking about. She will not be able to make the words sound pleasant.

“I could make you my wife and queen.” His thumb is on her wrist, the dip at the base of her palm where her pulse thrums. “Forget Scythia, Vassa. You could rule over all the human lands. The whole of this world.”

“And what would be left for you?”

She cannot keep the fear from her voice, but Koschei does not seem to mind. He regales her with another smile, a predator’s expression.

“There are other worlds, my little queen. Soon I will enter them as ruler.”

Vassa is too stunned even to attempt a correction to the posessive. At some point, her hand falls to the table, empty.

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CHAPTER THIRTEEN SUMMARY

Vassa is imprisoned by Koschei at the lake. She is barely conscious in her firebird form, and is physically abused by Koschei when she's awake. Still, despite the abuse and the fact that as a human queen she is in every way outmatched, she tries to keep fighting. Vassa becomes seemingly acquiescent to Koschei but stays alert for any apparent weakness, though she begins to despair. After a short time, Koschei begins to show kindness to Vassa, offering her a new gown every evening and a room in his house which she's never seen, which is inhabited by the spirits of other women. She is afraid that Koschei will drug and/or assault her, but instead he offers her dinner and shelter. After a few weeks of this confusing treatment, Feyre speaks into Vassa's mind, looking for the missing Elain and Lucien, and promising a rescue, a promise that Vassa doubts. At dinner that same night, Koschei offers to marry Vassa and make her queen of this world, with himself as the ruler of every realm. Horrified, she does not answer him.

[henryobsessed]

The Widow and The Witcher Chapter 22

Summery: Geralt and Julia are on there Honeymoon away from the safety of the Estate and the accepting people of Wolnosci.

Word Count:   2715 

A/N  special thanks to my Husband who said the story needed another fight scene and to my brother in law who suggested the Basilisk that was often found in the caves near Kear Morhen. :)

Chapter 22

Geralt was enjoying the quiet as they made their way North. Originally, he had wanted to take Julia to Toussaint, but the war-ravaged areas south of Wolnosci were too dangerous to travers. So instead he decided to take her to Kear Morhen, the place where he had grown up. Yes, there were bad memories that hid amongst the rooms at his home, but over the years many good memories were also forged, and it was a beautiful place.

They had travelled well into the afternoon and Geralt had found a nice clearing to spend their first night on the road. Checking the area to make sure they would have no surprises he returned to find Julia leaning against a fallen tree trunk. A warm fire blazing in front of her. He just stood admiring her as the flames illuminated the highlights in her hair, and the soft smile that turned up just at the sides of her lips as she concentrated intently on something she was making. How this woman made his arms ache to hold her, and his heartbreak at the thought of her ever leaving him. Stepping forward he deliberately broke a branch underfoot to alert her to his presence. She looked up as Geralt strode purposely towards her the small smile faltering before breaking into a wide grin that lit up her eyes as she recognized who it was.

Unable to be without her in his arms any longer he sat down beside her leaning back against the tree trunk and pulled her into his lap. She giggled lightly placing the food aside that was in her hands she turned looking at his now whisker covered face and scolded Geralt "Hey you'll ruin dinner" not really caring about the dinner he lowered his lips to claim hers wanting to satisfy another kind of hunger, one that had been put off for too long.

Julia's mind was losing the battle, she wanted to follow through with her plans of making a nice dinner for her husband. She had remembered from her days camping with her family some simple recipes and was eager to show Geralt that she could cook as well as heal. Right now, however his soft lips had claimed hers and the deeper the kiss the less she though about the food, and the more her body was responding to his. She felt his hands caressing, searching looking to release her of her clothing, reminding her of their wedding night however this time there was no nervousness. Keeping the kiss connected she Lifted up the hem of her garment and shifted herself to straddle her strong warrior.

At the connection of their bodies Geralt groaned as he felt his wife's nimble fingers undoing his laces, lightly grazing his growing need. She pulled away from his kiss and looked longingly into his eyes, the depth of love and joying speaking volumes from the deepening pools of her eyes. That look told him more than any words ever could, she was his and he was hers and for the rest of their lives together they would seek to show each other that love.

Later that night they reclined together in front of the fire. Relaxed and enjoying the simple bread and meat meal that Julia had made. The night sky was full of stars, that Julia could see as she looked up through the trees. She had missed this part of camping, the business and noise of her daily life replaced with the sounds of owls hooting, crickets and frogs singing their songs and the odd wolf howling in the far-off distance. She was relaxed here protected in the strong warm arms of her husband. Placing her hands on his stomach she sighed and said in a lazy soft voice "I love this Geralt, the serenity of nature, just you and me. Most of all I love you." her hands tracing the outlines of his muscles she saw a small rippling effect as he sighed contented and replied in his own husky deep voice "I love you too Julia"

The next morning Julia awoke snuggled into a warm pillow, the pillow moved as Geralt took each breath. He was awake too looking up at the first rays of the sun streaking through the sky. His soft gravelly voice whispered through the clearing "Good Morning my love, how did you sleep?" as his arms wrapped possessively around her waist pulling her closer into him. Enjoying their closeness Julia just murmured not creating a usable word. Chuckling Geralt shifted so they could look at each other. "We should make a move soon if we want to get to Flotsam Inn by night fall, sleeping under the stars is lovely but I want a warm bath tonight." Julia grinned at the thought, she really didn't want to have to wash in the cold waters of the Pontar river. Leaving the warmth and security of his arms Julia stood up and gathered some food from the saddles. Thank fully Nessie had provided easy travel food oat bars, banana's and biscuits to keep them going as they packed up and headed further North.

The day was long and lazy as Geralt show Julia the beautiful land to the north. She had never travelled this far and was enjoying being a tourist. As they neared Flotsam Inn though the feelings of enjoyment faded. She had forgotten that unlike Wolnosci many humans disliked Witcher's. She now however could feel the curiosity, distrust, and fear as they passed through the different towns as people kept staring at them Julia realised this is what Geralt had been experiencing most of his life. I was soul destroying, she had always had warmth, acceptance and love even when she travelled in her early years their family had been accepted.

After they moved through Biaey Most Geralt had stopped and change into his cloak hoping to hide who he was so that Julia would not have to experience people's prejudice. He had been spoilt in Wolnosci; He had not forgotten what this was like, but he could feel it more knowing that Julia was being subjected to it as well. Hoping that Flotsam would not be as bad they headed towards their night's accommodation. Dismounting at the Inn, Geralt took Julia's hand in his, her warmth gave his comfort as they headed indoors.

Julia had visited inn's before, the smell of Ale, the laughter and music, but this was different again. The sound of women's and men laughter was floating on the breeze from a stairwell that lead to a lower floor and on this level, there were men singing and laughing as they lifted their mugs in salutes. Geralt spoke to the bar keeper and after he was pointed to another flight of stairs that went up he had turned around to Julia an unreadable look on his face as he took her hand and lead her upstairs. At the top of the stairs Geralt led her to a door and unlocking it made their way inside. It was simple, a queen bed on one side, a fire on the other and a long bathtub sitting close to the fire. Geralt turned to her and said with concern "I'm sorry Julia, I forgot"

Geralt was kicking himself. It had been so long since he had been to Flotsam Inn that he had forgotten that it was also a brothel. The sounds of music, dancing and more could be heard through the thin walls and he was horrified that he had bought his beloved into this place. He could tell by her face that she had not cottoned onto what kind of establishment they were in. Could he just pretend and hope that they could sleep and then leave without her realising? She smiled as her face turned to the bath and walked over and filled the two metal jugs sitting beside the bath with water from within the bath then sat them beside the fire to heat. A sound of groaning and a loud squeal of laughter came floating though the wall, at this Julia's face turned back to Geralt a look of surprise crossing her features as Geralt groaned he was not going to live this one down.

That night after they had both had a long bath and were now cuddled in the bed, Julia giggled again into Geralt's chest remembering the red blush that had crept up into his face as he described where he had bought them for the second night of there Honeymoon. She had worked out something was different when the sounds became less laughter and singing and more moaning as they night had grown closer to midnight. Geralt had been mortified trying to apologise and Julia had found it endearing that he had wanting to protect her innocence. She was not worried as a healer she had met many different people and although she did not want to make a habit of staying in places like this she was grateful for the hot bath, clean room and warm soft bed.

Keeping her ear to his heartbeat to drown out the noise she asked "Geralt can you tell me a story, one of your adventures?" His deep chuckle became the only sound she could hear as he began telling her about how he had saved Cirilla's father who at the time was enchanted as a hedgehog. His deep voice filled her ears and lulled her into sleep with images of sward fights, magic and a child surprise who was now her daughter.

Early the next morning they had left Flotsam Inn, the images of half-dressed ladies sitting around the tables eating their breakfast still floated around Julia's mind. She could never imagine being in a situation that would leave her with that as the only option of survival. Grateful to her father and her husband for providing for her and then for her mother who gave her a skill that she could always use to support herself no matter what happened.

Together Geralt and Julia spent the next four nights sleeping under the stars not willing to try another Inn but enjoying the peace and gentle noises of the forests. On the fifth night before reaching Kear Morhen the weather had turned bad with a storm moving through. To take shelter they had found a cave. They sheltered near to mouth of the cave as Geralt was not comfortable going further in as an unease settling around them. Unable to make a fire Geralt held Julia close their body the only thing to keep them warm as their clothes and blankets were soaked.

Julia noticed Geralt's unease and as the night went on she noticed his silver medallion started to vibrate remembering the same action when she was a child Julia not making a move asked in a very quiet voice "Geralt, are we sharing the cave with a monster?" all Geralt could do was hum quietly while he thought out a plan. Unsure what he was about to face he quietly put his hand into his side satchel. The only elixirs he had was the Golden Oriole, and Cat Elixir hoping that he would not need anything else picking each one up and opening the bottles with his teeth he drank them down. For a moment he realised Julia will be seeing him with his cat eyes but knowing he needed to protect her he stood and decided to go on the offensive rather than wait for the monster to come to him. Silver sword in hand he bent down and kissed Julia on the head "wait for me, if sounds get louder head into the trees just there and be alert, I love you" Julia whispered back "I Love you too" as Geralt headed deeper into the cave.

Julia waited, listened and did all she could not to panic as the sound of a bird like screech pierced the night. If she was to accompany Geralt on hunts she would have to get used to this. Granted they would be more prepared right now Geralt had no idea what he would face. Doing the only thing she could Julia started praying, and prepared herself to help Geralt in whatever state she found him in. The sound grew louder and in an instant, she jumped up and ran for the trees as Geralt had instructed. Just as she turned around, she saw Geralt run out of the cave and with a movement of his hand it looked like a bolt of flames flew towards the creature coming at him. The creature flapped its wings and tried to slash at Geralt while Geralt returned with his own sward parries.

The Beast had a birdlike beak, webbed wings, hooked talons and had crimson skin hanging from its neck. If she would hazard a guess it looked like a dragon but Geralt would never harm a Dragon. When they were reading of the monsters in the library, he had said time and again that dragons were endangered intelligent creatures to be protected. While she watched him fight, the creature hovered up as if to fly towards him, but with a flick of his fingers another bolt of fire flew at the beast causing it to drop back down. and Geralt used his silver sword to attack. In her mind the fight was slow, and her mind was working slower trying to remember which monster this was, surly they had talked about it. A picture came to mind the red skin hanging from the neck, the beak like face it hit Julia so Quick that she whispered out loud "it's a Basilisk" also remembering there talons were not there greatest defense but a Poison they shoot at there prey. She prayed the Golden Oriole would be enough to protect Geralt.

Julia watched helplessly from the trees as a cloud of spray hit Geralt in the face, slightly blinded the beast came at him again slashing at his torso. Holding in a scream Julia huddled by the tree continuing to pray. Geralt swiped at his eyes and made another sign with his fingers once more fire flew at the beast this time it was so shaken that it did not see the silver sward as it came down on its neck severing its head from its body. The best dropped fully to the ground as Geralt also collapsed. As she looked from behind the tree, she was the beast was dead, seeing Geralt laying on the ground she ran towards him. The poison coated his body, she knew she could not touch him. Looking around she saw the horses and their canteens hanging from the saddles, quickly she ran grabbing both canteens and also her shoulder bag containing her elixirs. Grateful she had packed them she ran back to Geralt.

Watching him carefully, Julia poured the first canteen of water over the wound on his torso it cleared the substance away from the wound. Hoping it was clean enough she grabbed an elixir and poured it over the area. It bubbled and hisses, seeing it was cleaning the dirt and toxins out of the wound and reducing the bleeding she breathed a sigh. She then placed a piece of cloth over it to protect the wound. Geralt groaned looking up at her his eyes looking more like cat eyes but still she could see the pain reflected there as his body fought the toxins. He tried to move but she placed a hand on his clean forehead the only place not covered in the stick substance. "Shh my love don't move" he laid his head back down, his breathing labored as the pain seemed to take his consciousness as he passed out. There was little left she could do, she needed more water, she needed help to move him to a safe place. Making one more desperate petition to her unnamed God two things happened, she heard a voice call out and the heavens open.  

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