#because tumble hates me just linking to AO3

[4st4rion]

some close proximity

ao3 link

just over 1k; astarion is in a bad mood, u make him feel better, kissing ensues. second person pov (astarion x you) and fully gender neutral. mild act 3 spoilers!

Astarion has been in a bad mood all day, and, frankly, you're fucking sick of it.

You don't confront him in front of everyone, because you're not an asshole, but you wait until it's just the two of you left in your rooms at the Elfsong, everyone else gone to have dinner and drink downstairs.

He's about to leave, too, but you stop him with a hand on his arm.

"Astarion," you say, hoping it comes off as gently as possible.

He whips around, brows furrowed together in an angry expression.

"What?"

You raise your eyebrows at him. He's really in a bad mood if he's being this short with his own lover.

"Astarion," you repeat, firmly this time. "What's going on with you today?"

A hundred emotions war over his face — first it's the anger at being called out, then denial that anything is wrong, then guilt and regret for snapping at you, and his eyes avoid your own as he heaves a dramatic sigh.

"Nothing," he lies, in that near-hysterical pitch he has when he's worked up. "We're only lingering in my ex-master's hunting grounds, staying at the tavern I used to hunt," he says. "How could I possibly be anything but ecstatic to hang around?"

You frown.

"Is that what it is?" you ask, ignoring the part of you that wants to get defensive about his tone with you. "Astarion, you're safe with us," you remind him, taking his hand and holding it intently. "None of us would let any harm come to you."

He flinches like he's going to pull his hand away, but decides not to.

"How do you know?" he mutters, still not looking at you. "Cazador himself could come find us any night."

"He'd be a fool to," you hum. "You're surrounded by allies, and you're no longer under his control."

You squeeze his hand.

"Cazador is probably cowering right now, afraid of his own death, knowing we're in the city," you say, and that almost gets Astarion to smirk.

"I'm sure he's shitting himself," Astarion says sarcastically, but you roll with it.

"And pissing, too," you add. "He's running out of pants from how often he's shitting and pissing himself."

That, stupid as it is, makes Astarion laugh.

He glances at you, then scoffs, still smiling.

"I hate that you make me feel better," he admits, winding his fingers around yours. "Little shit."

You smile back.

"I'm your little shit, though," you say, before you can consider whether you should or not, and he goes still.

"Are you?" he asks, softly. Cautiously.

"A little shit?" you ask, giving you both the chance to escape this conversation, but he only laughs one amused huff.

"No," he says. "Are you? Mine?"

The look in his eyes is dangerous; you want to pull him into a kiss and never stop, give him anything and everything, let the world melt around you in favor of giving yourself to him, body and mind and soul.

"Maybe," you say, trying to sound coy but sounding nervous, instead.

The hand that isn't in yours comes to up pet you, his thumb running over your cheekbone and your lower lip before he leans in to kiss you. It's as intoxicating as ever, and you let yourself relax as the two of you kiss over and over in your shared room.

Your free hand holds him at his hip, first, then at his waist, pulling him in until the two of you are flush together. He won't stop kissing you, stealing your breath away and swallowing anything you may have to say about the situation.

"Are you mine?" he asks again, once you're flustered and weak in the knees.

You swallow thickly.

"Might be," you admit, but it's not what he wants to hear — his hands leave you to guide you by your hips, back until your legs meet your comfortable daybed and you tumble down onto the mattress.

He climbs on top of you, and you'd compare him to a predator if he wasn't giggling quietly to himself as he bullies between your legs. You can't help but laugh, too, because it's a little ridiculous, isn't it? You've been together, been something, since you helped the tieflings at Emerald Grove, fighting side by side and barely ever apart — it should be easy enough to admit that you're his.

He pulls your shirt off of you and sets to laying kisses down your neck and chest, paying extra attention just under your ear until you know there's going to be a lovebite worried into your skin.

"Bastard," you mutter, but he only laughs again.

"Everyone already knows we're together," he reasons. "I might as well mark you."

His words send something hot creeping under your skin. You'd like that, you think — being marked as belonging to someone. How different is a lovebite from a wedding ring, when you think about it? Or a collar, or a scar? It's a symbol of ownership, isn't it?

"Don't tempt me to do the same," you threaten, even though that thought sends something even hotter through you. He'd look good with a ring of bruises bitten around his neck, outlines of your teeth indented in his skin.

He bites at your neck, not drawing blood but not gently, and it startles a quiet noise out of you.

"Tell me you are mine," he says this time, and you can't deny it any longer.

"I'm yours," you sigh, as his teeth make themselves at home in your neck.

"Only mine," he growls, and you laugh. You've certainly been getting hit on a lot lately, yeah; between the Emperor shooting his shot and having to stop Halsin from confessing his feelings, it's no surprise he's feeling possessive.

"Only yours," you purr. You drape your arms over his shoulders and pull him closer, arching against him to press your body up to his and baring your neck for him. "I haven't thought of anyone but you since we met," you admit, your voice as low and sultry as you can manage.

He whines against you and takes your offering, biting into your neck with his fangs and drawing blood. It doesn't happen every time you have sex, and it doesn't always lead to sex, but sex and feeding are entwined enough that one tends to tangle into the other. Not that you mind, far from it — his bite becomes pleasantly numb as he drinks from you and the mild lightheadedness only adds to how dreamy it is every time you get intimate with him.

"You mean everything to me," you say, slow and sleepy-sounding, everything getting further and further away as he drinks. "You are everything to me."

He makes another desperate noise into your veins and pulls up, away. His mouth seals over the same spot to suck the last trickles of blood that ooze up and he licks to help the wound begin to heal, his tongue especially familiar here.

As soon as he trusts your skin not to split back open, he's moving up to kiss you again. You'd be more disturbed by the taste of your own blood on his tongue if you weren't used to it by now.

"You are mine," he shudders between kisses. "Just as I am yours," he adds, his voice full of fake confidence.

"You are," you immediately affirm, wanting him to know it's true and it's mutual.

"Not like I was his," he hisses. “In a different way."

You nod against him.

"A better way," you agree, and he nods, too, kissing you even harder.

You stay that way for a good, long while, tangled together on the bed. Time and place melt away; the only things that exist or have ever existed are the two of you, here, now, together, and the quiet sounds of love between your mouths.

It's good.

It's perfect.

[myheartalivewrites]

Hello, hello, felt like about time I made one of these. Here are all the fics I have up on ao3, sorted by fandom then length, because... I don't know, I felt like it? These are mostly E rated, so remember to check the tags and read only what you're comfortable with! 💚

(title links will lead you to ao3)

RED, WHITE & ROYAL BLUE

Long (over 50k words)

Deep Blue (~76k, E rated) - AU, FWB to lovers, beach setting, pining while fucking, Henry POV (tumblr tag)

Down by the Water, I Saw You (~63k, E rated) - AU, exes to lovers, set over multiple vacations/holidays, mutual pining, split POV

Foxden Park (~50k, E rated) - Victorian AU, house party, country games, featuring moodboards created for the RWRB Big Bang, Alex POV (tumblr tag)

Medium (10-25k words)

Have One (On Me) (~10k, E rated) - AU, NY bar setting, mutual pining, miscommunication, bartender!Henry, Alex POV

Happy NY (~11k, E rated) - AU, New Year's Eve in NY, aged-up, missed connection, a little bit of angst, split POV

In His Wildest Dreams (~11k, E rated) - post canon, set at the brownstone, very horny, very smutty, Henry POV

Just like that. (~10k, E rated) - AU, roommates, getting together, feelings realisation, sex talk turning into actual sex, silly + soft + sappy, Alex POV

Love and Hate at the Farmers’ Market (~11k, T rated) - AU, farmers' market, rival stall holders, Christmas/holiday vibes, Alex POV

Love and War (~11k, E rated) - AU, WWII training camp setting (no actual fighting though), getting together, a bit of pining, captain!Henry, Alex POV

Paper Chains (~25k, E rated) - AU, co-workers, friends to lovers, NYE, non-linear narrative, ALL the pining, split POV

Pumped (~22k, E rated) - AU, climbing buddies to friends to lovers, pining, set in London, Alex POV

Twice the speed (of you and me) (~17k, E rated) - post canon/slight canon divergence, Alex + Henry + Pez threesome, very smutty, split POV

you and me, babe, how about it? (~13k, E rated) - post canon, A + H + OMC threesome, smutty smut, Alex POV

Short (anything under 10k words)

Awakened (~2k, E rated) - post canon, a coda to In His Wildest Dreams (see above), a crucial scene but told from the flipped POV, almost purely smut, Alex POV

Don’t Wanna Be A Fool For You (~6k, E rated) - AU, roommates, angsty Henry pining super hard, getting together, Henry POV

Have One (On Me) REMIX (~6k, E rated) - AU, NY bar setting, bartender!Alex, shy/pining Henry, Henry POV

Oxford Days (~6k, E rated) - AU, roommates, an ode to Henry’s Oxford slut phase (as CMQ put it), slutty Henry, clueless Alex being into it, Alex POV (tumblr tag)

"Please, I need you to." (drabble-ish, E rated) - missing moment, the rimming we all wish we'd gotten to see in the book, Alex POV

Red Light Indicates Doors Are Secured (~3k, M rated) - AU, enemies to lovers, co-workers trapped in a cab together, Henry POV

Total Eclipse (~1k, T rated) - AU, karaoke-based meet cute, Henry's a disaster, Alex is obsessed with it, Alex POV

Tumbled Down and Tangled Up (~4k, E rated) - canon divergence, alternate events in that hospital cupboard, getting together, Alex POV

You Spin Me (Right Round) (~5k, E rated) - AU, gym/spin class setting, spin instructor!Henry, Alex POV

* * *

A MARVELLOUS LIGHT (THE LAST BINDING SERIES)

in your room, like a temple (~4k, E rated) - post book 1 canon, set at Sutton, magic smut, a result of me being obsessed with the blue light spell

(you are) the river of light (~6k, E rated) - second in my post book 1 canon series, set at Sutton, more blue light smut, magic lube, and an ending that’s so romantic even I can’t believe it

* * *

And if you're after MORE recs: here are my favourite reads from 2022 and 2023; I reblog fics I love on this blog with the tag rwrb fic rec; and my ao3 bookmarks are public. Or you can always hit me up. I'm happy to share my enthusiasm for RWRB fics

Happy reading!

[arc852]

24. Western

Definition: a film, television drama, or novel about cowboys

Summary: No one has seen Jimmy in a few days and he hasn't answered anyone's messages either, so Joel takes a trip to Tumble Town to try and see what's going on.

G/t: Joel is 11 feet tall, Jimmy is a foot tall

Warnings: bit being pushed too far and thinking that you are hated by everyone

Word Count: 1261

AO3 Link

This is the first and only fic that is exclusively Empires SMP related. Specifically season 2, which is my favorite season. Probably because it was the one I ended up watching live. Anyway, when I saw western on the list of prompts, I had to bring back Tumble Town and the Sheriff for it.

Also, not enough people talk about the G/t potential for season 2 of Empires? I mean, canonically Joel was an 11 foot tall god and Jimmy was shrunk down using a special lore potion. Why did I not do more things with this? Anyway, both of those things are relevant to this fic.

I hope you guys enjoy!

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

 Joel flew over Tumble Town, trying to see if he could spot the tiny sheriff. Normally, from this height, it would be impossible to see someone that small, but thanks to the power of Lore, Joel’s eyesight was better than the average players.

 As he flew over the town, he couldn’t help but think of how well it was coming together. Jimmy was actually becoming a pretty decent builder and that was seen in every new build he made. Joel would go so far as to say he was even proud of him.

 He shook his head, now was not the time to be thinking about that though. The reason he was here, looking for Jimmy in the first place was because he wasn’t answering his messages. From anybody. It wasn’t just Joel who had tried but Lizzie, Gem, Scott, Fwhip…everyone on the server had tried to contact the man but no one had received anything back.

 So, after days of this, Joel finally took it upon himself to find Jimmy and figure out what was going on.

 He landed in the center of the crater, nearby the first building Jimmy had built here. This was where he usually stayed if he was in. He crouched down, still in his godly 11 foot form, and knocked on the door.

 Silence.

 Joel frowned. “Jimmy, it’s Joel. I came by because you haven’t been messaging anyone back.” Joel called into the building. He waited for a few seconds but still nothing. “Come on Jimmy, I know you’re in there!” He didn’t. “If you don’t come out and talk to me, I’ll break your door down.”

 After nothing again, Joel reared back with the intent to break the door when his comm dinged. He paused and grabbed it, looking at what had come through. Surprisingly, it was from Jimmy.

[SolidarityGaming whispers to you: Leave me alone Joel.]

 Joel frowned. Well that was out of character. If anything, he was at least expecting an exclamation point at the end. Something seemed off.

 At least he knew Jimmy really was in there though.

 “I’m not leaving until you come out and talk to me!” Joel exclaimed. “And I’m still very willing to break your door down.” He reared back again only for the door to suddenly swing open.

 Joel froze and looked down. Jimmy was about a foot tall thanks to the lore magic Joel had splashed on him. But with Joel himself being 11 feet tall, the size difference was even more noticeable between the two of them. Jimmy could comfortably fit in his palm if he really wanted to. Which, by the way Jimmy was glaring at him, he probably didn’t.

 That was the other thing. Joel has seen Jimmy annoyed and angry multiple times. That was their whole bit this season. But that’s all it was. A bit. Joel knew Jimmy was never really angry with him and Jimmy knew Joel didn’t really mean it.

 At least, that’s what he had thought.

 But looking down at Jimmy now, he was starting to question it. He had never seen such a genuinely angry and pained look on the sheriff’s face before.

 Joel’s face softened. “Jimmy, I-”

 “I told you to leave me alone!” Jimmy yelled, cutting him off. “I don’t-I don’t want to see you or anybody else, okay?! I just need to be alone right now.” Jimmy turned around and tried to go back inside.

 Joel, panicking at how Jimmy was acting, stopped him by reaching down and grabbing him.

 “Hey! Let go!” Jimmy yelled, and Joel’s heart dropped at the genuine distress in his voice.

 Joel moved away from the house, standing to his full height and holding Jimmy carefully in his hand, lifting him up a bit more to see him better. Jimmy was struggling against his grip, trying to free himself. But it was fruitless and Joel’s hands didn’t so much as budge. 

 “Jimmy, it’s just me. Please just talk to me or something! We’re all worried about you.” Joel said, trying to calm the tiny sheriff down. 

 Jimmy paused in his struggles and looked down, not making eye contact with Joel. “...Are you really?” Jimmy asked, a biting tone to his words which caught Joel off guard.

 “What? Of course! We’re your friends.” Joel exclaimed, looking at Jimmy still wrapped up in his hand. He looked a lot more vulnerable than Joel had ever seen him like this.

 Finally, Jimmy looked up and met his eyes and Joel was surprised, and a bit horrified, to see tears there. “...Are you really?” Jimmy repeated, this time his tone was defeated and sad, no hint of any bite left.

 Joel felt his heart break a little.

 “Of course we are. Jimmy, you’re one of my best friends.” Joel said, his voice going quiet. Joel licked his dried lips. “Is this…is this because of the bit we’ve been doing? I don’t actually hate you. Nobody does!”

 Jimmy was silent for a long moment. “...I-I know it’s a bit. But lately it’s just seemed like…too real?” Jimmy shook his head and turned away, face now hot. “This is why I needed some time to be alone…”

 “Jimmy.” Joel said and opened his hand so he was now cupping Jimmy in both hands before bringing him up to eye level. Jimmy looked him in the eye, a bit surprised at his tone. “I’m so sorry I didn’t see you hurting sooner. We can stop the bit and I can grow you back to normal.”

 Jimmy’s eyes widened and then, shockingly, he shook his head. “No, no! The bit is funny and being small like this isn’t too bad.”

 Joel’s eyes narrowed. “Jimmy, the bit is the whole reason you think we hate you.”

 “I…” Jimmy trailed off. “But the viewers-”

 Joel shook his head. “Your mental health comes first, Jim.” Joel thought for a moment. “Maybe we can progress the bit. To where we come to an understanding and become friends? And if you don’t mind being small too much we can keep that bit going?” Joel suggested, trying to make this work.

 Jimmy thought about it, going over the details in his head. “I…I guess that would work.” He looked up once more to meet Joel’s eyes. “Sorry, I just…It was really getting to me for some reason this season.”

 Joel’s eyes softened. “You don’t have to be sorry. I think some of us do take it too far sometimes. I…take it too far sometimes.” Joel admitted feeling guilty for causing Jimmy this much pain. “But please, next time just say something? You had us all worried when you weren’t answering our messages or coming out of Tumble Town.”

 Jimmy hesitated briefly but nodded. “I’ll…I’ll try.”

 Joel nodded, that was all he could ask of him. And now Joel knew to do better as well. He’d have to tell the others eventually but that could wait for later. “Now come on. It’s been too long since I’ve hung out with my best bud. How about a movie night back at my place?”

 Jimmy’s eyes widened and for the first time since coming here, Jimmy smiled. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

 Joel grinned. “Alright, then hang on.”

 Jimmy’s face turned to confusion. “Wait, what-?

 Before Jimmy could finish, Joel cupped him closer to his chest and took off using his wings. Jimmy let out a small shriek. “Joel!” Jimmy yelled but it was said playfully and with a slight laugh behind it. Joel grinned and continued back towards Stratos.

 They were going to be okay.

[homie-one-kenobi]

Fine Line

For @diviluscorner​ 💕                                                                   AO3 Link

2023′s @cloneficgiftexchange​

Pairing: Wolffe x Reader

Prompts: I’m pretty sure your general hates me // It’s the price we pay to feel // Me hogging the bed is FALSE information (slightly altered) 

Warnings: war is hell // typical clone wars violence // injury // angst // swearing // Order 66 :)

Words: too many (6.1k)

NOTES: I am an angst & graphic war writer, so this took me a LOT longer than usual, because I had to change the plot like 5x so it didn’t end up sad or too gory 😂I ended up combining all of my original plots into a series of points in “your” life. I also didn’t underline the prompts in the story because I felt it took away from the experience.

Alright, good luck. 

───  ⋅ ⋅ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅  ───

I’m going to die here, you realize as you stand on your first battleground, watching as artillery fire blocks out the first dawning rays of light. Through the trees comes the first wave of the Separatist army, the sun reflecting off the vast metal in front of you. They’re going to slaughter us all. 

“Commander, look out!”

Wolffe shoves you hard and you stumble into a bush, just as a blaster bolt embeds itself in the tree where your head had just been. The enemy fires again, but this time you block it with a lightsaber, the impact sending adrenaline coursing through you. 

You frantically rush the offending battle droid, ducking under its outstretched arm and jamming your lightsaber up through the groove between its chin, the metal plating melting into its head. The droid jerks slightly before falling towards you. It falls in pieces at your feet, and you gag in horror at the sight. Another enemy falls near you, showering you with splatters of oil and bits of smoldering gears. 

You remain frozen on the battlefield, lightsaber limp at your side, staring at the droid at your feet.

Wolffe roughly grabs you by the front of your robes. “Wake up, Commander!” He shakes you desperately.

A bead of sweat trickles down your temple and you furiously blink it away. The deep breaths you're taking do very little to calm your racing heart as the battle wages on around the both of you. Blaster bolts whiz by your heads and explosions rock the ground, throwing you both off balance. 

Wolffe snatches the lightsaber from your limp grasp and holsters it back onto your belt; he grabs your elbow and starts running perpendicular to the company line, skimming the outskirts of the forest and dragging you along with him.

The Separatists start pounding the Republic troops with more massive shells, their aim getting more accurate. You both keep running, but there are so many soldiers in the way.

Another blaster bolt whizzes past your shoulder, but you’re too terrified to consider the consequences of if it had hit you. The place behind you is obliterated from the artillery fire; the bombardment wreaks hell on the Republic line. Barely ten yards in front of you another shell hits, and the impact sprays dust and debris in your face. Momentarily blinded, you trip and stumble into the crater; you cough up dirt and grass as you try to orient yourself, the lightsaber on your belt digging into your ribs.

Wolffe yanks you up and you keep running. The second Republic company line attacks at the sound of the chant “For the Republic!”, the clones pouring from the trees around you. A clone runs into you and you both fall; the clone rolls before scrambling back up and running back into the fray. Wolffe pulls you up again. 

There are too many soldiers. You’re knocked down again, and you tumble out of Wolffe’s reach; you scramble back up and continue on alone, fearful that wiping the dirt from your eyes would slow you down. There is a battle droid who gives chase, firing every time it gets a lock on you. It gets closer and you zig-zag to avoid the target lock, fumbling for your lightsaber, but drop it. You leave the lightsaber in the grass and escape as a few clones stop to attack the battle droid.

Wolffe finds you again, and he grabs your hand. You hold on with all that you have. 

"Don't let me go," you hear yourself screaming.

"Never," he answers, shouting over the sounds of battle, but all you can hear is your heavy breathing and the battle cries of the soldiers and the artillery and the gunships and the screaming.

───  ⋅ ⋅ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅  ───

“History is a lesson in humility.”

You blink, pausing your petting of a curious manka cat and calmly turn back to face Master Plo Koon. A mild gust of wind rustles through the airy Jedi Temple and wraps around you fondly like an invisible embrace. Your pale linen robes flutter to the rhythm of the breeze, amplifying the faint chill that crawls up your arm in pleasant goosebumps. Towering pine trees dress the horizon alongside blooming flowers of various shades. The stone of the temple is warm from the sun shining through the trees.

“In the last century alone, the Republic has fought seven wars. And we did not win all of them, even during our Age of Great Peace,” he says. He waves his hand, and the manka cat snarls before slinking back into the tall grass to hunt for its next meal. 

“How upbeat,” you mutter, turning to completely face him. 

If he had heard you, he does not acknowledge it. “The Republic used to span into the Outer Rim. The High Republic was the birthplace of modern civilization, and Coruscant the center of the galaxy. The planetary delegates have brought their culture and methods of good governance to the Republic, thus strengthening us.” 

You tilt your head. “Why did relations sour between the cartels like the Trade Federation and the Republic? What happened? What did they want from us?”

“With all of these cultures, not all relations were peaceful,” Master Koon explains. “The Trade Federation is ambitious and has always wanted more, even if it was nominal.”

He draws his lightsaber. “Show me Form V, Djem Sho variation.”

You comply, unhooking your new lightsaber and holding it with both hands above your head, angling it back at a forty-five degree angle. At his nod, you lunge forward with the signature avalanche attack, slamming your lightsaber down with as much force as you can muster, and Koon turns to block it. As he does, you bring your leg up to round-house his unprotected head, stopping inches before contact. You pause, and Plo nods in acknowledgment.

“Continue.” he instructs, parrying a swipe at his side. You track his movements, deflecting blows before they fall. He launches himself up and over you, narrowly avoiding the swing of your lightsaber. He lands lightly on his feet, ready to continue.

“Shein Form.”

You adjust quickly, holding your lightsaber with two hands near your head, like a baseball bat, your dominant leg held back to allow powerful step-through strikes. 

You stab and slash, trying to find an opening in Plo's defenses. But every time you reach for his heart, your blade is driven out of line. He effortlessly deflects a rain of streaking cuts, forcing you to give ground. He leans into a thrust at your gut, which you deflect, stopping his attack and bringing you both to a stand-still. “You will have to do better than that.”

“Sorry,” you say, struggling to get through his defense. You feint an attack for his face before dropping to sweep his legs out from under him. Plo Koon leaps over you again and you roll away.

You barely get your lightsaber up in time to stop Koon from slicing you in half. You do your best to ground yourself and dispel the energy of the blow evenly across your body and into the ancient tile. The tile cracks under the force, but the Jedi isn’t done. He shifts his lightsaber, pointing his blade towards your hilt and jabs, causing you to drop your lightsaber to protect your hands from being cut off. You do a back-spring to get some distance between you.

When you touch down, he’s already there. You leap back further, adopting a defensive stance, but Plo spins, slashing at your leg. You manage to evade the blow, but his lightsaber is already swinging at you as you right yourself. Frantically, you call on the Force and stop the attack mid-swing. You breathe a sigh of relief, only to realize he had your lightsaber as well, which was currently pointed at your neck.

“Why did you lose?” He asks, keeping your lightsaber aimed at you.

“I was distracted.”

“Yes, but not what I was looking for. How did I know how to beat you?”

You wrack your brain, struggling to find an answer. “Well, you’re taller than me, and–”

“Then Master Yoda would not be the Grand Master, now would he?”

You suppress a growl. Master Koon was frustratingly vague and deliberately obtuse. He would dance around answers, and liked to make you circle around the answer like a pterathki vulture before giving you a morsel of understanding. 

Your brows furrow. “You had asked me to change forms mid-fight.”

Pleased, he continues. “Tell me about the Shien variant.”

In the course of your research that Master Koon had assigned you, you had discovered that Form V was created from Form III, and Shien was the first variant to be developed, devised as an anti-blaster form, allowing the user to deflect blaster bolts right back to their attacker. 

“It’s built for defense, but unlike Form III, this form attempts to create an opportunity to attack, and relies on counterattacks to gain the advantage. It also requires an enormous amount of physical demands.”

“So, why did you lose?”

“It requires both speed and strength, but I–”

“It is not you I am critiquing, I am critiquing the Form itself.” He says. After a moment, he elaborates. “How many people can you defend against with Form V?”

“Theoretically, a multitude.” At his nod, you continue. “So I lost because I’m using a form made for multiple opponents, not one. And because the form requires speed and physical strength, I no longer have the agility–”

“To fight one opponent. Very good,” he praises. He hands your lightsaber back to you, and you clasp the cool metal in your palms. 

Master Koon steps into Form V Shien, and you follow suit. He nods.

You lunge.

He parries, blocking an overhead attack and directing it into the temple floors. You spin and whirl around each other, like dancers at a ball. He feints to the left and then spins to the right, trying to catch you off-guard. You are not fooled, however, and effortlessly dodge his attack. You remain in a low stance, your body poised and ready to strike.

“You are doing well,” he says after a moment. “Let us put Form V’s real use to the test.”

You’re not sure what he means as Koon swings his blade at your legs, but you jump back into the air and somersault over his head, landing in a crouch. You strike at his legs, but Plo leaps high and spins, bringing his blade down. 

The force of the blow sends you stumbling backwards, and he takes advantage of the opening to deliver a barrage of wild attacks, driving you backwards. You desperately try to defend yourself, but Plo is relentless, driving his blade towards your chest. Just before the blade can make contact, you twist to the side and break Form V. Plo tries to disarm you again, pointing his blade towards your hilt again and jabs. 

You drop the lightsaber with one hand, duck under his attack, and catch your lightsaber with the other hand. You swing upwards, nicking the hood of his robes before leaping backwards. A noise behind you makes you glance backwards, just in time to see a stun bolt heading your way.

“You’re resisting the Force. Let it flow through you.”

You’re almost positive Master Koon hates you.

But it is not Master Koon that you see when you wake up, but Wolffe kneeling over you, his softened brown eyes searching your face. “Are you hurt, Commander?” he asks.

“You must learn to let go,” Master Plo continues, “if you’re only focused on the enemy’s weapon, you’ll always be on the defensive. Look past the weapon.”

Wolffe grabs your chin, turning your head left and right to check for injuries as he soothingly runs a hand through your hair before cupping your cheek. Without meaning to, you lean into his caress. 

He minutely strokes your cheek with a thumb before freezing. He shakes his head quickly, as if clearing his thoughts, and continues to search your body for injuries… shoulders, wrists, arms… you halt his frantic hands, butterflies fluttering in your stomach. “Wolffe, I’m okay.”

He stands and offers you a hand, before clearing his throat. “Be careful next time, Commander. I don’t have time to pull you out of every battle; for the Republic to win, we need well-trained soldiers, and we need the best.”

Seemingly oblivious, Master Koon continues his lesson. “Precisely. In the confusion of a fight, your mind must be still and as steady as a rock. You must be grounded in your center, able to see and control everything around you…” 

───  ⋅ ⋅ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅  ───

His thighs are struggling to keep him upright, the loss of blood from his thigh wound finally getting to him; his pistols are shaking in his hands. A sea of droids remain. The rocks dig into his knee guards as he collapses, and the droids surround him. There were 10 of them, blasters crackling with plasma discharge, all of them aimed at his heart. Wolffe closes his eyes.

There is the sound of someone landing hard next to him before blasterfire surrounds him, but none of the bolts hit their target. He hears a blaster bolt hit flesh, a yelp of pain, just before the zinging sound of a lightsaber and the roar of a rancor surround him.

You crouch above him, snarling at the droids as you block their shots. Your lower back is smoldering, the skin around the wound blackened from the plasma bolt. The linen of your robes is still sizzling out. 

He watches your form twirl above him, your lightsaber reflecting so many bullets that the two of you seem to be surrounded by a barrier of light. You move with a grace that belies your wild appearance, dodging and deflecting blaster bolts, seemingly untouchable. 

There is an otherworldly presence about you, as though time itself had slowed down for Wolffe to fully appreciate you. In his periphery he sees the jungle rancor that you’ve commanded grab droids and crush them into the dirt. He feels his breath catch in his throat as he watches a bead of sweat trail down the side of your face, past your eyes, and down your gleaming neck.

With a final cry, you twirl on one foot and bring your lightsaber down in a powerful slam, cracking the ground below you and sending the remaining droids flying backwards. The clay dirt kicks up around you both. The air is silent except for the echoes of artillery fire in the distance. Your lightsaber encircles you as you call the rancor back to you, chest heaving as you wildly scan the area for any additional attackers. Your eyes are feral, your teeth bared. Seeing none, you quickly deactivate your lightsaber and holster it, dropping to your knees in front of him.

Then there seems to be two of you with him. Wolffe blinks. Now there’s three. And now one. Wolffe blinks again and you push his hair back to check his head. He may or may not lean into it. Then you notice the gushing wound on his thigh and you pale. At least he thinks you do, he can’t quite see straight. 

You return to the rancor and seem to speak to it. It must understand you, because it disappears back into the jungle from which it came, and you approach him again. 

“This is going to hurt,” you say. 

You’re pretty, he thinks, before blinding pain is all he knows as you lift him into a fireman’s carry, his entire body slung across your shoulders as you march your way across the active battlefield. Despite the blasterfire around you, nothing seems to come close to him. His mind is hazy, but he swears there was a plasma bolt coming right for you, but somehow it swerves just out of line so it misses both of you. You might be a wizard or something, he swears. So pretty and cool.

You chuckle. “You’re pretty and cool too, Wolffe.”

Of course I am, he thinks. You laugh again.

───  ⋅ ⋅ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅  ───

“You could have died, Commander.”

You and Wolffe stand together in the soft glow of the explosion's fire, which paints a mysterious and unearthly orange and gray across the night sky. The glow of the flames wrap around you both, bathing you in warmth as the flickering light dances between you. Everything is illuminated, making Wolffe's armor look like a sunset.

You glare at him. “Look, we needed those cannons destroyed, and we didn’t have time to wait for permission! I can take care of myself!”

Wolffe tears his helmet off and pins you with furious eyes, his cybernetic implant glowing orange in the light. “I don’t care what you can do – I almost had to watch you get taken down by farking cannon fodder!” His hand has found your gauntlet to keep you rooted in front of him, and his grip tightens as you angrily try to free yourself. He notices his fellow vod approaching and acts quickly by dragging you behind some crates.

You try to shake free from his grasp. “Let me go, Wolffe,” you demand.

Wolffe drops his helmet into the dirt and pulls you into a crushing embrace, clawing at your robes. He buries his face into your hair and takes a deep breath, the sound washing over you like a wave. Your fingers instinctively curl around the straps of his heavy chest plate as his gloved hand follows the curve of your waist before pressing flat against the small of your back, the other coming up to caress your cheek. 

Each exhaled breath entangles you. He rests his forehead against yours, watching your lips. Your breaths intermingle, and he’s so close, he’s so close. When he speaks, his voice is raw from an unleashed wave of emotions. “I can’t let you go. I–I can’t…”

The air between you feels like lead with every breath dragging you to the core of the planet. You feel like if this moment were to last any longer it would be enough for an eternity. As he inches closer, seconds turn into unworldly minutes; heartbeats speak more than simple words ever could. Your voice is hoarse as you answer. “It’s…”

Your lips graze his slightly. He shudders against you, his breathing ragged. His lips brush yours. They linger a little longer this time.

You try again. “It’s the price we pay…”

To feel.

───  ⋅ ⋅ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅  ───

It was him or the galaxy, you realize. 

Wolffe was teetering off the edge of the bridge in the datacenter with only you to hold on to, death's arms opened wide below. 

The Separatist ultimate weapon, stored in a cartridge on this ship, was threatening to be unleashed unless you could retrieve its plans in time. 

You hold onto his hand with all of your strength. You feel a wave of terror wash over you as the ship you’re on begins plummeting towards the planet below. As you desperately hold onto Wolffe, a dozen node cartridges fly from the vault's datatree behind you. The one you need starts to tip and slide out of its node. You and Wolffe are running out of time. 

Everything seems to move in slow motion, except for your pounding heart that thunders against your rib cage. 

The cartridge falls onto the bridge and begins sliding towards the edge, and you frantically reach towards it. It’s too far away and it falls just out of reach. It tips over the edge, and you call on the Force, stopping its movement at the last second.

Wolffe is too heavy and is pulling you down with him, the bridge support is digging into your already-bruising skin. Your grip is weakening. The seconds seem to pass by slowly before you gain the courage to look at him. His eyes are dull with sadness, but his voice is resolute when he speaks: "You need to let me go, Commander."

A memory flashes in your mind with crystal clarity; his strong arms wrapped around you, the smell of his aftershave, and his snarl that forms when defending you. You shake your head vehemently, not trusting your voice to not break. 

"The Republic is at stake! It’s either me or the galaxy– please, let me go." 

Tears spring to your eyes as those words strike a chord deep within you. Struggling against an onslaught of emotions, you can barely contain one last plea: "Don't say that– don't you dare say that! I can save you both!"

You can feel the pain from the bridge support radiating heavily into your skin, and you try to readjust, but it causes you to slip, and the plans fall further. Wolffe gently pries your fingers from his hand as you scream at him.

“You were a good friend, Commander. I will miss you.”

Friend. Friend.

Another memory: hands intertwined, caressed cheeks, and stolen kisses. An “I love you”. 

This isn’t real. 

This isn’t real.

You open your eyes, blinking into the light of the Council room. The sunlight pours in from the grand windows, creating a contrasting warm yet solemn atmosphere. Master Plo Koon kneels across from you, hands resting in his lap as the rest of the Council looks on. 

The only sound to be heard is Master Yoda's cane tapping gently against the soft carpet beneath him as he approaches you, the sound echoing through the chamber and carrying a finality that is almost tangible. His face is grim– they've seen everything. Master Plo bows his head as he contemplates this new knowledge, while you remain silent and still before them. 

You have failed the Jedi Trials. This is the price you pay to feel.

───  ⋅ ⋅ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅  ───

“I miss you. I miss having you near me.”

Wolffe’s holo flickers on the dusty holocom. The tooka-cat that was sleeping in your lap stretches before covering its face with a paw, and you stroke its fuzzy violet pelt as it goes back to sleep. “I miss you, too.”

He sighs loud enough for the mic to pick it up. “I know the war is almost over, it’s just…” He quickly turns towards a noise behind him that you can’t hear, and then you see a hologram of his back. You hear a muffled “No, sir” and something about reports before a few seconds of silence. Then his face returns, disgruntled from the encounter. 

“That was the General.”

You send him a rueful smile. “How is he?”

“I think he still looks for you, even after the Council told him to leave it be.” 

“Do you think he suspects you?”

He sighs again, wiping a gloved hand over his face. "Most likely– given our history. But he hasn't said anything yet, and I think he wants you to stay hidden until–"

Your perimeter alarm sounds and you whip around to the radar. A large spot blinks on the edge of the map and skirts along the perimeter. It’s moving too fast for it to be a stray animal. 

“What’s happening?” Wolffe says, panic lacing into his voice.

“Perimeter breach.” You stand, dumping the cat onto the ground, and grab your blaster rifle from its mount on the wall, slinging it over your shoulder. “I’m just going to check.”

“Okay, but…” He fumbles for words, his shoulders already showing his telltale signs of stress. “Take the pistols, too.”

You chuckle, sending him a lazy salute. “Yes, sir.” You sling your holster around your waist and cinch it tight, glancing up at him. “Don’t worry, I’ll be safe. I can handle myself.”

“I know you can.” His eyes caress your face, memorizing every detail, and you do the same. “Just… come back to me.”

“Always.” You glance back at the map. The red spot on the radar is starting to move closer into the perimeter. “I’ve got to go. I love you.”

“I’ll see you soon, cyare.”

You shut off the holocom and wrap your hair and cover your nose and mouth in a scarf to protect from the dust. You take a deep breath and exit the farmhouse, stepping out into the sunshine of rural Naboo, your adrenaline fueling your determination. 

You climb up the rickety ladder onto the roof of your home as the wind kicks up dust around you. You crawl on your belly towards the ledge and take out a pair of monoculars and pull the rifle off of your back. 

The sprawling grassy plain stretches on for miles around you, and another gust of wind stirs up more dust and sways the tall grass like an ocean current. The air smells sweet with earthy aromas. The only sound is that brought from nearby birds soaring over the golden, dusty expanses.

The monoculars finally pick up movement to your left, and you zoom in. Eleven speeder bikes fly over the grass towards your farm, the Devaronian pirate at the front continually barking orders to the other men. 

You watch as they draw closer, and you put down the monoculars and close your eyes. You draw on the Force, feeling every grain of sand that touches your face, every gust of wind that caresses each blade of grass. Your mind touches the wildlife surrounding your farm, their presence like a living heartbeat, and you urge them to help you. They all answer the call: the bogwings soar overhead in flight, the herd of gualaars gallop across the land towards you, while the long-legged ikopis stand ready for battle. A narglatch appears below you, and you drop onto its back and grab onto its blue spiky mane, feeling its fan-like tail swish back and forth as it anticipates your command, its claws digging into the dirt. 

Suddenly, you hear the cries of the pirates and explosions as the bogwings attack the raiders, snatching a few from their speeders and flying high into the sky. With a cry, you urge the narglatch into battle, and it takes off, each stride bringing you closer. 

The herd of gualaars arrives, knocking the lackeys off their speeders and trampling them into the dirt. Quickening your pace, blasterfire lights up the horizon and your sight blurs with all the commotion around you– fire, raiders, claws scraping against speeders… with the ferocious movements of the other wildlife and a cacophony of howling noises surrounding you, the narglatch launches itself at one of the speeders. You leap off its back in midair and take steady aim at the Devaronian. With one clean shot of the rifle, you bring down the raiding party's leader. 

Not even thirty seconds pass after you send the all-clear signal to Wolffe before he calls you. His chest plate is soiled with clay dirt, and a new blaster burn glows across his right pauldron. Past his helmeted face you can see stray plasma bolts and his brothers rushing into battle.

“You’re okay,” he simply states. His voice crackles over the comm. Around him, screams and shouts fill the air.

“Wolffe, are you in the middle of a battlefield?!” You ask incredulously. 

“I had to see you to–” His voice is drowned out by an explosion nearby. Heavy clay dirt rains down on his armor, yet he remains looking at you through the comm. 

“Yes, I’m okay, but please get down–”

"Marry me."

Your words squeak to a stop, your mouth hanging open as you stare at this holographic image. Against the backdrop of blood and sweat that surrounded him, the words felt so surreal; but the intensity in his voice was clear, an unspoken tenderness hidden beneath the force of war. 

A clone behind him falls into view before scrambling back up and into the fight. Wolffe continues, his pace quickening as he rushes to push out his sentence. "It won't be anything official since us clones aren't citizens of the Republic, but I can get us rings, and–"

"Yes."

"Yes," he echoes. "Yes," he repeats, and you know he’s smiling underneath his helmet.  

"Yes," you answer again, beaming at him.

──���  ⋅ ⋅ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅  ───

His call brings a smile to your face, but when his face appears on the holocom, your smile dissolves.

“Wolffe, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“We’ve found General Grievous.” 

You sit up straight, your eyes wide. “Oh my– that’s it, isn’t it? It’s really–”

“The 212th is going to apprehend him. It’s over,” he breathes. “It’s over.”

He looks away and his comm retreats behind his back. There is a moment of silence before you hear a “right away”, and it’s another moment before you see his face again. 

“I’ve got to go. We’re taking back Cato Neimoidia once and for all.” He stops, his face falling slightly.

“What’s wrong?” You ask, brows furrowing.

“I’m not sure…” he trails off. “I’m not sure what I’m going to do after this… I’ve– We’ve– been bred for war. What do we do when there’s no next battle?” 

His words hang heavily in the air between you, as if a pall of smoke settles on both of your shoulders. You search for words that make sense as his soft brown eyes look to you for guidance. Both of you had been so young when it started— too young— sent into war before you had a chance to understand what it all meant.

“We’ll just have to figure that out together.”

He nods, and he forcefully expels a deep breath that he had been holding onto in anticipation. You hear a muffled shout in the background and Wolffe nods at the voice. “I’ve got to go. I’ll see you soon, cyar’ika.”

He holds his hand up and you follow suit, intertwining your hands with his holographic ones. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

───  ⋅ ⋅ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅  ───

The emergency beacon flashes on your communicator, filling you with a frenzied joy. The Republic did it. Wolffe is free. You answer, your congratulations forming on your lips.

Wolffe is a picture of stress, his figure huddled in on itself; his eyes were sunken with worry, his shoulders stiff and tight with exhaustion. It takes him a moment to process who you are before launching into frantic instructions, his voice heavy with fear. "Pack your bags and leave Naboo immediately." 

“w–What–”

“You get onto the nearest shuttle, buy a ticket under a fake name, and–”

“Wolffe, slow down. What's going on?”

“Something's wrong. My brothers…” he trails off, his eyes searching for something before returning to you. “They killed him.”

Your blood runs cold, but you prod him anyways. “They killed…”

“They killed General Koon… and I’ve overheard them. They’re–” He snarls. “They’re looking for you. You need to get out of there– leave no trace, do you hear me?”

You sputter, incredulous. “Me? What about you? You’re on board with them!” You frantically reach for him, your hand passing through his digitized form. “What’s going on– what did I do? Why do they want to kill me–” 

“They won’t,” he says with a finality that makes you want to believe him, his voice sending an undeniable chill through you. He quickly glances over his shoulder. “I’ve got to go. I’ve sent you coordinates. Meet me there. I won’t be able to contact you from this holocom again.”

He searches your face desperately, memorizing every detail. “If I don’t–”

“Don’t,” you interject, your voice quivering as your Jedi trials flash in your mind. “Don’t you start.”

“I want to get married to you, and do mundane things like garden and laundry with you.” His lashes glint in the fluorescence of the Triumphant. “I will make it back to you.”

You choke on a sob, nodding incoherently. “Okay… okay. I’ll wait for you.”

“That’s my girl. I’ll see you soon, cyare. I love you so much.”

───  ⋅ ⋅ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅  ───

The dry heat was oppressive, radiating off the salt flats and saturating the air with parching temperatures as you nail another board into place. A bead of salty sweat trickles down your forehead only to evaporate at once; in this arid landscape there is no reprieve from the blistering sun above. 

Surrounding you are endless stretches of dry salt flats, the searing heat of the sun reflecting off their white surface, leaving it to glitter in the sunlight. According to the local exiles, in the next few weeks these fields will partially flood with water as the wet season begins, transforming this region into something new altogether. The only wildlife that resides here are joopa worms, creatures the size of leviathans, that roam the region and prey upon settlers. 

Seelos was barren and dangerous, but you stayed. And you waited. 

Days turn into nights, and the wet season is almost upon you, the aroma almost palpable in the air. You meditate underneath the cloudy night sky, bathing in the cosmic glow. A gentle breeze blows through the silent flats, the coolness seeping into your bones and reemerging in the form of a quiet tranquility. 

The perimeter alarm sounds nearby, and you stand and climb down from the roof of your home and into the garage. The red dot blinks lazily as the signature on the screen slowly makes its way towards you. Your brow furrows. 

You snatch your monoculars from its hook as you sprint out the door and into the darkness. Your hands shake as you mash buttons on the monoculars, smacking it a little as it boots up too slow. You need to–you must– have to see. You grip them tightly, your knuckles turning white as you hold them up and peer through the lens.

You can hear the radar light blipping frantically as you take in the figure slowly approaching. White armor glints in the partial light of the moon, and you can make out familiar markings on the chestplate and gauntlets. You drop the monoculars and start running, adrenaline rushing through your body like a freight train, anticipation building with every step towards him. 

The cool breeze whips your face as the clouds break above, rain droplets falling onto the salt flats and hitting you. The figure starts running too as the rain begins to pour. You can feel the droplets on your skin and taste the salt in the air. You're so close and you give a cry of joy as you rush into Wolffe’s arms. Then he's holding onto you tightly, his shoulders trembling as he cries into your hair. You reverently kiss his shoulder, his chest, and his hands. You rain kisses on his face as the rainstorm drenches you both. 

His warm breath is on your face and he grabs your face with both hands and kisses you with all he has, not caring that your noses bump and teeth clash, each kiss communicating an ocean's worth of love more than words ever could.

───  ⋅ ⋅ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅  ───

The metal from his wedding band catches in the lamplight and you huff a laugh. “Still wearing the ring to bed, I see.”

“Always.” He curls up behind you, burying his face in your hair. “I like the reminder that you’re mine.”

You hum softly, enjoying the warmth he radiates. “And that you’re mine.” You glance over your shoulder at him. “But most people still take their rings off when it’s bedtime.”

“I’ll take off the ring at night when you don’t hog the bed.”

“I do not!” You playfully try to shimmy away from Wolffe’s embrace, but he holds you against him. “Hogging the bed would mean I’m selfish, and that’s not the Jedi way.” 

“You’re not a Jedi, so there goes your entire argument.”

You decide not to dignify that with a response.

He lets out a sleepy chuckle and kisses your shoulder. “Your silence is as good of an answer as words.”

You bite your lip, trying to think of a comeback. “Remember our wedding night?”

Wolffe groans, throwing his head back for dramatic effect. “Don’t remind me. It was so embarrassing.”

You hide your chuckle. “I thought your ‘moves’ were… endearing.”

“I drew hearts on my boxers with a red pen.”

“And it was,” you involuntarily let out a snort of laughter, “unique, and–”

“Alright, alright– you win. Cheater.” He settles on his back and you turn to rest your head on his chest. 

The room is silent for a moment before he speaks again, his gentle words filling the silence. “After all we’ve been through, I am… eternally grateful that this is how it ended up.”

You close your eyes to revel in the moment. You open them as he lifts your chin towards him and kisses you delicately. You sigh contentedly as you pull away, intertwining his fingers with yours. “Promise you won’t let me go.”

He lightly brushes his thumb across your knuckles. “Never.”

[voxofthevoid]

you're well known to be a fantastic goyuu author. do you think you will ever write for other pairings in the jjk fandom, perhaps for itafushi?

Wait, hold up—

you're well known to be a fantastic goyuu author

I'M WHAT???

I'm...gonna be so normal about that. Yeah. Okay.

(I'm melting actually. Vox.exe has crashed.)

Re your question: My ao3 doesn't have any non-goyuu JJK fics for now, but I've written a few of them. All of them also have goyuu, so it's poly, typically V-types (e.g., goyuu and nanaita, but not nanago). You can find them here: chosoita+goyuu, nanaita+goyuu, sukuita+goyuu. Those links may not work on the mobile app though; you'd need to use a browser.

Re itafushi, I now have two ideas (more than the one it was when @thisdepravedsoul asked this question last month):

You know that new official art of Megumi? The magazine cover?

That did things to me, so I outlined a fic where Yuuji sees Megumi like that post-mission, gets a little gropey, and they fuck in a haunted school or something, followed by goyuu where Gojou sees what was done to Megumi and comes to sample the goods (Yuuji). The other one involves Gojou dubconning Megumi until Yuuji finds them accidentally and then offering him to Yuuji (who's oblivious to the dubcon aspects).

I do have several more fics with non-goyuu ships planned/outlined. They all also have goyuu because that's my center of interest in JJK, and it's pretty rare for me to write more than one ship at all. Yuuji has so many interesting relationships that I can't help it. Here's the current list, sorted by ship:

On top of the usual goyuu warnings, CWs include incest, dubcon/noncon, and implied MCD. The ships discussed are nanaita and sukuita, but Choso/Yuuji, Kenjaku/Yuuji, and Higuruma/Yuuji are mentioned.

Nanaita (plus goyuu):

oldest story ever told (hold me till we both go cold): Yuuji has complicated sexual relationships with Nanami and Gojou that are on the verge of either imploding or becoming more when Shibuya happens.

and every step forward put a little more sword in your heart: No-Shibuya post-canon AU where Yuuji's been pining after Gojou for years, he and Nanami have drunken sex, and it escalates from there on all fronts.

out of my head, into the nature: Vampire AU where Yuuji resurrects after the detention center with vampiric features; Gojou's only too happy to lend a vein, and Nanami gets roped into it despite his better judgement.

blood, lust, and a holy war: Gojou's the devil and Nanami's the angel on Yuuji's shoulder, and he fucks them both. The size is a bit of an issue at first, but they make do.

saints just swimming in our sins again: Established goyuu and nanaita where Nanami gets deaged, Yuuji tries to keep his hands to himself, and Gojou works very hard to make sure teen!Nanami gets some TLC.

Sukuita (plus goyuu):

of all the deadly sins, he's lucky seven: Omegaverse with omega!Sukuna/alpha!Yuuji and alpha!Gojou/alpha!Yuuji where Sukuna yanks Yuuji into his inndate domain to ride out his heat, and Yuuji's body autopilots its way into Gojou's asshole.

what does the poem of a killer say when it's written in the blood of the prey: Gojou and Sukuna are both gods and Yuuji’s a dragon-human hybrid who semi-accidentally tumbles into both their beds, separately. Fifty shades of monsterfucking.

no psychotherapy will ever relieve the hunted needing: Modern reincarnation AU where Sukuna’s reborn as Yuuji’s younger brother, and it takes everything Yuuji has not to smother him in his bed; it escalates into something very different. Then Gojou’s thrown into the mix as Yuuji’s high school upperclassman.

one day, the only butterflies left will be in your chest (as you march towards your death, breathing your last breath): Apocalyptic post-canon AU where Gojou doesn't get unsealed, Sukuna plays cat and mouse with everyone until only Yuuji's left, and they hate-fuck while Yuuji guards a weakening Prison Realm.

There are also a few others featuring Choso/Yuuji, Kenjaku/Yuuji, and Higuruma/Yuuji, one each for all three ships, but the bulk of my goyuu-plus ideas are nanaita and sukuita.

[xoxoladyaz]

Steddie Bigbang #177: Infernally Yours is HERE!

Finally, after months of work I am SO HAPPY to start publishing my contribution to @steddiebang, a post-Season 3 AU in which Hopper doesn't go to Russia, the Byers family stays in Hawkins, and Steve Harrington finally agrees to play DnD with Hellfire. Chapters 1 and 2 are up today, chapters 3 and 4 will go up on the 9th, and the last two chapters (and the epilogue) will be posted on the 16th.

Here's the link to the story on Ao3 and a preview below :) I can't wait to see what you all think!

Listen. Steve Harrington knew that he had some sins to pay for, okay? He was kind of a stuck-up shit for most of high school and while he didn’t go out of his way to, like, ruin anybody’s day – cough, cough, Tommy Hagan – he also didn’t really reach out to anyone who needed help either. He’d led on a lot of girls before Nance, too, and if judging by the fact that the only girls he dated these days wanted a good time and not a long time, well, he had some work to do on the whole “relationship” and “finding everlasting love” front. But he’s done the work to be better! Granted, a lot of the work consisted of him getting beaten up and/or tortured by other people while protecting a group of unthankful little shitheads, but it’s still progress. And, not to brag, but he got Robin Buckley as a best friend out of the whole thing, so really, Steve Harrington’s not doing so bad on the whole “redemption” thing, thank you.

So why, why does the universe continue to torment him?

“ – and that’s when Lorcan Fairwood used Horde Breaker to fire into the pack of gnolls, dealing five points of damage to Kazar, the gnoll pack leader, and then Eddie said - ”

“Dingus,” Robin hissed, knocking her elbow into Steve’s and dislodging him from his thoughts. “Get Dingus Junior to knock-it-off with this dork talk before I knock him into the recent returns.”

Groaning, Steve rubbed his palms against his dry eyes and braced for impact. “We got it, Henderson, Munson’s the best thing to ever happen to Dorks and Demons - ”

“ – Dungeons and Dragons, Steve, I know that you know that’s what it’s called - ”

“ – and as much as I like hanging out with you, dude, these multi-hour play-by-plays aren’t convincing me that this nerd shit is, like, fun or whatever,” he finished with a sigh. Robin shot him an exasperated but grateful look and then slid her newest stack of freshly rewound returns his way.

“Shelving time, doinkus.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve rolled his eyes and reached for the stack.

Dustin snorted and kicked at the front of his desk, which, the attitude on this kid, seriously. “Guess Eddie was right.” 

Steve froze. What the hell does that mean?

“What the hell does that mean?”

Dustin snorted again before spinning to face Steve, his hands falling to his hips. “Eddie said says that jocks only care about other jocks. And jock stuff.”

“Hey, okay, first of all, there’s only one of us that’s actually saved your life multiple times and it’s not Eddie Munson, so jot that down,” Steve snapped, dropping the tapes back onto the counter (and ignoring Robin’s yelp as they tumbled everywhere). “And second, just because we don’t have the same interests doesn’t mean I don’t care about you, man. That’s a shit thing to say.”

Henderson folded inward, his eyes dropping towards the ground and voice losing its normal intensity. “Sorry, Steve.”

“And third – look, Henderson,” Steve sighed at Dustin’s drooping. (Look, he was a little shithead with the biggest ego in every room, but he was Steve’s little shithead and he hated to see him upset – even when it was his own fault.) “Maybe it isn’t like, totally boring in the moment or whatever, but getting a two-hour play by play after your game every Saturday isn’t doing a whole lot to convince me, man.”

“Well,” Dustin perked up slightly and cleared his throat, “we’re always looking for new members - ”

“Nope, no way.”

“Steve,” Henderson’s whining was out in full force now, “it would be so much fun! You wouldn’t even have to do that much work; I could help you get started and - ”

“No.”

“ – seriously, I can make you a character sheet so fast, and our party could really use another fighter anyways - ”

“No, Henderson!”

“ – besides, we haven’t gotten to hang out with you as much now that school started, and you know that Will’s having a hard time because everyone keeps calling him ‘Zombie Boy’ and he would be so excited to have you playing with us - ”

Shit, he’s pulling out the Zombie Boy card. Shit, shit, shit.

“Henderson - ”

“ – and, you know, I totally believe you and everything but Mike is pretty convinced that you’re still an asshole, especially with everything Eddie’s said, and this could be your chance to prove him wrong!” Dustin finished emphatically, his chest puffing with exertion.

Steve shot an exasperated look over the top of the Horror section towards Robin, who was pouting in mock-agreement with Dustin.

Traitor.

Sighing, Steve shoved Friday the 13th onto the shelf and dropped his gaze towards Dustin. “One game.”

Dustin let out a loud whoop, hopping in place and punching wildly at the air. “YES!”

“Just one game, Henderson, that’s it.”

“I’LL TAKE IT!” Letting out an even louder victory cry, Dustin raced for the door. “I’m going to get working on your character sheet right now – Wednesday, 3:30 in the drama room,” Dustin said, whirling around to point at Steve. “You’ll be there?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be there.”

“YES! Don’t worry Steve, you won’t regret this!” Dustin beamed and then he was out the door, disappearing into the October sun.

[elemit]

A Gift, A Curse

A story in which we discover just how damned an ascended vampire can be, and just how far you will go to save the spawn you loved.

Read in full on AO3

dead dove/not beta read

fic warnings: Abuse, Angst, Biting, Blood and Gore, Blood Drinking, Bondage, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Food Restriction, Hate Sex, Horror, Mental Coercion, Mind Control, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Sexual Coercion, Torture, Total Power Exchange, Trauma, Vampire Bites

Chapter 3: Victory

You both agreed it would be prudent to wait until after your fight against the Elder Brain to try to turn you. Astarion’s own transformation was so long ago that he can't clearly remember the side effects, and even if he could, there's no way of knowing if being turned by an ascended vampire would be the same. You both decide it's not worth risking your skills when the outcome of such an important battle hangs in the balance.

“Besides,” you say to him one night, “what's the point of immortality when I'm facing near certain death regardless?”

Your decision to wait doesn't stop him talking about the future, of course. He tells you every day of the wondrous things that the future holds for you both. Sometimes you feel as though he has been distant since his transformation. Sometimes you worry that the cruel streak that has always been there is getting stronger. But he speaks with such passion and love about your entwined destinies, and all the greatness that you will achieve together, all the greatness you can do because you have each other, you find your worries are assuaged. The changes in his behaviour can be explained away by the guilt of the ritual weighing on him, or the stress of trying to save a city, or a dozen other reasons that you will work through together. You will have all the time in the world, after all. It's strange, but even though you know the biggest battle is yet to come, you feel as though you've both finally found your happy endings.

And then, finally, the battle comes. And then, finally, it's all over.

You won.

You don't know how any of you have the energy to walk, let alone dance, but that's what you find yourself doing in the hours after the fight: dancing and drinking in a tavern with giddy abandon in the arms of your allies. You'll mourn those lost along the way in time, but for now the overwhelming sense of joy cannot be denied. You swirl around your friends, linking arms, clasping hands, singing songs and calling out for more drinks before your current cup has even run dry.

You feel Astarion’s eyes on you for every moment of it. 

He has sat himself in an alcove to the side of the room you have taken over for the occasion, half shrouding himself in shadows. He doesn't join in the revelry, even when you beckon him over. He simply raises his glass in a toast to you as you are whisked up in another jig, smirking as if watching you is all the entertainment he needs.

Eventually the raucousness dies down, and you twirl over to him, cheeks flushed and skin glowing from the drink and the dancing. When he looks at you, the desire in his eyes makes your heart skip a beat.

“I have been waiting for this night for a long time” he says, standing up to kiss you fully. “You look beautiful, my treasure, and you could look this beautiful forever, if you want to.”

You smile at him, and maybe it is only because you are so tipsy, but he seems to sense your deep-down hesitation.

“What is it, my sweet?”

You shake your head, pulling away from him, unsure how to phrase the worries that have been bubbling up inside you over the past tenday or more. Under his inquisitive gaze, you crack, the words tumbling clumsily out of your mouth.

“You’ve seemed different since the ritual. Distant, I guess.”

“I suppose it’s possible. I’ve been imbibed with unfathomable new talents. It’s taking me some time to become acquainted with my new self.”

“…and I can’t stop thinking about all those deaths…” you say nervously.

“Death was better for them, darling. We’ve discussed this.”

“How can you say that so callously?” Your voice is barely more than a whisper now. “You sound like him. You sound like—“

“Don’t say it!” Astarion spits, his face suddenly twisted with fury. “Don't you ever compare me to him! Never! How dare you stand there and judge me.  Your hands are bloody as mine, darling. Why would you go along with any of this just to pretend you're innocent now?”

“I just wanted to help you feel safe.”

“It seems I misjudged you. I thought we would have a future together - even an eternity - but perhaps you’re not worthy. So what’s it to be, darling? After all this, is this it? Is this the end?”

Your thoughts swirl in a drunken panic. “No!” you cry, tears of frustration welling in your eyes. “No, Astarion, I love you. We’ll make it work.”

Like a switch has been flipped, the ugly rage disappears from Astarion’s face, and he takes you in his arms once more, wiping away your tears.

“Of course we’ll make it work, love. Of course we will. You’re the one that I want. The only one I love. And you could be so much more than that. One little bite and you could be mine forever. My beautiful consort. My most beloved spawn.”

This makes you pause. “You said you’d make me a true vampire,” you say, trying to keep the wobble of accusation out of your voice. “After everything you’ve been through, you would make me a spawn?”

“Our situations will be entirely different, of course. I would never hurt you. I love you. And I will make you a true vampire eventually, but these transformations take time. Trust me, my love.”

You nod mutely, because the bone-weariness from the past day, the past ten-day, the past entire remembered history of your life is suddenly seeping into you, and you have nothing left to say. Besides, you do trust him. This man who stood against your father with you - who stood against a god with you. You trusted him enough to have him by your side through the toughest battles of your life. Why on all the planes would that change now?

He smiles and kisses you gently. “Now, my love. Shall we make love one more time while your heart is still beating?”

You nod again and tell yourself that the dread you feel is only the result of tiredness, and you let him take you by the hand. 

“Then come with me, my darling, and live your final night.”

[orionchildofhades]

steddie swapping soulmate au part 12

part 1 | [...] | part 11 | part 12 | part 13 | Ao3

-

Robin is seriously panicking.

Like full on panic attack type of panic, I cannot remember how to breath type of panic. The my-soulmate-is-a-man-and-men-are-definitely-not-for-me-to-not-say-gross type of panic.

Not only that, but she woke up in the body of one Steve fucking Harrington, rising star of Hawkins High, popular in thousands of way, playing thirty billiards of sports and hanging with twice that number of people and being flooded with interested girls and-

Robin needs to breath.

In for four, hold, out for eight.

Again.

This is just fine.

Please make it be just fine.

Make Robin's body fall suddenly in a coma or something and Harrington unable to attend school and broadcast to the rest of the universe his link with Robin.

Please.

She dries her tears in front of the mirror, unwilling to do much in the body she currently is in.

She hates it.

She doesn't have something against men as themselves. Well, she does, and in several forms and ideas, but the point remain is, she doesn't hate men. But having to stand in a body so profoundly foreign, so different from hers. It feels awful.

And she has to spend the day like that, and change, and interact with people. And she has to speak to Harrington before he makes a big mess out of everything but everything is already a big mess and-

In for four, hold, out for eight.

At school, half an hour late and running madly around in search for her own body, rushing through the corridors to the room she is supposed to be, she run directly into someone chest.

"You good Harrington?"

She looks at the other person's face, feeling weird out to not have to look up. Eddie Munson is looking attentively at her, big brown eyes shifting from curiosity to concern for a brief second before settling on a strange light not unlike recognition.

Robin doesn't have time for that!

"Soulmate business," She blurts, too preoccupied by the idea of Harrington running rampage in her body around school, doing God's know what and saying probably an immense amount of bullshit.

In for four, hold, out for eight.

"Then by all means," Munson slightly bow, something akin to a smile on his lips, "good luck."

And Robin is rushing by without another thought.

She finds herself before her room, looking at her timetable with a nervous look. Harrington looks up from it at the sound of her footfalls and follows the strangest thing Robin has ever lived.

Harrington, with her face, seems to melt with relief. It's strange because her face doesn't do that, doesn't just shift from a nervous look, to a unbelievably blank one to this.

And of all the things she had expected of him, this was not it. Tease, flirt, inappropriate comments maybe about waking up in her body and-

Oh God, she went to bed shirtless last night.

Her cheeks heat up and the odd response from Harrington erases itself from her thoughts.

Without waiting for him to speak, which he was clearly about to do, she grabs his wrist, hers?, and drags him out of the school. To hell with class and the world.

She might just commit murder today.

Because nothing else strikes her fancy, and because she is self-sabotaging if nothing else, she brings Steve beneath the bleachers of the court.

Bad, bad idea.

Honestly reading her own face way harder than it should be. But there is definitely an air of excitement and blind hope, so eager and honest. It takes Robin off guard, her blood already bubbling with anger. It kind of cut off the whole speech she was preparing and a sudden feeling of guilt.

And for a second it's all too much.

Since the day began she had been in a fair state, frantic and erratic, fear and adrenaline fighting in her veins. All kind of thoughts flying in her head, tumbling against one another, coming and going, spiraling.

"I don't like you," she blurts out, and it's not loud, nor angry. More like a bland fact, cold and just, there.

She closes her eyes when she sees Steve recoil, his flinch. Something in his eye dims.

Fuck.

All of the sudden it's all too much. She falls on the ground, limp, her hands closing behind her nape, head fallen between her knees. She feels distantly the tears running down her cheeks.

"I don't like you, I can't like you. You're not-" her voice breaks, "I'm broken."

Harrington has dropped to his knees before her, pain clear on his face. Yet, what predominates is a stark concern. An inviation to speak.

---

here is another chapter!

this will be the last one of October, I leave the stage to the smut writers for kinktober and i'll come back by November for some more content.

(and with a HP fic on ao3 if anyone is intrested)

loads of love to you

[zarahjoyce]

MiTD Fic: run-of-the-mill

Summary:

"Are you all right?" he asks, his heart bright with worry. Worry? Why would I-- And then this girl smiles at him, and his world turns upside down. Finally, he thinks again. Finally, I found you.   or   a snippet of Kim Do Ha and Han Ri Ta's new life.

Notes:

I've always known I'm going to write a peak into Do Ha and Ri Ta's life because I WANTED TO SEE IT, SO I WROTE IT MYSELF

ao3 link!

--

Finally, his first thought was, the moment he sees her standing by the temple. Finally. Do Ha can't understand it, himself. All he remembers was seeing this girl wearing a school jacket of some sort, taking pictures left and right. As if his feet had a mind of their own, he finds himself moving towards her, closer and closer, until-- --he saves her from taking an unnecessary tumble down the stairs. "Are you all right?" he asks, his heart bright with worry. Worry? Why would-- And then this girl smiles at him, and his world turns upside down. Finally, he thinks again. Finally, I found you.

--

Somehow he finds it difficult to let go of her - even if it was time for his class to depart the temples. I should stay, he thinks, staring at her mouth. I should--  "Ya, Kim Do Ha," his friend Jang Yoon Je says, clapping his shoulder from behind them. "What are you doing? The teacher's been looking for you. It's time to bounce." "I should go," she says, giving Yoon Je a curious glance before focusing on Do Ha again. "It was nice meeting you. And... thank you again for saving my life." And she gave him a soft smile that made his heart lurch. Somehow, watching her walk away was the hardest thing he had to do that day. "Who's that?" Yoon Je curiously asks, looking from him to the figure of the departing girl. "Your friend?"  "Someone," Do Ha says, glancing at Yoon Je, "that I'm going to marry." A beat. "Well, that's really sudden," his friend comments, crossing his arms. "You've never really shown any interest in any girl in our school - even Jung Yi-Seul, the most popular girl in campus - and now you're saying you're going to marry a girl you just met?" Do Ha shrugs, shoves his hands in his pockets, and turns to go the opposite way. It was hard to explain what, exactly, he was feeling. Just that he's filled with a certainty he's never felt before. Like his life has been missing a puzzle piece this entire time, and now that he's found her-- "Well, does your girl have a name?" Yoon Je asks, catching up to Do Ha. A beat. And then Do Ha turns to him in horror. ...shit.

--

Han Ri Ta. He finds out a few days later, just as an online article comes out about the winner of a local school photography contest - with her picture on top of it. Her entry shows a picture of the moon in the sky, clear as day, even if the sun was brighter than it. She called it Moon In the Day, Yearning for Night. Do Ha smiles, feeling as though another of his life pieces has neatly slid into place. Han Ri Ta.

--

He finds himself standing in front of her school, waiting for-- "Can I help you?" someone asks from behind him.  And Do Ha turns, coming face to face with-- --Han Ri Ta. "Oh!" she says, covering her mouth with both her hands. "It's you!" "You remember me?" Do Ha asks cautiously. She laughs, making his heart feel light. "Of course! I can't ever forget the face of the guy who saved me from a fall, after all. I owe you my life, Sir." "Have you been careful?" he says. "Like I told you to be?" She grins. "You'll be glad to know that I have had zero near-death experience since I saw you last." "That's good," Do Ha replies, breathing a sigh of relief. "I'd hate if anything were to happen to you." Live. Please live, Han Ri Ta. I beg you. And a slightly awkward moment passes between them."So," she says, glancing around them. "Are you waiting around for someone?" Do Ha blinks at her. "I--" "I know almost everyone in our school," Ri Ta adds, beaming up at him. "Maybe I can help you find them." Another beat. And Do Ha finds himself clearing his throat. "I was... hoping I'd run into you." She raises a brow at that. "You were?" --shit. "The, uh, picture you took," Do Ha continues. "About the moon in the day? I thought it was really beautiful. I wanted to talk about it." He pauses and says softly, "You're really talented, Han Ri Ta." And her name slides out of his mouth like a blessing. She cocks her head to one side, just studying him - and Do Ha feels as though he's done Something Wrong. Which is ridiculous, of course. He's been known all his life as Mr. Perfect-at-Everything. Even if he'd tried, he wouldn't be able to take any missteps.  Except now, it feels like. Except in front of her. "That's unfair," she finally speaks, crossing her arms. "It seems you already know my name, but I have yet to know yours." Oh. Right. "Kim Do Ha," he says, breathing easily now. Ri Ta smiles again.  "Kim Do Ha," she repeats. "That's great. At least now I don't have to call you Sir when I think of you." And Do Ha blinks at her. "You think of me?" he asks, point-blank. And her face turns bright red. "O-Oh, well," she sputters, "it's not often that I get saved, so." Another awkward moment passes between them. But, again, she cuts that moment short when she brightly asks him, "Would you like to have some coffee?" 

--

And that moment leads to the next, and the next, and the next. And now--

--

They're in their third month of dating. Do Ha has his head on her lap, feeling as peaceful as ever. She's humming a soft song as she slides her fingers through his hair, and this, this, to him feels like home.

"Don't you find it strange?" Ri Ta asks. Do Ha opens his eyes to look up at her inquiringly. "I mean-- everything that's happened between us," she continues. "It feels... I don't know. Too easy?" "Would you prefer it if things between us were complicated?" he asks carefully.   She shrugs. "It's just... something we took up in history class," Ri Ta says. "About a Silla General who took a wife from Gaya. She ended up murdering him and her father, you know, before taking her own life."  Do Ha closes his eyes. "She must have a pretty good reason to do it." "I guess," she says, running her finger across his brow. "I just keep thinking about how their lives were back then. Having an enemy by your side as your spouse. And it's just--" She pauses. Do Ha waits. "Do you think they loved each other?" Ri Ta continues. "Even if they were enemies?" Yes. Yes. A thousand times, yes. "What do you think?" he asks her back. She sighs. "Would it be weird," she replies, "if I told you I feel happy when I think of them?" Do Ha looks at her again. "I mean, that we don't live like them now," Ri Ta explains, smiling at him. "That we're no Silla General and Gaya Royalty. That you're you, and I'm me. That we're--" "--ordinary?" he adds. Ri Ta pauses, then quickly bends down to kiss his lips. "Exactly," she says. "I love that we're ordinary now." And Do Ha gently cradles the back of her head and pulls it down, just so he can claim her mouth again. Slowly. Thoroughly. I do, too.

[sunsetschloe]

dear diary | April 23rd, 2000 |

summary: a series of diary entries from Annabeth, spanning from her childhood running away, to her adulthood, when she finally finds the place she belongs, featuring quotes from different authors, and also mine <3

link to ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55270033/chapters/140201542

~~~

April 23rd, 2000

Dear diary,

I got caught in the rain today on my way to the grocery store, which sucked. I had to hide in the bathroom for an hour or two, but surprisingly, my hideout remained completely dry. I think it must have been woven with magic of some sorts. By this angle of rain, it’s impossible that not a single inch of my hideout has a trace of water. I hope it was my mother’s blessing.

I hate to admit it, but life on the streets is getting lonely. I mean, I didn’t have many friends before I ran away, but this is just sad. No teachers to please, no homework to do, just me and my books. I read 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea today, and now I want to explore the depths of this unknown world, but sadly my parentage will probably prevent me from going anywhere near the ocean my entire life. I would love to visit the aquarium though, or the Sea World.

I always feel like I’m rambling in these entries, but I truly don’t know what to write, except the chaotic thoughts tumbling around my head. I’m thinking of moving somewhere far far away from here, because its getting boring. Hopefully the rain stops soon

—Annabeth Chase

“The sea is everything. It covers seven tenths of the terrestrial globe. Its breath is pure and healthy. It is an immense desert, where man is never lonely, for he feels life stirring on all sides. The sea is only the embodiment of a supernatural and wonderful existence. It is nothing but love and emotion; it is the Living Infinite. ” —Jules Verne, Twenty Leagues Under the Sea

next entry [tba]

previous entry

[viola-halogen]

12 Days of Thanktival — Day 10: By the Fire

—

[AO3 link]

Relationships: Isabelle Higham/Thomas Thorne

Characters: Thomas Thorne, Isabelle Higham

—

Summary: After getting snowed in on a visit to Higham House, Thomas and Isabelle use the excuse of huddling by the fire for warmth to be close to one another.

A/N: I’m still on time, it’s still 11 o’clock.

I really like this one because I finally got to use an idea I’ve had for months.

—

Ghost Stories

“I thank you kindly for this most pleasant of afternoons, Miss Higham, but I’m afraid I must take my leave now if I wish to return home by nightfall.” Thomas bent to kiss Isabelle’s hand, and with her back to the room’s other occupants, only he caught the dazzling smile she gave him as he did. He straightened up to address the others. “Lord Higham, Lady Higham, you have been the most gracious of hosts and the most enjoyable of company.”

He turned and made his way to the front door of Higham House. The door was pulled open, and Thomas flinched as a blast of cold air hit him, blowing through his coattails and causing him to take a step back. It was snowing fiercely outside, and as he watched a small avalanche of snow came tumbling through the door into the front hallway. So thick was the carpet of white that blanketed the front drive that Thomas doubted he could have made it to the carriage without getting his feet wet, despite his boots almost coming up to his knees. He had noticed it snowing earlier that afternoon, but so enraptured had he been with Isabelle’s piano recital that he had thought very little of it. Optimistically, he had assumed it would clear up before he had to leave—that had not been the case.

“Thomas!” Isabelle exclaimed, rushing over to him, followed by her father. “Come away from the door, or you’ll catch a cold!” She was shivering in her thin gown and bare arms, but she insisted on dragging Thomas back into the house as Lord Higham’s servants tried in vain to shut the door against the mound of snow now blocking it.

“Father, you can’t expect Thomas to try and get home in this. You’d never be able to drive a carriage on the roads right now, and it’s already getting dark,” Isabelle said, seeing the frown on her father’s face.

“Isabelle,” Lord Higham said, drawing her aside and beginning to speak to her in a low voice. It was a useless attempt at keeping their conversation private—Thomas could still hear every word that was said. “You are still unmarried, and Mr Thorne is not a relative. If he stayed the night and… rumours started to spread… you could be ruined.”

“Mr Thorne is a man of respect,” Isabelle argued. “And there are plenty of people here to chaperone the two of us. I would rather risk it than let him go out there and risk his life on those roads.”

Lord Higham looked conflicted. There was no arguing the truth in Isabelle’s words. “Fine,” he conceded, “but see that at least one member of the family is present in the room with him at all times.” Then he turned to address Thomas. “You’re welcome to stay here tonight, to save you from trying to travel in this weather. Your coachman will be put up in the servants’ quarters, and your horses in the stables. You yourself can take one of the spare bedrooms.”

“I appreciate the offer greatly, Lord Higham,” Thomas said. “But my mother and father will be waiting for me at home. Will not they be worried if I fail to return this evening?”

“We will send word to them first thing in the morning to let them know that you are safe and remained with us overnight,” Lord Higham said. “It would be foolish to attempt to return home now just to ease their worries, and risk causing great harm to yourself in the process.”

“I… suppose you are right,” Thomas said. As much as he hated the idea of leaving his family to worry, not a bit of him was excited about the prospect of having to go out in that storm. Isabelle smiled brightly and clapped her hands together.

“Wonderful!” she said. “Come, sit by the fire and get warm. The night is only going to get colder.”

Well, that was another benefit of staying here—it meant he would get to spend the evening with Isabelle.

He removed his coat and boots, then made his way back into the sitting room, taking a seat by the fire. Lord and Lady Higham retreated to the other corner of the room to whisper to each other, no doubt about him. Isabelle disappeared upstairs, and then returned a few minutes later with a warm woollen shawl wrapped around her shoulders. She glanced over at her father as she entered, and then took a seat next to Thomas and started warming her hands on the fire.

“It gets ever so cold here in the winter,” she said. “The building isn’t well insulated, and especially in the larger rooms like this one it’s very difficult to stay warm.”

“Then I am grateful we have this fire to sit by and stave off the cold,” Thomas said. “And I have often found that the right company can make even the coldest night seem warm and cosy.”

Isabelle blushed, ducking her head shyly. Thomas longed to reach out and take her hand in his, but he was conscious of Lord Higham’s watchful eyes boring into the back of his head. Isabelle had been right—he was a man of respect, and he would never wish to do anything that might compromise Isabelle. Besides, he wasn’t exactly keen on angering Lord Higham while guesting at his house.

“Do you know any ghost stories?” Isabelle asked after a moment. “It is tradition to tell them while gathered around the fire on long winter nights.”

“I am familiar with a few such stories,” Thomas said. “There is one I heard many years ago—it tells of an 18th-century noblewoman, Lady Carew, who obtained a love potion from a local witch in order to snare a wealthy husband for her daughter Evelyn. At first it seemed her scheme had succeeded, and Evelyn was engaged to be married to Sir Godfrey Haslitt of Bastwick. But soon she received her just reward for meddling with witchcraft, as on the night of her wedding, a ghostly skeleton seized the bride and carried her off in a coach drawn by four black horses. When the coach reached a nearby bridge it burst into flames and plunged into the water. Evelyn was never seen again, but it is said that the sound of ghostly hooves and the screech of wheels can be heard there every May 31st.”

Isabelle listened raptly as he spoke. When his story came to an end, she laughed musically, covering her mouth with a hand. “And do you believe such a story?” she asked.

“I suppose… It’s never something I’ve much considered. As an author of works of fiction myself, I do not really think it matters to me whether such stories are true or not.”

Isabelle smiled, and subtly moved slightly closer to him. “Did you know that this house is haunted?” she said.

“Is it really?” Thomas said, intrigued.

Isabelle nodded. “There’s a little plague girl in the pantry. I can hear her singing sometimes—usually when I’m alone, and everything else is quiet… it’s quite creepy. And there’s this… weird smell, sometimes. Like there’s something burning. I think it must be the ghost of someone who died in a fire.”

“Wow,” Thomas said. “What an unfortunate way to go.” He shivered and cast a furtive glance around himself.

“Spooky, isn’t it?” Isabelle said. “I know a few other ghost stories—not that I’ll be able to tell them as well as you.”

“You do yourself an injustice, I’m sure,” Thomas said.

“Not all of us can be our greatest living poet Thomas Thorne,” she said. Her words stung a little—Thomas wasn’t blind to the way most of his contemporaries perceived him, and although he liked to think that Isabelle was different, only a fool would dare to believe she wouldn’t turn on him with mockery eventually. Still, he straightened his back and put on a smile at the flattery.

“I would still very much like to hear them anyway,” he said. Isabelle smiled and began to weave a tale. Some of her stories were ones he knew already, but each one had a unique spin on it that made him feel like he was hearing it for the first time. He liked listening to her talk as well—she had a beautiful voice, and he loved the way her eyes lit up as she spoke. They passed several hours like that, trading ghost stories back and forth. But all the while Lord Higham was watching them intently, and the more time passed, the more insurmountable the foot of space between them seemed.

All too soon, Isabelle stood up with a yawn and said, “I think I shall retire for the evening now. Thank you for your most pleasant of company, Mr Thorne. I do hope I shall see you before your departure in the morning.”

“It will likely be some time before the roads are safe to travel on, so I have no doubt you will,” Thomas said.

Isabelle nodded to him, and then to Lord and Lady Higham. “Goodnight, Mr Thorne. Goodnight mother, father.” Drawing her shawl around herself, she turned and left the room. Without her next to him, the air suddenly seemed much colder.

[whumpitlikeyoumeanit]

Whumpcember 21

All of this Whumpcember is a single, long fic, with the prompts used in specific scenes, in order. See the Masterlist and AO3 link here.

((content warnings: mind control, drugging, love potion, (Draco is still under the effects of Amortentia), domestic violence, beating, strangling ))

promptspiration: @whumpcember Day 21: Choking

Whumpee: Draco Malfoy Whumper: Harry Potter Pairing: Harry/Draco whump type: violence fic type: post-Hogwarts AU

words: ~1500

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

He didn't actually realise he'd been alone in the house until he heard the front door and Harry coming in. He should leave him be. He looked at Harry's ring and tried to convince himself.

He couldn't.

He limped into the hall, dim with evening, seeking the sounds. He found him going up the stairs, trailing wet marks from his shoes he hadn't bothered to change, carrying a nondescript bag. 

"Harry," he said quietly. "Talk to me." Please, please talk to him… 

Harry looked down at him coldly after a second. "You're really fucking bad at doing as you're told. I told you to leave me alone."

"I can't." He held onto the rail at the bottom of the stairs to keep himself steady. "Leaving you alone won't help anything. I need you… I need to fix this. Just tell me what you need, I'll do it." 

Harry turned back and came halfway down the steps, setting his package down without looking. "Tell me you're sorry." 

"I am," he promised. "I'm so sorry." 

Harry's expression didn't change. "Now tell me you love me."

"I love you," he said quietly. "I thought you knew. I thought I didn't have to say it. I'm sorry for doing that to you."

Harry still didn't react. "Now stop lying."

There was a second of offence, but the pain and guilt and, yes, fear was stronger. Fear that Harry would never forgive him, that he had broken everything irreparably. "I'm not lying," he said as calmly as possible, as sincerely as he knew how, meeting his eyes to try to make him believe him. "I'm sorry I haven't said it, but that doesn't mean I'm trying to manipulate you. It's just a hangup. I can say it, and I will, going forward."

"It isn't about that!"

His shoulders flinched and went stiff. "What is it about?" he asked. He tried to control his voice so he wasn't pleading, but he was. He needed to know. "Just tell me what you need from me." 

"What I need is for you to not be yourself!" Harry shoved him in the chest, and he stumbled backward. He latched onto Harry's arm without thinking about it so he wouldn't fall, and a look of disgust that stabbed him in the heart went over Harry's face as he shook his arm to get him off. He tumbled to the floor and didn't want to look, because he didn't want to see that again, but he couldn't help it; he needed to see him.

"Harry, please — whatever it is, I'll change it—" He struggled to get back up, and Harry's foot shoved him back into the wall so he couldn't. "Harry! Stop!"

"'Stop'?!" Harry kicked him hard into the wall, face furious. " I should stop? Me, you fucking hypocrite?" He heard himself cry out as he hit the wall again, and his breath was driven out so he couldn't make another sound. He tried to cover his head and got his arm kicked into his face for it, and his head hit the wall. 

Why…? Why was he a hypocrite? Why was Harry so angry? He didn't mean to…

Harry picked him up by the front of his shirt, holding him up against the wall. He tried to hold himself up but couldn't help. "Just tell me what I did…" he pleaded, barely above a whisper. He just needed to know… so he could fix it… he just needed to know what he did that made Harry hate him…

The rage that contorted Harry's face wasn't even a surprise anymore. He slammed him back against the wall, and his hand slipped from the shirt and hit him in the throat; he choked from the surprise and pain.

Harry's hand twisted to seize his neck and squeeze. "I shouldn't have to keep you drugged up for you to be good to me!" Harry was slamming him back against the wall like a doll by the throat. Gasping and choking, he lifted his hands desperately to Harry's arm, but he was too weak to pull him off. "After everything I've done for your sorry ass, you still treat me like this!" Harry's other hand came up, ripped his away and they both closed around his neck, squeezing the air out of him. 

"I keep you alive! I keep you out of prison! Who else would do this for a fucking Death Eater like you?" Harry slammed him back into the wall, fingernails digging into his neck. Blood was rushing in his ears like crashing waves, and dark spots were blossoming around the edges of his vision, but it didn't stop him seeing the pain on Harry's face and hearing Harry's horrible accusations. "I've cleaned up your shit and puke, I've fed you like a baby! I made you laugh when you forgot how! Who else would want to do that, after all you've done? No one! But I want you! I love you!" 

The world was going dark, and Harry's voice was pulling away into the distance. "Why can't you just love me?"

Then he opened his eyes again, gasping painfully ragged breaths that felt like knives in his throat and tasted vaguely of blood, disoriented and sprawled in a pile at the bottom of the wall. Colour slowly came back into the world, the rolling blossoms of brown and black in his vision receding. Harry was standing on the bottom of the stairs, looking down on him. He didn't know when he had let him go. 

"You're pathetic," Harry said in a tight voice. He sounded like he was about to cry, but also hard and cold like a knife. Inarguable. His hands were down at his sides, held in stiff claws, like they hurt too much to close into the fists they wanted to be. There were lines of red scratches along the sides of them, and he felt a rush of horrible guilt for hurting him. "Stay out of my sight until I decide what to do with you." 

"Harry…" he said, or tried to — it came out as a thick, croaking whisper, rasping its way across the swollen surface of his throat. His saw his own hand reaching weakly for him, but Harry just turned away. He ducked halfway up the stairs to pick up his shopping and didn't look down at him until he disappeared in the upstairs hall. 

He was alone.

[zalia]

[Fic] Anamnesis

Title: Anamnesis

Fandom: Destiny

Rating: PG-13

Pairing: Saint/Osiris

Summary: Saint has had many dreams; dreams of the Last City and what it will become, dreams of love, of hope. Dreams of the Infinite Forest, of those fleeting memories which are not his.

And of course, of the golden fields and the tower.

Saint-14 dreams. And the dream begins like this.

Saint-14 dreams. And the dream begins like this.

He walks through the Infinite Forest, follows paths across swathes of yellow and  scarlet grasses that have never existed in reality, and passes through the glowing fractals of Vex architecture.

He is looking for something. He knows that. It is the most important thing in the world, and he must find it.

Ahead, between pillars, he sees a flash of golden feathers, the flick of a deep red cowl.

Osiris.

Yes, that is what he is looking for! Osiris, always Osiris. That was why he was here, to drag his foolish, brilliant Phoenix back to the world, no matter how many Vex he has to destroy. No matter how poorly the City may take it.

Saint runs after him, leaping gaps between platforms, and pools of glittering radiolaria which grasps for him as he passes.

“Osiris!”

Another flicker of gold at the corner of his eye. Saint turns and follows that glimpse of his beloved down the hallway of black stone. It is somehow both cavernous, dwarfing even his large frame, and claustrophobic. The deep silence of the place weighs heavily upon him, and his footsteps feel like an intrusion

Lights appear at ground level as he walks, a malevolent red that mingles with the purple of his own armour to make a shade that reminds him of old blood. Ahead though, the light is bright, a blinding white. Osiris would be there, he thinks, bathed in the light.

(Burned up by it.)

The path is clean lines and precise angles. There are turns at regular intervals, each one seeming to lead to that same bright light. His only guidance is the occasional flash of red and gold, his fiery bird always ahead of him, ushering him ever onwards.

“Brother Saint?”

Saint starts awake, breath coming harsh and heavy in artificial lungs. He looks around, squinting into the darkness. There’s the soft damning beep of a heart monitor nearby. Ah, the hospital. And there is Osiris laid out on the bed in front of him, cradled in wires and tubes and machines to sustain him. No light to bring him back.

Geppetto bumps against his shoulder, and he sighs softly, reaching up to cradle her in his hand.

“You seemed unsettled,” she says.

“A dream,” Saint says, with a weak smile. “Nothing more.”

“That dream?” Geppetto asks, concern in her voice.

He knows the one she means. The dream of golden fields and the tower. The dream of fighting everyone he has ever known.

“No. Not tonight. Another dream.”

One he can barely remember now, though the feeling of it lingers long into the day even as he stands in bright daylight beneath the Traveller.

Saint-14 dreams. And the dream begins like this.

The path is clean lines and precise angles. There are turns at regular intervals, each one seeming to lead to that same bright light. His only guidance is the occasional flash of red and gold, his fiery bird always ahead of him, ushering him ever onwards.

A hundred turns, a hundred identical paths set into black stone. He is getting closer though, he knows it. Here and there, along the walls are vases, and the unrelenting black of the stone is broken with flecks of red and green and amber. Sometimes there are smooth rounded patches, like drips of wax from a candle, as though the stone had been subjected to the heat of Solar fire.

And it is not silent, he realises now. The sound is just very slow, and very deep, a thump, thump, thump, like the beating of a colossal heart. Now that he’s noticed it, he can feel it reverberate through his chassis, perfectly in time with his own heart.

It is his companion as he walks the dark hallways, a reassuring echo.

And there, ahead of him, is a staircase. A scrap of red cloth rests on the first step.

“How is he?”

Ikora’s voice is gentle. Everyone is so gentle with him these days, and while he is grateful, he also hates it. It feels like he is being coddled. Him! Saint-14, the hero of Six fronts!

“He sleeps still,” Saint replies. “But he is alive and I know he will return to me.” Osiris is strong. Even without the light. “These machines are very useful,” he adds, a lacklustre smile along with the words.

“If you ever need to talk…” Ikora says.

Saint nods. “I will come to you.”

They both know it is a lie.

The dream begins like this.

The sound is very slow, and very deep, a thump, thump, thump, like the beating of a colossal heart. Now that he’s noticed it, he can feel it reverberate through his chassis, perfectly in time with his own heart.

It is his companion as he walks the dark hallways, a reassuring echo. It fills wires and circuits and joints as though it were made for him. There is something familiar about it though he cannot place it. Perhaps one of those things that lingers alongside the Crypt in his mind. Something that had been encountered by Saint-13, or Saint-5, or the Saint who must have existed before them all, flesh and blood. The ones who came before he was chosen by the Light.

(Stolen by the Light.)

There, ahead of him, is a staircase. A scrap of red cloth rests on the first step. He stoops to pick it up, rubs the material between his fingers. He fancies that he can smell Osiris on it still, scorching heat and sand and the tea that he liked to drink when they were together.

He ties it to his arm, the red bright against the purple ribbon of his accolades.

He begins to climb.

He cannot see the top of the stairs; there are far too many for that. The steps are shallow, and at points there are small landings, where more of those vases and small carvings-

“I'm glad you're staying," Crow says from the door. Saint stands and gives a silent nod of greeting, before glancing back at Osiris, still sleeping. “I understand.”

“You do not,” Saint replies, sharper than he intends, a flash of defensiveness because he cannot share this. No-one can share this. He sighs, the feeling dissipating into exhaustion. "Tell me something. Up there…" He points skyward, indicating the Leviathan in orbit over the Earth, the red glow of it violence against the sky. "Your doubts, your shame—they come alive?"

"Yeah," Crow replies, looking away.

"That is why I do not go to help," Saint says, though it seems like an excuse to his own ears. "Because—because I know Osiris will be waiting for me. Up there. And I… I cannot bear seeing another thing wearing his face."

He cannot bear the accusations he would hear, all of them true. Cowardice. He would rather hear them from Osiris’s own lips when he wakes.

Crow’s hand settles on his arm, small and warm. He has been through terrible things, that boy.

He pulls the Hunter into a tight embrace, optic lights blinking off.

"You are good bird. Than-”

It begins like this.

The red cloth is bright against the purple ribbon of his accolades.

He starts to climb.

He cannot see the top of the stairs; there are far too many for that. The steps are shallow, and at points there are small landings, where more of those vases and small carvings of dark stone are set out. They are formless things at first, but as he climbs, he begins to see the shapes of them.

His father. Zavala. Ana. Shaxx. Ikora. Old comrades from the early days of the City, and newer faces. Crow and Mithraks. Devrim Kay. The shipwright Amanda. They grow in detail with each landing passed until he feels like he is looking at the person in miniature.

The light illuminates the imperfections in the statues. A figure of Tallulah Fairwind, with a deep gouge as though pierced by a claw. Cayde-6, pitted with gashes, the stone burned in places. Crow, his face cracked like a broken mirror.

His father, crushed nearly to dust.

He touches the red cloth at his arm, and keeps climbing. He is getting close, he knows that, and he lets that deep, relentless beat fill him, soothe unease, and buoy hi-

-ield leaves his hand and bounces against a pillar before Shaxx catches it.

"So, how is he?" Shaxx asks. He hurls the shield back towards Saint. Saint catches it, feeling the ache when it hits his palms.

"No change," he says, and gives a heavy sigh. He hurls the shield back towards the other Titan, finesse forgotten and replaced with force. "Sometimes, I-"

-m onwards, up and up. It seems endless. It seems like he isn’t moving at all.

But he knows he is. He’s getting close. He doesn’t know what is at the top, but he  knows that it is desperately important. It must be, if Osiris is leading him there.

That deep heartbeat grows more prevalent, echoing his every step, every movement, until it seems as though the beat is moving him.

And there, there he can see it. There’s a flash of his fiery bird’s red-gold robe and then, towering abo-

-siris’s hand in his, and it feels so small, fragile in a way that his beloved had never been. It does not suit him. He should be filled with fire and life, sharpness on his tongue, and sweetness on his lips.

He raises his beloved’s hand to his lips. “I wonder if I deserve this. If I had just been stronger, better. If I had half of your cleverness…” He gives a bitter laugh. “You changed the fabric of reality to save me, and I cannot even recognise when a monster has stolen you.”

He smooths the pad of his thumb against Osiris’s hand, feels the bones there. Too thin. As though the loss of his light has hollowed him out, left him a shell.

He should have known. And all his strength, and all his Light is useless to save the most important thing in the world.

Beyond the curtains, night falls, but the room is dark, so it makes no difference to Saint.

It begins.

The stairs open out into a flat area, and towering above it is a statue. It’s made of the same black stone as the stairs and the halls, and seems to be a woman draped in dark fabric, arms outstretched.

He knows it. He cannot place it, but the sense of familiarity is overwhelming. He knows this, he knows her.

It feels like coming home.

He moves towards the statue, and then hesitates when he spots another flash of red. Osiris is laid at the base of it, arms resting at his sides, Sagira’s hollow shell laid against his breast.

He is deathly pale and unmoving.

“No…”

Saint falls to his knees at his beloved’s side, rests a hand against his cheek. He is too late.

“No,” he repeats. “No, this cannot be.”

(Look.)

It is not a voice. Not exactly. More a feeling with deep meaning attached. It runs down the cords and oil of his spine like a gentle touch. It would be impossible to ignore, even if he could bear to tear his gaze from Osiris’s still form.

And there, he sees it. The tiniest movement of lips as Osiris breathes. It is a breath so deep and slow that he can hardly see it, and yet he knows that it matches the heavy thumping beat which has cocooned him since he entered this place.

(The Light has abandoned him.)

“He is strong,” Saint says. He touches his fingers to Osiris’s lips, feels the faint warmth of breath. “He will wake.”

He has to believe that. He is Osiris, his Phoenix.

(It would not save him.)

Would not.

“I must get him to safety.” Yes, the hospital. They will care for him. Bind him in wires and tubes… trap him… all but dead… drained of his fire… in a dark room.

(Left him hollow, a bird with broken wings.)

He wraps his arms around his love, pulls him against his chest. Sagira’s shell digs into him, sharp points pressing around his heart. Osiris is so light, like there is nothing to him. Has the loss of his Light truly left him like this, an empty shell, substantial as mist?

(It gave the Light to the one who destroyed him.)

Saint stills, breath catches in his throat, every artificial joint, every drop of synthetic fluid which passes for blood, freezing inside him.

(It gave the Light to the one who deceived you.)

“Savathûn…” The name is poison in his mouth. The Witch who had stolen Osiris from him, worn his form and his voice as surely as she had worn his armour and cowl. Who had made him doubt his beloved.

His anger has always burned hot, while his love’s had been cold as void. Perhaps that is why they matched each other. He feels it now, heat which floods his circuits and systems. But his grip on his warlock is gentle.

(An inconstant gift for many who have been so loyal.)

He has seen the reports of course, the pictures. The Throne World over Mars, it’s fetid swamps infested with Hive lightbearers and their ghosts. The slaughter of Guardians in the EDZ and the Cosmodrome, corpses defiled, killed by the very Light which they had fought to defend.

And all while his fiery bird lay as ashes drained of any spark.

(We do not offer false promises.)

“My father told me once that I would be a beacon of light, an example to everyone of what a Guardian could be.”

But his father is gone.

His father who had taught him, and loved him, and helped him become who he is now.

His father who had cast out his beloved, called him unworthy, a heretic. Had called it the Traveller’s will, when Saint knew that Osiris was the best man he knew.

Just like your father. All of you. In your next life, you should take more after me.

(We do not offer the false comfort of forgetting.)

He has learned about Riis, their Golden Age torn asunder while their Great Machine fled. The knowledge and advancements of the Eliksni lost and twisted into desperate brutality.

He has learned about Earth’s own Golden Age from books and the oldest people who had remained when he was Risen. Learned about their power, their glittering world, the advancements enabled by the Traveller. The belief that it would continue forever.

It is hard not to wonder what his place in it had been, what had driven him to icy Europa and the embrace of the Crypt. An intrepid believer in the future? Or a desperate man with no other options left?

(Look.)

He stands, cradling Osiris against himself, and focuses on that deep, constant beat that underpins everything. It eases his heart, soothes his racing thoughts. There is peace in it. Clarity. The sort that he has only ever felt in battle… or in Osiris’s embrace.

He turns from that great statue, her arms outstretched in embrace, and stares out over what lies below.

Every path is spread out before him. Every corridor and intersection, a grid of lines and nodes. Some of them are bright, a harsh light which stings his eyes, blinds him, and casts stark shadows which could cut flesh. Others are dark, softening sharp edges. It reminds him of Prague, the ruined buildings losing the precise angles of humanity, gentled by time and rain and vegetation. And Osiris’s lips against his, as they loved in the night.

(We offer a choice.)

In the distance, he sees the tower. He knows that this time, there will be no enemies to slaughter, no allies to tear down. Just golden fields.

It feels like coming home.

“I think I understand.”

(We offer Salvation.)

Osiris’s eyes open.

“-ther Saint? Saint?”

Saint starts awake, breath coming harsh and heavy in artificial lungs. He looks around, squinting into the darkness. There’s the soft damning beep of a heart monitor nearby. Ah, the hospital. And there is Osiris laid out on the bed in front of him, cradled in wires and tubes and machines to sustain him. No Light to bring him back.

Abandoned.

Geppetto bumps against his shoulder, and he sighs softly, and keeps his hands loosely in his lap.

“You seemed unsettled,” his Ghost says.

“A dream,” Saint says, with a weak smile. “Nothing more.”

She hums soft concern, but goes to settle once more at Osiris’s side.

Out of sight, Saint uncurls his hand. In his palm sits a black stone, smoothed to a perfect circle. And on his fingers is a rime of ice which does not melt.

[writer-room]

Tied

AO3

Summary: And when standing waist-deep in water, staring at the back of a man he was fully expecting to be dead within the hour, Grian’s first and only thought was; you’ve got to be kidding me. And then he screamed. Because the Universe just really hates his guts, doesn’t it?

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Grian is the sort of person where, at any point in time, there are a lot of thoughts going on in his head.

Sometimes, it works out. Because when your head is never quiet, it’s not too hard to remember things, and even easier to learn. It also means he’s got quite a lot of ideas, on quite a lot of things, and this is where it strays into the dangerously troublesome territory.

Because then he gets ideas like starting wars. Or stealing the Enderdragon’s egg. Or living in a sentient, probably malicious rock. Or starting a death game with his friends. Because boredom makes you do a lot of crazy things. Reckless stupidity makes you do it repeatedly. 

But this wasn’t about that.

Because for every truth, there is an exception. So, please believe that it’s a tremendously horrific deal that, when standing waist-deep in water, staring at the back of a man he was fully expecting to be dead within the hour, Grian’s first and only thought was; you’ve got to be kidding me.

And then he screamed. Because the Universe just really hates his guts, doesn’t it?

He saw both Etho and Joel startle at the sound of it, which was understandable. It was loud, distorted, horribly grating on the ears, and he damn near popped his jaw loose from how wide he stretched it.

He heaved in a breath, and experimentally touched a hand to his jaw. Ah, yeah, that side popped out a bit. Let’s just push that back in–

“Oh no,” He suddenly hears Etho say. “Joel, I just threw an enderpearl. I think I’m gonna die.”

“What–?”

And then Etho is teleporting away with a yelp. 

It was so sudden and so Etho that Grian couldn’t help but stare, blink, and burst out laughing. Hysterically. Which was probably because of the frayed nerves.

And then Joel is laughing, too. Though his is more gleeful cackling, clinging onto the side of the canyon wall and doubled over in fits. And Grian is laughing along with him, and he can hear Etho somewhere above him laughing along with them, tumbling back down into the water, and they’re all such a mess.

“God,” Grian manages to get out, “this is terrible. Oh, goodness.”

“You’re actually linked?” Joel wheezes out, though he knows the answer. “Oh, oh that is too good. That’s incredible. That’s amazing.”

“I’m so sorry.” Etho says, completely ingenuine, and Grian notices that he’s got a wooden raft under one arm he’s trying to use as a boat, setting it over the water.

“God,” Grian says again, just staring off where Scar is chasing an allay up the canyon wall. Because of course he is. “I hate my life.”

“I give you my full sympathy.” Etho says, woefully unhelpful.

“I don’t.” Joel says, grinning, and if Grian didn’t know he was human all the way though, he would’ve called his teeth as sharp as a piranhas. “This is hilarious. Please live long enough for me to see how this goes.”

“I have no say in the matter!” Grian exclaims, gesturing off to where Scar is running around overtop the canyon. “You know just as well as I that Scar can, and will, die from absolutely anything! At any time! Oh, gosh,” Grian buries his face in his hands. “I can’t do this. Not again. I’m not gonna make it.”

“I don’t think Scar’s gonna make it.” Joel says, and Grian loudly groans, slumping back against the dirt wall behind him.

“I know,” He whines, slowly sliding down, water reaching up to his neck. Because he’s pretty sure the only two people shorter than Joel in the whole Universe are Bdubs, who’s like that by choice, and himself, who’s stuck with it. “The Fates hate me.”

“Eh, I mean, I kinda see why.” Etho shrugs, just as unsympathetic. “You’ve pissed them off, like, a lot of times.”

“I can’t do this.” He repeats, fingers moving aside as one of his eyes stared down at the water, mere inches from his face.

“Well, you’re gonna have to.” Joel says simply, perched on a jutting out piece of rock by his head.

“I can fix this.” Grian insists, hands falling away and into the water, looking up. His ears, he knows, are frazzled, fluffed, and altogether torn up. They haven’t been fully feathered in weeks. “I–this is still my game. Despite all that's happened, it's still–it’s mine.” He says, hands curling, desperate to grab and tear something. Maybe his hair, that’s usually a good start.

“Gonna have to politely ask that you don’t do that.” Etho says, wincing as he pulls himself up onto the boat-raft. “First time you tried to mess with the game, everything broke apart. And I think Martyn and Scott are still pretty shaken up over having to meet your eye-buddies from the last one.”

“Scott barely met them.” Grian scoffs, rolling his eyes. “And they were tame with Martyn. Believe me, if they didn’t like him, I’d know by now. They just like being a pain.”

“I still think it’s a bad idea.” Etho says gently, sitting cross-legged. “It won’t be so awful, will it? You did it once before. And it was pretty successful, I think.”

That’s kind of the problem, he almost says, nearly shouts. It was successful. Because Grian is not a cheater, but he is a rule-bender, and the game was kind of rigged and broken from the start. 

It was successful, because this was his game. And Grian had made the mistake of willingly binding himself to someone like Scar. Because it was one thing if it was a forced binding. If it was all a trick. If it was someone like Jimmy, or Martyn, or Bigb, or Cleo. Those were people he would ditch in a heartbeat just to see what would happen, or could still consider somewhat of an ally by the end, or knew could handle themself on their own.

Scar was none of these people. Scar could only live for as long as he had valuables on him, or was able to convince others he had them. Grian knew how cunning he was, and was far too exasperated to stay close enough to call him an ally. And he always told himself Scar would be easy to ditch, to see what he does, but…he’s not. He’s never been easy.

It was successful, because by the time his pact was over and done with, there was nowhere else for him to go. He’d backed himself into a corner. The side he’d picked was the side he was stuck with. He barely even thought about ditching. How could he?

It was successful, because despite Scar being, well, Scar, he still won. To Grian, it was always their win. Grian kept Scar alive, and Scar went on to destroy their enemies by sheer luck. For all the betrayals, and the screaming, and the bared throats accepting defeat, it was their win.

His hands still shook when he thought beyond the sandy mountain and the grave for a llama that meant so little and yet still so much, so he tried not to.

“He doesn’t know.” He says instead, because he knows Scar, and there’s no way he knows. He’d be scamming Grian for all his worth if he knew. Or using him as a flesh shield. “He hasn’t figured it out yet.”

“That’s just kinda sad, honestly.” Joel clicks his tongue.

“You can’t tell him.” He says, and it sounds more like a plea. “Let’s just–not tell him.”

“It would be funny.” Etho agrees, giving Joel a look as if he’s trying to convince him. As if Joel doesn’t make up his mind in three seconds flat and sticks to it like a dying man.

“Oh, it would be doubly hilarious.” Joel agrees easily. “It’d be a shame to ruin the fun so early, really.”

He honestly can’t tell if they’re being jerks on purpose, or if this is just how they are. It’s probably a bit of both. His friends are weird like that.

“Unbelievable,” Grian scoffs. “You’re both–”

“It’s unbelievable, Grian!”

Grian doesn’t startle, but he does stop and look up. Etho startles, though. Always a tad jumpier than him or Joel.

And Grian sees a splash in the river as Scar half-hops, half-trips off a ledge, apparently having come back down the canyon. His head pops up a moment later, and Grian is out in the water and reaching for him before he even realizes he’s moved, friends forgotten behind him.

His hands, crooked and sharp, snag Scar’s sleeves. A familiar voice in his head is rattling off thoughts like a list of materials he needs, saying; Scar’s leg braces won’t make him sink immediately, but they aren’t buoyant, either. He doesn’t always remember this. No matter how waterproof he makes them, he can never seem to find a good blend between ‘functional’ and ‘won’t fall apart when soaked.’

He remembers thinking this, even when they were in water that didn’t even reach the man’s waist. He remembers seeing him bowed there, and despite it all, some part of him thought; he’s going to ruin those braces.

And Scar gives him such a sad, pouty look as Grian tugs him back towards their little shelf with all his might. Despite the fact he’s not a water bird. And his tail is too long and too heavy, and his wings, clipped, though that would never stop him, are barely managing to keep him afloat.

Despite that, he pulls him along.

“I lost my allay.” Scar says sadly, positively defeated. “My soulmate just left me up the hill.”

And Grian blinks, and stares at his face, at his green, living eyes. A face that hasn’t acknowledged the claws digging into his arms at all, or any of the previous conversations they had, or even given a hint at knowing just what in the world is going on.

And Grian smiles, crazily, perhaps a bit unhinged, and ready to curse the world for making him exist at all. And then he holds Scar’s arms tighter, and he laughs.

If Scar notices how much it clicks, whistles, and rattles around in a brain like how it shouldn’t, he says nothing. Nor if he notices just how worn and weary such a sound can be.

He just smiles back, because he’s Scar. He’s gone along with far worse than a lunatic who’s earned the ire of the Universe itself, and would continue to do so.

And he hates knowing that for certain, because he’s still not sure if that's a good thing or not.

[chiwhorei]

𝐀𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐚

✞𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐁𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐬: 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐜 𝐈𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧✞

Pairing: Shouta Aizawa x Fem!Reader

Genre: Smut, Dark Content, 18+ MDNI

Word Count: 3,175 [Link to Ao3]

Tags: Darkfic, sacrelige, coercion, corruption, dubcon and noncon elements, intonations and parallels to incest, but not actual incest (ie. ‘Father’ Shouta), choking, age-gap, oral, Priest!Aizawa, Virgin!Reader

From Chiwhorei: Aizawa is where this all started, so it’s fitting he is the subject of my anniversary fic. To everyone who’s followed me along this journey despite the long bouts of radio silence, to everyone that’s participated and supported this collab, to all of my lovely, devious friends— truly, completely, thank you for this past year. Xoxo.

The pain was so sharp that it made me utter several moans; and so excessive was the sweetness caused me by this intense pain that one can never wish to lose it, nor will one’s soul be content with anything less than God.

** ** **

There’s not a soul awake this late.

The rosary wrapped between twitching fingers feels like a hot lashing against the skin. The glass and metal itch in your hold, the devotional was a gift for your confirmation-- it holds a decade of sins.

Your family has been asleep for hours now. Slipping through the back door as soon as you’re sure. Nineteen. A legal adult. Yet the only way to leave in the middle of the night is in secret. The cool, summer air hits your cheeks, it’s still for a moment. It’s so quiet, you feel like you’ve mistaken the real world for a snow globe. Static— in the moments after all of the glitter settles, all of the quiet, iridescent tears laying at your feet. It waits, patiently, until someone comes by to shake it again.

Moving into a cramped dorm room a few hours away, your childhood home feels bigger every visit. It’s bigger because nothing fills the space inside. There’s nothing but tense words and the clatter of silverware against dinner plates. Your father reminds you of an old briefcase— stern, rigid leather, unmistakably empty; your mother’s rose garden smells like poisoned wine.

Roses and leather, the combination suffocating enough to repel you in the hours you should be unconscious.

The walk from your parent’s house to the church is the most familiar thing in the world. Down to the cracks on the sidewalk and mossy steps leading up to a set of large, cherry doors. So routine it almost feels good for you.

There’s not a soul awake this late, you decide, that must be why you’re here.

That must be why he’s up too.

Pushing open one ornate door just enough to peek inside, you’re met with that distinct waft of incense and dusty missals. It smells like every Sunday morning and Easter Vigil, it smells like home.

Only votive candles light the space around you, flickering with intentions from fellow parishioners. You wonder if there’s one burning for you.

You know where to find Father Shouta, and suspect he’s waiting. He can trace every step from your parents home to the front gate. You open the confessional booth and crawl inside, the wooden space around you is cramped. It smells like incense masking cigarettes. Kneeling into the leather cushion, you face the screen partition.

“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was,” the memory has you falter, “three months ago.”

You remember the last hollow confession like it was yesterday. You were back in town for spring break. After mass that Sunday, your dad told Father Shouta how deplorable it was that your friends had tried, in vain, to drag you to the beach a few hours away from campus. “A week of drinking and sex, not for my daughter.”

Shouta met with you that evening and you cried your sins to him. How you had been dared to kiss boys at a party during midterms week, how you drank who-knows-what mixed with cheap beer at a frat house. He consoled you then, he told you that God will forgive all transgressions. “Even the sins of a whore.”

The memory makes you want to cry all over again. Yet, here you are— knees pressed to the very same leather, face against the same dusty screen.

He’s so still, so quiet, you jump out of your skin at the sound of his voice, “What is it that you’d like to confess, my child?”

Your body aches, stiff and tense to the bone. You breathe in, shallow and suffocated, before you speak again.

“Father, forgive me I—” you can tell his posture is just as rigid, he’s only a shadowed outline and the slightest glimmer of color from his eyes. They warn you, but you ignore the familiar feeling on the back of your neck.

“I have been having impure thoughts. I’ve been thinking about a man,” one more deep breath in an attempt to keep your voice neutral, “a much older man.”

If you could hear a smile, Father’s creaks like floorboards.

His silence prompts you to continue, you knot your fingers together and hold them against your stomach, the Rosary tangled in between threatening to cut off circulation.

“The boys in my youth group, the ones in my classes— they’re all nice but,” you leave the second half of the sentence to rattle around in your mind, “but they aren’t you.”

“Impure thoughts are one thing, sinful, but,” his voice is indifferent, cold, “the true sins are ones of the flesh.”

“I- I haven’t,” you start to stutter, trying to defend yourself, “I haven’t done anything, Father.”

Despite himself, he laughs.

“It’s true Father,” you wonder why you hadn’t just stayed at home, “I’ve only ever kissed a boy— it wasn’t even a real kiss. I’m still a virgin.”

From the screen, you can only see him in fragments. Little cutouts of a dark figure and sickeningly bright red eyes. The color peaks through like pieces of a puzzle, chasing through the patterned wood before you can catch that he’s stepping out of his side of the confessional booth.

“It wasn’t a ‘real’ kiss,” each word is mimicked, emphasized by the tap of his shoes against the tiles below, “no, of course it wasn’t. Not with some boy.” Your legs are unsteady as you stand from the kneeler. There’s nowhere to hide, Father has you trapped in a toy box. Just for him to play with.

“Of course that wouldn’t have satisfied you.”

The door to your side of the booth creeks open just as your back hits the wall. You can see his face for the first time in months, you trace the features illuminated with candlelight. Father Shouta’s face is strong, even more sharp with his long, black hair tied back. His presence looms over where you’re sunken into the booth. Even standing and puffing out your chest, he’ll still be able to look down at you.

He bares his teeth. You know this by now, stupid little girl, you know he likes to play with his food.

Long fingers grip the small door frame and curl around the wood like an omen, his body slithers into your personal space until he’s only an inch away.

“Lust, greed, what is it that you want?” Each vowel cradles a hearty dose of poison, the consonants bite away and spit you out. Your skin feels raw under his attention, “You can’t atone for sins you’re not really sorry for.”

Those same fingers slide up either curve of your neck, he crawls from shoulder to jaw, slowly. So slowly it seems like he’s trying not to get caught. He holds steady against your skin, thumb rubbing lightly at your bottom lip. You must have just fallen asleep after your parents went to bed, that stale, poisoned house even lulling the restless. You must be dreaming right now.

“Don’t make me ask again.” His timber hits the three walls and brings you back to the present. There’s no rest for you, only a weak answer to his question. What is it that you want?

“I want to be a humble servant of our Lord.” Your voice shakes, battered against your throat on its way to meet the stiff air.

Father’s lips are on you, he traces the words of Luke over your trembling mouth, there’s only a breath of space between you,

“No one can serve two masters. For you will hate one and love the other; you will be devoted to one and despise the other,”

The hands holding your cheeks move down to circle your neck, each long finger lays a trap. He tightens around the skin, just enough to make you forget how it feels to breathe freely. He could do anything to you right now, and your cries for help would be swallowed by stained glass.

No one can serve two masters.

The scream caught in your throat meets his wicked smile, it fizzles into little more than a whimper. The small booth you’ve been trapped in is burning hot, you feel sweat beading on your forehead. The last ounce of courage, of restraint, tumbles out before you can catch it.

“Who do you serve, Father Shouta? God or the Devil?”

He answers you with a thick tongue finally pushing into your mouth. He smells like perfumed oils and votive candles, he tastes like sugar free gum and Seven Stars.

His grip around your neck is the only thing keeping you on your feet, you’re sure if he were to let go you’d melt into the floor below. Father’s lips against yours are a siren, dulling all other senses, rendering you malleable to his will. Whatever his will may be, whatever it is that he wants from you— you’d let him have it anyway.

He breaks away, the kiss that’s felt like hours disappears far too soon. Your body jolts forward of its own volition, trying to connect yourself to him again. You’re sure you look desperate, but you’re too intoxicated to care.

“I serve only myself.”

Father lets go of your neck and you’re allowed the first deep intake of breath you’ve had since walking into the church. You swallow hard, looking back up to him. He scares you, he always has, but that fear draws you towards him.

Does a moth know what the flame will do to it? Does the moth know their fate?

You feel like crying, really crying, but all that comes out are a few frustrated tears. Father leans over you once more, eyes trailing the tear waxing over your cheek, “You’re a wretched little girl.”

Is that why they fly towards fire, because they like the burn?

** ** **

You step forward in line, it’s almost your turn. Mother first, she’s always thought of Father Aizawa as such a “charming young man''. The notion always made you scoff, in reality he’s only a few years younger than your parents.

Your dad is behind you, he’ll give him a friendly handshake after the service and remark how beautiful the homily was. Today, he spoke of the devil tempting Jesus. You hung on every word.

Mother steps aside and makes the sign of the cross, you’re next. A sheep guided by the dutiful shepherd, a lamb onto his slaughter.

Your chin tilts upwards, eyes locked onto your part-time captor. He only has you for a few seconds this time, but his attention is a hallway— every door is a pitfall. Aizawa’s gaze turns red when he looks upon you again— a bright, bloody, captivating red. You’ve convinced yourself it’s a trick of the light. But you see them in the dark too.

“The Body of Christ,” his voice is a welcome mat in front of an asylum, holding out the wafer and obscuring one painfully beautiful eye.

“Amen.” You know you’re part, but you can’t hear your own voice.

Father watches as your eyes close and your mouth opens, a quiet obedience, nothing at all out of the ordinary. Your fingers tingle with how tight you’re holding them together.

He places the Body to your awaiting tongue. It tastes like a harsh nothing that will stick to the back of your throat for the rest of mass. You take Christ in pieces, letting it start to melt into the roof of your mouth.

Shouta brushes your bottom lip before retracting. It’s subtle, an accident— the smallest touch of chilling skin. No one notices, the earth doesn’t stop on its axis for anyone else. You step aside and follow your Mother back to the wooden pews like nothing out of the ordinary stirs in your heart.

You feel Father’s eyes on the back of your skirt. They feel red.

“Your sweet girl here has offered a helping hand getting prepared for a youth retreat the church is hosting next week.” After mass, the stop to shake Father’s hand is inevitable, a pleasantry every parishioner makes time for before shuffling out for Sunday brunch.

He speaks over your quiet, “Good morning, Father Shouta,” right as your family turns to leave, almost as if he had been mulling over whether or not it was worth a mention. He regards them with a veiled casualty, never once looking at you.

Father’s face is kind when he wants it to be, laying a hand in the middle of your shoulder blades, it's a feeling of comfort you can’t help but lean into, “We’re discussing how to remain chaste in a sinful world.”

The word ‘chaste’ is pinched into your spine and despite yourself, you smile. A heavy heart has found home at the bottom of your stomach, but you can’t let on to the sick churning in your gut. Your parents gleam with pride for their daughter. A perfect example of a good Catholic girl.

“I’ll have her meet at my office this evening, is six okay?” His question sounds like your dowry, talking past you and asking for your parents permission.

Your dad shakes Father Shout’s hand once more, delighted at how his diligent parenting must be the reason you’ve found yourself in holy favor. Said ‘parenting’ is definitely to blame, but not in the way your dad assumes.

*** *** ***

The walk through church and into the sacristy is like a meditation in fear, every step begging you to turn back, to run home like a scared child. You tread steady, feet searing on hot coals until you’re met with the sound of Father Shouta just beyond the threshold.

“You’re late.” Something sinister fills Father’s quarters as soon as you open the door. It’s scary how offhandedly he can lie. You’re at least ten minutes early, the evening toll of church bells will signal the hour. He wants to see if you’ll stutter, if you’ll argue. You stay quiet, busying your hands with the hem of your skirt, fingers lifting it slightly before you remember who owns the eyes sitting across the room. They look golden from here, a honey you could drown in. You cough at the feeling of sugar in your lungs before collecting yourself and awaiting instruction.

Seemingly pleased with your docility, he smiles wide and crooked. It’s bound into a book he will whisper into you page by page. It’s written in a language only he knows.

Shouta motions you farther inside, leaning back in his seat. He corrects you when you move to sit in the chair on the other side of his desk, waiting with little patience as you settle against his side instead. Your posture is stiff being this close, being this alone.

His facial hair is trimmed neatly, small scars litter his face, the most pronounced a jagged trail under his right eye. From the dim evening light, you see a shadow of loose hairs make a pointed crown around his head.

“St. Teresa of Avila,” Father starts, tapping his fingers against a small stack of papers, “what do you know of her?”

You’re disarmed, the question seems so innocent-- not a note of ulterior motive detectible. Even so, your guard remains high. His intentions need no subtext.

“St. Teresa of Avila, the patron saint of headache sufferers,” you’re struggling to see the point, but Father prompts you to continue, “she was a Spanish nun, she wrote about a prayerful life,”

After another moment of measured silence, you grow even more tense, “Father Shouta, forgive me, I don’t understand,”

You’re hushed with a laugh, the small collection of papers placed in your hands. The first leaf is titled with large letters, “The Life of Teresa of Jesus.”

“I’d like you to read the section I’ve highlighted.”

You shake, thumbing through until you find a block of text traced in bright yellow. You scan its contents, but are quickly interrupted by Shouta’s next request.

“Out loud.”

There’s no escaping the toy box.

His stare is unwavering, giving you no room for objection. They’re not soft like honey anymore, Father Shouta’s eye’s are harsh, bloody gemstones.

You know better than to keep him waiting, adjusting in your half sat position on the side of his desk, you begin reading with hoarse inflection, “In his hands I saw a long golden spear, and at the end of the iron tip I seemed to see a point of fire. With this he seemed to pierce my heart several times so that it penetrated to my entrails.”

Wincing, the words sound like a stranger in your ears. After every sentence, Shouta’s fingertips inch closer to the end of your skirt, right above the knee. You’d be stoned for this kind of hemline at home, but with Father it seems to be exactly the sacred skin he wanted to see.

His hands move, unwavering, as you continue with the annotated paragraph, “When he drew it out, I thought he was drawing them out with it and he left me completely afire with a great love of God.” Fingers stop their gentle assault before adding pressure to your inner thigh, he peels apart your legs with a wordless prompting to keep going.

“The pain was so sharp that it made me utter several moans; and so excessive was the sweetness caused me by this intense pain that one can never wish to lose it, nor will one’s soul be content with anything less than God.”

By the last several words, Father Shouta’s lips are centered in between your open thighs, you feel tears frozen in the duct. You want to pull away, to escape, but his lips hold something you’ve never been this close to.

“Piety is a virtue,” you can feel the hot breath against your most intimate planes of flesh, “but our God is one of pleasure too.”

His kiss feels like branding. An aimless, confused lamb seared with the mark of its owner.

You cry out, loud and broken, when his mouth meets the cotton covering your pussy. Shouta uses his pointer and middle finger to move the fabric away.

No one has ever seen these parts of you, kept locked away for your future husband until now, sitting in the heart of your family's church, writhing from even the slightest touch.Hips buck of their own accord, and you’re granted one last open-mouthed lave against your twitching cunt. His tongue peaks out slightly to catch your clit before pulling away.

You move as if possessed, falling to your knees in front of your Father. Your mouth opens, that same quiet obedience, and his finger brushes your lower lip again. “No one” you think, eyes fluttering shut at the feeling of fingers wrapped into the back of your hair, “no one can serve two masters.”

“Body and soul, you’re mine.”

But there’s not a soul left in sight.

✞ 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞: All writing is chiwhorei’s original content, please do not repost or modify. Do no read my content as asmr. Do not recommend me on TikTok.©️

[jossambird]

The scent on your coat P5

Summary: Otto spends time to reflect on his life and his encounter with you and decides to go find you… Only to meet someone else.

Otto Octavius x F!Reader

Word count: 1.9k

Warning: Fighting, mentions of bleeding, NS/FW Subjects, Doc Yearning, Doc Jealousy,

AO3 Link for Previous Parts or on my masterlist!

For the next few days after your encounter, Otto couldn’t shake the feeling inside his stomach after seeing you again, heart beating happily as the image of you sprawled out for him reappeared in his mind. Just how long had it been?

Nearly a year had he been forced into a life of criminality, and no matter how much time would have passed, nothing could have ever changed his ever growing love for you.

The stars over his head remained hidden, just like he had been after his accident. The memory of it all felt fabricated, like a story out of the newspapers, but it wasn’t, and here he was, tentacles and all, no longer living the same life as before.

The night he had broken into Oscorp, everything had felt much too nostalgic for his taste, yourself included. You weren’t supposed to be there, served like a decadent meal on display for anyone to see. But you had been, and now, that image would remain forever ingrained in his memory.

Seeing you again in his lab, panting and touching yourself had caused him to feel all kinds of emotions all over again, mainly jealousy coursing through his system until he heard his own name escape your lips as you came.

“Ive only ever wanted you.” The very words replayed in his mind, heart beating faster at the thought. Did you also harbour a deeper emotion for him, just like he did for you? During your employment together, becoming close to you had felt like heaven, your smiles and gentle accidental touches always making his days better.

Otto sighed, eyes turning back to the endless black sky, and wondered if you were looking up too.

The state of his marriage to Rosalie had laid heavy on his mind, long before your employment as his assistant. Otto could still remember the moment he knew it was done, knew that his heart had stopped beating for Rosalie: You had smiled at a successful test, a simple little thing really, but the beauty in that moment, witnessing first hand your joy, had gotten him.

The love he had once felt for Rosalie had long since passed before that moment, just as her love for him had as well.

He had always felt jealous when Harry would come and see you, touching you innocently infront of him and everyone. Though, the very act of watching you always reject Harry Osborn’s advances left fire in his veins, pride radiating off him when you would turn back to him, smiling shyly as Harry left. Oh how he had always wanted to push you against his desk and take you right there, show Harry who you belonged to.

Now, in hindsight, he regretted becoming distant after the whole Harry hug ordeal, remembering how you would try to talk to him afterwards, worry painting your beautiful features with each passing day.

Most of all, he regretted not being able to properly tell you how much he had missed you, and just how much he loved you…

He started moving in seconds, claws burying themselves into the brick and steel of buildings, making his way towards the hideous Oscorp building. Perhaps, you would be working a late night shift again, and perhaps, you would be open to speaking with a villain and old colleague once more.

‘Speaking’ was perhaps not the right word to employ for what could potentially transpire between the two of you after his previous promise to you but he held no expectations, excitement coursing through his veins at the mere idea of seeing you again.

As he approached the Oscorp building and scaled up to the roof, he was met with a bizarre sight, momentary confusion equally held in the other man’s eyes.

Before him, on the very top of Oscorp Industries, sat Spider-Man. In seconds, Otto launched himself at the younger man, frustration rolling off of him in waves at the idea of not being able to see you tonight because of little Peter Parker.

A few moments passed, attacks flying left and right, yet… Something felt off, Otto thought, watching as Peter merely deflected his attacks and stood out of the way, never stepping forward to actually harm him or to the tentacles. He was taking the hits alright, but never retaliating, only receiving, as if to punish himself-

“S-Say Doc Oc- Doctor Octavius, can I ask you something?” Spiderman stuttered out, barely standing in place, face turned away from the older man. The younger man paused, mind jumbled while the villain remained still before him.

Otto didn't know what to do with this bizarre turn of events, looking at Parker in confusion and suspicion. He must have hit the boy on the head, or perhaps he was drunk, using his name for the first time in ages. Otto huffed out in annoyance, he’d much rather go back to trying to throw him across town then answer whatever stupid questions-

“If you loved someone… TRULY loved them, and you found out they loved another… Would you let them go?” Peter cut off his train of thought, making the elder man freeze at the intimate question.

Otto Octavius, renowned Scientist and villain, felt speechless. Of all people whom Peter Parker could have asked… Why him? Was this why Parker kept missing his attacks, barely avoiding his claws, tumbling left and right like a drunk? A broken heart?

“Yes, I would set them free.” Otto uttered without a beat, instantly regretting opening his damn mouth at the sight before him.

“How am I supposed to do that?” Peter tried to let out, a loud sob escaping as he staggered to the rooftops ground, mask in hand while the other hand furiously wiped his tears away.

Otto suddenly felt as if he were back in his old apartment, answering all of Peter’s questions, laughing and thinking just how bright and kind this young man was. But now, it was another woman roaming the halls of his apartment in his mind, another woman turning the corner to see him, your brilliant eyes shining as you smiled at him.

“Sometimes, to do what's right… we must be steady and give up the things we desire the most. Even our dreams.” Otto threw back the boy's own words that he had told him ages ago, knowing that despite everything, it was true. It was hard not to remember just how human they both were, and just how young Peter Parker was.

His eyes landed on the younger man once more, watching as Peter tried to regain a sense of decorum, despite the sobs that still shook his shoulders.

“Are they the one who told you they love someone else?” He asked after a beat, mild curiosity coursing through him as he tried to remember who Peter Parker had been interested in except that poor Mary Jane. The younger man let out a wet chuckle, surprising Otto as the boy smiled widely, fondly.

“She didn’t need to, she's always loved him, even if he didn’t know.” Peter uttered but shook his head, unmasked eyes turning up to look at the villain.

“She- she worked with him. They were pretty close.” Peter swallowed, sorrowful eyes turning away from the man.

“He left, and never came back, for her or his work. I'm the one who helped her pick up the pieces.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore, our wedding is in a few days.” Parker smiled softly as if reliving a memory, eyes and skin blotchy red from his tears. He lifted his hand in the air, wedding band shining in the moonlight.

Silence reigned between the two men, a gentle breeze caressing Otto’s cheek as his mind ran wild, trying to discern who Peter kept alluding to, eyes turning towards the city around-

“You know, she loved you. Really love you.” Peter whispered with a laugh, but it didn’t matter, Otto had heard him loud and clear, body freezing at the younger man's implication.

“She loved you, waited for you. But you never came.” Parker continued, taking the man's silence as an invitation to be quiet.

The silence felt all too stifling, until a tentacle shot out from behind Dr Octavius, grabbing Peter by the throat and throwing him against the brick wall beside them. Emotions swirled in Otto, thoughts and memories flashing before his eyes as he imagined you with Peter Parker, imagined you under the boy, moaning Peter’s name instead of his own. Soon to be married, Y/N Parker.

The very thought of it all and the thought that Peter had had you under him caused liquid hate to course through the Scientist’s veins, wondering if Peter had ever been able to make you cum just as he had, remembering the way you’d gripped his hair and moaned HIS name, crumbling so beautifully under his tongue.

A growl escaped him as he launched after Peter, tentacles whipping right and left to try and catch the little shit.

Most of all, he imagined you disappearing forever, married to a boy, never to see HIM again. Never again would he hear you moan, never again would he hear you say his name, and most of all, never again would he see you smile for him. All of the dreams he had had of a life with you, ripped away because of Peter Parker.

Otto blinked, looking up to see the tentacles enthusiastically attacking Peter of their own volition, reacting to his jealousy, anger and sorrow. Though the scene before him took Otto Octavius by surprise, watching as Peter barely avoided the Claws, taking each hit that landed.

Otto watched the young man for a moment and decided, upper right Claw clasping itself around Peter’s throat, dragging the boy forward. Blood trailed down Parker’s mouth and nose but his quick hands reached out and grabbed Otto’s coat, hazy eyes focusing on his ex-Mentor.

Suddenly, Peter’s blue eyes sharpened, mouth opening to try and speak.

“P-Please, tell me… Could you love someone, be IN love with someone, as you are now?” Peter whispered, coughing up blood as he ground out his words, red splattering over Otto’s black turtleneck and leather coat.

“Pardon me?” Dr Octavius bite out, faltering for a moment at the way Peter watched him, as if trying to discern something important, shaking hands firmly balled in his coat.

“If you had that one chance right now, to tell her- to tell the person that you love that you want to be with them for the rest of your life and make them happy as you are now, tentacles and all, would you do it?” Peter asked, and in the brief second that followed his question, no matter how jealous he felt at the fact that Peter Parker had had you first, images of you coursed through his mind, your voice repeating every sentence you had ever told him. Peter’s little blunder had also not escaped him, the word ‘her’ ringing in his ears.

“In a heartbeat.”

Peter remained still under the claws hold, visibly debating something.

“Sometimes, to do what's right, we must be steady and give up the things we desire the most. Even our dreams.” The boy repeated once more, and even though Peter had thrown those words at him once before, now, it seemed the words weren’t for him. No no, instead, they were for Peter himself. Tears rolled down Peter’s cheeks once more but a smile appeared, tired eyes looking up at Otto.