#because what else can he see besides death?

[yanderes-galore]

Two different Anons wanted more Maegor, a surprise to me but who am I to deny it ;)?

Original Concept Here (Part 1)

Additional Thoughts 1

Additional Thoughts 2

Yandere! Maegor Targaryen Concept Extended Thoughts

Pairing: Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Female Darling, Obsession, Possessive behavior, Violence, Pregnancy, Manipulation, Miscarriage mentioned, Isolation, Blood, Murder, Gender roles, Forced relationship.

The whole point of Maegor having other wives was because he was convinced they were the reason he couldn't have an heir.

So, when he has you, a wife who can successfully give him a babe, he doesn't care much about the other wives he has.

If you're lucky, he'll be merciful and simply neglect them.

However... Maegor may quickly tire of his other wives.

He'll find the tiniest little slip up with them just to have an excuse to take their heads.

He's a cruel king, after all.

You're the only wife he wants if you can give him proper heirs... not misshapen miscarriages.

Many doubt Maegor loved any other wife than you.

After all, you finally gave the dragon what he wanted.

How could he not after that?

So, yes, Maegor would probably be loyal to you as his wife.

When you get pregnant and eventually give him an heir, he knows he has a chance with you.

Maegor would take either gender of babe, although if you had a daughter... He'd probably try again for a son now that he knows you're capable of carrying his heirs.

Which is another exhausting process as you'll no doubt have a few other issues along the way.

Honestly, the process of getting rid of his other wives wouldn't happen until after your successful babe.

Then it's proven you're the one for him...

Anyone else's blood can stain his blade for all he cares...

Which is terrifying if you were close go any of the other wives.

As I said in my previous concept, Maegor is overprotective of his wife.

He expects you to lean into your gender role.

Which for him includes following him around, attending to his needs, and waiting for him in your shared chambers.

While he is known as cruel, he tones it down with you since you are his successful wife.

When you're pregnant, he keeps you secure against him in your shared chambers.

He caresses your stomach and kisses your skin.

He's strangely affectionate with you... But he's the very same man who has slaughtered innocents, burned villages, and silenced maesters for offering advice.

Maegor only looks out for himself... and now you.

When pregnant, you're often instructed not to roam by yourself.

Maegor, when not warmongering, is by your side.

Many servants and guards stay out of his way as he escorts you through the halls.

You're only given the best food and comfort, all to ensure you carry his heir to term.

It's unnerving to see him so affectionate just because you can carry his children.

Part of you fears the fate that would have befallen you if you couldn't.

You're a bundle of nerves the entire pregnancy, even during birth.

However, luckily, your pregnancy is successful and you give birth to a healthy babe.

Maegor is immediately attentive when he hears of the news.

If he was busy, he finishes what he was doing quickly before coming to greet you.

If he was away from the castle, he mounts Balerion and flies back to the Red Keep.

Maegor watches sternly as your babe is handled, put into a cradle and waiting for a dragon egg to be placed to bond them to their mount.

Male or female your babe is getting a dragon, however, if your babe is male then Maegor is quick to train him when he's older.

After your birth, Maegor never leaves the bed.

Others are too nervous to tell the king he has duties for fear of some sort of horrendous death.

No, Maegor instead sits beside you and caresses your skin.

He holds you close, peppering your skin in kisses as he holds his wife close.

Afterwards he's staring at his babe in their cradle, occasionally touching the young newborn as if to figure if they're real or not.

You and your child(ren) are the only ones who see him like this.

He cares for you and his babe(s), this is the very thing he's wanted.

He knew you were special.

His special wife... a wife capable of birthing dragons.

Maegor grows more possessive of you once you're a mother.

When your babe is around one or two and given an egg... Maegor no doubt orders the execution of his previous wives.

If they didn't flee to join Jaehaerys, they were killed.

Maegor could care less for his failed wives.

All he can focus on is you and the small babe in the cradle.

Especially when his babe finally gets a dragon of their own.

... Now why would Maegor stop there, yeah?

Much to your dismay, Maegor would push the idea of more babes.

It's a dangerous game... but Maegor would want at least two heirs from his beloved wife.

A son first and foremost... yet he will take a daughter if that's the result of your first babe.

Maegor would be a harsh father on your children when they grow.

It's natural to him.

Yet, if you love anything in this situation, it's your children.

You could hate Maegor for treating you like a broodmare most of your marriage... But you no doubt love your babes.

You often coddle your children and try to keep Maegor under control as they grow up.

Although... There's a good chance Maegor won't... live to see your babes grow up.

For better or for worse.

No, your husband most likely dies on the Iron Throne like the stories say in canon.

Some say you did it yourself, or some other disgruntled subject did so.

Depending on the age of your children, some might even say they did it.

Unless they were still young babes.

Regardless, you and your children would be under the judgement of Jaehaerys I sooner or later.

Many ask for the execution of you and your children.

However, Jaehaerys is merciful.

He doesn't think you'll be much of a threat, much less your babes who most likely dislike Maegor too.

So... That's where your life would lead.

You'd raise your babes mostly yourself, but maybe Jaehaerys will have someone aid you.

Maybe Jaehaerys even helps you raise them or is at least on good terms with them to prevent them from being like their father.

Overall, it's a mostly good ending.

It's just you and your children... along with their dragons whom they have strong bonds with due to their blood

Perhaps, now no longer chained to your cruel husband...

You can be happy and focus on your babes? There's no doubt they'll be useful during King Jaehaerys I's reign, yes?

[fandomsarefamily1966]

"He thinks that faith might be dead

Nothing kills a man faster than his own head"

[niqhtlord01]

Humans are weird: Cats

Alien: Thanks for inviting me over. Alien: I’ve never been in a human’s home before so this will be- *sees cat sitting on couch* Alien: What is that? Human: That is Fred. *Turns to cat* Human: Say hi Fred. Fred: *MEOW* Alien: I was not aware you had a roommate. Human: What? Human: No, he’s my pet. Alien: You keep a sentient being as a pet? Are you a monster? Human: No; but Fred is. Fred: *MEOW* ----------------------

Alien: *goes to sit down, accidentally steps on fluffy ball* *Cat’s head shoots up* Human: You need to run. Alien: What? Why? Human: You just stepped on Fred’s favorite toy. Alien: So that means I am in danger? Fred: *low growling sound* Human: It’s too late….. --------------------------

*Thirteen stitches later* Alien: How can something so fluffy be so angry!?!?! Human: Domestication probably. Alien: Is that not meant to breed out the violence? Human: Normally yes, but with cats it just condensed it. ------------------------

*Next day* *Door slowly opens* Alien: Is it safe to come in? Human: Let me check. *Picks up Fred and holds him in front of alien* Fred: *Low growling noise* Human: No it is n- Alien: *Slams door shut quickly* ---------------------

*Two days later* Alien: *Sipping drink* Alien: What can I do to win over your furry slave? Human: First off, he is a pet not a slave. Human: And even if that was the situation I technically am Fred’s slave. Alien: *Surprised* You are one of the most advanced species in the galaxy; having mastered space travel and the manipulation of matter itself. Human: And yet I am the one cleaning up his shits. Alien: *Opens mouth to counter, then sips instead when nothing comes to mind* ----------------------

Human: Why does it matter that you want Fred to like you? Human: I thought you hated him? Alien: Were he not an animal I would have sworn a blood oath to destroy him and his family for what he has done to my face. Human: I ask again; why does it matter? Alien: Because for reasons beyond my understanding I feel compelled to have that little death machine love me. Human: Welcome to being a cat owner. ------------------------

*Three days later* *Door slowly opens* Alien: Are you ready? Human: I’ve got Fred. Alien: And you’re sure this will work? Human: Positive. *Alien walks in and Fred starts growling* Human: Get ready; I’m releasing Fred. *Puts Fred down who begins sprinting towards alien* *Alien holds out tiny tube with goop pouring out end* Fred: *MEOW!* *Stops murder sprint and begins sniffing and licking tube enthusiastically* Alien: So you bribe him with food? Human: Works on us humans as well. ------------------

Alien: Do you think I have won him over? *Fred walks up and brushes against Alien* Human: I think you’re good.

Alien: It felt like being embraced by the goddess herself. --------------------

Alien: So besides eating, sleeping, and acts of disproportionate violence; what else do they like to do? Human: Fred loves to play. *Picks up laser pointer and flashes it around room* *Fred’s head shoots up, does the butt wiggle, then lunges at the laser* Alien: What fascinating technology. Human: Yeah; we also use this to guide missiles for air strikes in wars. Alien: Your pet enjoys playing with tools of death? Human: I think that’s one of the reasons he enjoys it so much. ------------------

Alien: *Looks down at shirt* Alien: What is this? Human: Oh yeah, forgot to mention he’s a heavier shedder. Human: Sorry about that. Alien: Do not worry, for I too shed my skin. *Proceeds to peel off skin until raw muscle and bone is left* *Casually tosses aside empty skin suit which Fred walks over to and cuddles in* Human: Thank you for that fresh nightmare material. Alien: *slurring words due to no lips* Yoooou’re welllllcoommme.

[lemonlover1110]

𝐁𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐅𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

Sukuna

[Chapter 1] Offerings

Story Masterlist - Next Chapter →

Pairing: Trueform!Sukuna x f!Reader

*Just want to preface that this is a historical AU but there will be some historical inaccuracies so if you see something odd, don't point it out. Also this is still a curse AU! if that isn't clear with four-armed Sukuna. Anyway I hope you enjoy!! Any general story warnings can be found in the masterlist!

Discord +18 - Twitter - Ko-Fi

Sukuna is missing something, he’s not sure what it is but he knows that he’s bored. He’s bored of everything that once thrilled him, tired of the same routine. But no matter what he does, he feels empty. 

He’s done everything possible to soothe that boredom, which has come to the expense of many lives. It entertained him until it didn’t. Occasionally he does find joy in the horrors that he causes but it doesn’t feel like that’s enough anymore. There’s something that he’s missing, but he’s not quite sure what it is. 

He has everything a man could possibly want– Although he isn’t exactly a man so his wants and needs are obviously different. He isn’t going to be fulfilled by the foolish ideals of happiness that men have. He doesn’t have much of a guide though, therefore he’s lost in how to fix his problem. 

“Uraume.” Sukuna’s voice isn’t all that loud, yet Uraume nearly comes running to fulfill his request. The temple is uncomfortably quiet; everyone is ready to fulfill Sukuna’s every request, and their king does not raise his voice unless adrenaline rushes through him, or he’s upset. No one knows which is the worst of the two. 

“My king.” Uraume kneels down before him. He’s quiet, too embarrassed to even bring up this question. It’s unlike him. Uraume is truly the only person that he respects which is why asking the question is hard for him to actually say. He wouldn’t trust anyone else with it though.

“What do men usually do?” He asks, which is odd for Uraume to hear. Sukuna was a man too, once upon a time. But he doesn’t remember that stage of his life, and he’s sure he wasn’t happy either which is the reason why he’s the monster he is now.

“I’m not sure.” They sound reluctant. “If you could be more clear, I can search for an answer.”

“Get out.” He orders, and they bow again before exiting the room. He wants to be left alone to gather his thoughts. He has all the time in the world to figure himself out, but he wants even more time. He doesn’t want to be bothered now of all times at the very least.

“There’s a woman with an offering.” A servant tells him from the other side of the tatami doors, followed by a shrill cry that makes a smirk come to his lips. That’s his answer.

Sukuna wants a successor. 

“Take it to the servants, answer to her needs.” Sukuna answers, not really caring to listen to any requests. His mind is now preoccupied, detailing his next course of action. He needs to find the perfect woman to carry his heir, which he knows will be a hard task– Perhaps the hardest challenge that Sukuna has come by in all of his years of living.

“Please eat, Haru.” You put the bowl beside the young boy’s mat. You’ve been slowly watching your brother’s health deteriorate, slowly watching his death near. Worst of all, you have been looking for a cure that seems impossible to find because it’s not something that’s affecting anyone important. 

It’s not a disease that’s affecting anybody else, really. It’s not infectious, you quickly found that out. You were glad about it at first, but then you realized that there’s no cure yet. Days pass by, and he gets worse. He refuses to eat anything, and when he does, he can’t keep it down for more than a few hours. His death is imminent.

“I did everything I could to get the right ingredients for your favorite food. Auntie made it extra special for you.” You make sure to tell him, but he can barely move. You kneel down beside him, grabbing his utensils and preparing a bite. “Just one bite, Haru.”

“I’m sleepy.” Is all he manages to mutter, and you feel a pull on your heartstrings. Your hand caresses his arm.

“Just one bite, okay? Then you can sleep all day.” You try your best to convince him. All he does is sleep, and no matter how many hours he sleeps, he wakes up tired. He prompts himself up, and you’re fighting back a smile– It’s barely any progress, if you can even call it that. “Open up.”

There’s a smile on your lips as you bring the food to his mouth, and he begins to chew. He takes the utensils from your hand, grabbing the bowl of food and putting it on his lap. You stand up and tell him, “I’ll get you some water.”

“He’s finally eating something.” You share with your aunt, making sure your voice is low since there isn’t all that much space. Her eyes go to him, and she really wants to say that it’s a sign of him getting better but it really doesn’t mean anything. Sometimes he eats everything that’s made for him, but he throws it back up. 

“I really wish this meant he was getting better… But we both know that he’ll get worse tomorrow.” She responds, and you want to curse her for even mentioning it but you know she’s right. You don’t like hearing it though, you’re helpless. There’s nothing more you can do for Haru, you’re just waiting for the day to come. 

“I really think he can get better.” Your eyes begin to feel with tears, knowing that you don’t even believe yourself. You’ve tried everything you possibly can, but you know that his time nears. You can’t just accept that fact though, he’s your baby brother, you can’t let him go. “Let me get his water.”

“I’ll get it… Think about what the medic said.” Your aunt reminds you of the visit from the physician. One that you’ve forgotten because you refuse to consider his one and only suggestion a possibility. The words flow back to your head,

“Your best bet is the deity up north. You have to bring him an offering, and if he deems it worthy enough, he will cure him.” “But if he thinks it’s beneath him, he’ll kill you.”

You don’t want to risk anything, but lately that seems like your only option. He’s not getting any better, even though you so badly want to say that he is. Throwing up everything he eats is not much improvement than not eating at all. You just have to figure out what is considered an offering worthy for the deity to save him, and to save yourself. 

“I’ll be back, I have to figure something out.” You say, smiling back at your aunt and your little brother. They barely acknowledge you before you leave the house, which you’re thankful for. You just need a moment to gather your thoughts, decide what you’ll do next. 

You need to sort out your offering for the deity, an offering that will hopefully sort out all of your problems.

“My king, there’s a woman with an offering.” It feels like the hundredth time that week in which Sukuna hears that sentence. Humans are greedy beings, and they all fucking need something. It’s unnecessary, purely materialistic– It’s a side of humanity that he appreciates though. How much a human is willing to sacrifice for wealth or the promise of good fortune. Sukuna can’t judge, he's the sole winner in the end.

“Let her in.” He says, and the tatami door slides open. A poor maiden with a pale yellow kimono, and a woven basket in hand. You walk in with your head down, following the strict instructions that were given to you. 

You’re trembling as you kneel down in front of the deity, bowing down to him. You remain bowing for however long he pleases, keeping your eyes shut because there’s tears building up. You have never been this terrified. Willingly putting yourself at death’s door is no easy feat.

“Rise.” He orders, and you straighten your upper body, remaining on your knees. You don’t dare look anywhere past his feet, keeping your eyes low and steady. You know that he’s staring you down, studying you. A smirk on his lips, thinking about how he’s found her. “What do you want?”

“My brother…” Your voice is shaky, and you try your best to compose yourself. You can’t start crying in the middle of it, you’ve gotten this far, he’ll surely kill you if you begin to sob at his feet. “He’s sick. The medic can’t cure him, and he told us you were our only choice.”

He’s not really listening. Something about a brother is all he grasped. He’s more into the way your lips move, and the tears of pure fear that well up in your eyes. He can tell that you really made an effort into your look today, even though you don’t look extravagant. Which for some reason he likes, he doesn’t want an arrogant woman in his chambers, he already has enough of them. He especially doesn’t want one of them carrying his heir.

What really draws him in is that certain look in your eyes. The clear innocence that’s written all over your face. You’re the perfect lily that he can’t wait to tear apart, petal by petal. That finalizes his decision.

“What do you have for me? Open the basket.” He orders, and you do as he says. Regret washes over you as you open it, immediately knowing that it’s not enough. You don’t know what came over you when you had the bright idea of picking it. You unfold the cloth with shaky hands, revealing the gift for him. He’s usually furious with these types of gifts, since they hold no value to him but he wants to hear your reasoning since he has other plans with you, “Why do you come to me with this?”

“Pomegranates aren’t native to the land, and they’re scarce this time of season. I found some while searching for an offering and thought it was a sign.” You explain, and he scoffs. A stupid reason, one that should get you killed. If he wanted fruit, he would send Uraume to get it for him. He guesses it’s creative though, especially when almost every person that walks through the temple is willing to sacrifice a life. But you don’t gain points for creativity, no one ever has.

“Pomegranates? What am I supposed to do with that?” He’s mocking you, and you swallow the lump in your throat. He’s right, what is he supposed to do with a pomegranate? He’s not like you, he’s not just going to eat it. You’re usually smart about this type of thing, but you guess desperation got the best of you this time around, and now you have to pay for the consequences. As to be expected, there’s no answer from you, and he orders, “Look up at me.”

Your eyes slowly move up his body to his face, and you’re in awe at the sight. A mix of emotions flow through your body. He really isn’t a human. You were terrified earlier, but now you’re simply astonished. You never really believed the tales that were told about him since you couldn’t wrap your head around the fact that a being like him could exist. But now he stands before you.

“Do you really think I’ll do anything with the fruit?” His voice sounds serious, but there’s a hint of a smile on his lips. You shake your head which irks him. “You have a voice don’t you? Use it.”

“No, my king. My apologies.” It’s strange, but you sound more confident as you look at him compared to before. It brings some sort of satisfaction to Sukuna since usually people that are allowed to look directly at him can barely communicate.  

“I’ll give you a chance to redeem yourself.” He’s thinking about how merciful he is– Which isn’t entirely a lie since Sukuna never gives a second chance. Except you have no idea how you can redeem yourself unless he dismisses you. Little do you know what he’s thinking for you. “I have a proposal for you.”

“A what…?” Your eyebrows perk up as curiosity takes over you. A proposal from a deity, it’ll surely be something that you have yet to hear. 

“Bear my child, and I’ll forgive you.” He says, and you almost fall back. Your ears must be deceiving you, there’s no way that the proposal that you just heard is real. Your eyes are wide open, and you hear him laugh. It must be a joke then. 

“Uraume!” Sukuna yells, wanting it to be clear that he doesn’t want to waste a single second. Not even a second later, and they’re in the room, waiting for their king’s command. “Take the maiden and prepare her for me tonight.”

“Wait– You’re serious?” You dare to ask. You haven’t even agreed, yet he’s getting you ready for tonight, to have a baby with him of all things. “You don’t even know my name, why would you want me to carry your baby?”

“What’s your name then?” He asks, clearly irritated by the question, and you have no choice but to answer. If you don’t, you’re screwed. “There we have it. Take her, Uraume.”

“Wait!” You shout, but Sukuna isn’t going to listen to more of it. Uraume guides you outside, a task that they usually do harsher. At any other time, they’d be dragging you outside but you’re not just anybody. 

You’re the woman that will carry King Sukuna’s heir.

[danveration]

That no-good-first-man-on-earth

Parings: Alastor x reader

Summary: Alastor opens up to you (kinda). You confront him about his cane being gone, asking what happened after the early extermination attack.

Word count: (Around) 1154

Warnings: Mention of Adam dying, mention of death, mention of Al taking someone’s soul, ummm.. yes I think that’s about it!

A/N: YES I MADE IT !! the ending might be a bit rusty but I hope you enjoy it nevertheless! :’)

It was a week or two after the early extermination attack. The hotel has gotten a bit more residents and attention due to Charlie and the original residents protecting hell and successfully winning. The hotel has gotten an upgrade, that’s for sure. Lucifer now approves of its looks, so that says something.

During the attack you noticed how Alastor disappeared for a while and came back when it was all over. It made you question what happened when he went up against Adam. He was fine, physically. But you noticed something in his eyes that changed. Of course, he still smiles the same as before.. but it doesn’t always seem like he wants to. But the biggest, most obvious thing you noticed is that his staff/cane is gone. Nobody really seemed to question it but it set off an alarm in your brain because, well, he always has it on him.

You’re currently sitting in one of the lounge chairs in the lobby of the hotel, when you see Alastor confidently stroll in. He gives the lobby a quick look all around to see who’s all in there. In which, right now it’s just you.

“Hello, my dear!” He says, smiling and starts walking towards you.

“I must say, it’s rare that it’s empty in this area. Peace and quiet is often something I don’t have the luxury in experiencing, especially now that the hotel has gotten the attention that Charlie desperately craved.” He laughs.

He’s now standing beside you. You look up and smile back at him.

“Yeah, I’m happy for her though. She seems very overwhelmed, you know? But in a good way.” You say.

“Mm yes, she does, doesn’t she?”

You want to bring up how he doesn’t have his cane anymore, but you don’t know exactly how he’ll react. Though, he hasn’t ever snapped at you so you think it won’t be bad. Knowing him, he’ll probably just avoid the question by saying, “that’s for me to know.” As he does whenever someone brings up why he was absent for 7 years.

“Hey, Al?” You say, looking at him.

He raises his brow in question.

“Hm? What is it, dear?” He asks.

“I have a question.. you totally don’t need to tell me but I’ve just noticed that your um.. cane? You don’t have it anymore.”

You notice as you bring it up, Alastor tenses up and smiles more, darting his eyes away from you. You can feel that this was something he didn’t think you’d bring up.

He doesn’t seem to be saying anything, so you continue. “I was just wondering.. why is that? You usually keep it on you at all times. And also I’ve noticed that you’ve been a bit different since-“ You are stopped suddenly by Alastor using his shadow magic to teleport the two of you to his room.

You are caught by surprise, looking around disoriented, but than you realize where you are.

“Uhm- Al?” You question.

You assume he took you two to his room because he didn’t want anyone to hear the conversation, so you don’t question it. Which makes sense, he doesn’t want anyone else questioning his motives.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He opens his eyes and looks at you. “That is for me to know.” He says in a neutral tone.

Wow such a surprising statement.

“I knew you’d say that. Listen, you know you can talk to me, right? I’m here for you.” You assure him.

He looks at you weirdly, as if he is waiting for the joke line to happen. But it doesn’t. You care for him. That’s definitely new. Sure, Alastor has friends. Or, acquaintances, as he calls it. But you seem to deeply care for him and what happened.

He isn’t sure exactly how to react. “How amusing! That’s very kind of you.” He says and chuckles. You notice something in his eyes that doesn’t align with the emotion he is trying to project.

“Alastor, I’m serious. You don’t need to put on a show for me.. I want to know the real you.” You say, looking at him.

He debates if he should continue with his charades, but knows you’ll just see past it. He never ever would be this laid-back with anyone else accusing him of “putting on a show” or accusing him of having alternative feelings. He would’ve surely taken their soul or.. well, killed them by now. But you and his relationship has always been good. You guys always chat about whatever nonsense comes to mind, he showed you around the place where he records his radio broadcasts, and even let you attended once. He always had a soft spot for you. You never had a fear of him and never liked it when Husk or other people badmouthed him. He once caught you ranting to Niffty about how much you adored him. It made him smile.

Alastor squints his eyes and thinks of what to say.

“Well, my dear. You know that no-good-first-man-on-earth? Adam, I believe his name was.” He emphasizes the word “was,” seemingly to be very happy and satisfied now that he’s dead. He laughs continues, “he used his no-good angelic waves to break in half!” He says.

You’re in shock. Not because you thought his cane was indestructible or anything. It was because he actually told you what happened. You guess he trusts you more than he lets on.

“Oh..” You look at him sympathetically. “I’m so sorry, Alastor.”

“Mm, yes. Me too. But no worries, dear. I can live without it.” He says trying to cover up the fact that he cares quite a lot.

Without thinking, you place a hand on his arm trying to give him comfort. He slowly moves his head to look at your hand. He doesn’t mind one bit, in fact, he feels the complete opposite of how he usual feels when people try to touch him.

You quickly remember he doesn’t like physical touch very much, so you move to pull away.

“No.” He says quickly.

You’re confused and question what he means.

“No, what?”

Your hand on his arm felt like a new sensation he hasn’t felt before. He quickly became embarrassed of his sudden outburst decline of you not taking his hand on his arm.

Something inside him snaps and his persona cracks, and he then does something that you’ve never expect.

He hugs you.

Your heart feels warm and you have butterflies in your stomach. THE Alastor, the radio demon is hugging you. You don’t see him as those labels though. You see him as HIM.

Despite your incredible shock in what is happening, you hug him back, wrapping your arms around his suit jacket.

“I do apologize.” He mumbles while hugging you.

“You don’t have to apologize, Alastor. This is what I wanted. For you to open up.” You say softly and smile.

He doesn’t pull away yet, and you don’t mind one bit.

A/N: IM THINKING OF MAKING A PART TWO WHERE THE READER MAKES HIM ANOTHER CANE AS A SURPRISE. LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK!!!!

[thevoidstaredback]

It all seemed to start within a snap of Time; the tick of a clock; the drop of a hat; the blink of an Eye.

Just before any of the assembled Justice League could leave the Watchtower, every alarm went off and pandemonium re-erupted across the space station.

"What the hell is going on?" Batman demanded as he and Robin re-entered the meeting room they'd just left.

Constantine and Zatanna were both using several different ways of communication, talking in frantic tone and jumping between conversations without losing any of them. Deadman had disappeared completely. The America based heroes were all getting calls, all just as confused as each other as to what was going on.

Batman pulled up a map on the projector, the one that was shown in the Observation part of the Watchtower, and glared at the red dot that was slowly taking over Illinois. "Constantine, Zatanna. What is this?"

Constantine glared back at Batman, "What we were trying to avoid by calling a meeting today!" He went right back to whatever conversation he was having in Esperanto.

"Yeah, look what good that did us anyway," Zatanna scoffed between conversations, "We were both late and ignored." She, too, had started speaking on Esperanto.

"That's where Red is based," Robin said quietly from beside Batman. "I-I need to call- make sure she's alright!"

Batman put his hand on Robin's shoulder. "Don't panic, chum, we'll get a plan started and then you can all Red Huntress." The boy nodded, but opened his own communicator anyway, likely to contact his team. Batman turned to the heroes in the room. "Everyone!" He waited until all eyes were on him before continuing, "Calm down. Constantine, Zatanna, find out what's going on-"

"Already doing that, Batsy!" the man hollered before jumping into a fourth conversation.

Batman's eye twitched behind the white lenses of his mask, but he otherwise didn't react to the interruption. "-the rest of us need to go and isolate the threat. We'll plan from there. Make sure your comms are on. Robin, get your team ready for rescue efforts and try to contact Red Huntress to see if she knows what's going on." When the heroes started moving, he grabbed Superman. "Where's Deadman?"

Superman shook his head. "No idea. He was gone by the time any of us came back in here."

Batman nodded and let him go. Everyone was on their way to Illinois right now, but there was something that Zatanna said that struck him as strange. He didn't have to wait ong before her three ongoing conversations all came to a stop. "Earlier, you said that Amity Park liked to stay in Illinois. What did you mean?"

Zatanna jumped when he spoke, obviously not realizing he was still there, but she answered him, "The city's been prime for supernatural activity since its founding. On top of the two dimensional rifts, that much magic contained in one area is bound to give it some form of sentiance, especially because most of that magic is death and life focused."

He hummed and left the room with a sweep of his cape. Containing the issue will be tricky if the source manages to move around them. Regardless, it needed to be done fast.

***

It took another twenty minutes before all five on Constantine's conversations ended. He had gotten the same unfortunate answer from all five of them, and, judging by the look on her face, Zatanna had been given the same news as him.

"We tried to warn them. We fucking tried-!" she slammed her fist down on the table, "But we were too fucking late!"

He ran a hand down his face with a heavy sigh. "C'mon, mate, let's go make sure they don't fuck anything else up."

"And help them defend the idiots that started all this? No way. Let them lie in the grave they dug."

"Horrible metaphor, love. And, as much as I hate to say it, we can't let the world get taken over."

"Why not? They've been practically begging for it to happen since Superman was first introduced. That's why the Green Lanterns had to step in and lay down the law, quite literally." She huffed. "Besides, the Realms won't be gunning for the world. They're looking for their child."

"And if they don't find the kid in perfect condition?"

"...I see you're point."

"Good! We're on the same page, then."

She sighed again. "How're we going to play this? Are we running interference?"

"No," he shook his head, "The only thing we can do is keep anyone from dying or attacking."

"Without Deadman to talk to the Realms?"

"Yep,"

"You realize how hard this is gonna be, right?"

"I'm gonna make Batsy pay me in hard liquor."

"Agreed."

***

The Justice League had set up a perimeter around the town of Amity Park, Illinois. They were a few miles out from the town, close enough to see it but far enough away as to not set off any panic. When Constantine and Zatanna arrived, they had made it very obvious that the town and it's citizens were probably very aware that they were there. They called another meeting, though only taking a few heroes away from watch. Zatanna was the one to explain things to them while Constantine kept tabs on the town in case it decided to move.

The heroes still weren't exactly sure what they meant by that.

Zatanna stood at the front of the heroes she'd pulled aside. Batman, Wonder Woman, Superman, Aquaman, The Flash, and Green Lantern stood in a half circle, all very clearly anxious to keep their eyes on the town. Too bad for them, this was her specialty, so she got to keep facing it while they turned their backs.

"They aren't going to listen to you guys," Zatanna said, "Like we tried to warn you earlier, their looking for a child that the US Government took from them."

"The one in the pictures?" The Flash asked.

"Yep," she affirmed, "His name's Phantom, like we said. He's this town's hero."

"I thought Robin said Red Huntress was the town's hero?" Aquaman wondered.

Zatanna pushed down the flare of anger with a deep breath. "Phantom has been operating for several months longer than Red Huntress. she is closer to being a hero while Phantom leans more towards being a vigilante."

"Is that why he doesn't stick around after his fights?" Superman tilted his head slightly in question.

"Yes," she glared, "Can I get back on topic, or are we wanting to waste even more time?" The heroes fell silent and she waited for a few seconds before continuing. "From what Deadman explained, Phantom is technically still a baby ghost because he's only been dead for about a year." She ignored the expressions on the heroes faces. "Not only that, but he's the favorite of several Ancient Beings. Think Primordials or Titans."

"Oh, dear," Wonder Woman whispered. Several had paled slightly.

Zatanna nodded. "Don't attack any of the Realms' people, not even in self defense. We're going to have to help them find Phantom, keep them from attacking the US Government, and keep the Government from attacking them."

"A bit late for that!" A new voice joined the group. They all startled, reaching for weapons and dropping into ready stances.

Above and slightly to the side of the group was a girl who looked to be in her late teens. She had teal-grey skin, a slight teal glow, and flaming teal hair tied in a high pony, bangs framing her face. Her eyes glowed the same radioactive green as Phantom's had in the picture, though less so. She was wearing black pants, a black crop-top, grey knee boots, and a single black elbow glove. There was a guitar strapped to her back that gave off a slight purple glow. Even from where the Justice League heroes were standing, they could feel heat radiating off of here.

"And you are?" Batman asked.

"Don't matter who I am, does it?" the girl sneered, "What matters is that you dickheads took one of ours." She very obviously assessed the small group, looking each person up and down with a frown on her face. "Phantom told me that this place had other heroes, so where were you?"

Superman blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Where were you?"

"I'm, uh, not quite sure what you mean."

"You're talking about when this place was catalyst for world threats, right?" Zatanna stepped forward.

The girl turned her full attention to the magician. "So, you knew?"

Zatanna nodded. "Me and my colleagues were keeping on eye on Amity Park after the rifts opened up last year."

The girl seemed to reassess the magician. "You're one of the ones Deadman told us about."

"You know Deadma?" Green Lantern asked. He was ginored.

"Yeah?"

"I'm Ember." She landed and held her hand out for a hand shake. "Deadman got the Council to agree to hold ourselves in Amity until the end of the day. After that, we move on our own."

Zatanna shook her hand. "I'm Zatanna. We're gonna find him."

Ember glared, tightening her grip, "You better. He's done more for this world than you heroes even know." She turned her glare on the others before flying back up. "And once he's back with us, where he belongs, we'll think about a cease fire." She left before anyone could get another word in.

Zatanna fell into a squat, her hands covering her face. "This is a nightmare," she whispered, "That definitely could've gone much better." She popped back up to her full height. "Well, you heard her. We've got 'til the end of the day to find Phanom."

The group shared looks, nodding at each other before separating to spread the word to everyone else

The first plan was the same one they had for every mission that needed quick recon done. Flash was sent out to get a location. Once he had one, they'd set off.

Part 1 Part 3

[cbartonscoffee]

I think I've never been more aware of just how many people only get their info of the batfam through fanfic. I finally started reading Red Robin (2009) and I can not believe how many things are blown out of proportion. Particularly about Dick and Damian.

First of all, Dick does try to put limits and he does get fed up with Damian's ways sometimes. Out of the three first interactions of them in the comic, at least in two he tells him to shut up. And one of those is when Damian starts to brag about being Robin and Tim being useless, he tells him to shut up twice.

Another thing about that moment, is that they treat it like Dick completely dismisses Tim and treats him as unimportant. He doesn't. He takes him seriously, he tells him he needs him, he tells him he views his as an equal, as someone capable. And he also tells him he's concerned about him and that he needs to start processing Bruce's death. Could that have been a little harsh? Yes, but he needed to do it without making Tim think there was room for him to be convinced about his theory because let's be honest, Tim would've taken anything less than complete refusal and tried to change his mind. And had he been wrong neither of them could have taken it.

Secondly, Dick is always left to shoulder the blame of kicking Tim out and of never reaching out. That's bull. And I need to make that clear. Tim was in a delicate point, he tells us this himself multiple times, but the decision to leave was completely made out of his own free will. Another thing he did was put space between him and the people on Gotham. We see only one time in which Dick tries to call him. Tim picks up and tells him he doesn't want to talk. This tells us that Dick respecting Tim's wish of space included almost no (or even no) contact, and Dick calling was not something Tim appreciated or encouraged.

Now. Going into the second year of the run, when he's back in Gotham, there's a few things to talk about and I'm still in the aftermath of Damian and Tim's fight.

I feel it's important to say that even if they are all family, more often than not they're doing their own thing. Like, Babs and Steph are in the Batcave while Dick and Damian are in Wayne Tower, Cass is said to potentially be in Hong Kong and we haven't even heard Jason be name-dropped except for the fact that he went on a rampage at some point.

So, Dick is immediately called away in League business. So he isn't there. Damian is behaving fairly civil besides being a brat, so no one wastes too much effort in correcting what he says. We need to think about the fact that this is a kid whose world was turned upside down multiple times in a short period of time, who has a need to be accepted, and who hasn't yet found his place. All this is to say, that if it's difficult to get him to eat breakfast there's no way they're controlling his every move and that's understandable.

So Dick is away, Damian is still trying to adapt, Alfred has his hands full and everyone else is doing something else.

The whole thing starts because Tim is being kind of cryptic about what he's doing with his hit list and Damian feels left out and goes looking for more. He finds his name in a hidden double side of the hit list marking him as a threat. He understandably feels hurt and angry, because he's a kid, and he's trying, and his predecessor who at this point doesn't even try with him anymore views him as something bad.

So in classic Damian fashion, he falls back on his upbringing and doesn't deal with the situation as one should, talking about it. Instead he cuts team line, hurting before being hurt. It could've been worse, we see in the panel that Tim doesn't have that much of a hard time getting safely to the ground. The problem is that he snaps and starts a full-blown fight he knows Damian won't back out off. (I'm pleased to add that after cutting his line Damian doesn't start anything else)

So they are fighting, Tim has the clear advantage and he knows this, we know this. And that's how Dick finds them. Having just returned from a JL mission, in the place where the Waynes were murdered, with Tim having overpowered Damian.

They go back to the cave and Damian shares his findings, and Dick understands. And Tim tells him he (Dick) knows why he (Tim) did it. Dick agrees, and tells him he should have tried to make it harder to find. Tim says he hadn't thought Damian would try or even care. Dick tells him Damian wants to be accepted.

All in all, so far the only thing this comic has proven to me is that there's a reason comics are the bomb and that fanon has gotten out of hand. I get making things out to be worse for the sake of a story, but everything surrounding these events is basically used as the foundation for Damian and Tim's relationship as well as Dick and Tim's and I don't think I've once read a fanfic where these events are portrayed correctly or even following the real motivations of the characters. This is a disservice to all of them and only serves to amplify the hate towards a character that doesn't deserve it. There's a lot of Damian hate going around. And it sucks. Mostly because people use his actions against Tim to justify it and honestly? I don't think you should be allowed to use that if you haven't read RR and understood what was going on.

[nadvs]

please can we have sleeping with the enemy reader taking care of rafe with his hangover (from your last blurb) 😚😚

aaaa yes omg the fluff! (and the everyone but them can see it trope!) (and the overdue confession!) 🙂‍↕️

based on this fic, continutation of this blurb

rafe can’t even open his eyes yet. he feels like he’s an inch away from death.

about a month ago, he moved out of his dorm and into a house with a group of his teammates. it was a nightmare securing a lease on a house because of the reputation athletes have left on the landlords off campus.

but because rafe was the one who worked so hard on getting the house, and because he’s the team captain, he got the biggest and best room, ensuite attached.

it’s in the top floor. it’s quiet. it gets the best ac. but no amount of ac can make the sickening heat of the hangover he has this morning any better.

he finally opens his eyes. she’s not beside him. if he remembers correctly, he asked her to sleep over last night. and… goddamn it, he called her his girlfriend.

there’s a good chance he scared her away. they’re best friends who hook up sometimes. that’s it. no matter how much his teammates - at least the ones who have the balls to - fuck with him about it.

a few nights ago, a girl struck up conversation with rafe at a party and one of his buddies told her not to bother because ‘he’s basically married’ and the crazy thing is, he let her believe it. he hasn’t hooked up with another girl in ages. he hasn’t wanted to.

it got to him. maybe that’s why he slipped up last night, calling her his girlfriend. if he remembers right, it’s like they agreed to being something more in a roundabout, drunken way. or maybe she was just humoring him and is planning to let him down easy when they’re both sober.

she’s in the kitchen, wearing one of rafe’s shirts, cutting up what little fruit the guys have lying around. the blender was a bitch to clean, tacked with residual protein powder.

she’s awake before everyone, making rafe a smoothie to help cure his hangover. this is 100% girlfriend behavior. she’s doing the absolute most. she knows that.

she tells herself it’s because they’re best friends. she’d do the same for any other friend. but doing it for rafe feels so much more gratifying than if she did it for anyone else.

as she drops banana slices into the blender, she thinks about the regret that washed over rafe’s face last night.

she wonders why he so obviously wished he hadn’t called her his girlfriend. was it because he accidentally exposed what he really thinks of her? or because he didn’t want her to get the wrong idea?

she blends the smoothie, cleans up and pads upstairs to rafe’s bedroom. when she opens the door, he’s sprawled out on his bed, down to his boxers, the duvet half-covering his body.

she’s seen him naked so many times before. but this weirdly feels like it’s the most intimate they’ve ever been.

“did you take my clothes off last night?” rafe grumbles, staring up at the ceiling.

“somehow,” she answers. “i fell on my ass trying to pull your jeans off.”

“oh, yeah,” he laughs. he heard her fall to the floor in the dark. it was hilarious. but then he clutches his head. even laughing hurts. “fuck.”

“imagine how bad you’d feel if i didn’t force water on you last night. you’re welcome, by the way,” she says.

she places the glass on the nightstand and sits on the edge of the bed, glad she only had a couple of drinks last night.

“i made you a smoothie. you need to replenish.”

his tired blue eyes finally land on her. he takes her in, the way her brows are knitted in concern, the way she looks in his shirt.

“and your blender was disgusting,” she adds. “it’s pretty sad that a whole group of grown men don’t know how to properly wash dishes. it took me forever to clean it.”

“you’re talking too much,” he rasps, massaging his temple with his thumb.

normally, she’d tease him back. she knows he’s joking. but the joke doesn’t land. she looks away.

in the sober brightness of the morning, she realizes she feels stupid. they agreed they were just friends, but she’s playing house and acting like a girlfriend to someone who either doesn’t want her like that, or does and won’t admit to it when he’s not drunk.

she doesn’t mind taking care of him. but she’s catching feelings. how can she be friends with someone when every second that passes that they’re not more than that feels like a little dose of rejection?

they’ve always been direct with each other. at some point, that stopped. at least on her side.

“i’m fucking with you,” rafe clarifies. “thank you.”

she scoffs. he hardly ever has manners. she must really look mad.

“sure,” she says. she leans forward, picking up and handing him the smoothie, knowing he’s too tired to get it himself. “do you remember what you said last night?”

rafe’s eyes dart away. he rakes back his tousled hair, sitting up slowly to hold the smoothie. tortuously slow, he takes a sip, making her wait for his answer.

“what’d i say?” he mumbles.

she tilts her head, her lips in a firm line. he said he wouldn’t be embarrassed the next day. he’s acting like he is now, though. or maybe he really doesn’t remember.

she suddenly feels bad for pushing this heavy of a conversation on him when he’s clearly exhausted and feeling so terrible.

“we’ll talk about it later,” she says. it gives rafe a wave of anxiety. maybe she’s planning to let him down gently. to tell him they can’t be more than friends. “hydrate, got it?”

she stands, pulling his shirt off over her head.

“where are you going?” he asks, watching her bend over to pick up last night’s clothes.

“home,” she says. “text me if you wanna hang out later when you feel human again.”

she leaves. he lets her.

he’s in a funk the rest of the morning. he eventually finds the strength to take a shower. he eats his first meal at three p.m.

when he sees the blender on the drying rack in the kitchen, his chest tightens. this isn’t normal. he shouldn’t miss someone he saw just this morning. but he does.

and whatever happened last night is hanging over him. if he knows her, he knows it’s bothering her, too.

he texts her: feeling human again. u busy?

she replies: i’m free and starving.

he smirks at his phone. pick you up in 30

when she sinks into the passenger seat of his suv, she’s uneasy. jittery. as if this is a first date. but when she takes in how tense he looks, she pushes all her feelings away.

“what’s wrong?” she asks. “you good?”

“i’m… this feels weird,” he admits. she stills. so it’s not just her who senses it.

“weird how?”

“what do you wanna eat?” he asks. “where am i going?”

“you’re staying here until you tell me what’s up.”

rafe chews on his lip. he turns his key, shutting the car off, parked in front of her dorm building. he knows there’s no point in arguing with her. she can be stubborn.

“weird how?” she repeats.

“like… i’m nervous or something.”

rafe has known for a while now that he’s someone else around her. or maybe he’s actually himself, and she’s the only person who coaxes it out of him.

“nervous?” she echoes. rafe is only ever nervous before an important game, and even then, he’s more hyped up to win than anything.

he can’t take it anymore. he’d rather rip off the bandaid.

“be straight with me,” he says. “what’d i say that you wanted to talk about?”

she can’t recall the last time she felt so shy around him, if ever.

“do you remember calling me your girlfriend?” she says.

he shuffles in his seat, expelling a heavy breath.

“if i fucked things up, just say it,” he rasps.

“so, you remember?”

“yeah.”

“do you remember how you said you wouldn’t be embarrassed for saying it?”

“yeah,” he mutters sharply. “can you get to the point?”

“can you not be a dick right now?” she says.

he sighs. can’t she tell he’s anxious?

“are you?” she says. “embarrassed, i mean?”

“no,” rafe begins. “i’m annoyed that i said it. it made things awkward.”

“it did,” she agrees.

“okay,” he huffs. “so what now?”

she clasps her hands together in her lap, looking out at the side mirror. she could just say they can forget about it. grab takeout. go back to normal. but going back to normal kind of feels impossible.

“my friends always tell me we act like a couple,” she finally says. “this morning, i was washing your dishes and organizing your fridge and i thought, they’re right. this is the kind of stuff a girl in a relationship does. but then i was like, no it’s not like that. we’re just best friends. but then last night... you said you’d be a good boyfriend.”

“mhm,” he says, bracing for the rejection. the let’s just be friends. or worse, the things are too weird now and we should probably stop hanging out.

she swallows hard.

“i wanted to know if… did something change? were you just drunk or do you actually want to…” she trails off.

for once, it feels odd saying her thoughts out loud to him. because he was always as adamant about not wanting commitment as she was. things have gotten so messy all because he blurted something out last night.

rafe stares at her profile as she looks out the window. she’d fiddling impatiently, like she was the night they first talked at the bar months ago, waiting for someone to take her drink order.

“the guys mess with me about it, too,” he tells her. “they say we act like we’re married or some shit.”

she quirks her eyebrows. they basically do. they see each other almost every day. they bicker. they’re constantly subconsciously touching, whether it’s through joined hands or bumped knees. they have too many inside jokes. they take care of each other. she reminds him of things he can’t afford to forget, like appointments or exams. he makes sure she eats and he pays for everything they do together.

“i don’t look at other girls,” he confesses. “and i know you get hit on when you go out, but it never goes anywhere. i… okay, yeah, fine, something did change at some point. i don’t know when.”

for the first time since she got in the car, she cracks a smile. they’re best friends who are ridiculously attracted to each other and joined at the hip. if that’s not a relationship, what is?

“are we already kind of dating?” she says, finally meeting his eyes.

rafe breathes a chuckle, the heaviness in his chest lifting all at once.

everything was always so easy with her. he assumed it’s because they had no expectations between them. but that wasn’t it. in reality, they had been quietly meeting each other’s expectations without having to try.

“yeah. we are,” he says.

her eyelids flutter as she looks down, gazing at his hand splayed over the dark denim on his thigh. her stomach is numb. her mind is buzzing.

“how’d you get so lucky?” she teases.

rafe doesn’t even have it in him to joke back. he needs to touch her. he leans forward, cradling her jaw, capturing her lips in his.

they’ve kissed a thousand times before. but never like this. this is a kiss that says there’s an understanding that she’s his and he’s hers. and maybe it took them a while to realize that, but now that they’re here, they’re not going back.

(continuation)

[prettyboykatsuki]

on deaths door | s. gojo

✮ tags ; dark content ahead, afab + gender neutral reader, dark comedy / black comedy, attempts of suicide, the use of the word rapist in text, mentions of self-harm scars, penetration, intense but not rough, gojo is doting, no curses au, ceo!gojo 18+

note: this fic is mostly intended to be a dark comedy and have an unserious nature. it is very absurdist and it makes light of both suicide and assault. please proceed carefully if you find this might be triggering to you.

PLEASE READ THE TAGS BEFORE YOU PROCEED.

✮ wc ; 2.6k

✮ a/n ; i actually really really enjoyed writing this and would love to expand on it potentially. KJSDFJSKD.

reader has been through a lot so they are super nonchalant about everything just as a precaution

"Uwah," A voice startles you from your place on the roof. You gasp, amidst tears and sobs from shock. "Are you about to kill yourself?"

You whip your head around to see who could be beside you at this hour. It's a deliberately obscure location, too so it's extra weird. You were hoping to die in peace in a place where it'd be hard to find you, after all.

But there's a strange man interrupting your plans. Very strange. He's speaking Japanese rather clearly but his hair is a shock of white and his eyes are blues as saphhires. Despite the situation, his voice is light and cheerful - almost amused.

You can't tell if he's just a figment of your imagination. He's so unusual it stuns you out of your tears. You can't find your voice to respond for a moment.

"Yes," You reply, unsure of what else to say. He smiles at you.

"Hm." He looks contemplative. "Well... if you don't want it, can I have it?"

You stare on, confused.

He grins. "Your life, I mean. Can I buy it off you?"

Starting to wonder if you've already died, you stretch your hands up to wipe the tears off of your face just to see if any of it is real. The touch makes it gasp. You're definitely still alive. So, that means this strange man is also real and asking to buy your life.

"What?"

"Oh, don't worry. I'm not a cheapskate or anything, the price will be fair." He walks closer to you from where you've been standing all this time. He grabs you by the collar of your shirt, picking you up and setting you down further away from the ledge with a harsh yank.

Like a kitten whose mother is dragging it by the nape, you fumble onto the rooftop concrete. As soon as you're moved, you drop down to your knees - unable to find anymore strength.

"Are you... trying to traffick me?" Your voice is coarse in your reply as you stare up. It's a genuine question. You aren't sure what else to call this. The strange, unusual man just laughs in your face.

"Mm, well - not really. Though, if you say yes I'll make good use of you in all ways." The last part makes your skin crawl a little. "You were weeping so pitifully when I came up here... super pathetic. I just thought it'd be a waste if you died since I got to see something interesting."

There's something really wrong with this guy, you think. But this is such a common thing in your life, you aren't sure how shocked you should be.

There's also something equally wrong with you, because you're so fucked up - you're considering it. If he paid you enough to cover all of your debts, you could cut ties with all the bullshit your fathers debt has put you through. You could run away. Not there's anywhere for you, even after that. But at least you'd be unshackled from what makes you most miserable.

You don't want your life, but if this guy wants it so bad then...

"...How much will you pay me?"

His eyes light up when you ask this and it unsettles you further. "As much as you want. And you'd have to live with me at my beck and call."

"Like a pet." You reply easily.

Instead of denying it, he snaps his fingers and grins. "Exactly! Or maybe more like a plush toy that I take every where?"

Either way, you're not any kind of human. You're barely human now though with how much you work, so you aren't sure it makes a difference. You stare at him. And he looks back at you with a smile - all pearly white pristine teeth.

Who cares anymore, anyway? Even if he were to mistreat you, you're not sure you'd even feel it. It's all numb. He can have your life if it means you can escape what you're running from.

He looks rich, so maybe.

"Don't worry," He hums, and he reaches over to pat your head while your face is covered in tears. You don't flinch for some reason. "I don't like breaking things I've bought unnecessarily."

Something is wrong with you. Your self preservation is in total fucking tatters. But still, you want to say so you do. Maybe it's the absurdity, or the fact you truly don't have anything to lose. Nothing could make your misfortune any worse.

You sniffle and shake your head. He's dangerous and weird, but at least you could pay off your debts.

"Okay," You say weakly.

His smile gets impossibly wide.

You're wonder if you'll regret your decision.

__

He's filthy rich.

You should've expected that. You did, kinda. Because only rich people would think to do or ask something so absurd like ask to buy another persons life. Still, he had a driver waiting for him downstairs and his car is definitely a sports care. A McLaren, you think. One of the places you catered for ages ago was full of rich people with flashy cars and you remembered some of them.

He sits with you uncomfortably close in the back seat but doesn't speak to you at all during the ride. Not until you arrive at the destination, which is a giant building where the strange man certainly lives.

The driver (named Ichiji) calls the strange man Gojo-sama, which makes you feel extremely on edge. They whisper about something when you're out of ear shot, and Ichiji gives you a sorrowful look that you can't place.

The name Gojo is familiar to you, but you aren't sure where you've heard it.

After taking a long elevator ride to one of the upper floors, you end up in the strange mans condo. When you get there, he tells you take off your shoes and gives you nice slippers.

"Welcome to my humble abode," He says, still frivolous and speaking to you in what feels like a foreign tongue. "And also yours. I'll set you up in the guest room later, but you'll be keeping my bed warm mostly so keep that in mind."

The size of the place is absurd and so is the decor. What have you gotten yourself into? You must've gone insane. You're too afraid to touch anything.

"Am I like... a sex slave?" You ask curiously.

He frowns at you. "You make me sound like some kind of rapist. I guess now that I own you....it might make me one... but you agreed to come here so don't be like that!!" He huffs, childishly.

His response is somewhat incomprehensible to you. He's stranger by the minute and completely tactless - but for some reason, it's hard to distrust him. He doesn't raise any immediate red flags aside from being unusual.

You almost want to say it wouldn't matter if he was, as long as he pays you but decide not too.

"Okay. Do you want me to take my clothes off?" You reply, nonchalant. He stares at you.

"...I know your heads pretty fucked up, but don't you think you're being too blase about all this?"

Your brow furrows. A weird response for a guy who willingly understands this is a less than ethical situation "Would... you prefer I struggle and refuse you? Is that your fetish?"

"No! Well..." You look at him flatly as he thinks on it, almost blushing at the thought. You make a face of disgust "Not in this case, alright! It's just too pitiful and I'm not that type really.... Be more cautious."

"But you were planning to fuck me from the start, right? Or something."

He nods. "Well, yes. As a way to earn your living and for me get my urges out whenever. Finding people to have sex with is a hassle."

You shrug.

"Right. I can cook and clean too. I've done pretty much every job you can think of it,"

He waves a hand at you. "We can discuss it later." He puts a hand in his necktie and pulls on with a small smile. "Right now, I want to test out my new toy so..."

You should feel more disgusted by how he refers to you, but you don't have it in yourself.

"Can I shower first?"

He looks surprised but nods. "Uh-huh. Just wear one of my shirts when you come out. Everything else is in the bathroom. It's upstairs, first door on your left."

You stand to your feet, nodding.

__

It takes you ten minutes to figure out how the shower works.

His shower is nice. The whole place is nice. Nicer than any shithole you've ever lived in. He has a lot of nice bath products, though you aren't sure how you feel about smelling like him since you're borrowing his.

You examine your body a bit in the shower, looking at old scars as you wash and rub yourself clean. Thankfully, you gave yourself a trim downstairs not long ago.

It's embarrassing in retrospect but you've not had much of a choice in the first place. You're sensitive, unsure of the last time you've touched yourself given how much you work. You think of your job and feel guilty for how you're going to miss it. But you recall that you were preparing to die not even two hours ago and feel less bad.

You whimper a little as you finger yourself open under the water - getting wet easier than you thought. You have to lean against the wall, but with enough coaxing you get three fingers in. You're still horny when you shut the water off and step out.

You dry yourself and put on lotion - staring in the mirror. As told you borrow one of his shirts, but it's too big on you and you can see your nipples too clearly which makes you embarrassed.

You reason you're about to go fuck a stranger anyway, and decide to step out right after.

__

You decide against wearing underwear since his shirt fits on you like a dress, but regret when you come back down stairs feeling aware of the breeze on your went cunt.

He's sitting on the couch with his legs spread, dress shirt unbuttoned but still in his clothes. He hears you before he sees you, eyes widening. You suddenly get self-conscious under the weight of his stare.

"Better than I thought," Is his only assessment. Your skin grows hot.

He beckons you over to him and you go, unsure of what to do until he pulls you into his lap. Forcing you to straddle him, he wastes no time in feeling you up. His hands at your waist and chest. His face lights up in pure amusement when he sees you bare underneath.

He stares at your pussy for a long time.

"It's good," He hums, his hands brushing against it. Your nipples pebble in response to the arousal, a pathetic moan leaving your lips that makes him laugh. "Pretty."

You don't have anything to say to that so you keep quiet. Gojo slides his fingers along the seam of your cunt to asses your wetness, surprised surely by how wet it is. Without warning, he plunges a finger in. He looks up at your face, your hand covering your mouth so you don't moan.

"So wet," His voice can't contain his amusement. "What's this?"

"I was," You shiver half-way through as he plunges in another finger and it goes in smoothly. "I p-prepared in the shower and masturbated. I thought you'd just want to stick it in and I didn't want it to hurt.

"Haah," His voice is sharp, suddenly breathy. Something hard and big presses up against your leg. "You're talented in seducing me. I'm not so ungentlemanly, but I'll let it go this time, alright?"

You nod. He uses a sticky hand to unbutton his slacks and push his boxers away. You gasp at the size of his cock. You're not a virgin exactly, but you haven't had sex with anyone this big ever. He chuckles a little, pressing the head of his cock against your stomach and cunt as if measuring it up to you.

More wetness pulses, shame filling you - because you're almost excited to be fucking this strange man you've only met today. Weirdly, you don't feel unsafe around him. Your eyes glass over from lust.

He sticks his fingers in your mouth and you suck automatically, instinctively. His smile is predatory all of a sudden, teeth glimmering.

"So obedient," He says, sharply. "Ah, I have a good eye. It really would've been such a waste."

You're content to throw yourself at him, chasing the pleasure. His fingers taste of salt and skin, making you want something else entirely. It's not long before he pulls away though, wrapping his hand around his shaft and making it shiny. You blink down at where he fists his cock - your spine tingling at the sight.

"Look at you," He mutters, amused. "Do you always get this excited? Is it normal for you to fuck strange men or am I special?"

You shake your head. "It's only been two people."

"Then I am special," He replies. Your breath hitches at the feeling of his cock pressing against your hole - fluttering. "We have good compatibility."

Before you can say a word, you feel his length push inside of you in one swift motion and gasp. It's so big, so impossibly big - and even with how much you stretched, there's a touch of resistance that's making your entire lower half feel like it's jelly. Almost numb from the sensation. Buzzing from adrenaline and want.

You feel full. In your stomach, in your chest - your whole body feel complete. When you manage to open your eyes, you look at Gojo and find yourself taken aback. His hair is pushed back from his hand and he looks... different. He's handsome now that you realize. His face looks...pleased.

You talk before you can think about it.

"Do I feel good?"

He laughs sweetly, before pressing a kiss to your temple that feels to affectionate for people who barely know each other.

"Uh-huh," He says. His hands are strong, tight on your ass as he bucks up into you - causing you to collapse forward. The pleasure makes you shake, sensitivity through the roof. "Feel so good. Hahaha, how lucky."

You cling onto Gojo's shoulder and bury your face into his neck. He doesn't stop you. A large hand comes around the back of your head - the other one at your hips as he thrusts up into you with alarming force and precision. He feels so good it's a little scary, and you can't keep the noises from slipping out. You moan and whine each time the tip rubs against you inside, soft walls barely able to accommodate the size.

Your body feels hot everywhere he touches. It's been so long and Gojo is so careful but so intense. His expensive dress shirt rubs up against your nipples each time he moves. It's so good, so good - makes you want to cry.

"You're so sensitive." He laughs against your shoulder. "Gripping so tight every time I move. Do you want to cum so bad?"

"Yes," The words are a sob. Just a little more.

"Uh-huh. Tell me where to touch you. How should I make you cum."

You're too shamelessly pent up to feel shy anymore. "Touch my c-clit, please, please."

"Got it, got it - don't cry."

Gojo listens to you well. Thick fingers and an angled hand find your clit with ease as he bounces you on his cock with no regard. Your eyes roll back instantly, immediately - as an orgasm washes over your entire body. Back arching, you cum hard around the base of his cock - but Gojo just keeps fucking you through it. He doesn't stop even when you come down, only moves you both so you're laying on the couch on your back.

He kisses you then, and you meet his mouth with sloppy tears running down your face from the pleasure.

"Let's see what your stamina is like, yeah? See if you can keep up with me."

__

He fucks you unconscious.

Essentially. Though you take with enthusiasm even during your exhaustion because the sex is phenomenal - you have no idea when you stop.

You wake up in a bed, and you wake up completely clean. You don't know whose bed, but there's a large figure besides you. Half-asleep and fully exhausted, you feel shy thinking about the fact he probably bathed and dressed you while you were out.

What a strange man, you think - to do that.

He's talking to someone on the phone. You don't really make out much of the words, though you do hear your name in bits and pieces.

"...A college student.......- young then -...... open a bank account for.... - debt...- pay it all off before it becomes annoying.... look into -."

You shift under your blankets half asleep. A hand comes up on top of your head on the pillow, pushing hair from your face.

"Did I wake you?" His expression is hard to read in the dark with your eyes barely open. "Sorry. Almost done. Go back to sleep."

So you do, because you can't find strength to do much else.

The bed is warm, but your sure the heat you feel is from the strong, gentle head petting your head as you rest.

[pochaccoups]

cw — sfw, fluff, mingi is sick and sulky, reader is smaller than mingi

It’s not entirely weird for Mingi to be waking up at 11:27 a.m. Sure, he’ll get up at seven or eight on a day full of schedules, but there’s also days where he sleeps until two, three, four p.m whether it’s from jet lag or after staying up late writing. What is weird is the fact that he’s been asleep since eight p.m. yesterday.

A text from your boyfriend is what lets you know he’s finally awake, and you’re up from the sitting room couch in an instant, darting to your shared bedroom.

He’s got the covers pulled halfway up his face with just his eyes poking out to stare at his phone screen and you wonder how a six-foot-something man can look so small.

“Morning, baby,” you say, slinking over to his side of the bed so you can sit on the edge next to him.

“Morning,” he replies, and if it weren’t for the fact that he was quite literally in front of you, you’d be convinced that someone had kidnapped your boyfriend and replaced him with a complete stranger—one with a voice so deep that it rumbles when he speaks.

Your eyes widen and you giggle, but you can’t say you’re surprised at how he sounds. His voice is notorious for dropping several octaves in the morning. Usually it’s sexy, but given that he’d spent the entire day before complaining about a sore throat, you can’t find it in you to feel anything but pity for the poor boy.

“So, I called your doctor and he said you need to stay home for the next four to five days at the least,” you tell him, reaching for his muss of silver hair to tangle your fingers through it softly.

“What-no, I’m really fine!” he whines, pushing himself up to sit against the headboard. “I have to practice for the comeback, I can’t take a break right now.”

“You’re not taking a break, Gi, you’re going on sick leave. You kept me up all night with your sneezing and coughing,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest, only to melt as soon as he gives you his big, round, puppy eyes.

“But it’s just a cold…”

“Well, the doctor ordered it. Besides, I’ve already called Hongjoong and your managers. And I took work off today and tomorrow so I can stay home with you.”

For a split second you swear his eyes well up with tears. “You did?”

“Of course,” you tell him. When Mingi is sick, he turns into a four week old puppy because he can’t be left alone, or a newborn baby who needs a pair of eyes on him at all times so that he doesn’t suffocate to death. So when you tell him you’ll go make him some food and tea, he wraps his excessively giant hands around your body and clings to you, like letting go of you would mean he’ll succumb to his illness.

“Gi, you need fluids. Please let me go,” you remind him, but he only holds you tighter and you know it’s partly out of spite and partly because he’s just like this—a velcro boyfriend.

“Mingi, I’ll be two minutes, then I’ll come right back, okay?” you tell him.

“No, you won’t, I know you,” he says, and you don’t have to look at him to know he’s pouting. It’s a permanent feature of his face by now.

“I will! Why else do you think I took work off, huh?”

He’s silent then, and a moment later his arms fall loose, and he lets you go, but you leave a kiss on his forehead as an act of promise to him and shuffle back out to your kitchen.

Spurred by your boyfriend’s neediness, you gather leftover rice from the fridge, chicken broth, and a handful of vegetables with haste and start to boil the concoction that your mother taught you how to make, the one that got you through not just fevers but through heartbreaks, losses, and cold winters.

“The most important ingredient,” she would say, “is a sprinkle of your heart”—though Mingi deserved more than just a sprinkle.

The kettle boils away and your stew bubbles with life in no time. It’s also no time before a giant, warm, sniffling body plasters itself to your back and buries his face into your neck, practically bending in half to do so.

You can’t say you don’t see it coming. Still, the spirit of your mother possesses you when you drag out his name to scold him.

“Why aren’t you in bed, dummy?” you question, though you’re careful not to have any real aggravation in your voice toward him. Admittedly, you adore the way his body heat wraps around you like a blanket, although you’re sure that’s just his fever.

“Missed you too much,” he mumbles, nuzzling his nose and lips against your shoulder.

“I told you I’d be two minutes,” you sigh.

“It’s been more than that already. You lied. I knew you’d lie.”

“It was hyperbole for ‘I’ll be super quick’.”

“Then you should have said that.”

You place your wooden spoon down on the counter, turning to face your boyfriend with a fond smile on your face.

He looks adorable. Unbelievably so. Mussed up white hair, a dusting of pink on the apples of his cheeks and the pointy tip of his nose, puffy eyes that still sparkle at the sight of you. You might be the luckiest human on the planet.

You bring your hands up to his face, grabbing at each of his cheeks and squishing them gently between your fingers.

“My poor, sick princess,” you coo, watching his dimples make an appearance when he gives you a goofy, content smile. “Do you wanna watch a movie? Or a show maybe?”

He nods his head, still smiling so sweetly.

“Go pick something and I’ll finish up your soup,” you offer.

“Can I have a kiss first?”

You stare at him, unamused, though you know this very well—Song Mingi cannot live without your kisses. It’s why he was crafted with the softest, prettiest, heart-shaped lips, so that you could kiss them over and over and over again until the end of time. There are exceptions, however.

“I’m not catching your virus! Is that what you want?”

“No, no, on my forehead again!” he clarifies, his features suddenly muddled with worry because he would suffer from this cold for the rest of his life if it meant you would be healthy for the rest of yours. You wonder, though, if he knows how badly you wish you could take his cold and suffer it for him.

“Oh, well then yeah, duh,” you say, standing on your tip toes and gently pulling Mingi’s face towards you so that you can plant an overly long kiss on his burning forehead and pull away with a “mwah!” that leaves him utterly beaming.

Finally satisfied, he shuffles off back to the room, leaving you to brew his tea and serve up the stew into two bowls.

You grab flu tablets from the medicine cabinet, noting that they’re almost all gone and you’ll need to go to the pharmacy to get more. For today you have enough, so you place them on the tray along with the stews and tea and make your way back to your bedroom.

Mingi is curled up under the covers again and it’s so cute that you hate to disturb him, but he unfurls himself and sits up as soon as he sees you with a tray in hand.

“What are we watching?” you ask, slowly settling on the bed next to him and laying the tray down on the mattress.

“I think Attack on Titan, if you want to,” he says, full of fondness as you hand him two tablets to take.

“Oh, right, you’ve been wanting to watch that! Of course I want to,” you tell him, because you could never pass up the opportunity to see Jean Kirschtein in action again. You’ve missed him dearly since the show ended, though you have no doubt of the sulking and pouting you’ll get from Mingi when he comes onscreen.

Your boyfriend’s eyes go comically wide when he tries your soup and you laugh because he almost chokes on it.

“Is it that good?” you chuckle.

“It’s really good,” he responds.

“Good, because I put all my love into it.”

He hums, his face glowing pink as he eats another spoonful. “I can tell. Thank you for making this. And thank you for taking care of me. And for putting up with me.”

“Anything for my princess,” you giggle. “But I’m not ‘putting up with you’, idiot. Is it hard to comprehend that someone cares about you, Mingi?”

He stares up at you with his shiny eyes as though you hand-crafted the very sun, moon, and stars and placed them in the sky yourself.

“I love you,” he says, a mere whisper. It’s three words he’s said to you a million times, but right now, with his walls down and him vulnerable, it’s worth a million times more.

“I love you too,” you reply, leaning over to smack your lips against his temple. “Now watch the show!”

And he tries, he really does—but your little hospital patient is fast asleep by the third episode.

[dcxdpdabbles]

Phantom's Number 1 Fan Part 3

John Constantine calls a joint Justice League and Justice League Dark meeting.

It's not something he wants to do. He barely works with the LJD, but at least that lot understands his work and knows what to do and where to go.

The JL members always ask questions and forget proper manners when working with the paranormal- John isn't the most well-mannered bloke around, but even he knows to permanently say goodbye to ghosts so that they don't follow him home- and it's like trying to teach an intern while dodging bullets.

He prefers to avoid the whole origination, especially since Bruce's death; everyone has been walking on eggshells, and there is a sense of disorganization drenched in grief that John breaks into hives just thinking about, but this is big.

Bigger than he can handle it on his own or with just the JLD. Even if the whole group gives the bats not-so-stable glances as they filter in.

John notices that one of Batman's brats is missing- the smart one- but he has heard that the kid suffered some kind of psychotic break from his father's death. It's sad, really, mainly because John used to believe that the third Robin was the one with the good head on his shoulders.

What's worse is that the Third Robin up and ran off, having gone off the grid when he refused to accept Batman's death. The boy hadn't said anything besides, "The portraits told me!" after having a miniature breakdown in his home.

It didn't help that around this time, the boy teammates had all dropped like flies except for one. So yes, John knows it wasn't a big surprise that he lost it, but it was still sad to see. Kid is only seventeen.

He hopes they find him soon to give him the help he needs. John would offer a spell to try and find him, but he needs to learn about the kid better, which means his spell can only point in a general direction.

Nightwing looked downright ragged, but losing a father on the battlefield and a younger brother to his grief did a number on anyone.

John hates himself just a little for dragging the grieving family here. He does, but again, this is bigger than all of them. This is a matter of life and death- literally.

"Listen up. We have a bloody level ten on its way to Earth if it's not already here." His words cut through the muttering crowd, shutting everyone up. A level ten makes even the big, lousy Superman sweat. He snaps his fingers, allowing his magic to shift into the image of a King Phantom sitting on his throne- painted in the early 1200s and the picture that can be used to identify him.

The art style would have been almost modern if it wasn't for the unease that the painting could cause due to the glowing green from his majesty's portrait. They say the green was ectoplasm from the king himself- and that alone should warn others to not mess with him.

Everyone Justice League Dark member hissed through their teeth, sitting up straighter and a few even pale. John is once again grateful that they understand just how deep in shit they genuinely are.

"This is the Ghost King. He is not to be confused with a god or king of gods. He's something else entirely because he makes gods nervous. He is on his way here to kill whoever is dumb enough to threaten his pregnant fiancee, and I fear the rest of Earth will be collateral if we don't prepare-"

"That's Danny Phantom," A young voice cuts John off. He is surprised someone would talk over him in a level ten briefing. All eyes turn to Robin- er, the new Robin.

The kid is frowning at the image, his signature scowl already deeper than usual. He's also heard the new Robin was a spoiled boy who was not a team player.

"You know King Phantom?" John asks.

Robin nods. "Placeholder is obsessed with him. Half his room is covered with King Phantom's heroics."

"Do not call him that.," Nightwing hisses a second later. He frowned when Robin ignored him but returned to the room without further comment on the boy's cheek. "Danny Phantom is a low-level search and rescue hero. He pops up around the world but only sometimes interacts with people. Robin- Young Justice Robin- was obsessed with him."

The room gains an awkward weight as no one is willing to bring up the mentally unsound MIA teenager.

It's too bad for them. John has never cared about making anyone comfortable. "You said his room is covered in images of King Phantom?"

From the corner of his eyes, John catches sight of Zatanna's face. She's pale white, with a horrified expression as if though she was standing before the grim itself. Every other member of the Justice League Dark is in a similar state.

"Yes, he has a whole wall of posters and stuff." Nightwing conforms, and shit John knows who Phantom's after now.

The thing is, one just doesn't have pictures of King Phantom. No one knows why, but the Ghost King can not be documented. Not without having some kind of connection to the King.

Throughout history, the only ones who have ever had even one solid picture of the king- John's magic doesn't count cause he can't well hold the thing up forever- usually meant that the King would appear before them at one point.

There is also a myth if one could beat a member of the royal ghost family, then one wish is granted to them. If one can kill a royal ghost member, death can be overturned.

It's not true, obviously, for death is not easily beaten like that, but John knows that as an expert, would a mentally unwell teenager know the same?

It was also known that if the King appeared before you, something terrible would happen. The sighting of King Phantom often came as an omen and usually right before a terrible disaster.

In the last disaster, they lost Batman, and if King Phantom had shown up, where the Third Robin have spotted him? Where the Third Robin have thought the King could return the dead?

Not to mention the rumors!

King Phantom was hunting down a group of humans known as "The Bats." John hadn't put that much stock in that rumor simply because it could have been anyone- hell, when he looked up the bats seven different groups appeared, varying from boy bands to zoologists.

But if he placed the name "The Bats" next to the Third Robin's psychotic break, his obsession with King Phantom, and his intertwined fates...well, shit.

There is a slight chance that the Third Robin's fate could be intertwined with the Ghost King in a positive light, but John has learned to not be optimistic in his line of work.

"I think the Third Robin is gunning after the Ghost King's fiancee and unborn child in a misguided attempt to bring Batman back to life. He may have kicked started a war that humanity can not win," He announces. He hates to say. hates to even suggest it, but the needs of the many outweigh those of the few. "We have to find the Third Robin and attempt to stop him. If we can't reason with him, we must put him down."

Wonder Girl gasps a sob, pressing her hand against her mouth.

John hates himself a little more as she sobs; a few rushes to confront her, but no one is unaffected by the news.

"I'm ordering a hunt for the Third Robin," Wonderwoman speaks up to her steady leadership, returning everyone from their despair. "Every available hero will help. Do not use lethal force unless there is no other choice. We may be able to find him before King Phantom's armies arrive."

John just hopes they are not too late.

Meanwhile, across the plane of existence, unaware of the manhunt for his head, Tim Drake is trying to stare down a Yeti, attempting to put him in silk clothes that are just fabrics held together by strings.

"No."

"But-But- but you have such a flattering figure! You must flaunt it! The Great One will barely be able to contain himself if he sees you in this!"

"No. It looks like something you wear on a honeymoon to seduce your spouse. I'm not walking around in that."

"Well, you don't need to bewitch his majesty. You already have a child on the way." The Yeit mutters, considering the fabric in his claws with a frown. He is Frostbite's royal tailor and has been attempting to dress Tim for over an hour. Everything he's suggested so far looks like it came from those romantic fantasy games.

It's like they want to make him a sexy consort or something.

Tim's teeth grind against each other. He hates how often his role is reminded, how casually the yetis mention that Ra's expects a child from Tim.

He doesn't even know how that child will come to be, and it makes him sick. He's been bidding his time, waiting for his wounds to heal and to find a weakness in the frozen fortress, but so far, he is unsure how he will escape.

And Bruce is still out there, waiting for Tim to get him. He can't waste any more time here.

"How about this cloak?" The Yeti offers, holding up a dark metallic fabric that reminds TIm of his Robin cape. "If we are going for a more conservative look, something that screams power is just the way to make the masses wild!"

Ugh, he really needs to think of a plan soon.

[samuelsdean]

Who Needs Time Management When I Have You?

pairing: spencer reid x reader

summary: one of the many perks of having a boyfriend with flawless memory is that you do not have to remember stuff—he remembers them for you.

genre: tooth-rotting domestic fluff

word count: 1.5k

author's notes: i wrote this because domestic!spencer reid is a guilty pleasure of mine. i can definitely picture him as an attentive boyfriend because aside from the fact that he has flawless memory, he's an overall caring guy. with that said, i hope you'll enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writing this!

ONE OF THE MANY PERKS OF HAVING A BOYFRIEND WITH FLAWLESS MEMORY IS THAT YOU DO NOT HAVE TO REMEMBER STUFF—HE REMEMBERS THEM FOR YOU. Do you have a dentist's appointment at 9? Covered. He will be waking you up at 7 with breakfast in bed. Your sister’s birthday is coming up. No worries! He has already ordered a bouquet ready to be sent on the day. It is amazing, and you thank your lucky stars for him every morning when you wake up and see him cozily sleeping beside you.

However, you were out of luck on the boyfriend angle today. You had your monthly—or if the BAU is free—girls' night scheduled tonight. As much as you enjoy having girls' nights with the BAU girls, Spencer also likes to spend some time out with the guys for a nightcap or something, whatever the men at the BAU enjoy when there is no case. And that means, your boyfriend is busy getting ready to go out as well. Although Spencer has never forgotten a thing in his life—even when he is on the brink of life and death—you do not want to stress him out even more by asking him what you think you have forgotten to prepare.

So, today when you were running around the house like a madman trying to collect the stuff you need to bring to Garcia’s for girls' night, you have no one else to blame but yourself. You have depended on your boyfriend to remember stuff for you that you always leave the preparation at the very last minute. At the moment, you believe you’ve never hated yourself as much as you did now, which is quite the feat considering that you’ve hated yourself a lot before for chickening out on confessing your feelings to boy wonder—your boyfriend, Spencer Reid—only to find out he shares the same feelings.

Scratch that, you hate your boyfriend right now more than you hate yourself.

Currently, that same boyfriend has been snickering nonstop at you dashing left and right and gathering the things you need to bring. Face masks? Check. Wine? Check. What else were you forgetting?

“You know, there’s this study that says only 82% of people have a time management system.” 

Your ever-loving boyfriend, Spencer, decided to share. You were about to chuck the throw pillow at him because you could hear the I told you so in his voice, but you knew his fact-sharing and nagging was his unique way of saying, “I love you, but you could’ve remedied this problem by preparing the stuff you’ll need the night before.”

“No, I don’t, Spence. But, do tell.” 

At this point, you’re pretty sure Spencer was sporting a shit-eating grin and was probably holding in a laugh at the strain in your voice from recalling whether you’ve got everything so you can head over to Garcia’s. You’re pretty sure Garcia is about to talk your ear off if you’re running late. You missed out on the last girls' night after you bailed on them, wanting to spend the night with Spencer, watching Star Wars, and eating takeout.

“There's a survey done recently which revealed that 90% of people say better time management can lead to increased productivity.” Spencer started explaining, hands waving around as if to demonstrate the numbers in front of him. “However, only 18% of people have a proper time management system.”

“And?” 

“Well, it just reminded me of you.” Spencer pursed his lips now, as he tried to explain his thoughts without annoying you. “If you just had a proper time management system like a to-do list or a planner. You could save at least..” He stared at his watch and did the math, “You could save at least one hour and forty-three minutes of your time instead of panicking over whether you got all the things you need for girls' night.”

“I don’t need that when I have you. Don’t you think so?”

This made your boyfriend blush, and you giggled, heading towards his direction, so you could wrap your hands around his waist and bury your face into his chest. You were the luckiest person alive for getting to date someone as wonderful as Spencer.

What you just said would not have made anyone flush and nervous, but Spencer was different. You knew he’s never been in a formal relationship with anyone before you. Thus, from time to time, he still gets embarrassed by your antics which you’ll always be endeared by. You live to see your boyfriend getting flustered because it gives you a reason to shower him with affection like now.

“I love you too, Spence.”

You looked up at your boyfriend, who looked like he was about to burst from your directness. You and he may deal with a lot of blood and gore during work, but he can be the most fainthearted person alive when it came to your affections.

“B-but I didn’t say I love you..” He trailed off, confused as to why you were suddenly proclaiming your love for him. You grinned even more as you pinched the tip of his nose.

“You didn’t have to, Spence. I know your nagging is one way of you saying you love me, and I love you for that.” 

Spencer scrunched his nose and rubbed the back of his neck out of shyness. If you could keep him in your pocket for safekeeping, you would. He’s just too precious for this world.

“But, as much as I love you, I know just as much that Penelope will have my ass kicked by Emily if I get to her house late,” you broke free from your boyfriend’s comfy arms, checking the bags you packed while doing so. “I have to go, baby. I think I got everything I need.”

Picking up your bag and care package, you ruffled your boyfriend’s brown locks, which made him frown a bit and sigh. You snickered at his reaction and proceeded to walk towards the front door. You were about to reach the staircase just outside your shared apartment when you realized something. 

You forgot your car keys.

Berating yourself in your head, you were certain once you entered that door, Spencer would be on your case like a mother duck. He can be too fretful when it comes to you. Oh well, that is one thing you love about him. Huffing, you slowly turned the doorknob and found Spencer leaning on the wall just inside the door with his arms crossed, looking at you smugly. You rolled your eyes.

One thing about Spencer Reid is he can be a cocky little shit when proven right. And that happens most—if not all—the time, with his IQ of 187 and eidetic memory. Unfortunately for him, he also happened to date a cocky little shit—you—who likes to fluster the living lights out of him. And right now, you just thought of the perfect way to get back at him.

But first, your car keys. Spencer next.

Once you have retrieved the pesky item—like it’s the car keys’ fault, you forgot to get them—you turned towards the door, not paying any attention to your boyfriend, who was already cracking up at you. Only when you’ve reached the door, your back towards Spencer, did you smirk. Oh, he’ll never know what’s coming to him. You did a U-turn and 

“Forgot something, sweetheart?”

“Why, yes I did, Dr. Reid,” you stated plainly, beelining towards him, making him take a few steps back until he ended up with his back against the wall. He's so easy to fluster. "I forgot to do this."

You slanted your head and pressed your lips against his. Your bodies were snug against each other as you kissed heatedly against the wall. You could feel the flutter of his long lashes against your cheeks as he parted his lips slightly to kiss you deeper. You could taste your shared breath, smell his faint perfume, and feel the slight scruff of a stubble about to show up. Warmth blossomed in your chest when you felt Spencer caress your face as if you were fine porcelain.

Kissing Spencer Reid never gets old in your books. Despite his lack of romantic experience and being the eager researcher that he was, Spencer was an eager lover—he would kiss you every chance he'd get to know how to please you, which paid off, by the way. This may be a biased opinion but you think the best kisses you have shared were with Spencer.

However, like all good things, kissing Spencer has to end, or Garcia will have you banned from her house for running late.

You pulled away from Spencer and grinned at him, to which he returned with a stunned smile. You chuckled when you noticed your lipstick smudged on the corner of his lips and brushed a finger to erase it. You wouldn't want your boyfriend to be the subject of Morgan's teasing once they're together after this. Noticing the daze your boyfriend is under is about to wear off, and he was about to say something, you beat him to it by pressing a smooch on his nose and pulling away completely. 

"I gotta go, Dr. Reid. Don't miss me too much!"

You scampered towards the door and shot a wink at your bewildered boyfriend—who was now sputtering in indignation for interrupting what he was about to say. He is so cute.

[yesimwriting]

Heyy ya!! Hwo you doing? I wanted to ask maybe you can write Coriolanus x reader when he gets to district after just finishing training for pacekeepers, or maybe where his tribute just arrived to the capitol and the reader maybe says the “what does my mentor do besides bring me roses?” Line? ❤️

A/n the turn around for this was so fast for me 😭 i got excited

hi!! i love these prompts and am so glad for the excuse to write something for him 😭,, also i didn't blatantly make the reader the district 12 tribute bc i didn't want to necessarily cute lucy gray out all together, but it's clear that she's from a poorer district and that being assigned to mentor her is an insult to the Snow name,, also reader pulls a katniss and volunteers for a younger family member bc the irony of that scratches an inch in my brain

Summary: After the very public slight of being assigned to mentor a female tribute from a lower district, all Snow can think about is the uphill battle that winning the Plinth prize will now be. Until, he realizes, that he's been given the first ever district volunteer who seems to have a quality that makes people care about her.

Warnings: my first time writing for a specific character, Coriolanus's internal thoughts are a little softer than they should be at some points but i love the accidental and deeply impractical crush trope so

---

Of Angels

The desperation masquerading as fierceness behind her eyes is undeniable. Coriolanus feels the way your panic, your shock as the weight of your own words dawn on you in his chest. He swallows, forcing down the feeling.

Take me--take me instead! The phrase is repeated again and again, shaky and pleading.

Something about the display, about the 12-year-old girl that desperately tries to cling to you as peace keepers push you forward, makes it hard to watch. Even worse, it makes it impossible to look away.

The first ever district volunteer. A suicide mission or a--a desperate call for attention? A decision made out of hysteria that you're already starting to regret?

He can't decide as the footage of you being ushered onto stage is played. Surely, Dr. Gaul and other Capitol officials won't find this acceptable. The concept of volunteering has always been reserved for the careers, the districts that produce well fed children that train for this. It's a way to allow them to pick their best, their strongest. It is not a way for someone to lay down their life for someone else.

"Are you saying you volunteer?"

You blink, eyes wild and bright as you openly survey the crowd. Coriolanus briefly thinks that you might attempt to take what he doubts is an actual out. You seem to be considering something before finally nodding once. The motion so stiff it makes you look smaller, like the girl whose name was originally called.

"Yes," you mumble. The softness of it is a personal accost. Your choice was made in panic, but that isn't who you are. You're not much of a performer or a fighter or even bold...you're not much of a chance at the Plinth Prize. "I-I volunteer."

----

In the end, he had come because of Tigris. She had insisted that there was a way to see his tribute as more than just another face from the districts, as more human than animal.

She loves that little girl enough to die in her place. If I was her, I'd want someone to tell me that my choice meant something. I'd want someone to show that they care about me.

The words had felt dismissible at first, but the more he thought about them, the more it made sense. Panem had seen the entire thing, had seen the way that his tribute continued to comfort the younger girl even after sentencing herself to death. There's a story worthy of a show in that.

If he can convince you to go on camera, to speak of the girl, of the choice...maybe he'd have a chance at his future. And if the public support manages to help you in some way or another, that'd only be an additional benefit. You love that girl enough to die for her, maybe that means you love her enough to fight tooth and nail to live for her as well.

The train that stops at each district pulls to a stop. The doors open, releasing the sound of tributes that are learning the consequences of attempting to cause issues for the peacekeepers.

A boy he vaguely recognizes steps out, and then a younger girl. Are you one of the tributes already risking their lives in an attempt to aggravate peacekeepers? Or maybe you're cowering at the back of the train, clinging onto the safety of a familiar space.

You prove to be neither. You emerge from the train, perfectly in tact and stable.

Coriolanus parts his lips, yet no words manage to come out. You're different in person, the white you're dressed in is objectively dirtier than it was when you were reaped and yet somehow, here in the dim, gray station it feels brighter. A stray beam of sunlight breaking through a cluster of clouds. A promise that the storm will end soon and that the angels have yet to abandon the earth.

Your dress is a simple thing, loose enough to be a hand-me-down or maybe even borrowed, the lace of the skirt falling farther down your knees than it should. That paired with the ribbon scraps tied to each side of your head make you look younger and cruelly innocent.

"Hello." The blandness of his own beginning forces a burning sort of regret to take over his chest. You attentively turn, expression kind and expecting. It only makes the embarrassment he doesn't fully understand scorch him from the inside out with more violence. He's once again struck with the desire to look away and finding himself incapable of doing so. "My name is Coriolanus Snow, and I'm your mentor."

You nod, features hardening. You've pieced it all together--his appearance, what he's saying, and where you are. He's revealed himself as part of the Capitol and now you can no longer watch him with kind, accepting eyes. The look you're giving him is almost enough to make him wish he could have presented this differently.

Coriolanus extends an arm, the carefully chosen pure white rose an olive branch. You blink, eyebrows drawing together before you slowly reach out and take the flower by its stem. Your fingertips brush against his own, the warmth of your skin is so shocking he has to remind himself not to flinch.

"A mentor?" You repeat the word like your only reason for doing so is to try out the foreign word on your tongue. "Does everyone get one or am I just lucky?" You look down at the rose you're now holding. "Or has the rumor that I'm a rebellion trick spread to the Capitol?"

The last question genuinely surprises him. It shouldn't, there had been some talk about why anyone from a poor district would ever choose to go into the games. The way you and the girl you saved reacted to each other could have been staged...but Coriolanus didn't think it was enough to warrant genuine rumors. Anyone that had looked at your eyes and seen the fear in them would have known that it was sacrifice. Is sacrifice. That girl means the world to you.

"No," he starts slowly, "No, everyone gets one and no one here has any preconceptions about you."

You raise your eyebrows, making it clear that you don't believe him. No preconceptions had been a strong way to phrase things, but the urge to assure you had taken over with no warning. You then look away, glancing around to take in your surroundings.

"Then why isn't there..." You trail off, your gaze landing firmly on him. "You're not supposed to be here."

He blinks. For the first time, it feels like you're truly looking at him. His own susceptibility to your wide eyes turns his stomach. You're the one that should feel like something up for display under his stare. "No, I'm not."

The admission forces the edge of your lips to pull upwards. "Alright," you hum, "So what does my mentor do for me besides bring me roses?"

"I do my best to take care of you."

For a second, all you do is stare. He's surprised you. The realization brings him more relief than it should. "The girl who you volunteered for..."

You tilt your head downwards, hiding your expression as your fingers carefully toy with the exterior of the soft petals. "My cousin," the explanation is low, cautious, "But we uh--we're more like sisters."

An in that he doesn't even have to work for. "I understand that." You look up, not bothering to hide your confusion. Maybe you weren't expecting something so human to come out. Maybe human works for you. "During the war, we took care of each other...and then after our parents passed, we were left in the care of our grandmother."

The silence that follows is tight, straining against the sympathies you're not willing to extend to someone like him. Your lips part, and Coriolanus is disgusted by the part of him that's curious about what's going to come next.

You're pushed back with no warning. His attention snaps towards the peacekeeper who is shoving against your shoulder with more force than necessary.

"Excuse--" No reaction, no response as another peacekeeper grabs your arm. "Excuse me, I'm her--" You're being dragged away in order to be packed into another vehicle of transportation with the rest of them.

Coriolanus stays near, doing his best to never lose sight of you in the chaos. A tribute breaks free from the hold of the peacekeepers and launches his body forward. An ill thought out escape attempt. The distraction is all Coriolanus needs. This is his chance to go after you, to cement a connection that will guarantee cooperation.

It's not the distraction that gets him to move or even thoughts of the Plinth prize, it's the final flash of angel white fabric as its forced back into darkness. He rushes forward before he can overthink, entering the vehicle just as the doors shut.

----

i think i might make a part 2!!

[undiscovered-horizon]

"Everywhere is good but home is..." - Mihawk x Reader

@thetempleofthemasaigoddess wondered why Mihawk doesn't quite get along with his mother-in-law and who am I to keep such secrets to myself?

SUMMARY: Mihawk is not exactly fond of his in-laws. Nevertheless, he compliantly tags along whenever you pay your parents a visit. If it makes you happy, he's willing to bite his tongue. For a day, at least.

WORDCOUNT: ~ 2.6k

Enjoying my work? You can leave me a tip on Ko-Fi

Imagine, if you will, an angry boar. A large, stout boar with birse as dark as the night sky. As boars do, it will gore with its tusks to let out the frustration and get rid of whatever it was that made the animal seethe. Now, if you take away its tusks, what can it do? Angrily dig for truffles? 

Or maybe stand beside you, a scowl on his face and a begrudging “I am fine” every time you ask about the bitter expression?

Mihawk doesn’t like visiting your parents. It’s the sickeningly sweet familial atmosphere that suffocates him. Don’t misunderstand - he’s fond of the thought of having a family with you but the aura of your childhood home is a little too… overwhelming for him. A little too picture-perfect. But being the man he is, Mihawk has never outright talked about his dislike because he’s aware of how much that would hurt you. Still, you know your husband a little too well to disregard his sighs and frowns. This piece of secret knowledge always makes you love him more - he’s willing to suffer for a day or two just to make you happy. If it’s not love, what else could it be?

The farmhouse looks different than it did last year when you visited: the roof tiles have been changed, the outside of the building has been repainted and even some of the fence surrounding the land is new. Clearly, your parents have been busy with their retirement.

Despite the irate expression on his face, Mihawk silently overtakes you and opens the shabby wicket gate to let you enter first. He gives you a questioning look when you suddenly stop.

“It’s going to be fine, Mihawk,” you reassure him.

“So you’ve been saying, darling.”

Comforting warmth spreads inside his chest as you smile at him and kiss his cheek. He turns his head, hoping to catch your lips but you’re already on your way to the older man raking leaves in the distance. Mihawk clenches his jaw and lets out an exasperated sigh. With a loud bang, he closes the gate behind him. He follows you in slow steps, naively putting off the fateful moment of meeting your family.

Walking down the path leading to the farmhouse and the fields behind it, Mihawk looks around the desolate landscape. It’s quaint, he thinks to himself. Tall trees sway on the chilly, autumn wind. Right above their peaks, although far away, are mountains with their tops covered in snow. Uncut grass brushes against his clothes. A flock of cranes flies high in the sky, disappearing and reappearing as they fly through grey clouds. Their key is directed south, towards warmth that will shield them from winter snow. The area is a bit too colourful and bright for his liking but with a nice “please” from you, Mihawk could see himself settling down in a place like this.

Dracule just comes into earshot and has the displeasure of hearing your father yelling:

“Pumpkin!” The older man’s voice is filled with excitement. He lets go of the rake, letting it fall on the ground. Despite his age and clear exhaustion from the work, he wraps his arms around you and hugs you almost to death. “Honey, come out!” he shouts towards the farmhouse. “It’s Pumpkin!”

Mihawk almost can’t stop himself from rolling his eyes. You’re a grown woman, married at that, and they still call you by a nickname they had come up with while you were still in diapers. ‘When I asked where children came from, they told me that they found me between pumpkins in their field,’ you once explained to him.

The door to the building flies open. Soon enough, your mother is running to you. Her greying hair is braided into a plait. She’s wearing an apron with traditional patterns hand-stitched into it. Half of the motif had been done by a skilled hand, stitched with precision and perfection. The other part, however, is a lot more crooked and amateurish, probably done by a child’s hand. Your hand.

Tears glisten in your mother's eyes. Despite her older age, there’s vigour and youth inside those irises - a certain love for life that you’ve taken after her. She quickly wipes her hands on the apron and hugs you.

“Oh, Pumpkin!” A stray tear leaves her eye. “I haven’t seen you in ages! You could have said you’re visiting.”

“You’ve always loved surprises, mum.”

She lets go of you and redirects her attention to Mihawk. Her face lights up as though he’s her own son, beaming with love and pride. To his absolute horror, your mother puts her hands on the sides of his face. He almost pulls away to avoid the unwanted affections.

“Sweetie, you look handsome as ever!” she exclaims. Her expression falls as she looks him up and down. “But you’re a bit thin, aren’t you? And that open shirt, tsk. Winter is coming, sweetheart, you’ll catch pneumonia if you don’t cover up.”

“Delighted to see you again, ma’am,” Mihawk lies through his teeth. To some degree, you’re impressed with how honest he sounds.

"Oh, sweetheart, I told you to just call me mum!” She laughs. “We're family now."

You can see the relief in Mihawk’s eyes as your mother lets go of him. Some part of you wants to burst with laughter as you recall countless moments when you’re the one cradling his face and Dracule is more than overjoyed with the tender touch. It feels like there’s something beyond special about you, that he welcomes such intimate things. Although, truth be told, when it’s your hands on his face, you usually lean in to kiss him and that’s definitely not something he wants to think about while standing in front of your mother.

“He’s a grown man, honey.” Your father nags at his wife. He waves his hand in a dismissing manner. “Leave him be.” Mihawk’s terror returns when a heavy hand reaches for his shoulder. “Come, son, you’ll chop some wood for the night. I’m too old for this. The last time I tried chopping firewood, I got sciatica.”

“Pleased to help,” Dracule drones his words. He gives you a glance like a silent plead ‘Look what I do for you’. Then, he follows your father further into the garden.

You feel your mother put her arm around your shoulder. “Boys are off to have fun and we have a dinner to make.”

Something inside you stirs with excitement - cooking and baking used to be your bonding activities with your mum. Since you’ve married Mihawk, you’re not allowed to do any housework. Everything is taken care of by servants. You find that you’ve grown to miss the rhythm of mundane life, although it would be a lie if you said that you dislike the life you have with Mihawk. It’s just… different.

The sound of pots, pans and knives hitting the cutting boards is like a symphony to your ears. An aria to your childhood. If you closed your eyes, you could almost see the world as it used to be, your eyes right below the level of the countertops, always standing on a stool to help your mother.

But the thoughts of your younger years dissipate as you stare out of the kitchen window. You have the perfect view of your husband chopping firewood with your father raking leaves in the back. Mihawk’s skin glistens in the afternoon, autumn sun. There’s not a bead of sweat on his torso. He appears completely relaxed as he swings the axe with one hand. Some logs are already cracked or particularly dry and those he rips apart with his bare hands. Those same hands that tear pieces of wood into matches have caressed your skin with almost fearful softness; the arms that bring destruction have tirelessly shielded you from the dangers of the world. 

Your dad looks over his shoulder at the pile of firewood with a nod of awe. If Mihawk keeps up his tempo, he’ll prepare enough fuel for the next week.

“You remind me of your dad and me when we were younger.” Your mother’s face shakes you awake from your thoughts. Suddenly remembering that you were supposed to be helping her, you look down at the awfully chopped carrots. At least you didn’t cut off your finger. “Always stealing glances as though we weren’t already married.”

A sigh of yearning leaves your lips. What did you do in your past life to deserve a man like him?

“Dad still looks at you in an uncomfortably intense way,” you answer, a smile on your lips.

Your mother’s laughter brightens up the small, crowded kitchen. It’s not hard to correctly guess what your dad saw in her that made him want to spend his life with that woman. “He does the same when you’re not looking,” she says while vaguely pointing at Mihawk.

Her words make you blush. A deep shade of red covers your cheeks, making your whole face hot to the touch. “What do you mean?”

She looks at you with sympathy. “I saw it the day you introduced him to us. And each time you come over, he seems to be a little worse in his affliction, staring at you like you’re the one who hung stars in the sky. It made your grandma remind her of grandad so much, that she cried at your wedding.”

Listening to her, your longing gaze returns to Mihawk who appears oblivious to your undivided interest in him. “Mum, does it ever get boring?” you ask without looking away. “The sense of calm when you’re around him. Like everything could be ruined but it’s fine because he’s there.”

“It’s the only thing in the world that never gets tiring.” A flustered, juvenile smile decorates her face. Even with wrinkles and greying hair, she looks barely older than you at the moment, reliving the flame of love inside her that has never dwindled. “Now, let’s finish with the sentiments and stuff the duck, eh?”

Mihawk is reaching for another log when something makes him momentarily freeze. There, in front of the stump he’s been chopping wood on, sits a dog. It’s clearly a mutt, each feature taken from a different breed. The fur is an amalgamation of markings in different colours: orange, grey, white and black. As the dog notices Mihawk’s interest, it gets up, restlessly stomping in place or rather hopping as the pet is missing one of its hind legs.

“Gulliver,” Dracule recalls the name of the mutt you’ve told him so much about. Your first and only friend growing up in the countryside.

The name is taken as an invite and so the dog places a drool-covered, chewed-out ball next to the piece of firewood. The pet sits again, tail wagging as fast as it can.

For a moment, Mihawk is torn. He wants the dog to leave him be but that would mean he has to put his hand on the slimy toy. Then again, the pet is sure to continue disturbing him now that he has acknowledged its existence.

Cringing at the wet and warm sensation of the ball, Dracule picks it up, only furthering Gulliver’s excitement.

"This means nothing," he drones his words and throws the toy so far it almost disappears from sight. The dog, overjoyed, runs after the ball. 

Considering that your dad’s throw has gotten weaker with age, Mihawk might have dug his own grave with the distance he made the ball fly. Gulliver will probably want another run. Or ten.

For a moment, Mihawk goes back to the fantasy of settling down with you in a mountainous wonderland. Maybe you could have a dog too? Not a mutt but a hunting hound? They look very noble.

But he shakes those thoughts away and continues chopping wood.

The dinner went well. Homemade food, family you haven’t seen in a year, the cosy and sentimental atmosphere of your childhood home… And Mihawk didn’t look as miserable as he probably felt. Although you’re enjoying this little family reunion, you seize the opportunity for solitude when it arises:

Your parents go to the kitchen to put away the dirty dishes, plate the dessert and brew some tea. Tugging on Mihawk’s arm, you pull him outside the house.

The old flooring of the porch creaks under your weight. A bright, melodic tune is carried by the wind as it brushes against the chimes hanging under the roof. The sun has recently set and the sky is still in a lovely, indigo shade. Birds croak in the distance, announcing nightfall.

His warm hand rests on your lower back. The touch makes you momentarily take a deep, relaxing breath. Your thoughts become both orderly and fuzzy as though Mihawk’s presence turned all of your wandering, useless ideas into static you can easily ignore. How can a person have so much control over you? 

Mihawk is towering over you. He tilts his head downwards to look at you. Something about his looming aura makes you feel not only protected but also well-cared-for, as though you could give yourself up to him completely and you’d still live like a queen in a castle.

“If you keep frowning, your face will stay like that,” you say to him.

Mihawk’s expression relaxes at the mere mention of his visibly bitter mood. Or maybe it softens because he’s looking at you. “I was under the impression that you’re rather fond of my face.”

“And you’d be correct. But I do have to say that seeing you tear wood apart was much better.”

You lean closer to him as you put your arms around his neck. He welcomes the gesture, allowing his hands to travel an inch or two downwards, a little too low for when one is in the vicinity of others. Especially someone’s parents.

“So my wife likes to see me do manual labour,” he states, his warm breath brushing against your cold cheeks. There’s no surprise in his voice and there shouldn’t be. He’s noticed the way you look at him when he wields a sword and Mihawk would be an awful liar if he said he doesn’t enjoy those glances.

“I like seeing you, full stop. Chopping wood is just a nice variation to the scenario. Strong arms and all that.”

The said arms pull you by your hips into a kiss. Although he’s spent only a day in this part of the region, he already smells like fresh mountain air and pine needles. Mihawk groans, feeling the curves of your body against his. He will never get enough of this. Enough of you.

“Tea is served!”

Your mother’s exclamation makes you pull away from Mihawk. He instinctively chases after your lips before letting out an annoyed sigh. A chuckle rumbles in your chest. Dracule rolls his eyes but lets you thread your fingers with his and pull him back inside the farmhouse. There, you interrupt an interesting conversation:

“Darling, when’s the cake tasting again?” your father asks while flipping through the calendar, a pencil in his hand.

“On the 25th, honey,” she answers. The dining room is immediately filled with the aroma of bergamot as your mother pours the tea. “At 6 in the afternoon.”

“Cake tasting?” you repeat in confusion. “What’s going on?”

“Our golden wedding, of course!” the older woman beams with joy. “We’ve yet to send out the invitations, though, so don’t tell anyone. Especially your aunt. Gods know she runs her mouth like it’s a marathon.”

As though you’re thinking the same thing, Mihawk and you glance at each other. The miserable, irate expression in his eyes elicits a burst of bright laughter from you. He just can’t catch a break, can he?

[moonshine-nightlight]

Voluntary Sacrifice

inspired by this prompt/setup by @snowkissedmonsters as well as their art

The local werebear is in heat and its become a town concern. You, who's always been fascinated by him and doesn't much to lose reputationally, volunteer to help him through it.

If only he believed you were doing so voluntarily, instead of being forced by the council.

Can you convince him of your sincerity before the full moon rises?

Male werebear x human reader, Heat, NSFW

Status: Complete (One-shot)

Length: 12k

AO3: Voluntary Sacrifice

Prompt:

You live in a human town in a fantasy world. In recent history, werecreatures enlisted to fight alongside humans throughout a bitter war in the territory. The result of that alliance is a (sometimes tense) tolerance between these two species who generally do not get along.

In the wilderness near your town, a werebear veteran has made his home. Bearish in appearance and manner, he vastly prefers solitude and is actively hostile to visitors. Sometimes he comes into town to sell meat and pelts from his hunts. The other humans are frightened, but you find him fascinating and peculiarly handsome.

A slew of livestock deaths precede an emergency town meeting. There's no question who the culprit is, or why. The town elders understand that a werecreature in heat is aggressive and dangerous. The town's interspecies liason officer, a veteran who fought beside the werebear, explains that it's not a deliberate attack on the town's livelihood, but even so, the maulings cannot continue. It may only be a matter of time before a human is injured.

The liason suggests hiring one of the workers at the town brothel to act as a "heat soother," but the brothel workers don't want the job. There's still a stigma over non-human creatures. The werebear is dangerous, violent, monstrous. Who knows if a human mate would even survive.

Tentatively, you volunteer for the role. You have no living family that could be shamed, you're naturally infertile so there's no concern over cubs, and... Well. You like the idea of it, though you keep that last point to yourself.

You are escorted to the werebears cabin by the eager liason officer, who's just glad the precarious human-werebeast alliance is no longer in jeopardy. Answering the door, the werebear looks surprised to see the two of you...

Then annoyed.

I told you, he growls at the liason, I will not take a forced mate.

The officer coos and assures the bear that you are here voluntarily, which he seems to doubt very much. He throws you both out of his cabin and slams the door.

/

“Good luck!”

You stare after Anton, the liaison officer, as he rides away, at a complete loss of what to do now. You’ve felt a headrush of sorts, like sliding down a hill in winter, since you first resolved to volunteer to help Temar and his slamming of the door in your face was an abrupt stop before you even reached the bottom. You cross your arms, telling yourself its because of the mild chill, not out of anxiety or embarrassment.

But you are, so so embarrassed. You don’t know exactly what you thought his reaction to you might be, but stonewalled indifference and complete refusal to even entertain the idea of mating with you wasn’t one of them. Heat licks at your cheeks from the way he’d looked at you, his lip curled in a snarl, something more than even just annoyance in his eyes. You’d felt the urge to shrink right then and there and only surprise kept you frozen upright.

You know you weren’t as young as the other unaffiliated women in town, weren’t as pretty, weren’t as agreeable, but surely he couldn’t smell your infertility or whatever made you feel so out of place with everyone else. What about you had been so offputting he’d not even considered you for a mate? You’d almost hoped that whatever made you so unappealing as a human mate might make you more appealing to a werebear. So much for that.

You’re not one for much dignity as it is, no one to stand on high graces, and you try not to let others’ opinions bother you, beyond where they interfere with your own ability to make your living. But even you can’t bring yourself to try to convince him to mate with you when he so clearly has absolutely no interest. Did you sacrifice what little standing you did have a reasonable and respectable person by volunteering for this only to not even be able to manage it? Was it for nothing?

You had only found the courage to approach him because of the surface-level reason of slaughtered livestock and fear for a person’s injury, but now, now you felt almost responsible for not being able to prevent such an occurrence. All because Temar found you unappealing.

You can’t leave without even saying more than a hasty word to him though. Maybe there’s some other way you can help. You’ve wanted an excuse to get to know him better for years, since you first saw him. Even before that, when someone stopped by your shop with some of the pelts they’d bought from him.

Beyond his attractive appearance being more than enough to draw your attention, he’s lived such an interesting life. The liaison was liberal with his stories and his own accomplishments in the war, but he never short-changed his friend. You also found the stories of people who have crossed him or questioned him entertaining more than scary. His refusal to play along with the petty etiquette of the town was funny, as were people’s puffed up reactions. Perhaps you should have expected this reaction after all, maybe he just doesn’t like humans.

The thought against brings embarrassed heat to your face once more as you remember how he’d looked in the doorway. His beard and mustache, short but full, the scar across his nose, those dark brown eyes. His hair was shaved on both sides, but long in the middle, pulled back into a loose bun and peppered with gray like his beard. Tall as you remember, but stockier—his frame particularly broad in the narrow doorway. You’d always found him especially handsome. There was no question what sort of were he was.

Before today, the closest you’d been was at the general store, behind him line for some flour, putting to rest the rumors that werecreatures only ate meat. His presence had fascinated you, large but contained. Wild but settled. Immovable, but not aggressive. Deliberate. You’d found your mind drifting to thoughts of him that night. Your mind liked to turn the idea of him over, half speculation, half pieced together clues from overheard gossip. When you were particularly lonely or even just particularly cold, it was comforting to know he was on his own too. He seemed to prefer it even. You preferred your solitude most of the time as well—half caught between feeling like an outsider for the inclination, half relieved since that’s where you ended up. You wouldn’t mind another friend who felt so, a bit of company you didn’t need to perform in front of. And it would be nice, to be useful to someone else who had no one.

You know he needs help now, more than ever. The liaison had assured them at the meeting that Temar was making every attempt to contain himself. Which reassured you that you’d not missed a callous trend in his nature, but also made you want to help more—not help with the abstract problem, but help him. The next best solution that had been discussed—and would likely need to be implemented now that it turned out you’d failed, you realize with a sinking heart—was to institute a town wide curfew until this ran its course. But maybe there is still some way you can aid him, even if not by soothing his heat directly.

You stand up straight, pushing off the railing you’d been leaning against, and resolve to at least try to talk to him. After all, you understood his continued solitude, but it felt silly during the meeting, that he wasn’t there to lend his own input. Surely he had the most insight into his situation. He must know what he needed. You raise you hand to knock on the door when it opens before you even get the chance.

“If you ain’t gonna have the sense leave, then get in,” a gruff voice orders.

Your feet are moving before you fully register the words. Relief floods your veins. Well, that was easier than you expected. Perhaps things were turning around.

/

They were not. Any hope you had for some softening of his attitude was quickly dashed.

It had seemed promising: the smell of cooking food, the heat that filled the main room from the large fire, the sound of crackling logs. All ease some of the tension in your bones immediately—not to mention that same deliberate air Temar had, the one that made you feel steady and safe. Safe enough to want what you want, without your usual instinct to hide such thoughts and feelings until you were alone lest others use them to hurt you.

You try to focus on the room itself, from the handmade furniture—you’d have recognized Ben’s work if it was—to the scant decoration. The cabin was simple, unadorned, but solid. It suited him. It made the few personal items he had stick out all the more. The large blanket and rug to make the room feel lived in. The well-cared for hunting gear in the corner. The collection of copper kitchenware, clearly used often.

Nearly as soon as you finished your preliminary survey of his home, he makes it very clear he still did not want you. “No notion of what’s going on in that fool Anton’s head, leaving you on my porch like bottles of milk,” he sighs, looking disgruntled and you fight the urge to apologize. He tucks a strand of hair that escaped his bun behind his ear and your fingers itch to do the same. You clench them tighter behind you, upset at how wild your thoughts are in the face of his rejection. “Fess up, what did they tell you? I don’t know what those old fearmongers at the counsel did to make you come here, but I’ll not hold it against you—only them.”

You tilt your head as you watch him pace over the fire, trying to keep your eyes on his head, not how well he fills out his trousers. You realize belatedly that you must still need to clarify. “There was a town meeting, but I volunteered, like Anton said,” you reply tentatively. He’d heard what his friend said. Right? Maybe that was why he’d refused? Not because he found you so abhorrent.

Temar scoffs. “Anton wouldn’t recognize subtle coercion if it stabbed him the back.”

You frown, starting to get a little frustrated with his seeming inability to hear you properly. “Be that as it may, I can. It’s the truth.”

Temar raises an eyebrow skeptically. “Right,” he says flatly. “Just like five years ago, when I moved here and Miss Ketevan was left on my doorstop around harvest time. She just wanted to offer some apples before high tailing it out of there once her grandfather was out-of-sight. Must have been crying and yelling for some other reason.”

Your frown deepens. The last of your family had died around then and you’d not joined a town meeting for a full year, plenty busy with grief and figuring out how to run the dye shop without any guidance. Keti was a younger than you but had a reputation as a troublemaker so she had been in the gossip plenty. Her grandfather, Carlos, was on the counsel and had seemed to consider her something of an embarrassment.

You thought she’d run off with the milkmaid, not because she was a failed sacrifice to the new werebear neighbor. It does throw into relief some other statements at the meeting. Like Anton’s emphasis on volunteers as he’d stared Carlos’ down, which had led to no one but you speaking up—not even the brothel workers. They’d not said but you knew they feared clients shunning whoever they sent, let alone however they felt about the stigma and fear associated with werecreatures.

 “I have no idea what did or did not happen five years ago, I wasn’t at any of those meetings nor at your house,” you say with a shrug. “Keti’s moved to the other side of the river, according to her sister, and is quite satisfied there. None of which was brought up at the meeting today.”

“What do they have on you?” Temar asks, squatting to stoke the fire, as if you just didn’t want to tell the truth his face. Ignoring everything you were saying while still trying to get answers from you. You liked tell about how stubborn he was in gossip. You liked it less at this moment. “If I can aid you and you can go on home, you’re welcome to ask.”

“They don’t have anything on me,” you reply slowly, trying to match his even tone so he doesn’t think your lying. The embarrassment that comes with volunteering so plainly to mate with him comes and goes in waves, but having to repeat it to him is a different flavor all together. “I am here of my own free will.”

Temar scoffs and huffs. “If you don’t want to tell me then fine.” He heaves himself back to his feet and peers out the window. “Sun’s going down. You can stay here for dinner and for the night. That better satisfy them, because you’re leaving first light in the morning.”

You turn away from his back, staring blindly at the countertop covered in ingredients for dinner. The one you interrupted with this piss-poor intrusion. He was likely just trying to give you an out, an excuse to save some dignity. You should’ve known you’d have no skill at seduction, not that you’d believed you’d need it. You’d hoped he be satisfied enough, in need enough that you’d suffice by being willing and not unattractive. Or so you thought. How pathetic. “I just wanted to help,” you say softly, more to yourself than him.

You sigh before walking over to the counter and picking up a knife. “Thank you for your hospitality,” you manage, your voice stiff with discomfort, but unwilling to completely give up yet. “Allow me to assist with the food.”

Dinner preparation is tense, quiet, but a relatively smooth affair. Temar’s already got the chicken dumplings nearly done so you leave that to him and handle the rest.

He only speaks to point you toward where things are when you ask. You’re happy he’s letting you do this much as you’ve more than got the message he’d prefer to do it all alone. You try to concentrate hard enough not to think about anything else.

“These dumplings are delicious,” you say belatedly, after you’ve already scarfed down two of them. They really are, hot and flavorful.

Temar grunts in response and you can’t help but pout, wondering if he thinks everything you say is a lie. You try at some other small talk, but nothing gets more than a yes or no out of him—after the first few, he just makes some vague noise of acknowledgment as he steadily eats through three times the portion of food you got, which had been more than generous. You’d been skeptical of how much he was making until you’d seen how much he was eating.

Did he also have to eat more before winter, like a normal bear? Was he going to sleep through it too? You swear he still came in with pelts, but you don’t really know. You’re more than aware that he’s not likely to give a straight answer if you ask. You ask anyway.

He gives you a look like you’re touched in the head. “No, I don’t hibernate. I stay in more, sleep more since its dark more, but I’m not actually a bear.”

“I know!” you protest, blushing, “but I’ve heard there’s overlap of some kind, forgive me for not being an expert. You’re the only werebear I know by name.”

“You know nothing,” he retorts, words finally bursting from him in a fit of frustration. You’re taken aback, but eager for any information given his recent impression of a clam. “You say you volunteer and yet you don’t know the first thing about werebears, let alone heats. You expect me to think you know what you’re saying you got yourself into when its clear no one explained anything.”

“Well, then you tell me,” you bat back, fed up by now with being treated as a criminal for even entertaining the notion you might be a suitable mate for him. “And don’t act like you wouldn’t have called me a liar even if I’d written a book on werebears and their heats.”

As his way seems to be, he ignores you to keep focus on whatever incorrect train of thought he has stuck in his head. “Even if you’re ignorant, didn’t your family object? Doesn’t someone have sense or self-preservation?”

You glare. Of all the—. “No—” you reply hotly before he cuts in.

“I thought that was something y’all paid attention to,” he drawls, waving with his fork. “ Fraternizing with the werecreatures is still a no-no right?” He leans forward, eyes bright, like a predator finally spotting their prey. “Is it them that the council is leaning on?”

Unfortunately for him, its a false sighting. “Don’t have any,” you reply bluntly, crossing your arms over your chest. “They died. About five years ago.”

You wonder if he’ll make the connection and to your surprise, he seems to as his brow furrows. “I see.” He leans back in his chair as if surrpised to notice he’d moved at all.

“Besides, I’m grown,” you’re annoyed you even have to remind him. He’s treating you like a child, ignoring you, calling you ignorant, making you out as a liar. Like a fool. You’ve long resolved not to let anyone treat you like a fool. “I make my own choices.”

He scoffs in that same manner that’s truly getting under your skin. “Right. How could I forget.”

“I don’t know,” your voice is sharper than its been all evening. “Seeing as I keep reminding you.”

Discomfort creeps into his frame and he looks down at his plate to mutter, “What even made them come up with this plan? Was this Anton’s idea?” He warms up to this new wrong idea—it was Jessaly on the council who had mentioned “heat soothers” seconded by Carlos. Anton only stepped in to mention volunteers. “Because if so, I’ll be having words with him next chance I get, strong words. I anticipated an order to leave town or to be taken to jail or a fight. I’m surprised the council even risked the chance for cubs.”

That last part completely derails you from your planned support for Anton. “Oh,” you can dismiss that concern easy, so you don’t hesitate to, “I can’t have children.”

That stops him completely, freezes him in his chair. “What?”

His reaction surprises you. “I thought…” You thought he could smell the infertility on you. You thought that was part of why he’d refused, like the others. If he couldn’t tell, you still didn’t think he’d have a reaction like this, like everyone else. “I can’t. My monthlies stopped only a few years in and a doctor confirmed the nature of the issue. It’s noted in the records because my engagement to—” You don’t even want to say his name, for all you don’t blame your former fiance. You hadn’t even been that excited about the marriage, but the reality of no marriage ever, well, that had been more of blow the coming years dealt to you. You manage a shaky smile. “No risk of children with me.”

You meet his eyes valiantly and he stares back. You hope you’re right when you don’t see any blooming realization that you’re broken, that you’re any more undesirable, but you’ve long given up trying to tell. Still his focus makes you babble, “I don’t want children anyway.” That at least is the truth and the reminder steadies you. You thought you’d gotten over the worst of this self-recrimination years ago. You were happy not to have that burden, that expectation, that danger in your life. You just want Temar to think well of you, and this always changes how people perceive you, no matter how much you wish it didn’t. That is what truly gets under your skin. Your shoulders drop some tension as your smile softens, becomes more genuine. “Better me than someone who did. It worked out for the best that way.”

If only it meant no partner, no chance for sex beyond work at the brothel—which you were not interested in despite them asking—or  visiting one, which you have in years past. Or the affairs some of the less reputable had tried for in the past. They always made it clear in the end, even if you were alright with the infidelity—it was only because you were ‘safe’ that they wanted you.

“Neither do I,” he says, causing you to look up at him. His expression turns defensive as he clarifies, “That doesn’t mean anything anyways. Still the most foolish idea I ever heard.” He stands up abruptly to refill his plate with a fourth helping.

You eat the remainder of the meal in silence.

Finally, your plate is clean and your belly is full. You manage to take Temar by surprise by snatching up his plate in addition to yours, bringing them over to the wash basin before he could do some himself. You’re determined to do something useful while you’re here and he’s feeding you.

Maybe all lack of eye contact was for him and not you. Maybe you’ll have better luck staring at the water. “So, is there anything you’ll actually let me do to help?”

Another huff, almost a growl of frustration, and Temar replies, grit in his tone, “I told you I ain’t taking a mate just because the town’s made my heat their business this year.”

You don’t even bother arguing the point again and consider his words. You hadn’t thought about other years. There’d never been notice of it so you assumed it wasn’t actually an annual event. What made this year so different? Instead of asking, you return his own volley. “I heard you. I didn’t mean that, though I must mention that the town is only involved because it has become their business this year.”

Temar doesn’t answer, but you can feel his gaze on your back. Being the focus of his attention is electrifying. “Other than having a mate,” you remind yourself outloud. “Are there other things that I can help with? Measures to be taken, information to be shared. Anything?”

There’s silence behind you before he stands up from the table, the scrape of his chair loud. You hope to the gods he’s actually doing something, thought of something in response to your question rather than just leaving. Although technically, you suppose, that would also be a response to your question.

You methodically scrub the dishes while you listen to him move about the main room of the cabin. He sits back down at the table, bringing something with him. You can’t dry this tankard any more thoroughly so you turn around to see if he’s simply ignoring you or not.

He’s bent over something on the table, a piece of paper? You frown and walk over to get a closer look. As if he can sense you, once you’re close enough he points one thick finger at the paper. “Who’s land is this?”

You frown as you study what you realize is a map of the town. Unlike most you’ve seen, it doesn’t have roads or even real buildings on it. Abstract symbols represent structures—you think—and the town center and main street buildings are one big marker. Nothing indicated for individual stores. It takes another minute to realize the outlined shapes covering the map are the property lines, not buildings, roads, or rivers, though some overlap with where you know those to be. Leave it to a werebear to have a map of the town by territory.

“If you don’t know—” he says, huffing per usual.

“Apologies if I need more than a minute,” you huff back, more than fed up and far more assured after the time spent with him that he has no plans to kick you out tonight. “I’ve never seen a map like this.”

He quiets down and you manage to follow your memory of the road out to… “The Meskal’s Farm, Evanna and Leon.” You also manage to make the connection, although you’re not sure he meant for you to. They’d been the most recent farm that had suffered from slaughtered livestock.

Temar brings over a slate with some notes in chalk already written out. He’s got shorthand notes, similar to those on the map, but all unlike any you’ve seen before. He jots down what must be their name above some already existing notes. You squint, trying to make sense of the letters and numbers. “Two ewes and one lamb,” you correct, hoping you decoded right.

He freezes and you hold your breath for annoyance or anger, but instead he merely erases one number and writes in another. “I assume this was discussed with the council?”

“Yeah,” you see no reason to beat around the bush. As you continue to squint at his notes, leaning over his broad shoulder to see better. “The Oche’s steer had to be put down, but they salvaged the meat. Anton reassured them it was edible and bought some himself so the rest of the town followed suit.”

“Still, I’ll be paying my debt, it just might take some time,” Temar replies gravely. “I’ll not have anyone say I don’t pay what I owe or think I don’t owe it, like some uncivilized beast.”

“I can pass that along,” you offer, still reaching for some way to contribute, to help. His integrity touches your heart, makes that urge to give aid stronger. Anton had something vague to the affect, but the town had little confidence in Anton’s assurances. You have confidence in Temar’s.

“I would appreciate that,” he sounds a little belligerent, a little abashed.

You smile, happy to have found anything useful to do and lean in again, to study his map more closely. You mentally map out the other families who had damage and notice they’re all in a line from his property west and against the forest. He does seem to be attempting to keep to limited area. How much control does he have? Could you help corral him somehow?

You reach to point. “Is this the river or—” You start to lose you balance from the awkward angle you’re at. Your other hand reaches for the next closest thing to steady yourself—Temar’s shoulder.

Next thing you know you’re knocking into the table and he’s standing several feet away, a snarl on his face. “Don’t.”

You’re stricken by the vehemence from a such a small, almost-touch of his person. It had been too easy to forget he disliked you so, is so offended by your very presence. “I’m sorry!” It’s as if he thinks you were attempting to trick him. You hasten to clarify, hands raised in surrender. “I wasn’t trying—”

Temar leaves the room before you even finish speaking.

/

Temar braces himself before he goes back in the main room, his forehead pressed against the solid wood of his walls.

He’s hoping he’s gotten used to your scent, built up a tolerance, but knows it’ll only have gotten stronger for each moment you’ve been here. Gods know he’s only become more susceptible to it. How anyone in all his life has such a bewitching scent, he’ll never know.

The second he’d opened his front door, he’d wanted to drag you inside and never let you out. The beast inside instantly proclaiming Mine. Only mine. He’d barely heard anything Anton said over the roaring in his ears. The slam of his door had been as much panic defensiveness as it had been frustrated aggression.

The line between those two does seem to blur most during heat.

You stayed out there, looking so lost and somber on the porch, lip caught between your teeth as you thought. He’d had to get you to stop before he took over the task for you. An early sign of heat madness surely because of fucking course it was far worse having you in his home. Where his beast said you belonged. Where you could say all the words he was salivating to hear as truth even though he knew them to be false.

Those council assholes would pay for putting him through this torture. Temar knew he was a werebeast and yet this was inhumane even for his kind. He tried to find a proper target for his aggression, but you’d given him nothing to work with, persistent in your tale. As if a kind, quick-witted, pretty thing like you would ever subject yourself to a beast like him unless you felt you had no other option.

Distractions haven’t been helping, trying to keep his eyes off you was impossible to sustain, and stonewalling didn’t ever seem to deter you for long. It’s as if you were perfectly designed to get past all of his defenses. There are still so many hours until sunrise—if Temar’s even going to last that long, even be able to let you go at that point. After you’d seeped into his home, his life. You seem to fit so well.

You play at being kind like a master actor and he hopes that’s not all a front. You’re smart, independent, but oh so willing to help. Duress, he reminds himself, you’re here under duress. The fuckers in town must have forced you here somehow. He can’t believe how low they’ve stooped, taking advantage of your lack of family, of your infertility to make you into a sacrifice. The perfect sacrifice.

His beast still wants to try to breed you, undeterred by logic, but it’s his human head that’s unfairly tempted by the knowledge. When he’s in his rational mind, he stands by what he said. The risk of children, others with his condition, his ostracization from society is something he’d never condemn an innocent soul to suffer. Not mention he likes his solitude, likes only being responsible for himself and only answerable to himself. It’s why the council involving itself is so frustrating. Its why the idea you might be here of your own free will is so appealing. Lack of such a child-bearing risk is even more appealing, more alluring than he’d ever realized it would be. Than it had any right to be. Why are you so damn perfect for him?

Clearly distance was not helping. Perhaps it was even making his beast stronger, without you to look at him and, for all your knowledge of his nature, expect a rationale man to look back.

Temar walks back into the main room, feeling like a man condemned, only to immediately regret his choice as he rigidly locks every muscle he can to prevent his beast from pouncing. He’d thought you’d stopped trying to seduce him with your faux willingness and pretty eyes. Your soft, steady kindness…

Even he’d admitted to himself once alone that you likely hadn’t meant anything by hovering so close, by trying to steady yourself on him. Your fall onto the table, not to mention the complete startlement on your face from his reaction. But what the fuck is this?

“What are you doing?” he asks through clenched teeth, hoping the beast inside isn’t giving away the feral lust coursing through his veins.

“What?” You look up, surprised he’s back, but there’s no embarrassment in your face. If anything, your expression smooths back to usual faster than he feels it has a right to. “Oh, I hadn’t realized how wet my apron had gotten from the dishes, sorry about the wasted water.”

“Why have you removed it?” Temar’s voice was strangled as the words passed through his lips. Ordinarily, he knows it would barely register with him, but you removing any article of clothing has his beast pulling at the chains he’s trying to use to keep it inside where it belongs.

“Well, I didn’t know how else to dry off,” you reply, brow furrowing in confusion as you dab at yourself with part of the folded-up apron. Temar can see the damp stains where the water had soaked through the light green fabric underneath. “Besides, I don’t want to catch anything, sitting around in wet clothes. It’ll be dry by morning if I leave it by the fire.”

Temar’s mind is already overrun by the reminder he’d invited you, like the numbskull he is, to stay the night. You’re unlikely to sleep fully dressed. You’ll take more than just your apron off in his home. You’ll strip down to your chemise. He can see the edges of it under your dress—white cotton poking out. Nothing more under that except soft skin—skin he isn’t allowed to touch.

Temar tries to combat the pleasing images of you splayed naked in his bed with images of your bruised and bloody from his claws, his strength, his carelessness. They’re impossible to sustain with you so hale and unbothered in front of him. The comfort of his den discourages such violence from his thoughts, his heat poisoning his mind against him. You aren’t here by choice, he reminds himself.

It’s hard to believe when you cross his room with self-assured confidence, bending down to arrange your apron by his fire, acting as if you’ve no fears to worry you. Your hair is ruffled from either the dishes or taking off your apron and you pat at it absentmindedly. Temar wants it spread across his sheets, his pillow, mussed and messed by his hands while he claims you for himself. The town clearly doesn’t appreciate you, doesn’t value you what they have. He’d treat you right. He’d make sure you loved being his.

With a shake of his head, he blinks and the image before him resolves to you seated on a chair, delicately rebraiding your hair. He can’t keep his eyes off the swift movements of your fingers. Temar imagines what it would feel like if you did the same to him, this simple careful, everyday task. You look up at him from under your full eyelashes, looking perfectly innocent and not a creature pulled from his greatest nightmares and most sincere dreams. “So do you have a plan for managing however many days are left? Have you gone into heat in previous years? How did you manage then?”

The flush that blooms on your face is endearing and attractive. Temar wants desperately to know what you’re thinking when you say ‘heat’. You’ve avoided saying the word nearly the entire time you’ve been heard. Temar knows the rumors that fly about the human population about werebeasts, about heats, he’s overheard it all. From eating human mates to potent fertility and everything in between. Which ones have you heard? Which do you believe in? Likely none of the violent ones or you’d find the prospect far more intimidating than whatever bullshit the council is using to coerce you.

“Temar?”

“You’re right, I’ve already managed to work out a solution on my own, making you presence doubly wasteful.” You flinch at his words and every instinct screams at him to sooth you, to take it back—whatever is needed to make his mate stay. Temar turns rather than continue to watch your reactions to his harsh words. Despite knowing its necessary, it hurts to see your hurt and only encourages the beast to want to soothe, to steal your mind from any hurt by drowning it out with lust and heat. “Follow me.”

“You’ll sleep here,” Temar points out, continuing to refuse to look back at you or his bed for that matter.

His control would surely shatter if he saw you so close to it. He imagines how easily he could push you down on the furs and sheets until he had you spread out like a feast for him and him alone. How he would savor you. How he wouldn’t let you up until he was more than satisfied. A glutton of lust.

The cold metal of the door knob jolts him out of his thoughts. “I’ll be out back.” The crisp air, the brisk breeze, blow your scent from Temar and clear his head. He nearly sighs with relief as he walks off to the right, purpose in his steps, a reminder of his duty as he follows the familiar path.

“Here.” Its clear no matter where you thought he was leading you “pit” was not on the list. Your eyebrows lift nearly to your hairline as you stare down, allowing him precious seconds to gaze at you without a mask of stoicism or frustration, only naked hunger.

“You asked where I weathered heats of the past?” Temar neglects to mention that the first couple years in town rendered his heats short and taxing. Just a handful of nights around the late summer full moon, when the first chill to the air heralding the coming winter. Between his beast’s discomfort with new territory and his own war memories haunting him, his heats were not a concern. It’s only last year that his heat was how it used to be in his youth.

Wild. Hungry. Enduring.

This year is worst yet, not only because of the tight grip it has on him and how he can tell, despite more than a week in, that he has days to go, but also due circumstances outside of his control.

You’re smart enough to spot it. “Did something happen to this…?”

Temar puts you out of your awkward misery. “There was a flood after that storm a couple weeks ago. It dislodged that tree and a wall collapsed.” He’d hoped his heat wouldn’t return with the vengeance it did and so had put off excavating. “In the end, the den took longer than I thought to rebuild, to dig deep enough again. Still not sure I have,” he confesses when you look at him with such open, receptive eyes.

You frown and squint down at the den and Temar doesn’t like the reminder of how dark it’s getting. This entire evening has been a distraction, from the knock on his door, to the meal, to now. He ought not neglect the den any longer, not let his beast draw this out until it can overpower his conscience.

He puts down the ladder, hands grateful for something to do besides itch to settle on your hips. “I’ll be needing to get everything out of here, before the moon finishes rising.” Temar descends as quickly as he can, jumping the last few feet and turning to survey the den.

It was nicer before, he thinks with some dismay, some shame at you seeing such a bare hole in the ground. It’s primarily filled with tools for digging and fortifying, none of the minimal furs and blankets that should be givens for a den. The roof had been damaged when the tree fell in so he hopes it doesn’t rain. Temar resigns himself to waking up covered in dew. It’ll still be better than waking up covered in blood, even after verifying it was all from livestock.

“Temar?” His name on your lips draws his attention back up, like a flower to the sun, like a fish to water, like blood to a bear.

“Can I help you clear it out?” Temar just stares at you, part of his mind still surprised you’re here. Still here. Still offering to help. Help him. You cross your arms again and Temar wishes it didn’t look so good on you, the way it pushes up your chest, makes your arm muscles more prominent. What sort of shop did you say you had again? “Look, I’m another pair of hands, ain’t I?”

“Technically,” he allows, speaking without thinking. All his thought concentrated on your form above him, ripe for the plucking.

You seem to take that as permission and start climbing down the ladder. Temar turns so quickly to avert his eyes from your ass that he forgets to forbid you from coming down. You touch down lightly and Temar reluctantly faces you again, a puppet on the strings of his inner beast, to soak in the sight of you in its den.

The cabin belongs to Temar, the man. The den belongs to Temar, the beast.

Something of that must come across on his face as you pause, one hand on the ladder. “Does it break a rule, for me to be down here?”

A den is a personal, sacred space, with only those closest allowed entry. The beast does not allow you to lie. “No.” A prospective mate is more than a natural allowance. It’s expected.

You nod with satisfaction. The beast preens in approval at your persistence, at your ease in its den. “Then I’m helping. What’s next?”

Wordlessly, you point to the table with the hand tools.

“All of these?” you ask, even as you begin to gather them.

Temar turns away, unable to watch you ascend, and focuses on the final wheelbarrow he needs to move out, the planks he’s using as ramps he’ll need to remove. “Gotta get everything out of here so it don’t get broken.” Also so he can’t use it to escape. When he’s more beast than person, the use of tools doesn’t come naturally, but he’s relentless. Safer to keep them out of reach. That’s the real challenge—keep himself out of reach.

“Right.” There’s a pause while you move around behind him. Temar tries to focus on the feeling of the smooth wood of the wheelbarrow handles, the shudder of the wooden planks below as he moves it out of the den. “How come the walls are like this?”

You must be gesturing to the flat stones embedded in the dirt walls. “Harder to climb, although I haven’t had time to finish the back wall that collapsed yet. Claws don’t do well on smooth stone. A lot if the grout needs to be redone. Something for tomorrow.”

“Smart,” you say, sounding impressed.

Temar grunts in response, trying to focus on pulling the crude ramp out of the den and not on puffing up at your approval. Not seeing how else he might earn your esteem, might otherwise impress you.

“What’s it like,” you ask, quietly but clearly. Temar had been wondering if you’d ask. Waiting. “When…”

You trail off so he’s not sure if you meaning being a werebear or being one in heat. He supposes the answer isn’t terribly different. “Simpler, harsher, more vivid,” he says, “Less control when in heat than the rest of the time. In the army, we were trained to control the transformation, taught how to keep our minds more intact—it doesn’t work like that for heat. Getting locked up is how it was dealt with even there.” Not that they lasted long back then for anyone.

“I’ve heard of the loss of control.” You don’t specify if you mean in general or in heat, but Temar supposes it doesn’t matter either way.

Perhaps this would be a good time to remind both of you what’s at stake, how dangerous Temar is in heat to anyone vulnerable around him. “Just a beast at that point.” Temar doesn’t look you in the eye as he keeps talking, heading back down into the den now the planks are out and it’s the only way down. “Can’t understand human speech. Can barely tell human from animal. No reasoning with me. I’ll do what I want when I want to. Damn anyone else.”

Not that you’re as intimidated as he wishes you were. “What about other weres?”

“Aye.” Temar doesn’t mind confirming that, not when he knows it can’t encourage you. “Thats a mite different. We can handle each other better, can find that sliver of common ground. Family can calm you, your own territory, and of course, if you’ve got everything you want, you won’t go roaming for it. Won’t get angry and frustrated you can’t find it.”

“That all the time, or just in heat?” He can still hear the shyness in your voice whenever you say heat, but its obvious your curiosity is too great. Temar surveys the den while he considers his answer, hands you left over plates and cutlery from his noontime meal, eaten down in the den while he worked furiously to get it ready for tonight. He’s careful not to let his fingers brush yours, not to look you in the face, lest he see some fear there that hadn’t been before. Lest the beast see a lack of such fear. Temar truly felt caught between a rock and hard place.

He can see the question you’re dancing around and cuts to the quick, praying you’ll be sensible and leave since he wouldn’t be able to make you anymore. He’s not sure he even could back on the porch. “Its dangerous for any human to lay with a werebeast. Injury from strength or claws or teeth is impossible to prevent. Even if you’re mates.” He reminds himself as ruthlessly as tells you. It was rare, but it happened. Heartbreaking accidents. “Even if you’ve known each other for years. Someone in my troop had killed their husband in a heat frenzy once.”

“Not always though,” you reply, too hopeful by far, too logical not to notice the exaggeration. “It can’t be or weres would have died out.”

“No, not always,” Temar allows. “The tendency towards multiple children in a litter helps. But usually longer held relationships fare better. If the were isn’t in a bad mood, isn’t stressed—if the partner cooperates right.”

He hands you the last item that needs out and once you get to the top, he says, “Pull up that ladder, now.”

You pause, standing stock still and for a second he wonders if you’ll even listen. Temar’s not sure he has the strength to ask a second time.

“Sure.” You pull up the ladder.

His human mind eases at that, at the sight of you more than seven feet overhead, out of reach. His beast disagrees, seething in displeasure and unfulfilled lust. Naturally, you can’t leave well enough alone and sit down, legs dangling into the den. He knows he could grab your ankle at this, yank you down and—

Temar turns to study the den once more. It won’t stick in his mind with you clouding his judgment the way you are. He narrows his eyes, forcing himself to assess if its deep enough, the walls defended enough. “I still need to get the cover fixed, if that damn blacksmith ever manages to be around when I stop by. The back wall needs to be stoned, but if I try to climb it like it is, it’s just as likely to crumble which’ll keep me in just the same. It’ll do. It had better more than satisfy those bastards on the council.”

“Oh, yes, I suppose it will.” You shrug, as if you’d forgotten about them. “Will you let me visit? After I leave in the morning—” you add swiftly as if to cut off a correction Temar for once wasn’t offering. “In case there’s anything else I can help with? I meant it when I said we could help each other out. I admit I do not relish the chore of fetching all fuel for my fire in these coming months and perhaps I can provide something for you? I’m a skilled weaver in addition to my work with dyes. If you would not be opposed?”

How can you forget the council so easily? Dismiss them offhand like that. Why do you speak of ‘after’ so lightly? As if you expect to see him again, as if that’s something you might want. Temar’s thoughts turn in circles once more over your duress. He must remember you cannot be here by choice. It’s getting harder by the minute. By each minute you sit on the edge of his den, not a care in the world. Not a notion of his steadily deteriorating self-control. His lack of giving any indication of his growing need has gone from helpful to sinister, a wolf in sheep’s clothing no longer trying to reassure, but to lure closer its prey.

“Perhaps,” he manages to say.

You continue to talk, but the words’ meaning slip through his fingers. The change is pushing itself on him while he wiles away a few more minutes in your presence. Just to try to burn off excess energy, Temar turns to push one of the stones in better, to align it flat with the rest of them. Except… he can feel your eyes on his back while he does so.

Your scent to spikes.

He wheels around, wildly, and belated realizes the height you’re at, brings your loins far more to a height with his nose than ever before. Did his display of strength inspire something of lust in you? His beast roars for you once more at this indication of receptiveness.

The moonlight colors your hair, emphasizing your etherealness, the wonder at your very presence. How much Temar wants to hold you in his hands, claim you for his own. How much he wants to bring you down to earth, push you under him and take his pleasure from you.

He takes a step closer and it feels like the first sprung leak in a dam. The first domino to fall. The spark of fire on dry, dry tinder.

“R-un.”

In retrospect perhaps the most provocative thing Temar could have done was instigate a chase. Actually, the most provocative was definitely you listening and running.

You pull your legs up swiftly, battling your skirts to get your feet under yourself with a haste that surprises even yourself. Only one word and a glimpse of those glowing eyes, and you’re dashing for the cabin. Adrenaline pours into your veins as you the image of the fur rippling out over Temar’s body as he gave that last command fills your mind. 

In retrospect, the fur had been spreading steadily since you’d taken away the ladder without you fully registering it. His voice had been changing, although that you’d noticed plenty. The lower tone was a little harder to make out, even more pleasant to listen to, stirring up those lascivious thoughts that hadn’t left your mind since the town meeting was called. You swear his muscles had swelled too. The way they had moved beneath his shirt, which fit tighter with each minute that had passed. You’d felt spellbound, even though you swear that’s not a rumor associated with weres, and unconcerned by said compulsion.

Given the seriousness with which Temar gave the order as well as his earlier apprehension, you feel guilty for the mad sort of excitement rather than fear that courses through you. A roar, harsh and throaty, comes from the den behind you. It's one of rage and frustration. A beast that’s just realized it's been trapped. That it can’t get to what it wants. A loud thud follows. A growl of continued frustration hurries you on, feet pounding the ground as you run. You can almost trick yourself into thinking you hear your own name mixed in with the next roar that comes from where you’ve left Temar behind.

Due to your haste and unfamiliarity with Temar’s land and the fallen gloom, you end up missing the door along the back of the cabin and re-enter through the front. You lock that door with shaking hands and a pounding heart. The sounds of nature, of wind, of the echoes of Temar’s growl, are replaced by quiet solitude and the crackle of the fire, still burning in the hearth. You attempt to catch your breath. You try to let the mundane familiarity of the cabin and the silence calm your nerves. It’s not working very well.

You’re not sure what prompted his yell or his roar. Temar had said if he had everything he needed, he wouldn’t want to go searching for it, so it must have been his inner beast’s continued frustration at the lack of a desirable mate, which you continue to attempt not to take personally.

You’re still keyed up from the experience and seeing him actually start to transform, which still held some magic to you having never witnessed such a thing before, as well as all your interactions with him this evening. Temar seemed somewhat open to the idea of being friends, which was nice, you remind yourself. He is still immensely fascinating to you—this night has only made that more apparent. He feels less onerous to be around than some of your other acquaintances. He doesn’t put up any fronts and you feel like you don’t have to either. Even when he was clearly frustrated or angry—which you believe is exacerbated by whatever physical and mental toll his heat is putting on him—he never raised his voice. Temar only ever physically moved away from you, not towards you. 

Speaking of physicality, he was so strong. The way he moved, carried, and shoved the tools out of his den had been impressive. The skill and strength it must have taken to make it in the first place, from the manual labor of digging it out, to stonework, to the manner of transportation in and out were all impressive. You’ll have to make sure to stop by Nicolas’ forge tomorrow to ensure Temar can get his roof fixed. But for now, your mind’s eye lingers on how his muscles had flexed, how easily he might be able to move you about, lifting you, arranging you to best please him.

You shake your head to try to rid yourself of such thoughts when none of them are going to come true. Temar is the one who’s having a hard time, not you here in his home. He hadn’t complained about the den, but you can tell it must be a far cry from what it was before the damage, it saddens you to think of him out there and alone. You long to comfort him, even though you know he doesn’t want your comfort. His roar had only proven his frustration and unhappiness, how unfulfilled he must be, stuck in the pit. You swear you can still hear yet another roar mixed with your name. 

You take another look around the room and sigh, finding it far less interesting without him present. You’re still wound up from today’s jostling ship ride of events. Your hormones are out of balance after plans and hopes of helping Temar through his heat. While ending your night alone in Temar’s cabin, in his bed, while he’s stuck out in a hole in the ground isn’t where you expected or how you wanted the night to end, you suppose it's better than him still out in the woods where he might cause more damage or hurt someone.

Your hands go to your buttons as you start to undo them. An early night is in order. Just because Temar doesn’t want you, doesn’t mean you have to go unsatisfied. Your outer clothing drops to the floor, leaving you in your underthings. Draping the cloth over the couch, you wonder if he might be able to smell what you get up to in the morning. Would it be cruel to leave such a trace behind? you wonder as you slip over to the bedroom door. Or would it be your due after his refusal?

Something to worry about in the morning. You’re too hot and bothered to care much now. You turn the knob and enter the dark room. Your eyes just barely adjust enough to make out the outline of his large bed of furs when you’re pushed back against the door, slamming it shut. 

An almost subsonic growl fills the small room as you look up and up to meet glowing yellow-green eyes. Your heart hammers in your chest, even faster than it had when you’d been running only a few moments ago. A cloud moves from in front of the full moon and the beast that Temar must be now looms over you.

Heavy hands—or are they paws now?—pin you to the wall, one spread over your sternum and the other engulfing your hip. Your hands reflexively reach out and curl around his arm, fingers sinking into dense, soft fur. With the hand pressing against your chest, you barely manage to make a sound more than a surprised inhale, anything else compressed by Temar’s savage strength and your own shock. 

Fight or flight seems to have tried to kick in only to unexpectedly leave you both at ‘freeze’ while you stare one another down. The moonlight illuminates his face, throwing into relief the complex mix of man and beast Temar now is. The same black salted with gray that had been evident in his beard is now more evident in the thin layer of fur covering his face. His jaw is larger to accommodate the sharp teeth and prominent fangs now present. His mouth is open as he pants and huffs, eyes fixated on you. You can still see the man in the beast, but he’s more than he was only moments ago.

You hold perfectly still as Temar leans down and starts to huff and sniff at your neck, shifting his fingers as he does so. You can feel his claws snag in the looser weave of your chemise as he does so. Has he always smelled like the forest? you think in a shocked haze, like the pine trees and the freshly turned earth with an undercurrent of musk. He growls into your neck while you stay pinned like an insect on a card, unable to do anything else when confronted by the reality of his transformed appearance, of his touch when he had recoiled from you so vehemently before.

You jolt when he manages to do more than growl, when you realize it isn’t your imagination that puts your name on his lips. Heat sears through you to hear the need in his voice, the demand, by the idea that you’ve managed to make such an impression on him that he managed to speak at all. Then those lips cover your own in an uncoordinated but wanting kiss. Instantly, your mind is wiped clean of rejection, and disinterest, and undesirability. Those ideas can’t exist in tandem when he kisses you like he’s starving. 

When you break apart, you breathlessly gasp out his name, a hand cupping his jaw. You suck in shallow breaths, as if you only just stopped running, as if he’d been chasing you since he’d told you to run. You tremble with shameless lust at being sought after specifically—he hadn’t just been demanding after vague wants but for you.

He manages your name once more, tongue and jaw and teeth making the word hard to understand except that all your senses are straining for him, desperate for anything to help you understand him, to understand this change. “Mate.” 

You don’t know if it's a question or not, but it's all you’ve been offering since you first showed up on his doorstep. “Yes,” you reply breathlessly, suddenly more desperate than ever in his hold. Desire burns through you for him. You tug futilely at his jaw, push desperately against the massive paw on your chest to reach him. “Temar. Mate.”

You don’t fool yourself into thinking your strength is what moves him, but perhaps your words do manage to penetrate his mind because he presses his lips to yours once more, immediately deepening the kiss. He fucks into your mouth with filthy promise. Your head is held between the door at your back and him, hot and massive, crowding you, boxing you in, cutting off any escape. Escape is the absolute furthest thing from your mind.

His grip on you strengthens, the hand on your sternum moving to bracket your neck. His thumb rests lightly against the column of your throat, the claw drawing a line of danger on your collarbone. His fingers hooked over your back, their claws digging into the meat of your shoulder. They haven’t broken your skin but you know they could, the sting of them makes you want to arch both away and into them. 

You tremble as you realize how securely and sinfully caught you are by this werebear, by Temar. You know that he could hold onto you like this for hours and nothing you could do would be able to force him to let go. You never want him to. Instead you melt in his hold. His hand pinning you by your hip is likely the only thing keeping you on your feet and not just a pool of lust at his.

His need is evident given the way his hips rock against your own. The press of him against your whole body is unlocking some hidden need in you and you attempt to push back, to rut against him in return. You feel desperation growing in your bones, in the heart of you, something wild and wanting that can only be sated by him. Temar rumbles his approval, moving more deliberately against you until a growl of frustration escapes him.

When he pulls back, readjusting his hold on you, you open your mouth to protest, to say something, anything to get him back. It’s reflexive after how this night has gone, but unnecessary now. Temar picks you up with no apparent effort, only impatience, and tosses you onto the bed. 

You land with an oof, scrambling to think around the rolling heat that moves through your body threatening to drown you at such a display. You’ve barely made any sense of yourself after being flung through the darkness when he’s dropped low and moved on top of you. His movements are strong and decisive as he pushes your chemise up. He noses his way between your thighs, spreading them apart to make room for him. You barely have time to consider being embarrassed about being exposed, at how wet you know you are, when his wide tongue, inhuman roughness obvious, covers your cunt.

Your yelp of surprise turns into a long drawn out moan as he licks at you, vigorously, hungrily. He places a massive hand on each of your thighs, claws stinging just enough to quicken the pulsing need between your legs. You twitch and shiver as he pushes your legs further apart to accommodate his bulk. Your heated skin finds the remaining fabric bunched around your waist too much and you hastily try to shuck it the rest of the way off as fast as you. It's the most uncoordinated you’ve ever felt due to the manner in which Temar is concentrating on sucking your mind out of your head via your cunt.

Free at last of the uncomfortable and restricting garment, you reach down, fingers threading into Temar’s wild mane of hair on instinct alone. You don’t kow if you’ve even stopped moaning since his tongue attached itself to your cunt. Simultaneously, it's too much and not enough and all you can do is try to hang on for the ride he’s determined to take you on. Sweeping you down into the heat of feral lust with him. 

One of his hands leaves your thigh to clamp down across your stomach and hold down your hips. Your fingers tighten as he holds you in place to take what he wants from you. His unwavering focus is on eating you out, so starving for you that for now even the beast is content with your taste, leaving his hips rutting against the bedding. 

Temar wrings sounds from you know you’ve never made before. You never want anyone else to even try. Fuck, so good, you think. Or maybe you say aloud because you swear he grunts his approval and his tongue somehow manages to reach deeper. 

The black pad of his thumb rubs your clit perfectly and you scream you shatter. He growls triumphantly as he greedily drinks down every last drop of your release

You feel unspooled and languid, molten in your pleasure. Temar too seems satisfied with the meal he’s made of you for now as he pulls back, licking his lips. His fingers tighten their hold on your hips as your only warning before he flips you over. Dazedly, automatically, you try to brace yourself. He grunts in approval at how he has successfully maneuvered you onto your hands and knees. Right where you wanted to be ever since you first understood that he was in heat without a lover. Since you realized you wanted to be that lover.

One of his hands leaves your hip to stroke up your spine and you shudder at the feeling of calluses, iron strength, and claws. Instinctively, you arch into the motion, wanting to encourage him to touch you as much as possible. You’re so grateful you’ve already tossed your chemise gods know where. “Please,” you gasp out.

He rumbles with approval and as if having heard your unarticulated thoughts, drapes himself further over you. He pulls you against the cradle of his hips with one firm motion eliciting a squeal from your lips. It's evidently not close enough, as he wraps his fingers around your shoulder and pulls again until he can rut his cock against where you feel oh so empty. 

With you where he wants you, Temar releases his hold on your shoulder to lurch you both forward, him bracing you both with that hand on the bed. It leaves you clearly trapped under him. You close your eyes to savor the position and you’re struck by the image you two would paint, were you able to see. Perhaps that should be more intimidating or even frightening than it is, but you like the heavy weight of him, the power evident in his body as he cages you in. 

The ache between your legs only grows more acute. “Temar,” you plead, attempting to move your hips against him despite the hold he still has on one of your hips. The gnawing hunger and persistent emptiness are starting to hurt, desire buzzing along your every nerve. 

“Mine,” Temar proclaims as the head of his cock finally catches perfectly and he starts to drive into you. The stretch and ache of him causes your moan to fracture under the strain. It’s been so long, but you're so wet it almost doesn’t matter. He’s so thick, so long, you’re losing all sense of anything outside of where the two of you are joined. The last few inches cause a pleasurable burn as you clench around him. Gods it's been too long since you were filled like this, if you’ve ever even had someone with his girth before. 

Temar growls contentedly once he’s fully seated inside you and you gladly take the precious few seconds to adjust. Soon enough, he pulls nearly all the way out of you causing a desperate whine to build up in the back of your throat until he thrusts back in, ripping a ragged sound from your throat that might resemble his name. 

He picks up speed with each movement of his hips, getting surer and stronger each time. You feel your whole body move and jolt with his each and every thrust. Your hands scrabble fruitlessly at the bedding under you, trying to brace yourself or get a grip but you can’t, uncoordinated and weak from your previous orgasm as well as the overwhelming way Temar is fucking you. 

He’s going to ruin you and you’re going to thank him.

His control seems to be fraying the longer he’s inside you. You can see the claws tipping his fingers get longer where they dig into the bedding and you can feel the way they dig into your hip. The pain is the perfect counterpoint to the pleasure of him finally hitting that perfect spot inside. You can feel your inner walls flutter from the sensation. Temar must like that because he groans and makes a noticeable effort to strike that same spot repeatedly.

The unrelenting attention pays off immediately as you can feel your need wind tighter and tighter while your mind empties of thought except for the sensation and heat Temar is bringing forth from the depths you. The continual barrage of his cock finally shoves you over the edge of pleasure once more and you obligingly shatter.

He groans as your clenching around him seems to be all he needs to let go. He hilts in you one last time and you feel him come hard. He fills you up with his seed, warmth spreading, and continuing to make little half thrusts, as if trying to make sure it stays deep within you. You’re still coming down from your orgasm but the sense of satisfaction expands in your chest now that Temar’s reached his peak too.

You close your eyes, limp underneath him, but more content than you’ve felt in ages, in perfect harmony with your werebeast mate.

At some point, you feel him tip you both over onto your sides, though he keeps his cock firmly seated within your heat, keeping you full. Temar’s rumble is full of satisfaction and he engulfs you in his hold, making it clear neither of you are separating anytime soon.

You don’t know how long you lay there on your side, blissfully fuck out, still full of him. You don’t care. You enjoy floating in the hazy afterglow. Eventually he slips out of you, pulling a gasp from you and a whine from him. He nuzzles against you, as if to comfort you. You’re too boneless and witless to do anything more than nuzzle him back. 

At some point you do notice him start to move against you once more. His large hands are running along your body, as if committing it to memory. It’s not until he starts to focus on your nipples, rubbing his thumb in increasingly tight circles. Desire starts to zip through your sluggish veins and you whine, twitching in his loose hold. He seems to appreciate your reaction, nudging your head with his until you turn it to face him better. He catches your mouth in a consuming kiss, more coordinating than any previously but just as hungry. It's deep and filthy and leaves you vibrating for me.

His hand covers your cunt, still swollen and wet from your combined cum, in addition to the desire within you he’s stroking back up into a blaze.  Your sensitivity causes your hips to stutter as you’re caught between wanting more and being too tender for it. He loses interest in using his hand once you’re pushing towards him more than you are moving away. Pulling you down his body once more, his fur causing goosebumps to ripple across your flesh until you’re back where Temar at least seems to think you belong: in the cradle of his hips.

“Oh! Temar, you—mm, o-oh,” you attempt to say something to address the reignition of his desire, but before you can, his stiffening cock has managed to press against your cunt just right, moving through your lingering wetness and the spend that’s leaked out of you since said cock last left you.

“Mate,” he intones, lust certainly back into his voice. He pulls you up off the bed, securing you to his chest with the hand still clutching your chest. You’re not sure his other hand he's left your hip since it settled there. “More.”

“I, yes,” you reply, trying to pull yourself back together. Of course while in heat, he’d want to—you cut your own thoughts off with a surprised moan as he pushes back into you. Your fingers clench in the sheets as your sore, but slick muscles allow him back inside. The overstimulation is giving your head a rush. 

Luckily, this time Temar seems more deliberate and rhythmic with his thrusting rather than frenzied and desperate. His other hand resumes kneading your chest and rubbing against your stiffened nipple. The change in angle seems to keep him from going too fast and luckily requires none of your strength. In fact, the sensation of him fucking you while you lay limp in his grasp is quickly bring your own lust back at a dizzying pace you don’t expect.

He shifts and the angle gets even better, causing you to moan loudly in encouragement. You sag against him, your bones feel liquid from the way he’s been relentlessly thrusting within your cunt. His grunts and your pants fill the room. You’re still so hot, with sweat rolling down your back only to be absorbed into his fur. The sensation ensures you never forget who and what is taking you. You glory in it, in knowing he chose you.

You feel like he’s determined to fuck you until you can’t see straight, can’t move and you’re beyond willing for him to try. 

Gods, he’s going to make you forget your own name.

Something curls deep in you, winding around itself with each passing second he continues moving within you. He hunches forward, just enough to press against you, to change the angle some minuscule amount, and that spring releases. You fracture around him. As before, that appears to be all he needs to push as deep as he can and spill his seed in you one more time. The sensation of his release, of the desperate way he continues to try to fill you are the last things you remember before the pleasure pulls you under.

-/-

In the morning, or given the angle of the sun, the afternoon when you wake after a sleep longer than an hour, Temar surrounds you still. You’re in no rush as you take the time to regain your bearings and take stock of your aches. Without opening your eyes you can tell he’s looking at you. “Regret?” you ask simply, stock still in his hold, voice scratchy from overuse. You lost count of how many times aTemar fucked you last night. It's all a blur of heat and desire.

“No,” Temar rumbles, adjusting his hold. “Mine.” The added growl behind the words even in his human form sends a shiver down your spine and reignites the ache in your muscles in the most pleasing manner. 

It's more than you were hoping for, and yet you can’t help but ask, cautiously, “For the rest of your heat?” Some small part of you is still expecting to be sent on your way far sooner than you’d like to be. 

“I suppose you’ve convinced me,” Temar replies, the amusement in his voice unable to stay hidden under his put upon reluctance. “If you’ve made this foolish choice, I suppose I’ll let it stand—for now.”

“You may be stubborn, but I think we can agree I won this battle,” you point out. You finally blink your eyes open for long enough to look over your shoulder and meet his brown ones. He looks indulgent when you cup his cheek. “What makes you think you’ll fare better in the next one? I’m not sure I want for this to end with your heat.”

“I thought you’d say something of the sort,” Temar replies with a roll of eyes. He nips at your ear and pats you on the hip. “We can discuss after your bath.”

You hum, pleased immensely by the prospect. “See? Perhaps it’s you who is mine after all.”

---

Extra thanks to everyone who followed along with the original posting! all your comments and tags and asks were super encouraging!!

[clockwayswrites]

City Pigeons - Part 10

WC: 817, Masterpost

Jason sighed as the tablet in his hands flashed with alerts. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“How did the meeting with Black Bat go?” Bruce asked instead of responding, because of course he did.

“You know it went fine,” Jason said, trying not to snap. “Besides, everyone likes her, there was a good chance it was always going to go fine.”

“We both know trauma isn’t always that easy,” Bruce said, his tone carefully modulated to be gentle. It rankled Jason, like it always did.

Jason took a breath and let his chin drop to his chest for a moment. Bruce didn’t mean it like that. He knew that now. This was Bruce trying as best as he was able— it wasn’t just another mask. Bruce just had to put effort into emotions that made it seem forced. Jason pushed away his flair of temper; it was harder to do than he’d like after too much worry and too little sleep.

“Ja—”

“I’m fine. It’s just like you said, trauma isn’t always that easy. I’m fine,” Jason said as he waved the concern away. “And names. You know we’re sticking to code names still.”

Bruce tilted his head, observing Jason through the white lenses. (That used to rankle too.)

“You thinking there’s a chance he’ll run.”

Jason sighed. He gave an exaggerated shrug to cover the worry that ran through him at the question. “Not run, exactly. I think he doesn’t believe that he can stay— that it’s even on the table. I think that we’re his last hope and he doesn’t believe in hope anymore.”

Bruce didn’t move. Jason gave him time to think that over.

“That’s why he doesn’t want to see… Wayne,” Bruce said, slowly, like he was feeling the idea out. “He doesn’t expect to get anything from him so it’s better to be healed up first.”

Jason shrugged again.

“Figure so. But also once that meeting happens, whatever happens, then all of this,” Jason motioned to the safe house, “is over as far as he knows. If he puts off the meeting, he puts off the risk of losing the first safety that I think he’s hand in a long, long time.”

Bruce’s shoulders hunched and he almost blended back into the shadows by the window. “If he’s already posed for it to go badly…”

“B, that’s not your fault,” Jason said— had to say. “The kid’s been through hell, maybe by his own family, of course he’s going to expect the worst.”

It was a long moment and then Bruce nodded, just once. “What’s the plan?”

If Jason really had his way, the plan would be to deal with all these ill feelings, but that’s not what anyone in the family was good at, him included. It would be what it would be.

“We’ll have BB over again for a meal tomorrow. I’m sure it will keep going well and she can help be on watch that night. We think it’s best to give that a few days before we introduce O or anyone else new, so you have to keep the rest of the horde reigned in,” Jason said pointedly. Then a though occurred to him. “Where is the little spawn anyways?”

“He’s on the roof across the block.”

“Yeah, is he? Because that was a lot of alerts—”

“Hood!”

Jason didn’t think before he was striding across the room towards Danny’s room. The kid was standing in the door. White hair stark in the low light. Green eyes bright.

Glowing.

Wide with fear.

“Danny?”

“Someone else is here,” Danny said. His voice was almost too quiet to hear, but Jason could half swear he felt it in his very bones. Danny reached out and clung onto the sleeve of Jason’s hoodie. A cold settled into Jason’s bones along with the vibration of the soft words. “Someone touched by death. Can you feel them too? They’re not not like us. They haven’t died. They haven’t died, but they reek of death. Hood, what are they?”

“Hey, it’s okay. You’re safe here, remember?” Jason assured Danny automatically. The words rolled out of his mouth without Jason having to even think about them, which was good, because Jason’s mind was still caught on Danny’s words: They’re not like us. They haven’t died. “Some Bats just stopped by to check on us.”

Was it Bruce? Did all of Gotham’s death cling to his shoulders like his cape?

Was it Damian? Was it the stench of the Pits?

Or did Jason miss something else slipping in with all of the other alarms.

“We’ll go check on Nightwing together, alright? I bet he has a little red and black guest who slipped in,” Jason said. He twisted his hand to hold Danny’s. The cold bit at his skin. He didn’t let go.

He hoped he was right.

He had a hard time believing in hope too.

---

AN: A myyyyyyyystery *wiggly fingers*. Gods I'm so tired.

I no longer tag, you can subscribe to the masterpost instead!