#caustic wound shirt

[leviabeat]

📸 Terje Dokken for musikknyheter.no

[wakatshi]

UNTOUCHABLE

𖥾 ゚ ࣭ SIMON “GHOST” RILEY | &. — fem! reader, you’re angry with simon, teasing, smoking, clitoral stimulation, thigh riding, dry humping | wc 1.3k words | masterlist

simon riley is a stranger — it’s a thought you can’t ignore anymore.

he doesn’t laugh. he doesn’t smile. not enough. now that you think of it, you’ve never heard simon riley laugh. it’s not his thing. it feels impossible, utterly unrealistic. the idea itself is laughable. it’s always a smirk and it’s almost invisible. too sardonic. too sarcastic and not sincere enough.

you ache for a reaction, a crumb of the real him, but he doesn’t give it you. his caustic attitude is so maddening. exasperation grows inside of you, you’re frustrated and somehow feeling closer and closer to an imminent defeat.

simon riley is too much of a stranger. but ghost isn’t. you’ve seen his face before, but it feels like he constantly hides something; himself, away from you. he’s always on guard. his skin, his deep, visible scars, his every pore, his mouth, his nose, you’ve felt them all under the touch of your very own fingers. he didn’t run away, he stayed, but touching ghost like that simply doesn’t do it anymore.

and how can that be enough when simon is not far from being a complete stranger? his humanity itself is buried somewhere deep inside, it’s a secret hidden behind a annoyingly high wall. simon is there, but is he, really?

this evening is unusually silent, the air is crisp and cold, you wonder where soap went, he swore to defeat you in a poker game yesterday. he wouldn’t have, but still, enthusiasm got ahead of you. captain price isn’t here either. in fact, it’s just you and simon.

you find yourself lazying on a timeworn couch next to him, but he’s too busy. he’s thinking, smoking. acting like you’re not there. you wonder what could go through the mind of a man of his caliber.

“want a cig?” with the pack in his hand, simon breaks the silence, he waits for you to make up your mind.

“no, thanks. why don’t you put that away anyways? that’s your third cig.”

“why?”

“fuck off, simon.”

his gaze shifts away from you for quite some time, the cigar rests between his lips and he inhales the burnt tobacco, smoke drifts away and dissipates in the air. the smell persists and you’re used to it, ghost carries the scent of heavy smoking with him. it’s a constant thing.

“why?”

“i said fuck off. if you don’t wanna, just don’t.”

how stupid. it’s not the cigar, nor this situation in particular. maybe you’re too clingy — you worry. he’s not into that lovey-dovey shit. naturally, he’s ghost after all.

“fucking hell, why are you so angry over a cig? tell me.”

“you don’t… touch me. this… this shit we’re doing isn’t enough. you’re not even talking to me.”

“i don’t touch you?”

simon’s beginning to become self aware. he throws the lit cigar on the ground and crushes it with his boot. “come here,” he meant his lap.

as soon as you make yourself comfortable, his muscular arms begin to move, big, gloved hands linger on the fabric of your shirt and fall on your hips. they stay there, firmly, the lieutenant pulls your body towards him, as close as possible. “relax.”

he’s too attractive.

his body is strong, that of a man who’s seen and fought it all, built for survival and warfare. his mental wounds are yet to be unveiled, but you know simon hides them and it’s beyond you. his forearms thick and veiny, his left arm tattooed, his thighs sturdy, big.

but the man known as ghost treats you like you’re a piece of glass threatening to be broken. he doesn’t think you’re weak— how could he? that’s insanity. how could he think you’re fragile and unskilled when you carry out the missions so well. ghost fears he’s the one who might push you away, and he dreads the flaws of his own being.

“gloves off, simon.”

“gloves off...” he repeats. or rather whispers to himself mindlessly as if you’re giving him instructions. he follows them immediately.

“you’re not funny.”

you grind against his thighs, but there’s some sort of hesitation in your act. he looks untouchable. he’s ghost, not simon, with his mask still on and covering most of his face, except for his mouth and eyes — he follows your movements closely, his eyes wander all over you body, the exposed crook of your neck, your shirt, the waist his hands are holding too tightly. but you don’t complain.

you could’ve made it less obvious that you’re trying to get off on his pants at least. it’s experimental, you’ve never done this before and not with simon. you’re testing the waters. your heart beats annoyingly fast, your chest is heavy and breathing gets harder - it’s almost impossible to resist simon when he touches you like this, even if you tried to hide it, your body would betray any attempt to conceal how much be turns you on. from his body to his voice, everything about him arouses you.

he’d fuck you right here and right now. just tell him and he will. he’d unzip his pants, fill your pussy up to the brim with his cock and make you orgasm in every corner of this room. but for now, he won’t. simon gets some sort of pleasure out of watching you make a mess out of yourself.

it takes a huge amount of self-restraint to oppose whatever is happening right now. he’s well aware and he’s more than used to it.

“come on, i know you wanna do it. i thought we got past that stage.”

“what stage, simon?”

“you shying away from me. i’ve been inside your pussy too many fuckin’ times and you’re still doing this.”

“i hate you.”

“i’m sure you do. now focus, love.”

the feeling of elation comes almost instantly with the friction. you grind your clothed pussy against his pants like you’ve never felt the touch of a man before and you don’t know how to behave. or what to do with yourself. it’s truly embarrassing, a mix between arousal and curiosity.

you’re soaking wet, so, so impatient and you’re filled with a primal urge — to use his body to reach climax.

“say my name, love. louder, don’t be shy.”

“simon!”

it doesn’t take him too long to find his way to your jeans. he unbuckles them and slides his index and middle finger inside, “so wet.”

you feel heavy, your body grows tired and your head falls on his shoulder as your arms wrap around his neck. he pulls you quickly, a prompt don’t escapes his mouth.

“i can’t do this! i’m getting tired.”

“you can. look at me.”

that’s such an easy thing to say coming from a man who’s been sitting and doing nothing but watching you humping his thigh. ghost doesn’t give you a break. he’s merciless, he rubs your clit just fast enough to get a sudden moan out of you. it’s like his fingers were made to play with you pussy and not for what he does out there. they’ve been resting too much under those gloves — they’re warm, but you’re burning.

“feels good? you’re so fuckin’ pretty when you moan my name. say it again.”

“simon…”

“fuck, i could cum in my pants only by looking at you. such a brave girl.” there’s a sarcastic note in his voice, but you ignore it.

simon looks at you the entire time. his gaze pierces through every layer, it’s worse when he wears the mask. your body temperature goes up, you’re close, too close, it’s an explosion, a firework show you’re obsessively craving like nothing else. and it’s here, finally, you’re thankful he stopped you from dry humping his thigh. warm juices drip on his fingers and inside your panties when you orgasm.

“you said i don’t touch you.”

“i wasn’t talking about sex.”

“i know.”

likes, reblogs & feedback are very appreciated! 🤍

𖥾 ゚ ࣭ &. — TAGGING : @touyyes @suget @itachislut @boyfrwenz @xiiaoww @stoner-with-a-boner @pinheadswhore @cherryppick @qrtmin @cosmicfairygirl @introloves @acc-cal

𖥾 ゚ ࣭ &. — NOTE : this i was supposed to be shorter, but i got sooo distracted </3 i plan to write a second part… maybe !!

[fangsandfracturedhearts]

Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 15: Reclamation

Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.

Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.

In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.

Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?

Word Count: 6.6k

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]

Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events. Mentions of Astarion's Trauma.

If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know

Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience]

A maelstrom of emotions dithers over the union you share. He seems unsure of what exactly he should be feeling as it fluctuates between fear, doubt, and bewilderment in a tumultuous outburst. His thoughts are akin to walking on the dark side of the moon - frigid, wilful in their grip on him with an undecipherable sapidity.

“What do you mean?” He shakes his head, eyes bouncing around as his brows pinch, creasing his forehead. His voice is detached and reticent, a masterpiece of regret and dolour. “I wouldn’t do such a thing, surely. Would I? Hells below. Did I?”

“You must have,” you conclude, wiping your tears with the back of your hand. “I don’t remember you doing it, but I can’t hear or remember it.”

Astarion jumps to his feet, nearly pitching you off his lap in haste, but he grabs you at the last minute, dragging you up with him. He pulls his trousers up but leaves them loose as he paces fitfully, muttering and mumbling to himself and wracking his fingers through his hair.

“I don’t understand,” he utters, half to himself and half to you. “I just do not understand. Why would I do such a thing? How long ago did I do this? What the fuck is wrong with me?”

It’s not your fault.

“I think it was before I…” you trail off, squeezing your eyes closed at the memory of Astarion stalking you through the Crimson Palace hallways like a predator, caustic venom spitting from his lips, every word eating away at your soul.

“Left me,” Astarion finishes with a note of despair, like a cold hand laid upon your bare soul. “You can say it.”

You nod sullenly, dropping your head, deject and wayward.

His emotions are flickering through your mind and body like a kaleidoscope of lightning strikes, each blinding flash incomprehensible in its intensity. You focus, but Astarion stops dead as you try to catch and hold them, and the connection is severed.

You are once again empty, a barren midnight sky that’s misplaced the stars and moon. Your eyes snap to Astarion, but the scarlet of his eyes looks hollow with madness as he regards you with the wariness of a wounded animal. He looks at you like he doesn’t know who you are, and it sends a wave of alarm coursing through you, causing your palms to heat.

He retrieves his shirt from the floor, always keeping a close eye on you as if you might pounce. He’s unreadable and cold, the iron countenance of the Vampire Ascendant shrouding him like an icebound veil. Without a word, Astarion darts out of your room, descending the stairs at a whirlwind pace that would be perilous for anyone who wasn’t so agile.

“Astarion?” In confusion, you chase after him without much thought, nearly tumbling down the stairs, and grab his arm. “Where are you going?”

He rips his arm out of your clutches with a bestial snarl. “Don’t touch me!”

“Just wait,” you plead with him, casting Misty Step and blocking his trajectory to the door. You can’t make heads or tails of this shift. “Please. Tell me what’s going on. Let me help.”

“You can’t help me.”

Astarion tries to get around you, but you won’t secede any ground and hold your position with foolish defiance. He grabs your arm, pivots, and thrusts you backward, throwing you to the floor. When you look up at him, those crimson eyes are starting to flick and fade like a star in the throes of death.

“Do not try and stop me again,” he growls, taking stalking steps toward you with a choler tinge in his voice. “Bad, pet.”

Astarion laughs, leans down, and grabs your ankle. He squeezes until the bones are wailing and threatening to break under duress. You whimper, beseeching cries for amnesty, trying to crawl away.

“Master, stop! Please.” You barely recognize the word as it jumps off your tongue in your agony. The haunting palette of bruising is immediately stained on the ghostly white canvas of your skin.

His grip is suddenly snapped away, and he springs back, grabbing his head with a pained groan, shaking it from side to side furiously as he roots himself in place. His breath falters as his eyes meet yours with a hysterical acidity as their claret shifts from deep and warm to shoal and dull as if covered by a thick layer of dust.

“Sorry,” he totters unsteadily on his feet, his lips parting with erratic breaths that make his chest jump aperiodically. His heart beats so hard in his chest that the sound is almost ear-splitting. “Hells. I’m so sorry. I— I— must go.”

Astarion does not even close the door in his urgency, and you’re left naked, clutching your ankle on the floor, staring into the street with your mouth agape. You cast Telekinesis to throw the door closed and limp around the manor, closing the heavy drapes to block the sun.

“Fuck!” You scream at the emptiness surrounding you as you pull yourself up the stairs on your lame ankle.

As you bathe, you allow your body to submerge into the spacious tub. You force yourself to forgo the useless impulse to breathe the air you no longer require and sink. The water’s surface contorts above you like an uneven mirror, twisting and warping reality. Everything is falling apart, and you feel like the sand of a beach being dragged away piece by piece with every crash of another wave upon the shore of your life.

Your heart would be beating recklessly in your chest if you hadn’t been alleviated of life. Colourful promises of love and breaths of forever in a realm of temporary fill your eyes with tears that seep into the water. Time stands still, and your doubt settles and masks your bravery. You’re one step closer to losing him entirely, but you must be fearless. Neither you nor Astarion can afford for you to fall.

Closing your eyes, you run headfirst into memories, searching your soul for all the places that feel like home.

The thudding of boots, the drip of rain that sneaks through the fissures in the bricks, the skittering and squeaking of vermin — everything echos off the stone in Moonrise. The fire throws foreboding, eerie shadows in slinking shapes across your tent that make you uneasy. No one wanted to camp here for the night, with the Absolute Cultists only floors below, but it had been a long journey through the Shadowlands, and the hungry shade had sapped everyone’s strength.

You flop restlessly on the furs in your tent, unable to trance. You had been counting the cultists inhabiting this wretched place as you made your rounds, trying to familiarize yourself with the layout. The omen of the arduous battle hangs over you, and you’re trying to devise some semblance of a plan to wipe them out in stages. You were never a very strategic planner. Typically, showing up and raining fire, violence, and death have worked for most of your life. Even with the help of the Harpers, one mistake could spell disaster.

Your ears twitch as you hear the rumbling murmurs bounce off the walls, and you’re out of your tent in a blink with fire ablaze in your palm, fearing the cultists have figured out that you don’t fit within their ranks. Taking a lap around, you take a quick headcount, checking your friends off one by one until you hear a soft, breathy whimpering.

Astarion…

Crouching by his tent, you whisper his name, but he does not answer. You recognize a nightmare when you hear one, and your hurt lurches in your chest, fingers hovering just over the door of his tent, but you don’t open it. Your proximity is usually enough to calm him without waking him, and this time seems no different. The trashing has stopped, and his muttering has ceased.

You sigh, relieved, and lay down at the door, curling up on the hard stone. You will rest here tonight if it means you can bring him even a scrap of peaceful rest.

“Darling,” Astarion purrs in a rugged timbre, heavy under the weight of drowsiness. “Whatever are you doing?”

You smile and flop over to peer into the hypnotic, heavily-lidded eyes. Astarion yawns, fangs peeking from his lips, and grins back at you.

“You were having a nightmare,” you whisper, making sure to keep your voice down so it doesn’t wake the others. “I didn’t mean to wake you. Go back to sleep. I’ll stay here tonight.”

“You were going to sleep out here on the stone?” He cocks his head, quirking a brow at you. “Why?”

“It seemed to comfort you,” you shrug.

"I meant, why would you sleep out here when there's a perfectly good bedroll in my tent with me?”

“Oh,” you say, sitting upright with a jolt. “That’s okay, Astarion. Really. I’m perfectly fine out here.”

“Get in here, weirdo," Astarion giggles, grabbing your arm and giving it a gentle tug.

You hesitate, but he tows you harder, and eventually, you relent and crawl into his tent. You sit in the corner, trying to make yourself small, wrapping your arms around your knees.

Astarion huffs exasperatedly, “You do realize that we’ve had sex, yes? You were hardly shy during our little late-night expeditions.”

“I’m not shy, not with you,” you giggle but avidly watch how Astarion’s jaw clenches, fingers tangling into the furs. “You’re hungry. I can see it. I can’t imagine it’s comfortable to be so close to a food source in a confined space.”

“I’ll admit, it’s not easy when you’re so very delicious with that lovely neck, begging to be tasted,” he grins, an artificial smile meant to put you at ease. Astarion notices that he cannot fool you, and his fingers rifle through his hair. “I’m fine. Truly. You’re not in any danger around me. I can control my hunger.”

“Danger? Oh, Gods! No, Astarion.” You shake your head at him, offering your hand, and he takes it. His thumb sways softly over the back, “I’m not afraid you’ll hurt me. I just don’t want you to be uncomfortable. When’s the last time you fed?”

“Oh, I don’t know, darling. There was that cultist I made a snack of a couple of days ago. You needn’t concern yourself with it. I’ve gone much, much longer without a meal.”

There’s a bleakness shading the sculpted angles of his face that makes your heart palpate with empathy. You don’t have to ask for confirmation. Cazador obviously starved him as some form of punishment. It makes your palms heat in reflex as you seethe. You don’t care what it takes. You are going to kill the motherfucker who dared torture this man that’s stolen your heart.

“Astarion, whenever you’re hungry, I’m happy to offer my neck. All you have to do is ask.”

“That’s very… sweet, but the very shadows of this place are hungry.” Astarion sighs, wrapping his arms around his waist to smother his hunger pains. He smiles, “As much as I would absolutely love to take you here and now, you need your strength. We have many battles ahead.”

“Don’t be dumb," you tut, moving your hair away from your neck. “I need you strong. I am capable of deciding this for myself. I don’t need you to do it for me.”

“Dumb? Darling! You wound me.” He theatrically scoffs, hand to his forehead, falling back as if you slapped him, with a shallow chuckle, “I have received many slights in my life - Insufferable, insolent, insignificant, but this might be the first time I have been accused of being dumb.”

“Well, they say there’s a first time for everything,” you smirk, levity uplifting the lilt of your baritone. “Consider this your first.”

“You are racking up quite the catalogue of firsts,” he chuckles, shaking his head, propping himself up on his elbows. “Are you sure? I am truly of sound mind. No one is in any danger.”

You crawl toward him, heart rate accelerating with every forward movement of your hands and knees, “Will you please shut up and bite me already? Before I berate you for believing I think you’re a danger.”

Astarion’s hand wraps around your arm, persuading you closer with pressure, but he does not so much as glance at your exposed neck. He’s fixed on your eyes as if he’s found heaven hidden within them.

“Then allow us to dine together,” he nods slowly, eyes still moored to yours as he sits upright, prompts you to turn, and holds your back steady against his chest. He kisses under your earlobe and hints his lips down the column of your neck until he settles on that rhythmically pumping vein. He kisses it, long and lingering, and groans, “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” you sigh, barely able to contain your body’s excitement as it trembles in his arms.

His fangs puncture your skin like icicles, impaling the soft flesh, but it ebbs and dulls to a paradisical strumming before your mind has time to react and withdraw. For a vampire that has not fed on thinking creatures much, he’s remarkably gentle and has only become more tender since you started these little meals. He draws from you in unhurried pulls, tallied and modulated as he listens, and his palm splays across your chest over your heart to determine its pace in case he does not hear it accurately.

You feel your ethos skimming through his veins, warming his skin, flushing the tips of his ears, an antidote to his pain. You sigh mellowly, and your fingers untwist from his trousers, going lax. His arousal hardens against your back as he removes his fangs from your neck, tongue lavishing at the residual weeping wounds with broad, flat strokes and moaning a chilled breath over the shell of your ear.

Astarion turns your head toward him, catching your lips in a blistering kiss tinged with the coppery piquancy of your blood. His hips buck into you with a growl, and his hand veers toward your aching clit. You stop him short, grabbing his hand with a shudder.

“What are you doing?” You breathe against the needy, silken embrace of his mouth.

“You’ve been ever so generous,” he purrs. “Allow me to repay your charity in a language I speak proficiently.”

“No,” you break away from the kiss and his arms. Your head swims, bloodless and faint. Your heart hammers, trying to pump the blood no longer within your veins. You sway on your knees, and Astarion supports you with a hand on your shoulder lest you faceplant, “This isn’t a tit-for-tat offer, Astarion. There is no repayment. I am just one friend assisting another. That’s all.”

“I— You don’t want me?”

His genuine confusion encases your heart in a boiling bubble of sorrow, “You know I do, but not like this. I don’t want you if it’s compensation for my blood.”

“I’m sorry. It’s the only thing I know,” he looks bashful. If you didn’t know better, you would say he’s blushing, but that must be the rush of your blood through his veins. “Would you at least rest with me tonight while you're woozy? I will hear if anything untoward happens in camp, and I can protect both of us if need be.” He puts his hands up innocently, “I will keep my hands to myself. You have my word.”

“Do you think--" you trail off, bringing your hand to your forehead that seems to beat in time with your angry heart and groan. “That is to say— Could we —“

“Good Gods, sweetheart,” he chuckles. “Spit it out already before you lose consciousness. I did not take that much.”

Your arms drop by your sides, and you giggle with him, suddenly lethargic, “Never mind. I’ll sleep over here.”

“Now, who is being positively dumb,” he scoffs, clicking his tongue at you. “If you want to cuddle, you have but to ask. You know I do rather like cuddling with you.”

“If you know what I want,” you huff, rolling your eyes. “Why are you making a spectacle out of me?!”

“Entertainment,” he shrugs, laughing carefree and alight with humour.

“You’re terrible,” you mutter.

“I know,” he smirks, lying back and extending his arms, twitching his fingers in the come-hither motion. “Come on, love. Let’s have a cuddle, shall we?” 

The bath water has turned cold by the time your eyes slide back open. You’re still lying at the bottom of the tub, in a watery grave like a sunken ship. How long have you been in here? Once your brain recognizes that you haven’t taken a breath in what could be hours, instinct takes over, and you propel yourself upright, coughing, sputtering, and gulping down the air furiously.

You scoff at yourself with antipathy. How long will it take for these responses to abate? When will your body just accept that you’re fucking dead?

Wrapping a plush towel around yourself, you listen for the comforting thud of Astarion’s heart but are only met with tomblike silence. It frightens you, making your stomach feel aflutter in your abdomen, reminding you of the Gur attack when you thought you lost him.

You slip into a long-sleeved, purple dress and tentatively peek outside. The velveteen embrace of twilight has cloaked the sky, but the cloud cover is thick, eclipsing the moonlight. You can smell the rain before the heavens have decided to cry. Reaching out to the bond, Astarion does not answer your call.

Fuck this.

You trot through the street, smelling the air. You wince with every step as the injury to your ankle smarts, but the bruising is already receding. It will not be long until it’s healed.

Unfortunately for you, the streets are still relatively busy, and your bloodlust is ever-present and a daunting task to control as you swerve and juke around people. Your mouth waters, and you shake your head like a wet dog to rid yourself of the smog that dampens and threatens to dwarf your self-restraint. The rain starts to drizzle, just as you predicted. The drops plane down your face, and you curse the skies because the scent of the rainfall on the dry stone of the street hampers your ability to detect much else.

You arrive at Wyrm's Crossing and follow the strong scent of blood outside a structure you are familiar with - the flophouse where Astarion's siblings were. The building is ominously dark and far too quiet. You sniff the air. It tastes almost bitter on your tongue, and it’s hard to focus on anything but the metallic richness, but you vaguely make out notes of rosemary and bergamot. You try to open the door, but it’s locked. Locks are hardly a challenge. You cast Knock and crack the door open. The fragrance of blood wafts so thickly in the air that you swear you almost see technicolour as you swoon.

It’s pitch-black inside, and your feet immediately come into contact with a stiff, cold mass on the floor, tripping you. Fire bursts to life in your palm, and mutilated bodies greet the illumination with milky eyes. Some have their intestines spilling out of their abdomens like gooey red ribbons. Others are missing the bottom of their jaw with their meaty tongues lolling out. These people were not just merely killed. They were brutalized, mutilated, and mauled.

A thick slick of congealing blood sloshes around your boots. It drips off the ceiling and down the walls like scarlet raindrops shed from dark skies, softly signifying sorrow's sharp sting. If your heart had not already hardened to macabre scenes like this, you imagine you would be sick. Instead, true to the monster you’ve become, it takes considerable effort not to drop to your knees and start lapping up the sanguine nectar like some thirsty mutt.

You are veritably shaking under the duress of temptation as you crawl over bodies to the one heartbeat that remains. Astarion sits at a table in an alcove in the back with a bottle of spirits clutched in his hand, several more littered around his feet on the floor. He stares abstractly at nothing, a million miles away, bleak and cold.

“Astarion…” you whisper, trying to get a decent look into his eyes.

“Darling?” His brows round when he looks at you, frowning and narrowing his glossy eyes. “You are afraid. Oh, no-no. Don’t be afraid. I didn’t mean to…” He’s confused, and it breaks your heart. “I killed them all, but I don’t remember. I am me now. I’m me - Astarion.”

“I know,” you purr, noticing that he seems to have to remind himself of who he is. “It’s okay.”

“Okay?” He scoffs, bringing the bottle to his lips and tilting his head back. He sways in his chair, causing it to creak, “This is about as far from okay as it gets. Did you not hear me? I killed them. I killed all of them.”

“I heard you,” you cradle his cheek and walk his gaze away from the body he seems fixed on. “We need to go home, Astarion. Before somebody finds us here.”

“Why?” He snaps, gesturing around with a satirical chuckle, “I will probably just kill them too. Or perhaps I will simply compel them to forget their names or their entire lives. Why stop there? How far do you think my power goes? Do you think I could compel them to forget how to breathe?”

“Astarion, please,” you slip the bottle from his fingers and crouch with your hand on his thigh. “Come with me.”

“I hurt you again today,” he sighs, staring at his empty hand with furrowed brows. “How do you sleep with me in the same residence? The same bed? How can you even stand to look at me? Gods. You must fucking hate me.”

“I don’t hate you,” you cannot help the tears pricking your eyes. He looks lost as his eyes roam aimlessly, climbing toward the ceiling. “I love you.”

“You love me… Do you regret it?” He whispers, curling his empty hand into a fist repeatedly as if he’s unsure if the hand he’s looking at belongs to him, “Helping me complete the Rite, allowing me to turn you, falling in love with me.”

“No,” your answer is immediate, and the uncompromising intonation surprises even you. “The only thing I regret is that we did not know enough about the Rite.”

“You’re lying,” he concludes, hollow, distant, and abject.

“Open the bond and check my truthfulness if you wish,” you retort. Your whole body shakes as you try to make sense of this broken man before you, “I wanted to be with you for eternity. Everything has a cost. I paid it willingly.”

“Do you know why I turned you?” He asks, face contorting with an anguish you did not believe you would ever see adorn his features again. The corners of his mouth are downturned, eyebrows dropping at the ends, “Do you know why I was so adamant that this was the only way our relationship could continue?”

“I don’t know, Astarion,” you sigh soft and sullen. “I don’t care. What’s done is done.”

“Tell me!” He snarls, slamming his fist into the table and cracking it down the middle, “Tell me why you think I did it! Tell me why you think I fucking killed you!”

You finally relent and sob openly. “Why do you do anything now, Astarion? You wanted to possess me, control me, own me, and make me your obedient puppet.”

“No, my love,” he heaves a tremulous sigh, shaking his head. His eyes are vacant and unseeing, blinking slowly. “Nothing so sinister as that. I was afraid. I was still fucking afraid. I knew you would age and die while I remained the same forever. You would leave me alone again, and I feared a world, a life, without you. I took your life and bound you to me for eternity for no other reason than selfishness, but I always was remarkably selfish. Wasn’t I?” Astarion gazes around at the grisly affair of his making, “Why can’t I remember? I am sick. Aren’t I?”

“We will save you,” you slip your finger under his chin like he’s done to you so often and direct his gaze to yours. Your eyes blister with resolve, and your voice bleeds the same, trying to fill him with strength, “But I need you to keep fighting, Astarion. You must not give up.”

“For you,” he murmurs as his eyes finally appear cognizant. Astarion slides out of his chair, descending to his knees before you like you made you do a lifetime ago, and wraps his arms around you. He presses his cheek against your stomach and whimpers, fingers curling into your clothes. “I will fight to my last, my love.”

Sunlight filters into the window, golden rays bathing the room as your eyes flutter open. You nuzzle against the silk pillowcase before your mind bombards you with memories of your skin loosening, dripping, cracking, and the agony that arrested even screams from your throat. You nearly leap off the bed in terror, but solid arms wrap around your waist, pulling your back against the strong muscles of a warm chest.

“It’s okay,” Astarion purrs, grappling with your trashing. He places a soft kiss on your shoulder. “I am here. The sun cannot harm you. I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

It takes your still hazy consciousness a moment to accept the promise of safety before you relax in his embrace with a sigh and roll over to face Astarion, looping your arms around him and burying your face in the crook of his neck. You can smell his blood pumping through his veins just below the surface of that pristine, silken skin, and your mouth waters. Your body urges you to bite, stomach knotting into cramps with the promise of that aromatic, richly decadent blood.

So close.

Before you know what you’re doing, your mouth is open, fangs hovering, and your body seizes. Astarion laughs genuinely, such a sparkling, airy rumble from his perfect lips as they pull into a smile against your cheek.

“Well, good morning to you, too.” He giggles, pushing you away, shaking his head with that playful glower, “Can’t get enough? I’m not surprised.” Astarion sinks his fangs into the fanning veins of his wrist and holds it out to you. “Remember, no biting and mind your teeth.”

You’re almost drooling at the oneiric vision of the weeping wounds. The scent of his blood is intoxicating - warm, full-bodied ferrous. The bright red drink of the Gods is a stark contrast to his pale skin, and it takes everything you have in you not to lunge for it. The offer of his blood is new and a little unsettling if you’re being honest.

“Go ahead,” his eyes dart to his dribbling wrist, brows furrowing at your hesitation. “This is no trick. Feed.”

He looks contrite, but there is a new tenderness in the way his eyes are fixed on you like you are shelter from the storm brewing behind his scarlet irises. You cannot handle it any longer. You take his wrist as gently as your fumbling fingers can possibly manage in your near frenzied bloodlust, bringing your lips to the wound. It tastes even better straight from his body, and your eyes roll back with a moan as you focus with a substantial amount of effort on drawing in slow, measured sips instead of trying to drain him dry in an instant.

“That’s enough,” Astarion instructs eventually, tugging his wrist just slightly. You could never get enough of this ambrosia on your tongue, descending into your stomach and making your nerves combust with delight. Your grip tightens on his wrist, and you growl at him, low and throaty.

“Hells,” Astarion groans pleasurably, eyes rolling back. His body trembles with excitement and pleasure. He enjoys this as much as you. He shakes his arm roughly and commands a little more harshly this time. “Love. I said that’s enough. Don’t be a greedy thing now.”

It’s enough to crack the haze that’s fallen over your mind, and you throw yourself from back, detaching from his wrist with panicked breaths. You’re sure when you look at him again, you will be staring at the embodiment of Mephistopheles psychosis, “I’m sorry, Astarion. I’m sorry.”

“Hey-hey,” Astarion coos deeply, like a warm auditory hug on a cold winter’s night. “It’s alright. I’m not angry.”

“You’re not?” You cannot help the stain of surprise that blooms in your voice.

“No, love,” he chuckles, his fingers pressing into your waist, encouraging you to cuddle, and you curl up against his side. He sweeps his thumb across your lower lip, gathering the blood smeared on it and pops it into his mouth with a sly grin. “I was a young vampire too, once upon a century, and I was certainly over-enthusiastic with my consumption of you the first time. It takes time. I can help you with it. We can practice like this.”

Your brows furrow, creasing as you try to think through the residual film of mist. This man is entirely too perplexing. It feels like you’re always trying to run from him, convincing yourself that everything is a trick, that you must be on guard at all times so you don’t get close, but is this just a way for you to hide from what you fear most of all - that you will be unable to save him, and you will lose him all over again.

There’s just no fucking time for this anymore. There is no more time to lose.

Astarion directs your gaze to him, “What’s going on in that beautiful mind?”

“Do you remember what you said last night?”

Astarion’s brows round, and the corners of his eyes crinkle, “Yes.”

“Was any of it real?” You murmur, pushing yourself upright so you can look at him. You request the bond, and Astarion and you unite, transcending time and space, melding together. It takes you a moment to gather yourself, “Or were you just drunk?”

“I meant every word.” Astarion turns suddenly serious, sitting and sagging against the headboard, “I wish to speak to you about something.”

“Are you okay?”

“I am fine.” He combs his fingers through his hair, “You called me Master. I do not wish you to call me that - think of me in those terms. Is that how you see me? As your… ugh,” he casts his eyes to the ceiling, “Master ?”

“No,” you snap, but it’s a lie, and you know it, which means he knows it through the union. You backpedal, “Yes. It is what you are, Astarion. Whether you or I like it, I am your spawn, and you are my master. This is just reality. It will do us no good to pretend that the dynamic of our relationship is different.”

Disappointment slashes across the bond like a blade cutting into your heart. It’s so strong that it physically aches in your chest, and you splay your hand across it and whimper.

Astarion shakes his head, eyes downcast, “I do not want to be your master, little love. I never did. I did not make you a regular spawn.”

“I’m not sure I follow, Astarion. What do you mean you didn’t make me a regular spawn? What other kind of spawn is there?”

Astarion squeezes his eyes shut momentarily, taking a deep breath, the muscles in his jaw twitching. He leans, opens a drawer and produces a book that looks ancient. Its cover is dulled by timeless centuries, and its spine is broken with loose pages precariously tucked in. His fingers tap the book, staring at it as if he dreads what he’s about to do.

He gives you a skeptical sideways look and passes you the book, “Page 152.”

Opening the book, you flip through the musty, yellowed pages until you reach page 152, titled “The Dark Kiss.” You scan the page, reading it once, twice, three times while Astarion stares at you with an unreadable expression. You can feel him in your head, looking through your eyes, thrusting into the folds of your mind, penetrating the softness of your soul, caressing your most intimate thoughts.

There’s trepidation in him. Your soul practically quivers under the weight of his unease. He is afraid of your reaction, and the entity within him is stoking those glowing embers of worry with its babbling breaths of affirmations, trying to ignite an inferno of fear that will melt through the shackles of his control.

“You need to explain this to me, Astarion,” you gawk at him, swallowing thickly as the information slowly sinks in. You’re unsure if the nervousness making your stomach warp is truly yours or his.

“I made you my bride – consort,” he does not look at you when he speaks. His eyes stare blankly at his twitching fingers. “How many times did I bite you that night?”

“Uh,” you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to recall the memory fogged over from blood loss, “Three. Once when we had sex, once on my wrist, and then my neck.”

Astarion nods, “I don’t remember much from that night, high as I was on the power of 7000 souls, but I do recall my intent. I bit you three times, as described in the book you’re holding, and then gave you my own blood. I told you this bond was unique to you and me because it’s only shared with a bride.”

“I’m sorry.” You rack your fingers through your hair, tousling it into an incomprehensible mess to match your whirling, tangled thoughts, “Are you trying to tell me that we are - what? Vampire married?”

Astarion smirks at the bewilderment adorning your face but looks bashful, “I suppose that’s an accurate description, yes.”

“And you declined to tell me this until now because?”

“Honestly?” Astarion’s eyes drift once again to the ceiling, “I meant to. I had every intention of telling you the truth, and then... I enjoyed the power, the superiority I had over you. I saw fear in your eyes when you looked at me, and I liked it. I liked you believing you were nothing. I wanted to revel in it. It fed the sickness within, and then I was... lost for a while.”

“What does this mean for me exactly?” It takes incredible effort to keep the rising panic from your voice.

Astarion’s eyes widen as your whirlwind of terror is added to the mixture of emotions between you, “It means you’re not quite a spawn, not quite a True Vampire, but as close as one could get while still being bound to me and under my control should I choose to exert it over you. I believe it can be reversed, should you wish it so. I’d have to do a little research--”

“No!” you blurt out in a yelping retort that makes Astarion flinch. He assumes your anxiety is due to being bound to him in such a way, you realize. The truth of it is your panic is a shadow looming over the increasingly dire odds of everything you stand to lose.

A friend. A lover. A partner. A... husband?

You smirk at the notion, pushing away that worry - you have time to worry later. Right now, you want to enjoy this. It’s the closest you have gotten to Astarion telling you he loves you. Perhaps, the closest you will ever get, and some sad speck of your soul laps at that wound and dabs it with this new information as if it might cure the incurable.

“Well,” you shift into his lap, leaning into the asylum he’s promising you through the bond, “I’m definitely going to start calling you husband now. I hope you’re prepared for that.”

“HA!” Astarion giggles, shaking his head with an endearingly lop-sided grin. His unkempt silver curls fall and bounce carelessly, “But of course. I can deny you nothing, wife. I wish to try and undo what he,” he corrects himself. “…I did - your name. I might be able to reverse it, but I’m not entirely sure how. You need to trust me, and I can feel you do not.”

You’re a little bemused that there is something Astarion doesn’t know how to do, and you grin at him, your fangs peeking out of your lips.

“Good Gods,” he rolls his eyes at you with a heartwarming smirk. “I am all-powerful, not all-knowing. Compelling is instinctive. Releasing it is another story entirely.”

You want to trust him. Gods above, you long to trust him like you used to, but how can you, given what you know? You wrench on the tide of the bond, causing it to spill and break over you as ocean waves crash upon boulders that dare protrude from its surface. You scour the chords of the harmony, picking them apart note by note, feeling for any sign of manipulation, deceit, or ill intent. Astarion flinches, squeezing his eyes shut with a wheeze, but he does not attempt to stop your search. You find nothing, but then again, he is the Vampire Ascendant. If he wants to hide something from you, he will.

If you want to get your name back, you have little choice.

“Do it,” you confirm.

“Look into my eyes,” Astarion purrs in a deep baritone. “Remember, I don’t know exactly what I’m doing.”

Bringing your eyes to his, the crimson in his eyes sparks alive, like little matches aglow in the red sea, and you have never seen sparks quite so beautiful.

The sensation starts mellow, like the flow of a calm spring, as it trickles through your mind. It feels like liquid fingers whispering against your psyche. The sensation makes your skin prickle, and goosebumps erupt all over. You want to shudder, but your body cannot move. Tributaries branch off and stream until your whole brain feels like it is being grasped by a hand.

And that’s where the pain begins in a sudden influx, a steely, jarring stab, and it feels like his fingers are in your brain, parting every crimp, crease, bend and wrinkle like you are a tome to be read. You’re unsure how long you can take this as he picks your mind apart, looking for whatever compulsion does. You manage to let out a whine, and his eyes flick.

“I know it hurts,” he soothes. “Just a little more, I think. Can you hold on?”

You can only whimper your response. You’re not sure if it sounds like a no or a yes. He continues his dismantling forage, ferreting around in your mind. Suddenly, something changes. All those tributaries and calm, flowing springs snap into one spot, and white-hot pain blooms in your eyesight, blinding you. You’re positive he’s cutting a piece of brain matter right out of your skull. You want to writhe, to scream, to beg him to stop, but you cannot.

You wonder if you might pass out, and then you hope you pass out as the pain becomes more than you can bear. Sharp, like a red-hot blade, has punctured your skull, pierced your brain, and is now broiling against your grey matter. Your vision starts to tunnel, black borders encroaching, blurring everything but the glow from Astarion’s eyes.

Just as you think you're going to lose consciousness, a knot untangles, an invisible barrier crumples, and the bondage on your body eases.

“Hey,” Astarion jostles you, fingers brushing sweaty strands of hair behind your ear. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” you breathe shakily. “It’s fine. Did it work?”

“I think so?” Astarion rubs the back of his head. “There’s only one way to know for sure. Do you remember your name?”

You think hard, trying to pull it from the deepest recesses of your memories, but you can’t remember it. “No.” You sigh, “Can you say it to me?”

“Illyria?” 

Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things. As always, please enjoy ☺️

AO3 [Crossposted]

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past

Small Notes:

Yay! Tav can hear her name, but does she actually remember it?

I'm leaning into the "Dark Kiss" bride/consort theory because why not?

[darklydeliciousdesires]

Hate Fucked - A Fenriz/Reader One Shot Story.

We all know baby boi is a sweet little puppy, but here I wrote him as the antithesis of that. Slight dom!Gylve leaning. He's giving me killer brain rot right now. Enjoy!

Words - 1,260

Warnings - Smut below the cut, minors DNI!

He always knows it, when you’re at the mercy of ovulation. You become needy, especially for him, wanting little more to be pinned beneath him and fucked until you scream your voice hoarse. And if you irritate him enough, he’s rarely gentle with you. It goes in stark contrast to his usual geniality, the affectionate lover who is much softer than most would think.  

When you’re becoming a tightly wound mess of a woman, though, you neither desire or require soft. You know he’ll figure you out, too, he always knows when you’re pushing his buttons. He shouldn’t rise to your bait, but oh, how good it feels to snap his teeth when you’re deliberately serving up provocation. 

“Gylve,” you whine, reaching for his arm and stroking. “Please hurry. It’s only coffee, you don’t need to spend this long making a decision.” 

He doesn’t look away from the shelves before him, cradling his chin between his thumb and forefinger. “I do. They don’t have my usual brand. I have to contemplate.”  

He doesn’t. Anything strong will do, he is not that fussy an individual. He’s playing along, though, pushing back. “But I want to go home.” 

Your hand begins to creep up beneath his t shirt, fingernails pattering his spine until he reaches to remove it, tutting. “Stop it.” 

“Don’t want to.” Your pout finally earns his observance, turning to you with a slight frown. 

“Behave.”  

Leaning to him, you drop a kiss to his upper arm. “Don’t want to.”  

No, you truly don’t. You want to be punished, so that’s what he does. His eyes flit back to the shelf, continuing to study the bags of ground coffee, pushing you gently from his side whenever you attempt to wrap around him. You whine more, but he ignores it, pays you not one bit of the attention you’re craving, continuing along the aisle in slow tour, placing items into the basket you carry.  

You’re incandescent by the time the items are being rung through, looking at him from beneath your lashes as you pack the few groceries, sulking with indignance. He pays the cashier, taking the bag from you and holding out his hand.  

“Come on.” 

You fix yourself to the spot, lips pursed. He rolls his eyes with a sigh. “Stop being a brat. Come on.” 

You count to five slowly before wrapping your hand around his, fingers tightening as he pulls you to walk in step beside him, eyes fixed ahead. It’s a short walk home, and he’s silent with every step, your mouth curling into a grin to know it’s worked.  

“Wouldn’t be smiling if I were you,” he mutters. “You’re in trouble.” 

And how it fizzes caustically through your blood.  

Climbing the stairs to your apartment, he releases your hand, unclipping his keys and unlocking the front door, taking the groceries through to the kitchen while you loiter in the hallway. With nothing perishable that needs putting away, the bag is left on the counter, Gylve turning back to stare at you as he lifts his chin. Your look of matching defiance makes a spark flare into life within him, walking to you, not stopping, giving you no choice to begin pacing backwards when his chest hits yours, backing you against the smooth plaster of the hallway wall.  

Grasping your wrists, he lifts them above your head, one hand closing around them both as he presses himself against you. “Is this what you wanted?” You drop your gaze, his other hand lifting your chin. “Answer me.”  

Your silence earns a soft slap to your cheek, his hand then grasping your jaw tightly. “I said answer me.” 

“Yeah, it is.” You touch your tongue against your top lip, your teeth grazing a bite upon the lower, blinking slowly, your cheeks flushing, breath hitching when you feel his cock pressing hard against you. “And I know I’ve been bad; I know I’ve been a whiny brat. It's only because I want you so much, though. And I know you love me regardless, but I want you to fuck me like you don’t.” 

He closes his eyes, just for a second as the fire of what your words invoked lick against his insides, his gaze falling to watch you clenching your thighs, knowing that his pinning you against the wall has probably got you just as wet as it did get him hard. It derails him, and he hates you a little bit for it, his plan to hold your neck while he fucked your mouth knocked into the shade by the escalation of his want.  

It happens quickly, your body turned and pushed flat against the wall, the sound of him unfastening his jeans making heat crackle beneath your skin. He pulls your skirt until it puddles at your ankles, his thigh forcing between yours to widen your legs, the action making your pulse quicken rapidly. The desire in you coils in your belly like a serpent, feeling him bend at the knees a little behind you, yanking your underwear to the side before his cock pushes all the way up into you, knocking the breath from your lungs with a gasp. 

Releasing the grip around your wrists, his hand moves to your hair, fingers grasping at the roots and tensing, the little slither of pain magmatic as he pulls your head back, teeth laying a sharp bite to your neck. There’s no build to it, he’s brutal with you, cock daggering the soaked plush of your cunt with rapid thrusts. It’s frenzied and unrelenting, exactly how you desired, and even though he’s the one in control you both know it is purely driven by being a slave to your demands. 

And you demanded to be hate fucked, right there against the hallway wall. 

He groans in your ear, a low, barbarous rumble, and it sets your blood to blaze, your slick muscles yielded around the spear of him as they begin to flutter, everything winding tight. A crush of teeth sends pain shooting through your earlobe, his free hand gripping your hip, nails imbedding red crescents before he suddenly slips from you. You’re turned, underwear ripped from you before you’re lifted by strong arms, dropped back down again on his cock, his hands clutching hard beneath your thighs as he rails you against the wall, pleasure skittering up your spine.  

There’s no mercy in him whatsoever, and you asked for this, every last drop of aggression he pounds into your wailing, shaking body, the lewd squelch of his cock cutting through your slick cunt filling the space, adding to the filthy sounds of your pants and moans.  

"You're a whiny little brat, and you piss me off, but fuck, I love you," he groans, biting your lower lip so hard, the copper tang of blood fills your mouth, his kisses all embers and sin. 

"Just as long as you keep fucking me like you don't, baby." And god, how he does, until it hurts, until your release pours golden and molten over your bones as your thighs clench around the rapid buck of his hips. The bliss of his release swims bright in his eyes, catching his breath, kissing you with heat, and finally, just a little touch of softness.

“Bad fucking girl,” he chuckles, moving you away from the wall, still fused, his hand smacking your bum hard.  

You grin, all delight and triumph. “But you love me for it.” 

“Mm.”  

You know that he does. Even if you do drive him crazy half the time.  

[waterdeep-weavemoss]

Remedy

Religious trauma, ableism, suicidal character etc ahead. Mind the tags.

Rich blood and chamomile thickened the still air around the gallows tree. Teg emerged into the vastness of the flower field, lit eerily by the aurora borealis above. The stars felt tangible here, bright against a wash of purples and blues and electric green. And there above, its gnarled roots pushing greedily into the fertile ground, was the monstrous living thing, its twisted limbs grasping at the sky.

She limped forward. There was something waiting in that tree, and the only thing for it was to cross the ocean of chamomile. She could rest against the trunk, close her eyes, perhaps sleep, even though it was bitterly cold. She was in no more than jeans, t-shirt and leather jacket.

‘Closer, child,’ said a voice. It appeared, to her astonishment, to be the tree itself, beckoning her forward. It wasn’t so far, she told herself. Then she could rest. Her approach seemed to make the tree grow brighter, whether from the aurora or its own strange essence, she could not know. Teg shivered. It was unnerving, ghostly.

‘I don’t want to,’ she found herself saying aloud. ‘And I’m not a child.’ ‘What we want and what we need are often in conflict with one another.’ Well, that’s true, she thought, but it didn’t mean she had to like it. She limped on, reaching out a hand to brace against the bough. She wanted to sink to the soft ground; her legs ached from hip to ankle, nothing with teeth but rather a persistent pressure in muscle and bone. ‘Need rest,’ she said shortly, lacking the energy for further speech.

‘Up,’ said the voice again.

‘Huh?’ She looked up and saw nothing.

‘Climb.’

‘You’re bloody mad, and I’m fucking tired,’ she said, but knew she must. Reaching up high, she closed her hands on a low branch and heaved herself up, her feet almost losing purchase. Lunging, she scrabbled for another branch, feeling panic throb in her throat. ‘I’m going to fall—'

‘Have faith.’

‘Hah, good one. I don’t fucking think so.’

He ignored that. ‘Open your eyes and don’t look down. I am not far.’

Fuck you, she thought. Her feet slipped on the branch below, but she pushed on, and up. There, tangled in the branches, a body. Teg whimpered in terror even as she came eye to eye with the wizened old man. She was standing, she realised with a lurch, on a broad branch, unaided. Speared in its gnarled fingers, the man hung limp, his wounds weeping blood from shoulders and thighs. His eyes were closed. ‘I’m here,’ she whispered. Her knees trembled. She was going to fall any moment. ‘What do I do?’

‘Listen,’ said the man softly.

‘But—'

‘Hush, Dottir.’ He turned his face to her. She screamed. His left eye was still closed, but his right had been gouged out, and in its place was a mass of dark blood, half congealed, weeping onto his pale cheek.

‘Are you dying?’ she asked hoarsely, swallowing the bile in her throat.

‘I cannot die.’ His living eye opened, sharp and shrewd. Teg took a shallow breath, her skin tingling uncomfortably under scrutiny, but she glared back, unyielding.

‘They told me God would heal me.’

He laughed. The sound was so strong it sent a flock of ravens to wing, and so caustic that she felt the heat of shame rise in her cheeks. ‘I think you know, Dottir, that the faith your family holds is not the faith in your heart. Your soul will not ascend to their Heaven.’ The eye narrowed. ‘It will come to Valhalla.’

‘Nobody dies in battle anymore,’ she said, before she could stop herself.

‘Constant pain is a battle, is it not?’ The eye twinkled, and his lips pulled back in a smile. His teeth were bloody.

She didn’t feel like a warrior at all. He watched, calculating, then spat a glob of blood to the ground below. ‘I suppose,’ she said. ‘Everyone else minimis-‘

‘Fuck everyone else,’ he said. ‘You don’t follow everyone else.’ He shifted horribly, his wounds squelching with new blood and torn muscle. ‘You were born with the fighter’s flame inside you, and you would extinguish it with the pail of victimhood?’ He snarled, wolfish. ‘You will not.’

‘They wanted a cure.’

‘And they will not get it! It is never so easy, child, and this you will come to know! No, your lot will be to suffer, and gain wisdom from your suffering, and you must endure it, lest my hall close its doors to you.’

‘What if I don’t want to go to Valhalla?’ she asked, her voice suddenly strong, snapping in the still air like a whip. ‘What if I don’t want to do what you tell me to? What if I want to forge my own path, old man?’

‘That spirit is what makes you a warrior. Perhaps your very instinct to rebel will lead you to my door.’

She looked to the ground far below and shivered.

‘Do you fear, Dottir?’

She did. She knew he knew that. ‘Yes.’

‘Good. Fear will serve you, so long as you never become its slave.’ There was a silence then, stretching out into the fields of chamomile below, around them into the stars. She thought maybe she could hear the northern lights in their slow dance above. And then, with no small measure of amusement, the hanged man said, ‘jump.’

‘What?’ Her voice cracked, wavering with panic, its heat flooding her from fingertip to toe. Trembling and barely able to take a breath around the fear constricting her throat, she whipped her head to the side, to see if he was joking. His one good eye was hard as steel.

‘Jump.’

‘No!’

‘What did you say to me, Dottir?’

She sucked in a breath. ‘I said no.’

The eye narrowed. He contemplated this, the Allfather, and frowned. ‘Not many would dare say no to me, child, and least of all a mortal woman.’

‘Yeah, well,’ she said, trying to feign nonchalance even as her throat seemed to close up in fear. ‘I’m not most people, mate.’ She laughed, a high pitched, desperate cackle. ‘Can’t have any power over a dead girl.’

‘You’re not dead,’ he said softly.

‘No, but I want to be, and that means I hold the cards, old man.’ She grinned, wide eyed, the whites stark against the night sky. ‘I could step off this branch right here and hit the ground and what could you do about it? You’re stuck there.’ She walked backwards blindly, feeling the branch bow slightly beneath her feet.

‘But you won’t.’

‘I should!’ she shrieked. ‘Maybe everyone would fucking leave me alone!’ Teg paused, shaking violently, and realised with a jolt that she was crying. ‘I don’t want to go home.’ She bit her lip hard, drawing blood. ‘Don’t make me.’

There was no response from the hanged man. Instead, the whoosh of great wings cut the silence, and in a moment she had been seized by the arms and lifted into the air. She screamed as they dove for the flowers below and released her, alive. Their talons had sunk deep, her blood oozing in rivulets down her arms. The hanged man was still laughing; she could see him, and even at this distance sensed that haunting eye on her. The scent of chamomile and blood made a heady cocktail in her nose. She tore up fists of flowers, scrabbling to cling to the dream, and slipped into the waking world.

‘AAAH!’ Waking with her heart pounding, tangled in sweaty sheets, it took a second or two for the pain to set in. There were the usual, duller pains in back and shoulder, the uncomfortable ache in her knees, but above them a sharper, brighter pain in the upper arms. For the first time, she noticed blood on the sheets, spots and specks. Then she noted, in a slightly panicked haze, the rivulets of blood. Thin red lines had been gouged into her upper arms. ‘M-must’ve done it in my sleep,’ Teg muttered, trembling. ‘N-not real. Just a dream. Wasn’t- wasn’t real.’

Listening, she heard only silence. She had expected, somehow, for her mum to bustle into the room, gather her up and clean her wounds, for her dad to plonk a cup of tea in front of her with a tender smile, but she was alone. She was alone, and her mother had never been as loving as she was in the imagination. Her dad was dead. She’d been alone for a long time, but in these moments, bitterness and exhaustion sank into her gut like the river stones she would skip with him as a child. Fumbling for the baby wipes on her bedside table, she dabbed tentatively at her wounds, pressing her lips together to prevent tears from falling and failing, sobbing quietly into the dark.

‘Get up,’ she said aloud. ‘Three, two…’ pressing her hand into the wall she dragged herself out of bed. Now that she was on her feet, the dull pains sharpened a little. ‘Going to rain.’ Stop pretending you have company, she thought. It’s pathetic.

Hobbling to the kitchen, Teg leaned on the door frame and sagged in despair. It was spartan, had no homely touch. What’s the point? It’s not mine and never will be. Dirty dishes were stacked in the sink, crusted over with dry food she just didn’t have the energy to clean. Sinking down with a groan of relief into the wheeled office chair she used on a bad pain day, she scooted over to the full kettle, flipped it on, and wheeled to the fridge. Opening it and examining the almost bare shelves, she shrugged and retrieved an apple that didn’t seem to be gently rotting. Crunching on it as she waited, the heaviness of fatigue settled into her bones. ‘Fuck, I can’t do this.’

Nobody answered, nobody was coming to her rescue. ‘Fat lot of good you are, Teg.’ Hauling herself up, she made her tea and, pointedly ignoring the full rubbish bin, limped into the living room to sit heavily on the sofa. It would be so easy to just stay here forever, she thought. Among the takeaway wrappers and coffee cups she would not have to perform for anyone. There was no pull to do anything at all; the rubbish did not bother her as it once would have. The only thing she cared about when she had energy even to care at all, was her pain level. These days, pain was her only constant. She sat and stared and felt nothing except the rage of her body against itself.

The light through the slats in her blinds gave everything a soft glow. The grease on the takeaway cartons shimmered, and the dust motes could have been made of gold. Even her drawn face might look alive, if she cared enough to turn it to the sun. The quiet sank into everything, and she wondered dispassionately if this was the peace of death. Her eyes found the open, half packed duffel bag and wheeled luggage. It looked shiny and new. They were, in truth; she’d had nowhere to go and nothing to look forward to for so long that she’d had to buy them for the trip. Staring dispassionately for a few seconds, she suddenly sprung to her feet, then cursed as pain rocketed through her bones. ‘The trip! The fucking trip, packing- ugh! Teg you useless fuck-‘

A sharp rap rap rap at the front door made her jump. The ever-present muscle tension sent shocks through her body and she winced, involuntarily throwing her hands up. Tea, thankfully cold now, sloshed over her already slightly grubby pyjamas Absurdly, tears welled unbidden. ‘Fuck.’ She tipped her head back, trying to force them down. Rising and leaning on the wall, she struggled into the hall, dripping tea on the linoleum and snatched a jacket off the coat hook, pulling it on to hide the bloody tracks on her arms. Steeling herself, she opened the door, shielding her body behind it as though anticipating frontal attack.

‘Well, are you ready?’ asked her mother, bulling her way in before Teg could answer.

‘Hi, Mum.’ There was a slightly charged pause. In a normal family, this is when I’d hug you. ‘I wasn’t expecting-’

‘Look at the state of you,’ she interrupted, sucking her teeth. ‘When’s the last time you had a shower? Did the laundry? Those pyjamas are disgusting, the smell of this place, my goodness, and- oh!’ She had spotted the scattered wrappers and cups in the living room. ‘Did I raise you in a pigsty? What’s this? And you’re not even packed!’

‘I… I meant to do it earlier. I just forgot.’

‘Forgot?! What must your friends think? Get a move on, quickly!’

‘I don’t have many friends,’ she lied, her cheeks reddening. The urge to cry intensified.

‘No, and no wonder,’ came the caustic, matter-of-fact response. In comparison, she was immaculate, never seen without perfect makeup and well-cut clothing that hung off her thin frame in a way that was desirable to other people. She wore a skirt suit in a tasteful shade of pink; the tea rose lipstick and nails were matching. The tumble of curls around her head had been freshly dyed, too.

‘Do you want some tea?’ her daughter asked tonelessly.

‘Don’t be silly. Find some clean clothes to pack and get dressed, we’re going to be late for the airport, you know I like to get there early. And brush your teeth, ugh.’ She pushed her towards the stairs, somewhat forcefully.

‘Airport?’

‘Oh, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.’

‘I have,’ she lied. ‘Where are we going?’

‘The holiday to France? That nice friend of yours Rhiannon is meeting us at the airport. Honestly. You’d think you had memory issues.’

‘I do. See, it’s part of the neurological condition I have. You know, cerebral palsy? Where your brain is literally damaged? It’s kind of in the name. Cerebral.’

‘Don’t be facetious.’

'I’m just fucking with you.’

‘Don’t. Swear.’

‘Okay.’ Gripping the banister tightly, she ignored the tutting and bustling downstairs. She brushed her teeth mindlessly, hobbled into her room, and tugged at her hair in frustration. ‘Packing. Fucking bane of my life.’ She grabbed fistfuls of clothes and threw them on the bed, shoving underwear, jeans, and tops into a carrier bag she found on the floor. Now what the fuck do I wear to the airport?’ Riffling through her wardrobe, she examined a navy blazer critically, shrugged and moved on. ‘Absolutely fuck no to a dress. Maybe this.’ She settled on a pair of khaki shorts and paired it with a plain black vest, leather jacket, and boots. Shedding the pyjamas and changing into clean underwear, her chosen ensemble, and mismatched socks, she spotted the unworn heels in the back of the wardrobe and felt her stomach sink. They’d been a gift from her mother the previous Christmas, and she hardly had the strength to voice once again that if she wore them, she might break her neck. Dressed and comfortable, she took a breath and surveyed the messy room, hand on forehead.

‘What’s taking so long?’

‘Christ mum, can’t you knock?’

‘Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain! And hurry up! We’re going to be late!’ Pushing past Teg, she swooped down for the heels. ‘Wear these.’

‘Mum, I’ve already told you, I can’t-‘

‘Oh you will make excuses. Don’t be silly. Put them on.’ There was a brief pause. ‘Is that blood on your sheets?’

‘I’ll deal with it.’

Narrowing her eyes and pushing her glasses up her beak-like nose, she squinted at the bedside. ‘And- are those pills?!’

‘No.’

‘Don’t lie to me, Tegen Maria. What are they?’

‘None of your goddamn business is what they are.’

‘Aha, you are lying!’ Grinning somewhat nastily, she lunged across the bloodstained bed and snatched up the box. ‘Antidepressants? What are you doing child, putting that poison in the body God gave you?’

‘Yeah, well, some of us have to cope.’

Her mother tsked in disgust. ‘Stop taking those. And clean this up,’ she said, gesturing at the sheets.

‘I’ll deal with it later.’

‘You told me you weren’t self-harming.’

‘I was telling the truth.’

‘I don’t have the energy to deal with you right now. Change the shoes.’

Choking down hot fury, she did as she was told. The heels pinched her toes and bit against the back of her feet. She tried standing and wobbled slightly.

‘Better. Passable, though you could stand to lose some weight. That vest’s too small. It doesn’t flatter you. You’d feel so much better about yourself if you were thinner, darling. Come on.’

‘I thought you said God doesn’t make mistakes.’

Huffing, her mum turned and clomped noisily down the stairs. Teg followed with some difficulty, her limp more pronounced. Idly, she wondered if this was how she would die: trying to navigate stairs in heels and a disabled body. She managed it without incident, however. Without ceremony, she shoved the bag of clothes into her luggage, sat on it to zip it shut, and swung the duffel over her shoulder. At the last minute, she snatched her cane as she went out the door, before hobbling painfully to the Audi and sliding into the passenger seat with some difficulty and much relief.

‘Off we go then.’ Teg raised a brow, leaning back as her mother put the key in the ignition and the car purred. ‘To France! Isn’t it lovely?’ Glancing over, she raised a brow. ‘What do you have that thing for?’

‘My cane? Um. I kind of need it?’

‘Darling, don’t be silly. Why don’t you go and put it back? I’ll wait.’

‘No.’

‘Tegen—’

‘I said no, mum. I have bad pain days. I need it.’

‘But it’s so unsightly.’ She sighed. ‘Have it your way then. I’m sure it will be a lovely trip, regardless.’

‘Yes, wonderful. Positively smashing.’

‘Wilful child.’ She drove smoothly, sticking to the speed limit and maintaining an air of unsettling calm. When they were some distance from the flat, she spoke again. ‘Now, don’t get mad at me.’

‘Okay Mum,’ she said in a falsely cheery tone. ‘We’ll just have a nice holiday, how about that?’

‘It’s going to be very healing, I think. For all of us.’

***

The airport was as boring and as stressful as it ever was; the buzz of holiday excitement and vague sense of panic could not erase the strange sterility of the place. It was clinical, liminal. Teg became lost inside her own head, imagining herself as a liminal place, as this airport. The people floating around in it like thoughts, the expectations and reality side by side in a wretched tableau of longing and disappointment.

‘Teg!’ said a voice, and suddenly all the warmth of everything came crashing back; she was awake.

‘Rhi,’ she said, careful only to touch her in a way her mother would approve of. ‘Hey.’ Help me, her eyes pleaded silently. She’s been a nightmare. Rhi reached out and briefly squeezed her hand. Even that sent butterflies exploding in her chest.

‘It’s so kind of you to invite me, Mrs O’Sullivan. Thank you, again.’

‘Oh, think nothing of it, Rhiannon dear. Your mother’s a good Christian woman, I know I could trust you to come along and support Tegen. And thank God for you.’ She turned away, walking briskly towards security.

‘God forbid you see her gratitude, Rhi.’

‘Mum’s a good Christian woman, did you know? I sure as fuck didn’t.’

‘Hah. Well. We’re all going to Hell together then, I guess.’

‘Shit. Is it too late to become a heathen instead?’ She nudged her and winked. ‘We could just, I dunno…’

‘Elope?’

‘Is that a proposal?’

‘Do you want it to be?’

‘Girls, hurry up!’ Mrs O’Sullivan was frantic, waving at them from across the lobby. Grinning at each other, they ran to catch up.

When they made it through security and onto the plane, Teg leaned against Rhi’s shoulder. It stopped her from shifting uncomfortably in her seat, wringing sweaty hands, envisioning the crash and burn.

‘I know you hate flying, but it’s not long. And your mum is asleep.’

‘Thank God.’

***

They stepped off the plane into glorious heat and the smell of a new country. Teg smiled, listening to Rhi talk enthusiastically about the patisserie, about Parisian breakfasts of café au lait and pain au chocolat, and macarons in neat little expensive boxes from that one bakery they saw on social media constantly.

They moved through security a second time, the girls taking pains to be a few steps behind Teg’s mother. Even the oppressive sameness of Passport Control could not dampen their spirits. ‘Stupid isn’t it,’ she said, ‘I didn’t even ask her where we were going. I’m just glad to be here.’

‘Wouldn’t be glad if I weren’t gracing you with my presence though, would you?’

‘No,’ she said seriously. ‘No, I wouldn’t.’

‘Thought not,’ said Rhi, winking.

‘Yeah well,’ she said quietly. I love you.

‘Quick, we’re going to be late for the hire car!’ Her mother was waiting with her bags, vibrating with frantic energy.

‘The luggage hasn’t come through for us yet!’ Teg called. ‘Why she can’t just wait like the rest of us. ‘Patience is a virtue,’ and all that.’

‘Here they are.’ Rhi lifted the bags and hurried off at pace, with Teg trotting to keep up.

‘Oi, come back! Let me take my bag!’

‘I’m being chivalrous!’

‘But chivalry is dead!’

‘Oh, shit, yeah,’ said Rhi, slowing and thrusting a luggage handle at her. ‘You have to be a proper feminist and haul your own luggage, I guess.’ They weaved through the crowd and she waved when they came out the other side. ‘Hey Mrs O’Sullivan, sorry.’

‘I nearly drove away without you!’

‘Yeah well, we’re here now, aren’t we?’ said Teg pointedly. ‘Where are we going?’

‘Oh, it’s a surprise. We’ll stop off for coffee and a pastry when we get there.’

Teg and Rhi exchanged glances. ‘Can you give us a clue, at least?’

‘That would just spoil it, Tegen. This experience is a special one. I don’t want to ruin it for you.’

‘Well, if you insist,’ she said, partly grumpy, but feeling content for the first time in a while. The French air smelled sweet and exotic to her, and she had visions of visiting Versailles, of running away to secret rooms and stealing perfumed French kisses.

‘Hey, daydreamer,’ said Rhi softly. ‘Franc for your thoughts?’ Teg smirked and shook her head. ‘Well, alright, if you must keep your secrets. Have it your way.’

The car was finally slowing. It was still only morning, but they got out with heavy, warm limbs.

‘It’s like a fairytale, Mrs O’Sullivan.’

‘This is not a fairytale, Rhiannon. This is real, the most real thing you girls will ever know.’

Teg rubbed her eyes sleepily and cocked her head. She had a niggling feeling, as though recognising the spires and the ornate stonework. ‘Hang on,’ she said. ‘I feel like I’ve seen this before. Have we been here, Mum?’

‘No,’ she said, though she seemed to be brimming over with emotion. ‘No, but now we are. Finally.’

Rhi tugged on her sleeve. ‘I’ve seen this. In a picture book. One of those ones they let us read at school.’

They began walking, soaking in the Frenchness of it all, and then Teg froze. She turned to her mother, opening her mouth to speak, but was ushered forcefully away from the main street before she could say anything. They were in a crooked little alley, barely wide enough for one person. In the bright shade, Mrs O’Sullivan’s panic was clear.

‘Right. Let’s get coffee first. Where do you want to go?’ Her voice was too chirpy, too high pitched.

‘You brought us,’ she said slowly, barely suppressing rage, ‘to Lourdes?’ Her hands curled into trembling fists.

‘Yes, well, I thought it would be nice, you know. Healing. It’s very calm, when you see the waters—'

‘Fuck. You.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Beg then,’ she snarled. ‘Don’t think I don’t know what you’re fucking playing at, you harpy.’

‘Do explain my girl, because I have all the time in the world. The amount I have sacrificed for you, Tegen Maria. When you were born, they wouldn’t let me hold you, do you know that? They put you in a plastic box and told me to wait, and I couldn’t do a damn thing.’

‘I thought you said not to swear.’

‘I went to the chapel, and I sat there, and I prayed for you. I prayed so hard, day and night. I asked Mother Mary to make you whole and healthy.’

‘Let me guess, She didn’t.’

‘Tegen, I love you.’

‘That’s not love. That’s fucked.’

‘If you bathe in the waters— if you go— you could go to Heaven. You could be with me and your father in Heaven.’

‘Fucking Christ, no thanks.’

‘Teg, it’s not worth it,’ whispered Rhi. ‘Come on.’ She tugged on her sleeve.

‘You can’t just leave!’

‘I fucking can. Watch me.’ She glared. ‘Well done. You were such a shit parent you managed to lose your only daughter while on holiday. I trust you’ll be able to pay for your own fare home.’ With that, she turned and stomped away, waving her arm to hail a taxi.

‘I have money,’ said Rhi confidently as one slowed to let them in and they got in the back. ‘Billère, s'il vous plaît,’ The taxi pulled away from the curb. ‘We can book a hotel. Have a proper romantic holiday.’

‘Let’s go to Versailles,’ said Teg. ‘Tomorrow, or whenever. I don’t care if it’s a day’s train ride. I don’t care.’

‘Coffee and croissants first, babe.’

‘Yeah. Sure.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Their fingers were entwined, and Teg examined them. Somehow, she always felt delicate under her girlfriend’s hands. ‘I know it hurts.’

‘Fuck her. I’m her kid.’ She felt hot tears rush to the surface and brim over. ‘She hates me that much? Am I really that unlovable to her?’

‘She doesn’t see it that way.’

‘Never does though, does she?’

‘I know. But you’re not wrong or defective, alright? You don’t need to be fixed. I love you, disability and all.’ She stroked her arm, soothing. C’mon. Get some sleep.’

‘You’re a fucking angel.’ Teg leaned against her shoulder, tears slipping quietly down her cheeks. In moments, the movement of the car and Rhi’s steady breathing had lulled her to sleep.

When she woke again, they were entering Billère. Rhi leaned forward and spoke to the driver. ‘Laissez-nous sortir là, s'il vous plait.’ She paid, chivvied Teg out of the taxi and twirled. ‘Behold, Billère! That way, mountains! This way, freedom!’ Grabbing Teg’s hand, she dragged her into town. ‘Gotta be a hotel close by. Eyes peeled, ma chérie.’ ‘I thought we were doing coffee.’ ‘We are. Just trying to be prepared.’ ‘At least one of us is.’ ‘Hah. Well, here’s a café over there now. Let’s go.’ She led her by the hand, laughing in the sunlight. It was quaint and beautiful, just like they had imagined, and when they went in and ordered food and drink, they basked in the newness of it. ‘This isn’t how I imagined our first holiday going, I’ll be honest.’ ‘Oh, it’s just beginning,’ said Rhi with a wink. She nodded, knowing that more tears and guilt would come later, in the dark when she could not sleep. Right now though, she could hardly bring herself to care. Rhi was positively vivacious, full of joie de vivre; her red hair spilled around her like a fall of sunset water, and her full blushing cheeks reminded her of windfall apples. And she loved her.

***

That night, in their sweetly decorated hotel room accented with fresh lavender, she cried. What was different this time, in this strange land, in the balmy night and open windows, was the arms that held her. She had cried alone so often she had forgotten what it was like to sob into someone else’s shirt, to ruefully apologise, to want to burst with gratitude. She had removed her jacket, and Rhi had kissed her wounds. ‘You know it’s going to be alright.’ Rhi rubbed her back tenderly, pressing a kiss to her forehead. ‘It will. I promise. You can do this. You’re strong as hell, you know that?’ ‘Still love her, even though she’s fucking infuriating. She’s still my mum.’ ‘I know, babe. But you deserve better.’ ‘Do I?’ she felt her eyes fill with tears. ‘I dunno if I do.’ ‘Hey,’ said Rhi, pulling back to hold her face, thumbs stroking away her tears. ‘You fucking deserve good things, okay? Don’t bullshit yourself into thinking otherwise. If nothing else, you’ve got me, whether you like it or not. Got it?’ ‘Alright, alright. Got it.’ ‘Good. Here.’ She reached over to the bedside table they had cluttered with their things and extracted a makeup wipe. Teg dabbed at her face. ‘Bet I look disgusting.’ ‘The red nose look is hot. Girls will be falling over themselves for you.’ ‘Fuck off.’ ‘Hehe.’ ‘Seriously though,’ said Teg, frowning passionately. ‘I love you. And if I wasn’t so gross right now, I’d kiss you to prove it.’

‘I don’t care what you look like,’ said Rhi, sliding a hand into Teg’s hair and pulling her forward into a soft, sweetly perfumed kiss.

***

The gallows tree was gone. Fields of chamomile stretched endlessly, and the silence settled around her like a cloak. She breathed the sweet unbloodied air. No rest now. A blast shuddered somewhere too close, the unmistakable sound of a hunting horn. It seemed to wake the atmosphere, a frisson of anticipation rippling out into the expanse. Against the stars she saw them, the great ravens. They wheeled, coasting on empty air, waiting patiently for blood. Then, thunder. It grew, pressing against her ears until it was nearly too much to bear. And out of the sky on an eight-legged horse, rode the man she’d seen dying and bloody before. Behind him, the Aesir gathered for battle. She barely spared them a glance. ‘Dottir,’ said Odin, voice booming. ‘It’s kind of you to join us.’ ‘Not like I had a choice,’ she said, the fear of their previous encounter gone. ‘You fucking tricked me.’ ‘Educated,’ he said, the blue eye twinkling. ‘Bastard.’ ‘I was right though, child. You did not lay down and die.’ Not for lack of trying, she wanted to say. ‘Not giving my mother the satisfaction.’ She glanced over her shoulder. ‘They’re coming, all your enemies. Best draw your sword, old man.’ She turned and walked away.

[pleatednpleading]

How to Keep You Happy

(cross posted on Ao3 under pleatednpleading!)

Leon walked into the shared apartment, the door creaking softly. All of the lights were off, indicating you most likely had fallen asleep. He walked silently - but it was hard due to the fact that he was limping.

He staggered into the kitchen to find you standing there, drinking water. You make eye contact with Leon - his body stopping in its tracks as you meet eyes with him; your gaze flickered down, taking in all of the injuries on his body. You sigh as you reach under the kitchen sink to get the first aid kit.

Leon was cold, untrusting and somewhat cruel. But, you two have been roommates for about 3 and a half years now, and he finally just recently learned that you only wanted the best for him, and since then he’s been letting you tend to his wounds.

You pat your hand on the counter, silently motioning for him to take a seat on the counter. As he sat down, you could feel his gaze on you. You knew better than to ask what happened to him, or any other questions for that matter, but this time you just couldn’t bite it back; these were serious injuries. It must’ve been really bad.

As you poured isopropyl alcohol onto a wipe, you got the courage to ask, “so, what happened?”

He winced as you cleaned his cuts and before responding, his voice shaky but quickly masked by an indifferent tone.

“It’s none of your business.“

Your eyes narrow.

“You say that every time. These are bad, Leon.”

There’s pity in your voice, concern etched deep into your features. Your brows scrunch together as you stare up at him. The lack of information from Leon only worsened your fears.

"Shut up," he snapped, gritting his teeth against the pain. "I said it's none of your fucking business."

His icy blue eyes flashed dangerously, the dark tone of his words matching the grimace on his face. But despite his harsh words, Leon didn't move away from your touch. Instead, he let out a low growl, leaning back slightly to give you access to his other side.

The bruises covering his skin were testament to whatever ordeal he had faced tonight. And while he tried to maintain his usual aloofness, the way his chest rose and fell with each ragged breath betrayed his exhaustion.

You run the alcohol soaked pad over the cuts on his arm.

“Don’t talk to me that way,” you say quietly.

Even when he was mean, you wouldn’t get mad at him. Even when he was a dick, you’d chalk it up to his work and replace your anger with pity.

“Lift your shirt,” you instruct, sighing.

Leon glared at you, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack. But still, he obeyed, lifting his shirt to reveal more of his bruised torso. Each touch of the cloth sent jolts of pain through his body, making his stomach clench and his fingers curl into fists.

"I don't need your fucking pity," he muttered, though the harshness of his tone lacked its usual conviction.

His eyes darted away from yours, refusing to meet your gaze. He hated how vulnerable he felt right now - hated even more that you saw him like this.

You shoot him a glare before turning your attention back to his stomach. Setting the pad down, you lift his shirt further. There were slash marks across his chest, coupled with bruises all over his skin.

“Leon,” you mumble.

Your hands gently trail across his skin, taking in the damage. You peel his shirt off gently. Once it’s over his head, you set it on the counter and look back at him.

You'd seen him this way before, but this time it seemed different; more intense. His silence spoke volumes more than his usual caustic comments ever did.

Leon's breath hitched as your hands trailed across his skin, sending shivers down his spine. Despite the pain, there was an odd sense of comfort in your gentle touch, something he hadn't expected. His heart pounded in his chest, the sound echoing in his ears, drowning out everything else.

"Stop staring at me like that," he grumbled, trying to hide the discomfort creeping into his voice. "It's creepy."

He looked away, avoiding your gaze once again.

“Creepy?”

You shake your head, grabbing a clean cloth.

“What’s creepy is you staggering into the apartment looking like you’re about to die and not telling me what happened.”

Your tone is firm, but you don’t sound angry. Instead, you sound worried. Your eyes flick to his face briefly as you press another alcohol soaked cloth to his skin.

Leon was a stubborn man, always had been. And yet, here you were, taking care of him anyway. You were stubborn too, in your own way.

"Fuck off," Leon retorted, wincing as the alcohol stung his skin.

But despite his harsh words, he didn't push your hand away. You've seen him worse than this, so much worse that this barely registered on his scale of pain. And yet, having you see him like this... it was different. It felt wrong somehow.

He remained silent, unwilling to provide you with any answers. He'd promised himself long ago that he wouldn't burden you with his troubles – that he'd keep you safe by shielding you from the darkness that consumed him.

You sigh, one hand working at the cuts on his skin. The other grips the counter. Your grip is tight, your anger directed there instead of at him.

“Stop speaking to me like that. It hurts my feelings,” you chide.

Leon snorted, rolling his eyes.

“Like you're some delicate flower who can't handle a little tough love," he scoffed.

But even as he spoke, his actions belied his words. He didn't pull away from your touch; he didn't tell you to stop tending to his wounds. In fact, he seemed almost... relieved?

His mind was racing, thoughts colliding within him. A part of him wanted to lash out, to push you away, but another part... Another part wanted to confess everything. To unload all the secrets and burdens he carried alone.

Your lips part briefly, your tongue pressed against your teeth. You shut your mouth as quick as it opened. The room is quiet, but for Leon’s ragged breathing, his soft groans, and the sound of cloth on skin. Finally, you speak.

“It’s not tough love if you’re just being mean.”

You hated saying it, but Leon could be one of the meanest motherfuckers. Not that you’d use such language toward him. But still. Leon hated hearing it just as much as you hated saying it.

"Whatever," Leon muttered, closing his eyes as he leaned back against the counter.

Your words echoed in his mind, stirring up a storm of emotions he wasn't prepared to deal with. He hated how much you meant to him, how deeply you'd managed to infiltrate his walls. But most of all, he despised his own vulnerability - the fact that he needed you, relied on you.

His heart pounded in his chest, the steady rhythm reminding him of the ticking clock.

You sigh.

“I’m just worried, Leon. This,” you gesture toward him, “is worrying.”

Your eyes don’t meet his as you speak, continuing to dab at his skin. The cloth is rough, a stark contrast to your gentle hands.

Leon remained silent, his icy blue eyes clenched shut as he tried to suppress the wave of emotion threatening to break free. The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken words and hidden truths.

Finally, he sighed, a sound torn from the depths of his soul.

“Look, I know you're worried," he admitted, his voice a low rumble. "But I can't... I won't drag you into this shit."

His words were firm, but there was a hint of uncertainty lacing them.

“You’re scared,” you note.

You don’t seem to be judging him, simply pointing out his fear. Finally, your eyes meet his. Your brows are scrunched together and you look concerned.

“You’re at home. You don’t have to be scared.”

For a split second, there’s a hint of love in your eyes. One that goes beyond simple friendship, one that goes beyond the simple kindness you show him. One that seems bottomless.

Leon flinched at your words, a flash of surprise crossing his features before it was quickly replaced by a hardened stare. Fear? Him? No, that couldn't be it. He wasn't afraid. He was strong, invincible. But the look in your eyes, the concern written plainly on your face, it hit him hard.

"Yeah, well, maybe I am," he snapped, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Maybe I'm fucking terrified. But that doesn't change anything, does it?"

He turned his head away, unable to bear the intensity of your gaze.

You pause, your hands on his chest. You take a deep breath, then let it out slowly.

“Okay,” you say quietly.

Gently, you run the cloth over his skin.

“I’m sorry for even bringing it up.”

The tension in the air was palpable, thick enough to cut through. Leon could feel the weight of your apology pressing down on him, adding to the pile of guilt already resting heavily on his shoulders. He was used to carrying the world on his shoulders, but with you... With you, it became harder to ignore the cracks forming beneath the pressure.

"You shouldn't apologize," he said after a moment, his voice softer now. "It's not your fault."

He reached up, placing a hand over yours, stilling your movements.

The warmth of his hand on yours is enough to make your entire body freeze. It was unexpected and scarily foreign. The warmth was intoxicating.

“It’s not my fault I brought it up? Or is it not my fault that you don’t want to talk to me?” You ask, exhaling sharply.

"Both," Leon replied curtly, pulling his hand away.

The sudden loss of contact made him miss your touch, a strange sensation considering he'd spent years pushing you away.

“I don't want to talk about it because it's none of your business."

The truth was, he didn't want to discuss it because it reminded him of everything he was hiding from you. Of everything he was keeping from you. And that realization only served to deepen his guilt, twisting the knife in his conscience further.

Your eyes narrow slightly before you set the cloth down on the counter. With a sigh, you reach up and run your hands through his hair. The action is soothing, your hands oddly gentle. Your lips part but you don’t speak. The words seem to get caught on the lump in your throat.

Leon closed his eyes, letting out a slow breath as your fingers worked their way through his hair. The feeling was strangely comforting, a balm to the ache in his chest. He knew he should push you away, should insist that you stop touching him. But he found himself leaning into your touch instead, craving the contact.

Your hands felt warm against his scalp, soothing him in a way nothing else could.

"I'm fine," he muttered, though the words sounded hollow, even to his own ears.

Your hands continue their soothing work, massaging his scalp gently. You shake your head, your voice barely above a whisper.

“You’re lying.”

There was no accusation in your voice, merely a statement of fact. You knew Leon too well to believe his lies. You stand on the tips of your toes and place your lips to his cheek, the touch gentle and fleeting.

Leon tensed at the touch of your lips, a jolt of electricity shooting through him. The feeling was so familiar yet so foreign at the same time. It was a reminder of the life he had left behind, the life he had been trying so desperately to forget.

He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry.

"Don't..." he began, but the word died on his lips.

What was he going to say? Don't kiss me? Don't touch me? Because he knew he wouldn't mean it. He craved your touch, craved the feeling of being connected to someone else. Even if it was only temporary.

And that scared him more than any monster he'd ever faced.

You look away, your hands still running through his hair.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize.

Gently, your nails scratch at his scalp.

“I just..”

For once, your voice wavers and you seem nervous.

“I never know when you’ll come home and sometimes I worry that I won’t be able to talk to you the way I want to. I worry that I won’t..”

You trail off, dropping your hands back to the cloth.

Leon watched you, your vulnerability laying bare before him like a rare gem. It was a side of you he rarely saw, and it tugged at something deep within him. Something he'd long since thought dead.

"Hey," he murmured softly, reaching up to cup your chin and turn your face towards him. "Look at me."

His voice was a command, not meant to hurt but to draw you back to the present, to ground you.

You frown, looking up at him. Before you can stop yourself, you place your lips against his.

The kiss is desperate and needy. You want to wrap your arms around him, but you’re scared of hurting him and/or disturbing his wounds. Your hands find their way to his arms and hold his biceps gently.

You hadn't expected that you’d do such a thing, hadn't seen it coming. But damn, did you crave it. Crave him.

Leon froze as your lips met his, a jolt of shock coursing through him. It was a kiss filled with desperation and need, two emotions he was all too familiar with. But coming from you? It threw him off balance.

Slowly, hesitantly, he returned the kiss, his arms wrapping around your waist to pull you closer. The pain in his ribs was forgotten, overshadowed by the burning desire that was consuming him.

Your hands tighten around his biceps. You break the kiss, panting lightly. Your lips are red and swollen, your cheeks flushed.

“I love you,” you tell him, your voice shaky.

Nervously, you look away from him.

Leon stared at you, his icy blue eyes reflecting a storm of emotions. Love. Desire. Guilt. They swirled within him, a tempestuous mix that threatened to tear him apart. But amidst the chaos, there was one thing that remained clear – his feelings for you were just as intense.

He leaned forward, capturing your lips again in another searing kiss. This time, there was no hesitation, no holding back.

He kissed you like he needed oxygen and only you could give it to him, like he was drowning and you were his lifeline.

Your heart pounds in your chest. Your hands move from his arms to his chest, sliding down until they rest against his stomach. Whining, your lips part against his.

You needed this. You craved this.

You craved him.

Leon groaned deeply, the sound vibrating between them. Your hands on his skin sent a jolt of pleasure straight to his groin, making him harden instantly.

He wanted you, needed you. Every fiber of his being screamed for you.

Your fingers dig into his skin, your nails scraping across his flesh. You whimper into the kiss, your tongue exploring his mouth. With a tight grip, you help him down from the counter.

His taste was foreign and divine, a mix you’d dreamed of for years.

Leon allowed himself to be led, his hands moving to your hips as he followed your lead. He broke the kiss only when his feet hit the floor, panting heavily. He looked at you, his icy blue eyes filled with a fire that matched the heat coursing through his veins.

"Make me feel something other than pain," he whispered hoarsely, reaching up to caress your cheek gently.

Hesitating, you sigh.

“You have to be careful, okay? I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Your voice is airy, laced with desperation. Despite your own need for more, you were still concerned.

Leon nodded, his hand falling away from your face.

“I'll be careful," he promised, though the words tasted bitter on his tongue.

Because he wasn't sure how much longer he could keep that promise.

With a soft growl, he captured your lips again, his hands roaming over your body. He explored every curve, every dip, memorizing the shape of you under his fingertips. He needed to imprint this moment onto his memory, to remember what it felt like to be desired.

To be loved.

Your body shivers under his touch. You whimper into his mouth as your tongue dances with his. Your hands roam over his chest, tracing the lines and curves of his muscles. Slowly, you make your way to the couch, pulling him along with you.

Leon let you guide him, his mind consumed by the sensation of your touch. He moaned into the kiss, his body responding eagerly to your every move. As you pulled him towards the couch, he broke the kiss, his breath ragged.

"You're killing me," he whispered, his voice thick with lust.

He sat down on the edge of the couch, pulling you onto his lap. His hands moved to your thighs, squeezing them tightly.

"I want you," he admitted, his voice raw. "I want you so fucking bad."

Your knees land on either side of his hips, your legs spread wide as you straddle his lap. You lean down, pressing against his chest.

“I need you,” you reply, your eyes wandering across his face.

Slowly, your hips roll against his. Even now, even when you knew it was okay, you were scared to keep going.

Leon's hands gripped your thighs tighter, steadying you as you rocked against him. He could feel the heat radiating off you, see the desire in your eyes. And it fueled him, drove him crazy with need.

"Don't be scared," he said roughly, leaning forward to capture your lips in another heated kiss.

His hands moved higher, to the hem of your shirt, his thumbs brushing against the bare skin of your lower belly.

You gasp into the kiss, your hands finding their way to his shoulders. You’re trembling slightly, but you don't pull away. Instead, you press closer, your breasts crushed against his chest.

Leon groaned into the kiss, his body reacting violently to the feel of you pressed against him. He could feel your heartbeat pounding against his chest, hear the hitch in your breath. It was intoxicating, driving him wild with desire.

His hands slipped beneath your shirt, his palms flattening against your back. He pulled you closer, the friction of your bodies sending sparks shooting through him.

Your hips rock harder against his. You grind your pussy against his bulge, your clit throbbing. Each of your exhales leaves your lips in short bursts. You can feel him growing harder underneath you and it only serves to fan the flames.

Leon hissed as you ground against him, the friction of your hips setting his entire body ablaze. He could feel his cock twitching, straining against his jeans. He wanted nothing more than to rip those jeans off and bury himself deep inside you.

But he held back, his hands gripping your ass firmly, keeping you grounded on top of him. He didn't want this to end too soon. He wanted to savor every second, every moan, every tremble.

"You're killing me," he muttered, his voice low and rough. "But fuck... it feels good."

Your breathing hitches, your body writhing atop his. You pull away, panting. Fervently, you tug your shirt off. Your chest is exposed by your lack of a bra. Roughly, you throw your shirt to the side. You lock eyes with Leon nervously.

It was nerve wracking, scary even, to be so open with him. This wasn’t your first time, not at all, but this level of intimacy with someone like Leon is something nothing, no one, could prepare you for.

Leon stared at you, his gaze roaming over your exposed skin. He took in the sight of your breasts, the hardened nipples begging for attention. His mouth watered, his cock throbbing painfully against his jeans.

Without saying a word, he reached out, cupping your breasts in his hands. He kneaded them gently, feeling the weight of them in his palms. His thumb brushed over your nipples, circling them slowly before pinching them lightly.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured.

Your head tilts back, exposing your neck. A moan escapes your throat, echoing throughout the room. Your hips continue to rock against his, your cunt grinding against your bulge.

“Leon,” you whine.

Your eyes flutter shut.

He could smell your arousal, taste it on your skin, see it in your eyes. It made him even hungrier for you.

Leon watched you, his heart pounding in his chest. The sight of you, lost in pleasure, was enough to drive him over the edge. But he held back, wanting to draw this out, to make you beg for release.

He wasn’t a sadistic man, wouldn’t call himself one, but something about you made him want to take his time. Something about you made him want to be cruel in the nicest way possible.

He leaned forward, his lips trailing kisses down your neck. He nipped at your skin, marking you as his. His hands moved to your waistband, fumbling with your shorts.

"Do you want me?" he asked, his voice husky with desire.

Your hips slow, but you keep rocking against him. Your hands find their way to his hair and you run your fingers through the strands.

“I need you,” you whisper.

And, despite the room being completely furnished, the words seem to echo. Whether they actually do or just seem to, they occupy Leon’s mind. The words bounce around, roam, zip through his mind.

You’d be lying if you said they weren’t echoing through you too.

Leon groaned, his hands finally managing to free you from your shorts. He hooked his fingers into the elastic band of your panties, pulling them down your thighs.

Leon watched as you squirmed atop him, your movements growing more frantic. He could feel your arousal, your need for him. And it was intoxicating, driving him wild with desire.

He leaned forward, capturing one of your nipples between his teeth. He nibbled at the hard peak, feeling it stiffen further under his ministrations. His hands wandered down to your thighs, spreading them wider apart.

Your back arches, pushing your breast deeper into his mouth. A sharp cry tears from your throat. Your pussy throbs, dripping wet. You grind against him, desperate for contact.

His name falls from your lips once more. The sound is angelic, so many emotions expressed in those two simple syllables. Leon. He was your falling angel, and you’d never forgive yourself if you let him fall all the way.

Leon sucked harder on your nipple, relishing the sound of your cries. He could taste the saltiness of your skin, smell the sweet scent of your arousal. It was driving him insane, making him ache with need.

His hands roamed lower, slipping between your thighs. He felt your slick folds, your arousal coating his fingertips. He slid a finger between your swollen lips, teasing at your entrance.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his voice strained with desire. “You're so wet.”

Your hips buck against his hand, seeking more pressure. You’re desperate, needy. Your pussy clenches, empty and aching.

“Please, Leon,” you whimper.

You need him, crave him. Your body seems to ache with longing. Longing for him, for pleasure, for anything he could and/or would give you.

Leon growled, his finger sliding deeper into your warmth. He curled his finger, searching for that spot that would send you over the edge. He wanted to make you come undone, to leave you breathless and shaking.

"Tell me how you want it," he demanded, his voice a low rumble. "I'll give you whatever you need."

Leon was never one to lie. He’d give you the world if you asked. This was the least he could do for you.

Your nails dig into his shoulder blades as your hips jerk against his hand, fucking his finger into you.

The way your body moves seems to be on its own accord, seeking more, needing more. You can’t help yourself, can’t control your lust for him. It’s almost primal, instinctual.

“Harder,” you pant. “F-fuck me.”

Leon groaned, his finger pumping harder into your tight heat. He added a second digit, stretching you open. He could feel your walls clenching around him, trying to milk him for release.

“Leon!”

You cry his name like a prayer, your orgasm building rapidly. His name falls off of your tongue with praise, with love, with nothing short of worship. The word was nothing less than a prayer.

Leon could hear the desperation in your voice, see the raw need in your eyes. It fueled him, drove him to give you everything you needed.

He added another finger, scissoring them inside you, stretching you wide. He felt your walls fluttering around his digits, your climax looming just on the horizon.

"Fucking hell..." he muttered, his free hand grabbing at your hips. "Come for me."

Your body tenses, then releases. An orgasm rips through you, leaving you trembling and weak. You collapse onto him, spent and satisfied.

“Leon,” you breathe, your voice raw and airy.

Leon watched you come undone, the sight of you unraveling beneath him sending a surge of satisfaction through his veins. He could feel your pussy clenching around his fingers, milking them for all they were worth.

He pulled his fingers free, bringing them to his lips. He tasted yourself on them, the sweetness of your arousal. It only made him hungrier for more.

"I've got you," he whispered, his voice soft yet filled with promise.

And, though he meant the words in a literal sense, you couldn’t help but repeat them.

“I’ve got you.”

You, however, mean it in a different sense. You had him physically, of course, but mentally too. He was everything to you: a roommate, friend, lover, angel.

Your hips slowly roll against his, your body and mind both occupied with the feel of him.

Leon looked up at you, his icy blue eyes meeting your gaze. There was a darkness there, a shadow of pain that he tried to hide behind his usual mask of indifference. But you saw it, and it scared you.

As much as you hated to admit it, it scared you.

He fumbled with his jeans briefly, his hands working the button open and the zipper down. His hips buck slightly as he pulls both his pants and underwear down.

"You’re mine," he said, his voice rough with need.

His words are a declaration, not a question. They’re a statement of fact. He’s yours, too, in every possible way.

You lean down, kissing him deeply. You kiss him like the two of you might not get another chance. Like your time together is limited.

Your hands find their way to his cock, your fingers gently touching him. Gently, as if he might disappear.

Leon gasped, his hands tangling in your hair. The sensation of your fingers on his sensitive flesh sent sparks shooting up his spine. He could barely contain the urge to thrust up into your touch, but he held steady.

The kiss was intense, passionate, a reflection of the hunger burning within both of you. It was raw, unrestrained, and it left Leon breathless when you finally broke away.

"Don't stop," he pleaded, his voice thick with desire.

Your heart hammers in your chest, each beat echoing the rhythm of your shared desire. Your fingers wrap around his length, stroking him firmly.

You move your hand up and down his shaft, applying just enough pressure to drive him crazy. Each stroke sends a wave of pleasure coursing through his body.

“I won’t,” you promise.

Leon moaned, his head tilting back as he savored the feeling of your hand on him. Every stroke was pure heaven, driving him closer and closer to the edge.

He reached down, his hand covering yours. He guided your movements, showing you exactly how much pressure he liked. His hips rocked in sync with your hand, his body moving instinctively towards release.

"Fuck..." he breathed out, his voice laced with desire.

The touch is intoxicating, addicting. You can't seem to get enough of him. You’re addicted to his taste, his touch, even his smell. You’re obsessed with him. Obsessed.

Gently, you take your hand off of him.

“Can you do more? Are you hurting?”

Your tone is worried and needy, desperate for more but terrified of hurting him.

Leon groaned, his body missing the warmth of your hand already. But he shook his head, denying your concern.

"Nah, I'm good," he lied, his voice strained. "Just give me a minute."

He reached down, guiding his throbbing length between your folds. He teased himself against your entrance, savoring the moment before he pushed in.

"Ready?" He asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Wait,” you hesitate.

You replace his hand with yours.

Delicate, gentle. Those are the only words that come to mind with your touch.

“Just, relax. Let me take care of you. It’s what I’m good at,” you whisper.

And it’s true. You’ve always taken care of him.

Leon let out a shaky sigh, leaning into your touch. He closed his eyes, focusing on the sensations you were evoking from deep within him. It was soothing, calming, allowing him to forget about the world outside this room.

"You're incredible," he murmured, his voice filled with admiration. "Don't ever change."

His voice is shaky, just barely, but he means it. He hates lying to you, hates acting as if he’s fine, but he does. This, though? He’d never lie to you about this. He couldn’t bring himself to.

With one final nod, he spoke.

"Okay. Ready."

His words are sweet, but they don't make up for the bruises you know he has. You want to ask again, but you’re afraid to pry.

Instead, you focus on taking care of him. You guide him inside of you, inch by intoxicating inch, until he fills you completely. You hold still for a moment, letting you both adjust.

Leon grunted, his eyes squeezing shut as he sank into your warmth. It was unlike anything else, the tightness, the heat, the way your body seemed to cling to him.

He was home, in the most primal sense of the word.

Slowly, he began to move. He withdrew partially before pushing back in, setting a slow, steady pace. Each movement was deliberate, calculated to stretch you further, to fill you completely.

"You're so fucking tight," he growled, his voice thick with lust.

His words send shivers down your spine. You can't deny the effect he has on you. His cock stretches you, filling you to the brim.

You can tell by his movements that he’s trying to be careful, but it doesn't matter. All that matters is that he’s here, inside of you.

You try to halt his movements, not wanting him to strain himself. Instead of letting him thrust, you lift your hips and bring them back down.

Leon gritted his teeth, a low growl escaping his lips as he felt your walls clench around him. The sensation was overwhelming, driving him closer to the edge with each passing second.

But he didn't want to hurt you. Not like this. So he allowed you to set the pace, matching your movements with his own. His hips rolled forward, grinding against yours as he sought out that perfect angle.

"I'm fine," he insisted, though his voice betrayed him.

He was far from fine, but he wouldn't let you see that. Couldn’t.

But, in spite of his efforts, you knew. You always seemed to know. He wasn’t a bad liar by any means, yet you always saw right through him. Like he was glass.

“Leon, for once..relax. Please?”You ask, your eyes meeting his desperately.

You guide his hands to your hips and let him hold you as you ride him.

Leon couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt as he looked into your eyes. He hated deceiving you, especially when it came to something as intimate as this. But he also knew that he had to protect you, no matter what.

He relented, allowing his hands to fall to your hips as you took control. He watched in silent awe as you rode him, your body moving with a grace and elegance that was truly captivating. He couldn't tear his gaze away from the sight before him.

Despite everything, despite all the pain and suffering he'd been through, you made it all worth it.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered, his voice barely audible.

His words make you smile.

A genuine smile, not forced.

You lean down to capture his lips with yours, kissing him deeply. Your hips continue their rhythmic dance atop him. The pleasure is intense, almost too much.

Leon kissed you back, his tongue dancing with yours in a heated duel. He could taste the sweetness of your mouth, mixed with the faint hint of saltiness from earlier. It was intoxicating, fueling his arousal even further.

His hands tightened on your hips, guiding you down onto him harder. He wanted to push you over the edge, to bring you to climax alongside him.

To share this moment, this intimacy, however fleeting it might be.

"Don't stop," he breathed out, his voice ragged with need.

You don’t intend to stop. There’s nowhere else you’d rather be.

You kiss him deeper, your tongues tangling together. Your movements become erratic, wild.

You can’t seem to get close enough to him, to touch him enough. You’re greedy, you suppose.

[vikingsong]

Reforged (excerpt)

Fill for my Merlin Bingo 2024 adopted square “Aliens” 😉

Hello! For context (if you haven’t already heard me ramble about this WIP in one Discord server or another), this is the first half of Chapter 1 of a loooong and not remotely complete WIP, hence sharing it here rather than AO3 or FFN. It’s a modern-with-magic reincarnation fic.

(TW: graphic violence)

Fic summary:

Arthur Rhydderch had spent years trying to ‘find his calling,’ as his thesis advisor described it. This wasn’t quite what I had in mind, the reincarnated Once and Future King thought as he gave his sword a twirl and launched himself at the alien before it could breathe another blistering spurt of flames.

Up-and-coming paleontologist Dr. Merlin Emrys had thought he was adulting quite well; most days, he even managed to avoid getting yelled at by his landlady. Then secrets from his past life resurfaced, and everything fell apart. Facing an impossible choice, Merlin must come to terms with who he was, who he is, and—most importantly—who he wants to become.

Or:

When Albion’s greatest need arrives in the form of an alien invasion, the reincarnated figures of legend must deal with the consequences of their shared past even as they fight for humanity’s future.

Chapter 1 (excerpt):

Arthur was in the library when the world ended. It was barely 10:00 AM on a Tuesday, and it was shaping up to be one of the worst days of his life even before the sky rained fire.

Six hours ago, Arthur had shaken off the claws of a nightmare for the third night in barely a week. Running, always running, with watering eyes and screaming lungs as the soot threatened to choke him. Four hours ago, he’d paused in the middle of his training run through the city to sit on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial and watch with bleary eyes as the pale dawn crept up from the horizon, silhouetting Capitol Hill against the clear autumn sky. His t-shirt stuck to his skin as his sweat cooled. Blood and sweat mingling, trickling down his back as he twisted away from vicious claws that slashed his shoulder from behind. The fresh air hadn’t banished the phantom tang of acrid smoke, so he’d dragged himself home and attempted to drown the taste with a fourth cup of caustically strong coffee, nearly scalding his tongue in his haste. Burns blistering on his forearms as he gripped the sword hilt with white knuckles while hissing creatures stalked him from the shadows. The shifting shadows had still dogged his thoughts as he’d headed to an early one-to-one meeting with the head coach of his college soccer team.

Three hours ago, his coach had informed him, not unkindly, that he wouldn’t be nominating Arthur for the pro soccer draft at the end of the semester, despite Arthur being co-captain and the best on the team. Arthur understood his coach’s reasoning, but it did nothing to ease the sting. The prevailing industry view was that most players peaked in their mid-twenties, and Arthur was already twenty-six. His American uni scholarship had already been his fallback option, a new route to the same professional goal after he’d aged out of Manchester United’s football training academy without a pro contract at twenty-three. Now, the coveted draft slot would go to a younger player—a domestic player who wouldn’t have to deal with visa complexities—and Arthur would simply have to find another calling.

Two hours ago, Arthur’s thesis advisor—never particularly interested in Arthur’s athletic goals—had inadvertently poured salt in that raw wound by asking, as he did at least once a semester, if Arthur had “found his calling” yet.

Arthur’s self-control had slipped, and he’d answered bluntly, “If it’s a calling, then it needs to make itself heard.”

Dr. Taliesin had simply sighed and said, “Someday you will know your destiny.” Then he’d asked to see the latest draft of Arthur’s senior thesis and proceeded to spend the remaining twenty minutes of their meeting eviscerating it.

One hour ago, Arthur had clocked in for his work-study shift at the campus library. The students who’d pulled all-nighters on midterm assignments had all gone to bed or to class by the time Arthur arrived, and it hadn’t taken him long to reshelve the trail of reference texts they’d left in their wake.

Thirty minutes ago, he’d settled at the circulation desk with a stack of books which Dr. Taliesin had just recommended. Arthur had tried—and failed—to concentrate on his thesis research instead of his imploded career plan, even as he’d tried—and failed—to ignore how the silence amplified the harrowing echoes of his nightmares.

Fifteen minutes ago, Arthur had scrubbed a hand over his itchy stubble, regretting that he’d forgotten to shave in his distracted state that morning. His neck had popped audibly in the quiet lobby as he’d stretched and had given up on his thesis research for the moment. Having concluded that he needed to distract himself from anything having to do with his future, he’d pushed aside the heavy books and pulled out the latest reading assignment for his Medieval Lit elective.

One minute ago, Arthur had realized that he’d been staring blankly at the same Middle English paragraph for several minutes. He’d given up on studying altogether and gathered up his reference books to shelve. When he’d stood, his rolling chair had skittered sideways out of his reach. He’d been ready to chalk it up to caffeine tremors and jittery nerves when he’d heard the lobby’s floor-to-ceiling windows rattle.

That was when he’d glanced up and discovered that the world was ending.

He blinked—once, twice—and craned his neck to get a better look. Well, his tired brain amended as it struggled to process the latest milestone in his terrible day, perhaps ‘ending’ is too strong a word. Maybe just the ‘start’ of the apocalypse?

Semantics aside, the sky was raining fire.

The ground shook as each flaming meteorite crashed, one after another after another. One hurtled toward the window, and the prospect of his impending fiery death finally jolted Arthur into action. He dropped the books and dove behind the circulation desk, throwing up an arm to shield his face as the glass shattered and the fireball barreled through.

Over the greedy crackle of flames as a row of study cubicles caught fire, Arthur heard an unnatural hissing. It grated across his nerves like nails on a chalkboard. He peeked around the edge of the circulation desk and froze.

Am I dreaming?

From within the smoldering wreckage of the thing that hadn’t been a meteorite, a creature emerged—a creature unlike anything Arthur had ever seen. The firelight glinted off its burnished scales as it unfurled leathery wings like a monstrous bird hatching from a cursed egg, like a cassowary made of fire and brimstone. The creature fixed its glowing red eyes on him and uttered a shrieking hiss.

Arthur knew that sound.

So that’s what they look like, he thought, half-hysterical. He ducked back behind the desk, even though he knew it was too late to hide. The beast had seen him, and just like he knew that horrible cry, he knew that thing would hunt him down. He heard the creature flap once, and then a spurt of flames shot past the edge of the circulation desk where his face had been moments before. The industrial carpet melted.

Arthur’s instincts took over. One. There was no hope of getting out through the burning front entrance, so he scrambled away from the flames and ran the length of the circulation desk, staying low as another fiery blast raced over his head and immolated an oil painting on the wall above him. Two. Just like in his nightmares, he counted, and just like in his nightmares, he had no idea why. He reached the end of the circulation desk and made a run for it across an exposed stretch of the lobby, dodging more fireballs—Three. Four.—as the creature chased him toward the winding, windowless corridors that formed the only route to the back exit.

He skidded into the corridor and ricocheted off the wall as he took the first turn at full speed. Another volley of flames hit the wall just after he’d turned the corner; he felt the heat at his back as he continued his flight. Five. The fire alarm kicked in, and the reverberating noise in the corridors nearly drowned out the creature’s shrieks and hisses. After several more turns and another near miss with a fireball—Six.—that left one sleeve of his red hoodie singed, Arthur hit a dead end.

He cursed colorfully under his breath as he realized he’d taken a wrong turn on autopilot; he’d been so focused on dodging fireballs that he’d turned left instead of right at the special collections display case. He’d reached the central elevator’s windowless alcove rather than the exit. The elevator was out of service, he’d already passed the nearest stairwell, and he didn’t have time to retrace his steps to the turn he’d missed. He heard a crash followed by scuffling as the creature—the alien, his brain so helpfully supplied—slammed into the display case before approaching the final turn. I’ve got thirty seconds at best. Arthur backed away from the sound, wracking his brain for any remaining options. His shoulder bumped into something sharp; he glanced back and saw it was the corner of a wall-mounted display case containing a medieval-style sword from the university’s eclectic collection of artifacts. On the lower right corner of the plate glass front, a snarky student had added a sticky note that read:

In case of emergency, break glass :)

What have I got to lose? he thought, glancing around. There were no fire extinguishers—Ironic, he lamented—nor any other heavy objects in the alcove to break the glass. Out of time and options, he raised his hood for protection like a knight’s coif and shielded his face with his right arm before slamming his left elbow into the glass as hard as he could. It cracked but didn’t shatter.

The hissing grew louder. Ignoring the pain in his arm, Arthur struck the case a second time, and then a third.

Razor-sharp shards grazed Arthur’s hoodie as the glass shattered and spilled out onto the floor. As the security alarm blared in concert with the fire alarm, he reached into the case and drew out the sword.

It felt strangely comfortable in his hand. Not quite like the sword in his dreams, but familiar all the same. He gave it a quick twirl with his wrist, then faced the hallway just as the alien appeared.

It stalked toward him on all fours with its folded, bat-like wings curving up from its clawed forefeet; the barbed tips met in a sharp arch over its back like crossed lance poles. Its glowing red eyes were nearly level with Arthur’s as it paused, tilting its large, draconic head side to side on its long neck as though sizing up the sword in Arthur’s hand.

Arthur stood his ground. Not like I have anywhere left to run, he thought as he tightened his grip on the sword. Might as well go out fighting.

The alien hissed, and smoke curled out through its nostrils. It opened its jaw wide and coughed out a sulfurous black cloud. Arthur gagged as his eyes watered. The alien hacked again like a chain smoker, but no flames burst forth.

Arthur saw his window and took it. Just like on the footie pitch, he feinted left, then spun to the right. With a screech, the alien fell for the trick and lunged, leaving its neck vulnerable to Arthur’s attack. Arthur used the momentum of his spin to throw his full weight into his one shot at survival, bringing the blade down squarely on the creature’s neck.

The steel sliced clean through sinew and bone, and the creature’s head hit the ground mid-snarl. Arthur dodged the body’s writhing death throes and vaulted over the convulsing tail as he raced back down the corridor toward the exit. He slipped more than once on the wet linoleum—the emergency sprinklers had finally activated—before he stumbled out through the back exit into the deserted alley, soaked and bleeding, still clutching the sword.

[dungeoncrawls]

mór brennan ; a-rank healer of the lunar hounds • wields a military grade tranquiliser gun • weak to bad back which aches at the slightest provocation • best described as caustic but unpretentious • vibes of sometimes you have to break bones to mend them, often poison tastes sweeter than medicine  ;  a ‘ nice ’ doctor is not the same as a ‘ good ’ doctor, but some people need to learn this the hard way  ;  there is no universe in which death can be held at bay forever, not even with all the power in the world.

[ statistics. ]

given name : mór meaning : unknown — great (?)

surname : brennan meaning : little raven

age : thirty - five place of birth : christchurch, new zealand date of birth : 12 october 1988

gender : none pronouns : they / them / whatever orientation : asexual

face claim : emily browning height : 1.55m / 5'1" weight : 50kg / 110lbs hair : brown, long eyes : brown clothing : antipodean farm - core ( baggy t-shirt, frayed jean shorts & gumboots ).

[ biography. ] tw cancer, death.

born on a rainy spring afternoon in christchurch, new zealand, mór brennan was never entirely average. from the moment they were born, wailing as if the entire world had offended them grievously, their parents knew mór would be a handful.

they were a quiet child for the most part, unless something displeased them. when that occurred, mór became loud. very loud. they were never shy to express disdain or distaste, and got along much better with the animals on the family farm than the students at their primary school.

mór was seventeen and about to graduate when they were awakened. it was terrible timing, missing out on multiple final exams due to being bedridden. though, for someone like mór, who never had much interest in a formal education anyway, it wasn't that much of a tragedy.

with their newfound affinity for healing, mór spent even more time on the farm, helping with the animals. they weren't interested in trying to heal people until their uncle — one of the few human beings mór tolerated — fell ill.

as it turns out, however, even the power of an awakened wasn't enough to cure melanoma. mór's uncle passed away when they were twenty-three, after four years of battling the disease. in their grief, they moved away from their family, to the other side of the world — los angeles.

mór was twenty-eight when they were scouted by the lunar hounds. they'd gained a reputation for being a skilled healer — despite their atrocious bedside manner. initially, they refused the offer, preferring to operate on their own and only having to deal with people on their own terms — but eventually, the need for job security won out. there's always demand for healers both in and out of dungeons, so when they're not swearing at teammates for getting hit ( or tranquilising the fuckers to drag them out of there themself ), mór can often be found in one of the hospitals of los angeles, doing their utmost to invent a way to heal incurable diseases.

[ abilities. ]

as an a-rank healer, mór can heal all but the most grievous of wounds — if they feel like it.

targeted healing : can provide more concentrated healing to one ally. requires concentration, takes between one to five minutes depending on level of injury.

general healing : can heal allies within a certain radius. requires less concentration to maintain, but can only heal minor injuries ( scrapes, cuts, etc ) and reduce inflammation for things like dislocated limbs or broken bones.

that being said, mór's specialty is off-field healing — away from the combat, where they can force their patient to lie down and they can target specific injuries, set bones and even treat concussions. not to mention it sets their back off less. hence the tranquiliser gun — it's great to take out immediate dangers in the vicinity of them, but even better to sedate know-it-all fighters and tankers.

[ connections. ]

patients : tankers or fighters who just keep getting injured and mór is their go-to healer — for whatever reason. maybe they're a fount of endless positivity who can't read a room, maybe they enjoy getting on mór's nerves ... maybe it's a deal between their guilds and nobody is enjoying it.

fellow healers : coworkers, associates, mentees ... all viable connections for other healers to have with mór. maybe someone who disapproves of their methods / attitude ?

[justicefanged]

[ Heckle/Cheer ] - You know what’s better than a dance-off? A dance-off with commentary.

"Oh this is precious!" Sain hasn't forgotten the annoyance that is Linus. The pain he caused for Lyn and his army, the wounds he inflicted upon women. How fortunate that he'd find him in the middle of a dance.

He points a finger to the Reed, cupping his mouth with his opposite hand, and shouts his venomed words.

"The dog has fallen in love with the princess!"

Laughter ensues. Not just from him, but a few other bystanders.

Linus had been having the best time with Altena, and he was trying his best to end the night off right with a dance. They were absolutely not following through on all the steps, but that wasn't their purpose on the dance floor; they were just having a fun time together, and even if some steps went wrong or their beat was off or whatever, it wasn't really noticed in the long run or they just blew it off with a joke.

It was...nice.

He really couldn't remember the last time he'd danced like this with somebody. Not the fancy part, but the close part -- with no thoughts toward what gratification would come once the dance was over and done with.

Ah, shit. He liked her a lot, didn't he?

Saints, don't fuck this up like everything else, he'd already made a promise

The sarcastic, caustic voice pulls Linus out of his thoughts and draws his attention away from pretty very pretty Altena with a growl.

Who the fuck was this jealous fop?

Linus' face went a brilliant red -- not because he was embarrassed, what the hell did he have to be embarrassed about here? He was dancing with the absolute ten out of ten here! No, he was pissed off because they were being interrupted, and because...well, he knew he was having a grand old time with whatever attraction was circling here, but.

Tonight was tonight. And that didn't mean whatever this was, was going to live beyond this place.

Linus wasn't about to let Altena get saddled with him in the face of others at the monastery if that wasn't what she wanted. People should see her first, not the mess that followed after him like the wake of a ship.

"What, ya think this is a joke?" Linus growled, breaking away from Altena to advance on Sain with an obvious, violent intent. He'd always been a telegrapher, but that was part of his fear factor; he was big, he was scary, and he didn't need to be sneaky about what he planned to do to you.

The man may have had some idiots laughing behind him, but how long would they stick around? Hope they stayed to help him pick his teeth up off the floor.

"So, who're you, then? Here on your own?" he asked, shoving the knight back, sharp teeth bared like a dog ready to bite. "Can't imagine why! I seen ya around. Chasin' skirts, talkin' all flowery an' spinnin' bullshit promises to any poor girl who gives ya the time of day." His eyes slide to the now awkwardly silent bystanders, either nervously eyeing him back or pretending they were never involved to begin with.

Figures.

"Ya wish you were in my boots, don'tcha? Dancin' with someone way outta your league. How many times have ya struck out, huh? 'Nough to make this mistake," Linus bit out, grabbing Sain by his shirt and yanking him in close. "Better pray ya have better luck in your next life, friend."

And without further adieu, Linus slammed his skull into Sain's face, more than satisfied at the sound of something cracking.

He'd had a good night, but things often ended up bloody with him. Oh, well. Fun always had to come to an end.

[writedisaster]

cont with @scxrytxles from here

Chester looks up from the claw-marks carved into Charlevoix’s arm and the damp rag he holds against the oozing gashes. The sharpness of his expression stands in stark contrast to the gentle pressure of his hands against the injury.

“That’s what you’re worrying about?” He asks. “I could have taken your arm off and you’re trying to decide whether or not you’ve, what, offended me?” Incredulity drips from between his words, caustic and critical. He doesn’t like the taste or the texture of it in his mouth, bitter and brittle. It’s kind, what the young sailor is doing. He’s trying to be kind and Chester is… not. He knows better. He was taught better.

He sits in silence, carefully peeling back the cloth, nose wrinkling at the scent of blood and medicinal herbs. Chester pulls Charlevoix’s arm straight, carefully setting his sharp, sharp claws back into the wound.

In the opposite direction he’d swung, he pulls his hand. The flesh seals, knitting itself back together as if this little lapse in control had never happened. Chester releases him quickly, pulling his hands back to himself and sitting back on his heels.

“If you give me your shirt I can. Wash and. Repair it.” He offers limply, trying hard to look the mortal in his face for this next bit. He can’t quite manage it.

“I apologize. For earlier. It is my fault, not yours. Understand?”

       “Um.  Yes?”  It seems like a very self-evident question to Charlevoix: usually, people wouldn’t lash out like that for no reason, therefore, he is trying to determine the reason.  But the fact that Chester is asking him this question indicates Chester does not follow Charlevoix’s logic here. Charlevoix considers attempting to explain it for him, because Chester is being quiet and that means Charlevoix is allowed to talk, but he is not quite sure of the wording.  He is running it through in his head for the third time when Chester takes his arm again and he freezes, it still hurts-

       And then it is not hurting and not bleeding and Charlevoix wiggles his fingers and they move just how they should.  Which is nice, because he wants to keep being able to play the concertina, and also keep being able to do other things that involve his fingers moving.  Okay.

        “Oh, no... no thank you.  I like my shirt.”  He chews his bottom lip.  “I don’t.... I don’t need it to be anyone’s fault.  I just want it to- not happen again.  Uh.  If there’s anything I can do... not do... for it to not.  You know.  Not happen again?  I’d like that.”

[leviabeat]

Some screencaps of that Power97 promo vid

Original video on Instagram here.

07.17.2023 | Canada Life Centre | Winnipeg | MB | Canada

[decayandfanfics]

Willing curse

Part two of Spellbound

Warnings: angst. gore Explicit. Mentions of necrophilia. General reader. Tomura being Tomura. Mutual pining, yandere themes.

____________________________________________________

Tomura thinks he’s going insane.

He feels his bones burning inside his body, ribs and spine twisting into a vision of ivory, meat and pumping veins that curls and bleed all over the floor, the walls, the ceiling.

It bleeds, it bleeds, it bleeds, and he can’t talk, he can’t scream, he can’t do anything but watch.

Then he’s not inside himself anymore. No, he’s outside, seeing himself become something he can’t recognize, something he didn't agree to be. Something he didn't agree to feel.

Red eyes meet red eye, and he swallows hard, holding the nausea that burns his chest and numb his limbs. Is useless, he can’t beat the pressure, he can’t beat this feeling.

Tomura chokes with words he can’t articulate, a name that refuse to leave his throat, so he tears into his neck trying to take them out, trying to open a gash wide enough to breathe or to bleed out and finally die. It would be worth the try as long as the itch is gone. As long as the itch is gone, as long as…

He watches himself in the mirror, a sight of hatred, bones and scars that look back at him with bloodshot eyes and sharp crooked teeth behind bleeding lips.

He hates it, it’s disgusting. He is disgusting.

And the insufferable fucking itch is driving him insane.

“You are a creep, Tomura. You are a creep.” He murmurs out of his mind and his jagged nails tear into the bruised skin, leaving droplets of crimson all across the sink, until he has to bite his fingers; shove his own fist into his mouth to stop the scratching, or else he’ll be clawing at raw meat.

“You are a creep, Tomura. You are sick.”

He hates everything, including himself now.

“I’m a creep.” He says again, his other hand holding one of your shirts, careful not to let his fingers slip through it and decay it by accident.  

He buries his nose on the fabric, soft fibers against his naked chest as your smell fills his lungs, making him dizzy on visions of you taking him in, your body full of his, crying and screaming and scratching under his weight as he collapses over you, leaving marks of sunking teeth into your soft flesh to remember his touch.

He hates you so much it makes him sick.

How dare you fill his head with thought of you? Who gave you the right?

You shouldn’t be this bright, you shouldn’t be this warm, you shouldn’t be this beautiful.

Certainly, you shouldn’t be calling him to you, haunting his dreams and poisoning his reason by just existing. It’s like the light is made every time you enter the room, outshining everyone else and blinding him with your sight.

And you are so fucking kind. So fucking quiet and sweet.

You are sunlight over the valley of his hatred, soothing his wounds and stealing glances from dark corridors and open doors. Diligent, clever, trustworthy, all while inhabiting the soft curves of your body that drive him to the edge by just passing close to him, leaving a trace of your warmth behind.

Fucking perfect.

And there he is, disgusting and hideous. The line of his spine showing disturbingly like some kind of monster trapped withing his milky skin. Gruesome, twisted and hateful, unable to even spell your name without making his gums bleed.

What would you do if you knew the things he’s done thinking about you? The things he does to you in his dreams over and over again?

When he lies panting and throbbing over his bed, bedsheets damp in sweat as he humps and twist to the thought of you open and wanting, giving him a smile that’s not quite yours and more like those of sex tape stars he watches looking for your resemblance, hoping for a release that never truly comes because what he truly wants is sleeping next door.

Would you run away if he told you he dreams of fucking you stupid against the mattress? What about him splitting you in half? doubled over the sink as you cry his name to go faster and harder? Would you be scared of him if you knew he wants to fill your every hole? Stuffed full until you leak and bleed and spit and gag for him.

Until you say you want him.

Until you say you need him.

Until you promise you are his and only his to hold, and love, and kiss, and fuck; finally opening your arms to cage his body against yours and driving him closer to your heart, encasing him under your chin to crown him with kisses, giggles and promises of loyalty and love he swears he would return every day of his miserable life.

Would you stay with him if you knew he’s been entering your room to watch you sleep? That he’s been smelling your clothes like a total freak to get off on your scent? That sometimes he scratches his neck in front of you just to make you stop him?

To have you close and make you touch him.

Tomura pities you.

You’ve been cursed with him and his corrosive hatred. Failing to say the soft words people dream about hearing from their lovers and incapable of touching you without killing you.

Even more, he’s incapable of giving you the kindness and love you deserve, no matter how many times you press your luck to close the gap and clean the scratches across his neck. He never gets to caress you back. Words stuck inside of him as his hands hang loose at his sides, completely dumbfounded by your touch.

And just like that, you slip off him again, forever out of his reach.  

Is a shame, a total tragedy, because he’s not going to tell you anything. You’ll never be nothing but a distraction on his path to destruction. His goal is bigger than you and your soft hands and your calming words. Your beauty holds no threat to his purpose and yet…

There are nights when passion grows too unbearable, smothering reason under the weight of his feelings as his thoughts grow jarring inside his head. Nights where he swears feverish, maddened, and hurt between barks of bitterness and impossible longing; as his gums bleed with sharp heretic words that leak black down his chin like foam on a rabid dog.  

“If you aren’t mine, you’ll be no one’s.

I’ll kill anyone who dares to touch you.

And i will murder you before letting you go.”

His mouth bleeds and his fist clash against the mirror in a fit of rage, caustic jealousy dripping between his torn nuckles and this is part that scares him the most because he knows he will.

Not even decay you. Tomura will strangle you with heavy heart and burning tears as he watches life slipping from your eyes before finally taking your body as he drools and cries and howls over your skin for what you’ve made him do, your flesh growing cold under his frantic thrust and trembling grip, until he goes empty between your legs because he’s sick and evil. Bawling regrets and curses before branding you with five fingers, forever guarding the secrets of his monstrosity deep inside you.

Then he’ll throw up the words stuck inside his throat.

Then he’ll be able to say your name.

_____________________________

Let me know what you think!

[fuckyeahfightlock]

Whumptober 2021 -Day 4-

Oh, kind and generous mug o’ ships, you have gifted me Sherstrade, almost always melancholic and emotionally whump-y under my fingertips. Today’s Whumptober prompts: “Do you trust me?”/Taken Hostage/Pushed/Mercy. I got them all in there, one way or another.

*

Taken Hostage

“Mmph, let’s go again.”

They were finishing their cigarettes, not the after-sex ones, but the after-the-nap-after-sex ones, and the dried cum pulling at tiny hairs on his thigh turned Sherlock on, stirring up all-sense memories. Lestrade growled and grasped, he was relentless and his facial expressions were riotous with conflicting desire and repulsion (he would not have called it repulsion, but Sherlock could see it, plain as the detective sergeant’s plain white dress shirts). He left Sherlock feeling hollowed out and used up, which Sherlock liked.

“Have mercy, Poppet,” Lestrade grinned around the cigarette clamped between his teeth.

“Let me just. . .” Sherlock drew up Lestrade’s hand to his face and placed the thumb against his tongue, closed his lips around it, sucked.

Lestrade growl-hummed and allowed the tease, even closed his eyes, but after a moment pulled his hand back and sat up, leaning across to crush his smoke in a nearby, overflowing glass ashtray. “You know I can’t stay.” He moved his arm to look at his wristwatch, which Sherlock now hated as much for its dragging Lestrade out of his bed before Sherlock was ready as he did for its cheapness. Sherlock made no reply, adjusted pillows behind him because he had nowhere else to be.

“Stay, then,” Sherlock said with a hint of petulance.

“I can’t stay.”

“Hm.”

Lestrade was cheating on his wife. He was drinking more and eating less. His son was closer in age to Sherlock than Sherlock was to Lestrade. Sherlock didn’t know what excuses he made--half two on a Sunday afternoon--because he hadn’t asked, and didn’t care. His bare back turned to Sherlock, sat there on the edge of Sherlock’s bed, was too tempting, and Sherlock planted one long foot against it, next to his spine, and pushed.

“Stay, already,” he said, and stubbed out his own cigarette. “Go on. Stay.”

Lestrade found his feet, picked up his clothes on his way to the bath. As the door shut behind him, Sherlock sat forward, half-shouted after him, caustic-sarcastic, “You know you want to--I want you to.” He didn’t know why he was like this--needling and greedy, always wound up around Lestrade like a vine and telling him not to flatter himself, dragging at him to pull him close while professing indifference, placing himself in Lestrade’s way even though it made him grimace and sigh and act guilty.

Once showered and dressed, he came back to the bed to put on his shoes. Sat on the far corner where Sherlock couldn’t reach him. “I think I can see you Tuesday afternoon. Can you keep yourself straight until then? I have some files you can go through, if you like, but only if--”

“Don’t you trust me?” Sherlock gathered himself up, crawled toward Lestrade, who stood up and stepped back.

“No, I don’t fucking trust you.” He shook his head and let go a humourless almost-laugh.

Naked on his knees amid the rumpled sheets, Sherlock implored, “Stay,” and kept his lips apart, his gaze fixed on Lestrade’s eyes, and reached for his trousers-front.

“I--”

“Please stay.”

“Fucking. . .no, I can’t.”

He would. Sherlock could make him.

“You can.”

“No.”

“You will.”

He did. Of course he did.

[quietlyimplode]

For @natasha-romanoff-deserved-better (this is my version of a hug). 

warnings for fainting, blood, allusions to self harm and poor coping mechanisms. 

“Get off me!” Disorientation flutters across her face and he can tell that she’s not clear on what’s just happened. 

She’s mid prop as she pushes him away. He’s not leaving though. Concern makes him touch her, even though he can see she she’s not ready for it. 

“You just fainted. Let me see.” He tells her bluntly. 

His mind is going a thousand miles, has she not told him of an injury? A bad mission? Forgotten to eat, again? Drink? 

He sighs, frustration bubbles and he knows she feels it. 

“I’m fine.” She tells him caustically, as she leans against the back of the couch. 

“You’re not.” He tells her. He knows from the way she sways it’s a food thing, maybe dehydration. 

He takes a stab and accuses, “How could you not tell me you haven’t eaten or drunk anything since yesterday?” 

She looks sharply over to him, pushing him off his haunches, making him fall. “I said, go away.” 

Clint grabs the bottle of water on the table and passes it to her. He knows she’s embarrassed. Embarrassed to be caught out, embarrassed to have fainted in front of him. 

But he doesn’t care. “Fine. Take this.” 

Natasha gives him a piercing look that almost makes him run, leave her to her own devices, but that doesn’t help anyone. 

He stands firm, holding the bottle of water out to her.

“Nat..” He starts. 

She rolls her eyes. “Leave me alone.”

Clint sits next to her; knowing that if he was to sit in front she’d kick him and take it as a challenge to move away. 

“No.” He grunts. 

“Just. Go away.” 

He opens the bottle of water and passes it to her. She finally takes it and he notices blood on her hand.

“No.” He tells her, and takes the bottle from her. He feels slightly more at ease knowing she’s drunk something. 

“Why?” She asks, head bowed, legs now crossed. 

“Because.” He tells her. 

She snorts. “That’s not a reason.”

“Yeah it is.” Clint rolls up the sleeves of his shirt and motions for her to do the same. She does, but only because he thinks he did it first. 

“Come here.” He holds his hand out for her hand, it’s a knife wound, he can tell, but isn’t sure what it’s from. It doesn’t look like she’s done it to herself, the angles are wrong, which begs the question, of what the fuck has happened. 

She pulls her hand away, seemingly only just realising she’s cut herself. 

“Do you know?” He asks, not looking at her, and pulling a cloth from his back pocket, dousing it in water from the bottle. 

She cocks her head looking at it. “No.” 

Worry stirs in his gut. “It’s going to need stitches.” He tells her. It’s not a big cut but it is deep. 

Natasha looks at him, snarl on her lips. “No.” She tells him, taking the cloth and holding it to her own arm. 

“Nat..” He tries. 

“No.” She says, indignantly. 

“It’ll scar.” He warns. 

She takes the cloth off and looks at it. She has a sad smile on her face and then looks to him. “I don’t care. I like my scars.”

They sit in silence for a while, sitting at the back of the couch, the apartment complex quiet. 

He sighs and passes her the water again. She takes it this time, without question, the fight or flight response settled. 

“Show me.” Clint requests, and Natasha takes the cloth off her arm. The bleeding has all but stopped. 

“One stitch?” He ventures.

She frowns. “No. And stop asking.”

He nods. “Do you have a favourite?” He asks cryptically. 

Natasha knows though. A tiny smile pulls at the corner of her lips. “This one from Budapest.” 

They share a knowing look and Clint can’t help but to duck his head, feeling the guilt swell in his gut that he was the cause of that scar.

“Sometimes I like running my fingers across it. It reminds me why I made the decision I did.” She tells him, noticing his despondence. It’s not a sad scar, she wants to tell him.  

“Any others?” He asks, knowing he’s venturing into personal territory. 

“These?” She almost asks, pointing to the three straight lines on the inside of her knee. A flash of memory passes across her face. They’re not particularly sad scars either but she can understand how others might view them.

“Worse times, when coping mechanisms weren’t what they are now. They remind me they’re better ways to do things.”

Clint nods, scoots closer as the equilibrium shifts. 

“And this?” He knows. He knows all of her scars, but he likes to hear her take on them, likes to her her voice aloud that there are things that tried to take her out, put her into the ground and she’s survived all of them. 

He knows her strength, but sometimes he needs her to know it too. She pauses at that one. 

“Dog bite.” Clint cocks his head. 

“Seriously?” He didn’t know that. How is it that she still manages to surprise him? He has mapped her body over and over again.

Natasha nods. “Yeah, you know the warlord in Scotland with the castle and the money? I was leaving with the Monet that needed to be… redistributed, and the dogs came out of nowhere. One caught me on the leg as I was escaping.”

Clint chokes a laugh. “Only you.” He says, moving closer. He pulls a blanket up to them and wraps an arm around her. 

“What about this one?” He asks pointing to her knuckle; the callouses that sit there tough and strong. 

“Fighting.” She says bluntly. 

“Oh yeah?” He holds his hands up next to hers. “We match.” His callouses are much larger, more pronounced on his larger hands, but the scars are the same. 

“What else?” He asks, tucking her in tightly to him. Holding her. Grounding her. Making sure she knows that she’s here. She’s a part of this world and all that means. He does what he’d want someone to do for him; what she’s done for him many times. 

“I’m fine.” She tells him. 

“I know.” He takes a long drink and then hands her the bottle of water that’s now almost finished.He doesn’t tell her that she needs to eat and drink, knows that she knows, he is going to be more vigilant though. Clint hugs her tight, liking that she just accepts it. He presses a kiss into her hair and then stands up, pulling her up with him.  

.

here are the other one shots.

[starlit-lilies]

FOUND AND LOST

Libby, Tomas, and Lily find each other in the midst of the fighting at the farm, and Libby and Tomas must make a choice.

@libbyblum​ @sagetomashardy​

The noise from the farm fades further into the background as Tomas slogs his way up the shore in the direction of the farmhouses, the cul-de-sac, as it were. If he was at the moment more able to pinpoint things spatially, he might realize the thin spire of smoke in the distance correlates to the Hardy High House, but he's fighting the blood that wants to gum his eyelashes together, keeping an iron grip on that bone scraper in one hand and banding squirming little Flora against his chest with the other. She keeps flailing and kicking, strong in the way that toddlers are when they want their own way, making frustrated sounds and starting to protest, "Down! Down! Go down!" 

 "Exactly what Daddy's trying to prevent, posy," Tomas says, worried gaze scanning the horizon towards land. Carrying Flora into the thick of things isn't exactly --

-- there. He feels relief swell through him like a fishing float, bobbing hard to the surface, catching in his throat when he spots Libby's hair, first, then the rest of her. Moving fast towards him. The attacks aren't confined to the farm, then.

*

Libby's hurtling toward the farm as Tomas is heading away – not that she knows that yet, she just knows what she'd heard, loud and caustic, popping in the air. The one thing about the island: it's usually a fairly quiet place. So this... her breath is tight in her chest, her gaze darting, Labyrinth logic clicking into place. Find your people. Her people are usually on or around the farm. 

Except the sounds get louder as she approaches the farm, the air gets darker, thicker with sound and smoke and also the sight of – “Tomas,” she exhales, seeing him and hurrying now, eyes reflexively darting down to the bundle at his chest. “Is she –” Libby asks, or starts to ask, then sees Flora's face: unblemished, albeit streaked with tears, and breathes. “Are you – fuck, what?” Her thoughts are fragments, hands reaching for his (decidedly not unblemished) face but hovering there, scared by the blood. “How? Is it – are there fucking guns?”

*

“Not guns.” Tomas takes a jolting half-step forward to put his face squarely into Libby's hands, bringing up one of his own to cover on the un-wounded side of his head. "Gunpowder, Emre said. They're using it like bombs." Flora complains between them but Tomas pays her no mind as she contorts like a cat and then settles for grabbing the front of Libby's shirt. “He's still back there. We need to -- you have to -- Flora, she --”

Tomas stops, sucking his teeth in frustration at the disjointed sentence fragments. “Jesus Christ. If I wanted to get shot through the head in a rice paddy I would've just gone to Vietnam like I was supposed to.” He's still caked in mud nearly up to the knees, almost to the elbow on one arm. All that work gone. All those rice shoots in their pretty green arc as he flew backwards -- but that's not important now, is it? 

Blinking, Tomas hauls himself visibly back into the moment. “Flora,” he says, making himself pronounce the syllables. That makes it more concrete. “Gotta get her safe. Lily? Where's Lily? Is she okay?”

*

“Oh, baby,” Libby frowns, deep and parabolic when Tomas' blood sticks to one of her palms, but her eyes aren't teary and they aren't tired, they're darting, hyper-alert, waiting for the ground to shift beneath them. "Flora what–" She jolts then, suddenly, and her hands are still on Tomas but her head pulls back, gaze taking in the baby, taking stock: two ears, two eyes, wads of dark eyelashes that are currently glued together by tears. But well, whole. Thank fucking God. 

Libby allows a weak huff of a laugh at the Vietnam crack but her brain’s whirring too fast to match wit right now. “She's okay,” she murmurs, nodding at the baby and trying to keep her voice even as they blink at each other for just a moment. “Right? My Flory-Flora's just fi – no, I don't know about Lily, I thought –” She looks back toward the farm now. “I was just–” Libby gestures futilely toward the water like she has to provide an alibi. “But then–” The chaos of the farm. Half-thoughts at best, too fast, spinning. “She's not there? She's not on the farm?” She could be anywhere, she – 

I think he’ll come after me again, Lily had said about Jordano, and Libby's gut sinks like a stone. “Fuck,” she breathes and then presses on toward the farm. “She's gotta be – I – Lily?!”

*

Lily had left Tamyra the moment they broke the treeline, ignoring the fighting in favor of finding her people. Right now, that’s Libby and Tomas and Flora. Her family. 

But the house is already burning when she reaches it, sweating and short of breath. The smoke stings her eyes but she still yells for Libby, cupping her hands over her mouth, scanning the smoke for any signs of movement. And by some miracle—over the chaos, she hears Libby’s voice, panicked but solid, calling for her. 

Lily turns and sees her parents across the way, far from the danger of the flames. There’s a bundle on Tomas’s chest topped with a head of dark hair—Flora. She’s safe. Lily takes another rasped breath and forces her legs to move. When she does reach them, the relief of finding them — safe and standing, even if Tomas is bleeding, oh God he’s bleeding — almost makes her legs give out. She pulls them both into a crushing hug. “Mom,” she wheezes. “Dad. Hi. I’m safe. I’m okay.” 

She pulls back and swallows, surveying the fight and the burning house before looking back at them. Libby as her mother and leader, Tomas as her father and the one who knew the farm’s needs best. “What do you need me to do?”

*

At least Libby's scattershot patter, her collage of thought-pieces, is familiar, so Tomas doesn't have to stop to wonder if he's not catching all of what she's saying. He is. This is how she talks, particularly when there's smoke in the air and blood on the ground. How many protests, how many marches? It was how he'd first heard her, a lot of the time. 

 But her screaming their daughter's name in a panic that she'd been caught up in the violence and danger, that's new. Tomas doesn't join in calling for Lily -- his head feels jangled and friable, like it'll sift to powder if he raises his voice in a shout -- so it's another buoy bobbing up when he sees their girl heading over to them. Concern and strain on her face as she collides, clings, as they grab onto her. 

“Thank God,” Tomas says, passing his hand over Lily's hair and pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Sweetheart, you know how this island works probably better than any of us. Yeah?” Tomas looks at Libby, to reaffirm what he's discerned from how his wife spoke about her labyrinth lily-child. He starts unbundling Flora, who insists on being put down yet again, ignored as Tomas pushes her against Lily. “Take your sister. You have to get her somewhere safe. I can't -- I need to --” he looks between them, apologetic, trying not to be or he won't be able to do what he needs to. He'll stay with them instead and that's not what has to be done. 

“I have to go back to my farm. They're destroying it and if they finish the job, everybody's done for.” He hasn't even parsed Lily's words for them, Mom and Dad. It's new but it's old. It's their family. 

*

“Okay,” Lily says as Tomas hands her Flora. “Okay okay okay, right.” 

She’s already moving to secure the sling around her body, frantic and only focusing on the here and now. Find your people. Keep them safe. 

Her head snaps up and she looks to Libby. Tomas staying behind makes sense, but — “What about you?” she asks, hating that her voice shakes. “You’re coming with me, right?”

*

What Libby wants to do is grow roots, anchor down and not allow in any uncertainty, not allow their paths to shift, to let the trees come in and obscure their ways to one another. But this isn't the Labyrinth. And Tomas is right. Libby nods reflexively when their eyes meet, but his words are not the ones buzzing in her head. They're Vince's. You taught her good, yeah? 

She did. Lily can handle this. Tomas, on the other hand, not able to pinpoint the problem and how he can fix it – he's lining up for a spiral and understandably so. You taught her good. She needs to remember that. “No, baby,” she murmurs, ducking forward to kiss both of her daughter's soft heads, inhaling them, tucking their smell into her memory. Just in case. Just in case. 

“No, I'm not coming. You go, Lily. Your dad's right–” that clinks a little in her head but there's no room for it now. “I trust you. You keep her safe, okay? Keep yourself safe. Go fast, okay? Fast, like in the Labyrinth. Stay on course, beat the trees. You know how.” Out slips the shorthand that she can, unfortunately, apply even here. Moving faster than the things that want to take you down, turn you around. And then she turns and makes eye contact with her husband, trying not to fret over his bloodied head, his fragmented I can't, I need to – no. They need to. “We're going back to the farm.”

*

Again, Tomas listens. To the way Libby talks to Lily, the quaver in Lily's voice on that question about if her mom is coming with her. Her mom.  They're this, again, to a baby who needs them and a young woman who maybe needs them even more, in her own way. 

“Just like in the Labyrinth,” Tomas echoes, easier than finding his own words right at the moment. Libby knows these, she's worn them smooth, they're Lily's as well. An easy handle to grasp and to spin and to add his own, tightening the rebozo knots around their daughters. “We love you, Lily. We know you can do it.” It's truth, and Tomas marvels, for the minute he allows himself, over how fast that can happen here. He does love her. It's not an exaggeration any more than it would be over how he loves Emre, or Madi. 

His thoughts seem to be linking up better now and he skids a palm against his face, scouring blood roughly away with a blast of microscopic sleet. It leaves his skin reddened and abraded, his eye burst pink with ruptured capillaries, but that's minor. Everything except his family and his farm is minor. “We'll find a way to get word to you when it's safe. I'm sure your mother knows how, right?” All that time locked in the jungle, they would've made some signal, he's sure. Resourceful, determined, the reflection of one expression in the other's face as he looks between wife and daughter.

*

Lily can’t help but laugh at Libby’s words—watery and small, but comforted. Beat the trees. It had been a game to her when she was a kid, before she understood the risk, the danger. A game she’d never once lost. 

But it is Tomas’s response that make tears prick her eyes. She nods and unhooks her repurposed spear from her belt, offering it to them. “They have guns. The one I ran into wasn’t loaded, but the others… be careful.” She looks to Libby and forces a grin. “I’ll be back home before sunset, with food. Just like I used to.” 

For a moment she stands frozen in place, uncertain what else there is to say — but then Flora fusses against her chest, and Lily only reaches out to squeeze her parents’ shoulders. 

“I love you too,” she says. “Be safe. See you soon.” 

She takes a step back, another and another, then forces herself to turn and start running.

*

Something gets choked up in Libby’s throat when Tomas states plainly: we love you. We know you can do it. It’s true, wholeheartedly — has been true for Libby for a long time, but to hear Tomas say it too… no, this isn’t the time to get sappy. Libby swallows it down and instead reaches forward to tuck some of Lily’s hair back when the scared, brave girl manages to choke out a laugh. 

 And then offers them a weapon. Libby considers it for a second before gently shaking her head. “If they have guns,” she says, trying to keep her voice level even though that buzzes up her spine, a fear that aches in her teeth. “Then you need to stay safe, too, kiddo.” And then she smiles at Lily, pinned tight. Here they are, promising each other things as if they have any right too. Again. “Sounds good to me. I love you,” she reminds again as Lily begins to back away. And then their girls are off and Libby has to rip her gaze away or she’s sure she’ll follow after them.

“Be serious,” she suddenly demands from her husband, pointing at her own head to indicate his. “Do we have to take care of this right now? Don’t give me any stoic shit. Just tell me and we’ll figure it out.” She doesn’t give a fuck about a farm. She cares about him and their girls. That’s that.

[lillupon]

Soccer players!Minwon enemies to lovers

available on twitter

minwon w photoshoot encouraged me to dust off the soccer players!minwon enemies-to-lovers fic i wrote 4 years ago and never posted. i thought it was too ooc even for a fanfic, and they hated each other so much that i couldn't make them smooch lovingly ;;

reading this whole thing makes me scream omfg i can’t believe i wrote this LMAO it’s so far out of leftfield for me

The ball comes hurtling through the air and Mingyu launches himself into the opposite corner of the goal, just barely getting his hands around it. Hitting the ground knocks all the breath right out of him, but the ball is safely tucked against his stomach. He’s on his feet less than a second later.

“Fucking wake up!” Mingyu screams at his defenders, and in particular, Wonwoo. They’ve been sleepwalking through the entire game so far. Reacting seconds too late. From where he’s standing, his teammates look like they’re watching with their fingers up their noses as the ball sails over their heads. 

“You can fuck right off, Mingyu!” Wonwoo flips the finger as he jogs backward.  

Seething, Mingyu throws the ball towards Seungcheol, far away from Wonwoo, just out of spite. He can’t stand that guy. Wonwoo’s a mouthy son of a bitch. Thinks he’s hot shit just because he’s signed for half a million dollars a year and makes more money off endorsements than the rest of the team combined.

It’s only been thirty minutes and Mingyu feels like he’s been playing for hours. He’s heaving for breath. Pissed off at his defenders for letting the ball slip between their legs. If they had been doing their jobs properly, the other team should never have been close enough to even attempt a shot. But mostly, Mingyu’s frustrated at himself for letting in three goals. He’s getting sloppy, he knows. The pressure is getting to him. It’s a high-stakes game, one that will either bring in the sponsors or have their current ones jumping ship. The way things are going now? Mingyu may as well pull his pants down and present his ass for the reaming he’s going to get from their coach.

The referee blows the whistle, signalling the end of the first half of the game. They’re down four nil and the morale of the entire team is starting to flag. They want to give up, Mingyu can tell. It’s almost impossible to recover, especially since no one’s head is in the game. Mingyu can’t talk, either. He can barely see straight past the red haze clouding his vision.

He storms into the locker room without a single glance at his teammates. He yanks off his gloves and whips them into the far wall. They’re made of fabric, but when they hit the wall, it sounds like a gunshot going off.

Someone grabs Mingyu by the shoulder and wheels him around. He comes face-to-face with Wonwoo who looks as angry and frustrated as Mingyu feels. His brows are drawn into a furious vee and his cheeks are blotchy with red. He gives a shove that has Mingyu stumbling back into the lockers with a metallic rattle.

“What the fuck was that?” Wonwoo snarls.

“That’s what I want to ask you! Because it’s looking to me like you’re playing for the other team. Is someone paying you to throw the game?”

Wonwoo scoffs. “Oh, fuck off. You’re acting like it wasn’t you who let in all those goals.”

“Those goals would never have happened if you were doing your job properly, and you know that.”

“Yeah, just pin your failures on me,” Wonwoo says. “I wasn’t the one looking the other way when number fourteen scored.”

“I don’t think you understand how this game works. If you were doing your job properly, number fourteen shouldn’t have even gotten to me.”

“Sure, let your defenders do all the work. I guess you’re just getting paid to scratch your ass out there,” Wonwoo sneers. 

A growl rips from Mingyu’s chest and he lunges, arms outstretched. Suddenly, Seungcheol is there, restraining him with an arm around his waist. Mingyu shoves him off.  Doesn’t take his eyes off Wonwoo for a second. With a huff, Mingyu yanks down his jersey to straighten it out.

“What the hell’s the matter with you two? You guys are teammates, not on opposing sides of a war. Jesus,” Seungcheol, center back, says. He’s a good guy, veteran player. A real pacifist with more sense than anyone Mingyu has ever met. “We’re all trying our best out there, okay?”

“I wonder about that,” Wonwoo mutters under his breath.

Before Mingyu can respond to that, Seungcheol says, “Take a walk, Mingyu.” 

“Me?” Mingyu asks, incredulous. “Why do I—”

Seungcheol fixes him with a deeply unimpressed look that has him falling into a grudging silence. Mingyu turns on his heel and leaves.

He finds himself in the storage room. It’s dark. He fumbles his way to the back. There’s a stack of mats in the corner and he punches them a few times to loosen the frustration coiling inside him. He takes a deep breath, holding it for three seconds before exhaling slowly. He’s been doing a lot of yoga and breathing exercises lately, trying to get all zen and shit. He’s not sure it’s working.

Mingyu scrubs a hand over his face and sighs heavily. He can’t help but feel like this game went to shit because of him. He says a lot of things to the defenders when they’re slipping, and he means every word. But when it comes down to it, he’s the one who either saves the ball or lets the other team score.

The door swings open then, letting in a flood of light. It’s Wonwoo.

“Jesus, what the fuck do you want?” Mingyu asks.

Wonwoo is smiling at him, which is never a good sign. “Seungcheol told me to apologise to you. Said it wasn’t good for us to go into the second half angry and resenting each other.”

Mingyu narrows his eyes. “So? Are you going to?”

“Take a guess.” Wonwoo comes closer. Mingyu squares his shoulders, ready for a fight. “I’m here to tell you to open your fucking eyes next half, you talentless piece of shit.”

“You need to sit the fuck down,” Mingyu snarls at him. He’s shaking with anger and adrenaline, blood pumping so hard it’s like he’s still out there lunging for the ball. He’s had it with this kid—never mind that Wonwoo is older than him. He doesn’t act like he’s older, spoiled brat that he is. “Get it out of your head that you’re better than the rest of us. Because you’re not.”

“I don’t—”

“Shut the fuck up. Everyone hears you complaining on the phone about how your teammates can’t play worth a damn. You mouth off on us and walk around like you own the entire team. This might come as a surprise to you, but you don’t.” Mingyu steps in close to Wonwoo, crowding him in against the wall. Their chests nearly touch and he can feel the heat radiating off Wonwoo. Wonwoo has to tip his chin up to look him in the eye, and it satisfies every petty inch of Mingyu.

Mingyu continues, “You’re just a two-bit rookie who doesn’t know center back from striker. You’re never where you need to be. You don’t pass when you need to pass. You think you can win on your own, and when we lose, it’s everyone else’s fault except yours. The only reason you’re here is because your daddy has connections.” And because you have a pretty face that the sponsors can’t get enough of, Mingyu doesn’t say. Wonwoo’s got the classic K-idol look, with his sharp cheekbones and defined jawline. Too bad he’s an asshole. You can’t win it all, Mingyu supposes.

Wonwoo is glaring up at Mingyu, breathing hard. The colour runs high on his cheeks and his jaw muscle jumps. He’s wound up so tight he looks two seconds away from either punching Mingyu in the face or coming in his pants. “Fuck you, Mingyu, you’re one to talk. You think everything is a challenge to your authority. You act like you’re the poster boy for good behaviour, but you’re the one who’s getting into fights out there, you hypocritical piece of shit,” he grits out. His mouth works, and then he spits a fat globule of saliva at Mingyu.

Mingyu recoils. Drags his forearm across his face. Growling, he grabs the front of Wonwoo’s shirt and slams him against the wall, pressing him bodily against it. They’re nose-to-nose and Wonwoo is going cross-eyed from trying to keep Mingyu in his sights. Jesus, Mingyu wants to bust him up. Make such a mess of his face that he cries every time he walks past a mirror. 

Instead, Mingyu ends up glowering at him. He has no idea what it is about Wonwoo that riles him up. Every rookie wants to prove themselves, show that they can’t be walked all over by doling out as many caustic insults as they receive. Everyone’s frustrated and ready to lash out at the slightest provocation after a string of losses, and Mingyu gets that. But for some reason, Wonwoo manages to tick him right the fuck off.

Mingyu’s half hard in his briefs. It’s not unusual. All that adrenaline and pent-up aggression have to go somewhere. He just hates the fact that it’s Wonwoo that his body decides to react to. Mingyu grinds his teeth. His fist tightens on Wonwoo’s collar. Jesus, he’s not entirely sure if he’s going to deck Wonwoo or makeout with him at this point.

They’re pressed together from shins to chest, so it’s no surprise that Wonwoo notices that he’s hard. Wonwoo’s lips curl up into an infuriating smirk. “Don’t tell me this is how you usually react to our fights, Mingyu,” he says. As though he’s not fattening up in his shorts. Mingyu can feel it. “Is this what it’s been about all this time? You trying to get my atten—”

Mingyu smashes their mouths together. Wonwoo makes a muffled noise of surprise. Mingyu’s heart is beating somewhere up in his throat. He’s not entirely sure what he’s doing, but he knows he’s gotten Wonwoo to shut up for once, and that’s no small success. Wonwoo struggles against him, puts hands on his chest and tries to push him off. Mingyu grabs his wrists and pins them to his side. 

“I fucking hate you,” Wonwoo snarls against the press of their mouths.

And then he starts to kiss Mingyu back. 

This has been a long time coming, ever since that drunken night that ended with them on the bar floor, dry-humping each other under the guise of wrestling. Wonwoo’s been an itch in his system for months now.

There’s nothing gentle about the kiss. They kiss like they’re fighting, all teeth and not enough tongue. Mingyu wedges a knee in between Wonwoo’s thighs and presses up, causing him to gasp out a moan. Wonwoo rocks his hips down in search of friction, a guttural groan vibrating in his throat.

Mingyu pulls away, breathing hard. He puts his back to the nearby wall to give him something to lean against. “Get on your knees,” he says.

“Are you fucking serious?”

“Do you want this dick or not?” Mingyu asks. “I don’t care either way.”

He thinks Wonwoo will back out. It’s for the best if he does. They’re in public; they’re in the middle of a game; they hate each other’s guts; he’s pretty sure Wonwoo has a girl, or at least, someone he fucks, on and off. One of those reasons alone would have made this a colossally bad idea. 

Instead, Wonwoo clamps his mouth shut and drops to his knees. Mingyu’s stomach lurches as though he is looking down from a great height. His mouth goes dry and he swallows with a loud and painful roll of his throat. No fucking way. Now here’s a sight he never thought he’d see: Wonwoo glaring up at him, somehow managing to look both pissed off and turned on at the same time.

Mingyu palms himself through his shorts. Wonwoo’s eyes immediately zero in on the movement. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and whatever shred of hesitancy Mingyu felt burns up. 

He pushes his shorts down, just enough to get his cock out and to let his balls hang free. He wraps his fingers around the base of his cock and gives it a rough, experimental stroke. A pearl of precum has blurted out from the slit. He smears a thumb over it, the breath shuddering out of him.

Wonwoo is riveted, eyes tracking the way Mingyu’s hand works over his shaft. His own cock is tenting in his shorts. Mingyu absolutely lets it get to his head, his lizard brain preening. A reaction like that, just from a little bit of kissing, just from seeing Mingyu’s dick. In Wonwoo’s defense, it is a pretty good dick, if Mingyu says so himself.  

Mingyu jerks himself off. Once, twice. “You want this?” 

That seems to snap Wonwoo out of his cock-induced daze. “I’m not going to beg,” he says, but already, he’s leaning forward, mouth falling open in request.

It’s downright nasty, is what it is. Mingyu is sweaty and stinks of Eau de Hardwork. The fact that it’s Wonwoo of all people makes it all the hotter. His nostrils flare as he inhales the musk of Mingyu’s cock. His lashes flutter. 

Mingyu feeds his cock to Wonwoo. Gets his hand slapped aside. Wonwoo takes over, curling his fingers around the base of it, suckling at the head a bit to get it wet.

Mingyu inhales sharply when Wonwoo licks a flat stripe along the underside of his cock where a vein throbs. Wonwoo tortures him with those kitten licks, hotly mouthing his way up to close his lips around the head of Mingyu’s cock.

Mingyu doesn’t want to show Wonwoo how affected he is by all of this, but he can’t help the low groan that leaves him when Wonwoo swirls a tongue around the sensitive crown. As though aware of Mingyu’s tenuous control, Wonwoo’s eyes crinkle with amusement. He pops off Mingyu’s cock. His mouth works. But this time, instead of spitting in Mingyu’s face, he dribbles a line of saliva down his length.

“Suck a lot of cock, do you?” Mingyu says. His voice is embarrassingly rough. He threads his fingers into Wonwoo’s hair and tugs in an attempt to get that mouth on his erection again.

Wonwoo’s response is to open wide and swallow him down, hand covering what his mouth can’t.

“Oh fuck,” Mingyu moans, head falling back against the wall with a thud. Unwilling to miss even a second of this once-in-a-lifetime moment, he looks between his legs from under half-lidded eyes. Seeing Wonwoo’s dark head bobbing up and down, hand moving in tandem with his mouth… The sight is as gratifying as the suction on his cock, if not more so.

Mingyu rocks his hips back and forth. This whole thing is so surreal that he can’t help but half-laugh, half-moan. “If I knew all it took you to shut up was a cock in your mouth, I would have done this a long time ago.”

Wonwoo’s teeth flash and Mingyu yanks him off with a hiss, fingers tightening into the short strands of Wonwoo’s hair. Wonwoo’s breathing hard, lips glistening with spit.

“Don’t you ever do that again,” Mingyu says, hand tightening and giving Wonwoo’s head a little shake to punctuate his words, “or I’m gonna throw this door open and show everyone what a good little cocksucker you are.”

Wonwoo’s lips curl. “The door is five meters away, dumbshit. I’d like to see you try.”

A flare of anger spears through Mingyu—smug fucking bastard—and he doesn’t even think when he slaps Wonwoo across the face. It’s not a hard slap, but hard enough to let Wonwoo know that he means business. Except that fucker—he moans. The sound is so faint that it might be mistaken for a shocked noise, and it’s quickly covered up by Wonwoo who mockingly drawls, “Yes. I understand, Sir.”

Satisfied, he lets Wonwoo back on his cock. This time, Wonwoo doesn’t waste time teasing and swallows him down.

For a brief moment, Mingyu is still somewhat in shock. His own action took him by surprise. He doesn’t usually slap the people who blow him; he’s usually grateful. But Wonwoo brings out the worst in him. And then there’s the fact that Wonwoo moaned quietly—Mingyu knows what he heard—at the palm strike across his cheek.

Those thoughts are promptly sucked out of his dick. Mingyu doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone who looks so haughty while sucking cock. Sometimes, Wonwoo will pull off to circle his tongue around the head, the corners of his lips ticking up impishly. He’s full aware of the effect he has on Mingyu. Then he takes Mingyu almost all the way down to the hilt. The noises he makes are filthy and carnivorous. Hungry.

Goddamn, he likes this, Mingyu thinks wondrously. 

Wonwoo’s eager. Squirming on his haunches. His free hand has found his way between his legs to knead himself. He’s getting distracted, the rhythm he built up faltering.

Mingyu shoves Wonwoo further down onto his length. Feels the tip of his cock hit the back of Wonwoo’s throat.

Wonwoo chokes and pulls off, inhaling on a gasp and coughing. He drags a forearm across his mouth, wiping, and glares up with watery eyes. The force of his glare is diminished by the redness of his cheeks. It’s a look that sends a jolt of arousal straight to Mingyu’s cock.

“Get back here,” Mingyu says. “And don’t get distracted by your own dick this time.”

Mingyu puts both hands on Wonwoo’s head and begins to fuck the tight circle of Wonwoo’s mouth. Wonwoo is ready for it this time. It doesn’t take long before Mingyu transitions from slow and shallow rolls of his hips to full-on thrusting into Wonwoo’s mouth. Mingyu curses, gut spasming with his rising pleasure. 

Wonwoo’s throat works around the intrusion. His lips are stretched wide, chin coated with saliva. His eyes are wet, lashes clumped together. It’s all so obscene, so incredibly fucking hot. 

Mingyu’s balls draw in tight and his breathing goes ragged. He fucks Wonwoo’s mouth a little faster, grits out, “Oh, fuck—” That’s all the warning Wonwoo gets before Mingyu is shooting his load. Mingyu groans loudly, hips jerking involuntarily. He keeps Wonwoo held down, the sensation of Wonwoo’s throat contracting around him prolonging his orgasm. Mingyu wants to laugh. Holy shit. “Yeah, that’s it,” he breathes. “Swallow every last drop.” 

Wonwoo makes a valiant attempt at doing so, but there’s so much cum that it trickles out the corner of his mouth.

By the time Mingyu is done, they’re both breathing hard. Well, it’s Mingyu’s who’s breathing hard; Wonwoo is coughing and gasping for breath. 

Mingyu’s not done here yet. “Clean it up,” he says. Wonders how far Wonwoo will allow himself to be pushed before he snaps.

Wonwoo is quiet when he uses the head of Mingyu’s cock to scoop up the errant drops of cum and push it back into his mouth. Then, he laps up the remainder of Mingyu’s release.

Mingyu shivers at the rasp of tongue on his softening cock. Once he’s clean, he tucks himself back into his briefs.

“What about me?” Wonwoo asks.

Wonwoo, rich and spoiled boy that he is, has probably been given everything he has ever asked for on a silver platter. He says “Jump” and people say “How high?” It wouldn’t hurt for him to work for the things he wants; that would be a first in his life.

And maybe, Mingyu is also thinking about how hard Wonwoo gets when he’s pushed around. How that light slap had him moaning softly.

With that in mind, Mingyu pushes his cleats between Wonwoo’s legs. The top of his shoe bumps his erection. “Go on,” Mingyu says. It’s no big deal, he tells himself even as his heart is pounding violently against his ribs, if Wonwoo decides that he’s had enough of Mingyu’s bullshit and stalks off. Mingyu has already gotten what he wanted.

“What?”

“You have thirty seconds to get yourself off. Go,” Mingyu says, prodding his toe against him.

Wonwoo’s eyes round and he flushes a violent shade of red. He opens his mouth as if to protest. But then he doesn’t. Just clamps his lips together and begins to move his hips. It’s possibly the sexiest thing Mingyu has ever seen. Blood rushes to his head, swelling and pounding and pulsing in his skull. A groan escapes Mingyu, as though he is the one getting much-needed friction on his cock.

“Look at you,” Mingyu whispers. “Rutting against my foot like a bitch in heat.”

Wonwoo honest-to-god whimpers. There’s no other way to describe the absolutely tiny, pleasure-filled sound that leaves him, so incongruous with the person Mingyu has always known him to be. He drives his hips down with increased desperation, moaning shakily. He clutches around the bend of Mingyu’s knee, forehead knocking against Mingyu’s thigh.

If Mingyu hadn’t spent just seconds earlier, he would have gotten hard again. Instead, he just watches Wonwoo bump and grind on him with a dry mouth.

Someone knocks on the door, three sharp raps. “Game’s about to start. You two kiss and make up yet?” It’s Seungcheol.

Mingyu yanks his foot away. 

Wonwoo sobs out with loss. Tugs on his ankle. “No, I haven’t—”

“Too late. Your time’s up.” 

He groans, a truly miserable sound. “I hate you,” he says, glaring up balefully. 

“If you’d quit thinking with your dick for two seconds, you’d remember that we’re in a middle of a game,” Mingyu says.

Wonwoo stands up on coltish legs. 

It actually hurts Mingyu’s heart a little to leave him like this. He leans in to whisper into Wonwoo’s ear, “So this is what’s going to happen. We’re gonna go out there and we’re gonna do our jobs. And if we don’t make a fool of ourselves out there, then I’ll take you back to my room and fuck you so hard you’ll be limping through practice for the next week. Sound good?”

After a moment, Wonwoo relents and says through gritted teeth, “You better. Or I’m going to flip you over and fuck you myself.”

Mingyu snorts. Yeah, that’s the Wonwoo he’s familiar with.

Wonwoo roughly adjusts his crotch. “Jesus, how the hell am I supposed to play like this?”

“If you don’t get your head in the game, we’re going to end up becoming the MLS equivalent of Brazil in the 2014 World Cup.”

Wonwoo blanches.

Miraculously, they  end up tying the game at 4-4. It’s a better outcome than anyone could have expected. Wonwoo flashes a wicked smile, looking ridiculously proud of himself. And he should be; a single ball didn’t get past him in the second half.

Mingyu finds himself smiling back.