#he’ll never get cold to easily or be dizzy when he moves or pull out clumps of hair again

[red-garden]

Where are my fat Bingmei truthers. Where are my double chin Bingmei truthers. You have to be somewhere.

[sams-darlin]

darlin having a nightmare about quinn for the first time in years, filled with flashbacks and cruel words and feeling his hands on their body again.

darlin waking up in a cold sweat, panting and unable to tell flashback from real life. rushing off to the bathroom as quietly as possible as not to disturb sam with their oncoming panic attack.

darlin struggling to walk straight from the dizziness and closing the bathroom door without locking it, keeping a barrier between them and sam but letting him in easily if they needed him. if? they do. they do need him. but they won’t admit to it. they’ve never needed anyone why should that change now? maybe they should’ve locked the door.

darlin curling up on the bathroom floor and letting the panic attack set in, wondering how this could still be affecting them. they’ve moved on, or at least they thought they had, he was out of their life they could finally breathe he wasn’t looming over them every day so why, WHY was this happening now???

sam waking up from the feeling of his mates panic and the lack of feeling them next to him, hearing nothing but their rapid breathing and pounding heart as he got out of bed looking for them.

sam locating them in the bathroom and knocking, asking if everything’s okay but opening the door when he doesn’t get an answer. them curling up in fear, their blurred vision and flashbacks causing them to not see sam standing over them, but quinn.

sam rushing to sit by their side, careful as not to touch them while they’re scared, while repeating “it’s me, it’s me, its sam. i’m here baby what’s wrong?” darlins eyes widening as they try to focus on who’s really there, and them pulling his arm to them as they recognize it’s him.

sam swallowing them up in his arms, cradling them and squeezing them tight to ground them, rocking them back and forth saying “breathe, breathe darlin it’s okay, it’s okay i’ve got you now. you’re safe now i promise. i’m right here.”

darlin sobbing into his neck, seeking the comfort as they try to calm down, apologizing over and over saying they thought the nightmares were gone they though that he was gone. he reminds them that they don’t need to apologize for still being impacted by trauma they endured and that healing from it is never linear.

its like as he said, they’re safe now, he’s got them.

he’ll always be there to catch them, no matter how hard the fall.

[stardustloki]

The Pain Never Ends

The pain from what they did to him on Skako Minor has never left Echo, neither have the nightmares.

Thankfully, Hunter is there for him when he wakes.

(TW for experimentation consistent with Skako Minor. Not graphic but the horrors are very much implied!)

Read on Ao3 here.

Or below the cut...

There is no time.

There is an explosion. Blinding, searing agony. In his last moment, the only part of him that isn’t consumed by the pain is grateful that the darkness is taking him.

At least death will happen quickly.

—

It doesn’t happen quickly.

He wakes to feel his entire body screaming at him - the parts of his body he can feel, that is.

There is something wrong. There is something very, very wrong, but he doesn’t know what, can’t concentrate, can’t even move his head.

None of his limbs are responding, and he can’t see anything with the searing bright light above him. He is fighting against his mind, against the fire in his veins, against the dizzying sensation in the back of his head that makes his stomach roll (but he can’t throw up, not like this, he’ll choke like this).

There’s a shadow in the corner of his vision.

Battle droid.

Adrenaline floods his body and the darkness pulls him back.

—

There’s a beeping of machines, heaviness where there shouldn’t be, a buzzing in his head.

So. Much. Pain.

Echo can barely think, he feels like he’s burning up, he feels freezing, he feels like his mind is made out of sludge.

He feels like there’s something poking into his brain.

But… that would be stupid, right?

There’s a voice in the background, saying something. Echo tries to listen but his mind can’t make out any of the words, they float through his head, undeciphered.

Then he thinks he can hear the whirring of a drill.

Strange, what would they need that for?

He blacks out again seconds after he discovers the answer.

—

Echo doesn’t sleep. Doesn’t dream. He exists somewhere between asleep and awake.

The pulses of electricity are sent directly into his head.

It hurts. It hurts so much. But Echo has hurt for a long time now. He’s existed in this state since before he can remember.

He gets data in the form of questions that pull up flashes of memory from a place that doesn’t feel like himself anymore. He sees clones, sees them fighting, laughing, dying. Sees battle plans, regulations and technical specifications.

He organises the data, sending it back to the terminal that wanted it, so that he might be allowed to float in the darkness again.

—

Sometimes, he is released from the cold and the dark, from the endless streams of data.

These are not good times.

He doesn’t understand what’s happening, but he’s dragged around, poked and prodded and injected. He tries to listen, tries to understand what is going on. They talk about upgrades and servos, processing speeds and electro-interfacing.

Then they turn on the whine of the machinery and-

“Echo! Echo!”

Everywhere burns - the ports on his limbs, down his back, in his head. It won’t stop. The pain never stops.

Someone touches his shoulder and he lashes out with a blow that’s blocked. But he’s ready. He rolls off the table - they won’t hurt him without a fight this time - and onto the floor, gritting his teeth as the impact jolts through his prosthetics.

“Echo!”

There’s a figure in front of him, and he launches into an attack. He’s an ARC trooper, and he’ll show them exactly what he’s capable of, even defective as he is now.

“Echo!”

The figure blocks his blows easily, before grabbing his limbs and pinning him. In response, he slams his head back and into their nose, though he can’t be sure if he broke it because doing so jostles a port and sends agony screaming through his head, making him slump limp against his captor as his vision swims and sparks dance in front of his eyes.

“... Marauder…”

He tries to figure out his next move. He’s in no position to escape, can barely think straight, but he won’t let himself not try.

“... are safe with…”

He wants the pain to stop, he realises as something damp trails down his cheek, why won’t it stop?

“... asleep. Tech’s meant to be too, but he’s fixing the Gonk droid. Crosshair…”

“Hunter?” Echo murmurs, throat dry, mind hazy as pieces start to slot into place.

“Yeah, are you back with me?”

He nods, a part of him wanting to crawl away in embarrassment as he starts to understand what must have happened, the bigger part knowing that he doesn’t want to move from the comfort of his brother’s arms. They ground him, remind him of what’s real, remind him that he’s no longer in that hell. No one had touched him on Skako Minor, not unless they wanted to run yet more surgeries on him, and none had done so like this.

“Good,” Hunter tells him. “You’re safe on the Marauder. Omega’s asleep. Tech’s fixing the gonk droid in the other room. Wrecker’s with him. Crosshair’s in the galley.”

“I woke you up, didn’t I?”

“Yeah,” he admits, and Echo cringes at the guilt. All this had happened two years ago now. Why couldn’t he get over it? (He was defective, that was why). “But that doesn’t matter Echo, we all get nightmares, you know that.”

He doesn’t know how to explain how certain he feels that whatever applied to the others, it doesn’t apply to him.

“Come on,” Hunter says, before starting to move. Echo can’t help but grip tightly to him for a second, before forcing himself to let go - if Hunter had decided this was over, he had to accept that. He’s pleasantly surprised when all that happens is that Hunter moves them both so they’re in a more comfortable position on his bunk, before wrapping his arms around Echo more tightly than before.

As they sit there, Echo trying to breathe regularly to calm his post-nightmare racing heart, the door whooshes open and Crosshair enters. He nods at Echo, before placing the anti-inflammatory painkillers beside him, along with a bottle of water, and then swiftly leaving again.

Echo struggles with the packet, and to open the bottle with only one hand, but he’s grateful nonetheless that Hunter doesn’t try to help him this time round. He needs this, needs to prove he isn’t useless.

Afterwards, they sit in silence, waiting for the painkillers to kick in. They’d never work completely, but they’d get the pain down from searing agony to a more manageable level, a level he can ignore with a certain amount of distraction.

“Do you want to see the others soon?” Hunter asks.

“In a minute,” Echo replies. He does, but it’s always overwhelming to be surrounded by people after he’s had one of his episodes. 

Hunter nods.

Echo lies curled up in his brother's arms and lets his mind drift, Hunter’s presence beside him allowing him to think about all the good things that had happened over the last few months.

This time, when the darkness takes him, he feels warm. And he feels safe.

[divinefireangel]

Make out Sessions with SF9 - Hard Ver.

As per multiple requests 👀. Hope y'all like it!

Warnings: Suggestive. Smut. Female anatomy. Sloppy kissing. Just go with it 😂. Choking. Youngbin's is highly inspired by Hannah 🤭. Extremely inaccurate description of wine? Cause I've never consumed any lmao. Sensual touching? Humping? Size kink for Ju? Strength kink for Seokwoo? Tbh idk what I'm doing lol

Everything under the cut!

Youngbin

You're both in the balcony, sipping on wine after a long tiring day, awaiting the weekend

Maybe it's the wine or the fact that you both are absolutely free for a whole day tomorrow, but something is just pulling you closer to him

And just like that, you straddle his thick thighs in the chair he's seated on 👀

Gulping you bite your lip, before leaning in to taste his

Of course due to the wine, his lips and tongue and saliva all taste like alcohol and his own flavour

He will pull you closer till your legs are bent at your knees and are resting against his sides comfortably and your heat is touching his crotch

He's also gonna be really loud, moaning into each kiss, breaking only to kiss your neck or jaw with closed eyes

His hands are sensually touching your back and breasts, just feeling you up and making your whine for more

Easily carries you to the bedroom for a night full of expected unexpected events

Inseong

Baby boy is so shocked when you kiss him with a lot of fervour

Takes a few seconds to realize what's happening lmao

But when he does, he will flush his chest against yours

Hands start to wander along the length of your back

And everytime he reaches the end of your back, he goes lower till he's able to cup your butt

Now you're shocked 😝

All this, while still kissing you senseless

His lips moulding with yours

Moans coming out from the both of you

Teeth pulling at your lips

Teeth clinking together

His tongue asking for permission to enter your mouth

When you give him the green light, gosh he will be ready to fuck you on the floor 🤭

Jaeyoon

Oh this one definitely tries to convert every innocent little kiss to a make out whenever you both are alone

And he knows you will give into his charm because he's cocky and we love to see it

It's instances when he's sitting on a chair in the kitchen while you cook or study and every time you get something right he gives you a congratulatory kiss

But after that last bit of preparation, when he does kiss you, his hands are on your waist, fingers pressing into your skin lightly as his lips move against yours

Pulls away when you're breathless and smirks that sexy smirk FUCK ME

Now of course, his hands move to cup your butt and pull you closer

Well he makes you sit on his lap while he's still in the chair

Holds your face in one palm before looking into your eyes and just dives in to your mouth

It as so messy but it's also so hot like????? How even does he do that lol

His tongue is more in your mouth than his, purposely drawing out moans and small surprised squeals from you and your sounds are sending electricity to his cock

Which then leads to your both dry humping each other till he just feels like he's had enough of this teasing and dramatically pushes your things off the table to fuck you on it 😉🤭

Dawon

Oh this fucker knows what he's doing but he'll act all cute so you can't even blame him 😣

And it's always things that shouldn't even affect you like feeling his hot breaths against your neck while his chest heaves on your back or his hands that slowly pull your pants a little lower IT'S NOT EVEN NOTICEABLE

But fuck he knows what he wants and he also knows he's convincing you

He's so happy when you huff in annoyance and just push him onto the bed after dragging him to the room

His smile disappears when you straddle his lap and pull him closer by his shirt

And he starts to lose his shit when you bite your lip and trace his facial features, looking at him with your bedroom eyes, lowering yourself till you feel his half hard cock

When you start to rub your clothed core against his, fuck he's even more desperate

Hands go to your hips to guide your movement

But before he can kiss you, you tilt your head back moaning so loud, making him whine to feel your lips

You give in easily lmao 💀

Grinding down harder and kissing him even harder only breaking to remove your clothes 🤤

Zuho

He's been cooped up in the studio for too long so it is fair if you go and make sure he isn't as stressed 😉

And so you do

You walk in to his studio wearing the cutest skirt you own

But he's so engrossed in work he doesn't notice :(

That's okay cause you remove your shoes and pull his chair out, abruptly sitting on his lap, your back to his chest

That's when he notices the skirt, and his fingers trace the hem slowly raising it up 👀

Groans looking at your cute panties and turns your face to his to give you a sweet kiss

Makes you stand to lean on the table facing him

So when he stands he can tower you and make you feel small

His fingers comb through your scalp till he can pull your head back suddenly and slowly kisses up from your neck to your lips as you breathe hard through your mouth

His lips meet yours with a lot of force, whimpers and moans flying out from you when he starts to move you up on the table

"Naughty kitten" and imagine that with his deep ass voice WHY DO I DO THIS TO MYSELF 😭

Rowoon

It all starts with a boring movie, you in his lap, breathing into each other's mouth while kissing

Your hands pulling at his hair

His hands roaming your body, squeezing you ass or choking you or cupping your boobs over your his shirt

And you're just grinding your core against his, dizzying the both of you

Desperately attempting to feel some sort of relief

He will surely laugh cutely at your struggle

Then of course he uses his strength to pin you down and kiss you again

But this time he moves his kisses down from your lips to your core 😉

Being the playfully unfair lover he is, he moves back up to capture your lips

His fingers have other plans tho 👀

He feels you get wetter as he traces your folds over your shorts

While swallowing your moans and cries for more

Or if he's feeling generous he will kiss your neck, listening to your cute begs for more while fingering you

Yoo Taeyang

Okay he knows that you are loving his biceps so he will purposely flex them especially after his home workout

And I mean this sweaty well defined biceps like those in his cycling pics

Smirking he just tells you that he's gonna shower before you both can spend time knowing full well that you will not stay put in your place

When you enter the bathroom, the scene in front of you is heavenly

Water cascading down from his wet hair through his abs and down his legs 👀

"Took you long enough"

Chuckling in disbelief you shake your head while undressing cause you'd be a fool to miss out

Climbing into the shower you push him onto the wall, pressing your chest to his and scratching his back while getting on your toes

Cupping your face he kisses you, pulling you both under the water coming from the shower

Your kiss is a mix of his and your salivas and the shower water, it's messy and desperate but you can't care when you feel his dick come to life against your stomach

Without further teasing he picks you up and fucks you in the shower as you clutch onto him harder every time his cock brushes your g-spot

Hwiyoung

Poor thing all he wanted was a relaxing bath till you entered

Stripping yourself, you enter the tub, sitting on his lap facing him and his shocked expression

He becomes a little less shocked when he, well his dick feels how wet you are lmao

Bringing one dripping hand out of the warm water he freely moves it from your cheek, down to your thigh but making sure to wet your neck and tweak your nipple in the process

Clenching your thighs hesitantly at the cold air you felt wherever he touched you, you moan with your eyes closed

Gulping he moves both his hands to your neck to pull you flush against him as he connects your lips together

His hands feel up your back

His kisses needy, muffling both of your moans while you wait for his cock to charge up 🤭

Chani

He didn't have the intention of making you weak in the knees

But fuck how can you not go weak when your boyfriend is so hot

Legit all he did was pulling his shirt off with one hand, skillfully

And that made you pull him into bed with you

Your legs trapping his left leg, grinding your needy core against his thigh

Chest pressed flush on his

Hands slightly scraping the skin on his back

Lips attached to his moist ones

His hands slowly hiking up your shirt to touch your soft skin

Tbh he can't take this for too long

So he flips you onto your back and climbs between your legs, a teasing smirk plastered on his face

And his even more teasing fingers tracing your skin up from your knee, over your thighs, stomach, chest till it reaches your throat, tilting your head up so he can pepper small lovebites on you

Places a bruising kiss on your lips till your eyes are rolling back from the foreplay itself

SF9 Masterlist

[cinnamonest]

//some horrendous gaslighting

I love my stranger-to-noncon very much but I don't give enough attention to consensual relationships taking a turn for the worse, or utterly toxic and abusive boyfriends and Kaeya is the perfect candidate for that so here we go.

-----

I've mentioned before the Kaeya would be exceptionally violent in comparison to other yanderes, but it's important to note that he's also among the most emotionally sensitive, and those two things do not go together well.

Not sensitive outwardly, of course, he's spent years developing that personality of his as a defense mechanism, can easily pretend he doesn't care about anything, but deep down that abandonment complex and those insecurities are strong and easily triggered. Some of the ways it manifests are mild, like how he gets overly attached to you within a week of knowing you, commits and tries to move way too fast even in completely mutual and consensual relationships. The kind of guy that suggests moving in together a week into the relationship, and dropping I love you so early on that you're left to merely blink in surprise because you barely know each other, but under the pressure and awkwardness you find yourself stuttering out a reciprocation, even though it's quite untrue. Guilt-trips and pressures his way into fucking you within a couple of days.

He's a very different person behind closed doors, it comes out maybe a month in when he lets the walls drop and lets himself trust you. He's more vulnerable, sweeter. Oddly... Eager to trust. It's like he desperately wants someone he can latch onto and show some vulnerability around and chose you to be that someone.

But also different in other ways. More... Bitter. More grumpy. More immature.

He's not sensitive in general, he doesn't really care about what most people say or do, but that sensitivity comes out once he's attached to a person, which happens rather quickly. You start noticing it rather quickly in a mutual relationship, and it likely shocks you honestly that he's so... immature. You spend the day with one of your friends -- just one, catch up with them, haven't seen them in a while... and when you get home things are rather quiet. He's usually a very talkative person, so you can't figure out what's wrong. Maybe something bad happened, but he insists no, it's fine. There's nothing wrong. And then you catch the last part, much quieter, spoken under his breath in that lighthearted tone he speaks in, yet with a bitterness to it.

You wouldn't care anyway, you're too busy with your friends.

It takes you by surprise at first because holy shit, really? It seems so petulant that it can't possibly be real, but... Maybe he really did have a bad day and is just getting his anger out by directing it at the first thing he can. That's not right, but hey, everyone has weak moments where they do some bad things. Besides, you weren't there for him, so he feels worse right? Still, you spent every day the past month except this one day with him... No, it's just poor timing, that's all.

Until it happens again. And again. And he swears he likes your friends, smiles at them, but it... Looks forced. Always complaining that you spend so much time with them and completely ignore him. Do you even care? Do you value the relationship at all? You try to not get angry and be rational, but still defend yourself because you spend almost all of your time with him don't you? You can't get much out before he just huffs and stomps away, rolls his eyes (well, you assume he rolls both of them, you can't tell but-- nevermind, not the point) and gives you a cold shoulder. Until you apologize, then it's like the switch has flipped back on, there's love and smiles and warmth and hugs again.

It starts to get on your nerves. You start to wonder if maybe this isn't healthy for you, if maybe you should end things, but you decide to give him another chance, right? We all make mistakes. He's under a lot of stress. Just... It'll be fine.

And the first time it gets physical he swears it's an accident. It leaves an ugly scar. You're going out because come on, it's my family, I haven't seen them in forever.

It just happens, he explains, it's unintentional, emotions get channeled through the vision like that. Comforts you as you sit on the ground crying and clutching your arm that he grabbed as you walked out the door, skin darkened and purplish from the freeze that's seared through a layer of your skin. He sighs and says he's sorry, really, he feels horrible already, so don't get mad, ok? He already feels terrible enough... Don't be mean. He didn't mean it. Don't be mean. Don't be fucking mean about it, stop fucking crying. You're making him feel worse.

He seems genuinely sorry, you tell yourself. It's not his fault. You can't blame him. It's ok.

It's harder to excuse the next time it gets physical. Maybe freezing last time was unintentional, and maybe it hurt, but you weren't terrified like this. A hand around your throat is different.

But can you blame him? You were threatening to leave. Honestly, you weren't approaching it healthily, you weren't trying to actually have a serious talk, you were trying to guilt him and gaslight him and it's honestly emotionally abusive, you know? You're the one in the wrong here. How selfish and cruel. How can you do that and not even feel guilty?

It makes you rethink. It makes you question your own sanity. And it makes you apologize. Makes you say you didn't mean it. You find yourself feeling dizzy, disoriented, like everything isn't real and everything is too much. You try to sleep it off.

And he doesn't like delving into the past. He tries to avoid it. Tries to not think about it. Doesn't even really tell you anything until nearly a year in, a drunken confession of sadness and misery. It makes you feel guilty somehow. Poor thing. He's been through a lot, you tell yourself. Maybe you should be more patient and understanding, help him work through it. You can fix him, per se, can't you? Sure, people say that never works, but... He just needs love, really, it's not like he's that bad.

He hates bringing it up like this even more. It just feels weak and vulnerable but it comes out anyway. You're threatening him again, and honestly, that's a sickening thing to do considering what you know, how can you be so vicious?

You're just like everyone else, aren't you?

You're just going to abandon him like this was nothing. You don't care at all. You're heartless. Ungrateful. He's done so much for you. And this is how you repay him, huh? Disappointing, honestly. He thought you were special. Kind. Understanding. Didn't realize you were just as cruel as everyone else in his life, aren't you?

He just has this way of making you doubt yourself. You pull at your hair and cry. I'm going insane. You keep the thought to yourself, but you fall to your knees and promise you're really sorry this time. He sighs. Fine, he'll give you another chance. He's a patient man. You just need to work on yourself, become a less toxic person.

But apparently that's not enough, and eventually you get dumped.

It comes as a surprise. But he says he's had enough of you being so emotionally manipulative and neglectful. You hardly ever spend time with him (like, only 29 days a month? Unbelievable!). You cry and try to make him feel bad, when the things he does aren't that bad. You always claim to be too tired to fuck. You try to gaslight him into thinking all that's acceptable. It's toxic and abusive, so, he's done.

You find yourself in shock. Confusion. It feels unreal. The first thing you worry about is if you can even find a new boyfriend... Your body is completely littered in freeze-burn scars by now, after all.

Were you really in the wrong? You're not too experienced in relationships, maybe he's right about everything he said... Maybe you really did him wrong...

Which is why you come crawling back. Crying. Apologizing.

Exactly as planned.

So he sighs and agrees. Fine. You can have another chance.

The second time, the third time, he always forgives you and takes you back. Even though you don't deserve it. He just loves you so much, you know? He keeps forgiving you.

Until one day you don't show up.

When you leave that time, you seem almost angry. You don't cry this time. Your hands ball into fists and for once, for the first time, as you storm out, you say--

Fine.

Unusual, but you were always moody like that. Odd choice of words. No matter, it's not like you're actually fine with it, you'll come crawling back any minute now.

It's already been several hours. Why aren't you at his doorstep already? Did he make you feel that bad? Maybe he went too far... You're probably just at home crying or something. You'll come back by tomorrow morning.

You don't.

Ok. Maybe you feel too guilty. Maybe you're reflecting on how awful you've been. That would take some time to get over, since you've done so many bad things. It won't be long before you come back.

A day passes. Two days pass.

What's taking you so long?

He finally swallows his pride. Maybe you're being stubborn. Trying to make him feel bad. Yeah, that's something you'd do. Or maybe you're trying to make him feel all alone, take advantage of the one thing you know bothers him. How mean. But he loves you. You know that. So you'll appreciate it when he checks on you, apologizes for maybe going too far, and he really loves you, he loves you so much, so how about you two just go home and forget this ever happened and have lots and lots of makeup sex and cuddle? And then you can tell him you're sorry and love him too and promise to stay forever? He's already got the speech practiced a few times in his head walking over to your place, the one you haven't really lived in for a while now since he demanded you basically move in with him. All your clothes and stuff are at his place now. You would have taken that with you if you ever actually intended to leave, so clearly this is a ploy to get him to come to you, as if that wasn't already obvious.

Your eyes narrow when you open the door and your face contorts with anger. And you snarl that you've had enough. He wants you gone so much, fine, you're more than happy to oblige, you say. You're done. You don't even need your shit, keep it, you'd rather lose your stuff than set foot in that place again. You finally came to your senses and you're fucking done.

You say nasty things. You say he made your life a living hell and you're happy to be rid of him.

And then you say something worse. Something that sets something deep inside off. Something that feels like a stab to the gut.

You say if you'd known the truth about him you would have kicked him out a long time ago.

Maybe it's not about the same thing. Not meant the same way. But it feels too familiar nonetheless.

You see him freeze up. He just stands still for a moment. Not saying anything. Face blank and empty. His eye twitches.

You couldn't care less. Besides, you already have a new boyfriend, one that's nice to you, you tell him with a prideful spite in your voice. One that doesn't have fucking issues. You're not a therapist, you say, and you tell him to figure out his problems on his own, and you slam the door in his face.

Or, you try to. He catches the door before it can close with one hand. Grabs your arm with the other.

For once he doesn't say anything, not until you make him. Just grabs you, drags you down the street by your shirt. It nearly chokes you, but you manage to start to scream. He slams your back into the nearest building, grabs your shoulders and says to shut the fuck up or I'll break your fucking arms. You go wide eyed and scared tears run down you're face. You're scaring me, you plead. Let me go.

But he doesn't. You figure maybe you can talk sense into him when you get there. You don't realize how far gone he is, you don't think that this might be the last time you set foot outside, the last time you see the sun not through a window. You don't think any of the things you'll wish you had down the road.

You've had rough sex before. Not quite like this, though. You can't breathe. You kick and wheeze and cry and claw at the hand around your throat and desperately gasp for what little air you can get in. He only lets go when you black out, lets you take a few breaths, then does it again. You're still so tight. New boyfriend must not have measured up, huh. It's raw and dry and it hurts. You whimper and you cry and you finally apologize like you should have days ago.

And yet, most importantly, you cum. See? You love him. So say it. Say it already. Come on. You do, you stutter, it's quiet and scared, but he smiles nonetheless.

It's ok. He knows you're sorry. He knows you didn't mean those awful things you said. You would never actually abandon him. You're different. Different. Special. Not like everyone else. You won't leave. You won't just leave him somewhere and disappear, you won't die out of nowhere, you won't kick him aside and leave him alone, you're the only person who won't. Different. That's why he loves you so much. You would never do any of that.

You just need help. You're so emotional, you're really not emotionally stable. Controlled by your wildly changing emotions. They make you say things you don't mean. Do things you don't really intend to do. Things you'll just regret if he didn't intervene and help you.

They make you vulnerable to other people. You're so easily controlled. You believe what they want you to believe. And that's dangerous. That could lead you to try to leave again. That's why you have to be helped. Kept away from becoming victim to your own impulses. The only way to do that is keeping you locked away. You'll come to understand with time. Appreciate it. Thank him.

You'll appreciate it because you're different. You'll never leave. You would never leave him even if you had the opportunity.

But maybe it's for the best that you don't have that opportunity to begin with.

[spikesbimbo]

Better love

Summary: Niichan always takes care of you <3

cw: yandere niichan gojo but the reader actually likes him being a yandere, pseudo incest, blood play, possessive tendencies, violence, oral sex

wc: 1.9k 

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Your slight smile was hidden behind your fake, worrisome appearance as you looked him in the eyes, your doe eyed expression bringing him back to reality as his hands rested on your waist. 

You did not know why the guys following you around campus did not get the hint of “no”, and that your niichan would easily get rid of them if you asked. But you didn't want him to know that you, his sweet little angel, thought that way; so you conveyed it to him in a more discreet way. 

Crying, not so fake as you were frustrated and scared, but you easily let the tears fall to show him how distressed you were as he waited for you outside leaning on his car as you ran up to him, noticing that your precious little eyes were ruined as he embraced you in his arms.

What you didn't see, but felt, was the intense glare he gave them as he opened the door to set you in the passenger seat, trapping them in a barrier that you couldn't see as he drove you home.

As he finally got you washed up and in bed, tucking you in your favorite blanket, he left the house after giving you a kiss on the top of your head. You weren't really asleep as you heard the car starting, your heart racing loudly at the thought that he would go this much out of his way for you.

You knew what was going to happen as you got up, still a mess but for a ‘good’ reason now, your hands shaking from excitement and not fear as you tried to bring the glass up to your mouth. He was one of the only people in your life now, slowly getting rid of them one by one, whether it was just convincing you to cut them off or other methods.

But you didn't care, he's been the only one you could count since you met him Calling him niichan within a month of being with him, and still calling him it even though your ‘relationship’ has changed.

 He made you feel like you were the center of his world, universe. Thinking about how effortlessly he would slip you off your feet and catch you in his arms as you brought the glass down from your lips.

He quickly snapped his fingers firing it at them, the men disappearing besides the bloody remains left behind on him and the ground. He brushed some off walking straight back to his car, not wanting to waste another second without you as he sped down the highway.

You heard the door open, swiftly running to see him. Exclaiming “Toru!” as you wrapped your arms around him, he let out a little laugh not even through the door yet as your need for him made the seriousness in his head drop.

“You know why it did it, right sweetheart?” he whispered into your ear as he bent his tall frame into yours. Your hands working their way up to his jaw, wiping off some of the blood splattered there with your sleeve. Him showing it off in a sense after your reaction from this happening before, same situation different scenario.

He did it in front of you with no second thoughts as their disgusting hands reach out to grab your ass, coming to his senses when he saw the mess he made laid out before him.

And when he turned around, his mind was racing as he thought he was going to have to lock you away to stay with him, but the last thing he would've thought to see was your face flustered, eyes beaming as you clung onto his now dirty shirt with your fingers, muttering out “you did that....for me?”

“You needy honey?” he said letting you cling onto him as he walked to the bedroom. “I thought i told you to go to sleep.”

“m’sorry niichan, i was worried about you.” You pouted as he laid you on the bed taking his shirt off, thinking how ironic it was that you were the one wanting his attention. 

He always had you at his call, expecting you to respond to his texts directly unless you were asleep, which he knew of, his tenseness whenever you brought up another man that wasn't him, his eyes never leaving you whenever you two went out.

“Worried about me? That's so sweet of you baby” he said sitting beside you. “so worried about me that it got you this worked up?”  

His big hands were resting on your nightgown, lifting it up enough to see another mess he had to take care of. “Fuck sweetheart, you’re soaked for me. You want niichan to fuck you that badly?” he asked teasingly, grinning at your image.

You hid your face in the sheets, embarrassed of the reason he got you like this as he pulled them down with ease. Your fragile little arms being nothing in comparison to him”

“Cmon angel, u gonna let me wreck that dripping little cunt of yours or what? he said tugging on the string of your panties.

You whined out softly as you wrapped your arms around his neck pulling him into you. His bright hair shining in the moonlight as it tickled your skin ,putting out a false complaint playing into the game he created. 

“Why, is it because niichan is dirty right now? I can take care of that sweetheart.”

“No! Tor-”

“No?” He chuckled out, seeing your hips grind in place as his dirty hands worked their way up your body. Freeing you from your nightgown, only being left in your panties as you leaned up and kissed his blood covered face. The iron taste spreading in your mouth as you held him close.

“You like me all messy, hmm? Messy because I had to take care of you... what a naughty girl.”

The tease in his voice never left as he kept muttering filthy words, your squirming body being the highlight of his day as his breath got closer and closer to your aching cunt, dripping though your panties as you moaned out when he touched you.“Fuck baby you got like this for me, im flattered.”

“You know niichan loves you.... and that he’ll do it over and over again if it gets you like this.” he says pushing his middle finger into the slickness of your hole immediately, thinking about claiming you in and out had his head going dizzy along with your scent.

Your tightness around his fingers is making his cock harder at the thought of stretching you out. He shushes you, cooing while rubbing your clit to ease you up, his finger curling into you as you thrashed around in his hold.

“Niichan’s the only one who can make you cum, you know that right? You know i'm the only one allowed to touch you here.”  he said, grabbing the base of your neck, wanting to instill it on you that he would be the only man to ever see you like this as his fingers tightened.

“Y-yeah, toru, please” you whimpered as he put another finger in, buried knuckle deep inside of you as he started thrusting them. He pulled out his cock, stroking it while he leaned his forehead onto your thighs.

Crying at how his lips attached to your clit, sucking the swollen bud intensely, so impatient to make you cum so he could fuck you. “Fuck baby, you're so sweet”

“You want my fat cock in there? Is that what you want baby?” he smirked, rubbing the area around your cunt. “You gotta tell me like a good girl or i don't know what to do.'' he said, removing his fingers from your hole to your protest as you gasped, nodding heavily to the point where you got dizzy.

His hands trailed up your sides, focusing on your pretty body before ruining it. His long fingers rubbing your thighs and tummy, grabbing the fat in his hands while spreading your legs open. 

“Such a pretty pussy, for my eyes only.” he observed gazing into yours, the blue turning white as he wouldn't let your vision go. You let out another whine at the feeling of his eyes burning holes into you.

“Shh angel niichans here to take care of you, like always” he said with your sloppy cunt spread open for him, your ankles besides your ears as he moved them there. The heat leaving your body as his cold hands gripped your thighs, locking them in place as he pushed his fat cock slowly into you.

“Fuck you're so tight, always sucking me up.” he groaned, his hips thrusting upwards as you moan out. “You got such a greedy little cunt, baby, you always wanna have something in you. Don't worry sweet girl, i'm gonna stuff you full like you deserve. Fuck you till youre all swollen and pretty with my cum.”

“Toru-” you sobbed, face being in his chest met with the dried blood that your hands were scratching against as his pace was ruthless. Your little hole clenched  so tight around him that he can ballet thrust in and out of you.

His hands grip harder on your thighs, pushing himself even deeper as his hips slam into yours, fucking you as fast and rough as he can. “That’s my girl, you this huh? Tell me.”

Your voice chokes out, head dramatically falling back as his cock was ramming into your cervix. “Yes, yea, nii-chan, p-please, cum in me ple ― ah.”

“Of course.” he grunted out, your cries being background noise at this point, mixing in with the sound of his balls slapping into your wet cunt. “Just like i always do.”

His hips rut into you faster as you feel your stomach clench up. You feel him throbbing inside you as your vision goes white. Your nails digging to the flesh of his back as you feel his warmness fill you up.

He lets you rest your head as your limp under him, pulling out slightly enough to see how much cum he left in you, seeing the slick pool out too. He doesnt let it slip as he fucks it back into you quickly. Loving how you're always ready to be fucked and bred, whenever he wanted.

“Are you okay?” you asked, voice half gone as he fucked it out of you, making sure the blood was just there’s and not his.

“Yes baby i'm fine.” he answered, kissing you on the forehead before slowly pulling out as he had to clean you two up.

“nii― ” You voiced as he got up, picking you up along with him as he took you to the bathroom, due to the fact that he was unfortunately covered in someone else and not just you.

“Everything i do is for you, remember that.” he interrupted, his gaze hardening as he sat you on the counter while he was below you, running the bath to wash you.

But not before he placed his mouth into the mess he made, licking his cum out of your messy cunt then smothering your lips with it, covering you completely in him, in and out.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Northern Exposure | Sam

❄ PART 2 OF THE MINI-SERIES ❄

Part 1

Warnings: non-consent sex and rape (series); face riding/oral, violence, creepiness on part of our boys, predatory behaviour, Bucky’s an asshole, they’re all too lonely and too desperate, mistaken identity.

This is dark! fic and explicit. 18+ only.  Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Pairings: Sam Wilson x Reader, Steve Rogers x Reader, Bucky Barnes x Reader, A Bad Time x Reader

Series Synopsis: You’re a nature photographer stationed up north but the arctic isolation comes to an unexpected and unpleasant end.

Note: Special announcement later today and as usual, update are consistently inconsistent for my other series but I promise, I’m always working on something.

Thanks to everyone for their patience and feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

The three men, the heroes who were truly villains, kept you tied up as they tied a rope to an old rickety pallet and pulled you on it like a large sled. You shivered as the hills of snow left you dizzy and when you rolled off, you were thrown back on by Bucky who treated you like the spy he’d mistaken you for.

The second time you fell off, they didn’t notice right away. You managed to get your feet under you but before you could hop too far, the snow crunched and you were scooped up again. This time Bucky threatened to break your nose and Steve talked him down as Sam tried to coax you that all would be better if you didn’t try that again.

The sun rose and they continued on. The sky never paled more than a dim grey and the restless night gathered behind your forehead. A splitting headache fed by the biting cold. When the plains began to darken again and the moonlight rose to reflect off the snow, you stilled.

It took a moment to sight the bunker. The doorway was shoveled out and even if it were spring, the roof would look no more than a lump in the ground. You’d been up this way weeks ago, a snow fox and its kits had been skittering around. You groaned at the realisation of your mistake.

You were lifted by Sam and Steve grabbed your chin as you dragged towards the door. He looked you over and shared a look with Sam, “we need to warm her up,” your teeth chattered as if to reiterate his words, “we should’ve let her walk.”

“Just get inside,” Bucky scowled and stomped down the hidden stairs.

You nearly fell down as you hopped to the top step at Sam’s nudge. He caught you and descended at your side, your bodies flush in the tight space. The door opened and Bucky pushed the door in. Steve entered behind you and locked it as the lights flickered on and a generator began to whir.

As Sam guided you to a chair, Bucky elbowed past him and shoved you into the seat gruffly. He was jabbed by the other man and Steve snapped at both of them with his fingers. The blond opened a cupboard in the underground shelter and pulled out a vacuum sealed pouch.

“She should eat, it’ll warm her up,” he moved the kettle onto the gas burner, “and change her clothes. They’re wet from the snow.”

“I still don’t know why you had to bring her back--”

“Why’s it always shoot this and shoot that?” Sam scoffed, “I thought they got all that shit out of your head.”

“It’s our job,” Bucky snarled.

“Our job isn’t to kill civilians,” Steve shoved the pouch in the small microwave above the gas stove and turned.

“And when was it our job to babysit? Or whatever it is you two are planning,” Bucky crossed his arms.

Steve brushed past him and knelt to look you in the face, “Coffee or tea?”

“What?” you blinked and looked between him and the two other men, Sam watched you with a subtle grin as he unzipped his parka.

“We have some hot chocolate but it’s military issued and tastes awful,” he explained, “so?”

You frowned and met his gaze, “tea?” you answered weakly.

“Alright, and…” his hands went to the zip tie on your wrists, “if I untie you, you won’t try anything, okay?”

“Is that really a question?” you asked.

He pursed his lips and tilted his head, “fair enough but it’s your choice.”

You considered and poked your tongue against your teeth, “you can untie me.”

Steve grabbed the plastic tie and snapped it easily. He did the same to the one around your ankles and handed them to Bucky as he stood. He went back to the kitchenette as the microwave beeped. Sam came closer and rested his hand on the chair.

“You want me to get her changed, I got something she can borrow,” he said as he slipped his hand onto your shoulder. You flinched and he squeezed as Bucky tossed the ties and rolled his eyes.

“Get her clothes, I’m sure she can manage to get them on herself,” Steve felt the kettle but didn’t seem to feel the heat as you heard the water begin to roil.

Sam sighed but backed up. He disappeared into another room and Bucky hung his jacket with the others. He dropped down onto the bench by the door and unlaced his boots gruffly. He shook his head as he kicked them off.

“So, what’s your name, not Ursa?” Sam reappeared and plopped a pile of clothes in your lap.

You looked up at him and swallowed. He was so interested it made you want to vomit. His suggestion might have saved your life but it also promised you little more than imprisonment. You weren’t stupid and the way he hovered assured you of his intent. You gave him your name and stood cautiously.

“Where can I change?” you asked softly.

“Just in there,” Steve said when Sam didn’t answer and pointed to the same door.

You nodded and stepped around the other man. Bucky yawned loudly and kicked his feet out. You left them and closed the door. There were no windows and the only other door led to a closet.

You removed your hat, the gloves hastily shoved on above your restraints, your coat, and wet boots. Next you peeled off your jeans and the fleece leggings beneath. You kept looking up at the door as you pulled on the dry clothing; a loose tee, looser sweatpants, and large socks. The hoodie’s zip was broken and the sleeves were too long. Even so, it was warm.

You hesitated and only went to the door when a bang shook it, “your food’s ready,” Steve called through.

You opened the door and stepped out. He stayed close and you felt his heat as he held out a bowl of chunky stew and a steaming mug. You took it and he pointed you to the metal TV tray set up by the armchair. You sat and blew on the tea before you sipped. You didn’t know what else to do.

You ate quietly between Steve’s shy glances, Sam’s constant leer, and Bucky’s blatant indifference. You felt queasy but didn’t know what to do. You could run for the door and then what? Freeze to death on the tundra?

“You could… you could take me back still,” you said, “promise I won’t say anything.”

“We should just get rid of her,” Bucky huffed and finally looked at you, “this place is bad enough without--”

“Man, how about we get rid of you?” Sam puffed, “All you do is complain.”

“Look,” Steve pulled up a wooden chair from beside the matching table, “we can’t do that, it’s too risky.” He sat and gripped his knees, “It’s against protocol to just ignore security risks. It isn’t about you wanting or not wanting to say anything, it’s about what someone could make you say if they found you, just like Bucky here did.”

“They wouldn’t know--”

“The photos--”

“Burn them,” you said, “please, I didn’t do anything.”

“You sure this isn’t her, Wilson? You are a bit slow?” Bucky spat.

“Shut up, jackass,” Sam retorted, “hey, honey,” he came closer, “we don’t wanna hurt you.”

“And what you do want?” you stirred the bowl, “I don’t want that either.”

He arched a brow and smirked at Steve. Steve fidgeted and Bucky groaned.

“We’ll be nice,” Sam said.

“Cap,” you ignored him and watched Steve, “you’re a good guy, don’t do this. Up here, it’s hard, the isolation, I know, but you don’t want this. Maybe you should head back south and get your head on straight.”

Steve’s jaw squared as he considered you. He inhaled and his tongue peeked out between his lips. He looked at Sam and sighed. He shook his head.

“You can’t manipulate me,” he stood and moved the chair back, “Sam’s right, it won’t hurt. In fact, looks like you’ve been here long enough that we’re doing you a favour.”

“No--”

“Should we flip for it?” Sam asked, “who gets the first night since idiot’s a no go.”

Bucky sneered and stood. The other two watched him as he stormed past them and slammed the door behind him as he fled to the other room. Your last hope was gone. You thought even if he was mean, that Bucky might stop them and hopefully not just to tie loose ends up with a bullet.

“Heads,” Steve said as he kept his hand on the back of the wooden chair, his shoulders tense as he hung his head.

Sam fished around in his pockets then searched in his parka and finally found a coin in one of the drawers. He held it up and went to stand on the other side of the table. He flipped it and let fall between him and Steve on the wood. The latter sniffed and nodded dully.

“Let her finish eating first,” Steve said, “I’ll deal with Buck, he’s just… standoffish. You know how he can be. He’ll come around.”

“Even if he doesn’t, more for us,” Sam winked and Steve shoved himself away from the table.

You caught his eye as he headed for the bedroom door and when it closed behind him, your heart sank. You scooped up a mouthful of stew and slurped it up. The only man left strode around the room and sat on the low couch. He spread his legs wide and stretched his arms over the back, his gaze intent on you.

You ate slowly even though each bite made your stomach growl and built your appetite. You drank the tea carefully and relished the last dregs. He could hear how empty the glass was and when he stood, you sat back and drew your feet up onto the seat to hug your legs. He cleared the table and folded it.

He stalked around the room like an animal around its prey. You touched your cheeks and sunk down.

“Are you really going to do this?” you asked at last.

“I only want to treat you nice,” he said as he came closer, he reached out and tickled the back of your hand, “it was Bucky who hurt you, not me.”

“You could’ve left me--”

“We both know that’s not true.”

“But you don’t have to do this,” you argued.

“Why is it so bad? Aren’t you lonely? You have to be,” he slipped his fingers under your hand and drew your arm away from your legs, “all the way up here, alone.”

“That’s not--” you trembled and he tugged until you were out of the chair, “I don’t know you.”

“But you’ve heard of me? And Steve. Even Bucky,” he purred and put your hand on his chest. He wrapped his arm around you and swayed as if he was dancing with you. He took your other hand and twined his fingers through yours, “Come on, baby, I just want to make you feel good.”

You batted away the glossy tears with your lashes as you were trapped in his embrace, “why?”

He chuckled and kissed your forehead as he turned you, “because I gave Bucky your coordinates,” he backed you up slowly, “because I knew you weren’t her but knew I wanted you.”

“No…” you breathed as your legs met the low seat of the couch, “you were following me?”

“I just… stumbled upon you and…” his voice trailed off as he focused on your lips and his eyes turned smoky, “baby, you know you need it too.”

“No,” you gasped and pushed against him.

He crushed his lips into yours and leaned on you until you were forced back onto the couch. He angled you across it, his arm beneath you as he moved his hips slowly. You felt his excitement through his jeans as his breath stuttered in your mouth.

You turned your head away as his other hand skirted along the hem of the loose tee. He slid his fingers under the open hoodie and the cotton shirt. A shiver went up your spine as his hand crawled up your stomach.

“Please,” you whispered as you stared at the carpet.

“Does it hurt?” he asked, “am I hurting you?”

Your eyes were wet but you fluttered away the tears, “no,” you mumbled, “but…”

Your voice dissolved as he cupped your chest and ground his crotch against you harder. He grabbed your chin and turned your head back, his hot breath slipped through your lips before his tongue and he hummed. He kissed you hungrily and pulled his hand back to grab your shirt. He shoved it up your torso and his fingertips danced over your skin.

He parted from your lips and sat up. He tugged at the hoodie and lifted you. He pushed his legs around you and pushed the sleeves down your arms. He untangled you from the sweater and yanked on the tee until you raised your arms. He pulled that off too and flung it.

He drew you further into his lap and laid back on the couch. His fingers hooked under the elastic of the sweats and he pulled until you were forced to raise your pelvis. You shook as you got to your knees and looked down at him.

“You can stop…”

“I don’t want to,” he said and tugged, “up.’

You stood and your pants were ripped to your ankles as he kept hold of them. You lifted one foot then the other as he pulled off your socks and the sweats. They fell to the floor with the rest and he grasped your calves.

“Sit,” he patted the top of his chest with one hand.

You stared down at him and gulped. He slipped down on the couch and his eyes lingered between your legs. He squeezed the back of your leg.

“Sit,” he repeated darkly.

You bent and gripped the arm of the couch. You put a knee beside his head and then the other. He grabbed your hips and guided you down until you felt his breath on your cunt. You held yourself up and he pulled you down entirely.

“I bet you taste so good,” his voice was muffled as his breath tickled you, “I bet…”

His tongue made you wince and squeak. His fingertips poked at your hips as he gripped them tighter and he lapped at you from below. You tried to lift yourself but his hold on you was unbreakable. He purred and began to rock your pelvis over him. You felt your core react to him and you quivered as you let out a shattered moan.

He flicked his tongue more eagerly and your chest swelled as a lump rose in your throat. You held your breath as you tried to hide how he affected you. Your thighs tensed around his head and soon it was you moving your hips, not him.

Your mind was a haze as your voice flew out of you and you clung to the arm of the couch. You rode his face without thinking as the stunning sensation drove you on. He delighted in the taste of you and his hand ran up and he scratched down your back.

Your shallow pants turned to frantic mewls and you gritted your teeth as you came violently. You didn’t want it but you couldn’t fight. The months alone, the endless cold, the pure desolation, it all spilled over and burned deep inside of you. He didn’t stop until you were weak and your legs trembled and stilled.

He tilted his head back and licked his lips, “that’s it, baby, wasn’t that nice?”

You looked down at him as he watched from between your legs. You pushed off of him and his hands fell from your back. You climbed off of him and huddled on the far end of the couch as he sat up. He wiped his mouth and stood. You were humiliated at how easily he had you.

You hung your head and when you heard him come close again, he was naked. Your mouth fell open as his dick bobbed before him and you looked away shyly. He grabbed your elbow and pulled until you let him move you again. He led you down onto your stomach across the couch and dragged his fingers over your shoulders, down your back, and along the curve of your ass.

“All those layers, I knew there was something sweet hiding beneath,” he pushed apart your legs and felt your cunt.

He put his knee between yours then brought his other down as he climbed up behind you. He slid back and bent over you as he pushed his dick down between your legs. You tried to close them then tried to wriggle away. His hands settled on your hips and he leaned his weight on you entirely.

“Come on,” he lifted your ass slightly and rescinded a hand, he angled his tip along your cunt, “that’s it.”

He pushed into you, just an inch and you clawed the arm of the couch. You groaned as he sank deeper and pulled you back onto him. He spread his thighs over yours and placed his hands on the cushion around you. He eased out of you and slammed back in, the sound deafening in the underground room.

“Shit,” he moaned, “that’s good.”

You buried your face on the couch and crossed your arms over your head. He thrust again and you whined. He did it a third time and each tilt of his hips was followed by a pause as he basked in the feel of you. 

His flesh clapped against yours and the sound made you both sick and excited. Your mind felt trapped in your body as he used you, fucking you faster as he felt your natural response. The wet noises fed his lust and soon the whole couch shook.

“That’s it, baby, take it,” he snarled as he pushed down between your shoulder blades with one hand and the other lifted your hip as he lifted himself on his knees, “take it.”

His hand snaked up under your neck and he gripped your chin and forced your head up. Your back curved as he pounded you mercilessly. Your eyes rolled back and your tongue threatened to loll out. You moaned and his motion turned fractured and frantic. He jerked into you harshly and jolted your body with each crash of his hips.

“Ah, baby, I’m cumming,” he rasped and quaked as he burst inside of you.

He slowed down and stopped entirely. He straddled you still and when his breath steadied, he wiggled his hips until you squirmed. He chuckled and rubbed your back. He gasped as he pulled out of you and the cum spilled down the crease of your leg. He groped your ass and kneaded it with a growl.

“Get up,” he ordered as he stroked his softening dick, “put your hands on the couch.”

You got up, barely, numb and shaking, and turned to bend and press your palms to the cushion. He caught your hips before your legs could collapse under you.

“I told you I wouldn’t hurt you, baby,” he cooed, “don’t you feel so good?”

[paterson-blue]

Shadow of the Sea: Chapter 1

Summary: Kylo is used to being alone. It's how he's survived this long, in the cold ocean depths. He can take care of himself. Other creatures--other merfolk--are dangerous; he has the scars to prove it. Humans, however, are the worst of all. But one day, Kylo finds he has no other choice but to turn to one for help. The human he meets is nothing like he expects, and all he knows is he wants more. Is he willing to pay the price?

Word Count: 4,394

Warnings: fem!AFAB!reader, plot set up, kylo ren needs a hug confirmed, non-graphic descriptions of violence & bodily harm, brief mentions of blood & wounds, very vague medical descriptions lol, minor character death (happens off screen), oh but there's also one that happens on screen but it's brief, big time ocean nostalgia from your dear author— let me know if I need to add anything else!

A/N: Thank you @paper-n-ashes for beta reading! Icon behavior tbh.

Prefer AO3? I gotcha!

Kylo prided himself on his independence—his ferocity, his ability to fight his way out of every corner. His body was scarred and battle-hardened, but that didn’t matter. It was proof he was a survivor, and it’s not like he had anyone around him to care about his appearance. Most creatures he saw took one look at his massive form and ran.

He was intimidating, all muscle, his fins torn from previous fights. While his skin was pale, his scales were an onyx color; it made blending into the ocean depths easier. He couldn’t understand why merfolk’s standard of beauty was a brightly colored tail; didn’t it make camouflaging more difficult?

He guessed most merfolk didn’t care about that. They lived in large groups, colorful and cheerful and busy amongst other plant and animal life. Not many delved into the cold, murky areas Kylo had made his home. But he’d been there as long as he could remember, and there was no sense in changing things. He wouldn’t be welcome in the warmer waters anyway. They didn’t want him, and he didn’t want them.

So he kept away, and no one dared bother him. Those that did quickly learned not to. He had killed many creatures, and while it was all in defense, his reputation still preceded him. After all, he’d once fought one of the most dangerous predators the ocean knew, and he’d won.

He’d killed a human, after they’d captured him in their net. He’d overpowered them easily, yanked them from their boat into the water; he hadn’t even flinched when their little fishing knife plunged into his side. He’d watched with a furious gaze as the air left their lungs, their pathetic struggling eventually ceasing. Then he’d calmly cut himself loose from the netting. The knife wound had scarred over, but it was just one more to add to his collection.

Yes, Kylo prided himself on his abilities. He had no fear, no weakness; he never ran from a fight.

He was running now.

He’d been foolish. He should have realized why his normal hunting grounds had been so devoid of fish for the past few days—he should have seen the signs, should have been more careful. But hunger makes you desperate; makes you stupid. He hadn’t been paying attention, too focused on the singular fish he’d found.

It seemed to happen all at once. A sudden blow to his head that left him reeling, pain shooting through his skull as he whips himself around in attempts to find his attacker. A searing burn in his side the exact moment he feels a sharp pinch at the back of his neck. His head starts to spin with confusion, the scent of his own blood in the water.

He spots a figure out of the corner of his eye, and his heart leaps into his throat. It was a human, and they had some sort of weapon pointed right at him.

Kylo doesn’t think—he just bolts. They don’t seem to follow him at first, and he doesn’t understand why until he starts to feel the first symptoms of whatever they’ve injected him with. It makes him dizzy, makes his vision start to blur as a sickening metallic taste fills his mouth.

No, he thinks. I won’t let them do this.

He pulls strength from deep within and pushes himself to swim faster, farther. He hears a muffled shout from behind, and oh, they’re pursuing him now.

He swims frantically, skirting around rocks and through kelp forests, desperately trying to lose them even though he thinks he might hear the dull thrum of a boat motor over the thudding of blood in his ears. Kriff, he was so tired. It would be so easy to let the human magic overtake him, to sink to the ocean floor.

Was this death? A dreamless sleep that crept over your senses until you had no choice but to succumb to it? Kylo doesn’t want to die, not like this. Not where they can get to him, at least.

He doesn’t know where he’s going, doesn’t even know where he is until he catches a quick glimpse of a familiar rock formation. His mind is in shambles, drugged and panicked, lacking oxygen as his gills burn with the strain of his labored breathing.

A cove. Not too far from here. Too shallow for a boat, too rocky for humans. A cave to shelter in. Go, swim, fast, now, now, go.

The voice in his head doesn’t feel like his own—it’s frantic, urgent, thoughtless. Usually he was so composed, controlled. The threat of death had turned him into nothing more than an animal; he’s never felt so small.

He ducks and weaves as he swims towards the hidden cove, trying to convince himself he’s doing it on purpose and not just fading in and out of consciousness. If he can just stay awake a little longer, if he can just make it to that kriffing cave, he can die with dignity. Alone and cold, drugged and bleeding, but away from the humans trying to hurt him.

Kylo nearly loses his speed when he breeches the shallow waters of the cove, his mind wanting to shut down now that he’s made it. He forces himself to keep going despite his nausea and lightheadedness. His lungs are screaming, muscles aching; he scrapes his tail against the rocky outcroppings as he searches frantically for the mouth of the underwater cave.

It’s here, it’s here. I know it’s here, I’ve seen it, I mapped it. Where is it?!

His hands snag against an opening, just barely big enough for him to squeeze through, and he darts into it. It’s a tight fit, and for a brief second Kylo is terrified he’ll get stuck and pass out from whatever the humans hit him with—he’ll die, trapped, never to be found.

But then, quick as a flash, he’s through to the other side. The small tunnel opens up into a larger cavern, protected from the elements and decorated with several pools of varying depths. He’d explored it once, curious, thinking it would be a nice place to hide. It was a little too close to humanity for his comfort, but then again he’d never seen this area very populated. He’d figured he’d keep it in the back of his mind for later.

Turns out later was now.

Kylo pulls himself to the edge of the main and deepest pool, looking around urgently through spotty vision. There was a pool in the corner, half hidden by rocks—it looked shallow, but just deep enough to be submerged. Exhaling fast, he hauls himself up and out of the water, coughing and choking as his body tries to adjust from using his gills to his mouth and nose to breathe. It was never an easy transition, and he hated doing it, but right now it was what he needed.

He growls to himself as he pulls his heavy body along the rough stone cave floor, his normally nimble tail a dead weight. If he wasn’t about to faint, he thinks he’d be a bit more graceful. By the time he rolls unceremoniously into the shallow pool, his palms are all scraped up and bleeding. He doesn’t care; barely feels the sting. He’s not really feeling much of anything at this point, head spinning out of control.

Laying like this on his back, head propped up against the ledge of the pool, Kylo gazes up at the jagged rock ceiling. His lungs crackle as he heaves in breaths, heart still pounding loudly. It’s hard to hear anything else, and he wonders again if his attackers are closing in on him. Does it even matter? His dying mind questions. He doesn’t have an opportunity to think of a retort before his body finally breaks, and he succumbs to the drug induced sleep.

—————————————————————

You wake to the familiar sounds of distant crashing waves, whistling wind, and calls of seagulls. After years on the island, the noise was a comfort.

You’d grown up here, in this same cottage by the sea--been raised fishing, hunting for mussels, searching through tide pools. You and your siblings would bike into town to sell your wares at the local market before heading down to the pier to watch the boats come and go. It was a simple life, sometimes a little isolated, but it was good nonetheless. You loved the island and the ocean, and held great respect for them both. If you honor them, they will honor you--at least, that’s what your mother always said.

Your siblings grew up and moved to the mainland, but still you stayed. Got yourself a little apartment in town above the local grocery, worked at the marina as a clerk, and visited your parents on the weekends. When your mother passed, your father followed just weeks later—a broken heart, everyone said. Suddenly, your beloved little slice of heaven—of home—belonged to you.

So you moved back into the cottage you grew up in, a place haunted by the ghosts of memories and the sounds of the sea. If you’re being honest with yourself, you wouldn’t trade it for the world, no matter how many times you pretend to entertain your siblings’ urging to rent the place out. Think of all the money you’d make. It’s the perfect vacation spot.

Maybe so, but you don’t care. You don’t want strangers in your home—not those tourists who come to fawn over the village, who eat up the landscape with cameras without really seeing it, who gawk at the fishermen, who laugh at the prices at the market. They would probably call your cottage quaint and cute. You could picture them tittering over your family photos on the mantle, over the door frame where heights had been marked over the years.

Tourists, who both long for and pity an isolated life on the ocean. Oh, they have it so easy here, away from the stress of the city. Oh, could you imagine living this way, barely scraping by?

No, you didn’t want them in your home, a place so sacred. You didn’t care what money you were missing out on—you got by fine with your pay from the marina, and picking up shifts at the local cafe. You loved your cottage—savored every creaky floorboard, every leaky windowsill. The drip of the bathroom faucet, the howl of the sea wind through the chimney—these were the sounds of familiarity, of safety. No one would appreciate them like you did.

Twisting around in bed, you turn your gaze towards the open window that was letting in a fresh, salty breeze. It was early, the light still dim and grey, the air a little chilly. It makes you want to curl back up under your covers, catch a couple more hours of shut-eye. It was your day off, after all; you could afford to sleep in.

Except.

You sigh, scrubbing your hands over your face as you remember what your yesterday brain had planned. You’d told yourself you’d get up in order to gather mussels at low tide. There were plenty of tide pools around, especially in the caved area of the cove. It was your family’s little secret—the hidden grotto was all but invisible from the outside. The only reason you even knew about it was because your brother had been too adventurous for his own good as a child, always getting into places he shouldn’t.

Mussels, clams, seaweed, probably fish in the deeper tide pools—maybe some sea urchin you could sell at the market. Your stomach growls.

Well, that’s that.

Groaning, you haul yourself up and out of bed, wincing at the cold hardwood on your bare feet. You bounce on your toes, shivering, goosebumps appearing on your skin as you pad over to close the window. Despite growing up here, you were always surprised at the temperature. You stubbornly let in the breeze at night, all bundled up under your covers, pretending when you woke it would be nice and warm.

But nope, not here; even in the dead of summer the mornings were chilly. Sometimes you dreamed that you lived on one of those big, luxurious, heated beaches—hot sun and white sand as far as the eye could see, no craggy cliffs or rocky shores. Eh. You probably wouldn’t like it much anyway, too used to your own environment.

Glancing at the clock, you quickly throw on some warm clothes, half-assing your regular morning routine before grabbing your tide-pool hunting essentials: a flashlight, knee-high waders, a large bucket, and your trusty fishing knife. You take a deep breath at the front door, bracing yourself for the chill. Just think of the feast you’ll have later. And you can reward yourself with a hot bath and long nap.

It’s not too long a distance from the cottage to the rocky shoreline, and while the low tide has revealed the tempting sand leading towards the rolling waves, you head towards the jagged outcropping to the left. Years of following the same path means it doesn’t take you long at all to find the hidden entrance and carefully make your way into the cavern.

In the middle of a sunny day, light shone in through various cracks in the ceiling, glinting off the water and creating flickering reflections against the stone walls. Sometimes you came here just to think, or to take a dip in the largest pool. The water was always warmer here, protected from the full power of the currents by the rock face.

Now, however, it was dark—only the dimmest bit of grey morning light trickled in. You flick on the flashlight, humming softly to yourself. The melody echoes off the stone walls, and you set your bucket down at the closest tide pool, readying yourself to hunker down and get to work. The beam of the light scans the various pools as you turn to get your knife from its holder, and something catches your eye. It’s not much, and honestly if you weren’t so familiar with the cave you probably wouldn’t have noticed the dark shape in the far corner pool.

At first, you do a double take, eyes sweeping over the little red-tinged puddles on the floor. Blood. You grip your knife, mind racing with possibilities. Was there someone in here with you? Surely not. No one ever came out here. Swallowing hard, you take a couple steps towards the corner, torch in one hand and knife in the other. As you get closer, your gaze tracks the diluted blood trail into the pool, and at first all you notice is the black scales and fins of a fish. The grip on your knife loosens just a little, the fear of a possible threat fading.

It's a big animal, you can tell that even as you make your way over, and you wonder idly how it got in. You knew, logically, that the cave connected to the ocean somehow, but you can't imagine the tide being so high for a fish as large as this one to find its way into the back corner. You’re focused on this conundrum as you round the ledge that’s been shielding the animal from your full view--so much so that it takes you more than a couple moments for your mind to compute just what it's seeing.

The tail is thick and muscular, decorated in obsidian scales that lead to delicate looking fins at the bottom. There were smaller, fan looking fins on the sides of the tail--they were all ripped up, as if they had been torn in previous fights. Your brain clocks all of this in seconds but doesn’t dwell, because it’s focused on the top half of the animal--creature--merman.

Merman. A fucking merman.

The ebony scales at the waist fade seamlessly into pale skin and lean muscle, revealing a long, firm torso. If you weren’t so aware of the tail, you might--might--think he could pass for human. Well, except for the webbed fingers and razor-sharp nails adorning each of his hands. He’s half submerged in the water of the pool, dark hair covering part of his face so you can’t see it.

You stand there, frozen, staring, not quite knowing what to do. You weren’t… scared; weren’t even very surprised aside from the initial shock of seeing him. You’d grown up hearing stories, traditions, tales—it was more than folklore here on the island. Some of the elders believed in merfolk more than ghosts, more than aliens, more than god.

Mr. Mackenzie told tales of mermaids luring in his shipmates as prey, drowning them. You always thought they were just stories designed to scare children away from dangerous tides—and maybe they were. But other accounts, you weren’t so sure of.

It was the wonder on Ms. Fraser’s face when she recounted the long-ago memory of swimming along sandbars with a girl who could breathe underwater. It was the quiet reverence of Mr. McDougall’s voice when he whispered about removing an old fish hook from a merman’s tail. It was the tears in Mrs. Buchanan’s eyes when she insisted merfolk rescued her husband from a fishing boat wreck.

You believed them. You always had, even if you’d done it silently, bashfully. You knew those who still made offerings to the ocean and to the beings that dwelled within the depths. Your island community believed in things not seen, but passed down through generations of storytelling. It was your history, kept alive despite first hand encounters becoming few and far between.

Except, here it was—your own little slice of history, right in front of you. If you took a couple more steps, you could reach out and touch it.

Is he breathing?

The little voice in your head brings you back down to your body, and a sudden fear overtakes you. You can’t let him die—if he was even still alive to begin with. You glance nervously at the pinkish trail of blood leading to the pool; the sight makes you reach some sort of resolve.

Hyper-aware of the claws on his hands, you kneel down beside him, hesitating only briefly before you settle your hand on his large bicep. He doesn’t stir, and your stomach twists unpleasantly. Your hand slides down to his wrist, and while you can admit you aren’t an expert on merfolk anatomy, surely you’ll be able to feel a pulse from the spidery blue veins under his pale skin.

Relief washes over you in a wave when you do, indeed, find a pulse—slow, but strong. Okay, not dead then. Still, he doesn’t move, so you take it upon yourself to move his damp hair out of his face, curling it behind his prominent ears.

He’s handsome.

You feel yourself flush, immediately chastising yourself for the thought. This was—best case scenario—a complete stranger who was wounded and in possible danger. Worst case scenario… you didn’t want to think about. Needless to say, it was no time to be thinking about his level of attractiveness.

You force yourself back into action, cupping his head as you hold your hand under his nose. His breathing is steady, and you gently lay his head back where it rested on the rock ledge. Your fingertips brush against something, and you frown as you realize he has a lump on the back of his skull—as if he’s been hit. You can only hope it hasn’t done too serious damage; it wasn’t like you could really take him to the hospital.

Your attention moves down his body, and you make yourself bypass the gills in his neck in order to properly gauge his wounds. Minor cuts and scrapes littered his skin; from the number of scars decorating his form, you figure these aren’t a big deal, no matter how nasty they look. Not compared to the gash on his side, at least.

You wince when you see it, the delicate flesh torn open and ragged. The cut makes you think it’s from some man-made weapon, and you shake your head in disbelief. Who would want to harm a merman? Around here, it would be blasphemous to do such a thing.

Blood no longer seeps from the wound; you hope that’s a good sign—and that the salt water has somewhat cleaned the area. You think it may have needed stitches, but you’re no doctor with the ability to do such a procedure. If you're being honest with yourself, it’s probably far too late for stitches anyway. The wound would be another nasty scar, likely similar to the one marring his face, but the area isn’t red with infection. That’s a good sign, right?

You sigh, feeling helpless. You want to do something for the creature. There’s only one thing you can really think of. Chewing on your bottom lip, you study his face again. He still seems unresponsive, and you can only hope he stays that way a little longer.

The short trek back up to your home feels the longest it’s ever been, and your legs and lungs are burning by the time you rush through the front door, having run the entire way. You heave in breaths as you pack some supplies into a bag. It wasn’t much, but you should be able to use the waterproof gauze and antibiotic ointment to dress the nasty-looking scrapes on his hands and chest.

You hesitate for a moment before going into your bathroom and grabbing the waterproof pillow you had in the tub. Maybe it was silly, but you hated thinking about him lying on the hard ground for fuck knows how long. You almost grab some food for him—maybe the fish currently thawing in your fridge—but you decide not to. You weren’t sure what he ate, and there was no telling when he’d wake up anyway.

Your breathing has just settled back to normal by the time you’re jogging back to the cave, careful not to slip on any of the wet grass and rocks. The sun starts to peak out of the morning clouds, letting pale beams of light warm the grey morning. The cavern is illuminated slightly better when you enter; you find you can lay the flashlight at a distance and see just fine.

The merman is still asleep, and you feel a little relieved. You aren’t exactly sure what will happen when he wakes up—for all you know, you’ll return later in the day to find him gone. As it is, you plop down next to the pool he was in and get to work patching him up the best you can.

Taking the towel you brought with you, you dab at his scrapes, trying to dry them a little before applying the ointment and then carefully using the gauze to cover the wounds. His palms are so torn up that you wrap them completely, your brows knitted the entire time. It must hurt, but still, he doesn’t stir.

Finally, you’re left with the gash in his side. You debate with yourself as to whether you should cover it or not—if you even can. The front of his torso was out of the water with the way he was laying, but that could change at any second, and any real pressure on his body would cause him to sink into the pool.

Your urge to help him wins out in the end, and you decide you’ll try to bandage it to protect it from any further irritation, despite knowing water would seep in regardless. You lean forward, extra careful not to lose your balance as you pat at his pale skin with the towel once more. It’s an awkward angle and slow work, you trying your best to be gentle with him.

You add as much ointment as you dare to the bandaging, not wanting to put too much onto an open wound, before fixing the gauze to his torso with some waterproof medical tape. There. Sure, it wasn’t going to work a miracle but at this point you weren’t sure what else to do.

He’ll be okay, you tell yourself. He’ll be okay.

You take a moment to watch the rise and fall of his chest, reassured by the movement. Your gaze again drifts to his tail in fascination—you hope that, maybe, you’ll come back later and he’ll be awake. Maybe he’ll be friendly, maybe the two of you can talk. It’s illogical, you know. This wasn’t some fairytale, this was real life. You honestly just hoped he didn’t try to rip you to shreds on sight.

It’s with this thought in mind that you shift away from him, telling yourself you can’t sit and watch him all day. You have several other pools to collect mussels from, breakfast to cook, chores to do. You’ve done enough, and you have to trust that his body will do the rest—you refuse to entertain the idea that he might not make it.

Sighing, you pull yourself further away, but then remember the pillow you’d brought along. You grab it quickly before shuffling back towards him. He’s got a large lump of seaweed shoved haphazardly under his head in what you assume was a desperate attempt to soften the rock face underneath.

His damp hair is surprisingly soft when you gently lift his head to clear the ground of debris. You can’t help but run your fingers through it gently, brushing it behind his ears, almost trying to soothe his subconscious. You settle the small foam pillow in place, and slowly let his head and neck rest against it. You hope it makes some sort of difference, though you know it might be a childish thought.

Your task finished, you force yourself away from him once more, even though you suddenly ache to continue touching him. Picking up your things, you continue on your mission of prying mussels from each tidepool. You move slower and quieter than you normally would, shooting the merman furtive glances every few seconds.

By the time you’re finished with the last pool, you can’t find an excuse to linger any longer. He was as safe as he was going to be. The only thing left to do now was wait. You spare your new charge one last lingering look, then grab your things and head back to the house.

______________________________________________________________

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[script-nef]

Presents (and other things)

Category: fluff

2k words; Shopping date [3/6]

← Previous chapter | Masterlist

Out of everyone in the whole world, the person you love most in the world is Nanami Kento, your brother. He was the one who saved you from the cursed spirit that haunted you and took your parents’ lives. He was the one who took you in so that you wouldn’t be put in the system since you were still a minor. He made sure every day that you were safe and healthy even if he was injured or exhausted after a fight.

That's why in the weeks nearing his birthday, you made sure that he would have a relaxing time. He said you didn’t have to and he’d rather have you not fret over him, but that is unacceptable. He needs to have a good birthday. If you could, you would make the whole month just about him. But the last time you tried that he sat you down for a long, scolding lecture about how it’s unnecessary. So that’s out of the option.

Right now, just a few days shy of his actual birthday, you have a problem. Because you were buried in work and have a terrible memory.

His present.

You forgot to buy a present. 

“I forgot to buy a present! Why am I so dumb… Why am I like this, Gojou? It’s literally one of the most important things with birthdays and I forgot it. Because I’m an idiot. I wish the ground would swallow me up… I deserve it…” Thuds reverberate through the room as your head makes contact with the table. Repeatedly. Hard.

Wallowing in self-hate is great but your brain starts spitting out all viable present options. 

Shopping for Ken-chan is hard because he’s not materialistic in the least. He also doesn’t have a lot of hobbies. “I don’t need presents.” is a regular phrase every time his birthday or holidays come up, but then he gives presents to you and you end up feeling worse. This is all while your brain is getting thrown around. 

A hand comes between your forehead and the desk, gently bringing it up. Gojou has a small pout as his cold fingers try to soothe the burning sensation. 

“You still have a couple of days left! Don’t bang your head against the table, your brain doesn’t work enough as it is.” He easily moves out away from your slap. But returns in time to stop your head from falling again.

“I should have remembered this weeks ago. There’s no use trying to make me feel better, Gojou. I’m a terrible sister. I deserve this pain.” His fingers poke against your cheeks and he smooshes and stretches them. It’s uncomfortable but you let him.

“I haven’t bought a present either.”

“You’ve never given him a present.”

“This is the year to start! I have to get on his good side!” That’s weird since he never cared about what Ken-chan thought of him.

 “Why?”

“We can shop together!” Classic ignoring. His face comes to level with yours. “Let’s go to Shinjuku, I’m sure there are things even Nanami will like. Also, I found a new sweets shop.” You stare at him. “But I will focus on the present for today! C’mon, I can fly us there. You’ve never flown before, right? I think it’ll help.”

For some inexplicable reason, floating in mid-air with nothing to save you other than Gojou is amazing. Adrenaline pumps through your veins at the thought of crashing down to Earth if Gojou lets go. You know he won’t though. 

The air is chilly up here and there’s constant wind makes your hair whip everywhere, getting in your mouth and eyes. It doesn’t dampen your mood.

Your arms tighten around Gojou’s neck, watching the city blink with life way underneath your feet. Well, his feet, since you’re bunched up in his embrace. 

“This is so cool! Do you do this every day?”

“Yup.” He pops the p and slowly walks closer to your destination. The world looks like a child’s playhouse. 

“No wonder you’re constantly in an amazing mood! I would do this every time I’m feeling down!” Gojou’s chuckle reverberates through his chest and into your body. 

“I can take you out again when you’re sad.” A buzz takes over your body at the thought sparkles come to life in your wide eyes.

“You would do that for me?” Gojou is an incredibly important asset and therefore also very busy, needing to take care of special-grade curses that others can’t while also teaching and looking after his three students. He couldn’t be at your beck and call, you can’t ask that from him. But the gentle smile he gives is so warm and sure, assuring you that his words are true.

“Of course I would. Any day.” His grip around your body tightens.

Something weird fuzzes in your chest. It’s not uncomfortable or bad but… unique. And foreign. You got a good report back from your physical evaluation last month so it’s not something physical. Questions about what the cause could be takes over your mind but the sudden sensation of zero gravity makes all of them fly out the window. Burying your face into Gojou’s neck, you prepare for the worst.

“And we have arrived! M’lady.” Chipper as ever, Gojou’s feet touch the ground with a light plop and he lets you down gently. You look at him in confusion until realisation kicks in. And you kick him.

“Don’t do that! I think my heart stopped!” He cackles at that, finishing with a “Won’t do it next time.” If there is a next time. The probability is reduced significantly because of what he just did. 

Taking your hand in his, he escorts you down the stairs from the rooftop and into a department store. The people who couldn’t see mere moments ago high up in the sky.

As expected, it’s loud and crowded. There are hundreds, maybe thousands of people shuffling about and sweeping everyone to move even if they wanted to. It’s fortunate that Gojou has a firm grip on your hand because otherwise you’d be completely lost. Still, it’s nice to be buried in the commotion of everyday lives. It helps you forget about the whole war that’s looming over everyone.

“Any ideas on what to get?” The question you’ve been asking yourself for the past hour or so is echoed by Gojou. “We have all the time in the world, so don’t worry. I’ll keep you company for as long as you want.” 

Blisters form on the back of your feet thanks to the amount of times you walked around the huge place. Gojou bought you bandaids even though you said Shouko can fix you up. It hurts a lot less thanks to that. Finding a present is still a challenge. Every time you think you have one, your brain comes up with a rebuttal for why Ken-chan won’t like it. Two hours and nothing to show for it, you’re on the verge of collapse. Even a quick snack break didn’t help.

Gojou sets you down on a bench, letting your head roll on the backrest. The sight of thousands of coats and jackets running around upside down makes you giggle. Maybe the stress is finally getting to your head. The mantra of “I’m a terrible sister” tries to sneak in and wreak havoc. You’re just about to let it when the upside-down brand of a designer clothing shop catches your attention. 

“Gojou.”

“Yup?” His head comes into view as he copies your posture. It must look really weird to passersby but you don’t care at all. “Got an idea?” You point to the brand. Or at least you think you do. The lack of blood in your brain is making everything dizzy. “Clothes?”

“I wanna buy him a good suit.” Standing up, swaying a little from the sudden oxygen influx, you try to drag him towards the shop. He tries to make your attempt harder by using his weight and height, but a firm glare makes him concede.

“I thought he said he doesn’t want suits.” Oh yeah, you told him that when it was rejected. Ken-chan did say that, years ago, when you bought him one for your first present. While incredibly appreciated, he reasoned that there is a high chance of it being ruined since he has to fight in them. And this was around the time when you started getting paid. It was his way of saying that you should invest it in something more durable and preferably for yourself. How does Gojou remember this when it was just a fleeting complaint that you barely remember?

“He said it’s because there’s no point in spending so much money on something that might be damaged so quickly. But I’m going to buy it for a different reason.”

Collections of suits, varied by colour and pattern, line the huge shop. Skimming over a lot of them, especially ones with questionable designs, you turn to the monochromatic area. Simple is best when it comes to Ken-chan’s taste. Shuffling through the shades, you contemplate between either beige or blue.

“What’s the reason?” Gojou’s voice calls from the change room. You wonder when he got there. 

“For him to wear it if he goes back to work in an office after the war has ended. Or just when he goes out, without the worry of getting attacked and ruined. It’ll be like a promise! That he’ll do his best to survive the war to wear it.” 

Gojou is silent in response. It drags out and now you’re sort of embarrassed about what you said. Your partner loves taking advantage of others’ sappy moments, teasing them mercilessly over it. That little speech is basically perfect ammunition against you. You expect his high voice to make fun of you.

What you don’t expect is for him to pat your head, slowly and softly, like he won’t ever get to do it again.

“Nanami must have used all his luck when he became your guardian.” Voice low, bringing shivers down your body, he cards his fingers through your hair. Like he’s combing them. Seconds tick by and it feels sort of nice, telling you to relax, but your body’s on high alert for some reason.

“I think he’d like the blue one. Since he already has a brown suit, beige is too close.” A black suit adorns his body when he comes into view. Even the shirt is black. It fits him perfectly and he looks really good in it, courtesy of a good body proportion. He could possibly pull off the hideous suits you elected to shy away from at the front of the display. You clear your throat.

“Wow, you look really good in that.” His hands smooth down the creases on the jacket, preening at your compliment. “You should buy that. Wear it to dates or whatever. Ladies will fall to your feet if you show up with that.” Holding up two blue suits, your eyes scrutinize them and you try to imagine which shade will look better on your brother.

“Ladies will fall to my feet? Really?” Amusement tinges his words. The left one looks better.

“Yeah, probably. Girls love guys in suits. Well at least, I do. If they wear the right one for them, it’s really hot. Left one is better, right?” He gives a nod, a wide grin playing on his face. “Alright, this one then. Are you buying the suit?”

“Yeah. I think it’ll be put to good use.”

The checkout is quick, and it’s night when you step out. 

“You wanna go back by flying? We can try doing the Howl thing.” That’s really tempting, being able to reenact one of the most iconic scenes in the movie. But not today. 

“No, I prefer being in your arms.” Gojou stares at you with such intensity that you can feel it even with the blindfold. Then he immediately barks out a laugh, one so loud that people nearby flinch at the sudden noise. You flinch at the sudden noise.

“Ah… You really keep me on my toes, you know.” Before you can ask what that means, he takes your hand again and starts walking to the stairs. His steps are faster than usual.

Next chapter →

[whump-town]

Do you take asks for prompts? If you need another way to hurt Hotch how about him hurting his knee while taking down an unsub and trying his best to hide it from his team and going home to Jack. So maybe he doesn't come to work the next day so they check up on him?

Sure you can!

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

Hotch doesn’t say anything about it because he’s been an ass all week and the very last thing that he wants is to ruin what little fun they’ve managed to find. The pain really isn’t that bad, it’s just that the hotel they’re posted up in has this long winding set of stairs and they’re on the fourth floor. Wistfully, he glances over his shoulder one more time, double checks that they’re all distracted by the pool before setting his shoulders and starting up the stairs. Besides, it’s his fault that he busted up his knee. He’s not going to interrupt the first sounds of their laughter he’s heard in a month.

They’re taking Emily’s death hard, barely managing to keep their heads above the water. It also means their numbers are odd again and realizing that he’d sent them off with each other (Rossi with JJ, Reid with Morgan) and had gone around the side of the house by himself. They’d ended up chasing the Unsub out to him where he’d taken him down by himself (or rather they’d ran right into one another). They’d heard him fall, the harsh crash of two bodies colliding had drawn in some noise, but he was already on his feet when they got to him. Was already shaking off the ache in his right leg, brushed it off as a skinned knee. Wouldn’t be first and he doubted it would be his last.

He did skin his knee.

Judging by the purplish bruise color around his knee, the skin swollen and sore to the touch, and it’s general refusal to move within the joint he did more than just skin it.

He hasn’t really been an ass, though. That’s just his excuse.

He’s been an ass all week and they’re struggling to cope with Emily’s death and he just wants one second without Morgan comparing their grief or Rossi trying to pry or Reid looking at him like the sky’s falling in and he’s screaming himself hoarse looking for an Atlas to remind him where it’s rightful place is.

He’s been withdrawn and he got a little snippy at Rossi but, in general, nothing worth hating him over. Nothing that any of them so much as took a second glance at. So calling him an ass is really stretching it but he’s just looking for an excuse to not have to tell them. Besides, he can do this on his own. Just needs some ice… and to get up the stairs.

He doesn’t get ice.

He doesn’t even take a shower.

Getting up that many stairs with a leg that tries to buck out from underneath him after the first floor is hard enough without trying to figure out how to wrangle himself into the shower. That’s excluding the problem of getting out of the shower.

That’s about half a lie anyways. He steps into his room, the A.C. blasting on it’s highest setting where he left it, and drags himself to the bed. The sweat across his body is cold and as nice as it would be to stand there at the machine and let it blow the cold into his face he can’t. He’s not slept since they landed, not in this bed and only naps he’d slipped into while coffee brewed. With the room nearly freezing and his knee keeping pace with his heart he sags into bed.

Doesn’t even bother to get under the covers or take off his shoes.

He saves that for their trip back.

They wake him up, Reid shouting at Morgan. They’re sopping wet and Morgan thinks it’s funny watching Reid squirm because he forgot his towel.

His exhaustion has weighed him down, pulled him under the pain. He hears Reid yell and after the initial fight leaves as he realizes Reid’s not in pain or being murdered (Morgan’s deep laughter clears that up) his knee comes back with vengeance. There’s no way he’s making it to the ice machine down the hall and he’s sure as hell not getting in the shower.

Taking his pants off is miserable.

Getting his left shoe off is fine, that knee is bendable. The other is just out of reach and he curses under his breath, loses his temper and throws his shoe down on the ground. Tears gather in his eyes as the pain gets unbearable but this isn’t worse than being stabbed. It’s not so he manages. Holds his breath until his face is pulsing with the heat of his pain and when he finally manages to get the shoelace untied he’s light-headed, dizzy.

The pants are not easier.

It gets the better of him, his belt smacks his knee and he cries out. He hears the other’s, knows that Morgan hears him make the sound and calls out for everyone to be quiet. Hotch holds his breath again, waits out their footsteps until the doors shut and they’re gone.

He lays starfished out on the bed. Stripped down to his boxers and his white undershirt. It’d be nice to get under the covers but even thinking about moving is an excruciating idea. He doesn’t even look at his knee, doesn’t need to sit up to see it. Doesn’t want to.

He sleeps.

Dead to the world for hours until his alarm clock goes off at six in the morning. He’s got hours of just dead, limp sleep in his body and he still can hardly muster the strength to move. But he hasn’t got the time to be hurt. The jet leaves the tarmac at ten and he still has places to be-- hands to shake and people to talk to. It takes fifteen minutes longer than normal to get ready and six long laps around his room until he can walk without a heavy, easy to spot limp. Each movement, if he focuses enough, can be smooth.

You can’t even tell.

“Walking like an old man.” Hotch stops, frowns and chooses not to say anything. He continues locking up his room, grunting in annoyance when Morgan steps around him and grabs his go-bag. “Figured you were just tired,” Morgan informs him, leaning on the wall of the door so he can see Hotch’s face. “That Unsub got you good, huh? What is it? Your back?”

Hotch glances at his go bag, still held easily in the palm of Morgan’s left hand. He’s not getting that back. With a frown he turns for the stairs, “I’m fine.” But he focuses far too hard on his gate and Morgan can see it.

“It’s your knee,” Morgan deduces. He can see it. The way Hotch has to lean on the rail when he extends his right leg out, knuckles white. “Haven’t iced it yet, have you?”

Hotch ignores him, keeps walking down the stairs.

“When we get on the jet let me wrap it up.” He’s not offering so much as warning Hotch of his plans for later. Morgan’s been an athlete his whole life, that’s lent years of practice in figuring out how to tape up and ice various injuries. “You’ll need to put ice on it, it’ll help.”

He doesn’t.

The jet ride home is distracted, buzzing with energy he hasn’t seen out of them in a while. The pain is worth it.

He goes home. Jack can sense his pain, he’s not entirely sure how but he’s gentle. Talking Hotch’s ear off about a book that Jessica bought him and that he intends to beg Hotch to read him tonight. They have their typical “Dad has a concussion” meal-- macaroni and cheese with cut up hotdogs. Jack loves it and it’s a treat to make up for Hotch’s physical status.

He always feels bad about being home but not being able to do dad things yet.

Not that Jack minds, he can always find something for them to do. He just likes having him home. Watching Jack fight sleep, trying to stay awake for a few more minutes of his father’s undivided attention, Hotch decides right then and there to call everyone out. Give them the day off.

“We can make cookies tomorrow,” he whispers into Jack’s hair. He doesn’t respond, which is odd, so Hotch lifts his head up. He shifts them both around until he can see him better, careful once he’s positive Jack’s asleep and not ignoring him. Jack whines at the movement, clutching Hotch’s shirt so that he can’t be pulled away. “Alright,” Hotch rubs his back, soothes him back to sleep.

It’s a fight, nearly impossible, but Hotch gets Jack back to his room. As he’s tucking his blankets in around Jack, double-checking his night light and making sure he’s comfortable, he knows there’s a good likelihood that Jack will still end up in his bed tonight. If so, he’s not fighting this battle. He’ll leave his bedroom door open and what happens, happens.

Jack does make his way into Hotch’s bedroom. Just as the sun’s coming up and Hotch is still half-asleep, having woken up just a little too much to send the other’s the “take the day off” text.

“Morning,” Hotch whispers, hearing Jack’s feet on the carpet but not opening his eyes.

Jack comes to the empty side of the bed but still climbs over Hotch’s shoulder, slipping down over his side until he’s precariously being kept onto the bed by a little bit of bed and Hotch holding him. “Daddy,” he whispers back. He wiggles himself around, stretches his arms up to put a hand on Hotch’s cheek. “Daddy?”

Hotch knows he’s not going back to sleep. “What is it, buddy?”

Jack rubs at the facial hair growing along Hotch’s cheek, short coarse hair that feels funny against his hands. “I want to make, ugh…” Jack taps Hotch’s cheek as he thinks. “To make, uhm, I want pancakes!”

Hotch opens his eyes, smiles, and squeezes Jack. “Alright,” he responds. “We can make some pancakes.”

Despite the text message that Hotch sends out, Morgan and JJ still have to head into the office for paperwork, to at least take it home to work on it. Over the last year, Hotch is better about work. He leaves earlier and spends a lot less time at the office, still averaging more than them but undeniably on the mend. Still, Morgan walks into the BAU and is surprised, he’s cut short in his mission, when he sees Hotch’s empty office.

Morgan assumes the worst.

The knock at the door is surprising, Hotch doesn't exactly get visitors. Jessica doesn’t bother knocking, she just opens the door and shouts for them. Other than that, Rossi calls and Emily used to drop by to find something to do but… “Jack!” Jack’s five, he loves answering the door. He just never gets to do it.

“Look!” Jack cries.

Hotch pushes the pancakes he’s butchering off the stove, limping quickly to get to Jack. “What’re you doing here?”

Morgan frowns, lifts Jack up into his arms with a swoop and a happy squeal from Jack. “I came to make sure you were okay, knucklehead.” He looks at Jack, shaking his head with a look of pure ‘can you believe this guy?’. “Glad I got here,” Morgan shifts Jack over to his hip. “You’re burning the shit out of these pancakes.”

Jack giggles, glancing at Hotch to see his reaction.

Hotch moves to follow Morgan, going to attempt a poor argument on behalf of his pancakes but he’s cut-off. “Sit,” Morgan orders, pointing at one of the kitchen tables. “Jack, can you get me some ice?” Hotch watches as his kitchen is taken over. Morgan grimaces at the pancake currently in the pan but is quick to smile again when Jack calls for him by the freezer. He can't reach the tray.

Jack’s eager to please, right under Morgan’s feet, but constantly looking back at Hotch. Morgan’s pancakes are better and with some ice, Hotch’s knee becomes a bendable appendage once again.

[tarithenurse]

To the point - 1

Pairing: au!Satoru Gojō x fem!reader Content: Incorrect tattoo talk, smut (fem receiving, praise kink, slight pain kink, more), no proofing. A/N: See? I told you I was really writing it – enjoy some Gojō!au tattoo artist.

1. To the Point

You had done your research before finally settling on an idea for the design of the tattoo and the placing on your body. Then the problem had been the choice of studio which inevitable brought you to ”Gojo’s Prick” – a name that put you off to the point that it only was because of the good reviews that you went in at all. And to make it worse, the guy wore sunglasses indoors! You had always preferred to see people in the eyes. Still, you explained the idea simply to see how he would react to it.

Good thing you did.

Half an hour later, the silver-blond Satoru Gojō had turned your clumsy sketch into a masterpiece. And the man himself? Charming, witty, intelligent. Sure, he didn’t sell himself short but honestly the self-confidence was well-earned.

That night, you’d dreamt of him and you woke with a dissatisfying emptiness soaking your panties.

Cold, hard logic was the only thing that kept your urges at bay the next few days. “It’ll never happen”, was a recurring thought along with “I don’t know him! I can’t just -!”

...

Considering your state of mind since the last meeting, you feel rather proud that you haven’t blushed or forgotten to answer Gojō due to a mental short-circuiting. It also helps that his assistant (a practically minded girl) is the one to help placing the trace for the tattoo around your left thigh. As you settle into the chair with a leg resting in a sort of cradle, she makes sure everything is ready.

As long as she’s here, I’ll be fine.

“Go’!” The assistant pokes her head into the backroom to speak with her boss and you can’t hear much of what they say, but the meaning becomes clear as she bids you goodbye with a wave, grabs her purse, and leaves the studio (barely pausing to turn the Open/Closed sign on the way).

Of course...fuck. Breathing deeply, you try to steady the pounding of your heart but the attempt is thwarted the instant Gojō appears, pulling the curtain to the little room shut and taking his place next to you. He already has explained to you once how it works, but he begins to do so again just to be refresh your memory. Probably. You wouldn’t know. Honestly, you don’t even really listen – not to the words and their meanings, at least, but just his voice. The man could recite Shakespeare, he could quote the ingredients list on a shampoo...and it would be magic. There’s a playful drawl to his voice that makes your heart beat faster. As if cradled by the summer sun but the heat is made bearable by the ocean’s cool, you bask in the lilts and purrs this man dishes out as he calmly pulls on nitrile gloves before grabbing the tool of his trade.

Somehow, you manage to swallow the gulp when his hands come to rest on your thigh, and as the needles dig break through your skin, the hiss is minimal. It hurts. It hurts differently than you imagined, almost like a deep itch or the satisfying pain from picking at a wound. But more intense and deliciously contrasted by the warm hand cradling your thigh. Gojō’s fingertips dig slightly into the inside of your left leg, still gentle and so close to your crotch that your thoughts are brought back to the daydreams you’ve tried so hard to suppress.

“It’ll be more sensitive when I get to the inside,” Gojō purrs, “so just tell me if you need a break.”

It takes you a moment too long to realize what he’s talking about. Even longer before you can nod and force out something resembling an assurance that you're fine. And, oh boy, you are fine even (or especially) with your clit softly aching.

Pausing for just a moment, Gojō scrutinizes you over the rim of his glasses. Oh. His eyes are like brilliant cut aquamarines framed by snowy lashes. Now heat is rising in your face as well, cheeks burning as you try to avoid the gaze and the growing smirk.

“I’ve no doubt you’re fine -” the instrument bites into your thigh, but his thumb circles distractingly along the flesh nearby -“but I’d like to make sure you’re doing better than that.”

“Please,” you gasp.

And he does. Never losing his attention to the work itself, Gojō smooths away any sting with tender strokes, little kisses or kitten licks, or praises.

“You’re taking it so well.”

His words make your breath hitch. Or maybe it’s the sweet pain on your inner thigh? The artist has repositioned himself more than once, and right now he’s sitting between your legs with the free elbow resting on your hip (wrist weighing down on your mound less than a centimetre from where you need the pressure), allowing his fingers to dig into the most sensitive part of your thigh. Every vibration from Gojō’s tool echoes through both of your bodies and into your core as a faintly whispered promise.

“Just a little bit more,” he spurs you on.

You know he’s right. Saving this part for last, the outline is nearly complete and he’ll start filling in the tattoo at the next session. A pout forms unbidden on your lips, immediately detected by the crystalline gaze.

The first stroke is so subtle, you almost think you imagined it until you notice Gojō’s smirk. Then he does it again: fingers (hand) curled to ensure he can trace the wet line of your folds through your panties. It makes you whimper, silently begging for more.

“Seems like you might be ready then,” he purrs, “and you’ve been such a good girl, you deserve a treat.”

“Ple-ease?” Dizzy with want, you know you’ll do anything at this point.

Pain and pleasure mingles into an eternity that ends too soon. You’re barely coherent as he wraps and tapes your thigh to shield the tattoo, long hands cradling and stroking your thigh more than what would be appropriate under normal circumstances – but of course you don’t object even as fingers stray upwards, slipping under your panties.

“You’ve done so well, princess.”

Gojō’s head dips, lips pushing against the more-than-damp fabric to place a kiss on your clit. One of his thumbs strokes through your folds repeatedly, ending each drifting motion upwards with an added pressure to where his lips still linger.

“Please, Go-ojō,” you mewl.

“Begging so prettily...” he breathes against your skin, “tell me what you want.”

Words don’t come easily. The best you can do is to lift your hips towards him, simply asking for more. More.

And he gives it to you.

Slipping your panties down and off, the artist gets to work on you with an intensity that has you keening and gasping his name. His tongue spells out promises over the entrance that you are too dizzy with need to decipher but somehow still understand.

“That’s it,” Gojō kisses the praise onto your clit, “come on...come for me.”

Finger slip inside and your core, feeding the pulsing constrictions as he finds the right spot and the combination with his hungry lapping and sucking on your clit is too much. Free falling into blissful ecstasy, you’re hardly aware how he uses an arm to pin your pelvis down – all you know is how his repeated caresses keeps you floating longer than ever as you gasp for air, each breath used to moan or cry out his name.

“So perfect.” His kisses have moved to your hips. “Good girl.” You whimper as he withdraw his fingers, watching him through a haze as he licks them clean. “If you’re just as sweet next time -” a last kiss to your pussy sends shivers through your body -”then you’ll get even more. Okay?”

Of course you agree. You’ll always be good for Gojō.

[lesetoilesfous]

Hii :3 I love reading your stories Lese? Is it alright if I call you Lese?? I saw that you were taking prompts and are very close to getting a bingo on that last row. Buried Alive for Anders maybe, whenever youre available ofc? Fenders??? :0 hshsjsjskjd

Hey, thank you so much!! I'm happy to be called Lese, I like Les or Kat, but anything works!!! Thank you so much for helping me try to get a bingo, I really hope you enjoy this one!!!

@badthingshappenbingo Fandom: Dragon Age 2

Prompt: Buried Alive

Pairing: Fenders

Characters: Fenris, Anders, Marian Hawke, Varric Tethras

Additional Tags: Graphic Depiction of Injury, Buried Alive, Panic Attack, Trauma Responses, Pre-Relationship, Past Flogging, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending

Word Count: 2,380

Rating: Mature

“I’ve got it, go! GO!” Anders’ voice bellowing is the last thing Fenris hears before the overwhelming thunder of the cavern collapsing around them drowns out everything else.

He feels as if his mind and his body are torn apart as he runs: his legs leaving his conscious control as they’re overtaken by sheer animal instinct to get away from the collapsing mountain, his mind and sweat-stinging eyes full of the image of Anders’ tall, broad body holding his staff over his shoulders and propping up enough of a threshold for his friends to escape. Fenris’ sweating, bloody feet skid on the sandy stone as he’s deafened by the roar, his breath coming in and out of his lungs in great heaves of fresh snow and broken glass. Ahead of him is the ocean: wide and blue and wrinkled, utterly untouched by the chaos on the beach. Varric skids into the sand beside him with Hawke’s hand on the back of his jacket, her bicep tense where she’s half-lifting the dwarf off the ground.

Fenris blinks, turning around, dizzy suddenly with breathlessness and adrenaline as every chemical pumping through his body flushes into his racing mind. He stumbles, and Hawke catches him, deftly, her blue eyes wide and over-alert the way they always are whenever they get into a situation they might not survive. Fenris has seen that expression on soldiers before, and doesn’t doubt she’s carried it with her since Lothering. He neither pulls away nor leans into her touch, and after a moment she drops her hand to rest on her thighs, bending almost double as she heaves in her breath.

Behind them there’s a hissing avalanche of sand, and great scabs of reeds come tumbling down onto the beach as the cavern crumbles. Fenris has seen the devastating effects of gaatlok before, but somehow his memory never fully prepares him for the imminent blast radius. Slowly, terribly slowly, Fenris’ heart starts to slow, and his breathing begins to return to normal. He becomes aware of the sweat drying on his neck, and the salty taste of the sea breeze in his mouth. His ears are still ringing with the thunder of the cavern collapse when he hears a snap.

The sound is sharp as a whip, even through the stormcloud of noise, and Fenris notices Hawke and Varric exchange a startled look out of the corner of his eye in the split second before he starts running. Fenris stumbles to a stop in front of the cave entrance: a mess of black and grey boulders stained with algae and riddled with tumorous molluscs. The stones have cracked open in places, revealing rich layers of red and orange and yellow. Fenris barely notices, he breathes, and coughs on the sand kicked up the collapse, and breathes again before shouting into the mess. “MAGE! MAGE! MAGE! IF YOU YET LIVE, ANSWER ME.”

Fenris stops, and hears his own voice snatched by the wind and away down the dunes. At Hawke’s heels, Dog is whining, frightened by Fenris’ uncharacteristic display of emotion. Hawke puts a hand on Fenris’ shoulders, and he shrugs her off and hates her a little when her mouth falls in a brief moue of sympathy that’s gone when he blinks. She climbs up the rocks a little, one boulder reaching halfway up her torso. “ANDERS! ANDERS, ARE YOU IN THERE?”

There’s an ominous rumble, and a skittering rain of gravel and sand tumbles down the boulders. Varric clears his throat. “Go easy on the yelling, you two. We don’t want to make it worse.”

Fenris turns to him, seized by a sudden, terrible blade of hope that skewers his heart and twists in it. “Varric. What do we do?”

Varric raises an eyebrow at him. “I grew up on the surface, remember? Your guess is as good as mine.”

Anger, sudden and red, floods behind Fenris’ eyes. “That’s not good enough!” His voice rings against the rocks, and Varric purses his lips. Hawke steps between them.

“Quietly, remember? Come on, if we start moving this lot now then -” She doesn’t finish. Doesn’t say, if he’s unconscious, he might have a chance. Doesn’t say, we could get him before he bleeds out. Doesn’t say, there’s no way we can stop him suffocating, now.

Fenris nods, more relieved than he wants to admit at finally having something to do. He starts grabbing rocks, randomly at first - until one boulder grinds down onto his hand and he has to bite his arm til it bleeds to stop himself from screaming. After that it’s slow, terrible work, one rock at a time, for hours, as the bright blue sky above them bleeds to gray to welcome a hot, muggy evening and black stinging bugs emerge from the dunes to nip curiously at their burning skin.

Fenris’ knuckles are aching, and his palms are chafed raw, scratched and bleeding by the time they get through. Hawke is little better, her knuckles scraped and bruised. Even Dog is covered in a thick layer of dust, and Varric has lain Bianca reverently beside a dune with his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, an expression of uncharacteristic severity on his face as he frowns at the boulders.

The first thing they find is his staff. Fenris knows it wasn’t important to him - had seen how easily Anders had dropped one staff for another, stolen from a former gangster or some other ne’er-do-well who had had the misfortune to attack them. But there’s still something terribly simple about the snapped, useless wood when they find a splintered shaft in the rubble. Fenris blinks, and sees Anders, wide shoulders braced by that staff as he held up the collapsing ceiling, hair thick with dust and rubble. He swallows against his dry throat, sore with rock dust, and keeps moving rubble.

The sky is bleeding red by the time they find him. Dog finds him first, yelping and then whining as she scrabbles at the dust. Fenris thinks, distant, numb in his shock and delayed grief, that Anders would be surprised to learn the hound cared. But then he’s there, his feet having moved him again, without thought, and he’s crouching to lift a great splintered boulder out of the way, and his toes touch soft hair and Fenris nearly cries out. As it is, he dumps the boulder and rushes forward.

Anders is pinned between a series of rocks. His eyes are open and his hand is purple and covered with cherry red blood. Blood seeps out between the boulders around him, and his nose and mouth are thick with it. His eyes are wide open and staring, and for an awful, awful heartbeat Fenris thinks he’s dead. But then the low, soft sound of murmuring reaches him over the constant sound of the sea. “Letmeoutletmeoutletmeoutletmeoutletmeout.”

Fenris drags on the lyrium sewn into his skin and for the first time in his known life finds himself thanking the Maker, or Andraste, or the Creators, for this hideous, agonising ability. He plunges his hands through the thick stone of the rock, and wraps his fingers around a horrifically mangled mass that he thinks is one of Anders’ shoulders, and pulls.

Anders screams - an awful, hoarse thing that breaks on the way out of his split lips. But he’s out, and in the dirt, and breathing, and Fenris doesn’t think before he pulls the man into his arms and holds him so tightly his arms hurt. Fenris’ tattoos are still glowing, star-bright in the growing dark, and his muscles feel locked in place as he buries his face in Anders’ shoulder and breathes in the stink of sweat and piss and blood. He doesn’t care. He holds Anders so hard he’s shivering. He can’t shake the idea that if he lets go, even a little, he’ll forget how to breathe.

After several long minutes, in which Fenris’ muscles become so tense they ache like a bruise, Anders comes back into himself, slumping into Fenris’ arms. The movement jostles his mangled shoulder, and he whimpers, and Fenris’ arms tighten around him, as if a simple embrace will stop the pain. When Anders starts to cry, softly, trembling into Fenris’ shoulder, Fenris realises that his own face is already wet with cold tears that he doesn’t remember crying. Above them, the sky is charcoal and midnight blue, and the first stars are climbing over the sea.

Hawke lights a campfire, and steps closer to touch Fenris’ shoulder. He doesn’t react, but she doesn’t let go until he turns to look at her. Her face is still streaked with dust, and her eyes are red, but there are no signs of tear tracks that he can see in the dark. Her strong jaw is tense when she says, firmly, “We need to deal with his injuries.” Her face softens, slightly, as she adds, “You can hold him again, after.”

Slowly, feeling as if he’s been petrified in place and is now trying to coax stone, Fenris stiffly uncurls his arms. Anders doesn’t do or say anything, though his breathing hitches at the movement of his mangled arm. Fenris pushes his dusty hair out of his face, trying to avoid a thick gash across his forehead. “Mage. We need to look at your injuries.”

Anders looks at him slowly, his brown eyes almost gold in the firelight. He nods, and Fenris moves his hand to gently begin the process of peeling his blood-encrusted coat away from his skin. Anders clenches his teeth, his jaw thick with stubble full of dust, and breathes in long, shaking breaths as Fenris moves the filthy leather. When he gets to the worst of it - a place where Anders’ coat and shirt are black with blood and concave as they’ve been pushed into his body, Fenris grits his teeth. “One - two -” Before he says three, Fenris rips the coat free, causing Anders to cry out and topple forward. Fenris catches him on his good shoulder, and behind Anders, Hawke and Varric’s faces go pale.

“Blood and ashes.” Varric murmurs, looking sick. Anders’ breath starts coming faster in short, shallow pants. Fenris rushes forward, brushing his cheek with his thumb, fingers curled around his ear.

“It’s alright. It’s alright. We’ve got you.”

It takes Hawke an hour to get the debris out of the torn, broken mess of Anders’ shoulder blade. When she’s done, there’s a thin sheen of sweat across her pale skin and she looks older than she has since Bethany joined the Wardens. The fire is low and red, but Varric keeps wandering off to fetch more driftwood. There’s a small pile of shattered stone and bone on the sand that Hawke buries almost immediately. Dog is lying down beside her master, sandy head on her great paws, whining occasionally when Anders huffs a soft sound of pain. Fenris is trying, hard, not to stare at the canvas of familiar scars exposed by their impromptu operation, glittering silver in the dark like a crosshatch tattooed across Anders’ freckled back.

The sea laps softly at the beach behind them, and around them the dunes hiss with the breeze. Hawke looks at Fenris, “That’s all I can do, for now. Hopefully his mana will be back tomorrow and he’ll be able to heal the rest.” She swallows, thickly. “I knew I should’ve brought Merrill.”

Between them, Anders is all but unconscious, lying on his front, naked down to his waist, skin covered in newly cleaned cuts and bruises. Fenris stares at him for a long moment, running his fingers through the other man’s hair. He thinks he’s trying to comb the dust out, but it’s not doing much and it’s more of a nervous habit than anything. He breaks the sighing silence between them. “It’s not your fault.”

Hawke says nothing, sitting back on the other side of the fire and staring at the shifting sea, gilded with silver by the moon. The fire licks gold and rubies across her skin. She bends her knees, and rests her elbows on them, pressing her forehead to her skin and breathing for several long moments. Fenris waits. He knows he won’t be sleeping much tonight, anyway. Eventually, Hawke turns her head to the side, still resting on the pillow of her forearms. “I didn’t know you were close.”

Fenris’ fingers pause in their combing of Anders’ hair. But after two heartbeats, the discomfort of not reminding himself that the man beside him is still alive is greater than compromising whatever bud of new life they’d been nurturing between them. He bites the inside of his cheek to try and wake himself up from the distant feeling of grief and shock. “It...has not been happening for long. But I think the feelings which led to it have been growing for some time.” A shadow of a smile touches the corner of his lips. “Perhaps it has been growing since the day we met.” Hawke snorts, and Fenris’ ghost of a smile grows into something honest when he looks at her, and more than a little self deprecating. “It’s ridiculous, isn’t it?”

Hawke shrugs, the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth softening as she looks at him. “Oh, I don’t know. Opposites attract.”

Fenris snorts, then, and Dog looks up with a hiccoughing huff to see what they’re coughing at. Fenris leans forward, feeling the heat of the fire licking up his sides as he scratches Dog’s soft head. She whines, and yawns, baring a series of black and yellow teeth. Fenris leans further, and digs his fingertips behind the warm velvet of her ears. Dog’s tail thumps softly against the sand. Fenris looks up when he feels Hawke watching him. Her blue eyes are like bottled lightning in the dark. “You’re a good man, Fenris.”

Fenris gives her a tight smile, trying to stifle the pain behind it, and sits back, moving to drag a blanket out of his pack and lay it lightly over Anders. Anders huffs, and sighs in his sleep, face creasing in pain when he moves onto his shoulder. Fenris cards his fingers through his hair until the wrinkles ease, before looking back up at Hawke and saying, honestly. “So is he.”

[my-writings-and-musings]

Could you perphaps do hc for Blitzwings reaction to his tiiny human S/O being hurt because the Autobots accidentally collapsed something on them in a fight because they didn't know they were there

I'm not quite as knowledgeable on TFA but I did a crash course and rewatched some of my favorite bits so I hope this fits what you had in mind!

·The size of all earth life respective to Cybertronians means that, even when absolute care is maintained by all, the odds of a nearby human staying safe are far from optimal when bots fight. This is a reality Blitzwing has had to consider carefully since bringing you into his life. Generally his solution has been to keep you as far away from his "work" as physically possible, but unfortunately enough for him, it occasionally tracks him to you. All he can do when that happens one day is insist you take cover in a nearby abandoned building while he goes on the attack. You heed him without question despite your worry for his safety, knowing that he tends to fight less effectively when stressed due to his personalities clashing, and also because his stories about "Autobots" paint a very brutal picture...

·The Autobots outnumber him as they move in, their goal being to drive him away from what they presume to be a human endangering mission, but it's quite obvious who has the advantage once things get started. You can soon hear him holding his own even from your little hiding spot, the roar of battle shaking the very ground beneath your feet, and a thick accent returning combat banter with ease. The Autobots may just be trying to guide the triple changer outside of civilization, but they still end up being driven back themselves quite swiftly, though they of course are unaware it's because he won't be leaving while you are in cover. He's hardly reveling in victory while holding his ground, as frankly he just wants to get this over with and return to you, for what was supposed to be an enjoyable day in this deserted area of the city... His Hothead self boils in rage at having lost precious time, which results in him focusing everything on driving the meddlesome Autobots into retreat as aggressively as possible. You're more than worth letting enemies get away just this once, but he fully intends on leaving them with a few scars for the trouble.

·The strategy appears to work, at least from your perspective, in that their responding attacks start to become more focused on distraction than corralling. He's told you enough about combat for you to recognize suppressive fire as the typical tactic of those seeking to retreat, and you find yourself sighing in relief from your crawlspace, hearing the blaster fire grow less frequent with every passing second. Being more or less ambivalent to the Autobots means that just seeing them leave is the ideal ending for you. Blitzwing gladly notes their impending escape with a touch of pride at having saved his tiny partner, ignoring that the Autobots are probably only giving up so easily because they've come to the baffling and somewhat accurate conclusion he's not here for anything malicious. There's scattered talk of establishing a perimeter to keep him from trying anything where humans actually live, but it's fading quickly as the team prepares an obvious final retreat.

·Blitzwing so delighted to be saving you that he'll smoothly alternate personalities to let them have a turn at the feeling, or at least, what each considers to be the feeling of victory. The thought of being your savior is appealing to all of them if he's quite honest, and admittedly he can't wait to gloat on his rescue to you in person. Unfortunately, his happiness is cut short when the Autobots just so happen to include the building you're shielding yourself within amongst their final shots, unintentionally causing dilapidated supports to crumble under the gunfire they only unleashed to distract. You don't have time to run before things collapse all around you, but you do manage to catch a glimpse of his expression before everything goes dark, and the sight of his hand reaching in your direction is the last thing you see... His concern for the battle ceases in that instant. Your tiny body, so fragile and soft he'd teased you for your lack of armor every time he'd held you, was now beneath countless tons of rubble he might never clear away in time... if there was still any time.

·Confused Autobots are left gaping as he turns tail to start digging into the remains of the building in a frenzy. His personalities start to fight for control, and for those listening he becomes and endless loop of arguments with himself while digging for what can't actually be a human, right? Because it sounds like he mentioned the word human but that must be a mistake, certainly? But if there's even a chance... Programming to fight Decepticons clashes with oaths to protect organic life, and Optimus is forced to act and offer assistance to the panicked con, an offer that is initially met with threats before his desperation results in him caving to the reassurance that any human within is their responsibility to rescue. Only his love for you could lead to him accepting help from Autobots, but he's still much too worried to feel very self conscious, because each minute is far too precious to waste.

·You aren't entirely aware of your own survival. Though you can hear heavy movement from the outside of your little crawlspace, battered and barely conscious as you are, only the faintest hint of a shout heavily colored with a familiar accent gives you hope help is near. Servos capable of warping steel overturn literal tons of rubble with each swipe in his desperate hazes, resulting in boulders of debris flying in the wake of an impossibly determined Decepticon. The Autobot's calls for strategy and teamwork are only met with silence or threats; if the human in this rubble can't be recovered, then he'll make certain their body isn't alone. He ignores their resulting debate with Optimus over whether or not to continue assisting. All that matters is you, his unexpected treasure amongst the cold chaos, and his absolute refusal to lose you while there's still a flicker of his spark in existence.

·Light strikes your eyes without much warning as the rubble above you shifts, forcing you to flinch in your tiny space and cough as the dust irritates your lungs, which in accordance with your current luck sends a pang through probably broken ribs. The only silver lining to it all is that your noises create an immediate reaction up above. Increasingly clearer voices come as the window of light grows and boulders of debris trapping you in are removed, spurring you to cover your eyes as the final hunk of mortar is removed and you're blessed with a rush of cool, fresh air as the sunshine streams in. To your incredible surprise the gruff voice that speaks first to comfort you is not one you know. There's hardly time for your dizzy head to wrap itself around the phenomenon before large but gentle hands reach down to skillfully pluck you free, but the relief of being rescued doesn't last long, and trouble is brewing even before you discern the team of surprised and worried faces circling you as the Autobots.

·You're in the hands of the Autobot medic when Blitzwing sees you've been pulled, injured but alive, from the collapsed building. His joy at seeing you breathing is matched only by his terror to see you in the hands of his enemy, which quickly turns into far more usable rage as he jumps back into rescuing you from the threat that started everything. Shouts to unhand you are his only warning before a charge, one that's quickly called as a bluff when he refuses to risk your safety and skids to a halt before his enemies. The same medic holding you carefully in his hands stares down the much larger triple changer without a flinch, though the remaining bots encircle him protectively, warning him not to hurt this human in their ignorance. A standoff forms in the tense moments where Blitzwing borders on panic, alternating between threats and demands and barely disguised pleading for the return of the human whilst the bots remain steadfast in their assumed defense. It's only through sheer grumpy determination that the medic, who you learn in this moment is called "Ratchet", is able to briefly cut through the shouting and try to force an understanding, starting with the fact that if any of them care about human safety they'll let him give this one some much needed help. Unfortunately mutual distrust keeps both sides moments from launching a new attack.

·You're in no position to fight and free yourself from the ambulance turned robot holding you, but even as Blitzwing stands just ahead and looks to you with that helpless expression, you realize you don't think you need to. There's no aggression in the arms supporting your battered body, just the cautious concern of an expert. But you know your partner; he feels deeply, and once his emotions take off he struggles to listen to reason. Thus you decide to speak up and help Ratchet act as mediator, partly to be relieved of at least a bit of this pain, but also to get back to the mech who you know only wants to see you safe. The hardest part is keeping down a cough as you try to speak...

·Everything stops when the voice of a weak and battered human pipes up, silencing the still intermittent arguing and turning the attention of all gathered bots to them. Blitzwing drops the entirety of his aggressive stance once he focuses only on you, stepping closer only to be stopped by the rest of the still distrustful Autobots. Your gentle pleading for him to stay calm and hear them out stops a brawl from erupting once again, and also creates a wave of surprise amongst the Autobots; this Decepticon has befriended a human?! His Icy personality is colder and more in control than ever when he prompts the medic to lay out his plans for your care, followed by a warning that you will decide whether or not to accept it, and that if they attempt to force anything on you or take you away there will be no Autobots left on earth by the time he stops them.

·Ratchet is mercifully to the point when he explains that he merely wants to ensure there is no immediate danger from your injuries, and to provide some basic aid to tide you over until a human proffesional can assist. In the grip of rather considerable pain, you can't help but concede to the logic of the plan, looking to your partner so he can see the certainty in your eyes as you express your consent. Ever true to his word regarding you, the triple changer nods his own assent, but insists he will be by your side through it all. Ratchet is able to locate a more sheltered location nearby, and despite the complaints of his fellows agrees to render aid in private, with only his patient and the Decepticon in question to assist him. The distrust crackling through the air makes it quite difficult for you to be relieved at the prospect of medical attention.

·Blitzwing is there for you at every moment, letting your tiny hand squeeze his large servo as the medic patches you up, his dexterity surprising you almost as much as the human medical kit he carries "for the sake of a different human that frequently gets herself hurt". Every whimper of pain from you makes the Decepticon growl through his whispered comforts to you, and by the time the medic has the immediate damage bandaged and secure each of Blitzwing's three personalities has had a turn threatening the old medic. Ratchet doesn't even seem to mind as he strongly encourages you to head for a hospital while he finishes putting away his supplies. The rest of the Autobots leave with a tense and awkward parting (as well as a few murmured apologies) that includes a promise that this incident may change things for Blitzwing, should he be so inclined... An Icy expression only bids them farewell, and when the two of you are alone he finally holds you close, whispering a thousand apologies for failing to protect you from his war. Though you hardly feel prepared to understand a several million year conflict, you embrace him in return, able to take a moment to just appreciate being back with your love. The moment only ends when he, somewhat bashfully, asks what a hospital is and if you could more effectively be transported there via tank or jet?

[ayellowcurtain]

Make me know you really care

Part 2

Robbe? Robbie, sweetheart?

Three muffled knocks, he feels that same strand of hair from earlier back to bother him again, tickling the outside corner of his eye. His neck is tight, and his arm basically dead underneath him, all his weight on top of it. Robbe moves the hand he can still feel to push his hair away from his eye.

Two knocks on the door and one attempt to turn the door knob and Robbe opens his eyes a few times, suddenly realizing it’s not part of his sleep, the noises and the voice calling his name. He pushes himself to turn and lie on his back, slowly moving his arm so the blood can run back to his tickling hand. The same plain walls, the same headboard, he is really back in his old bedroom. Last night really happened.

Milan is still at the door, his shadow - the dark cloud hair, the bright shirt and tall figure - clear on the glass but Robbe sees someone else next to him, not as clear, but clear enough for Robbe to recognize him, and he sits on the bed. Sander is there too, waiting one or two steps behind Milan. Robbe doesn’t need to see him to know he’s worried, thinking he went too far last night.

“Leave me alone, Milan.” He tries, aware that the same way he can see them well enough, they can see he’s sitting on the bed, very awake.

“Can you open the door, please? Or I’m gonna have to use the argument that you’re in my house…”

Robbe closes his eyes, still feeling like he didn’t sleep a single minute even though it’s bright outside, the sun almost disappearing at the top of the window.

His mouth is so dry and not smelling the greatest, he’s still using the clothes from last night, all wrinkled, a complete mess. He didn’t want Sander to see him like this, such a mess after that date that Robbe had to come back to the flat and sleep in his normal clothes. If it was the other way around, Robbe would worry if he found a sleepy, still smelling like beer Sander, sleeping on the same clothes he last saw him.

Robbe doesn’t try to make himself look any better while getting up, unlocking the door for the two but not enough that they’ll think he’s inviting them in. It’s not his bedroom but Robbe will act like it while he’s here. Milan has to mean his words when he told Robbe in the past that this would always be his room if he ever needed it back.

Sander is looking as perfect as any other day, clean, and with fresh new clothes too, the worry staying in his eyes, the way he frowns his eyebrows a little bit and the way he clenches his jaw but other than that, he’s fine.

“There he is!” Milan smiles and claps his hands excitedly, looking at Sander, and Robbe holds himself back from closing the door in their faces, “Good morning, princess.”

“How did you know I was here?” Robbe asks and regrets it instantly. His mouth is dry and bitter, and he doesn’t feel like talking to anybody right now enough to let them notice how terrible he looks and smells.

Sander is the one to explain, almost whispering as he looks at Milan. “He didn’t. But I stopped at your house and you weren’t there so I came here and I told him you were here.”

Robbe looks at him, afraid of who might have opened the door for him at the other flat. Sander finally looks at him again, reading his mind like always.

“He wasn’t there. But I guess his things aren’t there either…from what Jens told me.”

Well, he heard the message then.

The weird silence grows around the three of them and Milan connects the dots, opening his mouth in a wide and big 0.

“You broke up with your boyfriend?!”

Robbe looks at his friend and back to the ground, ashamed of himself for the way he did it. Nobody knows about the voice message, and Robbe is not sure how much he’s willing to tell. The break up is no news anymore so he nods his head.

“Oh, baby!” Milan pulls him by his shoulder, hugging him tight, his hands rubbing up and down Robbe’s back, turning them around so he’s the one looking at Sander and not Robbe. “He was such a loving, caring boyfriend, Sander. I know he’ll be fine, baby. And it wasn’t your intention to hurt him…” Robbe gently pushes Milan back, knowing he’s saying all of that to Sander, not exactly to him.

“Thank you…”

Milan looks from him to Sander, now standing a few steps from each other, nodding his head. “I’m gonna make some strong coffee for us, maybe go get some croissants for old time’s sake.”

They both watch as Milan grabs his coat on the hanger, waving goodbye as he leaves the flat to give them some privacy. Robbe looks around, the walls are ridiculously thin so they wouldn’t be able to talk any other way but Robbe is not sure if he wants to talk either.

Sander sighs, and Robbe sees him moving, putting his hands in his pockets.

“Some time ago I went shopping with Younes…”

Robbe frowns, and looks at him, not sure where this is going or how it has anything to do with him.

“He probably heard a lot of my thoughts about you, and us. So he thought that day that I needed to vent and he needed to go shopping. So yeah, we went out. And-“

Sander pulls his hands out again, opening one to show Robbe a ring. Suddenly he’s wide awake, as sober as one can be, very aware of everything they talked last night, or almost fought about. He steps aside, feeling dizzy and turns around to look at Sander and what he’s holding.

It’s a golden ring. It doesn’t seem new or cheap. Sander probably found it in one of the vintage shops he loves to lurk around. It’s beautiful, and Robbe’s triggered brain goes straight to that conversation they had years ago. About marriage and how Sander took it lightly, saying they were too young to give in to society’s expectations. He can feel Sander’s expecting stare on him, still looking at the ring, somewhere between terrified, amazed and hurt.

“This isn’t a wedding ring. It can be, I mean. Whenever you want. I’m just trying to say that I want it. To marry you, spend my life with you. If that’s what you want too. While we wait for the right time...this can be a promise ring.”

Robbe closes his eyes, trying to keep his nausea down on his body. For months while they were dating he thought about a wedding. Henever wanted some big event, with families and extended family they barely know. He didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.

He wanted the day, whenever that was, to be very intimate and theirs, nobody else’s. Robbe wanted to wake up aware that it was the day, he wanted to make them some delicious, movie-like breakfast, to help Sander cook whatever he felt like cooking that morning, to kiss him, smile against his lips, look at him and see Sander’s bright, shiny eyes excited to live that day. They would put some nicer clothes on, hold hands and walk to the place where they could sign the paper and take a cheesy picture with it after they were done. It would be a blue sky type of day, not too cold, not too warm, they could easily walk to their favorite restaurant, eat whatever they wanted for once without worrying about how expensive everything was. This would be a special date so they would worry about money all the other days of the month.

“Robbe?” He finally looks up, being reminded that Sander is still very much there. His hand is back down next to his body, his index finger swinging the ring while he holds it with his thumb and middle finger. “It never crossed my mind to be with someone else but you. I’m sorry if I made it seem like marrying you wasn’t for me. Or just marrying anyone. It is if we’re talking about you and me. I didn’t think it was such a big deal to you at the time.”

Robbe sighs, staring at Sander for too long. He knows years have passed since that fight but while he’s here now, standing across from Sander he really feels the years that have passed. It feels like a lifetime ago and also just a moment somehow. Robbe always struggled when he started thinking about time. How fast it might pass and how slow. He doesn’t really want to get old but he also feels like he had pretty shitty times in his past.

He turns left and goes to the kitchen to make that strong coffee Milan forgot to make before leaving. He hopes Sander is following him.

The kitchen is still the exact same, and the coffee machine is still where it was when he lived here. He knows Milan’s bedroom and the bathroom look different because Milan, Senne and Zoe painted those while they were all in quarantine together. He came here a million times after that, the green color in the bathroom is starting to annoy him, actually.

He grabs two mugs out of the cupboard just above the coffee machine and puts them next to him, one ready to receive the first coffee.

“Do you still like your coffee the same way?”

Sander was at the kitchen door and it’s like the question is a permission for him to walk inside the kitchen, pulling a chair for him to sit. “Yeah. Burning hot, please.”

Robbe gives him his mug the second the coffee stops pouring and moves on to the fridge to find some milk for him to use for his coffee.

“And Ava?” He asks, grabbing his milk from the microwave, just warm enough not to ruin his coffee.

He can almost hear Sander saying what about Ava? but he doesn’t say that, thankfully.

“I broke up with her.”

Robbe pulls the other chair for him to sit, waiting a little so his coffee is drinkable.

“Does she know why?”

Sander lifts his eyebrows. “That I was about to come here the next morning to propose to you? No but she can probably guess it happened because of you generally.”

“Does she know anything about me?” Sander doesn’t answer with words but he nods his head, finishing his coffee already.

“She knows how much you mean to me, she knows we used to date. All those things. It’s hard for me to not talk about you, Robin.”

Robbe drinks a little bit of his coffee and adjusts his jacket, pulling the hood over his head again, feeling more comfortable this way, looking at Sander through his lashes, noticing how fondly Sander looks at him, with an almost smile right at the corners of his lips.

“You know Robin is not my name, right?”

Sander frowns. “Isn’t your name Robin IJzermans?”

Robbe snorts, and the front door is open and closed.

“Honey, I’m home!” He screams, and Robbe looks at the kitchen door, waiting for Milan to appear, making as much noise as he can thinking they would be making out at the kitchen counter or something.

He looks from one to the other in disbelief nothing is happening but he brushes it off, putting the plastic bag on the table for them to unpack.

“How many croissants?" Robbe pulls the heavy and deliciously warm paper bag and Sander pulls the coffee, and big nutella container.

“Three for each.”

“Better than Sander. He would only bring two every time.” Robbe steals a glance at him again and Sander is already looking.

“I always thought that would be enough of a hint but nobody ever left us alone, so I guess it didn’t work.”

Milan laughs, spinning around until he can lean against the sink, looking from one to the other, too curious to pretend for another second.

“And…?” He lifts his eyebrows.

Robbe stares at Sander for a little longer, unable to decide for the future but now it’s enough.

“We might get married at some point.”

Sander finally smiles shyly at that and Milan drops his shoulders like he’s disappointed.

“I wanted new news!”

[longing-and-heartache-and-lust]

the drug, the dark, the light, the flame, Ch.XV

[previous] [next] [Ao3]

A very steamy chapter of my work for this year’s @geraskierbigbang in collaboration with my favourite @gen-syz-art as my artist 💕

take a look at @gen-syz-art‘s sinfully hot art for this chapter right here

(look out for chapter spoilers and your virginities)​

_________________________

Jaskier is usually very warm when he sleeps. 

Geralt finds some special kind of pleasure in that warmth, gets as close to it as he can without waking Jaskier up, and it allows him to sleep better than ever before. 

Jaskier reaches for the witcher’s own warmth in return, and they spend the nights curled up together just like Asra and Lucio on the other side of the bed. 

But this night turns out to be especially cold, and when the fire in the hearth burns out, the room too loses most of its warmth. And it’s only a few hours after the sunrise that Geralt wakes with a start from Jaskier trying to hide his freezing-cold hands between his thighs. 

He hisses, recoiling from the touch involuntarily, and that wakes the bard up. His long eyelashes flutter as he opens his eyes, and the look on his face is so innocently confused that Geralt can’t help the smile tugging on the corners of his lips. 

Jaskier burrows himself deeper into the soft furs, hiding from the cold, and presses his nose to Geralt’s chest. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, still half-asleep. 

Geralt sighs, rolling his eyes affectionately, and wraps his arms around the bard, trying to ignore the bites of cold when Jaskier does the same but still flinching. 

“You’re cold,” he mutters, blindly searching for one more blanket to cover them both with. “And you’re trying to warm your hands on me.”

Jaskier smiles - if not grins - and moves to press the soles of his feet - just as cold - to Geralt’s shins, making the witcher growl a warning low in his throat. 

“Scary Witcher,” the bard murmurs with a satisfied smile, teasing mercilessly. 

Geralt growls at him again, louder, but in return, Jaskier simply props himself up on one elbow, leans in and kisses him on the nose.  

“Pretty boy,” he says in that same murmur. “Gorgeous.”

Geralt pointedly moves away, fighting back both a smile and the blood rushing to his cheeks. 

“I’m not one of your dogs.”

“Of course not,” Jaskier agrees, making himself comfortable on the endless pillows and closing his eyes with a content sigh. “Bet I could make you whine like one, though.”

And oh, that is way too much. 

The heat from Geralt’s chest spills all over his neck and cheeks, making him suffocate for a second, and he immediately hides his eyes, throwing an arm over Jaskier’s middle and pulling him closer, until the bard’s back is pressed to his chest and Geralt is sure he won’t be able to see him.

“You’re playing with fire, bard,” he warns, still, getting a grip on Jaskier’s thigh. 

Jaskier doesn’t try to get out of it, just laughs, completely disarming the witcher. 

“What did you just call me?” he asks. 

“Bard,” Geralt repeats. “What, would you prefer me calling you Prince?” 

Jaskier considers it, making himself more comfortable on the bed and rolling his hips against Geralt’s almost accidentally.  

“My Lord, perhaps?” he suggests. 

And that’s… well, very fitting. And, whether Geralt wants to admit it or not, thrilling. 

But he’s not going to lose this game this easily.

“Well, then,” he hums. “You’re playing with fire, my Lord.”

In this position, he’s got perfect access to Jaskeier’s back and the witcher uses it to his full advantage. He moves away just enough to see the mark between Jaskier’s shoulder blades, and doesn’t even try to hide his satisfaction as he runs his thumb over it, his skin tingling with the low thrum of magic. 

Whatever Jaskier was going to say dies on his lips as he gasps. 

“Don’t you dare,” he warns but Geralt has never been the one to listen to warnings if there’s something in it for him.

So instead, he shifts lower, until he can brush his lips over the softly glowing mark, and Jaskier arches his back with a moan, moving away from the touch and leaning into it at the same time. 

Geralt pulls him closer again, slips a hand down his bare thigh, and leaves another kiss on the same spot, dry and warm, barely even there, but it’s enough to make Jaskier hide his face in the pillows, his breath coming fast and heavy. 

“You’ll pay for this later, Witcher,” he says but it does nothing if not thrills Geralt. 

“I know,” he murmurs, nosing at the bard’s shoulder before going back to his shoulder blades. “But if you want to stop me, you’ll have to use your magic.”

He’s half-expecting Jaskier to take that offer on, keep him away with a force that’s stronger than the witcher, and that thought thrills him, the sheer power that Jaskier holds in his hands almost intoxicating to think about. 

But Jaskier doesn’t try to restrain him, doesn’t tie his wrists and doesn’t try to move away again. He just shudders, face hidden among the pillows so that Geralt can’t see him. 

It’s an invitation that Geralt cannot turn down, even if there’s going to be a price to pay later on. 

He’s dying to ask what it feels like, why Jaskier reacts to it so strongly to every touch, but he’ll have time for that later, when he’s had his fill. 

Slowly, Geralt starts a line of kisses down Jaskier’s neck, moving to his shoulders as he goes, mindful not to overwhelm him right from the start. He waits for Jaskier to relax in his arms, let go of the control that keeps his shoulders tense, and gradually, he gets what he wants. 

Jaskier melts under his attention, soft moans escaping his lips every time Geralt brushes a kiss over a particularly sensitive spot, all of them marked with love-bites. He arches his back, the line of his spine defining in the sweetest of ways, and presses his hips to Geralt’s, allowing the witcher to brush his hand up and down his thigh. 

It’s making Geralt feel lightheaded, just how much Jaskier trusts him. 

As he brushes his lips over the mark in a warm, dry kiss, Jaskier shudders, sucking in a breath. His heart is beating hard and fast in his chest, and Geralt can’t help but prop himself up on one elbow to lean over and kiss him on the cheek to comfort his lover. 

It doesn’t really matter what kinds of games they play, what’s most important to Geralt is that it’s not on the wrong side of too much. 

“Breathe for me, Jask,” he murmurs, peppering warm kisses along the line of his jaw. “If you really want me to stop, all you need to do is say, hm?”

We should choose a word for that, he thinks but doesn’t say it. There will be time. 

“Don’t stop,” Jaskier breathes, barely above a whisper, as he chases Geralt’s lips in a kiss. 

His eyes are darkened and hazy with pleasure, bottomless and hypnotising like the ocean, and it’s too late for Geralt to think about making it out of those waters alive.  

He breaks the kiss, allowing Jaskeir to hide his face among the pillows once more, and lets go of his thigh just for now, wrapping an arm around his waist instead to pull him closer, make him feel warm and safe. 

They’ve got all the time in the world to explore each other, so Geralt doesn’t rush.

Jaskier’s skin is soft and smooth where he presses his lips to his shoulder, and it smells of vanilla and dried herbs and pomegranate. He uses pomegranate bath salts, and though it was a little overwhelming for Geralt’s heightened senses at first, he grew to love it. And, well, it was worth the time they spent together, bathing.  

“There are so many things that I want to do to you now that you’re mine,” he murmurs, a soft purr to his voice. “But this is most definitely a priority.”

He runs his fingers over Jaskier’s side, over the filigree ribs, all the way to the middle of his back, and then moves up his spine, keeping his palm flat against the bard’s skin even as he reaches the mark, and Jaskier gasps, breaking off into a moan as he digs his fingers into the soft fur on the blankets and clenches his fist so hard his knuckles turn white.  

But he doesn’t ask to stop. 

Geralt shifts just enough to be able to reach his shoulder blades with his lips again, and this time, he’s bolder.

Just as Jaskier relaxes back into his touch, he runs his tongue over between his shoulder blades, and the bard cries out, his heart beating in his chest like a bird in a cage. He presses his hips closer to Geralt’s, and it’s torture because the witcher’s already rock-hard, and it doesn’t help when his cock slips over the crease of Jaskier’s thighs. 

He knows from experience that Jaskier is still stretched enough from the night before, that it wouldn’t take long to prepare him, and the thought alone makes him dizzy. 

And yet, he’s just too tempted to see how far he can push the bard just like this. 

“You know, it’s almost unfair,” he murmurs, leaving two soft, calming kisses just on the edge of the mark but that, too, makes Jaskier tremble. “How this makes you suffocate even more than when I’m inside you.”

Jaskier leaves him without an answer, breathing heavily, but his entire body leans into the touch when Geralt slips his hand over his hip and between his legs, wrapping his fingers over the base of his cock, already fully hard. 

He runs his hand over the entire length, twisting his wrist as he moves up, and the sweet little moan that Jaskier gives him in return makes his blood boil. 

“Whatever price I’ll have to pay for this later, it’s gonna be worth it,” the witcher grins, going back to what he’d started. 

He concentrates all of his attention on the mark on Jaskier’s back, following the softly glowing lines with his lips, and moves his hand slowly over the bard’s cock, smearing precome over the tip and making Jaskier tremble harder with what seems like every touch. 

Jaskier moans and whimpers, keeping his face hidden as he writhes on the bed, and whenever Geralt brushes over a particularly sensitive spot, his gasps break off into stifled little cries.

Geralt keeps him grounded, whispering comforting affections against his skin, and that keeps Jaskier’s senses from overwhelming. 

“That’s it,” Geralt murmurs, moving his wrist just a little faster, fingers slick and sticky with precome. “That’s it, I’ve got you.”

In the far end of the room, a tall standing mirror cracks and shatters as Jaskier loses control over his magic, and though he flinches at the sudden sound, he doesn’t recoil from Geralt’s touch still.  

“C-close--” he chokes out, squeezing his thighs to make the pleasure sharper. 

The mark on his back glows brighter, just like it always does when he uses his magic, and when Geralt presses his lips to it in a wet, open-mouthed kiss, his entire body seems to catch ablaze with the intensity of that power.

It’s… certainly the most unusual thing he’d ever done to someone but gods, he loves it. 

The air is heavy with the scent of lust and pleasure, and the sharp undertone of salt only makes Geralt’s head reel more. He knows there are tears in Jaskier’s eyes from overstimulation, and he also knows he’s going to be the one wiping them off, but right now Jaskier doesn’t ask him to stop, and so Geralt concentrates on his pleasure alone. 

“Don’t hold back,” he murmurs, clenching his fingers just a little tighter. 

And that’s all it takes to push Jaskier over the edge. 

His entire body seizes, and he comes with a broken whimper, making a mess of his stomach and chest. 

Geralt immediately pulls him closer, holds him as the bard trembles through the aftershocks, and peppers comforting kisses all over his neck and shoulders, Jaskier’s skin hot under his lips. 

“Gods, you’re incredible,” he whispers, burrowing his nose into the hair on the nape of the bard’s neck and inhaling his scent. “I love you.”

It’s easier now, saying it. 

When he knows that his feelings are reciprocated, there’s no fear of rejection.  

For a few long, blissful minutes, Jaskier just breathes, still trembling all over, before turning around and hiding his face on Geralt’s chest. The witcher wraps his arms around him readily, giving him the comfort and safety he needs. 

They’re both dirty but Geralt can’t find it in him to care.

“I love you too,” Jaskier finally whispers. “But you’re paying for that.”

Geralt laughs quietly, dipping his head to leave a kiss in Jaskier’s hair. 

“Name the price.”

***

Jaskier keeps him wondering for the entire day. 

After sleeping for a couple more hours to get back to his senses, Jaskier goes back to the poem he’d been working on for the past week, and Geralt finishes off his letter to Vesemir, deciding on not mentioning anything about the royal blood in Jaskier veins or the lack of it. 

The bard purposefully keeps him at an arm's length, saying that Geralt can’t touch him until they’re back in bed, and though it’s nothing less of a torture, Geralt knows that he’d promised to play by the rules, so he obliges. 

The day lasts torturously long.

There’s a constant, low thrum of heat under Geralt’s skin, because he’d only cared about Jaskier’s pleasure in the morning, neglecting that of his own, and now the bard turns that against him, slipping out of his touch again and again, leaving Geralt with nothing. 

Geralt could, of course, just push him up against the nearest wall and take it from there, but abiding by the rules promised something far more interesting. 

Jaskier, for his part, has his fun with being in control. 

In the early hours of the evening, he leaves to take a bath, leaving Geralt downstairs with the dogs, and when he comes back, he’s wearing nothing but his silk dressing gown. 

It’s almost like he doesn’t even notice Geralt as he settles down to read on his settee, the fabric slipping down his thigh and revealing his entire leg. There are still faint bruises on his knees, and Geralt is dying to press his lips to it, run a line of kisses from the bard’s ankle and all the way to his inner thigh, but Jaskier spares him no more than a look. 

He does look like a prince like this. 

Despite himself, Geralt finds it thrilling - just how unfazed, almost indifferent he can be. How well he knows what he’s worth. 

How well he knows that he’s in control, unafraid of what his provoking could lead to. 

Geralt tries to keep himself busy with a book of his own, having found an impressive bestiary among the endless shelves, but he can’t concentrate on what he’s reading. 

And so when Jaskier finally puts his books away and stands up to head to the bedroom, giving the witcher a look over his shoulder, Geralt finds it hard to control the thrill of anticipation in his veins. 

They make their way up the stairs and into the far end of the west wing, where Jaskier opens the door of their bedroom and lets Geralt through first, making sure to keep the dogs out of the room as he follows. 

“The bed,” he says, turning the key until it clicks in the lock. “Don’t touch your clothes.”

His voice is different to anything Geralt had heard from him before. 

It’s calm and perfectly measured, leaving no doubt that his words are an order, and Geralt can’t help but oblige, the magic radiating off Jaskier making his knees weak. 

He crosses the room to sit down on the foot of the bed, leaving his clothes untouched like he’d been told to, and watches Jaskier light up the fireplace and the candles that Geralt is almost sure weren’t there before. The fire casts a low, pleasant light around the part of the room where the bed is, leaving everything else in the shadows, and the way it makes Jaskier’s skin glow takes Geralt’s breath away for a long moment. 

Mine, he thinks, Absolutely perfect, and mine.

Jaskier crosses the room, coming closer, and the magic on his fingers is still so strong that it sends a shockwave through Geralt when the bard lays both his hands on his shoulders to straddle his hips. 

“You’ve been so good at following the rules today,” he says, a soft, low rumble to his voice as he tips Geralt’s chin up with his index finger and leans down to brush their lips together, so lightly that it’s barely a touch. “Will you be good for me still?”

Now that they’re back in the bedroom, Geralt can finally touch him again, and it’s almost before he even realises it that his hands already move up to rest on Jaskier’s hips. 

“If you want me to be,” he says, holding Jaskier’s gaze, his voice suddenly hoarse. 

“No,” Jaskier says, still holding the witcher’s chin up. “Say it.”

A wave of suffocating heat rises from Geralt’s chest and he feels the urge to avert his eyes, but he reminds himself that he’s safe here, and that if Jaskier trusts him enough to let him do anything he wants to him, even if it makes him lose control over his magic, then he should trust him the same. 

So, he takes in a breath. Lets it out. 

“I’ll be good,” he promises. “For you.”

Jaskier smiles, his eyes lighting up, and leans down to kiss him, slow and sweet. He runs his tongue over Geralt’s lips, parting them, and licks into his mouth, hands coming down to undo the buttons of his shirt one by one. 

Geralt lets himself be led, gives himself over to his lover, and though it’s very new to him, it lights that familiar fire in his chest. 

Testing his boundaries, he slips his hands under the silk of Jaskier’s dressing gown, runs them up his thighs, the skin warm and smooth under his fingers, and he’s half-expecting Jaskier to slap his hands away, but he doesn’t. 

Breaking away from his lips, the bard finds his way to Geralt’s neck, kissing a line down its side, deft fingers slipping under the hem of the witcher’s shirt, and Geralt doesn’t have enough time to bite back a moan that falls off his lips. 

The neck had always been a sensitive area for him, and when it’s Jaskier kissing him, it makes him feel lightheaded within seconds. 

He helps the bard strip him of his shirt, and falls onto his back when Jaskier pushes down on his shoulder, the soft furs pleasant against his bare skin. Before he really knows it, the rest of his clothes are on the floor, too, and if there’s magic involved in that, it’s too hard to single out in the overall energy of it in the room.

Jaskier, on the other hand, still has his dressing gown on, held closed with a silk belt, and it’s maddening - knowing that he’s naked underneath, that all Geralt needs to do is untie the belt. 

But he keeps his hands to himself this time, allowing Jaskier to climb over him and leave another kiss on his lips. 

“Tell me, Witcher,” he says, running the tip of his index finger over a scar on Geralt’s chest. “Have you ever had anyone put a cock ring on you?”

Geralt’s breath catches. 

“I haven’t,” he says, the fire in his chest flaring up. “But I’m… familiar with the concept.”

Jaskier hums, a pleased smile on his lips, and catches Geralt’s gaze again, his eyes black in the low light. 

“I want to put one on you,” he says, magic snaking around his fingers in shifting colours, glowing like a flame. “But you can say no.”

Geralt’s heart beats hard in his chest, and Jaskier’s voice gets right under his skin, sending a shiver through the witcher’s body. 

“You can do anything you want to me,” he says before he can stop himself. 

Jaskier’s eyes light up even more, and that shine is all that allows Geralt to breathe, keeps him from drowning in those two dark oceans. 

“I love you,” Jaskier murmurs, leaning down to give the witcher a praising kiss and then moving down his body. 

When exactly does the toy appear in his hand, Geralt can’t tell.

He’s already half-hard, and the touch of Jaskier’s fingers sends sparks of pleasure up his spine, making Geralt bite his lip and try to concentrate on his breathing, getting it back under control. 

The ring is a pleasant pressure around the base of his cock, the material soft enough not to cause any discomfort, and the added pressure-points of beads all around make him swell almost immediately. 

“There,” Jaskier hums, brushing his lips over Geralt’s hipbone in a wet, open-mouthed kiss. “This will make the pleasure brighter. For both of us.”

The silk of Jaskier’s robe is pleasantly cool against Geralt’s skin when it brushes over it, sending shivers up the witcher’s body, but he would much rather have Jaskier without it, no matter how good he looks with the fabric halfway down his shoulders.  

Without thinking, Geralt reaches for one of the ends of the belt, but before he can pull on it, Jaskier slaps his hand away, the sound echoing through the room. 

“Did I say that you can do that?” he asks. 

His voice is still calm but the spark in his eyes turns into a flame before Geralt can even take a breath. It sends a thrill through him.

“No,” he says, taking his hands away obediently. “Forgive me.”

Jaskier hums, leaning down to touch a soft kiss to the witcher’s shoulder. 

“That’s better,” he nods. “You wouldn’t want to break your promise, would you?”

His lips are hot and wet where he brushes them over Geralt’s chest, starting with the collarbones and moving down. 

Geralt leans into every touch, careful to keep his hands to himself, and arches off the bed when Jaskier runs his tongue over his hardened nipple and closes his lips around it, sucking it into his mouth. 

Geralt never even knew that he’d be so sensitive to that kind of pleasure, that it would feel so good, but when Jaskier bites on the sensitive bud, he suffocates. 

“Does that feel good, Witcher?” the bard asks, rolling his hips against Geralt’s, and the feeling of his bare skin makes Geralt’s vision go dark for a moment. 

“Yes,” he makes himself say, shutting his eyes against the feeling of Jaskier’s hot tongue. “Gods, yes.”

Unsure of whether or not he’s allowed to, Geralt runs his hands up Jaskier’s thighs, rests them high on his hips, and when Jaskier doesn’t protest, too preoccupied with playing with his other nipple, Geralt allows himself to clench his fingers a little tighter, digging into the soft flesh. 

His eyes flutter shut when Jaskier sucks a mark onto his chest, and then moves up again, one hand slipping into Geralt’s hair to pull on the silver strands, making him throw his head back and expose his neck.            

They both know that he heals fast, and that any marks or bites or scratches will not last longer than a night, but that seems to only fuel Jaskier’s interest in leaving them, for he’s got a clean canvas every time. 

“Turn around for me,” he murmurs into the witcher’s ear, letting go of his hair. “On your knees.”

A familiar flush of uncertain embarrassment rises up in Geralt’s chest, but he does as he’s told, thankful that it’s dark enough for Jaskier not to see the colour on his cheeks. 

He turns around, keeping his chest on the bed, and uses the opportunity to hide his face among the pillows as he props his hips up, knees digging into the soft blankets. It’s strange and unfamiliar - being on display like this, but Jaskier runs a calming hand down his thigh, and slowly, Geralt allows himself to relax again. 

“That’s it,” Jaskier murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to his shoulder. “You’re doing so good, my love.”

The praise gets right under Geralt’s skin, flows through his veins in pleasant weakness, and he can feel his cock throb with it, heavy between his legs. 

The pressure of the ring is more tangible now, fueling the fire low in his abdomen, and though he knows that it’s only the beginning, he already starts feeling lightheaded from the attention. 

The fabric of the dressing gown slips off Jaskier’s shoulders almost soundlessly, and Geralt might not have even noticed it had it not been for his heightened senses, but once it does, he can’t help but sneak a look at his lover, now completely bare. 

Slowly, Jaskier runs the tips of his fingers down the curve of Geralt’s spine, watching the movement carefully, and slips over the crease of his thighs, teasing at the hole but not pushing in. Geralt’s cock twitches in response, and he can feel the drops of precome, threatening to drip down. Perhaps, the ring affects him more than he thought. 

“Tell me, Witcher,” Jaskier murmurs, shifting to follow the line of his spine against, but this time with his lips, torturously slowly. “How long has it been since anyone has touched you like this?”

Geralt shivers under his touch and shuts his eyes again. 

“Long,” he says. “It’s… not easy for me to give someone this kind of control.” 

His breath catches when Jaskier wraps a hand around his waist, pressing a comforting, warm kiss to the middle of his back and resting his forehead against it.                                                        

“I got you, my love,” he whispers, giving them both a few long, comfortable moments before going back to what he’d started. “Tell me about the last time.”                                                                             

Geralt has never been the one to discuss his sexual experiences with anyone unless he lost a bet and it takes him a couple of seconds to get around the sudden dryness in his throat. 

But it’s Jaskier. 

“I was spending the winter in Kaer Morhen,” he starts, focusing all his self-control on keeping his voice from shaking. “We had a guest from a different School, another witcher. Both similar and different to us.”

Jaskier doesn’t interrupt him, mapping out the lines of his back with his lips and paying special attention to the scars that he finds, and that almost allows the witcher to concentrate, but then Jaskier’s hand slips between his thighs again, and Geralt struggles to recall what he’d been talking about. 

“Go on,” Jaskier urges, taking his hand away for barely a moment, and when he teases his fingers around the rim again, they’re slick with oil. 

“We took a liking to each other almost immediately,” Geralt makes himself say, clenching his fists to keep himself from rocking back onto Jaskier’s fingers. “He’s younger than me but incredible with his weapons, and really, all it took is him pushing me down onto the ground and pressing a knife to my throat. The evening of that same day we were already in one bed.”

Jaskier shifts, resting his chest against Geralt’s back, and leans down to his ear, pushing two fingers inside and making the witcher gasp, back arching. 

“Is that how you like it, then?” Jaskier murmurs, slowly sinking his fingers deeper. “Should I put a knife to your throat?”

The thought alone makes Geralt dizzy, and he doesn’t even notice as he rolls his hips, taking Jaskier’s fingers in deeper. A sharp slap to his thigh brings him back to his senses, making him go still again, breathing heavily. 

“Not now,” he manages to say, biting back a moan. 

Jaskier hums, leaving a comforting kiss on the back of his neck, and rises to his knees again, running his free hand down Geralt’s back and stopping on his hip, holding the witcher in place. He moves his wrist slowly, still not sinking his fingers in all the way, and Geralt nearly whimpers with how maddening the anticipation is. 

His cock throbs almost painfully, the ring making him more sensitive, and even the calming kisses that Jaskier’s leaves on his thigh don’t help. 

“Please--” he whispers before he even knows it. 

That seems to be exactly what Jaskier had been waiting for. 

He pushes his fingers deeper, up to the knuckles, and Geralt shudders with pleasure it brings him. 

“I’ll have you come just like this, on my fingers,” Jaskier murmurs, finding the right spot inside him without mistake, and though Geralt muffles his moan with a pillow, it still sounds too-loud in the quiet room. “And then fuck you again, with a different toy. And then again. Witcher stamina, hm?”

Geralt’s head is reeling too much for him to be able to say anything to that, but the thought alone zaps through his body light lightning, making his arch his back even more, panting as Jaskier fucks him with two fingers, brushing over just the right spot every single time. 

He’d never been fucked with toys before, never even thought about it, though he’d seen quite a variety in Passiflora, but now the promise immediately pushes him closer to the edge, and though he manages to bite back a whine, he knows that eventually, Jaskier will get what he wants. 

“You can come whenever you like,” Jaskier murmurs, moving his wrist faster. “This time.”

Geralt doesn’t have it in him to answer, and so he just moans, head spinning with hyperventilation. If it wasn’t for the ring, he would’ve come already, even before he got his permission, but now it makes the pleasure last, building into a tight, hot knot low in his abdomen. 

“I’ve never slept with witchers before,” Jaskier says, running his free hand down Geralt’s thigh and then slipping onto its inner side, when the skin is more sensitive. “Tell me, is it true that your refractory period is non-existent?”

He runs the tips of his fingers over the length of Geralt’s cock, smears the precome over it, catches on the ring, making Geralt absolutely delirious with overstimulation, but doesn’t take him in hand. 

“It’s true,” the witcher chokes out, bucking his hips involuntarily and getting another sharp slap to his thigh that makes the pleasure flare up even more. “But we have our limits.” 

Jaskier makes a pleased little noise, leaning down to touch his lips to the place where his hand had landed, and sinks his fingers in deep, just as his other hand catches on the edge of the ring once more. 

Pleasure spills through Geralt’s veins like wildfire, taking all air away from his lungs, and he comes with a desperate, choked moan, painting his stomach and chest with streaks of white. 

Jaskier fucks him through it, slow and deep, until it’s too much, until Geralt is so overstimulated that he whimpers, trembling all over. 

“You did so good,” Jaskier whispers, peppering soft, calming kisses all over his thighs and lower back but not allowing him to lie down. “So good, my love. Gods, you’re gorgeous when you’re on the edge.”

His voice is barely audible over the thundering blood in Geralt’s ears, but the praise still sends a shiver down his back. He keeps his eyes closed and just breathes, letting Jaskier take care of him even as he knows that this isn’t nearly the end. 

With his heart beating in his chest like a trapped bird and his head still reeling, he feels lighter than he can ever remember being, all doubt and anxiety fucked out of him. 

“You ready for another round, my love?” Jaskier asks, nipping at his thigh to get his attention. 

He smooths a hand up his back, making Geralt get back into his initial position, and the magic in his touch makes Geralt suck in a breath. 

“What do you say we add something else to the game, hm?” Jaskier murmurs, running his tongue over his fluttering hole before pulling away, and Geralt nearly loses his fucking mind at that. 

Jaskier readjusts the pillows, until Geralt’s chest is resting on one, and chooses a high cushion for his head, leaning down to steal a long, sweet kiss from the witcher’s lips before settling behind him again.

“Both arms behind your back,” he says, in that same voice that tells Geralt it’s an order. 

His body recovers quickly, but his mind is still hazy with pleasure and the last aftershocks of an orgasm, but he still obliges, putting both arms behind him so that they are resting upon the small of his back. He knows what Jaskier is going to do, but even so, he shudders when the bard’s fingers slip over his wrists. 

“We have two options, Witcher,” he says. “My first thought was ropes. But you’ve been so good for me that as a reward, you can get a silk belt, instead. What will it be?”

Ropes would be much more effective at holding him down, they both know it. But he’d promised to be good, hasn’t he?

“Silk,” he says, voice hoarse. “Please.”

He doesn’t see Jaskier’s pleased smile but he can feel it. The same way he can’t see the magic swirling around his fingers, but he can feel it with his very being. 

“Wonderful,” Jaskier says, slipping off the bed. 

He reaches down to pick up his dressing gown, pulls the long belt free from its loops, and, just before returning to Geralt’s side, hands him a cup of cold water that Geralt downs in one. Before Jaskier takes it away, he risks intercepting his wrist and pulling his hand to his lips, leaving a grateful kiss on the knuckles. 

Jaskier smiles at him, warm and loving, and brushes a stray strand of silver hair out of his face, leaning down to give the witcher one more kiss before pulling away. 

Geralt gets his arms back behind his back, and closes his eyes, concentrating on his breathing as Jaskier ties them, starting at his wrists and moving halfway up his forearms. The silk is pleasant against his skin, but tied tight enough to keep his arms in place. 

“You like it when you can feel my magic, don’t you?” Jaskier murmurs, running his hands up Geralt’s thighs. 

Even though he expects it, the witcher still shivers. 

“You know that witchers feel it differently than humans,” he says, the last word breaking off into a gasp as Jaskier slips his fingers back inside, moving his wrists slowly.  

He’s still more sensitive than usual, and once Jaskier brushes over the right spot inside, Geralt bites on his lip to silence a moan. He’s still half-hard and swelling fast, the pressure of the ring making him lightheaded with oversensitivity. 

Jaskier doesn’t seem to be in the mood for waiting any longer, so he gets him ready fast, fucking the witcher with his fingers until he’s fully hard again, panting and whimpering with pleasure, each touch bordering on too much. 

He doesn’t need a lot so soon after the first orgasm, and it’s barely minutes that he’s on the edge again, his cock leaking with precome and making a mess of the sheets under him. 

Behind the haze in his head and the overstimulation, Geralt barely notices his medallion trembling. 

But then, without warning, Jaskier pulls his fingers out, and Geralt whines at the loss.

“There you go,” Jaskier purrs. “Told you I could make you whine.”

And then, before Geralt can say anything in his defence or even form a sentence in his head, he pushes a glass toy inside, and all words leave Geralt’s mind. 

It's much longer than Jaskier’s fingers, and though the width is about the same, the three beads along the length are wider, each next one bigger than the previous, and as Jaskier slips the toy in all the way, there are sparks behind Geralt’s closed eyes. 

He arches his back until it hurts, barely able to breathe, and Jaskier gives him a few moments to get used to it, to adjust to the pleasant burn of the stretch, wrapping his fingers around the base of the witcher’s cock and giving him a couple of long, slow strokes.

“Does that feel good?” he murmurs, pulling the toy out halfway and then sinking it back in. 

The glass feels deliriously good when it brushes over the right spot inside, the pressure almost overwhelming, and Geralt clenches his fists, desperately trying to get control over his breathing. 

“Feels good--” he chokes out, hips twitching when Jaskier moves the toy again. 

He doesn’t have it in him to say anything else, even to try, and Jaskier doesn’t seem to be waiting for him to do so, for he picks up his pace almost immediately, knowing as well as Geralt that he’s already on the edge. 

He fucks him fast and hard, pulling the toy out of him almost entirely every time and then sinking it back in, filling the room with the dirty, obscene sounds of it. 

Geralt doesn’t even try to hold back his moans and broken whimpers, rocking into every thrust, and though at first Jaskier slaps him on the hip, soon enough he allows for it.

“You can’t come until you have permission,” he says, and Geralt clenches his jaw so tight it hurts, keeping himself on the edge. 

The pressure of the ring drives him insane, makes him leak with precome, ruining the sheets beneath him, and he feels like he will just pass out if he’s not allowed to come for much longer. 

His entire body trembles uncontrollably, and it’s hard to keep his knees steady under him, but it feels so agonisingly good that Geralt still takes every thrust greedily, even as his eyes burn with tears of overstimulation. 

“You know, I wanted to fuck you myself after this,” Jaskier murmurs, running his lips over Geralt’s thigh and sucking a mark into it, slow and thorough. “Test your limits. But looking at you now, I think I want you in me too much.”

The thought goes straight to the witcher’s cock and he bites his lip, the copper taste of blood spilling over his tongue, if only to keep himself on the edge. 

He can’t remember ever coming untouched twice in a row before, but Jaskier knew his way around maddeningly well. 

“What do you think, my love?” he urges, leaving another mark beside the first one. “Do you think you’ll still have enough energy in you to properly fuck me, hm?”

Every time Jaskier sinks the toy deep into his body, his cock twitches, throbbing painfully, and Geralt is far beyond making sentences, let alone talking.

But Jaskier seems determined to get an answer, for he slips his other hand into his damp hair and pulls hard, making the witcher throw his head back. 

“An answer, Witcher,” he demands.

Geralt knows that there are tears in his eyes, knows that Jaskier can see them shine in the low light of the candles, but it’s too late to hide now. 

“Anything you want--” he manages to say, somehow. “Gods, anything--”

As soon as he gets his answer, Jaskier lets go of his hair, allowing him to hide his face in the pillows again, and it might be minutes, might be hours, Geralt is too delirious to tell, that he finally leans down to his ear, still moving the toy inside, and whispers:

“Anytime you want.”

That’s all it takes to push Geralt over the edge. 

He comes with a broken whine, making an utter mess of his stomach and the sheets beneath, and just like last time, Jaskier fucks him through it, until it gets so much that Geralt begs him to stop. 

His head is spinning worse than from any alcohol or elixir he’d ever had, so much that his consciousness threatens to slip away, and he doesn’t even notice as Jaskier unties his arms, just sighs in relief when the bard rolls him onto his side and then onto his back, his lips and hands all over him. 

“Gods, Geralt, do you know how perfect you are?” he whispers, peppering kisses over his neck and running his warm hands down his sides, calming and comforting. “I can’t believe you’re all mine.”

“All yours,” Geralt echoes, wrapping an arm around the bard’s back but unable to as much as open his eyes.

He knows that Jaskier won’t give him enough time to fully recover, that after an orgasm like that he’ll need an entire night of sleep, and despite himself, the thought of another round thrills him.

He’s proven right within minutes, when Jaskier, still mapping out his chest with his lips, reaches down to wrap his fingers around the base of his cock. 

He slips the ring off, making Geralt shudder at the pressure of it, but once it’s gone, it feels like he can breathe again. The relief washes over him like a wave, fueling the last aftershocks of pleasure, and he doesn’t even try to bite back a trembling moan. 

Slowly, his head clears enough for Geralt to blindly find Jaskier’s wrist, unafraid of any punishment that might follow, and pull the bard into a kiss. 

Jaskier allows him that little disobedience, kissing him back with just as much feeling behind it, licking into his mouth and moaning softly as Geralt catches his lower lip between his teeth. 

Despite the dark haze over his mind, his body recovers faster, and Jaskier’s fingers feel so maddeningly good that within minutes, he’s fully hard again. 

“Fuck, I won’t last long,” Jaskier whispers, pulling him into another kiss before breaking away and straddling his hips. 

He rolls his hips over Geralt’s, ruts against him, and the feeling of his warm, smooth skin against the witcher’s cock is beyond unbelievable. 

“You’re not--” Geralt starts, unable to focus his gaze on Jaskier’s face, but the bard cuts him off.

“You don’t think that while I was taking a bath, that was all I did, do you?” he smiles, pushing back against Geralt’s cock. “I had a little fun of my own, Witcher. With magic like mine, there are so many ways I can play with myself.”

Geralt’s always had a rather vivid imagination, and the fantasy flashes before his eyes in a set of bright images, making him throw his head back with a moan, hands coming up to rest on Jaskier’s hips. 

“You’ll have to show me one day,” he whispers, and by the way Jaskier’s eyes light up he knows that it won’t take a lot to get what he wants. 

Jaskier smiles at him, full of promise, and then he can wait no longer, reaching behind him to wrap his fingers around Geralt’s cock, so slick with precome and spend that there’s no need for oil, and sink onto it, mouth falling open in a silent gasp. 

Even as he takes Geralt in easily, he’s still so unbearably tight that for a second, Geralt feels like he won’t be able to take it, but then Jaskier starts moving, and the witcher’s mind goes completely blank. 

Jaskier doesn’t give either of them time, his own cock flush and throbbing, and picks up the rhythm immediately, both his hands pressed to Geralt’s abdomen for balance. 

He moans, open and sweet, fucking himself onto Geralt’s cock fast and hard, fully in control of his own pleasure, and Geralt’s head reels with it, every move resonating through his own body in waves of sweet weakness. 

They both know that he’s too overstimulated to last long, but it barely matters, if at all. They’ve got all the time in the world now.

Geralt doesn’t even notice his own moans, too focused on Jaskier’s voice, but at the same time, though very distantly, he’s aware of how good they sound together. 

Jaskier drags his nails down his chest, leaving burning scratches behind, and whimpers as his pleasure builds, getting hotter, sharper. 

“You’ve been so good this whole time,” he whispers, voice husky with lust. “And I want you to do just one more thing for me.”

Geralt isn’t capable of answering anymore, nor does Jaskier wait for him to be. 

“I want you to come together with me,” he says, biting on his lip to prolong his pleasure just a little more. “And I’m so fucking close--”

Geralt doesn’t need to hear it to know. It’s in the way Jaskier clenches around him, in the way he loses the rhythm of his moves, in the way that he smells. And gods know Geralt will obey him at anything he wants right now. 

He nods, digging his fingers into the soft flesh of Jaskier’s thighs, and the bard shuts his eyes, moving faster and faster, scratching Geralt’s chest raw with his nails, until finally, his body seizes, and he comes with a sharp cry, spilling all over both their bodies. 

He clenches around Geralt painfully tight, shaking through his orgasm, and the witcher is still so overly-sensitive that it’s all it takes for him to reach his high, too, filling Jaskier’s tight heat with his spend.

For a second or two, his mind slips into complete darkness, shutting down, but before Jaskier can notice, he comes back to his senses, breathing hard. 

He’d had three orgasms in a row before but never this powerful, and he can barely even feel his body with just how much it’s been. His fingers tingle with hyperventilation, completely numb, and he can barely find it in him to wrap his arms around Jaskier when he carefully pulls off and falls onto the bed beside him. 

“I love you,” Jaskier whispers against his chest, still trembling with the aftershocks. 

Geralt knows that he’s an absolute mess after three orgasms, and that he should tell Jaskier not to touch him until he cleans up, but fuck, he’s just a man, and there are some things that are just beyond him. 

“I love you more,” he echoes, a pleased sigh escaping his lips as Jaskier pulls a warm blanket over both of them.      

He’s barely conscious, exhaustion tugging him into the sweet realms of dreams, but he’s still awake when he feels Jaskier smile against his chest and say:

“Not possible.”

[alyssaallyrion]

Title: Cake Rating: T Summary: In which Shisui does his best to focus on the cooking, but Itachi chooses to be utterly distracting.

Written for Shisuita Week 2021 Day 1 Prompt: Home

ao3 link

"You are back from the market already?" Itachi calls out once Shisui enters their apartment.  

"Yeah," Shisui replies, "And I've got everything you asked for."

As he walks into the kitchen, Shisui stills in the doorway, taking in the view in front of him. Itachi's standing by the counter, chopping vegetables on the cutting board. His hair is up, baring the delicate lines of his neck, his gaze focused as though in the midst of battle, and Shisui feels his heart flutter in his chest and wonders how he ever got so lucky. Though many years have passed, he's as desperately in love with Itachi as the day he confessed his feelings.

"Hand me the tomatoes, please," Itachi asks, glancing at Shisui over his shoulder, "And put the other groceries in the fridge."

Shisui nods and does as he's told. While putting away the groceries, he cannot help but steal occasional glances at Itachi. There was something about his husband that made the most mundane, domestic things feel special. Shisui has never been one for domesticity, reasoning that, so long as his apartment provided him a place to sleep and nothing there was terribly broken, all was well.

The day Itachi moved in, everything changed – his presence almost compelled Shisui to want the apartment to look like home, to feel like home. He'd never imagined he'd spare a single thought to what curtains should be in the bedroom or what armchairs would work best in the living room – but they have spent a significant amount of time renovating the apartment, and Shisui had enjoyed every moment of it – if only because Itachi was right by his side.  

Glancing around, Shisui notices two cake pans full of batter standing on the counter next to the oven. We are making a cake too? Shisui smiles and shakes his head, But of course we are. Any time Sasuke visited them, Itachi would always prepare a feast as though his brother was perpetually starving – and, by the looks of it, tonight is no exception.

"Should I get started on the icing for the cake?" Shisui asks once he's done putting away the groceries.

"Huh?" Itachi pauses momentarily, then nods, "Ah, yes, please do."

Shisui smiles as he opens kitchen cupboards, pulling out bowls and measuring cups and whisks. Between the two of them, Itachi's always been the better cook – in part, because he had to cook for Sasuke quite often when he was young and, in part, because he actually enjoyed the process. However, when it came to making desserts – especially the part of the dessert that could be consumed immediately – Shisui was usually the one to do it.

Itachi always had the biggest sweet tooth and could easily eat his weight in sweets of any kind, which once had forced him to redo the frosting for the cupcakes twice. To save Itachi from having to spend hours in the kitchen – and from the inevitable stomachache – Shisui always gladly volunteered to be the one to make dessert.

Shisui diligently whisks all the ingredients, making sure the icing is the right consistency. With the oven finally heated up, the kitchen feels much warmer. Shisui gives the mixture a final stir, then swipes his finger over the white peak and brings it to his lips. Tasting the icing, Shisui hums, satisfied – it's light and not overwhelmingly sweet. <em>Now is the time for the final test,</em> he thinks, <em>To see if Itachi likes it.</em>

"Itachi," Shisui says, "Come try this."

Itachi nods, putting away the kitchen knife and wiping his hands on the small towel.

"I think it tastes good," Shisui muses as Itachi approaches him, "But, obviously, you are the expert in all things sweet, so…"

The words abruptly die in Shisui's throat. He had expected Itachi to take a spoon to try the icing or to swipe his own finger in it – instead, Itachi grabs his hand and slowly lifts it to his lips. Shisui's mind goes blank as he watches, mesmerized, Itachi's tongue dart out of his mouth to taste the icing that's still on his finger.

"I think you are right," Itachi says, almost too innocently, then frowns, "But wait a moment…"

Before Shisui can protest, before he can say anything at all, Itachi's pulling Shisui's hand to his lips again and taking the tip of his finger into his mouth. The contact feels like a jolt of electricity and, suddenly, Shisui's mind is flooded with memories of Itachi's mouth that make heat rise in his cheeks.

"Yes, it's good," Itachi shrugs nonchalantly, glancing at Shisui through his eyelashes in a way that makes it clear that he knows precisely the kind of impact he has on his husband.

With that, Itachi turns around and goes back to his task. Shisui's heart pounds in his ears – there is nothing he wants more than to kiss Itachi breathless, to make him writhe and beg as he caresses and tastes and touches him,  to see that red, hot mouth around his… Shisui shakes his head, trying to push the thoughts away. Even after all these years, Shisui was still firmly wrapped around Itachi's finger – Shisui could never resist his husband. But does Itachi have to be so smug about it?

He glances over to Itachi, who's putting the cake pans into the oven. It's as though Itachi feels his gaze – he looks back at Shisui through half-lidded eyes and smiles that little mischievous smile, sending shivers up Shisui's spine. Well, that's just not fair.

With a defeated sigh, Shisui sets aside the bowl, then turns around. He approaches Itachi from behind, lacing fingers over his stomach and pulling him closer.

"What do you say we take a brief break from cooking?" he murmurs into Itachi's ear.

"Tired already?" Itachi chuckles.

"No," Shisui replies, nuzzling against Itachi's neck, "It's just there is something else I'd rather be doing."

"And what could that be?" Itachi gasps as Shisui's lips find a curve where his neck meets his shoulder. Shisui smirks to himself as he feels a shiver run down Itachi's spine.

"I think you know well enough," he whispers, "With those antics earlier…"

"I don't know what you are talking about. My hands were dirty, and you already had icing on your finger," Itachi laughs, leaning into the embrace, "And, besides, I thought shinobi are supposed to be resistant to temptation. Who would have thought that Konoha's pride and joy - Shunshin no Shisui himself - would be so easy to distract from his task?"

"When could I ever resist you?" Shisui breathes out, pressing his lips against Itachi's neck.

That much is true – he's always yearned for Itachi, for his love, for his affection, for his closeness. Some days Shisui could hardly believe just how lucky he was that Itachi felt the same.

"Oh my," Itachi's smug chuckle turns into a gasp as Shisui's hand dips lower, under the waistband of his pants, softly brushing against his length.

"So, what do you say?" Shisui asks, reveling in the way Itachi's body responds so eagerly to his touch.

"I suppose a break can't hurt," Itachi smiles, then turns around, wrapping his arms around Shisui's neck, pulling him in for a kiss.

The kiss is deep and ardent, almost desperate, and makes Shisui's head spin. Warmth spreads through his body as he buries his fingers in Itachi's hair and pulls him even closer. They've kissed thousands upon thousands of times, but it's never enough – Shisui knows that he'll always crave Itachi with every fiber of his being.

Shisui breaks the kiss, then leans forward, pressing his lips to Itachi's throat just the way he knows Itachi's likes.

"Shisui…" Itachi breathes out.

His name sounds dizzying on Itachi's lips and, before Shisui can even think, he's already kneeling in front of Itachi, making a quick work of the drawstring of his pants. Suddenly, Itachi's hand is on his, stopping him.

"Not here," Itachi murmurs softly.

Shisui doesn't argue, letting Itachi heave him back up to his feet. Itachi takes Shisui's hand, giving him a look full of promise that makes Shisui's heart flutter in his chest, and leads him to the bedroom. A part of Shisui's mind wonders if they should turn off the stove, but he pushes the thought away. It will be fine – we won't be gone very long.

It isn't until they are lying in bed, naked and spent, basking in the warmth of the afterglow, when they notice that something is amiss – namely, that there's thick, black smoke coming from the kitchen.

*

"You've burned the dessert?" Sasuke asks, incredulously, looking at Itachi.

Sasuke and Naruto arrived just minutes after Shisui and Itachi discovered that the cake was burning in the oven. Luckily, all other dishes were just fine, so they could still have dinner. They let all the windows had to be open, despite cold winter weather, to get the smell of burning out of the apartment.

Shisui can hardly fault Sasuke for his surprise – Itachi's always been a good cook and has never burned anything before. Shisui knows, of course, that he's partially to blame, but Itachi looks upset, and he decides to take full responsibility.

"It's all my fault," he says then, "I've asked Itachi to help me cook and distracted him."

"And what were you making?" Sasuke narrows his eyes, turning Shisui.

"Icing," Shisui shrugs.

The disapproving look in Sasuke's eyes is almost endearing – he's always been very protective of his older brother, and Shisui appreciated that. Sasuke's lips thin as he frowns, and Shisui knows that he's biting back a venomous comment.

"I'm sure making icing can be quite distracting," he says finally.

That's all? Losing your touch there, Sasuke. Or is that Naruto's influence?

"Ugh, I was so looking forward to that cake," Naruto complains, and Shisui smiles at him sympathetically. He, too, wishes they didn't burn it – it would have been a good cake.  

Though, glancing over to Itachi, Shisui knows that he's not sad in the sightliest – after all, how could he be when his dear husband is all the sweetness he'll ever need.