#heart of gold that's been put through the fucking HORRORS but it's still gold under all the scarring.

[mamawasatesttube]

U - Three favorite characters from three different fandoms, and why they’re your favorites.

kon, of course, but everyone here knows that so maybe he doesn't quite count sfgkdh

let's go with kaladin stormblessed from the stormlight archive, mipha legendofzelda, and elrond peredhel! with an honorable mention to ash lynx bananafish and alphonse elric fullmetalalchemist.

i am simply a sucker for the battle healer archetype/characters who know how to kill you a hundred different ways, but would really rather not. characters who have faced the endless horrors but still choose to be kind and gentle and good where they can, or who fight the darkness not out of rage or pride but out of a desire to protect. characters who know what suffering is and want to make sure others don't have to. you know. the light at the end of the tunnel and choosing kindness and healing even though it would be so easy for them to cause harm instead. being the shield before the sword. all that.

alphabet ask game!

[redlollygag]

so im gonna be autistic in your inbox 😁😁😁 < face of someone mentally unwell

SO the biggest appeal of dabihawks is ofc the enemies to lovers trope, first lets look at canon:

theyre enemies plain and simple, they hate each other, its a beautiful show to watch of them absolutely disgusted by the other but forced to interact [ IF ONLY THEY GOT MORE FUCKING SCREENTIME TOGETHER JESUS CHRIST ] anyways its the angst potential, hawks dirtying his hands just to get into the league only to then betray the entire league </3 hawks dirtying his hands just for the sake of the mission for the sake of dabi letting him in because that WAS his only contact so hes the one hes "closest too" dabi the evil motherfuck toying with hawks, making him do all the things he hates and knowing what hawks is truely doing. they hate each other in canon plain and simple they dont care if neither one dies or not. hawks even STILL views endeavor as an equal even after all hes done (whether or not you think its valid is up to you i think that hawks needs a LITTLE MORE TIME AND SPACE to rethink the whole "yeah no enjis cool now hes alright :D" shtick.... personally i hate it i just want him to be a little more..... EYES OPEN to how fucked up endeavor did things even if hes trying to do better now like ?????) canon tropes that could fit are like their divorce, unhealthy co dependency, there was only one bed, acciental first kiss, drunk sex, fuck buddies, rarepair, the whole hero vs villain thing, height difference, flirty and the flustered, oh fuck theyre BOTH messed up, loud and quiet ETC ETC

now heres where the dots connect though through fandom genius. now when dabis first introduced hes blue and emo and firey and dramatic (theatre kid) mentally unwell, tired yet manic, daddy issues supreme, body horror circus party, the whole palooza. we ALL been known, his daddys a top hero who made him a top villain. and now hawks, who was an enigma at first, man too fast for his own good, red, arrogant, laidback, yet serious and calculating, heart of gold underneath all of that dirty work with a like for trashy preppy outfits. at first it was just the enemies to lovers, dabi hates endeavor and heroes, hawks admires him to the sun and is one of the best heros... AND THEN WE GET HAWKS BACK STORY. hawks. hero. raised by a villain. if the red and blue, sun and moon, emo/goth and jock, FLAME AND FEATHERS, if those parallels werent enough the father issues sure will! dabi, hero father made him a villain, hawks, villain father made him a hero. the amount of parallels these two have was fuel for the growing fire.

FIRE IN WHICH IT WAS FANON. fanon dabihawks is BEAUTIFUL. the best and probably only light dabihawks will ever shine in 😀😀😀 < gripping horikoshis neck even thought nothing will happen but angst for these two. slightly shifted canon compliant with some queer writing and spicing up the characters a SMIDGE, making them more fit to how they ACTAULLY ARE (in my very (not) humble opinion horikoshi you dont know your own characters like we do) all of that is the mountain of fanfic tropes. we already have enemies to lovers but add a little bit of that battle for dominance play and sexual tension, heavy flirting and fuck buddies OOO BOY. they play and they bite and hawks is number one pretty boy and charms his way past dabi "probably hasnt been flirted with in his life," OR dabi being the brat and attention seeker he is and pushing hawks buttons before dabi gets put in his place. hawks turned genuine lov member because then thats where he sees the TRUTH. or hawks still killing jin but REGRETS IT TO THE MAX and dabi finds him a little after and hawks begging for forgiveness. the league was his only true family but hes been a hero under the commission for so long that killing him was second nature until he realizes. rehabilitation after the war and dabi being captured and hawks still visiting him wherever dabis being held. if you make them even a LITTLE BIT GAY it literally makes things more tragic than just "lets hate each other even though we're walking parallels"

one very popular and loved aspect is red tailed hawks avian hawks and not just his fierce wings. THIS ADDS TO THE MOUNTAIN. youve got a multitude of bird facts like torpor, nesting, cloacas if youre into that, preening, MATING HABITS. hawks being a spy to the league only to see how open they are to their members quirks. spinner and his lizardness needing warmth and insects and shedding and togas fascination and need for blood ( not quirk reasons shes mentally ill but there are healthy ways to get blood so) hawks seeing the league being accepting open AND welcoming to when we dont see ANY OF THAT in his hero work??? especially with dabis inside knowledge of how shit the hero system is with quirk discrimination??? youve got so much to work with here JUST from the aspect of making hawks a hawk mutant. he likes how shiny dabi is with his staples and piercings, he loves the natural warmth coming from him (even if dabis skin is cold), hawks lowkey loving the smell of blood from dabis scars (bird of prey) dabi helping hawks be open to the more avian side of him, he imprints on him and dabi becomes mate in hawks mind, IN TURN hawks showing dabi that even the most shittiest of origins, you can still do good, hawks knowing full well that quirks sucks (molting season, talon clipping, wing care, the overstimulation of senses like sounds hawks has become numb to) and he coaxs that little burning fire thats still in dabi, that he can still do good (dabi said that killing innocent people drove him mad in a negative way so he doesnt enjoy it) two broken souls from quirk discrimination finding solace even with all the shit hero AND villain society treat them. this leads to, along with those above, hurt comfort, slow burn, mutual healing, mutual pining, sunshine x grump, girlboss and malewife, overly affectionate x touch adverse, old married couple, sacrifices too much x sacrifices too little, romantic virgin x romantic confident, annoyed x annoying, gets into fights x patches them up, OBLIVIOUSNESS TO THE MAX, idiots in love, domestic husbands ETC ETC (and the more kinky spicy aspects when it comes to bird genes and a fire quirk)

what makes them even JUCIER is if you make the commission EVIL. EXACTLY WHAT DABI HATES AND DESPISES. another common trope is to make hawks be lowkey abused by the commission hence the whole child soldier thing but hawks has been living with then his whole life so its like, fine for him. dabi being his savior, dabi showing him the league can be his true family, dabi, a villain, being hawkss hero. hawks, who would get his hands dirty just for the sake of justice, shows dabi true heroes are still alive. hawks being an avian mutant adds to the juice because if it was just hawks with fierce wings well you could paint it as just the child soldier BUT WITH THE HETEROMORPH youve got commission being absolute JERKS and forcing hawks to mask his avian-ness, forced to endure people touching his wings left and right, forced to not perch, forced to have them preen his feathers in the way that society views as "perfect," clipping his talons, making him live in a boring ass apartment because "hawks heroes dont care about sentiments, you have to be presentable and collecting 'shiny things' isnt herolike," the league being the EPITOME of quirk freedom, hawks finding solace in the league because hes actually able to be himself and being a heteromorph isnt SHOULDNT be bad, dabi being able to polish his old big brother instincts and take care of hawks nurse him back to help and free him from his bird cage.

SPEAKING OF BIRD CAGES, another beautiful fanon interpretation is DABI HIMSELF BEING A PART OF THE LEAGUE BEFORE HIS REBIRTH. OW. youve got friends to lovers and all the fluff that comes with it (as much as it is being in the commission) dabi and hawks growing up together in the commission only for endeavor to pull dabi out and hawks loses his one true best friend :[ dabi and hawks not knowing how to socialize with other kids but between dabis temper yet caringness and hawks being shy yet a determined bastard, they click LOVINGLY. they bond over shitty fathers (hawks not knowing the extent to his idol OR you can change it up and have hawks despise endeavor secretly but the commission knows hes adored endeavor so he has to suck up the urge to MAIM and KILL the flaming bag of shit because at the time endeavor aint "changing" and he acts EXACTLY like hawkss birth father.) hawks imprinting on dabi his first real friend, taking care of each other through the commissions pains and abuse, sacrificing themselves in order for the other to not be punished. MAJOR ANGST WHEN IT COMES TO DABIS DEATH and hawks loses his spark and throws himself into training to distract the howling pain of his bird side and instincts as he lost a flock member (and potential mate), ONLY TO FIND DABI ALIVE YEARS LATER. the angst of reconciliation to see your love turn yo the darkest sides (dabi being a villain and hawks being a hero both of who they respectively hate) the angst of dabi knowing that without him the commission successfully brainwashed hawks to the point of betrayal on their side and hawks knowing his old beloved is now on the side in which he has to take down and kill (his old beloved truely did die if this is the path dabi went to) THE FRIENDS TO LOVERS TO STRANGERS TO ENEMIES AND BACK TO LOVERS. IM GONE O-(-( ORZ. youve successfully wounded me.

the amount of aus/canon divergent situations you can put these two from those three things TOGETHER or SEPARATE/SOLO, soulmates, quirk accident, princess carry, found family, exes to lovers, role reversal, fantasy au, royal au, cyberpunk au, dystopian, apocalypse, sickfic, honeypot turned non sexual intimacy, highschool au, civilians au, quirk swap, body swap, arranged marriage, actual genuine married couple, kindergarten au, amnesia fics, time travel, time travel fix it fics, space au, star wars au, pirates and mermaids, and the wonderful beautiful amount of crack/crack treated seriously is UDGODLY. hawks pranking endeavor, the lov and hawks playing video games, trophy wife dabi, watching disney movies, coming out at the worse times, "HAWKS/DABI WDYM YOUR FUCKING A VILLAIN/HERO," one or more of the todorokis (minus endeavor) being in the league and dabi hating it but hawks loves it (adores shouto, loves and is terrified of fuyumi, gets along w natsuo, DABI YOUR MOM IS A FALLEN ANGEL), dabis mom being in the league and is a better mom in canon and dabis like what the shit or this is my mom fuckers touch her and your burnt and hawks is like but what about affectionate touching (hugs, headbumps etc), hawks learning to build a pillow fort and experience actual good childhoos activities, dabi walking in on hawks (and maybe spinner and toga) indulging in his avian-ness for the first time, dabi cooking for hawks, hawkss nesting habits, gift giving

am i autistic about dabihawks or am i AUTISTIC about DABIHAWKS

if you read this hold this (jesus /AFFECTIONATE I WROTE A LOT.) thank you and hoping to convert you :D

ANON you fucking FEASTED WITH THIS ONE OH MY GOD!!!! You delivered on your promise and brought over the whole damn MEAL!!

(I love the essay thank you so so much for taking time to pour out your thoughts on this ship!!! Ngl I don’t give Dabi enough credit as a character and maybe this ship is one way to kinda explore that and dammit if I am not more intrigued by them than anything else)

[gintrinsic-writing]

CW: alcoholism, reference to noncon 

--

It isn’t a problem for the first three weeks. Their journey takes them through bustling towns and backwater villages with drink aplenty, and on the nights when civilization lays too far beyond the horizon, Warriors has his flask. He copes, as he has always coped. Self-medication turns him into a poet, lets him see depthless gold in the amber swirl of cheap brandy. He chases relief and tells himself that the liquid burn is in truth a gentle warmth he well-deserves.

Early into the fourth week, when the sky still slumbers under a black and star-filled blanket, Warriors is chased awake by a familiar nightmare. He sits up with a gasp, blinking away the afterimages of silk sheets, a four-poster bed, and sparks of magic designed to hurt. His skin is too warm, too close, too tight; he feels a creature trapped by its own body.

Pet, his mind supplies in Cia’s voice, and he clenches his fists to keep from biting his knuckles. Scars decorate his skin where he has given in before. That’s unbecoming, my beauty, my pet. Don’t do it again. Your body belongs to me, and I want it whole.

“Fuck,” he whispers hauntedly. “Fuck. Fuck.”

Warriors swears he can still feel her touch, swears he wears brands in the shape of Cia’s fingers. Despite how low it rests, the neckline of his shirt feels like a collar. He almost takes it off. Sleep won’t return. Not when horror lies in wait behind his eyelids.

Trembling, Warriors reaches for his bag, ignoring the strange, uncomfortable flutter of his heart. His flask is tellingly light. He uncaps it, stares into its dry mouth, then tips it back against his lips anyway—the only kiss he can tolerate these days. The memory of brandy is not enough.

Despair curdles his blood like a sickness. How many days has it been since he ran out? Just two? He’s never had to worry about this before; vices were easy to come by in the army, and much easier to ignore. He holds his flask in both hands and tells himself he’s fine, he’ll be fine. It’s all fine.

Of course, he isn’t lucky enough for any of this to go unnoticed.

“Wars?” Four whispers. His eyes seem to reflect the moonlight, though his face is wreathed in shadow. He looks like he’s been awake for a while. “What’s wrong?”

Warriors shakes his head, waving one hand dismissively; with the other, he tries to subtly put the flask aside. “Nothing,” he whispers back. “Good night.”

Before he can lie back down—before he can fake sleep while praying for the dawn—Four shifts closer. “You’re out, huh?” He presses his lips together, fiddling with the end of his hood. “How bad is it?”

The lie comes naturally. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think you do.”

Warriors tenses, feeling his expression close off even more than usual. He offers Four the same cold-eyed stare he’s used to face traitors. “Mind your own business.”

Four scratches his fingers through the shadow at his side, digging through moss and white clover. “I’m not trying to pry—”

“Then don’t.”

“—but this could affect the rest of us. It’s a dangerous addiction. If you want to talk—”

“Four, respectfully, fuck off. I’m only here because I was forced to be. I’m not your friend, and I’m not your project. As soon as this quest is over, I’m gone.” To war, he thinks bitterly, to fresh nightmares, to home.

Four has the nerve to look hurt. The worry in his voice sets Warriors’ teeth on edge. “It doesn’t have to be like that. We don’t even know how long this quest might take. And besides…” He glances toward the others and sighs. “Our spirits are connected, right? We’ve never been less alone. I think it’ll be good for us.”

Warriors doesn’t bother hiding his disdain. “Spare me your naivete. It’s a quest across the ages, with nine destined heroes. We’re being set up for tragedy, mark my words.”

“Tragedy?” Four frowns, then shoots the flask another quick glance. “I don’t think you mean that. You should—”

“Enough,” Warriors cuts in sharply. Legend rolls over in his sleep, and Wind mumbles something incoherent before snoring lightly. “Enough,” he says again in a whisper. “Go to bed.” Without waiting for an answer, he lies down and turns his back on Four.

For a long minute, Four doesn’t say or do anything. Then, with a huffy little sigh, he lies down as well.

The rest of the night passes slowly. Nausea and shakiness settle beneath Warriors’ skin like thorns. When sunlight finally peaks over the horizon, he pretends not to notice either, just as he pretends not to remember the way Cia used to call his name. He rises from his bedroll with a sense of purpose, if not a sense of faith.

Hopefully, they will find a town today.  

[veronicathegoddess]

friday the 13th

the sun had set, only small glints of pink and gold remained in the darkening sky and her pulse was pounding as she raced to escape the forest. her time was almost up.

she pushed herself, lungs burning and muscles aching to run faster. the trees seemed the same no matter how much she ran. imposing and dark. their branches tearing at her clothes and leaving thin bleeding cuts on her arm, the leaves tangling in her hair, giving her an almost feral appearance.

she had long given up trying to keep quiet, she needed to escape before it got darker. it wasn't the smartest move really, each twig snapping under her feet gave away her location. each pant and cry she let out, letting him to know just how close he was to her.

"don't let him catch me. please don't let him catch me." she chanted under her breath over and over as you ran, praying and hoping for a miracle.

suddenly she heard a thud.

"fuck." she cursed and pushed herself to run faster. she knew the sound of his boots by now. they'd been haunting her all day. letting her know that no matter how much you ran he was always near, that she couldn't escape him but she would. she would escape. she heard the thud again and she knew he was getting closer. even if she couldn't see him

her heart was beating in her ears as she pushed herself further and harder. the last remnants of the sunlight had disappeared and it was getting harder to see.

"you're still running bunny? i thought you would've given up by now."

she bit her tongue, fighting the urge to respond.

"oh no response. i bet you're focusing all of that energy on running but you're too weak bunny. you'll never escape." his tone was mocking now, almost baiting and she could hear the smirk painted on his face.

she could see the edge of the forest now, illuminated by the moonlight. if she just kept going, she'd make it. she pushed just a little more, she'd be free. she'd win. ignoring the aches all over her body and the

"aww is the little bunny getting her freedom. maybe you weren't so weak and pathetic after all little bunny."

that was it.

"f-fuck you." she wheezed out between pants before freezing. she'd just given herself away. as if on cue, he came bounding out of the thicket of trees behind her.

"gotcha bunny."

she started running again, his mountainous form pursuing her. he was gaining quickly but she was almost there. just one more inch and she'd be—

he slammed into her legs, throwing her to the ground and knocking the wind out of her. ignoring the throbbing pain in her head, she jerked her knee up into the hockey mask covering his face. it wasn't enough hurt him, but enough to stun him into letting her legs go.

she scrambled to her feet and ran to the nearest tree and started to climb.

"you fucking bitch. you're gonna regret that."

she could hear him approaching and tried to clamber onto the nearest branch but she wasn't fast enough. he wrapped gloved his arms around her, pulled her off the tree and started walking back into the forest. she jerked and struggled in his arms but he was too strong, so she did the one thing she hadn't tried yet.

she screamed.

he clamped his hand over her mouth, "if i were you bunny, i wouldn't do that." the sound of his voice just enraged her more and she struggled even more. he removed his arm from her mouth and reached into his back pocket, pulling out a hunting knife, glinting in the moonlight.

she gasped, fear glimmering in her eyes.

he pressed the blade against her neck "you try to fight again bunny, i'll slit your fucking throat and bury you in these woods. am i understood?"

she nodded frantically.

"use your fucking words."

"i understand."

"now say you'll do whatever i want."

she hesitated. that wasn't a promise she was willing to make. who knows what he had in store for her.

he pressed the knife deeper into her neck "say it." his voice was impatient now.

"no."

"no." he echoed incredulously

"no." she asserted. he might've captured her but she wasn't going to play his sick little game.

"oh bunny, you should not have said that." she felt a sharp pain at her neck but before she could even register what happened, he'd flipped her around to face him and shoved her onto the ground.

he knelt beside her "you look so pretty when you bleed bunny."

she touched her neck and looked at her fingers. they were red. the pain she'd felt before was him cutting her. she looked up at him in horror and he laughed, straddling her.

"you see bunny. i was planning on taking it easy on you. take you to my cabin, treat you nicely but you had just had to be a fucking bitch so now i'm gonna treat you like one."

"noo. please let me go. please." she pleaded, hoping she could stop whatever he was going to do to her.

he harshly backhanded her face, "shut the fuck up."

she tried to fight the tears welling up in her eyes but she couldn't. his face was obscured behind the hockey mask but she suspected that he was enjoying making her cry.

"first order of business, let's shut that pretty mouth up." he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a roll of duct tape. he tore off a strip with his hand and reached towards her.

she thrashed violently "no ple-"

her sentence was cut off by the tape being placed over her mouth. he patted her cheek affectionately, "there, you look so much better when you're quiet."

she couldn't say anything behind the tape so she resorted to glaring at him.

he ignored her and searched in the bushes around her, pulling out a length of rope. "now let's make sure my little bunny can't escape."

looping and knotting one end of the rope, he put it around her wrists and tightened, then he got up and tied the other end around a tree, forcing her to raise her arms above her head.

he straddled her again “now let’s get rid of this dress.” he cut the straps with the knife and then he slowly tore the dress in half, admiring her body the entire time. “fuck you have such pretty tits baby.” he leaned it and took one in his mouth, sucking her nipple. she was disgusted, this couldn’t be happening to her. it wasn’t. but it was real. she naked and tied up in the forest, completely at his mercy.

he bit her nipple softly before letting it go. “as nice as that was, that’s not what i want.” he picked up his knife and instantly her heart started beating faster. he trailed the knife down her body, raising goosebumps on her skin. when he reached her cunt, he gently ran his knife through her slit. he pulled the knife away and the tip of it was covered in wetness.

he laughed “you’re wet from this? i should’ve known that a slut like you would be enjoying this.” she shook her head frantically.

“you’re not wet baby?” she nodded despite her anger. hearing him call her baby made her skin crawl. it was so intimate and familiar and he was a stranger, using her, about to force himself on her, she couldn’t even see his face and yet he was calling her baby.

his hand cracked against her skin, the sound echoing and forcing tears to spring again. “don’t fucking lie to me bunny, are you wet?” 

she nodded and he stroked the cheek he just slapped “good girl.”

he lowered the knife to her cunt again “i wonder” he started “how much of this blade i can shove up that tight little cunt of yours.” 

she froze.

he wouldn’t right? he wouldn’t try to shove that knife inside her.

“i know what you’re thinking and i would darling. i’d shove it all inside of you and fuck you with it until you bleed out.”

she started to cry again.

“you’re lucky it would be a shame to destroy this cunt before i use it bunny but who knows what’ll happen later.” 

she was relieved. sure he was still going to rape her but at least he wasn’t shoving a knife inside her.

he took off his gloves and ran two of his fingers through her slit before pushing them inside her. her body tensed at the intrusion, “oh fuck, this is really happening.” she thought.

“it’ll be easier if you relax bunny. i don’t want to hurt you more than necessary.”

she forced her body to relax. maybe if she pretended that she wants it, it’ll be better.

“good girl.” against her will, her cunt clenched around his fingers. 

“oh, you like it when i praise you huh bunny.” laughing, he started fucking her with his fingers. it was hard and rough and she was actually...enjoying it? “no, you can’t enjoy this.” she chided herself. what kind of person enjoys being forced?

but as he slid a third finger in and started finger fucking her faster, she found it harder to resist. her breaking point was when he curled his fingers inside her and pressed against her g-spot. despite everything inside her saying not to, she moaned. the sound was muffled through the tape but the look he gave her proved he knew what it was.

he picked up his pace, his fingers practically slamming in and out of her and she could feel herself getting close. her legs were shaking uncontrollably and she knew she wouldn’t be able to hold it. but she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of cumming for him.

“my little bunny is close isn’t she?”

she blushed and nodded. he leaned and took the tape off her mouth “say it bunny.”

“i wanna cum.” she given up on pretending that she wasn’t enjoying this. if this was happening she was going to have as much pleasure as possible.

“who do you wanna cum for bunny?” his voice was teasing as he felt her cunt clenching around his fingers.

she frowned, “fix your face baby and say it.” his tone was commanding and she didn’t want to risk getting cut again or losing her orgasm so 

“you. i wanna cum for you.”

he didn’t respond, instead he plunged his fingers into her faster and faster.

“fuck, m’gonna cum” she choked out.

as soon as she got the words out, he pulled his fingers out of her.

she glared at him. the bastard had lied to her, “you told me i could cum.”

“i never said you could cum.” he laughed derisively, “you assumed that you could because your needy cunt wanted to”

when she thought about it, she realized that it was true, he hadn't so as much as she wanted to argue, she couldn’t.

“don’t worry bunny, you’ll get to cum on my cock.”

the realization that he was actually going to fuck her hit hard and all her previous thoughts of enjoying this fled from her head.

looking down at her pretty face painted in fear made him even harder. there was nothing he loved more than seeing a pretty girl be absolutely terrified of him. he stood up and pulled off his pants. his hard cock strained against the fabric of his boxers.

it was then that she decided that this wasn't going to happen so as he moved closer to her, she started kicking her legs out wildly.

“you silly bunny, every time i think i can be nice to you, you have to go and fuck it up.” he grabbed her face. she’d been so busy focusing on how angry he sounded that she didn’t notice he was walking towards her.

“i’m sorry.” she whimpered out. maybe he would accept it and decide not to hurt her. 

“oh bunny, you’re not sorry but soon you will be.” 

he raised his mask slightly while squeezing her face until her mouth was open and spat in it. “swallow it bitch.” she pushed away all of her feelings of repulsion and swallowed it. he slapped her hard across the face “oh so now you listen huh?” he slapped her once more “do you know what i do to little girls who piss me off?” without waiting for a response, he slapped her again and continued, “i fuck them up. i ruin every last one of them.” he cracked his hand against her face, “you try any tricks again bunny” he sneered the word “i will hurt you in ways you’ve never even imagined and then i will fucking kill you. am i understood?”

“y-yes.” she was petrified. no one had ever spoken to her like that before and she was terrified that she was going to die at his hands but also...a little turned on. she’d always been attracted to strong, controlling men and him putting her in her place had been extremely attractive.

“good.”

she watched as he took his cock out of his boxers and stroked himself, spreading precum around his tip. her mouth watered a little. he had such a nice cock: thick, veiny and big enough to hurt her. "fucking hell, how's that's going to fit inside of me?" she thought.

he spread her legs and wasted no time running the tip of his cock through her wet folds before pushing it inside her. she moaned softly, it felt so good already.

“fuckkk. take it like the fucking slut you are.” he whispered as he slammed his full length into her, hard enough to make her gasp but not enough to make her scream. he starts thrusting into her slowly. he wrapped his hand around her throat and squeezes making her moan. loud. “look at you, taking my cock like a good little bitch and you were acting like you didn’t want it.

she shakes her head and he starts thrusting harder “you’re not my bitch baby?”

she shakes her head again.

“well if you’re not my bitch then i don’t have to make you cum then.” he says, smirking behind his mask, knowing he’s got her right where wants her. he knows that she’s desperate to cum because she didn’t earlier and he’s gonna make her earn it.

“no, wanna cum.” she wheezed out softly, her face contorting into an adorable little pout. 

“then say it, say you’re my good bitch and i’l make you cum as much as time as you want.” he picked up the pace, his thrusts getting harder, almost punishing and his hand gets tighter around her throat.

she refuses to play this game, she’s not going to give him the satisfaction. she doesn’t even need to cum that much. she’ll show him.

but as she feels herself getting close, it’s harder to resist the voice saying just do what he wants.

“i know you’re close baby.” she frowned wondering how he knew.

he removed his hand from her neck and uses it to rub her clit. she tries her hardest to bite back her moans but it’s almost impossible, trying not to cum is impossible. her whimpers and moans echo around the forest “m’gonna cum.”

“say it.”

“no.”

he simply laughed and starts pounding you harder. the feeling is too much and she’s on the verge of crying from how good it feels. she tries to push his hand away from your clit.

“don’t test my patience.” he growled, slapping her clit. the action combined with his thrusts bring her right to edge and just as she’s about to cum...he stops.

“whyyy, i was so close.” she whined before bursting into frustrated tears.

he gives no answer but instead he starts fucking her again almost brutally, quickly bringing her to the edge once more. her tears fall even faster, pleas for him to just let her cum spilling from her lips.

she’s desperate and so close to caving and he knows it.

“say it bunny. tell me that you’re my bitch.”

“fuckkk.”

“just say it and you’ll get what you want.”

fuck it. she’s in this deep already, she might as well.

“i’m your bitch.”

“again.” he rubs her clit faster.

“i’m your bitch.”

“one more time bunny.”

“i’m your bitch. i’m your good little bitch.” she screamed out. he thrusts into her one more time and that sends her over the edge.

“fuckkk m’cumming.” the feeling is so intense and burns through her entire body before everything goes black.

“fuck baby are you okay?” she blinked a couple times before opening her eyes.

“what happened?” 

“you passed out for like a minute.” by now, he’s taken off his mask and she can see the worry written on his face.

“i’m okay, i promise. we can keep going.” 

he leaned over her head to untie her hands. she rubbed her wrists, wincing slightly. “we will but first we’re gonna take this inside and take care of you” 

“good idea, the ground is pretty uncomfortable. and i still need to make you cum.”

with a laugh, he pulls out of her and stands up, offering a hand to her. she takes it and he pulls her to her feet.

“can you walk bunny?” he joked. “oh stop it with that bunny thing” she laughed before leaning into kiss him softly.

“happy friday the thirteenth baby.”

“happy friday the thirteenth.”

as they walk towards the cabin, he turns to her with a smile “so what are we doing next year?”

[andypantsx3]

defiant | bakugou/reader

pairing: Bakugou Katsuki / Reader

status: complete

length: 4,485 words

summary: There are a lot of benefits to managing your pro hero boyfriend, but dealing with the PR nightmares he generates is not one of them. After Katsuki gets way too mouthy with a hapless reporter, you take it upon yourself to put him in his place.

Katsuki, however, has other ideas.

tags/warnings: smut, arguing, possessive sex, light bondage, aged up characters, reader attempts to dom bakugou (keyword: attempts)

notes: This is based several years after the events of my fic savvy though you do not need to have read it to enjoy this one!! This is also unedited because I am too lazy, my apologies for the various mistakes within. I will come back and fix them at some point. Dedicated to @bobawithpomegranate​ for reminding me I was supposed to be working on this.

It was a Friday afternoon at approximately three p.m. when Bakugou Katsuki lost his fucking mind.

You knew this information because you had been watching the press coverage of your boyfriend’s latest fight, an operation in which he and Kirishima Eijirou had paired up to defeat a villain with an earthquake quirk.

Katsuki and Kirishima had taken the man down in record time, mere minutes after the reporters showed up. You’d watched them pound the villain into the very street he’d ripped up in the first place, and now Kirishima was puttering around in the background of the news coverage, smiling as he chatted up civilians against the wreckage of the city street behind him. Which left Katsuki to saunter over to the gaggle of field reporters and give the customary interview.

His blonde hair was disheveled, and his mouth was quirked up into a sharp smile, the way it always was after he’d just come out of a good fight. But he looked otherwise unharmed, just as intense and savagely handsome as always. He even looked like he might be in a good mood, pleased with the results of his fight, and you thought he might actually keep the swearing to a minimum this time.

He ducked under the police tape, flaxen hair glinting gold under the afternoon sun, and stalked over to the nearest reporter, already opening his mouth to crow over his latest victory.

Which is when something off screen caught his attention.

There was a muffled question from one of the reporters--not from the network you were watching or the mic would have caught it--and Katsuki’s scarlet gaze cut to the side. You watched in horror as his expression slowly morphed into one of apoplectic rage.

“You fucking piece of shit,” Katsuki snarled, eyes narrowing, an explosion already crackling between his fingers.

The camera jerked to the side, catching the startled expression of another reporter. He looked vaguely familiar to you--tall, handsome in a bland kind of way, teeth bleached for his job as a television personality. You thought you might have met him briefly at the last Hero’s Gala, but you didn’t have time to linger on the memory--Katsuki was already on the move, fighting his way through the pack of reporters, looking ready to commit a murder.

“--think you can just fucking talk to me, asshole?” you heard him shout.

“What did he say?” a voice murmured off screen.

“--he just asked Dynamight how he feels about his success today,” another voice uttered, closer to the camera, sounding bewildered and more than a little alarmed.

“You’re gonna wish you had never fucking been born, asswipe!” Katsuki shouted over them.

He’d nearly reached the reporter when there was a blur of red and Kirishima was there, one bulky arm seizing Katsuki around the middle. He hauled Katsuki out of the sea of journalists, even as Katsuki struggled, spitting and snarling like a wet cat.

“You fucking try that shit again and I’ll fucking blow your teeth straight into your brain!” Katsuki hollered, drowning out whatever Kirishima was muttering to him.

Your phone screen lit up next to you, several notifications pinging simultaneously. You let out a gusty sigh, glancing down at the contact names. News outlets, looking to scoop their competitors by getting the first statement from the Dynamight Agency on Katsuki’s behavior.

You swiped over a screen and dialed the number for the PR department, watching Katsuki continue to rage on screen, struggling against Kirishima’s hold. The crags in Kirishima’s skin told you he was close to going Unbreakable, and the sight sent a hot bolt of irritation through you.

You had no idea what the hell Katsuki thought he was doing, launching himself at a reporter like that. A reporter who had apparently done nothing but ask him how he felt about the success of his fight, a question Katsuki--the smug fuck--typically reveled in answering.

It had been a long time since Katsuki’s last PR disaster (tackling pro hero Deku over the side of a buffet table after an innocuous comment at one of their first Hero’s Galas), and you’d gotten him to promise you to be more careful after that. You’d honestly thought he’d pretty much moved past that sort of thing now. He’d grown somewhat calmer with age--though not less foul mouthed--and as his girlfriend, you were able to exert some level of influence over his actions, as each year, your understanding of how to play him grew deeper and deeper.

So what the fuck he thought he was doing right now was absolutely beyond you. And also absolutely not appreciated, as you had much better things to be doing than cleaning up after him for a shit fit that he definitely could have controlled.

If there was something bothering him, you were going to make him tell you. And if he was up to his old tricks, maybe he needed a refresher on exactly why it was inappropriate to go off like a bomb at every little thing.

As Katsuki’s primary PR rep picked up on the other end of the line, already speaking to you in a brisk tone, you resolved yourself to the task. You were going to get to the bottom of whatever had sent Katsuki into a fit--and you were going to remind him how and why to behave himself.

Whether he wanted to or not.

The trickiest part of your plan was catching Katsuki off guard.

That kind of a feat was nearly impossible, as Katsuki had reflexes honed by years of experience, an alarmingly keen intellect, and a single-minded determination that was frankly terrifying to contemplate. It had been years since he’d been outmaneuvered by anyone in the field, and the odds were against anyone who thought they could get the jump on him.

Luckily for you, you knew that his single-mindedness was the one thing that could also be used against him.

You left the agency slightly earlier than normal, shooting off a message to Katsuki to let him know you’d meet him at home. And then you yanked open your proverbial bag of tricks.

You helped yourself to a long shower, lathering on some of Katsuki’s body wash instead of your own, a trick that--you’d learned after once running out of your own--sent him into something like a possessive frenzy, knowing you smelled like him, that anyone you encountered would know you’d helped yourself to a man’s personal effects and understand that you were already spoken for.

Then you rustled around in your drawers for a nicer pair of lingerie--not anything super fancy that would suggest you were up to anything special, but nice enough that Katsuki’s interest would be piqued.

And then you dug around in the closet for the most essential element of your plan--handcuffs. Your face warmed with the memory of the last time these had been used--a blur of rough palms and sharp teeth all over you, while you all but sobbed for more--but you frantically quashed the thought. Tonight, if all went according to plan, you wouldn’t be the one strapped helpless to the headboard.

You weren’t the one with a lesson to be learned, after all.

The scrape of keys in the door sent you dashing to hide the handcuffs underneath your pillow, and then the stomp of boots in the hall told you your boyfriend had made it inside. You hastily yanked a sweater and jeans over your lingerie, then went out to meet Katsuki in the kitchen.

He clearly hadn’t had time to change after his fight, still slightly disheveled, blonde hair mussed and scarlet eyes sharp as they narrowed in on you. His handsome features were twisted into a suspicious expression.

“The fuck’re you up to, ditching early? Thought I was gonna get fucking screamed at when I made it back to your office,” Katsuki growled, watching you intently as he stripped off his gloves and boots. They hit the ground with a dull thud.

Your heart shot into your throat, but you pasted on your best placid expression. “I ditched because I didn’t feel like dealing with every outlet in the entire country blowing up my office line. Thought I could get more done here where it’s quieter.”

You didn’t mention exactly what you planned to get done here, hoping Katsuki would assume it was all PR and damage control.

In a way, it was damage control. Just...not via traditional methods, exactly.

Katsuki’s eyes tracked you closely. He still looked skeptical. “You gonna let me have it then, princess?”

Oh you were gonna let him have it, alright. He just had no idea.

You watched him for a while, pretending to contemplate unloading on him the way you wanted to. “Just...not now. I’m too tired, I don’t even want to deal with it.”

He scoffed. “Bullshit. You live for giving me shit. Fucking out with it.”

You glared at him. “I don’t think you’re in any position to be giving me orders. And if I was gonna say anything before I’m certainly not now. Now go clean yourself up. I have work to finish, thanks to someone.”

You retreated back into the bedroom, smothering a grin.

Nothing got Katsuki jumped up like defiance. Years into your relationship, he knew on some level that he wasn’t actually in charge of you, but he still got just as worked up when you got mouthy with him as he had on day one. It wouldn’t be long until he came back in, trying to pick the same fight, altogether too interested in the attitude you’d give back to him.

He was such a boy.

You lounged around on the bed, pulling out your work laptop and firing off a couple emails while you waited, just for something to do. Katsuki’s PR rep seemed to have things well in hand, but you helped where you could.

Soon enough, Katsuki was stalking back into your room, hair dark from a shower, looking like he hadn’t even bothered to dry off before stomping back in. He wore only a dark pair of sweatpants, the hard planes of his chest on full display--you suspected he’d foregone a shirt on purpose, knowing how the sight of him usually distracted you.

Which it still did, somewhat, but you were too heady with your own plan to truly be diverted.

You smothered a laugh at the way Katsuki’s eyes immediately honed in on the lace of your bra strap, strategically peeking out of your sweater as you had arranged it.

Two could play at that game.

“Think you’re real fucking smooth, don’t you, princess?” he demanded, stalking over to loom over you in a vaguely threatening manner. You caught the clean scent of his body wash, just a hint of his syrupy sweet quirk under that.

Your thoughts fogged a little with his proximity so you pretended to ignore him, typing out some nonsense notes into your calendar for something to keep your attention off of him. The less you looked at him, the easier this would be. You were weak to his appearance, it was true, and nothing riled him up like not having your full attention.

“I don’t know what you’re on about,” you said vaguely, doing your best to sound distracted.

A rough palm shoved your laptop closed. “Oh I think you fucking do, princess. Think you’re gonna get all dressed up for me and then ignore me?”

You looked up into his face, just as his arms came down around you to cage you against the mattress. A thick spike of arousal jolted through you, but you pushed it down. Much as you were into this, he was not going to be in charge for much longer.

“And if I did?” you asked, victory surging through your veins at the dark look that entered his eye.

He leaned down, putting his face near to yours. “Gonna be real hard to ignore me when I’m fucking you so hard you’ll feel me for weeks.”

“You’re awfully confident for someone on such thin ice,” you breathed. You didn’t even have to pretend at being affected by his choice of words, your stomach fluttering with anticipation.

Katsuki wasted no time covering your mouth with his. The weight of him pressed you back into the mattress, your laptop tumbling to the floor with a loud clatter. Rough hands trailed up your sides, gathering up the fabric of your sweater and pulling it over your head.

Carefully, you eased him over, kissing him as hard as you could, so that you were the one on top, your knees braced on either side of his slim hips.

Katsuki swore, pressing you down on him with a rough palm on your back, evidence of his interest hard between your thighs.

And that’s when you struck. Using his momentary distraction, you pulled the handcuffs from beneath your pillow, weaving them through the headboard. You grabbed his hands as firmly as you dared, pressing them up over his head.

Katsuki noticed what you were doing the second before the handcuffs snapped shut over his wrists.

“The fuck you think you’re doing, nerd?” he demanded, flexing against the tight hold. You watched with interest as his bicep pulled with the effort. “Unlock these or you’re in for it.”

You sat back on his hips, smirking down at him the way he usually did at you. Triumph swelled in your gut like a symphony.

“No, you’re in for it, Katsuki. What the absolute fuck did you think you were doing today?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. “You think I was just gonna let you get away with throwing a tantrum on national television for no discernable reason?”

“That’s none of your business,” he ground out. A bright spark lit up the skin of his palm, a sharp crackle slicing into the silence of your room. “Now unlock these while I’m still asking nicely.”

You trailed absent fingers down the warm skin of his abdomen, watching appreciatively as the muscle tightened under your touch. Katsuki hissed out a sharp breath.

He might be threatening, but he ran the risk of blowing off his own hands if he resorted to using his quirk right now. You didn’t think he’d chance his own skin just to get out of this situation.

“I’m your manager and your girlfriend--it’s one hundred percent my business. You’re not getting out of those until you tell me what the hell you thought you were doing,” you promised darkly. You let your nails scrape over the skin of his hip, just under the band of his sweatpants.

You felt his hips shift in interest.

“You’re really asking for it, huh, princess?” he said, his voice rough. “I’m not gonna be gentle with you when I get out of this.”

“Keep avoiding the question and you’ll never get out of this,” you said. You let yourself lean over him, reveling in his minute intake of breath as you pressed a kiss over his neck. “You want something, I’ll give it to you. But only if you tell me why you did it.”

“It’s between me and that fucking slimeball and that’s all you need to know,” Katsuki snarled.

You let your teeth scrape over his skin, the way he usually did with you. “Not good enough,” you said.

Katsuki’s hips shifted again as you pressed back harder onto him. You felt your own abdomen coil tight with hot excitement at the unconscious little circles he was making. But you couldn’t be distracted--you had a mission to accomplish.

“Mind your damn business you fucking nerd,” he growled, defiant to the last.

Well, you hadn’t thought this was going to be easy.

“You are my business,” you informed him tritely. “And if you ever want me to take care of your business again, you’re going to tell me exactly what is going on.”

“Fuck,” he said instead. “You’re so hot when you get mouthy.”

“Not the answer I was looking for,” you told him. You shoved down the hot flush that tried to rise through you at his admission. Even years later, you were weak to his praise and he knew it.

He bucked a little under you, like he was unable to help himself. “Let me touch you, princess.”

“Still not an answer,” you intoned. You held very still, careful not to squirm like he was making you want to, even as his thrusts grew more deliberate.

If he would just hurry the fuck up and give you an answer, you both could be getting what you wanted. But everything had to be a production with him, as usual.

He was lucky he was so hot, and so charming on the rare occasion when he wanted to be, because he really was a piece of fucking work. You deserved some kind of sainthood for your service to him.

You slid forward on his chest a little when he gave a particularly strong thrust, bracing your hands over his sternum, and the abrupt show of strength had you clenching your thighs unthinkingly around him.

Katsuki’s mouth twisted in a savage grin, like he knew exactly how he was affecting you. “This is your last warning, princess. Let me out or you’re fucking in for it.”

You frantically schooled your features back into some form of haughty disregard, reaching down into your nightstand for the keys. You twirled them absently around your fingers.

“I don’t think you understand what kind of position you’re in,” you said firmly. “The only way you’re getting what you want is if you tell me what kind of stick that reporter stuck up your ass. Or maybe he didn’t, and you’re just being a fucking brat. Either way, you’re not in charge here--I am, and you are the one who’s in for it.”

No sooner had the words left your mouth, however, than the tang of hot metal met your nose. Katsuki’s savage smile was bordering on feral now. You looked up in alarm to see that above his head, he’d worked his palms over to press to each opposite wrist, but he wasn’t blowing through the cuffs like you’d known he couldn’t. Instead, he was melting them.

You swore, scrambling off of him. You threw yourself off the edge of the bed, racing for the door like the devil himself was behind you.

You weren’t fast enough.

The world upended, the white of your ceiling paint swirling up over your vision. The next thing you knew, you were thrown flat on your back in your bedding, bouncing a little from the impact against your mattress.

Katsuki braced himself over you, hands firm around your wrists, eyes alight with the challenge.

“You were saying, princess?” he asked smugly.

You wiggled underneath him, trying to work a leg underneath his hip to kick him off you the way you’d learned in self-defense. Katsuki just shifted into the cradle of your hips, huffing out a rough laugh.

“I fucking taught you that move, nerd. Think you’re gonna get me with it?”

His hips pressed forward, his body a hot line all along yours, and you suppressed a groan at the feel of him hard against your core.

“That’s right, princess,” Katsuki breathed, pressing his face into your shoulder to bite at your throat. “Now I’m going to remind you who’s in charge here, and you are going to be good for me and take every single thing that I give you.”

He gathered your wrists in one hand, reaching down with long fingers to work off your jeans.

You shivered in delight at the thought of his dark promises, but some other, more stubborn part of you resisted. You had a fucking job to do, and no way was he going to reroute you so he could get out of talking about things.

“You’re not giving me shit until you tell me exactly why you tried to blast some innocent reporter into the sun,” you said hotly.

Katsuki paid you no mind, too focused on pulling your jeans off over your ankle, so you leaned in and bit his shoulder.

“The fuck--?” he demanded, reeling back.

“I’m serious, Katsuki,” you said, irritation rising. “You tell me what is going on this second or it’s just you and your hand for the next month. I’m not fucking around.”

“He’s not some innocent reporter, he’s a piece of shit,” Katsuki said. His fingers worked at the clasp to your bra, like he thought that was enough of an answer.

“And you know this how?” you asked, trying to shift to crush his fingers underneath your shoulder.

He glared at you for a long moment, red eyes hot on your face, looking like he was strongly considering just abandoning the conversation altogether and stalking off to blow something up instead.

“I know,” he finally ground out, looking like every word cost him, “because I overheard him in the men’s room at the last Hero’s Gala.”

So you did know the reporter from the Hero’s Gala. A dim memory came to you of shaking his hand, leaning over to get Katsuki’s attention to get him an answer to some question he’d asked. You were fuzzy on the details, as you’d had other things to worry about that night--the Hero’s Gala had ended with Katsuki in some kind of mood with Kirishima, the arm of Kiri’s suit burnt off, and Katsuki had refused to say more on things. They’d patched things up almost immediately after so you hadn’t pried, but now you wondered if there wasn’t more to the story--more including this reporter.

“Overheard him what?” you asked.

Katsuki’s fingers resumed their questing, releasing the back of your bra with the ease of constant practice. You let him, considering he was still giving you answers.

“Overheard him fucking talking about you,” Katsuki growled, his fingers digging into your waist, his touch turning more possessive.

You froze. “What?”

“Saying the nastiest shit about how you looked in your dress, what he’d like to do with you if you didn’t already belong to me,” Katsuki said, sounding disgusted. “Wanted to incinerate him but fucking Kiri got in the way. Told me I’d lose my license if I attacked a civilian and he took me to court.”

“Which you would,” you pointed out, your tone going breathier than you wanted when Katsuki slid his fingers up to pluck at your nipple. “That--um--that was still the case today, too. What did you think you were doing?”

“Didn’t think,” he grunted, palming your breast. He didn’t look like he was thinking a lot now either, eyes turning on your chest with that single-minded focus he was famous for. “I just saw him and saw red.”

You were starting to see colors too--white, mainly, as Katsuki released your wrist to trail his other hand over your panties with obvious intention.

“Oh, um. Well I’m glad you didn’t kill him and have to lose your license,” you said, your breath hitching when Katsuki found his way into your underwear. “I’m gonna--have to--ah--thank Eijirou.”

“You belong to me,” Katsuki announced imperiously, leaning back in to bite at your throat again.

You couldn’t bring yourself to be annoyed with him, now. Instead, his words relit some fuse within you, your arousal sparking back to life behind your navel.

Katsuki’s fingers curled within you and you couldn’t hold back a pleased little noise, shifting your hips to allow him better access.

That was all the affirmation he needed. In mere minutes, he was working you up to the edge of your pleasure, fingers hot and skilled and exactly right inside you. He trailed soft bites and hot kisses all over your neck and shoulders, looking supremely satisfied with himself every time you caught sight of his face. His thumb worked tiny, maddening circles over your clit, just like he knew drove you fucking insane, and he had you writhing and squirming underneath him embarrassingly fast.

Soon, he was hitching your leg over a broad shoulder, sinking into you right where you wanted him.

“That’s right, princess. You’re mine. Gonna fuck you so good you’ll never forget it,” he promised, already working up to a brutal pace that left you short of breath.

Your vision swam as he ground into you. He leaned down to catch a nipple in his mouth, sucking softly, in sharp contrast to the wicked thrust of his hips.

“Look at you,” Katsuki said around your breast, scarlet gaze burning into yours. “Spread out and trembling. Look so fucking good for me, only for me.”

“Katsuki--ah!” you barely managed the syllables of his name.

“So fucking hot when you think you’re in control. So fucking mouthy--” his fingers brushed over your mouth “--I’m gonna fuck you so stupid you can’t even string together a sentence anymore.”

You rather thought he’d already achieved that, considering you could barely manage anything other than single syllable words now--nothing but there and more and please and oh!

Katsuki gave a particularly hard thrust, snarling your name--and your climax hit you like a truck.

You cried out, writhing, and his hands came up to hold you down against the mattress, still fucking into you hard like he meant to fuck the sense right out of you. He fucked you straight through your orgasm, and only when you were gasping from the aftershocks, shivering and near tears, did he follow you, flooding your insides with warm heat.

“That shut you right up, didn’t it, princess?” he said smugly as he rolled off of you, leaving another love bite over your shoulder on his way.

You groaned. It had been fucked up but kind of romantic that he’d attempted to murder a guy for you, but he was really killing the mood now.

“Is there anything that would shut you right up?” you replied, still catching your breath.

Unexpectedly, a smirk twisted your boyfriend’s mouth, and his hand trailed carefully down your thigh.

“There is, princess. Too bad it sounds like you can still string together a sentence,” he said, watching you intently.

You stared at him, wondering where he was going with this.

Until he moved, shifting backwards until his chin met your thigh, still watching you intently with those scarlet eyes.

“I can think of something that would fix both of those problems,” he said, his voice rough even as his hands came up to gently pry your thighs apart. “Now you have thirty seconds to call out of work tomorrow before I finish punishing you for that little show earlier.”

Your breath caught in your lungs again. You didn’t waste precious time defying him.

This time, you obeyed.

Deleted scene: What did Deku say to Bakugou that got him tackled over a buffet table at the Hero’s Gala?

[bontenten]

Ours

Pairing: Osamu x f!reader, Atsumu x f!reader

Tags/Warnings: noncon, infidelity, pregnancy/forced abortion, knife stuff, gore, body horror, snuff, wound, necro-stuff, abuse, yandere, angst

Osamu stares at your pregnant belly; a round barrier that’s keeping you away from him. He knows you don’t even want it. Otherwise why would you come crying to his onigiri shop crying tonight. It’s obviously because you tried to go to a clinic, but who in their right mind would try to abort the baby of famous athlete Miya Atsumu? 

Atsumu gagged them all with money, tied their hands together with even more promises. There’s nothing for you to do but stay put and birth the child. It took everything for you to find a time with no bodyguards to slip away. If it weren’t for the excuse that you wanted to shop for baby clothes, Atsumu would never have allowed you to even step foot outside the house.

“Please help me,” you sob, taking a step closer to the one who looks almost identical to your fiance. “There’s no one else but you.”

You look pathetic, makeup smudged and messy. Osamu smugly looks down at you. “Only now you finally realize?” He grips your jaw and forces you to look at him, fingers squeezing your cheeks and making your lips pucker. “I told you before, didn’t I? Atsumu’s a crazy bastard, but I would take care of you. All he wants is to use you as a breeding cow, his little cocksleeve. That’s all you’ll ever be to him. Shallow, gold-digging bitch, you reap what you sow.”

“Shh-shhamoo, ‘Samu” you slur between your teeth, “shorrry.” Sorry. You regret it now. You probably shouldn’t have turned Osamu down in the first place for Atsumu. Maybe you really were blinded by Atsumu’s reputation and prestige...and his money. He could give you what Osamu could not at the time and the simple life working tirelessly, saving and making ends meet wasn’t how you wanted to live. But really, you shouldn’t have ever gotten yourself involved with the twins.

“Sorry? SORRY?! You say?” Slap. Osamu yanks you back up with a fistful of your hair. “You hurt me. I loved you and gave you my heart, but you...you broke me. And now you’re just going to sweep it all under the rug with ‘sorry’?”

“Sorry, I really am ‘Samu,” you sob, wincing from the sharp pain shooting through your scalp. “I’m not asking for forgiveness. Please help me, I’m begging you. I know only you can save me now.”

The tight grip on your hair relents and Osamu wipes the messy trail of smudged makeup from beneath your eye. He smiles almost gently, “That’s right, only I can protect you. Stupid, took you too long.”

Osamu’s kisses are deceptively soft. Another reason you left Osamu for Atsumu is also this. Osamu made you feel like you were dangled over deep waters with no safety net. You couldn’t tell what was on his mind, he hid his thoughts much better than Atsumu. Atsumu was more straightforward and that gave you security. But right now, only Osamu can give you safety and protection. Even though you know it’s not right, the time and the person, you can’t help but respond back

Your hands thread through his grey locks as bodies come closer until Osamu feels your pregnancy pressed against him. He pulls away abruptly and stares. You follow his eyes to your belly and the unmistakable growing biology within it beyond the skin and flesh.

“You want to get rid of it, right?” Osamu mutters, palming the protrusion.

“Yes...but—” 

“Shut up,” he snaps, stalking to the kitchen quickly. You find him back a moment later with a knife in his hand, sharpened tip pointed at you. “You asked me to help, I’m going to help you.”

“What are you doing?” you ask hesitantly, unsure and frightened. With the blade pointed at your throat you have no choice but to back up as Osamu comes closer to you. You feel the edge of the table at your hip, another step and your stumble, falling back onto the table surface. 

Osamu loosens the tie on his apron and stands between your legs, forcing them apart. You hear some buckling noises and strain your head to see his length fully erect. His hands travel to your waist to pull your skirt and panties down. Your hand stops him in their tracks. Your widened eyes are alarmed at what Osamu really wants.

“Not this! Please, not this ‘Samu,” you argue, trying to pull his hand away from tearing the clothing from you.

Osamu deftly slices the knife across the back of your hand, drawing out a thin line of red. The pain has your hand flinching away, letting Osamu pull the skirt down, exposing the naked skin of your belly, and pussy folds below it. “Gonna fuck this bastard out of you,” he mutters, stuffing himself into your hole.

You scream, legs kicking out wildly as you feel the thick intrusion sheath itself into you fully. You can feel the tip pushing through your tight muscles, getting closer and closer to your womb.

“Fuck,” Osamu groans. “If I didn’t see your pregnant belly, I would’ve thought you were a little virgin. You’re so fucking tight.”

“No! Please I’m begging you, stop!”

“You begged me to help you get rid of the little bastard.” He hammers into you even harder, assaulting your cervix, the one that’s plugged like a gate.

At some point, your wails are lost when the cries become increasingly lewd. You can’t help the moans that slip out of your mouth each time Osamu pushes into you. Each draw and thrust sends waves of pleasure throughout your whole body. The bliss is almost enough for you to forget that you didn’t have your current burden, the pregnancy, that fetus. It’s kinda a pathetic state for you, being fucked on a table of the restaurant belonging to your fiance’s twin? And enjoying it?

This thing within you...if only it weren’t Atsumu’s but Osamu’s instead. It was a mistake all along.

The pain comes swift and overwhelming, an agonizing hell when you register the three inches of blade buried above your pubic bone, carving its way horizontally across. Your flesh parts like gauze, the skin splitting open sideways, the yellow paddings of your fat and the red that floods over. 

Osamu pulls out the knife as he buries himself deeply into you, shooting his seed into the sealed-off womb. Your body shudders as the pain signals run havoc in your brain and the orgasm washes through beyond the pain. Your head tosses from side to side as empty screams fall from your throat. Shock takes over your body as more and more blood comes pouring out from your womb along with the fountain of amniotic fluids.

Osamu isn’t so much as bothered by the amount of red and clear pooling behind you and dripping onto the wood floor. He sticks his finger through the laceration and fingers through your guts, pushing the intestine aside until he finds the tear in the womb.

“Found it!” Osamu delightfully shoves his hand in, grabbing at the mass of dividing flesh and umbilical cord sustaining it. The mound is more difficult to remove than Osamu thinks, he tugs and tugs. It takes the muscles of his whole arm, the same ones carrying rice bags daily, to successfully detach placenta stuck to your womb.

The blood spurts in a flood, filling your belly cavity, painting Osamu’s shirt crimson. Your blood splatters across his legs and drips down his cock.

Osamu has never seen a full placenta like this in its glory. He has heard of people who have cooked it before. It’s the nature of a chef to be intrigued by ingredients of a rare and bizarre nature. But not today.

He drops the mounds on the floor, worse than food scraps. He clambers to the top of the table, knees straddling your body.

“I did it,” he tells your open yet empty eyes, looking for his thank you.  He reaches his stained hand and caresses your faded cheek, smearing red across your skin. “I got it out for you.” He kisses your cold lips. 

You don’t respond.

“‘Tsumu and I are genetically identical,” he tells your body. “You know what that means? That means the same cell that created that, I have it too.There’s no difference in biology, between his and mine.”

Osamu's hand wraps around his cock and pumps the length, the slick of blood squelching around him.

“But you didn’t want his version, huh? You wanted mine right? “ He chuckles and positions his cock against the gaping hole where your womb begins to deflate.

Your residual warmth still wraps around him, the yellow fats squishy and soft. Osamu wraps your gash around him, thrusting straight into your womb. 

“Could’ve been with me, could’ve been...ours.”

Each thrust propels your body back and forth, tugged along his movements like an empty doll that's chewed and clawed broken. Fallen apart by seams, insides spilling out, completely drained. Only to be filled with Osamu’s seed, that you’ll never have a chance to foster.

[chryzure-archive]

like any other fate would

ALT TITLE: this anniversary surprise fucking sucks, jacks.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: i have been working on the aftermath of this fic, but my brain was about to melt out of my ears last night, so. we’ll see if i ever finish it! 

———

Jacks wondered if something was broken inside of him. Being back among the Fates made him feel like he’d been altered, distorted so that he couldn’t fit back into their games and amusements. Once, he’d been one to come up with his own torments and he’d introduced them to the courts of the same cruel, immortal beings as he was. He’d been the one to play the game of cards. He’d been the one to make mortals weep over his feet until he blessed them with a deadly kiss. He’d been the one to laugh with all the other Fates as all the mortals scrambled to entertain them, for fear of dying otherwise.

They’d die anyway, but that’s what made them mortal—the need to believe that they could escape, no matter how slim the chances.

Once, he’d taken just as much pleasure in this as all the others did.

Now, his skin crawled as he took in the ballroom’s diversions. Jester Mad tugged mortals this way and that on his invisible strings, and Jacks studied their broken forms for a shock of blonde hair beside a girl with broken glasses. Priestess, Priestess maintained court with a crowd of crying people, each spilling secrets before they shattered under her curse, and Jacks tried to see if he recognized a flash of chestnut hair cut through with winter-white. The Apothic wandered around with his contraptions and locked them onto various people unfortunate enough to be passing by at the moment of his fancy, and Jacks kept track of all of those that had pink hair and twin buns pulled high.

So far, none of the Fates’ victims took on familiar forms, but Jacks still found himself tense in sick fascination. Perhaps he’d go so far as to define it as dread.

He tried to put on a mask that hid his beating heart. He feared he didn’t look convincing.

Sauntering around the room, he felt himself grow more and more agitated, until he tasted blood in his mouth and every sound had to filter through the pounding of his heart in his ears.

He shouldn’t have come.

Unbidden, Chrysi’s voice came to him: Act like any other Fate, Jacky. What’s so hard about that?

He didn’t deign to answer her, not even in his own head.

Her last bit of advice, before she’d disappeared for the last two weeks. Jacks didn’t like to admit it, but he needed Chrysi to be with him. He wouldn’t lie and say that he was a necessity in her life, but she was in his.

And she’d simply replied by placing him on the sidelines before she swept off in her enigmatic way, off to whatever passing case had caught her interest.

Though, Jacks remembered with a sick feeling in his chest, her eyes had glittered more gold than red before she’d left, and there was something brittle in her smile before she kissed him goodbye.

He should’ve pressed harder when he’d asked what she would be doing. He should’ve figured out why she looked like she was about to shatter into a million pieces when she lingered over his mouth.

Now he waited in agony, pretending to be like any other Fate, hoping Chrysi hadn’t gotten herself into too much trouble in the meantime.

Jacks brushed past a trio of statues, frozen with cups at their lips and tears carved into their intricate faces. Poison, he noted dully, still used the same tricks as he always did. Nothing new.

His traitorous heart still squeezed in horror.

Yes, something had broken inside of him. Somehow he’d become more human than Fate.

“I see our Prince of Hearts has arrived,” a voice said, smooth and haughty, cutting through the din with ease.

Jacks swallowed down a guilty flinch, as if he had anything to be guilty about in the first place. Perhaps he did—perhaps his beating heart and horrific humanness was some crime he committed, something he’d have to hide like a child after breaking a vase.

Instead, he pasted an indolent look on his face and turned to face the Undead Queen with a smooth twist that contradicted the tension raging through his body.

In the midst of this depravity, she looked radiant. Cold light filtered overhead from skylights thrown open to moonlight, glinting off her bejeweled eyepatch. Her dress was black, sleek, and hemmed with the same jewels decorating her eyepatch. Her hair flowed over her shoulders like black waterfalls, misting in the light. Her trademarked blue mouth twisted in contempt—though Jacks wasn’t quite sure that contempt was for him, in particular. The Undead Queen just happened to always look disgusted by anything and everything not suited to her more… macabre preferences.

“And what can I do for my Undead Queen?” he inquired, smirking. His fingers twitched by his side, instinctively grabbing for an apple he did not have.

Jacks cursed himself silently. He’d allowed himself to go out without any of his props, without his Fate-persona smokescreen. At some point, he feared his performance would falter and he’d have no tricks and mirrors to hide the humanity peering through the cracks in his armor.

The Undead Queen smiled a blue-lipsticked smile, one that he could’ve defined as beautiful if not for the deadness in her remaining eye and the grimace lurking at the edges of her mouth. Her eyepatch glittered in the light.

“Quick to escape, are we, Jacks?”

A breath of terror made the little hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He hitched his smirk higher and dared approach her with a slow saunter. Again, his fingers twitched over a nonexistent apple, and again, he cursed himself.

Why hadn’t he bothered to grab a damn apple? Anything to occupy his fingers, anything to toss around—but mostly, he wished to take a bite from it to ease the gnawing itch of addiction.

He stopped a step away from the Undead Queen, and lowering his voice to a caress, he said, “Does this look like I wish to escape, my Queen?”

He did. He wanted to bolt away. Being this close to her made his skin crawl.

She peered up at him, her one eye narrowed. Jacks wasn’t sure how to interpret that look.

“It’s so hard to tell with you, Prince of Hearts,” she murmured back, her voice just as low and wicked as Jacks’s. “Why, not so long ago, you used to be the one throwing these parties. Then one wrong move, and suddenly you no longer wish to take part in them.”

He opened his mouth to reply, but cut himself off when a flicker of movement caught his eye.

A tall man, in a black cloak that obscured his face, stalking around the edges of the ballroom. He moved like a panther, smoothly cutting through swishing skirts and sobbing mortals without any flicker of unease.

Daeshim.

A frown threatened to pull the corners of Jacks’s mouth down. It took all his willpower to keep his smirk up.

Why was the Assassin deigning to visit this party? He would’ve thought he would do everything in his—quite sizable—power to avoid getting dragged into the Undead Queen’s bidding. Jacks himself felt he should’ve taken a page out of Daeshim’s book and done the same before she’d caught a glimpse of him.

That unbalanced feeling worsened.

Thump, thump, thump, right there, in his chest. He wondered if it was loud enough for all of them to hear.

Jacks set his jaw.

Right. He couldn’t afford to worry over Daeshim’s presence when he was already in his own predicament.

With great reluctance, he dragged his gaze back to the Undead Queen’s. In the interim, she had dared to shift closer to him.

Upkeeping his smile was growing more difficult by the second. Jacks hadn’t anticipated that particular little snag in his plan.

“No matter,” she said, as if he’d answered after all. She smiled that smile that should’ve been beautiful again, but it was edged like a silvered knife. “This should be a cause of celebration, after all this time of not seeing you.” She held out an elegant hand for him to take, thin ribbons adorned with tiny sparkling jewels tied from her elegant cuffs on her wrists to her rings on her fingers. “Come. I have an engaging diversion planned and you happened to wander by just in time for it to start.”

That annoying, beating thing in his chest twisted. He did not take her proffered hand.

He raised a brow, hoping that he looked intrigued. “Oh?”

She did not leave her hand outstretched for long, and whichever way she took his insistence to avoid her, she didn’t let it show on her face. All that remained was her nasty smirk.

Jacks wished Chrysi hadn’t given him the instruction to act like any other Fate.

“Come along,” she commanded, as the Undead Queen always would, and she delved into the deadly sparkle and mist of the Fated Ball without awaiting Jacks’s answer.

Jacks ground his teeth and his palms protested from the way his nails dug into them.

Fucking saints. How much longer did he have to keep this charade up, until he could return home and pray that Chrysi had sent him a letter in the time he’d been gone?

All these damned balls were stressful to an exponential degree now that Jacks cared about those around him. Sometimes he wished he didn’t have to worry about having feelings.

He cast another glance over the ballroom, trying to find the Assassin amongst the din once more.

The familiar black cloak caught his eye, just like it did before. But before Jacks could further wonder why the Assassin had come, another familiar figure caught up to the Assassin.

She was much shorter than the Assassin, coming up to his shoulder—though even Jacks himself fell short of the Assassin—and she, too, wore a cloak of discretion. Her dark hair bounced freely along her shoulders, save for the pink bangs framing her face.

He froze. Narrowed his eyes.

Was he seeing this wrong? There was glitter falling like snowflakes, mist from saints-knew-where, and a haze that was wholly Fated in its regard. Jacks couldn’t trust his eyes across that distance.

But she glanced over the room, an anxious twist to her mouth obvious even from this distance, and there was no room for debate.

Jacks swore.

Emery Solstice.

What the hell was she doing with Daeshim?

Chrysi was going to kill Jacks for allowing that to happen.

“Prince of Hearts!” the Undead Queen called, a snap to her voice.

He swore again, much more vehemently.

What was he supposed to do if that was Emery? He imagined himself a powerful Fate, but to attempt to track down the Assassin and stop… whatever the devil he was doing? No, Jacks didn’t think he could hold his own.

“Jacks.”

The Undead Queen’s humor sharpened into a blade with his continued ignorance.

“Fucking saints.”

He tore himself from the roots trapping him and reluctantly trailed after her. Tension turned him brittle, until Jacks feared someone bumping into him would cause him to shatter on the spot.

Please don’t be Emery, he begged, though he didn’t know precisely whom to. It can’t be.

Just thinking about Emery dealing with Daeshim made Jacks dizzy. After all this time, he was protective of her. Chrysi and her changes she’d brought about him.

Saints, dirty goddamned saints.

He came to a stop to the side of a raised dais, atop which two thrones stood side-by-side. They were both gruesome statues in their own rights, with their intricate carvings of bodies heaped upon each other—some broken, some bloody, some entirely bones. A slow-moving shower of silvered confetti drifted about the thrones in a semicircle, angelic and horrible against the carved faces of agony.

In front of the dais, a shallow amphitheater hollowed the floor in a circle. A pile of sheets lay in the center of it. The silver confetti and dusting of glitter rested in the folds of the fabric.

Jacks narrowed his eyes at it.

No. Not a pile of sheets. He wasn’t in Chrysi’s home, watching her fold up her laundry. He was at a Fated Ball. There would never be quite as innocent explanation as bedsheets.

The sheets shifted, scaring loose a shimmer of glitter from its surface.

A grim smile flickered over his mouth.

His suspicions were correct. A person was underneath that. Like a magician covering a birdcage with their handkerchief, ready to tear it away in a reveal for a cheap magic trick.

He forced himself to look away—eyes jumping over the ballroom once more, trying his hardest to pinpoint Emery in his quick scan—and to look back to dais.

One of the thrones stood empty. In the other the Undead Queen lounged.

Well, thank the saints for small miracles. Jacks wouldn’t have to deal with the Murdered King.

“And what’s this?” Jacks asked lazily, indicating the shrouded figure with what he hoped looked like passing interest.

He couldn’t care in the slightest. His chest was too tight with the worry that it had been Emery he’d seen in the hands of the Assassin.

The Undead Queen flicked her fingers, not deigning to stand from her throne. She tossed her hair and the light caught, fractured, in her jeweled eyepatch.

“A new toy to play with,” she said in a voice that sounded like old perfume separated into alcohol and a breath of scent. She smiled, a blue slash across her lips. “One that’s very interesting indeed.”

He smiled indulgently. How obvious did it appear, his straining eyes? Perhaps he could lie and say a girl caught his eye—even though the thought of kissing anyone besides Chrysi now made his stomach churn.

Though he couldn’t care less, he feigned another appreciative glance to the poor soul tangled under the sheet. “How can a mortal be more interesting than another?” Imperiousness stained his tone in its practiced way. “Seems a bold statement to be made.”

Was it Emery? Jacks couldn’t fathom how the girl wound up in this ballroom in the first place. Chrysi would’ve found every way to keep her niece across the city, at the least. If she could spirit her across the country, even better.

“You’d be surprised,” the Undead Queen said slyly. Her eyepatch flashed like a drawn dagger when she turned to the shadow at her elbow. “Mistress Luck, would you say this particular prisoner is uniquely qualified?”

Jacks’s eyes stopped darting over the room. A stillness overtook him.

In his periphery, Mistress Luck glided forth. Her copper hair gleamed like the sun off freshly-spilled blood. A fringe of cards rested on the full bell of her skirt.

Stomach twisting into knots, he braced himself.

Mistress Luck rarely bothered to enjoy these parties. She had more fun in the rooms hidden just off the main ballroom, full of cards and gambling and chance. To see her here, to have her diamond eyes staring him down with unreadable words in them, didn’t spell out anything good.

He smiled at her anyway. He hoped it didn’t come off as a grimace.

“Well?” he asked with more humor than he felt. “Is it?”

She arched her brows. Her mouth didn’t so much as flicker—not a frown, not a smile, not a single hint. It felt like she was tearing him open and reading him like a book.

“I feel it’s an adequate prisoner,” she murmured. She folded her hands over her skirt, not a winkle in her dress nor a strand of hair out of place. The perfect beauty made her look severe. “One that suits your preferences.”

Jacks surprised himself with a single-note laugh, nervousness boiling over in high-pitched monotone.

Mistress Luck and the Undead Queen stared down at him, taken aback. Neither so much as blinked.

He wondered, absently, if he had been like that once. A beautiful, immortal statue—one that didn’t need to breathe or blink or feel emotions. Even if he had, he was now too far gone to even resemble immortal.

He forced his smile wider, so wide he felt it would crack him open, and scrambled to cover his nervousness with, “A helpless maiden off the street, then?”

“You aren’t the type to torment the helpless,” the Undead Queen observed coolly. She settled deeper into her throne, stroking the jagged edge of her eyepatch. The shadows shifted over her face, twisted it into the mask of a beautiful, terrible ghoul. “You prefer to destroy the proud.”

Heart pounding hard enough to knock against his vocal chords, he merely jutted his chin out in an approximation of a nod. He didn’t dare imagine the rictus his smile had become.

Emery. Following the Assassin. With the Assassin?

Damn it. What horrible timing.

Mistress Luck drifted away from the thrones. Her skirts whispered like cast dice over the marble floors. The cards on her dress rustled with hidden laughter, almost as if they were mocking him.

Her eyes gleamed in the moonlight and silver glitter, her mouth dispassionate. “Who cares what type of mortal is your favorite to torment? We have given you a gift. It is rude to not play with it.”

A taut line of tension anchored him to the floor through his heels. Jacks glanced at Mistress Luck from the corner of his eye.

He recognized that tone of voice.

He had avoided these parties for so long. They wanted him to prove himself once again. Or perhaps they both assumed he would want a grand present for being absent for this stretch of time—but, with another glance to Mistress Luck, Jacks couldn’t stop the foreboding from drowning him on the spot.

Doubtful.

Jacks allowed his smile to drop—already far too manic for it to be his Prince of Hearts smirk, and perhaps too nervous for him to keep his humanity secret—and he faced the shrouded figure with sweaty palms. He had to fight the urge to wipe his hands off on his pants.

“I would love to play with it,” he replied, lifting his chin in haughty delight.

His stomach twisted.

Saints. Chrysi would hate him for this.

Act like any other Fate. He wished she had not asked that of him.

But here and now, with other Fates watching his every move, he was backed into a corner.

Jacks sauntered forward, stepping into that hollowed platform like a gladiator into an arena. The weight of Mistress Luck’s and the Undead Queen’s gazes nearly crushed him.

He searched for the figure’s heart, already preparing for the least painful configurations he could inflict. Something convincing. Something that wouldn’t condemn his newly-revitalized heart:

The figure’s heart slipped from his fingertips like water. It had no definite form—at least not one that Jacks could latch onto—and it was almost invisible to him. Nothing he did could twist these heartstrings into what he desired.

The taste of blood filled his mouth, cloying his nostrils and making him dizzy.

His brow furrowed.

He tried again.

It eluded him, running through the gaps in his fingers like sand.

More coppery wrongness traced his lips.

“Who…” he tried to ask the Undead Queen, Mistress Luck, anybody, but it came out as a mumble instead. Lightheadedness swept over him.

No, that wouldn’t make sense—because she’d said she was off on a new lead, one that he couldn’t follow her on. And if she were here, she’d been throwing up a fuss, because that’s what she would do. That’s what she would always do.

It was impossible.

But if that was Emery with the Assassin…

Jacks had attempted a similar scheme before. The Dragna sisters and the Assassin, Donatella on his arm and under his control. Daeshim worked for no one and he’d work for anyone, if they got to him first. Emery Solstice was just as stubborn as her aunt. Though why she would need the Assassin’s help…

But—no.

Jacks wouldn’t believe it.

Yet when he reached for the figure’s heart again, the way it escaped his grasp was familiar.

“No…”

No, he didn’t want to believe it.

“What’s the problem, Prince of Hearts?” the Undead Queen called.

Mistress Luck said nothing. The weight of her eyes grew heavier upon him.

Jacks didn’t so much as glance at her. Ice crawled up his legs, freezing him in place, when really he just wanted to collapse and tear off that sheet so that this all would be a lie. Perhaps there was no heart beating underneath there after all. Perhaps this was a way for Mistress Luck and the Undead Queen and Poison and everyone to humiliate him, after he let his last consort kill Gavriel. Revenge for turning them all ageless.

He stared at the figure in the sheet, desperately trying to see if its shape was familiar to him. He couldn’t say it was. He couldn’t say it wasn’t.

The last couple steps he stumbled. At the last second, all the strength in his legs gave out and he crashed onto his knees in front of the shrouded figure.

It moved, shifting closer to him. Not a sound escaped the confines of the sheet.

His heart gave an ugly thump.

With shaking hands, he reached out. He didn’t know how he’d managed to gain the strength to grip the sheet, but he did, and he tore it off clumsily, unceremoniously.

Glitter and confetti flew off with it, choking and blinding him, landing on his tongue. It tasted like dust and bone and all manner of dead things.

Jacks nearly gagged.

And underneath it all, Chrysi sat, hands bound, silent and her heart vibrating against Jacks’s like a hummingbird in a cage.

Jacks cried out, unbidden—a wild cry, one he should’ve tried to stem, but he couldn’t possibly. “Princess!”

She peered back at him, agony paling the edges of her eyes to white-gold. So pale was she that she looked to be a ghost with her long ice-white hair and the circles burning black half-moons underneath her eyes. Her hair tangled in an unmanageable mass. Her dress was stained and torn and it was familiar to Jacks.

It was the dress she’d been wearing the last time he saw her.

No. No, no, no—she couldn’t have gotten further than his doorstep, then, on that night.

Still, she did not utter a word. Why didn’t she say anything?

Jacks’s blood ran cold.

Her mouth.

Hands trembling, he took her face in his hands, too scared to touch the blue thread sewing her lips together in a tight line, but too horrified to keep his eyes away from it. “No, no, no, Chryseis…”

Gold tears gilded her white eyelashes. Fury burned deep in her eyes.

“Do you like it?”

Jacks couldn’t bear to tear his eyes from her, but he took solace in her being in his hands. It was a poor substitute.

He whipped around to spear the Undead Queen with a terrible, helpless glare.

She smiled and it was ugly. “She wanted to play around and bring back the dead! She’s already halfway to becoming one of us—I figured I’d ease things along by making her one of my Handmaidens.”

Jacks growled even as the helpless feeling sank in deep, stinging at the cracks snaking through his heart.

Chrysi made a muffled noise through her sewn-shut lips, plaintive. Pleading with Jacks. Begging him to do… something.

He knew precisely what that something was, but he wouldn’t. He would never dare.

Eyes lowered, Jacks didn’t dare read the plea in her eyes. He willed himself into ignorance.

He couldn’t abandon her.

His heart ached behind his breastbone.

She was so quiet. Her heart, even this close to him, barely murmured to him. Whatever he could sense of her was weak, barely hanging on.

“Really, it’s a favor for the both of you,” the Undead Queen continued. She absently caressed one of the carved figures in her throne, forever frozen in a scream. “This way you can’t kill her with your kiss—and once she fully transitions to Fate, then that won’t matter anyway.”

His entire body hurt. He tightened his grip on Chrysi. Helplessly, he glanced over the ballroom, but their position in the center of that gladiatorial arena made it difficult for him to make out much more than the shape of fascinated viewers. All of their gazes slid away from him when he turned his desperate look upon them.

Please. Please, please, please. But again, Jacks didn’t know who he was pleading with.

His eyes snagged on Mistress Luck.

The cold in his veins froze to solid ice.

How could the Undead Queen have known about Chrysi’s significance to Jacks? How would she have known this torture would hurt Jacks too?

He hadn’t had the presence of mind to worry about these questions, but as he stared into his once-friend’s eyes, he knew precisely all the answers.

“Don’t…” he said, but it barely came out a whisper.

Mistress Luck didn’t bat an eye.

She instead lifted her chin, straightened to her full height. “Unless,” she murmured, “you never had to worry about your kiss killing her in the first place.”

Agony speared through him.

She wasn’t supposed to tell. She wasn’t supposed to betray him.

Chrysi’s hand slid over his, paper-dry and cold, her wrist twisted inward. Their pulse-points touched, and with it brought a wave of an amalgamation of terror and hatred and desperation that tasted like Chrysi’s mouth after she coughed up mottled blood.

Jacks shuddered.

Neither of them should have trusted Mistress Luck.

A rustle from the Undead Queen. “Pardon?”

No. Jacks didn’t want Chrysi discovered—not like this, not at all.

But the Undead Queen had been spurred from her seat. He didn’t need to look to know her fascination burned a blue flame in her eye.

He clutched Chrysi to him in a vain attempt to protect her.

A muffled cry of pain left her closed lips.

Tears burned in his eyes, but he dared not let them fall. He knew that if he did, they would be water and salt, and they would spell his doom.

The Undead Queen leered closer. Her presence was a cold draft, and despite their bodies pressed together, Jacks couldn’t get warm in the midst of it. Chrysi’s hands twined into his shirt.

She circled them like prey.

Jacks glared up at her, but this one had even less heat than before.

He felt so small and so very human.

A horrible grin twisted her lips, jagged like a cave mouth. “Your kiss doesn’t kill this girl?” she asked, incredulous amusement turning her voice into a tolling death knell.

Jacks didn’t answer. Chrysi’s nails dug into his skin.

That was answer enough.

The Undead Queen threw her head back. A laugh rattled through the room, louder than the music and the cries and the horror.

Chrysi pressed harder against Jacks, but he could offer her no comfort now. He didn’t know what to do and it made him sick.  

When her horrible laughter faded, the Undead Queen dropped her gaze back to them.

Jacks wished she looked like a monster. He wished her face was ugly and hewn from roots and rot. He wished her teeth were sharp and jagged. He wished she looked every inch of a ghoul.

But her eye had a vivid light of blue, her eyepatch immaculate and glittering, her skirts perfect and her hair dark and long and luxurious.

He despised how Fated cruelty became beauty when fitted in the only situations well-suited to them: terrible games gilded with mortal tears and blood.

He tried to scowl at her. His face twisted in anguish instead.

Chrysi made a noise in the base of her throat like a cat’s growl. She huddled closer to him.

“Have you truly found her?” she asked Jacks. She leaned close, too close, to Chrysi’s face, studying her like a particularly fascinating bug. Her smile hitched at what she saw. “You have! You’re his true love!”

She placed a hand over her chest in mock surprise, where her heart would’ve been if she possessed one. Jacks imagined it had been eaten out of her chest when she became a Fate. He despised her for it.

Her eye took a feverish gleam. “Do you know that you are a myth, my new Handmaiden?”

Chrysi’s teeth had been trapped inside her mouth with those horrible stitches, but Jacks knew she would’ve been snapping at the Undead Queen if she could’ve. She tightened her grasp on Jacks instead.

How helpless, the two of them. Jacks wanted to laugh despairingly.

Act like any other Fate.

He couldn’t. Not when he was so deeply in love with Chrysi.

“Get away,” he snarled.

The Undead Queen fixed him with her empty stare, all humor running from her face like water. It was disconcerting, how quickly her expression dropped.

“Don’t be so childish, Prince of Hearts.” Her voice was quiet, dangerous. “You do not want to spit in the hand that has gifted you such a prize.”

Oh, Jacks would very gladly spit in her hand. He would spit in the empty eye socket hiding behind that eyepatch if need be.

He tried to change tack, but his voice still had a threatening rumble when he said, “Let us go.”

The Undead Queen’s face looked to be made of marble. The only flicker of movement was her eye, studying Chrysi in his arms.

He hated the way she looked at Chrysi. With so much desire. With so much horrible promise.

Chrysi had gone very, very still in his arms, and his heart shattered for her. She was so much smaller than he remembered. She was so fragile. How could he have forgotten?

“I said that you should not be so childish, Prince of Hearts.” She loomed over them. Jacks hated himself for shrinking away. “Do you not recall? My Handmaidens have to do as I will.”

His heart shot up into his throat. All that came out was a croaking noise.

She didn’t bother to smile.

With an imperious lift to her head, she snapped her fingers at Chrysi. “Come.”

Chrysi’s nails dug into his shirt. She didn’t budge an inch.

The Undead Queen’s eyebrow arched. Her face stilled into an eerie lack of emotion.

“Jacks,” she said lowly, “it will not do if you try to fight me. Your control cannot overcome mine.”

He blinked up at her, uncomprehending.

Eye fixed on Chrysi like a hawk’s, the Undead Queen once again commanded her: “Come here, Handmaiden.”

The growl in Chrysi’s throat grew animal-like, a wild whine that foretold her white-hot fury. A golden tear streaked down the curve of her cheek.

She remained anchored to Jacks.

Oh.

The Undead Queen thought that Jacks had sway over Chrysi’s heart.

If the situation were any different, he would laugh. No, he could not control Chrysi—and he imagined the Undead Queen did not realize that she would have the same lack of control.

Snap.

Her patience ran dry.

With an ugly sneer, the Undead Queen snatched Chrysi by the hair and heaved her off of Jacks’s lap. She hit the ground with a crack! She didn’t move.

Horror shot through him. A scream built up in his throat, burning from his chest upwards, dizzying in its panic.

Then Chrysi moaned through her sewn lips. Her head lolled over the floor, too dazed to pick herself up.

His heart tore apart in his chest—split straight down the middle, bleeding for his princess.

She was not dead—not yet. But if the Undead Queen got as she wished, Jacks knew his Chrysi wouldn’t be alive in the right way for much longer.

“No!” Jacks leaped forward, hand outstretched.

Match strike. Crack.

Jacks’s vision blurred.

An airless half-second nearly made Jacks gag. A brush of a cloak against his back, cold as death. A breeze, tangling his hair across his eyes until his view of the world was obscured behind golden strands. A presence, moving past him, too quick to put a name to.

Hands fumbling, Jacks pushed his hair from his eyes.

The Assassin stood out like a black, devouring monolith in the middle of the silver-gilded ballroom. He was already an imposing figure when Jacks stood at his full height, but from his position sprawled on the floor, he looked positively monstrous.

He reached for Chrysi.

Another flutter of breeze dropped Jacks’s hair back into his eyes.

Match strike. Click.

Jacks cried out, his heart suddenly reaching for its companion fruitlessly. He crumpled forward and clutched at his chest.

He didn’t bother to look up. The gaping hole left behind by his princess and the outraged noise that twisted its ugly way from the Undead Queen confirmed Jacks’s suspicions.

The Assassin was gone, and with him, Chrysi.

Jacks wasn’t quite so sure that was a good thing.

“Prince of Hearts!” the Undead Queen snarled.

Her rage crackled in the air, surrounding him like a field of electricity. Soon it would crack and he would be killed by a bolt of lightning straight to the chest.

He looked up, tears filling his eyes unbidden. But when he saw the fury twisting the Undead Queen’s face into a mask of perfect immortal rage, he bestowed a jagged, spiteful sneer upon her.

“She’s not a Fate yet,” he spat. “Nor will she ever be.”

Her eye blazed the same blue as the fires of Hell.

Jacks cocked his head to the side. He didn’t feel his own movement over the pulse of blood in his body, roaring in his ears. “Don’t you get it? What a waste on your part.”

Match strike. Crack.

The Assassin was back. He brought a kernel of traitorous hope, nestled right in the crack in Jacks’s heart. 

The Undead Queen straightened, retreating back into her unnatural stillness. Her figure wisped in the moonlight.

“Then I shall kill her,” she replied flatly. Her eye hardened like a gemstone. “I will not have a disobedient Handmaiden.”

His heart hammered against his rib cage. Cold sweat trickled down his spine. His throat tightened.

Jacks was out of control of his body, and well in over his head with this situation.

A hand closed over his upper arm.

Quietly, behind him, Mistress Luck murmured, “You cannot run forever, Jacks.”

Match strike. Click.

The ballroom disappeared like smoke from a fire.

[kaijurakunsobs]

Seeds

remember guys! you can ask me to tag them on future updates

Summary: The idea of a soulmate is well known, they will come to you one day, either as a lover or a friend. A single bond made of invisible thread is what will let you feel their emotions, joys and worries, to experience their pain and for them to feel yours.

But beware, for not all blessed unions are meant to be, if you were to hate and push them away, a slow death shall consume them and a garden will bloom within their chest, the flowers will fight and push to feel the sun from the outside, a poetic dead of a broken lover. A beautiful dead for your hollow existence.

You know that your mother was never a good person, or so you have been told.

Miranda meet her when she came from the city to the village, four months pregnant and with the false story of being “sick”, her sickness? She decided to cheat on her rich husband and she wanted to have you away from prying eyes and possibly abandon you here. Your birth giver was upfront about how "Having a bastard could ruin my lifestyle!", Mother Miranda smiled sweetly and had Alcina give your mother refugee and help during the birth, the Lady agreed and housed the woman.

On the night of your birth, Alcina held you in her arms, begging Miranda to let her keep you, but she denied. You were hers and hers alone.

As for your mother? Only Miranda knows what happened to her, but you suspect, that her body is buried somewhere in the forest, alone and forgotten, you couldn’t care any less.

Miranda was the one to raise you, to love you, the one who would be there when you were sick, to kiss your tears away when nightmares woke you up. She was the one to break your body apart and scream in our face how much of a failure you were, just like Alcina or Donna or those pesky lycans running amok outside, but within your failure, she saw minimal success, you were quick to learn how to care for her experiments, which were the signs of cadou rejection and how to treat it, at least, you could be useful until she placed you in the mansion the villagers were building for you.

You have seen so many people been brought to the lab, so many lives being taken for a selfish reason, that you grew numb, there was no anger or pain, you felt no grief when the test subjects saw you and begged for help, you did nothing for there was nothing inside you.

You are surprised when Miranda begins to show interest in a kid, you know he was brought here years ago and somehow had managed to survive the horrors your mother put him through. Interest grew into an obsession and then into pride, hope, you will forever remember how hard Miranda screamed when her golden child came out a failure too, cursing at the skies and asking why? He had been so close to being her perfect little boy and he turned out to be yet another fuck up.

But she doesn’t throw him away, her favoritism shows when she moved him from the medical area into a room in her private chambers, never allowing you to go close to him, slapping you and kicking up a storm whenever she saw you too close to his door, even if you were passing by. But you never resent him, you can’t hate him or her, all you can do is nod and go away.

But curiosity is something hard to get rid of, and so you waited for days almost a month until Mother left to meet up with Alcina, using the moment to sneak into his room. A beautiful room, compared to yours, he had a big bed with a canopy, the thick curtains prevent you from seeing him, it feels like a fairy tale when you part the curtain to peer inside.

Truly like a fairy tale...a beautiful boy lays there, his golden hair is going gray, probably out of stress. He has a couple of scars on his face and some new ones on his arms. You feel like reaching inside and kiss him to break the spell, but it feels...wrong, like if you could tarnish him even further by touching him, like if your mother would appear and toss you aside for laying one of your dirty hands on his skin. No matter how bad you wish to be his Knight and save him, the terror you feel over defying Mother Miranda’s orders makes you stay still.

And then, it happened.

It began as an agonizing stab in your chest, it made you trip backwards painfully slamming your head against the wall, gasping for air when the pain as a needle began to pierce through you slowly making its way to your heart, a pitiful sob left your mouth, rendering you useless while your body overcomes the initial discomfort. It takes all of your willpower to get straight and look up at the ceiling through your tears, the light it's blinding and it leaves you dizzy, almost ready to empty your stomach.

Karl Heisenberg, age eleven, lays on his luxurious-looking bed, his entire body shakes painfully, breaking through his mouth, and the fever that's racking his body is the only thing keeping him from noticing that, his soulmate is standing a couple of steps away from his bed.

But how do you even know this?

Because Miranda told you about the concept of someone blindingly loving you for all eternity, who would be your other half and the missing piece to your broken existence, Dimitrescu once said that those stories were silly little fantasies, that love should be won over and one should prove to be the right person for someone else and not just have it “hand it over”.

You used to dream of the day you would feel the connection between yourself and another person, of being able to experience their joy when their eyes fell on you. But this is far from what you wanted, what you always wished for! All you can feel is pain, radiating from so many places in your body, rendering you useless, overwhelmed with anger, grief, sorrow for “yourself”.

Everything quickly piles up, so consumed by what Karl is feeling that you don’t hear the tray that falls and the porcelain plates that shatter, you vaguely register the sting of Miranda slapping you and the distant sound of her screams.

She drags you out of the room and into the cold world outside her home, across the heartless forest and you wonder...if you might end up like your mother, buried under some tree to be forgotten. But Miranda keeps walking until she throws you at the feet of Lady Dimitrescu, speaking to the tall woman and leaving you under her care, forever.

When you were younger, you used to fear the Lady. She was imposing and so strong, a self-made matriarch, but she's so careful when helping you up and guiding you through her beautiful home, her hands are so kind when she helps you to undress and sit in the tub filled with warm water, racking her fingers through your messy hair...so this is what a mother truly is like?

She only leaves you alone when she goes to fetch anything you could wear, looking displeased when she hands you a maid's uniform "We must send for the seamstress, I cannot have you wearing those shabby clothes" that, for some reason gets you to smile.

Later, her movements are soft as she runs a brush through your hair, the fire makes the wood crack and explode, filling the room with a nice warmth, something you never lacked off but that never truly permeated your body.

"Y/N, care to explain why mother Miranda was so angry, earlier?" you hear the concern in her voice, a bit of worry hidden in a stern tone.

Alcina can see you shrink a bit, as if ashamed of what you had done “I saw the kid mother keeps in her chambers” it comes out like a whisper, scared of Miranda appearing at that moment to slap you again “I think he’s my soul mate, Alcina!”

Lady Dimitrescu chuckles lightly and smiles when you turn around to look at her ”Your soul mate, some dirty man-thing? Oh my sweet girl I hope it isn’t real and you were just revolted by the sight of a man!”

“But I felt his pain and his emotions...it was scary, but maybe he will love me!”

“Just because you can feel what he feels, doesn’t mean everything will be alright. That’s why those romances are so volatile, darling! There’s no real reason for them to work beyond being stubborn and tell yourself that it will work out” the lady is classy and gracious in her movements as she poured herself another glass of wine “That the other person at the end of your bond will fall to their knees the moment they see you, but in reality, they might resent your sole existence and end up killing you!”

“Killing me?” that comes as a surprise, you have never heard of this.

“Yes...a cruel and unjust dead” Alcina brings you to her lap letting one of her hands spread over your small chest with a sorrowful look on her face “Your lungs will get infested with flowers, a bouquet of throe will bloom within your body, each day the garden will grow and fight to see the sun beyond your mouth and it will rob you of all air and kill you in no time”

She sees you wonder about it, a million questions that you wish to ask, everything falling apart when her curious daughters come into the room, moved by the rumors some maids had shared about their mother adopting another child. All too eager to know their new sister.

After that day, the topic is never brought up.

You grow and learn everything under Alcina’s guidance, the woman is hellbent on making a lady out of you. She teaches you how to read and write, about math and how to sing, applauding when you show her the gift the cadou in your stomach gave you, Midas' touch.

Her daughters and your self-appointed sisters, all laugh and joke around you, treat you like if you were another human when you are no different from their mother, another failed creation, a remainder that Miranda was cursed to not have what she wants. But the love of your little family drowns those thoughts, leaving the happiness of your existence in a nice home and the ever-presence of pain and resentment in the back of your head.

As you grow you notice, each cut and wound that leaves a scar on your skin turns to gold when made by you, but looks as pale lines when made by Heisenberg. You can’t help but laugh when the idea of being a piece of pottery repaired via kintsugi pops in your head, and for a moment you ask yourself if Heisenberg also has golden scars to match yours?

You cry the day when you finally leave the castle, trying hard to convey your love for your mother and sisters with hugs and kisses, in low whispers, promises of coming over as much as you can. The Lady kisses your forehead and sends you off with some final words of advice.

"Never lower your head and always do your best, remember you have us and we would never let you fall"

You are eighteen when you become the miracle worker of the village, crafting medicines with alchemy, signing at the church when the congregation asks you to, turning anything into gold with your touch, smiling with grace, and claiming to have been blessed with a precious gift by Mother Miranda to help the poor and keep the village off absolute agony. In the end, everything tastes like vile and ash, the forced smiles and the sweet tone of your voice make you gang behind the long veil that covers your face.

The days when you sing at the church, are the only ones when you can feel all his hatred directed at you, each painful stab making your eyes tear, yet you keep on making the people happy with hymns crafted before you were even born. If you could let him feel how similar your anger for Miranda is, perhaps the pain in your chest would dissipate, but you can't because you are hollow.

Among the villagers you are Lady Y/N L/N, the golden touch child, you are adored and blindly loved, Miranda smiles radiantly whenever she hears nothing but good words from her cattle, how much they dote on you, ready to serve without a thought, the eagerness to work under you. You may have been a failed vessel but you are a success as a flycatcher, bringing the sheep down to the slaughterhouse to be sent to the other Lords.

On meeting day, the pain and emotions that you feel seem to amplify the closer you are to Heisenberg.

As you sit beside your adoptive mother, your smaller hand in hers, while Mother Miranda speaks and praises each one of her children, lingering a bit too much on her golden child. The pressure in your chest grows, it feels like when you submerge in the tub as if your lungs were being crushed under an invisible force, ready to cough and gasp for air.

Across from you, he sits, posture closed and annoyed beyond belief when Miranda asks him to stay a bit longer after the meeting is done, you feel relief when Lady Dimitrescu gets up, opting to ignore Heisenberg in favor of bringing you back to the castle for your scheduled visit.

You two aren't even halfway through your journey back when you notice you are missing something, a small gift for today's reunion, a bag of fine jasmine tea.

"Mother, I need to get back. It seems I misplaced something, you go ahead!"

There's no time for Alcina to respond before you volt back to the church, the soft lace of your veil beautifully flying behind your hurried steps, slowly dropping your speed the closer you get to the entrance of the building, from it you can see Miranda, she as shed her mask off and is touching Heisenberg's face the way you have seen brides or wives touch their husbands' faces.

A pulse of repugnance and despise make you stumble back, pressing your back against the outer wall, it feels like the first time you met him, it's blinding and leaves you disoriented for a second, a hand flies up to your mouth when a wave of nausea hits you. He's not only pissed, he feels filthy and is suppressing a murderous intent behind a mask of indifference.

The sensation grows and grows until it's crushing you. One look up and you see him standing before you, a hand caging you between him and pillar.

"What are you doing here, freak? The tall bitch sent you to spy on me? tell her to fuck off" this isn't the first time you hear his voice, but it feels like it, even if his words are filled with malice, they taste like bitter wine for you.

"NO!...I mean...no, Lord Heisenberg. I came back because I lost something, a small bag"

"So you are afraid the dog stole from you, are you calling me a thief?" your mouth opens to explain to him once more, but the burly man only growls and steps away "Think whatever you want, I can't care any less for whatever the scum thinks of me"

Later, in the solitude of your home, you will call yourself an idiot, asking yourself why you reached for his empty hand when he turned around ready to leave, why you didn't revealed who you were, why you didn't cried when the man slammed your body against the wall.

"DON'T YOU DARE TO TOUCH ME, BITCH!" Heisenberg's tobacco infused breath hits your face, the painful stab of hatred felt like if your body were being torn apart "I CAN'T STAND PEOPLE LIKE YOU, YOU MAKE SICK!"

This time, when he turns around to leave, you don't reach out, you stay there, gasping for hair and coughing like if you were drowning, a slick sensation in your throat makes you gag and cough harder than before, both of your hands are cupped over your mouth, scared at the idea of throwing up.

Thank God you don't.

The moment passes and your body calms down, but your eyes grow wide when you see what made you gag.

A single yellow carnation petal covered in spit rests between your hands.

-----

Yelow Carnation: rejection and disdain

tag list: @happygalaxymilkshake @mightybeeb @kittyb2000

[systlinsideblog]

Part 6

There was a terrible disorientation, darkness, pressure, and then he was lying facedown on something soft. He flinched as a familiar weight thunked against the back of his thighs; his shield. His sword was still in hand; he was gripping it tightly, out of pure instinct.

Somewhere above him was movement, and the sound of a sword being half drawn, and then a gasp. He recognized the distinctive traits of all three; and decided to simply lie there a bit yet. He had a raging headache suddenly, and there was no danger he could think of that could possibly get through his wife to harm him.

“Foicatch!?” She sounded shocked. There was a soft thump as Ice hit the soft rugs beneath them, and then hands on him, on the back of his shoulders and on his cheek. “Beloved?”

“Fuck.” He said into the carpets. With some effort, he pulled himself up to his knees and took a look around, instinctively taking in his surroundings and the lay of the land.

A tent of some sort, on a wooden platform. A wagon, most likely, judging from the slight give and sway. A large camp, from the noises outside. The tent was rich; gold and jewels glittered in lamplight, and the pallet he was on was of rich, soft carpets and furs. He did not recognize any of it, but was again not surprised. Gods played games with his wife’s life, and wherever she was he knew in his bones that she’d soon rise to the top.

Quite suddenly, arms were around his neck, and Systlin was clinging to him in a bone-creaking embrace. He started, surprised; she was normally a reserved woman, but now she was acting as if she’d not seen him in weeks.

“Sys.” He said weakly. “Sys. Darling. What…”

“Is Senna all right?” She pulled back and stared at him, her eyes bright, desperate. “Is she all right?”

“Of course she is. You saw her half an hour ago.” Foicatch rubbed at his aching temples. “What the fuck was that?”

Her whole body seemed to relax, almost slumping with abject relief, and she pulled back a little, but left one hand on his knee. “For me,” she said. “It’s been three months.”

He blinked a couple of times. “What.”

“Three months.”

“How…”

“The Lady.” When he’d been a boy, he’d never dreamed that he’d ever hear someone make such a matter of fact sort of statement about the Lady, Mother of All. Let alone that he would be married to that person, and that such a statement would make utter sense. “We’re on a world called Gor.” A slight pause. “’Catch, love, you’ve no clue how happy I am to have you here. This place is a shithole.”

“It can’t be that bad.” He waved a hand around at the tent. “This seems nice.”

“I had to kill three thousand men to unfuck this one tribe.” She said bluntly. “And it’s still not really done; that was just lancing the boil. ’Catch, the men of this world are slavers. All of them, from what I can tell, or at least most. They keep women as sex toys.”

Foicatch stared at her for a solid minute or so, appalled.

“What.” He finally managed.

It took her half an hour to fill him in on the details. By the end, his headache was fading, but a second one was threatening on his heels. He’d gotten to his feet some time back, and he was incandescently furious and pacing the tent. (The Ubara’s tent. He felt a flash of pride, at that. Of course she was Ubara; queen by her own hand within a day. He’d expect nothing less of her, and marveled, again, that such a woman as her had chosen him.)

He stopped his pacing long enough to touch her face, to brush her plait back. “You said you killed three thousand that first night.”

“Yes.” She said. The word was a flat statement of fact.

“You must have used your power.”

“Yes.” Again, a statement of fact.

“Are you all right?” He asked it softly. She never admitted to anyone else save Sura the cost of her gift for Breaking, the strain it caused when used too much. But he knew, because she trusted him.

“I am.” She covered his hand with hers. “I told you once; it gets easier to restrain it, with practice. And I’ve had a lot of practice. And the women…” She looked off, at the tent flap. “They’re remarkable. All they’ve been through, and survived. Many are brilliant, and funny, and kind, and fierce. They’ve not let me stew alone.”

He nodded, relieved. Do not let her be alone, Sura had told him once. Sura, bright, brilliant Sura, who’d realized before anyone else living what Systlin was, that there’d come a Breaker strong enough to break even her curse to her will.

They stood there for a moment. She stepped into his arms, and leaned against his chest. He looped his arms around her waist, and let her take comfort as long as she needed it.

At last, he said “So you’ve been gone months, but it’s been but moments at home.”

“Thank the gods.” Systlin’s voice was muffled by his chest. “I’ve been so, so worried, about you and Senna.”

“It’s reasonable then to assume that however long we take here, little or no time will have passed at home.”

“Thank the gods.” She said again, fervent.

“Well.” He said. “We might as well make a proper job of it then. Why don’t you show me around, Ubara?”

   He was a very tall man, broad and muscular and strong, a fighting man in true. He wore a sword and shield with the air of a man long accustomed to their use. His eyes were green, and sharp. His hair fell to his shoulders, caught back in a leather tie. His beard was braided into a short plait bound in silver.

This is a proper man, I thought, but then to my horror I saw the glint of silver in his ear.

A man….a man, a fighting man! Had allowed his ear to be pierced! It was shameful, beyond shameful.

The she-sleen emerged from the wagon behind him. She said something, and he turned to listen. I realized that the ring in his ear was a twin to the silver one she wore, and in a flash realized that this was her mate, the one she’d claimed to be bonded to.

He laughed at something she said, and she grinned at him.

 I thought that I had seen the she-sleen fight, that day she had slain Kamchak, Ubar of the Tuchuks.

I had not. Not truly. I had realized, of course, that she had been toying with him, toying with a Tuchuk, known as the fiercest and cleverest of warriors. But I had not known, not really, what she was.

I stared as she sparred the man…her husband, it still was a thing of horror to think of bedding such a woman, but if there was a man to master such a woman then I could believe it of this man.

He was magnificent. It was hot; he had stripped to his waist, baring a marvelously formed body to the sun. There were scars here and there, showing that he was a fighting man and had won many battles. His eyes were fierce and keen, and he wielded that metal shield and his sword as easily and lightly as if they were wooden toys, muscles rippling under taut bronze skin. He was fast, as fast as a snake, and his footwork was superb. Any city would have been honored to have a fighting man such as he in their ranks; I am man enough to admit that in battle he could have bested me, and it would have been no shame to lose to such a superb warrior.

But then there was her.

He was magnificent, the pinnacle of what a fighting man strives to be. And out of the three bouts I saw them fight, he lost two.

He was fast. But she was like the speed of a falcon bound into the body of a woman, and made the swordplay look almost as a dance. She would, I thought, have been magnificent in dancing silks.

She flowed like water around strikes. She was, quite nimbly, never where a strike seemed to go, and used her blades with the precision of a physician excising a tumor. Her stamina seemed boundless; indeed, even under the heat of the sun she was not even sweating.

The first match ended after what seemed an impossibly long time to hold out against either of those displays of masterful swordsmanship, with his sword at her breast. My heart soared; surely, I thought, now he would put her in her place, teach her what it meant that he was a man, and she but a female…

But it did not happen. She laughed, and he grinned, a brilliant flash of white teeth.

“See what I mean?” She said, and rolled her shoulders, stepping back. “I’ve needed this. There’s no one here who can really test me, and I’ve been getting sloppy.”

The comment stung; she’d faced the whole of the Tuchuk, and me, a warrior of Ko-Ro-Ba!

He snorted. “The Lady should have brought Stellead here if that was what you needed; a training dummy and someone to teach.”

“Hm.” She gave him a look out of the corner of her eye that shocked me; it was playful, and warm, and very unlike the coldness she usually showed. I wondered if there was a slave under that armor after all, but then of course that could not be; no self respecting man would let a woman who was his slave on the couches and in the furs carry on so in public. “No, I think I’m glad. You are much better looking.”

“Well.” He smiled again. “With all due respect to your lovely and very terrifying aunt, I must agree.”

There were more like her? The thought was horrific. But then they crossed swords again, and I could only watch.

She won that second bout, and the third. At the end of the third, they were staring at each other with a particular heat in their eyes that I knew well; I have seen lust, in many forms.

I was shocked again when she grasped the end of the short plait of his beard, pulled his head down with no great gentleness, and kissed him as thoroughly and passionately as a slave girl might.

I had thought that she must be frigid, in denial of her own womanhood, wishing to be a man and putting from her head all thought of licentiousness and lust. And yet here I saw her, dusty from the training ring, her sword still in her hand, still as unyielding as steel, her movements and body language all sureness and authority, and kissing like a passion slave.

It was shocking, as well; she was demanding of him, not begging, and instead of silks she was attired entirely unflatteringly in leather and wool. And yet somehow the magnificent warrior seemed as enthusiastic about this embrace as a Gorean man with a pleasure slave at his mercy.

She pulled back, but did not let go of his beard or break eye contact. “My tent, I think.” Her voice was all anticipation. “You can leave the boots on.”

“Only if you leave the sword belt on.” He took her hand, and they were gone.

A wagon is not really the most sound-proof of dwellings. Out of some terrible fascination, I drifted towards the wagon of the Ubara.

The noises were loud, and enthusiastic. They lasted quite some time. At times, it sounded as if a pitched battle was taking place within the wagon. It was, indeed, some hour and a half before the she-sleen emerged at last from the wagon. She looked quite pleased with herself. Her hair had been freshly plaited, and she was wearing new clothing. She headed off again towards the training fields, humming some tuneless little song to herself.

Foicatch exited the wagon some time later. He looked the way that a man only does after he has been well and thoroughly pleased. He had put on a tunic, but it was not laced up the front, and his magnificent musculature was still visible through the thin cloth anyways. He was eating a sar fruit. There were imprints of small, even teeth several places on his neck, I saw, and scratch marks down one forearm. He seemed equally pleased with himself.

He saw me staring, and gave me a wide grin. It was quite a smug grin.

“Jealous?” He laughed quietly, drew another sar fruit from his belt pouch, and tossed it my way; I caught it on reflex. “Can’t say I blame you. She’s magnificent, isn’t she?” He looked off in the direction of the practice rings, his expression fond.

“I would think,” I said. “That in going to bed with such a creature, you would risk death should you be found wanting.”

“Oh.” His grin grew wider. “Well, that’s gotten around already? It’s true, actually. She does kill lovers she finds unsatisfying.”

“Foicatch!” A sharp voice, as the she-sleen appeared again, and shook her head at her mate. “You are terrible.”

“Likes to nail the skulls up in the bedroom, just for motivation to any new ones.”

“Foicatch!”

“What? I’m only adding to your legend.”

She rolled her eyes, and gave him a look that was both fond and exasperated. “Terrible.” She vanished back into the wagon. “The council will be here soon to discuss strategy for gathering resources on the migration route. There’s many small towns and cities along the way, and I don’t intend to leave a single whip unburnt in our path.”

“And before you ask,” Foicatch said, as she vanished. “Yes, we’ve been married for thirty years.” A self satisfied grin. “Take from that what you will.”

I stared at him.

“What? Shut your mouth before a bird nests in there, man.”

“You…” I struggled for words. “But you are…you’re a red-blooded fighting man!”

A slight shrug. “Last time I checked, yes.” He finished the fruit.

“And you let your woman be…that?”

“Ah.” His expression shifted in a moment, going dark. “Right.” He gave me a disgusted sort of look. “To begin, there’s nothing on this world or any other that could make Systlin be anything but whatever she wishes to be; she’s herself, and that is why I love her.” The frown deepened. “Just because you lot on this world can only handle women fawning at your feet and fearing for their lives if they say one word against you, doesn’t mean we’re all such cowards on all worlds.”

That struck me deeply. I am many things, but a coward I have never been! I am a fighting man of Ko-Ro-Ba! I am a fighting man of Gor, where the strong rule!

“I am no coward!” I hissed, and had taken a step towards him before I knew it.

“Mmm.” He sounded unconvinced, and was entirely unconcerned at my anger. “Right. That’s why you keep women in chains.” He straightened a bit. I am a tall man, but he was taller, and I had to look up to stare angrily at him. Quite suddenly, in a flash, I wondered if this was how a slave girl felt, before a warrior such as myself, having to tilt her head back to look up at him. “Just because none of you can get a woman without buying her like a horse, chaining her to your bed, and beating her into submission…On my world, such a man would be ridiculed at the least and most pathetic of men.” A pause. “Well, and then executed. But also ridiculed.”

I stared. I had never heard it put so. “They are just women. They deserve no better”

I saw the blow coming, and moved to avoid it, but he was terribly quick and I was still recovering my full fitness since my broken leg. The strike across the face was sudden and sharp, and to my humiliation I realized that I had not been struck with a closed fist, as befitted a warrior, but backhanded like I was a misbehaving slave.

“Did that hurt?” His voice was low, and I realized that he was terribly angry. “Would you like it, to spend your life cringing, waiting for that at any moment because you did not stand correctly? It is braver, I think, to survive such a life than to be the monster who holds the other end of the chain. You are a coward, Tarl Cabot, and every man on this world is a coward if he thinks as you do. If you are afraid of women holding any role but your slaves, that is your failing, not that of men of other worlds.”

He spat in the dust at my feet. “Systlin said the men of this world were awful.” A shake of his head. “I didn’t realize how very much she was right. Go. Get away from this wagon. If I see you again today I might have to throttle you to death.” He turned, and ducked once more into the tent.

[thekillingjoke-haha]

Just You And Me

Summary: Sam and Dean are on there second hunt to find John. They need help from the one person who hates Wendigos the most Y/n Winchester

Prequel to What's Worse Then Wednesday?

Ten years ago John had his first encounter with a wendigo a family went hiking with a full group of fifteen and no one has came down from the mountain in almost a month. Having asked a more experienced hunter John wrote down things he needed to remember as he went up the mountain a bag with Molotov ,lighters,and flare-up. It took almost a week to find the small mine shaft his brown eyes widened at the seen. Male and female limps were torn of and only some still had enough meat and clothing to be identifiable. Some bodies were on hook that resembled mountain climbing gear. None of them moved except for one. Stepping closer a six year old girl was hanging from her binder wrist her eyes look into his scared before gazing over down a tunnel a thick trail of blood went down it as tears spilled down her face. "Mommy and Daddy are gone. I next." Her voice cracked and a unhuman beastly type growl echoed. "I'm gonna get you out of here, darling." That's how John Winchester met his adoptive daughter Y/n.

Its been seven years since then and the little family the Winchester's made for themselves was falling apart. It broke John's heart that he pushed away his youngest son when he wanted a way out of this life, but when his adoptive daughter wanted to hunt more big league he almost blew a fuse. Y/n was young really fucking young to be hunting on her own,but it could have been worse she could have cut off contact with John and Dean. Now two years later John's missing and the siblings need each other.

The h/c teenager hissed as she cleaned the deep cuts on her shoulder looking into the bathroom mirror. A fucking blood suckered clawed at her shoulder taking advantage of the other two she beheaded. The burner phone on the back of the toilet rings as she grabbed it putting it between her ear and none injured shoulder. "Kinda busy Dean-o." She mumbled slipping the antibacterial cream in the cuts making the surface pink. "Dad went on a hunt and hasn't been back yet. I got a call last night and it sounds Ike somethings under it." He said the sound of baby let be know he's in the car. "Send it over to me and I'll have it back to you by the hour. You leaving New Orleans?" She ask starting to Butterfly stitch closing up the cuts. "Yeah left about two hours ago heading to California." Pausing and shacking her head. "No no no no no! You're not involving Sammy! He got out the life let him stay away and safe." Y/n finished up wrapping her shoulder as she walked out the bathroom to put on a shirt. "I need to,n/n. I won't keep him long we are just gonna check out the place dad was last at. The question is are you coming." Licking her lips she sighed. "I can't I'm in New York right now just took care of a nest in Brooklyn. I won't make it cross country for a couple of weeks." Dean let out a heavy breath. "I know,but I also know you're avoiding Sammy." Maybe the youngest wasn't the only one heart broken after one of her protectors,her best friend left in a huff and hasn't answered a single call.

The silence was drawn out as Dean's phone buzzed against his ear. "There your voice-mail put it through a gold wave. Sounds like a vengeful spirt bring rock salt for the shotgun." Dean chuckled. "Thanks baby sis...wait did you put me on mute to ignore me!?You bit—" That's when the line went dead. The h/c girl giggled as she layed on the stiff musty motel mattress. Her eyes closed,but her mind ran ramped.

The woods they were dark and seemed to loom over her. It was so quite no sound came from anywhere not even the wind dared blow. Crying filled the the air it was that of a child. It grew closer till it disappeared all together the claw marks on the trees marked the familiar place the blood soaked leaves crunched behind her causing the teen to go stiff. She knew what was behind her it was the same thing in every dream for ten convective years even if she knew her body wouldn't allow her to act she was that same scared little girl paralyzed as the horror show continued. The creature yelled,but it echoed in all directions. "HELP US!" Dean and Sam's voices shocked her awake her body pinned in fear as she looked at the Wendigo on top of her. It successfully restricting movement if her whole upper body. Blinking hard it was gone and air filled her lungs like rushing water. It meant nothing...nothing at all.

It's been almost a two weeks since Dean's call. He often text since Sam tried to high jack his phone last time he tried calling. Sam and Y/n didn't exactly end on the best of notes. "Come with me." Sammy looked at a younger Y/n who shook her head. "No. I can't leave dad and Dean. Not like this." The dust has settled after the heated argument between father and son and the rules were clear the moment he walked out those doors he stayed gone. "Don't call him that." His mood seemed to shift back to angry,but something else was there. "Call him what? Dad?" The young girl was confused now. "He's not your dad." It wasn't a secret that Sam harbored negative feeling against his sister they were never anything serious,but he still somewhat loved her just not like a sister. "You're not apart of this family you can get away,but no you're going to stay here and become their weakness!" He points at John and Dean who were just behind her. "I'm not a weakness! I got their back like they've got mine. That's what's family's for!!!" She shouted her eyes welling with tears not letting them fall,but they slip out at his next words. "Your family is dead! Did you save them then?! Maybe if you did we wouldn't be stuck with you!!!" The room was still no one dared breathed Dean stared wide eyed at his baby brother as John grew tense grasping the neck of his beer bottle in a vise grip while same looked like a deer in headlights. A sniffle brought the three men's attention to the girl. Tears streamed down her face before she used a open palm to whip her face dry. "Just go. Cause that's what you do best you runaway from your problems and wait til Dad or Dean can fix it." The thirteen year old snapped at him as she pushed on him as he just stumbled back. "You're nothing,but a coward and a pathetic one at that. I don't want to loss the little family I got for myself you're so willing to walk away from them it shows how different we are...nothing,but two strangers." He stood in the doorways as the h/c teen grabbed his packed duffle bag and threw it into his torso making him fall to the ground.. "So just FUCKING LEAVE!!!" With that she slammed the door shut. What Sam couldn't see as he drove away from the dingy motel was the mess he left behind. A father struggling to keep his kids safe,a brother torn between hunting and normalice,and lastly a adoptive sister that can't help,but be different. Sam Winchester left his family in a worse state then imaginable.

Sitting in bed I looked at my phone hoping it rang or buzzed with a incoming message that said they were fine. Y/n jumped as the screen lit up the name Batman lighting the screen. "About fucking time you jackass!" Her words were harsh,but the relief filled her voice. "Yeah we just got out of Stanford campus heading to .... now." Dean said the sound of cars and wind slightly muffled his voice. "H-how's Sam after...after you know?" One thing that Winchester’s hated was emotions and even if they weren't blood she grew up the same. Nature and nurture going toe to toe. "I don't know. You can always ask him yourself you know." The h/c teen laughed as she ran her hand down her face. "Dean-o he's the same shaggy haired asshole that said I wasn't family. I'll give him a chat when we're cheek to cheek in hell." And another thing Winchester’s sure knew how to hold on to a fucking grudge. "God you sound like Bobby said if he ever saw dad again he'd be looking down his shotgun barrel." They both chuckled as the faint sound of a ding of a convince store rang out. "Well tell Samantha same goes for him." She picked her nails as she decided to get up. "What are you morons hunting anyways did dads ex-marine crap give you a clue?" The crunch a gravel on the line grew louder. "It just had coordinates,my name,and a note saying safe place with your name." Dean opened the car door and got inside as Sam approached him. "I don't know Dean I don't have a safe place in the middle of nowhere so keep me updated,Batsy." Sam looked over at Dean who switched hands to the furthest from his brother. "Copy that talk later,Robin." That's when the keep away match started.

"Dude what the hell I want to talk to Y/n." Sam huffed as his brother closed the flip phone dropping it on the floorboards next to his feet. "Your chances of talking to her are zero to none,man. Sammy she'll talk to you when she's ready." Dean sighs as he starts the car. The youngest huffed he will admit he was a shitty brother that night and everyday following he didn't like it,but he ignored her calls for a months till they just stopped.At first he was still heated,heated, he felt guilty,then he was too busy. Sam tried calling,but it disconnected immediately meaning she blocked him. He thought he'd see her when Dean broke in but finding out she's been taking her own hunts scared him shitless. And from what Dean told him she started after the first month she trained harder taking own bigger hunts with Dad before doing normal ones alone. Sam realized by leaving he took away her only need for normalice,her want to have something other then hunting. He took her slice of the apple pie for himself.

The brothers were in the fucking woods in jeans and flannels walking with a makeshift search party for a missing kid. They were in a abandoned campsite after they lost their supplies. The signal was shot and Dean's phone was useless in most areas. He sent a text as it waited for any signal to send. "' Going in the woods with unknown creature. You know the coordinates I'll call if we need you'" That was a bit of a lie. He knew what it was before nightfall,but he didn't want her to have a panic attack he wouldn't be there to help her. The guide Roy? shot blindly in the woods after something rustled and growled like no animal. The boys ran after him as he got snatched up into the treeline which made them quickly escape back to the camp. As Haley and her brother Ben slept Dean had first watch they weren't prepared and this was the last creature he wanted his sister to hunt. Not after last time.

Dean was on a hunt with Dad and Y/n while Sammy stayed at uncle Bobby's for exam week or some shit. John never told them what they were hunting they had to discover it themselves. The hunt that was suppose to last three days,but took almost a week the tried tracking it yet nothing came up,but more missing persons. The trio decided they'd go back into the national park when it was daylight again,but they didn't need to wait that long. That night they slept Y/n sharing the bed with Dean as dad slept in the bed to the right of them it was probably the quietest night they've every had so the fact that something breezed in under their noses scares them most. Dean rolled out of the bed to the bathroom closing the door after he turned on the light it illuminated the pale skinned beast in the corner. It creeper closely to the only adult in the room gazing at his body before turning to the smaller figure in the bed breathing evenly. It crept onto the bed leaning over her body the old motel mattress creaked as it settled onto her. The weight of the creature was crushing causing her breath to come out in a hissing wheeze as her e/c eyes opened before they filled with shock. Going to scream the crushing weight on her chest pushed all the air out along with breaking a few ribs. Her hand wiggled out from under him as she wiggled her arm to hit the lamp off the table it broke onto the ground and John shot up with his gun and Dean busted out of the bathroom both froze before jumping into action the young boy running to get a lighter while John shot at it just to get it away from Y/n. The boney supernatural creature screeched getting up allowing the girl to try and roll out of the bed it struck her back blood soaked her clothing as she fell coughing roughly knowing the fall made one of the ribs stab into her lungs. The males in the room were able to set the monster ablaze quickly getting out of the room John holding his daughter. Y/n was in shock like many victims they've seen that monster was her nightmare and it casual gazed at her having the ability to kill her at any moment. After going to the hospital she stayed at Bobby's for almost a month to recover physically and mentally. Wendigos are her yellow eyes.

The next day as the followed the tracks of the Wendigo a sigh left Dean's lips as he tried to call her it rung for awhile before dial tone at least it went through,but she must have been busy. About to hand up the girl took off running after the beast made itself know Dean ran to keep up with her Sam yelling for him to wait as he stayed with her brother. She managed to trip as he went to pick her up he was hit over the head as she screamed for help as he started fading in and out and the voice-mail ended with Cries of help.

Y/n sat in her car waiting for a update text form Dean she started driving close to where he was,but didn't involve herself yet she almost got a room at the motel when her phone buzzed with a text. It was a update to come if he ever called to head over and help with a thankful sigh she back tracked from the motel and went to the dinner as she left her 0gonw on the table to order food it vibrated with a incoming call. One missed call and a voice-mail. As she grabbed her bagged lunch she grabbed the stuff off the table going back to her car as she got in the driver's seat she opened her phone to see a missed call and a voice-mail. Dean never sends voice-mails so Y/n opened it and she almost broke her foot as she hit the pedal to get to the woods. "Dean wait up~*crackle of leaves and grunts*~Come on we gotta ge—~*Female Screams followed by a thud*~ DEAN!!! *Inhuman roar before cut off*" Y/n almost had a panic attack in the car,but the adrenaline made her move faster that was sent five minutes ago. Taking a deep breath she began calling any hunter supernatural or not that knew the area well enough. "Hello?" "Hey this is the ARIA. I'm F/n F/L/N you have been hunting in the area for forty years are there any identifying landmarks within those woods? So incase of emergency?" The old man happily spoke about clearings,cabins on the edge,river,and a abounded mineshaft and where they were. She quickly thanked the man before hanging up she pulled out a satellite gps as she got looked over were she needed to go. Grabbing a backpack she loaded it with everything she needed as she took off into the wood watch as she got closer and closer with each click.

Sam's eyes fluttered open as he grabbed his bearings. Dean was next to him which mean he got captured not long after Dean and got taken. Haley,Ben,and Tommy were to the right of him they were stuck as he tried to move or at least hit Dean and wake him up. His brothers eyes sluggishly opened as he looked around before turning back to Sam in shock. The heavy foot steps creeped closer as the half clothes supernatural being looked down at them even though they were hanging on meat hooks. It moved down the line of people about to grab Tommy when a soft cry echoed in the cave. It turned around and listened closely. The brothers strained their ears to hear what it was. The Wendigo sprinted off to investigate when something else came into the Winchester’s view. Y/n stood infront of her brothers mud,sticks,and leaves on her body to mask her sent. Walking forward with a knife she cut Dean down before doing the same for Sam. The oldest went to cut down the siblings as Sam stopped his sister. "Y/n how did you get here? You shouldn't be here the monster is a—" She cut him off with a anxious smile in her face. "A Wendigo I know,but you guys needed a hero so I'm here." Dean came over to them as he stood next to his taller brother. "Sammy's right though,N/n. You got to get out of here after what happened last time. This thing is different from the last one it won't sit still for us to shoot it." He had a point, but he knew that was years ago he was still scared he couldn't protect her. "I got this I can defend myself. Get these people out of her I can distract the man eater." Handing them both a flare guns She turned towards the opposite tunnel the beast went into. "That leads straight to a river follow the flow and after it stops you're only two miles from Baby." About the protest they hear a growl. Y/n quickly sprinted further into the cave making enough noise to cover them escaping.

"OH OH HERS SHE COMES WATCH OIT BOYS SHE'LL CHEW YOU UP! OH OH HERE SHE COMES SHES A MAN EATER!!!" She sung running lighting flares leaving a trail as she ventured deeper. Y/n pulled the rubber top igniting another about to drop it when a snarl came form behind her. "Well hello beastie." She didn't turn around evening her breathing before spinning. The red light illuminated the monster in a devilish glow she wasn't a scared little girl anymore she was a Winchester and Winchester’s chase after their demons. "Just you and me now." A roar sounded throughout the damp cave. The boys turn to look back they both wanted to run back,but both of them would have pit her in more danger they were injured and a extra body to look after would put her at risk. They saw the orange hue of flames and the sound of glass breaking. Standing anxiously waiting for her to come out they were thrown back by the force of a explosion pressurized by the small space. The rock of the cave entrance was about to crumble when a head of h/c hair running out with a limp as it collapsed dust clouded the scene before them they could tell if she even got out until it settled. The youngest Winchester stumbled forward as she smiled at her brothers blood coming from her head and her split lip. "That was awesome. I did a Indian John's." Dean ran as fast as he could capturing her in a bone crushing hug. "Do some shit like that again I'll kill you then myself." She giggled as she hugged him back. "Sorry can't hear you. Explosion ya know deafening me." Y/n joked as her brother pulled away from the hug. Sam walked over slowly almost testing the waters. "Hey Y/n." He said shaky as he looked down at her. She's grown alot since last time he saw her she had more scarred and hard exterior. "Heya Sam." Her e/c orbs looked up at him they were uneasy as she smiled at him before hugging her as well. "I missed you,Jackass." Her voice was muffled by his shirt as he returned the hug. Their relationship will never be the same they both had Dean as a buffer between them,but for right now in this moment it was just the two of them Just you and me against the world.

[bakugohoex]

Could I request a jean and s/o birthday thingy my birthday is in a few days and since we're in a lockdown again I can't see my family I read a lot of your writings and they're all awesome it would really make me happy if you could write one for me 🙈

“happy birthday, baby”

pairing: jean kirschtein x female reader

cw: modern AU, fluff, implied nsfw and just pure love

word count: 1600+

a/n: happy birthday to you, hope this request can bring some sort of comfort through lockdown, it’s all a mess right now and lockdown has really fucked us over. this is also an emergency request as it’s a birthday one so i thought i’d do this one now and continue on with my normal request order tomorrow

summary: in which it’s your birthday and jean spends the day celebrating with you

↞ back to attack on titan masterlist

This man spends the whole night preparing the living room of your apartment

He will literally sneak out from your shared bed leaving a pillow for you to cuddle and start getting everything from his car.

Lockdown had hit you once again and you were unable to celebrate with your family.

Baby had seen how sad you had looked on the phone with your parents and had begun planning everything from there.

Ordering so much crap and making sure it came the next day, he had to usher you to go on a designated walk whilst he shoved everything into his car.

This boy takes multiple trips in the cold with a mask and hoodie on bringing everything up.

So fucking sweet right.

He even has a cake, which he got icing for and wrote happy birthday Y/n.

Be warned the cake looks shit with the red icing.

A horror scene but he tried.

Balloons every fucking where.

He literally had streamers and balloons with your age on them.

This man is too good (how is reader getting so much shit for their birthday and i had to spend mine at home).

He had everything set up for the day, calling your family to set up a call the next day at the designated time.

This man has it all sorted, the pancakes for the morning, the presents for you, hidden behind the sofa and the special dinner he was going to make for you.

This man is just too good for his own good.

Ofc at the end of the day, he’ll treat himself to some dessert and make you feel so fucking loved.

This man would fuck you so good, like baby boy take a chill pill or you’ll get her pregnant.

He don’t care (breeding kink?).

The sound of muttering made you wake up, the early morning sun hit your face but even then, it was cloudy and cold since January was a cold month. You grabbed the other side waiting to see your boyfriend Jean, but he wasn’t there. A soft yawn coming from your face, you checked your phone seeing the gazillion messages, smiling at all the messages.

You got up, wearing Jean’s shirt that warmed you up a lot more than you had expected. Moving to the bathroom, just as you walked back out Jean noticed you about to move into the living space, “woah, woah, woah, where are you going? Get back into the room.”

Jean had pushed you back into the room, “happy birthday Y/n, yeah...have an amazing day, love you.” You mocked after he had dismissed you back into the room.

Hearing shuffling outside, the doors opened, and Jean came in with the pancakes, “happy birthday, baby.” You smiled seeing him with an apron on and a plate of two pancakes.

“Thank you.” You spoke gleefully moving towards him, you kissed his lips softly, tasting the sugar knowing he probably had some out of hunger.

Sitting you on the bed he let you lean against his frame, putting the pancakes on your lap, “why can’t I go into the living room?”

“It’s a surprise, be patient princess.” He kissed the top of your head, you both eating and talking. It felt like a good start to the day and had already made you feel warm and less empty than you had felt the night before.

“You can’t come in until you wear your best clothes and make yourself even prettier.” He gleamed out having already showered and ready to change himself.

You sign doing as your told, it was quick, and you wore the dress Jean had said he’d liked, the long black sleeve dress covered you up and you wore tights due to the extreme weather and knowing how cold the apartment got in the afternoon.

Jean walked back seeing you, he stood in awe at the door, one hand at the top as he leaned forward admiring you, “you look beautiful, baby.”

“You’re being extra nice.” You snicker standing up and going in front of him.

“It’s your birthday, I’m supposed to be nice.” You laugh going on your tippy toes and giving him a soft peck. “Come on.”

He makes you go in front of him, his rough hands on your face covering your eyes, you directed you, making sure you didn’t bang into anything. Before finally you were both in the living room, the balloons and streamers cascaded down the walls. The gold and pinks filled with love and his emotion, “keep them closed.”

Feeling his hands leave your eyes, you kept your eyes shut but could feel the light from outside. “Okay, open them.” He had a cake in his hands, the balloons and lights being such a pretty sight. The place was filled to the brim, you felt engulphed in love and happiness and the wide smile the boy had on his face, he knew you loved it.

“You…you did this on your own.” You spoke tearily, still partially in shock at how much the boy had done for you.

“It was all to see that pretty smile.” He got the matches lightening the candle before showing the cake in full view. It really did look like a scene out of a horror film with the red hearts looking like splodges and the words being smudged, “make a wish.”

He was scared you might hate him for ruing the cake, but you grinned like a school girl who had fallen in love. Blowing out the yellow fame, you made the wish that would make you and Jean bound together forever. He smiled putting the cake down, grabbing your hand to take you to the sofa. “You have to open it in order.” You nodded as he passed the gifts, there were three in total. A small box, a much larger oddly shaped one and a rectangle shaped one, he pointed to the rectangle and you opened it.

Unwrapping the silver wrapping paper and sticking the bow on your boyfriend, his lip twitched upwards before you saw the gift. It was a frame, with the two of you in it, it was sentimental more than anything. It had been three months into your relationship, and he had invited you to his work event where you met a lot of his friends. One of them being Sasha who insisted on taking a photo for you two, it had been your favourite photo since, so candid and in love it was beautiful.

“I love it.” You cooed ready to kiss and hug him, but he stopped you.

“No hugs or kisses until the last present.” You signed rolling your eyes at the boy who passed the oddly shaped gift. You unwrapped it quicker, wanting to hug your boyfriend so much at how amazing the day was going.

You undid it to be met with a figure from your favourite anime, it was a little plushie that you had seen in town. You had sent the plushie to him months ago and here it was in your hands, he had remembered. It was amazing, beautiful even, the little hands and feet. You wanted to cry even more at what you had gotten it meant a lot that the boy had even remembered such a trivial thing like that.

He passed the final gift, his hands seemed shaky, but you ignored it thinking he was cold. After all it was still icy outside and you knew he must’ve had to hide it in his car and wake up in the early hours to even do something like this. You wrapped the last gift, the smallest of the bunch, his shirt moved due to his heavy breaths, he rubbed the sweat on his trousers from his palms. He was nervous if you’d like something like this if you’d accept a gift so personal.

You opened it, seeing a square box, you looked between the box and Jean, before opening it. Inside a gold necklace sat in the middle, the words Jean dangled in the middle. Your heart stopped, it was pretty, the diamonds on each side, the cursive lettering. It was beautiful, “I know it says my name, but there’s a reason for that.” He watched your expression, fearful you’d think him to have that big of an ego, which he did but not to you, “I know I leave on business trips for days and I want you to know I’ll always still be around you.”

His justification warmed your heart even more than the gift had originally, you passed it to the boy, moving your hair to the side. He smiled putting it around your neck before kissing your exposed shoulder. “I love it, I love you.” You whispered in his ear, you kissed him softly before he brought his arms around your waist bringing you a lot closer onto his body.

Your birthday had started out amazing, and it continued on, with a surprise family call whilst Jean made dinner, showing your gifts which your parents adored. To the meal that Jean prepared as you both sat together under multiple candles, it was romantic something you and Jean had missed out on since the first lockdown had occurred. But here you were with your favourite boy having the best birthday ever. He even washed up, letting your relax surrounded by the balloons and streamers. It really was a magical day.

Even afterwards, letting you cuddle up beside him he gave you one last present, and it was one that would make you so loved, so comforted and definitely unable to walk the next day.

i’d really appreciate if you guys could leave a like, reblog or comment, thanks x

if you guys want to be a part of a tag list, just reply to any post and i’ll add you xx

@samusimp @alainarose13 @crispychannie @underratedmage @jennammaee @cathy8taffy @sugacious @moonlightaangel @kat-sukis-hoe @effmigentlywithachainsaw @swankiifiied @maat-the-prescriptive @missmultifangirl @tvwhoresblog @kuroos-world @chrrylevi @ukaisgratefulwhore @answer-the-sirens @animexholic

[idontmeantosoundrudebut]

Many of Horry - Chapter three: Sated hunger, sated madness

HELLO THERE! (that's fucking obi-wan Kenobi meme) it has been a hot minute but I have returned with the promised saucy goods and oh boy, its a mess. Both of ours boys are a mess, a hot mess, yes, very hot, very messy. BUT. Also very soft, very gentle, very romaaaance and its a bit of bad romance (insert lady gaga here plz). Snotlout has no marbles, boy's done lost them all, and Eret is just being British, idk tbh??? Should of added a "you know nothing, Jon snow" gag but that's a bit petty, though i may change my mind, I'm two-faced like that!

This is the boys doing the horizontal tango (add careless whisper saxophone here plz) with violence, soft moments, bickering, angst, scars, body-worshipping and all of the stuff that make weapons of mass destruction!

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Chapter summary -  Ten months prior to Eret's leave, Snotlout a mad decision. Ten months prior to his leave, Eret took a mad man to bed.

Chapter warnings - SEX! SMUT! THE HORIZONTAL TANGO! THEY GOT AT IT LIKE RABBITS! Um, also scars, mental instability (Snotlout is kinda crazy in this fic) violence

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He's not even given the pleasure of a warning. No distant cursing, no dramatic door-knocking, no crass bragging. Nothing.

Snotlout just storms into his cabin and punches Eret in the face.

It sends him to the floor and he stays there for a second, hand rubbing at his aching jaw as he looks up at Snotlout, confused and angry. Snotlout's eyes, hauntingly pale in the firelight, are brimming with unspoken rage and his lips are curled back in a wrathful snarl, there is too much anger in him and its brimming at the surface.

After that, his immediate instinct is to stand back up and fight back. Which he does. He thrusts his hands against Snotlout's chest, pushing him back a few feet, and Eret is confused when that snarl flips into a crooked grin. He wants this, he wants a fight, and who is Eret to deny him that?

"If you wanted a scrap, Snotlout, you should've just asked," Eret rolls his shoulders, feeling confident and angry because how dare this short mad man come into his home and attack him? Unprovoked, mind.

"Where'd be the fun in that?" Snotlout laughs and it raises goosebumps along his arms because there is something distinctively unhinged about that sound, it leaves an unnerved feeling in his gut. Men who laugh in the face of danger are the true animals, his father once said, for they have no fear. Even dragons cower at the prospect of death. Mad men howl for joy.

Snotlout charges forward with an arm reeled back, ready to throw a punch, and Eret ducks to the side as that closed fist falls through the empty space, leaving Snotlout staggering forward. But that mad smile doesn't falter as he expected it to and the look that Snotlout gives him from beneath his lashes triggers his flight or fight. It's the face of a rabid animal, of a mad wolf, of a deranged dragon, of something so deluded it doesn't even know what it's doing.

But despite this, Eret stands his ground and fights because he's ran away from things his whole life. Not anymore. He will fight Snotlout, he will fight this mad man.

He heaves in a heavy breath, holds it, then lurches forward with a closed fist. Snotlout doesn't dodge, or move, or even blink and there is something terribly wrong with that. A crunching sound fills the room as his fist hits Snotlout square in the face. Eret exhales harshly as he brings his hand up to brush the loose hair from his face, knuckles throbbing and heart thumping in his chest.

Snotlout takes a step back, head down and hand to face. By all rights, he should be on the floor, out for the night, Eret hit him as hard as he could. That too leaves a sickness in his gut. How can such a small body take such a huge punch? (Not that he's bragging, he's just aware of his own strength)

After a moment, Snotlout let's his hand falls to his side and it's wet with blood.

Then the dragon-rider looks up at him. Eret swallows firmly.

Rivers of blood pour from his nostrils and steadily flow over his lips and down his chin, thick droplets dripping from his jaw and some streak down his neck like exposed veins. He looks terrible with all that blood on him. Oh Gods.

But Snotlout, to his horror, smiles at him with all his teeth and they too are red, glistening, threatening. (It might be the trick of the firelight, but they look sharp)

He looks like a wolf, a wild animal that's just made a kill.

"Snotlout-" Eret starts, no longer angry but concerned because this isn't the Snotlout he knows (not that he knows him well), this isn't the prideful man who's bull-headed and overconfident, who's put-together and two dimensional. No, this is something else, something Eret is familiar with.

Many men went mad under Drago's tyranny.

Snotlout takes no notice of his name being spoken and throws a poorly aimed punch, his fist a good foot from his target. He staggers forward before righting himself, staring at Eret with wild eyes.

"Snotlout, enough now," He states firmly, forcing himself to stand taller to intimidate the shorter, but Snotlout just laughs through his wet teeth.

"What? Am I too much for the greatest dragon-trapper alive?" Snotlout mocks darkly as he opens his arms, almost inviting Eret to attack him.

And hot with the sudden rage of being mocked, of his dark past being bright to the light like its a joke, Eret takes that invitation eagerly.

He yells out as he tackles Snotlout to the floor, anchoring him down with his weight, and his vision blurs as he swings again and again and again till his hand feels close to breaking. Snotlout doesn't fight back. He pummels Snotlout's face as a great hatred unfurls in his chest, a hatred that does not belong to Snotlout, but to Drago.

To Drago. To his corrupted home. To himself. This hatred that's been festering within him belongs to all the things that have caused him to run away. All he's ever done is run, like a coward. Now, he will fight. When he looks beneath him, he sees Drago, he sees the men who murdered his father, he sees himself.

But when the fog clears, Eret is overwhelmed with regret and the first thing that goes through his head is oh Gods, I've killed him. Beneath him is Snotlout, not the men who made a coward of him. What have I done?

Eret pants and stares as he lowers his face closer to Snotlout's, who also pants. He's alive, thank Gods, I'm not a murderer. No, you are, you're still a murder, you're just like the men who killed him!

"Thanks,"

Eret shakes his head and really looks at Snotlout because what? Did- did he- did he just thank him? And then he catches the grin, this blissed out grin made of split lips and bloody teeth, Gods, he's been smiling the whole time. He can't find the words to answer back, he doesn't even know what he would say. (You're welcome)

The rider's face is red and shiny with blood and it makes his eyes so bright, so pale, so blue that he could drown in them. And in those eyes, in those cold waters, Eret sees a calmness that shouldn't be there after getting your face battered in. This is what he wanted, he let you do this, this wasn't a fight, he doesn't know what it was, but I wasn't a fight.

Then those eyes do something Eret wasn't expecting. They flicker down, down, to his lips. And they stare for a few moments before looking back into his, ghost-like and near-white. It leaves a familiar coiling feeling in his gut and he can't stop himself from doing the same, glimpsing a look at those red-shining lips that, suddenly, looks so kissable, even with all that blood.

He wonders is Snotlout came here for any other alternative motives.

Perhaps he asks this question through his eyes because Snotlout's eyebrows jump suggestively and he runs his tongue over his teeth, smearing that deep blood. It sends a hot flash straight to his cock and Eret swallows to quench the dryness in his throat.

"What do you want, Snotlout?" He asks lowly, hands on either side of the shorter's shoulders.

"I think you know, Eret," He responds stubbornly, his voice smug, and they feel so close, like there are no gaps between them. His heart feels like it's suffocating.

Eret does know, or he believes he does. He doesn't want to assume, doesn't want to make this situation worse than it already is.

"I want you to say it,"

It's a challenge and Snotlout's grin widens until there's too many teeth (just like Ruffnut's) and he raises his head till their noses touch, till their breaths warm each other. He licks his lips like a hungry beast and doesn't break eye contact, Eret can't believe how wildly blue they are. It's like looking at a frozen lake, the thick ice has cracked but not feel enough to break.

"I want you to fuck me,"

And that's it. It's out in the open. Eret is suddenly aware of the hardness pressing against his thigh and oh, how it just urges his own to grow in strength, and Snotlout know this too. He bites his bruised lip and blinks slowly. It has to be the prettiest thing he's ever seen. Never mind the blood, never mind the bruises, those eyes are otherworldly.

Slowly, Eret closes the gap between them and the kiss isn't rushed or violent, it's a hesitant movement. After a moment, Snotlout's breath hitches and reels back at the tender touch as if Eret has just smacked his across the face. He looks up at him and Eret swallows at the sudden insecurity that's swirling in those eyes, no longer angry or mad or confident, but unsure in the face of tenderness.

Eret waits for him to move and, sure enough, Snotlout again lifts his head, eyes fluttering closed as Eret meets him in the middle. Their lips slot together like they're meant to be and it fills Eret's heart with a warm feeling, like molten gold in his arteries. The irony taste of blood touches his taste buds as he swipes his tongue along Snotlout's busted lips, who lets out a quiet moan from the back of his throat. More, Eret hears.

It's goes on for a few minutes, this gentle dance, before Snotlout tries to speed it up. He tries to make it angry and obscene, tries to make it as dirty as their fight but Eret isn't having it. No, if they're going to do this, they're going to do this right.

Forcefully, he takes Snotlout's hands and slams them to the floor, above his head, in an almost bruising hold, staring down at him with a dark look.

"Calm down," He orders, his voice rough and heady, and Snotlout's entire body goes weak beneath him at the his commanding tone, "I know that you want a quick fuck, but we're not doing it like that, understand? Not while you're like this,"

Snotlout doesn't respond to him, but now he's almost hyper-focused on Eret and the way he's reacted to the solid orders and the firm hands immediately clicks an understanding in Eret. Snotlout, proud Snotlout who hates authority and instructions, needs to be told what to do.

A soft feeling spreads across his chest and Eret lowers his head till his mouth is next to Snotlout's ear.

"You need me to get you out of your head?" He whispers softly, absently rubbing his thumb over the throbbing pulse on his wrist, and Snotlout lightly nods his head, a shiver moving through his body.

"Fuck me-" Snotlout growls frustratedly, "-like you hate me,"

"No," is his firm answer and he lifts his head to be met with those eyes, bright and angry again at his denied request.

"What do you mean no? You- you bastard-"

Eret rucks his hips, grinding their clothed erections together, and Snotlout's cursing breaks into a breathy gasp as he thumps his head against the floor, tilting it with his eyes as they roll to the back of his skull. In his own pleasure, Eret grunts and admires the exposed throat before him, pale and mapped out with rosy streams of dried blood. Lowering his head, he runs his mouth along the arching curve of Snotlout's throat, his teeth travelling along the pulsing arteries like a threatening blade, Eret could rip out his throat right now and Snotlout would thank him for it. It is a powerful feeling.

He places a kiss, feather-light, on his Adam's apple before lifting himself, freeing one of his hands so he can bring it to Snotlout's chin. Again, they are face to face. Eret is delighted to see a flush fanning across his cheeks and a wanton look glossing his beautiful eyes. They really are beautiful, how has he never noticed them before? It's like he's just seen the moon in the sky for the first time. So pale, so haunting, so strange.

"I don't do hate fucking," He clarifies to Snotlout, voice purposeful and concise, and the response he gets is a forceful huff and an irritated eye roll, manageable enough. A smirk of his own stretches across his face as he tilts his head, eyes ablaze with mischief as he snarks; "I'm only into love making,"

A great laugh explodes from Snotlout's throat and it fills the cabin with a rich, balmy atmosphere that oozes deep into Eret's skin, into his bones, into his heart, it is not a sound he will easily forget. This isn't a sarcastic or mocking cackle, but a genuine laugh that Eret has only heard briefly in unshared moments. If thunder could laugh, it would be this.

"Shut the fuck up," Snotlout chuckles roughly, crinkled eyes looking up at him with mirth and Eret is aware of arms circling around his shoulders, bringing his face closer to Snotlout's.

"Shut the fuck up," He whispers again, voice silken and unchaste, and Eret is drawn into a shameless make out session that draws on till their lungs are aching from lack of breath.

They stare and pant like rabid dogs and there has never been a better feeling than this. This reckless desire, this violent delight, this bloody kiss, those brilliant eyes, that mad smile. No night has ever left him feeling so much. Eret notices that Snotlout is still covered in blood, blood that he spilt, and he rubs his thumb into the drying maroon crust beneath his nose.

"Get up," He says simply as he rises onto his feet and Snotlout makes a barely-audible whine when the hot weight on his lap disappears, gazing up at him from the floor with this lustful yet somehow also tired look in his eyes.

"Can't you just fuck me here?" He groans, sitting up onto his elbows and rolling his neck, and, Gods above, it's all about fucking with him, isn't it? Not that Eret can blame him, by the straining in his pants, he's just as eager as the shorter man.

"It's not love making if you're on the floor and covered blood," Eret retorts smartly, a grin tugging his lips as he offers his red-touched hand to Snotlout, "Now, get up and go clean your face,"

With a bemused snort, Snotlout takes his hand and is easily lifted to his feet. They don't let go of each other straight away and when he looks down at their hands, he sees that they are both flaking with dried blood. Snotlout's blood. It's a strange moment, almost like time has slowed, up until Snotlout's hand slips from his, dark blood-dust grating from their calloused fingers.

"Um, there's a wash basin in my room," Eret states, trying to dislodge his heart from his throat as he leads Snotlout to where his room is, their shoulders brushing as they walk through the doorway.

The copper basin resides on top of the dresser besides his bed and he refills it with clean water everyday, a thing of habit his mum drilled into him as a child.

It's quickly tainted from a shimmering clear to a murky pink as Snotlout splashes water on his face, the diluted blood from his nose and lips slipping through his fingers into the dish. Eret averts his eyes from that glistening skin and concentrates on scrubbing the dusty blood from his hand, the skin of his middle knuckle has split slightly and stings against his rubbing hand. All he can here is the tranquil movement of water and the echoey beat of his heart.

Briefly, he looks to the Rider beside him and notices that there's still blood on his neck, neighbouring with the gold-glinting streams of water droplets. With a face no longer shining with blood and madness, but with water and calmness, Snotlout looks like something from a soft dream and it leaves Eret's mouth dry and pulse running. He swallows, unsure what to do other than stare.

But the longer he stares, the more that calmness shifts in a restlessness that's writhing deep within, barely controlled, barely holding back. He should just give Snotlout what he wants, a quick shag, in and out business as it were, but there was something about that madness in those eyes that tells Eret a swift fuck isn't what Snotlout needs. Sure, it's what he wants, but it's not what he needs.

"Here," He says as he brings a wet cloth to Snotlout's throat, who asks what he's doing through wide, almost angry eyes.

"You've got blood on your neck," Eret clarifies for him, sponging the rag along the fading lines lightly and he can see Snotlout's artery thumping rapidly against the wet skin, it does a strange thing to his gut.

Snotlout turns to face him, head up but tilted to the side with his lips pressed together in a frustrated sort of expression, like this gentle act is an annoying inconvenience. Eret finds it both amusing and terrifying how quickly Snotlout's moods change, from wrathful to deranged to seductive to... Embarrassed? Is that it? He has no idea, but it must be painful to feel so many things at once.

To be honest, he feels a bit light headed himself from the quick changes the atmosphere has taken in the last half hour. The tone in the air currently feels domestic-like, with a hint of apprehension.

"Fucking Hel, stop," Snotlout brutally bats Eret's hand away and looks up at him with a firm, determined face, "Stop with the- the- the foreplay and just-"

In a moment of great confidence, Eret mercilessly rams Snotlout against the dresser and takes hold of the hair on the back of his head, yanking unkindly until Snotlout's throat is completely bared and his eyes are locked with his. There are no gaps between them. Their heaving chests are pressed together so closely that they can feel each other's pounding hearts and Eret presses his leg firmly between Snotlout's legs. A poorly restrained groan comes forth as Snotlout melts like butter in his heated embrace.

"Just what? Fuck you?" Eret growls and those blue eyes glow like a prayer in the candlelight as he faintly nods against the force of Eret's hold, Adam's apple bobbing through a swallowed breath.

"Yeah? You want me to be bend you over, fuck you till I'm done and throw you out, hmm? That's what you want?"

A hotness sweeps along Eret as he watches the submissiveness in Snotlout's eyes grow, his mouth dropping open at those dirty words, at that foul desire.

"Yes, Eret- Fuck yes, do- fucking that," Snotlout drawls breathlessly, a moan colouring his voice as his hair is pulled, legs spreading so Eret can ruck his knee up higher.

And Eret concludes that this, this is the prettiest thing he's ever seen and the power that consumes him is addicting, because it is no simple task to get a Viking Warrior like Snotlout to beg. Proud, fire-blooded Snotlout who now leans against him trembling and begging like a desperate whore.

Eret grins, mean and sharp, as he brings his mouth close to Snotlout's, their lips touching in a open-mouthed kiss that has yet to start.

"Well, too bad," He says in a low voice, lips brushing with each word, and Snotlout stares up at him with begging eyes that almost made Eret reconsider his choice.

But he doesn't.

So, he removes his leg, releases the harsh grip on his hair and slightly backs up so Snotlout has more breathing room. But he keeps his face close, keeps their lips touching and swallows the complaint working on Snotlout's tongue with the vigor of a gentle man. It's one of those kisses that leave you light headed from the softness. Snotlout's hands are frozen in mid air like he's never touched a person before and Eret takes them, holds them, feels the tremors in them and wonders what's so terrifying about tenderness. It's a quiet kiss, a quiet kiss in the quiet night.

They part only slightly to catch a reprieve, lips still touching as they inhale the moment, as they wallow in the balmy warmth of this strange but comforting moment. To think that they were at each other's throats not so long ago. It beggers belief. With closed eyes, Eret trails his mouth along Snotlout's jaw and down his throat, kissing and sucking at the dewy skin with a gentle passion because this is all his tonight, all his to feast on, and he shall savour this taste.

"We'll do this slowly, okay?" Eret mumbles into the crook of his neck, a heavy pulse against his lips, "I am going to fuck you, Snotlout, but I'm gonna do it slowly-"

Eret brings his mouth up until it's right under Snotlout's ear, teeth nibbling at the sensitive flesh and making the Rider's body tremble excitedly.

"-I'm gonna make it feel so good for you," he whispers headily into his ear and his abdomen tightens at the pitched, needy keen that slips from Snotlout's mouth.

"Okay- okay, just- Damn you, Eret, you can fuck me slowly! Just get me to the bed quickly!" Snotlout rasps, caught between desperation and frustration, and Eret can't stop the laugh from bubbling out as he throws his head back.

It's Snotlout this time who goes in for the kiss and it's all teeth and tongue, all hunger and thirst, all the things that Eret associates with a starved man. Starved of touch and tenderness, Eret too feels the cramp of desire. It has been too long.

Thick fingers pull loose the strings of his scaled vest and Eret grins into the kiss, moving his hands from Snotlout's hips to the hem of his vest as he steps back so he can pull it over his head. Dropping it to the floor, he watches as Snotlout gazes with an open appreciation at his bare torso, tongue wetting his lips as he runs his hands down his muscular chest. It leaves Eret's heart thumping wildly and a hotness creeps along his face at the touch, an admiring almost worshipping touch that is so very foreign to him.

"You're... Hot," Snotlout drawls lowly, half-lidded eyes and calloused hands trailing from his pecs to his abs, fingers just brushing over the teasing trail of hair on his abdomen. It sends shivers down his spine.

"I know," He replies confidently, though he can’t quite hide the quiver in his voice.

He knows he's attractive and he is frequently reminded of it, which does not help his ego, but the few men he has been with have always been a bit hesitant in the face of that bold brand on his chest. They've always given it a weary look, kept their hands close and guarded lest they get burnt themselves, treated him as if he's something wounded. He knows he's handsome, but that scar turns that confidence into loathing because it's so ugly and wrong, so evil to him. It's tainted him, it's marked him, it's labelled him.

SLAVE BOY! COWARD BOY! HE RUNS AWAY, SELFISH BOY! MURDERER! TRAPPER! SLAVE! ALWAYS A SLAVE, FREEDOM IS A JOKE AND NO ONE IS LAUGHING!

But Snotlout seems unhindered by it, trailing his fingers along the outline of the furrowed, pink scar with a curious, admiring touch that leaves Eret breathless. He expected a cringe or a hesitant hand, but Snotlout almost seems drawn to his many scars, like a moth in a room of candles. Hands palming and fingers tracing the wicked lines along his toned stomach, his broad shoulders, his exposed collarbone.

He is a marked man. A slave to a greedy country, a slave to a mad man, a slave to violence. He is marked by each and every one of his masters and forever he will be reminded that freedom was a dish never served to him. It was a dish he stole. No longer is he a slave, but there is something missing in his freedom and he doesn’t know what.

"I thought you wanted to get a move on," Eret mumbles with an almost strained voice and Snotlout looks up at him, golden from candle-flames and still glistening from water, he looks like dew at dawn.

"I thought you wanted to slow down," Snotlout retorts back, hands rubbing up and down his chest, and he grins smartly up at him, "What? I'm allowed to touch you, aren't I?"

"Y-yeah, of course- I-"

Expelling a deep sigh, Eret ducks his head and ensnares Snotlout into a passionate kiss, no longer wanting to talk. Despite his charm, Eret finds words difficult at times and sometimes actions speak far more clearly in certain situations.

Snotlout doesn't seem to mind, the shorter gladly returning the kiss with just as much vigour.

There is something about kissing Snotlout that feels very filling, like eating your heart out after months of rationing on a ship. Perhaps he's been starving this whole time. Even after all these years a freedom, there's still a hole in his gut but it doesn't feel so empty right now, with Snotlout's hands on his chest, lips on his lips, heart on his heart.

Perhaps this is truly freedom.

"My turn," Eret whispers against his lips, delving his fingers beneath Snotlout's shirt and feeling the hot skin beneath.

"Wait," Snotlout breathes, taking hold of his wrists, and Eret looks down at him with an almost anxious look, afraid that he's going too fast with this, despite that being what Snotlout wanted.

Snotlout swallows thickly, eyes blue and uneasy as they flicker between Eret's face and his hands, half hidden beneath his vest. The skin there feels strange and oddly familiar though, he can't quite pinpoint what, but his fingers move briefly over raised marks.

"Just... don't ask questions or... Give me any pity, okay? Just... Ignore them,"

Them? Ignore what? And pity? Eret isn't a pitying man, he knows how weak it makes you feel, he'd be a hypocrite to do so. But why would Snotlout warrant any pity? He doesn't quite understand, but he does as he's told and doesn't ask any questions.

"Alright," he agrees with an honest voice and Snotlout then nods his head, lower lip caught between his teeth.

Eret takes hold of the hem of Snotlout's shirt and pulls it off, discarding it behind him before turning back to the Rider.

At first, he doesn't react at all. Not physically, anyway. But his mind screams-

Oh Gods, oh Gods, there's so much, they're everywhere, oh Gods, how is he alive? No one could survive this, he's a corpse, oh Gods he's been kissing a dead man because no one could possibly survive this!

Snotlout's entire torso is the home of hundreds, and by the Gods, he means hundreds, of ivory scars. They're all raised and twisted and cruel-looking, like crooked grins etched into his skin that mock and laugh. They shine against the candlelight and most of them are so overlapped, that they look like just one awfully huge scar. These are lashes, whip lashes, Eret is all too familiar with these scars for he has his own set on his back but nothing like this. Nothing like this graveyard that resides upon Snotlout's flesh.

Drago gave him fifteen lashes and a branding that day, as well as a thorough beating from his henchmen. Since then, Eret had been able to avoid punishment and failure out of pure dread of what would happen if he failed again. Perhaps this is what would've happened, perhaps he would've mauled and marred and... Marked.

He wants to ask who (what) did this to you? Why did they do this? When? How are you still alive? How are you still standing with the weight of the scars that mark you?

But he says none of these things because Snotlout asked him to and even if he'd been given permission to, his breath has been stolen from him anyways. He cannot simply ignore them, though. These hundred echoes of a hundred agonies, if scars could speak, they would be screaming. How are you not screaming? How are you still so brave?

Eret steps forth and Snotlout's eyes, hauntingly bright, stare at him with a hidden shame within them that Eret sees clearly. He nearly mistakes that shame for his own. Lowering his head, he kisses Snotlout's shoulder and licks along a nasty scar that bends over his shoulder to his back. He makes the mistake of opening his eyes and he sees that there are a hundred more vicious wounds defacing his back. He could be sick, he really could be, that's why he closes his eyes again.

"Eret," Snotlout gasps, blunt teeth biting down onto that raised line as hands map out and feel along the almost inhuman terrain of Snotlout's body.

Eret touches each scar with a great tenderness, devoting his hands to the gentle caresses along his chest and stomach, his sides and back. All scarred, all layered with the ghosts of torture because what else could this be? There's nothing worse than this, Eret thinks, death is kinder than this. He kisses the thick scars criss-crossed on Snotlout's chest and massages the sunken marring on his waist and sides with his hands, trying to get Snotlout to understand that he's here to touch him softly, gently, tenderly.

You will not be harmed here, he reassures with his lips against his scar-streaked collarbone, I will hold you right now and will only let you go if you ask me to, he promises with his hands pressed against his mauled spine.

"Eret, can we..." The request goes unsaid, but Eret understands and finally decides that Snotlout has waited long enough. They both have.

Wrapping his arms under his thighs, Eret easily lifts Snotlout off his feet and his heart grows with the shocked sound Snotlout makes as he circles his thick arms around his neck. Eret chuckles and Snotlout lets out a breathy laugh, cursing him quietly. After a few steps, he gently lies him onto the bed and crawls over him, their noses touching as Eret settles between his legs. Their clothed erections press against each other and they simultaneously groan, that hot want kindling again in their guts.

With Snotlout beneath him, Eret feels that power again.

"I'm gonna make you feel so good," Eret promises headily against his mouth, hands fiddling with hem of Snotlout's trousers.

"You better get on with it then," Snotlout growls, baring his teeth before diving in for a violent kiss and Eret takes this as his final warning.

In an almost animalistic fashion, he tears Snotlout's trousers and underclothes off in one powerful tug and grins into the kiss at the surprised sound Snotlout makes in his throat. And that grin only grows when he wraps his hand around Snotlout's cock, the Rider breaking the kiss with a gasp as Eret skilfully pulls him apart. Bless him, he tries to hold it in with clenched teeth and pressed lips but the sounds still resonate through his throat and, though they are muffled, they are terribly pretty.

The sounds he pulls from him are almost enough for Eret to go over the edge himself to be honest, he's never heard such surrender in his life. But he made a promise to fuck Snotlout and he isn't going to let this opportunity pass him by because he can't control himself. With one last tug, Eret releases Snotlout and silences that arguing whine with an encouraging press of his fingers against his mouth, leathery pads brushing against the scabbed lips. Snotlout, quick to understand, opens his mouth and swallows two of Eret’s digits and its an image that he couldn’t have come up with even in his most wildest dreams. Yet here it is, here he is, atop a mad rival with his fingers delving down his throat as he makes the most lewd noises Eret has ever heard. Gods, he can feel those sounds.

After a steamy moment, Eret replaces his now-slick fingers with an open-mouthed kiss and brings his hand down to Snotlout’s entrance. His finger slips in nice and easy, causing Snotlout to groan lowly as pulls back from the kiss, spit on his lips while he tucks his head into Eret's throat, biting and kissing passionately.

"Good, yeah?" Eret murmurs with a wicked grin, adding another finger, and he can feel how hot Snotlout's skin gets as he nods into the crook of his neck.

He gasps, high-pitched and pretty, hips rising as Eret hooks his fingers inside him, teeth digging into his shoulder in an attempt to stop himself from voicing his pleasure.

And again, he is full of this incredible power as he pumps his fingers inside him, watching Snotlout sharply as he drops his head back down to the furs with a strangled moan. He pulls his lower lip with his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut, like the pleasure is bordering on agony. It's not enough, he needs more, and who is Eret to deny him that?

Once he's satisfied with how loose he is, Eret rises onto his knees and unties the strings of his trousers, pulling out his heavy cock with an apprehensive rumble in his chest. His blood bubbles like boiling water and he feels feral when he looks at Snotlout, sprawled below him with this vulnerability bared freely. He trusts you, he's baring his throat to you, Gods, he asking you to tear it out and you would, you will, you'd do it again and again only if he asked you to and he's laying here, asking!

Eret, hungry like a winter-born beast, takes hold of the back Snotlout's thighs and presses his muscled legs to his flushed chest, putting his weight on them at he leans over him. Snotlout's eyes are stunningly bright and he gazes deep into them, looking, searching, hunting. He's never wanted something so much in his life and by God's, if Snotlout lets him do this it just might kill him.

"Snotlout," he says his name softly, contrasting the hard grip on his thighs, the starved look in his eyes, the urgent press of his cock.

It's a question. Can I do this? Will you let me take your body, take your throat, take your heart? Can I touch you like you're a forgotten god who wasn't worshipped as you should've been? Can I do that? Will you let me?

And Snotlout sighs, deep and honest, like an answer. Yes, yes, yes. Forever yes.

With a blaze in his veins, Eret presses his hips forward and the overwhelming feeling of hot, wet, tight strikes him dumb for a few moments, black stars dancing in his eyes as he presses his forehead against Snotlout's. He vaguely registers his own drawn out moan as he stares, awe-struck, at the open-mouthed and closed-eyed expression on Snotlout's face. It is a look of pure, blinding bliss that looks so damn pretty on this irritating, fire-blooded Viking Warrior that has been Hel-bent on frustrating him beyond all belief. It is burned into his memory for all time and he begs that he'll remember it when he dies.

"Fuck," Eret gasps lowly, fingers flexing around the muscle on Snotlout's under thighs as he bottoms out, their hips connecting as if they've become one person.

In a moment of curiosity, he looks down and his panting breath is stolen once more as he sees Snotlout's thighs. Ripped and raised with scars. In a moment where he forgets everything else, he sits back and let's Snotlout's legs stretch out alongside his hips, fully revealing the extent of the scarring. Snotlout, still gasping from the fullness of Eret's cock buried inside him, has yet to realise what he has noticed.

Eret runs his hands up and down those marred thighs with a doting gentleness that he feels they've been starved of. He's never seen someone so damaged before, it looks like someone tore him apart and left him alone with nothing but a ball of string and a blunt needle, left him alone to sew himself whole again. Curling a hand around Snotlout's ankle, he lifts his leg till it's on his shoulder and kisses tenderly at the also scarred tissue of his calf, as if someone had repeatedly struck the back of his legs with a sharp-sided stick.

"Ere-" It's the beginning of a complaint, bitter and angry, but Eret easily cuts it off with a few shallow thrusts of his hips, still kissing his ankle and calf.

Snotlout tilts his head back, an almost shocked keen jumping from his throat as Eret rocks into him, still being gentle as not to cause any discomfort. Though, he can't lie, it's hard for him not pound violently into the gorgeous heat that's making his gut coil and spine shake. Snotlout wants it violent, wants it dirty and foul and angry, but Eret, as stated, doesn't do hate sex and no amount of surprised punches or provoking jeering will ever change that. He's a gentleman.

"Fuck- harder,"

Or he was a gentlemen, because there is something about Snotlout begging Eret to fuck him harder that brings out a ferocious thing from deep within. A gentleman, still, but there is something wild inside him that Snotlout has tapped into.

Eret covers Snotlout's body with his, knee to his chest and leg over his shoulder as he fucks deep and hard into him. It's like there’s nothing but this outrageous hunger churning in his gut and Snotlout is this gorgeous feast sprawled out just for him, like he's this deer with its neck open and Eret is this ravenous wolf.

And being this hungry dog, Eret takes his teeth to Snotlout's throat and feels the thrumming of blood beneath his tongue. Snotlout moans and writhes and pants, one hand balled in the furs and the other curled around his nape, tangled in his loose hair. The room is full of the sound of slapping skin and dirty moans and desperate breaths, the bed creaking slightly underneath it all. It is the sound of sex, of pleasure, of primal desire.

"So fucking good, Snotlout, so fucking good," Eret growls into Snotlout's hot skin as he fucks firm into the Rider, his muscles burning and skin glistening with sweat.

"Oh fuuuuck," Snotlout drawls out in a loud moan, eyes rolling and mouth snarling, and it takes Eret a moment to realise that he came, sudden and hard, between their bodies.

"Oh fuck, fuck, oh Gods, Eret," he babbles breathlessly, body shivering and flushed and limp as Eret continues to pound zealously into him, his own climax rushing him as he's enveloped in this unimaginable tightness.

"I'm gonna-" Snotlout doesn't give him time to finish, his strong hands clutching fiercely at the hair on the back of head and dragging his face down to his.

"Yeah, yeah, go on, give it to me, fuck, Eret, cum inside me you fucking bastard," Snotlout pants wantonly, lips pressed against his in a not-quite-kiss, bright, teary eyes gazing into his with this feral madness that, for the smallest second, scares Eret.

Briefly, he thinks, oh no, I've made a fool's mistake and put my dick in crazy.

But it snaps out of mind as his orgasm leaps upon him and all he can do is groan against Snotlout's open-mouthed grin, body trembling as he ruts through this mind-numbing climax. His body is on fire and Gods he's dying, living has never felt this good, nothing has ever felt this damn good.

It feels like hours, but it must have only been a few minutes, before the wildfire in his veins simmers down and Eret is half collapsed on top of Snotlout, elbows planted besides his head and chest pressed against his, their hearts singing to each other as they wallow in the afterglow.

He opens his eyes and stares, half in disbelief, half in awe, at the foreign expression on Snotlout’s face. Eret is used to the quirked grin during dinner or the irritated scowl that is commonly directed at him, the quiet sternness seen in serious moments or, though he has only seen it briefly, the unbridled bloodlust that breaks through on the battlefield. But the face below him now is neither of these, nor one of the recently discovered faces of Snotlout (madness, rage, lust, mad-lust, shame), it is something that Eret can only name as pure, unfiltered content and it suits him terribly well, especially with that bright flush on his cheeks and those shimmering tearstains streaking down the sides of his face. Perhaps, perhaps this is the prettiest thing; dream-like, gold-kissed, gently-touched.

Eret falls to the bed besides Snotlout with a satisfied exhale, feeling good and warm on both the inside and outside, like there is a candle kindled within him. He doesn’t trouble himself with the thoughts of tomorrow or of repercussions because he is simply far too tired for such thoughts, there’s no need to ruin a good moment while you’re having one. It’s the same kind of tired that you get after a big meal and he certainly has feasted tonight.

Lazily, he turns his head to Snotlout and there is this sudden, unspeakable feeling in his chest when he looks at him, eyes closed and lips parted, not asleep but just… resting, with no guard or façade protecting his features. Again, it’s Snotlout saying he trusts him and Eret has no idea how he earned that trust but he’s not a fool, he won’t throw that trust away. Perhaps this is Snotlout handing him an olive branch, saying in this crazy, sexy way of his that he doesn’t hate him, that they can be friends. Passionate friends are better than bitter rivals.

And Eret falls asleep like that, watching the steady movement of Snotlout’s chest, counting the wicked scars on his ribs, devouring the image of those split lips that Eret can still taste in the back of his mouth (blood, iron, lightning).

Later that night, Eret is woken by the sound of moving feet and ruffling clothes. The dream of cracked ice and calloused hands and a bleeding heart quickly slip from his memory like smoke through his hands but the sluggishness of sleep clings to him longingly, so much so that he struggles simply to open his eyes. When he does, it’s dark and shadowy, the candles all snuffed out, and he has difficultly trying to identify the source of those sounds. He pats his hand onto the other side of the bed, expecting to feel Snotlout’s body, but there are only disturbed furs laying there. Ah, he understands.

“Snotlout?” He slurs into the dark, sleep heavy on his mind, and the noises stop suddenly.

When his eyes finally adjust to the darkness, he’s met with the shadow-touched figure of Snotlout stood beside his bed, trousers on and tunic in hand, pale eyes watching him. He swears they were blue, they’ve always been blue, but right now, gods, they look like they’re white and glowing, like an animal’s eyes catching the moonlight, like two stars standing side by side. Eyes shouldn’t be so bright yet so haunted, they’re like ghost eyes.

“Are you a ghost?” He wants to ask, because he should be, with all those scars, he should be dead and maybe he did die but he’s lost, doesn’t know if he belongs in Valhalla or Hel because he’s got the heart of a warrior but the mind of a mad man.

“What you doing?” He asks instead, because Snotlout is no ghost, Eret has cradled his heart and held his body. You cannot touch ghosts, it’s a well-known fact.

“Go back to sleep, Eret,” Snotlout says and there is a faint softness in his voice that he almost misses, the biting tone his name is usually spat with now replaced with this indulgent whisper that sounds, not warm, but not cold either. Lukewarm.

“Where you going?” Eret murmurs back, rubbing the sleep-dust from his left eye as he watches the shorter tighten the strings of his trousers with the other.

“Home,” Snotlout replies back bluntly, that warmer voice iced down back to its cold familiar self, and Eret groans tiredly.

“It’s not even dawn, come back to bed,” He reasons, voice still deep and hoarse from sleep, his words barely coherent.

He hears Snotlout sigh frustratedly and vaguely sees the harsh rise and fall of his broad shoulders, eyes closed and face pinched in irritation. He’s reacting as if Eret’s just proposed the most outrageous offer to him and it rises the smallest amount of annoyance in him, but he’s far too tired to fully register the feeling, let alone act upon it, so instead he follows the negotiation route. Which will be poor due to his lethargic state, but he’s persuasive and has bargained tougher trades while drunk.

“Don’t be a git,” He murmurs, patting the empty space beside him, “Come. Sleep,”

“Shut up, sailor,” Snotlout grunts with no bite in his voice, just tiredness, “Shut up and go to sleep,”

With a sudden swell of courage and frustration, Eret leans across the bed and takes Snotlout’s hand into, his grip loose enough for Snotlout to pull from if he really wants to but tight enough to show he’s being sincere, even if he’s just half-asleep. Both of their hands are calloused from gruelling battles and hard labour and strenuous training and he can feel the rigid patches of old burn scars on Snotlout’s palm, a common marking found on this island where everyone rides a fire-breathing beast. Even Eret’s got his own collection.

“Snotlout,” His voice comes out soft and meaningful, “Come back to bed,”

And Snotlout stares down at him with those eyes, those moon-drowned eyes, and it’s a stern, searching look, the same look he makes when he’s trying to figure out if an enemy is either being truthful or deceptive and Eret has yet to see Snotlout’s perception (or gut) to be proven wrong. Even in this half-awoken state, Eret feels his skin crawl and there’s a coldness in his chest, like his soul is retracting from the stark, glacial stare, he feels like he’s being judged. Is this what it’s like to be judged by a ghost?

Snotlout closes his eyes (much to Eret’s relief) and expels a long sigh through his flaring nostrils, faintly resembling Hookfang when he blows smoke from his nose. When he opens his eyes again, they’re blue and Eret is far too tired to think about it. But his heart leaps gleefully when he feels Snotlout squeeze his hand and Eret squeezes back unconsciously.

“Budge,” Snotlout orders, jutting his chin towards him, but Eret, so full of pride that he past Snotlout’s cunning gaze and convinced him to come back to sleep, is already tugging the shorter onto the bed.

“Oi!” Snotlout tries to abject, but by the time he starts his head is already being pressed against the curve of the sailor’s neck and Eret has already wrapped his arms around his waist and side, both of them lying chest to chest, both of their hearts giggling together.

“Shut up, rider,” Eret grumbles sleepily, pressing his proud grin into the tasselled hair on Snotlout’s head, “Shut up and go to sleep,”

Soon Eret feels arms reluctantly swathing around his ribcage, as if their cradling the cage of his heart, and then a face nestling against his throat, it almost feels like a tender mouth ready to rip it out. Again, he hears Snotlout sigh and its neither tired nor irritated, it’s a content sigh, a gentle exhale. Eret lightly brushes his knuckles over the warm skin of Snotlout’s shoulder in an easing gesture, a voiceless lullaby, and despite his sleepiness, he does this even after Snotlout has fallen asleep.

Eret just lies there on this quiet night, feeling Snotlout’s heart beating against his, feeling very full, very whole, very free.

[adsosfraser]

The Stone’s Toll - Chapter Ten

Read on AO3

“We can’t stay here.” 

 “No, we can’t.” Jamie pulled his wife onto his bare chest. “And wee Hamish has sent a letter, requesting his cousin’s aide. Though he was vague on which, I’m sure he wasna comfortable writing Jamie Fraser on something the English could see.” 

 “So we go to Leoch with Fergus?” 

“I willna put ye in danger, the travel there will be treacherous now wi’ the English on our throats everywhere.” 

 “Well, I’m certainly not leaving you, James Fraser. Have you forgotten I’m wanted too? We go together. And, with us gone, Lallybroch will be safer, we’ll be safer for a while. But…” 

 “What is it Sassenach?” 

 “I know you and the sea aren’t close friends, but ports shouldn’t be as monitored as they were right after Culloden. The islands will be safer, Charles even fled to the Isle of Skye to go to France. In the future, some islands are even able to retain some of their culture, their tartan. We can always go there, it would be safer while we wait… for a pardon.” 

 “A pardon?” He was shocked. 

 “Yes. When I returned I placed three letters in the post at Inverness. Copies of historical letters I assume. They may give us the freedom we want.” 

 A sharp breath escaped his lips and he slumped back on the chair. “Christ, a pardon. You know how well that went the last time.” 

 “But this time there’s no more war, we’re done with that horror.” 

 “Aye, we’ll seek Hamish, then if we canna stay, we’ll bide on one of the wee islands.”

 “What’s this about ye up and leaving Jamie Fraser! And dinna think I’m not cross wi’ ye too Claire!”

 “Jenny,” Claire took her hand, “you know it isn’t safe for us to stay here. We got lucky the last time.” 

 “And I’ll no’ have my wife sleeping in a cave.”

 “Well, ye two eejits could at least wait ‘til yer goddaughter is christened! Ye dinna ha’ to leave wi’ yer tails tucked between yer legs so soon.” 

 “Goddaughter.” Her heart warmed and she squeezed Jenny’s arm.

 “I ken yer already her aunt, but ye’d make a fine goddaughter to the lass. I suppose that would make yer daft husband her godfather. Puir lass.” She feigned pity for the tiny girl in her arms. “Would the both o’ ye wait, jes’ one more day?” 

 Claire looked back at Jamie but already knew their answer. “Of course.” 

 The ceremony was brief, the priest wasn’t prepared to perform it so soon. Caitlin gurgled up at Claire in her arms. The holy water was sprinkled over her tiny forehead in the small kirk near Lallybroch. Other than the slight cry from the chill of water, Caitlin was a perfect baby. The Frasers and Murrays all joined back together to Lallybroch to celebrate. They enjoyed a small stew of rabbit and potato, the most filling one in weeks. Father Ross had the death certificate for Fergus ready to sign, but on seeing the boy alive and healthy, he walked towards the fire in the Great Room. 

 “Wait,” Claire shouted to his back. “Don’t burn it. Jenny, will you sign that?” 

 “He’s clearly no’ deid Claire, are ye off yer heid?” 

 “No, it’s just, it’s important that the document isn’t destroyed. I can’t explain how.” 

 “Verra weel.” She plucked it out of the Father’s hands and went off to the study. She mumbled, knowing long ago not to question her sister's strange nature. 

 Claire had ripped through the fabric of her dresses and the contents of her leather bag to pull out every piece of gold, silver, and jewellery that was left during the hours waiting for Father Ross. It was little less than three years’ salary in her time, but now it would support Lallybroch for years to come. She dumped it all out on the dining and the jewels, gold, and silver scattered and clattered against the wood surface. She had put away some for her and Jamie of course, enough to be comfortable on their journey, but even with the small dent into the funds on the table, it was still an astounding sum. Jamie spied her wedding ring on a chain within the pile and raised a brow to her, but she shrugged her shoulders in reply. 

 “A christening gift.” 

 Everyone at the table stared dumbfounded at the treasure disorganised on the table. A ‘Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ’ was supplied by her son. 

 “How Claire?” Ian piped up. 

 “I didn’t steal it if that’s what you're asking.”

 “Well, how on earth did ye find so much?” Jenny yelled, exasperated. 

 “It was my inheritance from my parents and uncle. And the man whose advances I turned down…gave some of it to me.” 

 “Jesus, Mary, and Bride, ye’ve been hiding this away all this time?” 

 “No, I’ve just recently acquired it myself. But now, it can be put to good use instead of rotting in some bank. Take it, Jenny, use it to save Lallybroch from the famine, clearances, and drought to come.”

 Jenny planted a sloppy kiss onto Claire’s cheek and handed Caitlin over to Ian. She grabbed her arms and began jumping excitedly. Claire even thought she heard a squeal from the small woman. Displays of affection from the woman were rare, and Claire felt so happy and touched that she included her in it. 

 “Claire ye have no idea how this will help us.” 

 “I have some idea.” 

 Their packing was done, and the horses were all lined up for the journey. Jenny embraced Claire, and she was reminded of the parting before Culloden all over again. 

 “Ye come back to us sister,” she raised her voice to a shout so Jamie could hear, “I dinna care much if this oaf does.” 

 “I love ye too Janet.” He pulled her from Claire into a giant hug. 

 “Och, ye ken I love ye too, a bràithair. Now, try to come back to us as quick as ye can. Lallybroch will be missing her Laird.”  

 A plant along the trail made Claire pause. It was a forget me not, and though it was only the beginning of March, it was blooming brilliantly against the grass of the glen. It couldn’t have been a coincidence that they were so close to the standing stones when she found it. She knew they needed to go back together, for closure. So she jumped off her horse and scooped her hands into the dirt. 

 “Jamie I want to go to Craigh na Dun before we stop into Inverness.” 

 Jamie pulled back on the reins of his horse and stalled in the middle of the path before Claire. He looked down at his wife and the flowers in her hands.

 “If you don’t want to that’s fine, I just wanted to plant these there, and we might never get another chance to do so.” 

 “Aye, we’ll go.”

 He dismounted his horse in one swift move. Carefully, Jamie helped Claire back up to her horse without crushing the delicate flowers in the process. Jamie passed the reins of his own horse to his son and climbed up behind his wife on her mare. 

 “Fergus, be a good lad and find a place to shelter in Inverness. Something not too in the open, or conspicuous either.” Jamie pulled out the bag of coins and tossed it to him. 

 “Oui, milord. I shall not fail you.” 

 Milord and papa, milady and maman, had become as interchangeable to Fergus as Jamie’s Sassenach, mo gràidh, mo nighean donn, and the countless other affectionate names he could come up with for his wife. 

 “Now off wi’ ye son, we’ll be shortly after.” 

 They held tight to each other, not able to bear even a second of lost connection. Fog clung to the air surrounding the tall monoliths and blocked the vision to the moor below. 

 “I wish I could punch it. But it won’t even let me do that.” 

 “How about this one to the side. Not too much danger of falling in fer yer wee hand.”

 She pulled slightly apart from him for the first time since they created the hi together. Her arm trembled as she reached out to lightly touch the stone closest to the centre one. Though it had become an unwitting victim of its brother’s actions, it would have to do. Lining up her arm, she delivered the first blow that jolted from the cold surface to the bones of her arm and shoulders 

 “Fuck you!” She screamed a gut-wrenching cry as she slammed her fist into the rock. “Fuck you! Fuck!”

 Her breath hitched and Jamie gathered her once again in his arms. He kissed her skinned knuckles. Giving her a few minutes to calm her racing heart and heaving lungs, Jamie cradled her tight to his chest, one arm under her knees and the other supporting her back. How many more tears would she cry, for something that was only the size of a blueberry? She knew she’d never lose the feeling of grief, but it would become more manageable most days. With her husband there to bear it with her, she knew it would be a certainty. 

 “I’m ready.” She patted his chest. “Are you?” 

 “Aye.” 

 “Do you want to punch it too?” 

 “No, that bastard stone’s taken too much from us. I won’t give it the satisfaction of flesh and blood from my hands as weel.” 

 She wanted to reach out and cradle the voice she had once heard to her chest, protect her against the violence of the stones. But it seemed it was her daughter instead who protected her. Digging the small hole into the ground by the outer stones, she smiled tearfully. Jamie’s strong hands were right beside hers, guiding the dirt away. Together they scooped the small plant into their hands, a mismatch of Jamie’s on top of Claire’s and then Claire’s on top of Jamie’s. They patted the dirt mound and encased the stems in the nutrients. With the task finished, Claire fell into Jamie’s lap and began to weep. She stroked his shirt with dirtied hands and left stains on the white linen. He rubbed the fabric on her back and Claire felt the moisture fall onto her hair and slowly down to her scalp. She offered him her sgian dubh and he etched into the centre stone with sharp angles, leaving the blade there as a gift.  Baby Fraser.  Claire’s hand trembled in his grip and she was almost consoled by the fact that she could feel his shaking too; he didn’t hide how it affected him as well. “I trust yer grandsire and grandmam are keeping ye out o’ trouble  a leannan . I love you. Tell Faith I love her too, and I ken she protects ye up there, but jes’ because she’s older doesna mean ye canna protect her as weel. Jes’ like I do fer yer auntie. Ye mind what yer family says, and we’ll meet again soon enough.” 

 Claire knelt down and gently cradled the small flower in her hand. “I love you, my baby girl. We love you so much.” 

 Jamie ripped off a strip from his sark and wrapped it around her bloodied knuckles with a kiss. They stayed to talk to the stone for a while. Jamie laughed with Claire after sharing an incident from his boyhood about a goat, some string, a bucket of shite, and his sister. Claire pulled out the photos from within her pockets and shared her child-self to their daughters, and the interesting marvels of the future. Jamie was proud he recognised the ‘airyplane’ from when Claire brought out the black and white pictures in the cave. He was bewildered of course at first, cursing the strange magic, but once he saw the brilliant smile of his Sassenach he knew the depiction couldn’t hold any evil. He especially liked seeing her as a bairn, with pigtails and a pink frilly dress and how the photos showed the change from cute baby to mature woman. She set one into the plastic wrap, a photo of her, her parents, and her uncle and buried it beneath the earth. 

 “Your family is with you always, my darling girl.” 

 With one last glance, they rode back to Inverness holding each other on the saddle. 

 Their short stay in Inverness was that: short. After the first night of full bellies and a warm fire, the innkeeper alerted the travellers to the presence of redcoats fifteen miles away. It gave them time to prepare themselves, instead of another hasty retreat to Leoch. 

 It was not nearly as strong of a fortress as it had once been. 

 Claire was put to use straight away, mending flesh and bone. Jamie was spirited away as well to advise his cousin in the Laird’s Tower. The only bright spot was the wonderful Mrs. Fitz. Fergus spent much of his time messing around the surgery and playing with the medicines, much to Claire’s annoyance. No matter how many times he insisted it would not happen again, his nimble little fingers were constantly filching items off of shelves and tables. So she sent him off to the kitchens.

 The ledgers had become impossible, and Leoch was close to ruin from partially funding the Jacobite cause. They felt the sharp absence of those who had fought bravely alongside them. None were left. Most of the men residing in the lands were either too old, too young, or too crippled to fight. There was talk of taking up a deal with the British, to leave Leoch and settle somewhere comfortable in America. Hamish was inclined to that option more and more each day. The Lairdship was not an easy thing for a twelve-year-old, let alone under such stress of a post-war climate. So, it was decided that the MacKenzies would sell Leoch to the British for land somewhere deep in Virginia. As much as it pained them to leave their culture and homeland in the hands of those bastards, they had no other choice. The lands produced nothing, the woodlands sparse, and their supplies pilfered by roaming soldiers. Claire felt guilty for the small amount of gold tucked into her dresses, but she told herself the amount she was left with couldn’t save them all. They stayed in constant communication with Jenny through letters and informed her of their impending move. Jenny wrote back to her cousins,  Alexander and Elizabeth Malcolm , just as often, if not more eager to know they were safe. 

 In the blistering heat of the summer, Claire, Jamie, and Fergus travelled in the safety of the band of MacKenzies. Virtually no redcoats bothered them on their way, patriot to king and country as the Laird most certainly was in their eyes. 

 At Ullapool, they said their last goodbyes as they split to different destinations. Jamie couldn’t possibly survive a month-long journey across the water. They purchased passage on the  Serendipity  and waited. 

 Jamie wretched off the side of the gangway as the ship made port. Stornoway, and from there they would hopefully find somewhere to settle down. A croft, north of Stornoway soon came to their attention. Most of their money went to purchase the land outright, they weren't too keen to rent one out as other crofters did, knowing the clearances would hit Scotland hard. So, Alexander Malcolm, his wife, and his son, began to build a home out of the small abandoned cottage. They hoped it would be temporary but would be fine if it wasn’t, for they had all they needed already: each other.

[jaskierswolf]

Dearest Wolfie, I am here to humbly request some Jaskilion vampire smut pls 🥺

Dear Buttercup

Prompt: Frottage/grinding/scissoring Relationships:  Jaskier (netflix)/Dandelion (book) Rating: E Content Warnings: vampire sex, sex magic, frottage, biting, blood drinking. Summary: Jaskier gets caught in a thunderstorm, luckily there's an appropriately spooky house near by to shelter in.

For my darling @dani-dandelino and also my last prompt for @witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo

Art by @dapandapod

Lightning shot across the sky in a vicious streak of blinding light, and there was a resounding clap of thunder that made the ground shake. Jaskier’s hair was stuck to his forehead as he tried, with very little success, to shelter under his guitar case. He blamed Geralt for this entirely. The bastard had gotten into another fight with Yennefer and Jaskier was left to find his own way home from the pub. He wasn’t drunk, just mildly tipsy and sorely lacking a driving license. It had been too late to catch a bus so here he was stomping through the park in the middle of the night, during a fucking thunderstorm. The old house in the centre of the park looked like something out of those stupid horror movies that Geralt and Yennefer liked to watch. It looked haunted during the day, but at night… fuck. It was something else entirely.

So naturally, Jaskier wanted to have a look. He was soaked through to the skin and shivering. His house was still a good hour away if he didn’t get lost, which, if he was being completely honest, he probably would. Directions just weren’t his strong suit, and everything looked the same at night. The house, despite scaring the shit out of him, looked incredibly tempting. It would be warm. He could dry off. Maybe the owner would even let him stay the night, if they were kind.

And if he was really lucky, they might not kill him.

He laughed and he wiped his nose, pushing his sopping wet hair off his forehead and away from his eyes. His fringe immediately fell forward again.

“Oh fuck off,” he muttered and shook his head, wrapping his arms around his chest in a futile attempt to stay warm. “Stupid Geralt, stupid Yennefer, bloody fucking thunderstorm.”

The large wooden doors creaked open, startling Jaskier from his pity party. There was candlelight flickering in the hallway and the sound of a violin singing from somewhere in the house. Jaskier crept forward, cocking his head as he peered inside. The house was extravagantly decorated in burgundy and gold. From the porch, Jaskier could see a faded painting of a young man, dressed in old-timey clothing, regency if he had to guess. It was rather Mr Darcy. The young man was tall and slender, with a mess of golden curls that just about covered his ears. Jaskier couldn’t look away. The man was beautiful, with soft pale skin and rosy cheeks, a smile that could outshine the sun. He had a long dark blue tailcoat, and there was a small white dog bouncing at his feet.

But it was his eyes.

Beautiful cornflower blue.

Utterly stunning.

The door slammed shut behind Jaskier and he spun round, arms flailing, “Oh cock!”

The sound of the violin stopped. The house fell eerily silent. Jaskier could hear his own heartbeat hammering in his chest and he pulled at the edges of this shirt, flexing his fingers and tapping out a rhythm on his leg. Nothing helped. He was pretty certain he was about to die. The worst thing was he couldn’t even remember entering the house. One minute he was admiring the portrait from afar and the next he had his hand raised, ready to trace the sharp cheekbones of the handsome blond.

“I haven’t had a visitor for a long time,” a mesmerising tenor voice lilted from the top of the stairs.

Jaskier jumped, almost falling over as he twirled again to face the mysterious owner of the murder house. His mouth fell open as he saw the beautiful blond at the top of the stairs. His skin was deathly pale, and his hair now fell to his shoulders in a cascade of curls, but there was no denying that it was the same man from the portrait. Blood red eyes glowed in the darkness, never blinking as he peered down at Jaskier with a haughty expression. Gone were the elegant regency clothes from the portrait. Instead, the blond wore an unreasonably sexy lingerie set, black as the midnight sky, with garters strapped around his thighs. On each thigh above the garter was a holster, with an elegantly decorated hilt; daggers.

Seriously, who the fuck carried daggers in this day and age? Surely you needed a license for that?

But on the mysterious stranger it just seemed to work. He was timeless in his beauty.

The fine silvery silk robe trailed behind him, and he raised one perfect eyebrow, looking considerably unimpressed. Jaskier’s eyes widened as he realised he still hadn’t said anything, too busy gawking at the angel before him…

Or perhaps the devil.

There was no way this gorgeous creature was a man from god. He was too sinfully tempting.

“Ah, bollocks,” Jaskier stammered. “Well, you see I just- there was a teeny problem with my ride, and then the storm, and well… the wine. Oh the wine, it was absolutely delectable, you have never tasted anything as delicious, a true blessing from the gods themselves.”

He was rambling. He knew he was and yet he couldn’t shut up. Jaskier just kept talking, letting his wine fuelled brain spew poetry about everything and nothing. He talked about Geralt, the flowers he’d seen on his walk, the stars that had been glittering in the sky before the clouds had ruined the view. He talked about the way the river shone in the moonlight, and Geralt, and the cute adorable kitten he’d seen sheltering in an alley… and well… about Geralt.

“Forgive me, dear fellow,” The man finally interrupted with a wave of his hand, “but if you are quite done, I’d like to ask what you are doing in my home.”

Jaskier blushed, glancing between the very much shut door and the handsome figure before him. Gesturing wildly between himself and the door he stammered, “The door? It- it- ah, well, it just sort of opened.”

“And you walked in? I must say, you really have no sense of self preservation. Pretty little thing though, aren’t you?”

Jaskier scoffed, putting his hand on his hips. “Little?!”

“How old are you? Barely twenty by the looks of it,” he smirked, a long finger brushing Jaskier’s cheek. “So young.”

“I- I-!” Jaskier spat out, “You! I’m twenty five!”

“A child,” the man hissed.

And Jaskier’s heart jumped. He froze, an icy feeling creeping through his veins.

Fangs.

Red eyes.

Definitely immortal.

“Oh fuck, fuck!” Jaskier fell backwards, tripping over his own feet. “You’re a vampire! No. No, no, no. This is a joke. Fuck!”

“Vampire,” the vampire scoffed. “How rude! I have a name, buttercup.”

“I- how- oh cock,” Jaskier whined.

But before he could flee, the vampire’s hands were around his neck. The bastard moved faster than light. His pale skin a blur as it pressed against Jaskier’s throat, lifting him from the floor.

And Jaskier, in all his idiotic horniness, was starting to feel rather aroused by the whole thing. Sure, he was scared shitless, but if the vampire didn’t kill him…

Well…

Jaskier really hated his dick sometimes.

“So, ah- umm, will you do me the pleasure of telling me your name?” Jaskier squeaked, gasping for air.

The vampire chuckled, a beautiful melodic laugh that could charm aphrodite herself. “Finally, some manners, darling. My name is Dandelion, you would do well to remember it.”

That was… promising.

“A flower for a flower?” Jaskier suggested, praying that this would not be his last night on earth. “Please don’t kill me.”

“Oh, my dear Julian, I have no intention of killing you. Contrary to popular belief, I am not a monster, unlike the villain that turned me. Now, he was an utter cock. He didn’t even ask! Day before my wedding, unbelievable.”

Jaskier laughed. Was the vampire, Dandelion, actually telling him his backstory? What the fuck had he walked into?

“That’s… unfortunate?”

“It was a complete disaster, my darling Henrietta married the deplorable Valdo Marx instead and I had to flee to the shadows like some bloody monster. It gets lonely.”

Jaskier blinked, feet still dangling as the vampire held him by his collar. He was struggling to breathe, his cock was hard in his pants and he was almost certain that he probably would survive the night. “Can’t- breathe.”

“Oh, poppycock! I am ever so sorry, dear boy,” Dandelion cooed and dropped Jaskier to the ground. “Better?”

“Yeah, yup.”

Dandelion inhaled deeply, “Oh, you do smell good, really good.”

This felt more like what Jaskier would expect from a vampire encounter. Before he could even respond, Jaskier felt himself being thrown back against the nearest wall, Dandelion’s cold body pressed up against his. The vampire ran his nose under Jaskier’s jaw, a low moan falling from his lips. “Talk about fine wine. You, my dear buttercup, smell utterly irresistible.”

Jaskier whimpered, his hands nervously gripping Dandelion’s silk robe, fingers intertwining in the soft fabric. He wasn’t really sure what was happening but he knew he liked it. Getting fucked by a vampire, there were worse things in life, especially when the vampire was as pretty as Dandelion. Jaskier wondered whether his eyes really had been such a dazzling blue before he was turned into a creature of the night. Red eyes burned like fire instead, the pupils almost completely black.

It should have been fucking terrifying.

It should have.

And Jaskier thought he’d never seen such a beautiful creature as the man before him. There was a scrape of teeth against his throat, and Jaskier groaned, helplessly baring his neck to give the vampire better access. He’d never thought getting his blood drained would be so alluring, but he was achingly hard and feeling heady with arousal at the mere thought of it.

The vampire just laughed and pressed a skin to Jaskier’s neck. “Eager little whore, aren’t you?”

“Shut up.”

“Now, now, patience,” Dandelion purred, making Jaskier shiver. “First we need to get you out of those clothes. You must be absolutely freezing, where are my manners?”

“Fuck your manners,” Jaskier grumbled, yelping as Dandelion scooped him into his arms and flew through the house. “Oi! Watch it!”

“Such a fragile little flower.”

“I- You, oh fuck off,” Jaskier protested weakly, because to Dandelion, he was fragile. He was human, mortal, weak. Despite looking like the stronger one of the two, Jaskier was like a glass rose compared to the glimmering diamond that was the vampire.

Dandelion fussed around him in a blur of silver and blonde, peeling Jaskier’s wet clothes from his skin, bringing him a steaming mug of sweet tea. It was all… kind of nice?

The vampire had said he was lonely after all, and maybe Jaskier’s blood would taste nicer if he was not miserable and cold. How was he supposed to know?

“Dandelion?” Jaskier asked, cocking his head as he looked up at the pretty blond from the pile of soft silk sheets on the bed.

“Yes? Did I miss anything? It’s been a while since I’ve had human company.”

Jaskier couldn’t help but smile. He’d been in the strange house less than any hour and yet his head was spinning from the rollercoaster of emotions, fear, arousal, panic, and now whatever this was, a sort of fondness perhaps?

“Everything is perfect, Dandelion, but why- why am I here? I thought… you’re a vampire. I smell good? Didn’t you want to- to-, you know?”

Dandelion giggled and perched on the bed next to Jaskier. “Sweet buttercup, I would never drink from you unless you wanted it. It’s not expected of you. I can go without.”

“You can?”

“But of course! And I’m not about to fuck you when you’re shivering, and reeking of fear, no matter how hard your cock is. I have standards, Jaskier.”

The vampire had standards. Of course he fucking did. “I’m not afraid now,” Jaskier whispered, “And I want you to drink. Come on, trapped-”

“You’re not trapped.”

“- in a vampire’s house, in the middle of a thunderstorm. It practically writes itself.”

“And yet, I made you tea?”

Jaskier laughed, “Yes.”

“Well then?” Dandelion breathed in a soft low whisper that made Jaskier’s skin tingle, “Perhaps a kiss?”

This time it wasn’t Dandelion’s hands that forced that air from Jaskier’s lungs, but his words. Jaskier swallowed, his tongue feeling heavy in his mouth as Dandelion approached him. The daggers had been removed from their holsters and set aside on the table, but the rest of the vampire’s ensemble remained. Jaskier, on the other hand, was as naked as the day he was born, only the silken sheets to protect his modesty. His cheeks warmed under the heat of Dandelion’s gaze, a blush that he was sure bloomed right down to his heart. He nodded dumbly, unable, for the first time in his life, to find the right words.

Dandelion’s skin was like ice as he cupped Jaskier’s cheek, their lips barely a breath apart. “You really are such a pretty flower, I love beautiful things.”

Jaskier whimpered as their lips met, ice and fire, vampire and human. Their breaths mingled as Jaskier eagerly parted his lips, and Dandelion’s tongue slipped inside his mouth. Jaskier had kissed a lot of people in his life but never anyone quite like Dandelion, centuries of practice served the vampire well, and Jaskier was left breathless and panting in mere seconds. His arousal from before reared up and he moaned wantonly against Dandelion’s lips.

“Divine,” the vampire murmured as they parted, and he pushed Jaskier backwards against the bed, their legs entangling so that Dandelion’s thighs pressed against Jaskier’s cock, “simply divine.”

“Dandelion,” Jaskier moaned, his head falling back onto the pillow.

“My venom won’t harm you, darling,” Dandelion whispered, his lips pressing against Jaskier’s neck, “but it will enhance your pleasure, dull your other senses so you know only me, my lips, my hands. You’ll be more relaxed than you ever thought possible…”

“Yes,” Jaskier answered Dandelion’s unanswered question.

The vampire sank his teeth into Jaskier’s skin, sharp pain soon subsiding into what could only be described as the most intense pleasure that Jaskier had ever felt. It was heavenly, magical, a blessing from god herself. He vaguely heard himself moan, arching his back off the bed as he thrust against Dandelion’s thigh. Every movement sent wave after wave of never-ending pleasure through his body, fire burning in his soul. He whined when Dandelion pulled away from his neck, rocking into Jaskier’s body, unheard praises whispering into his ear. When their lips met once more, Jaskier could taste his blood on Dandelion’s tongue.

It was addictive. He wanted more, more, more. “‘Lion,” he slurred as their bodies rocked together.

“Shh, little buttercup,” the vampire cooed, brushing Jaskier’s fringe from his eyes, before biting once more on his shoulder.

Jaskier keened, his orgasm shattering through him as he bucked up against the vampire. It seemed to be an eternity before he came back to himself, covered in cum and his own blood on Dandelion’s bed. The vampire in question was running his fingers through the thick hair on Jaskier’s chest, blood staining his lips, smearing down his chin. He looked as fucked out as Jaskier felt, smiling serenely as he hummed under his bed.

And his eyes were cornflower blue.

“Fuck,” Jaskier breathed shakily. “Did you…”

“Mhmm, not long after you. What a sight you made, truly stunning? I really would love to paint you one day.”

Jaskier groaned and rolled over, grimacing at the mess but too tired to care. “If the sex is that good, you can paint me every fucking day.”

“Oh, darling buttercup,” Dandelion cooed, pressing a kiss to Jaskier’s shoulder where the bite mark was beginning to heal. “You and I are going to get along splendidly.”

[shih-coulda-had-it]

37. NanaHiko, please

37. “Because I love you goddammit!”

Consider this my sourdough starter for a Nanahiko Die Hard AU. If it ever comes into a fully-realized oneshot spectacular, well. Maybe for Christmas. Anyways, this is, believe or not, a break-up scene.

//

Fighting with Sorahiko is never pretty.

To clarify, Nana doesn’t mean physical fighting. They’ve honed that particular aspect of their partnership to near-perfection (always room for improvement), and when Nana has extricated herself from a fight, sometimes she has enough time to watch Sorahiko work his brutally efficient magic on loose ends.

That kind of fighting is pretty from a professional point of view.

Anyway, what Nana means is—having an argument with Sorahiko. It’s not the first time they’ve engaged in a war of cold shoulders and barbed words, digging up old insults and humiliating stories, resolved to leave reconciliation to the other party.

Nana has always thought it boded well that it never took a mortal injury to get either her or Sorahiko to apologize. 

She is, however, very close to inflicting a mortal injury.

Sorahiko also looks close to committing partner-cide. They are spending a break from patrol by cooling their heels on a rooftop no employee bothers to spend a cigarette break at, and for the past ten minutes, have been politely exchanging words like, “Please do this,” and, “Fuck doing that.”

A full month has passed since Nana digested the whole conspiracy theory about a supervillain controlling Japan’s underground. En’s transferral of One for All had been traumatic for all parties involved, even if Sorahiko didn’t have to witness the horror that was the shoulder socket gushing blood and the half-buried body. Why? Because the first time Nana tested out her new Quirk, she had broken her notoriously hardy partner’s arm.

… It’s been a scary month all around.

“I’m not,” her partner grits out, “going to just quit being a pro-hero.”

“I didn’t say you should ditch the license,” Nana says reasonably.

“You might as well have!”

She rolls her eyes. “Splitting up for a solo career would probably mean better pay for you,” she reiterates. “Better pay, more taiyaki. You’d be a treat by yourself, Gran Torino. Any high-profile agency would want you on the payroll.”

“The salary isn’t the point,” Sorahiko snaps. 

“And you shouldn’t conflate your position as a pro-hero with your position at the Eyrie! Don’t let the agency limit your ambitions!”

“What ambitions?”

“You know,” says Nana, gesturing aimlessly. She’s trapped herself with that useless encouragement. Sorahiko is so thoroughly unambitious, he would let a pet rock win an election to Prime Minister. “Whatever made you get into heroics.”

He stares at her.

“Get out there,” she adds. “Chase your dreams.”

“You’re being stupid,” he says.

“Don’t start.”

Sorahiko starts. His mouth twists into a snarl, eyebrows drawing together under the mask, frustration creeping into his posture. He is madder than she’s ever seen him, and Nana once witnessed Sorahiko yell bloody murder at his landlord. The landlord had been reduced to tears, and furthermore, had reduced the rent for the entire complex.

Nana does not intend to yield.

“First you inherit a transferable strength Quirk that knocks you out of commission for a week,” he says, “then you get all weird about tanking hits you know I can take, and now you’re advising I leave the Eyrie by myself? For my own good?”

“Yes,” she says, already feeling miserable.

“Are you on some kind of power trip?”

“No!”

His gloved hands curl into fists, mirroring Nana’s, or maybe she is mirroring him. Another side-effect of being friends for so long; she can’t imagine what kind of pro-hero she is without Gran Torino next to her. 

A pro-hero that won’t drag their best friend into the worst conspiracy theory to come true. 

“I won’t quit until you do,” Sorahiko swears. “Are we partners or not?”

“Partnerships dissolve.”

He flinches back for once. “You don’t mean that.”

“People sometimes grow in different ways. It doesn’t mean they’re abandoning their partner, it’s just… You don’t have any obligation to hold my hand for my entire career. If there’s a roadblock ahead, and you see it, you should be able to jump out of the car, right?” 

“Shimura. Shut up.”

“I really mean it,” Nana continues doggedly. “One for All attracts way more attention than we agreed we should aim for, so if we split paths now, you don’t have to suffer all the cameras tracking and recording your moveset. Did I say cameras? I meant henchmen of some evil bastard. You didn’t sign up for this.”

“Don’t tell me what I did or didn’t sign up for,” he hisses.

“Well, I have to guess,” she says, “considering I never saw your origin story, haha!”

His face goes a blotchy pink, starting with his ears. Sorahiko’s jaw visibly clenches. Nana, however, is one-hundred percent serious. Despite being friends with Sorahiko from primary school up till now (excusing the few years of junior high), Nana still has no idea what drives Sorahiko to be Gran Torino.

Reuniting in Class 1-A of U.A. High had felt a bit like fate. 

“You have to guess?” he grits out, sounding slightly incredulous.

“You’re a very private person. Ah, don’t tell me I’ve somehow forgot it.” Nana puts her hands at her hips, trying to drag this fight back into friendly banter. “Not for the applause. Not for the legacy, assuming the Commission ever gets their memorial site set up. Are you sure it wasn’t for the money?”

“Shimura.”

“C’mon,” she says coaxingly. “What’s the dream-goal, Gran Torino? Why heroics?”

“Shimura.”

“Don’t worry about harming my feelings! Oh! It’s for your namesake, huh? Ah, Sorahiko, you really gotta let that one go, I don’t think you’d have any fun driving around these streets. You’ll just scare all the pedestrians into throwing tomatoes at your precious baby—”

“Because I love you goddammit!” Sorahiko shouts, barking it loud enough to frighten some voyeuristic pigeons. 

“What,” Nana says. She has to process his words even though they ring in her ears. His confession is a curse. Typical Sorahiko, Nana thinks hysterically, except this is not typical at all. Torino Sorahiko, admitting to love? 

Torino Sorahiko, not being done yet, rails on. “Because you’re my best friend, and I like myself when I’m with you, so stop trying to cut me out of your life! If you—if you hate me, then just say it! Say I’m annoying! Clingy! Useless! Don’t just tell me to step out the front door and leave you behind!”

Oh, he’s properly mad now.

Thing is, Nana’s mad too.

“Don’t you use that against me,” she says, fury seeping in, because how dare he? Like confessing to loving her settles this argument, some deus ex-machina device that will defuse Nana’s very sincere attempt to prevent Sorahiko from being murdered. She can’t believe the nerve of her partner, trying to manipulate the part of her that’s a hopeless romantic. “Don’t lie.”

“Lie?” Sorahiko echoes, enraged. “You think—?”

“I think you would do a lot of things to win a fight,” Nana seethes.

“You’re impossible.”

She wants to punch his stupid face so badly, but Sorahiko’s hands are already scrabbling at his domino mask, ripping it off. After blinking several times to reorient his senses, he refocuses his glare at her.

“What part of that confession sounded fake?” he demands, crumpling the black silk-composite in one fist.

“The timing. The whole concept. Everything!”

“You don’t think I’m capable of it?”

“I didn’t say that,” Nana objects, but her immediate gut reaction had been to say, I’m not worthy of it. She has a name for Gran Torino’s behavior now—his loyalty, devotion, affection—he tied himself to her so long ago, and Nana never even knew she was holding a leash. How unfair to him, how stupid and shortsighted of her.

Sorahiko takes a step into Nana’s personal bubble. He persists. “Say you hate me.”

She can see where Sorahiko wants to take this.

“Do you hate me, Shimura?”

Nana bites her tongue from its reflexive denial; when she tries to lie, it sticks in her throat.

“Do you really want me to go?” Sorahiko asks, and without his mask, he looks vulnerable. Pale brown eyes catching the sunset, gleaming gold. How much of Sorahiko’s life has been deferring his dreams to follow hers? What has he given up that Nana’s never asked about? Does he have any commitments outside of heroics? 

“I think,” Nana finally forces out, “we need some time apart.”

One beat of silence. Two.

“You’re not joking.”

“No.”

Sorahiko breathes, a steady and barely audible sound, and Nana finds herself mirroring it. She crosses her arms and looks to the horizon. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Sorahiko slowly uncrumpling his mask, smoothing out wrinkles with his forefinger and thumb. Methodical for a nervous tic.

“It’s not that you’ve done something wrong.”

“Spare me the bullshit,” he says. The bitter tone sends a chill through Nana’s heart, but she steels herself. “How long?”

“Long as we need,” she deflects.

“What’s the goal here?”

Nana glances at Gran Torino, notes the grim set of his expression, and restrains herself from poking at the down-turned twist to his frown. Instead, she says, “You said you like who you are when you’re with me. I don’t think you’ve ever really been without me, so… Figure yourself out, Gran Torino.”

“And Sky High?”

“We’ll shelve the idea for a later time,” says Nana weakly, as though running an agency together hasn’t been their—her?—dream since high school.

He grunts in acknowledgment.

Together, they survey the cityscape. They will finish the day’s patrol. Gran Torino will, for the first time, clock out early and storm home.

And Nana will quietly file her two-week notice.

There’s an international pro-hero exchange program being organized with the United States, and Nana intends to join. The probation period is a year; if Nana can make it through that, then she can apply to be a mentor to aspiring pro-heroes, all the while cultivating One for All on the side.

(She doesn’t mean to forget the confession. But then again, who knows if that’s really what Sorahiko felt for her?)

[collecting-stories]

Nightmare - John B Routledge

Request: okay hear me out... i it would be super cute if u wrote a fic where john b has a really bad nightmare about the reader disappearing like his dad and waking up  terrified next to the reader and she has to help him! it’s totally okay if u can’t, i know you’re probably super swamped right now  

A/N: Some sweet JB. 

Outer Banks Masterlist

///

“Fuck!” John B lurched forward in bed pressing his forehead to his knees and shutting his eyes as tight as he could. His heart was racing and he was covered in sweat. Ever since he’d come back from surfing the surge he’d been having nightmares about his dad’s boat. Pope suggested it had something to do with seeing Scooter’s Grady White out there, that maybe it had triggered something in him.  

But the nightmares were worse now then they had been before. After Big John first disappeared John B was consumed with nightmares, he’d wake in cold sweats, alone, stumbling through his house in some attempt to find his dad but it was only him. Even then though, the dreams felt hazy, like he was looking at them underwater. These new nightmares felt real. One second he’d be drifting off to sleep and the next he’d be hyperventilating, at the peak of a panic attack as he opened his eyes from the most vicious of images. The Pogue or his dad’s boat or even the Grady White lately, going under. Flipping in a harsh storm with you on board. He would watch, helpless, as the boat capsized and you were thrown into the water, screaming his name against the thundering storm. Sometimes you were carried away from him by the waves and no matter how hard he swam he could never find you. Sometimes your life vest wasn’t on and he watched in horror as you tried and failed to tread water.  

He scrubbed at his eyes, irritating them further, as he tried to regain his breath. He was in his room; he knew he was in his room. He felt a hand on his bare back and jumped, flinching away from the feeling. You turned on the bedside light and then sat up on your knees, climbing toward him and touching his back again. “John B?”

John B shook his head, he looked pale, as if all the color had drained from him. You wrapped your arms around him, guiding both of you back against the headboard, letting him lay with his head on your shoulder. He was shaking just the slightest as you kissed his head and gently shushed him, whispering over and over that it was alright.  

He hadn’t told you about the nightmares but this wasn’t the first time he had woken up like this beside you. He kept his arms around your waist and, as he pressed his face into your neck you could feel the tears in his eyes.  

“I’m right here,” you whispered, running a hand through his hair. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“The boat and...you just...were gone.” John B muttered; gasping breathes in between words as he tried to put his thoughts together.  

“I’m right here,” you repeated, hugging him to you tighter, “I’m not going anywhere John B.”

“I can’t keep doing this,” he finally said as he became to regain himself. He didn’t make any move to sit up but his voice was coming back to him. “I can’t keep putting you in danger.  If something happened to you-”  

It was too awful to think about. John B had felt so alone after his dad went missing. Even with JJ and Kiara and Pope he still felt like there was this piece of his life missing. Like someone was supposed to be there and they weren’t. Getting involved with you had been the one thing that he needed the most and maybe he relied too much on you too often but he couldn’t help it. You’d brought back the good parts of him and the thought of losing you the way he lost Big John was too much.  

“Hey, you’re not putting me in danger JB...if I didn’t believe in this, if I didn’t think that what we were doing was right and important than I wouldn’t do it. I would have bagged out a long time ago. If you say there is gold and Big John left you clues to find it than there’s gold and we’ll follow those clues to find it. End of.” You promised, “I trust you.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt.” John B said, “I don’t want to be the reason you get hurt.”

“You never could be.” You said, kissing his head again, “don’t get in your head like this, okay?”

“It just felt so real. I mean, I watched you go under and there was nothing I could do.”

“It’s a good thing I’m such a good swimmer than huh?” You teased in an attempt to lighten the mood.  

“I just...”

“We’ll talk about it in the morning, okay?” You asked, “tonight, let’s get back to sleep. I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere.”  

John B nodded, letting you maneuver your body and his so that you could lay down comfortably while keeping him in your arms. You continued to rub his back as he drifted back into sleep, whispering to him that you were here and safe and you always would be.  

-

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