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its-julia-in-outer-space · 10 months

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Our Love Eternal - Part 2

Prompt: Harry is a Viking, and invades Y/N's land.

There is a man sleeping on a hill.

A soldier, his mouth open, his hands joined over his chest. He is laid down on the grass, blue and white wildflowers surrounding him, under the shadow of an oak tree.

The man is familiar, yet Y/N does not know his name. She tries to approach, and sees then that she has no body. No feet to carry her forward, no mouth to call out. She has only her eyes to watch.

She sees three shadows darken the sky from the north. As they get closer, she recognizes them as crows, with eyes as red as rubies. The crows land on the sleeping man, one by his feet, one on his stomach, the other above his head.

A woman screams. It is not Y/N, though she wants to as the crows start picking at the sleeping soldier. They tear into his body, feasting on his flesh, and with each mouthful they grow larger.

The man does not wake.

The man does not wake, because as his eyelids are torn off, maggots start crawling out of the rotten sockets.

The man does not wake, because he was dead all along.

-----

Y/N swallowed a scream as she jolted awake, eyes wide open in the fading darkness of her bedroom. She ran a hand over her face, expecting to feel maggots crawling over her skin.

She had arrived in Kaldagr over a month ago, and every night, she had the same dream. The three crows, the sleeping man who was not truly sleeping, the screaming woman. Always the same.

She sat up, shivering as the furs slid from her shoulders. From the gaps in the shutters of her window, she could see the sun was only just rising, the sky a pallid pink with golden hues. People were already up and about, faint echoes of conversations between friends and neighbours reaching her ears.

Y/N did not bother trying to fall back asleep, and got herself dressed. First, she put on a simple but thick linen underdress covering her from her wrist to her ankles. Over it, she slid on a red wool dress held up by straps over her shoulders. The straps were closed by two gold brooches of fine make, rubies embedded at the centre. She tied leather boots over her feet and carefully brushed her hair, tying it at the back of her head with a bone pin.

She’d gotten used to the clothing and jewellery quickly, marvelling each day at how more freeing they were than the stifling fashion of Lothian. Even sitting had been difficult in her old corsets.

Y/N left her bedroom and walked to the main hall. The fire was low, the doors to the city beyond still shut. They would open soon, welcoming the people of Kaldagr to the halls of their lord, and the warm stew that simmered above the firepit.

Y/N helped herself to a bowl and sat down on one of the many benches, watching the servants come and go as they prepared for the day ahead.

She was halfway through the stew when a heavy weight dropped onto the bench next to her. She tensed, biting back a curse as she glanced to her right.

Harry was sitting next to her, hair still mussed from sleep, eyes bleary and unfocused. He wore simple linen pants, a tunic that was still untied at his neck and a pillow line on his right cheek. He looked like a peasant.

“Hello,” he said, elongating each syllable like they were individual words. His gaze darted from her face to the table, a gentle smile on his lips.

A few seconds of silence passed, before Y/N bit out her own greeting. “You’re awake early,” she continued, her tone sullen. “Snemma. Early.”

“Já,” he said, avoiding her eyes. “No sleep.”

She raised an eyebrow at the lie. She might have believed him, had he not joined her for breakfast every single day since she’d first arrived at Kaldagr. Uninvited.

She’d tried waking up late, tried waking up early. She’d tried to eat elsewhere even, but no matter the time and place, he always found her. Often, he looked dishevelled and she knew that he had just woken up. He must have ordered the servants to warn him as soon as she left her room.

“Good?” he said, pointing to her half-finished bowl.

“Yes,” she answered, gritting her teeth. “It’s excellent.”

He repeated her words under his breath, a frown between his brows as he struggled with the pronunciation.

“Not like that,” she said, cutting him off. “EX-cellent. X.”

“Excellent,” he tried and she nodded. He smiled, his green eyes shining with pride. He looked years younger then, like a boy who’d never known any struggles.

Those language lessons, if one could call them that, happened every breakfast as well. He was always the one who engaged with her first, asking about the weather, commenting on her clothing or telling her about his plans for the day. The conversations were stilted, partly due to Y/N’s own reluctance, partly due to the language barrier.

He seemed intent on tearing that last obstacle down. From the very first day, he’d asked for translations, butchering countless words until she lost patience and corrected him. And he was always so happy when he got it right.

“Do you,” Harry began, then hesitated. “Dream? Good?”

“That’s the word,” she replied. He asked often, whether she’d slept well, when she’d woken up. If she’d had good dreams.

She hadn’t told him about her nightmare. It was a weakness, one she wasn’t ready to show him. Not when she still did not know what her purpose was in Kaldagr.

She was not a good enough liar to pretend her dreams had been pleasant, so she swallowed the last mouthfuls of her stew and stood, stepping over the bench.

“Thank you for the meal,” she said and turned before he could reply. She felt the weight of his eyes on her back all the way to the doors, and breathed only when she had stepped through and she was out of his sight.

As she walked onto the street, the wind bit at her skin and she cursed her lack of foresight. Her cloak, or rather Harry’s, was neatly hung in her bedroom.

She would rather crawl on broken glass than go back to get it when he would inevitably see her, so she soldiered on and kept walking. She passed Erp Ketilbiornsson, the woodworker and his son Ulfar the Bold. She walked by Runa Ospakdottir, the seamstress, selling coats in front of her shop. Little Arnora Torfidottir ran by her, chased by her mother Hildirid.

She’d been introduced to them all in the past four weeks. Often by Harry, who seemed to take heart in making sure every single one of his subjects knew who she was. Sometimes, it was Robben who liked to take walks while he taught her the northerners’ language. Or Saga, who had turned out to be a better friend than she’d expected.

Y/N nodded at Erp and his son, smiled at Runa and Arnora and Hildirid. They nodded and smiled back. Then promptly turned their eyes away. She could hardly blame them for their lack of trust. She certainly didn’t trust any of them.

Y/N kept walking, until she reached the market at last. Every morning, fishermen holed out the night’s haul onto stalls until the smell of fish reached the farthest corner of the city. They were joined by farmers who’d travelled for days to sell their harvest, by foreign merchants with bags full of colourful spices and strange trinkets, by women who sold nothing but their bodies, by missionaries, musicians, artists!

Robben was teaching her the vikings’ language from books and lessons, but the market was where she learned the most.

It was perhaps the only place where she did not draw glances. The only place where she was just another body in the crowd, utterly unremarkable.

Except for those who knew to look for her.

“I should have guessed I’d find you here.”

Saga seemed to appear out of nowhere, which was a wonder considering she towered over everyone else. She wore her fighting leathers, as always, the handle of her axe peaking over her left shoulder.

Y/N smiled, pushing through the crowd until she stood in front of the warrior.

Befriending Saga had been a surprise. But from the very first day of Y/N’s new life at Kaldagr, Saga had made it a point to seek her out. Y/N had welcomed it: just to know someone who spoke her language was a gift of immeasurable measure. Robben was kind, helpful, but always maintained a distance. Saga did not. Saga sat with her at meals, took her out to the city, helped Y/N do her hair when the complicated viking braids proved too much for her. Despite what her appearance might suggest, Saga was kind. Gentle, even. And Y/N loved her for it.

“Good morning,” Y/N said. “I thought you would be at the training grounds today.”

“The men deserve a break after the beating I gave them yesterday.”

Y/N laughed, linking her arm through Saga’s. “If only we’d had warriors like you in Lothian! Harry would have run back to his ships with his tail between his legs.”

“Don’t go saying that to him,” warned Saga, her tone stern. “Men have fragile egos, and to insult a jarl’s skills in battle is a good way to get executed.”

“He wouldn’t,” Y/N shrugged. “He needs me alive, though I still don’t know what for.”

“He hasn’t told you?”

Y/N shook her head.

“I’ve tried to ask, but we can barely understand each other.”

Saga scoffed. “That’s an excuse if I’ve ever heard one. Your Norse is better than you believe.”

“It’s not! I’ve been here for four weeks. That’s hardly long enough to master any language, let alone the monstrous complexity that is yours.”

“Robben says you’re a natural. You’re picking it up faster than any scholar. It’s not skill you’re lacking, it’s confidence.”

Y/N’s cheeks burned as she avoided Saga’s cold blue eyes. “Perhaps,” she admitted.

Saga was kind enough to drop the subject. She guided them through the market, stopping at a stall here and there until they reached the blacksmith’s stand. Weapons were laid on the wooden table, swords, axes, spears and daggers. Torsten Øpirsson stood behind the stand, his arms crossed over his chest.

Saga switched to Norse as she began talking to him, something about her axe needing sharpening, and Y/N took a closer look at the blades until one caught her eye. It was small and thin, looking more like a letter opener than a dagger. The handle was wrapped in black leather, the brass pommel engraved with delicate runes. The blade itself had been carefully polished, and it shone in the light of the morning sun.

Y/N reached a hand out, her fingers brushing the metal.

“Nei!” shouted Torsten, his eyes darkening with rage.

Y/N startled, drawing her arm back as Saga instantly stepped in front of her and snapped at the blacksmith. They spoke too fast for Y/N to understand much beyond the words ‘foreigner’ and ‘shame’.

“What is it?” asked Y/N. “What did I do?”

“Nothing,” scowled Saga. “You’ve done no wrong. Torsten is just being a fool.”

Saga took her arm and pushed her away from the stall, through the crowd. Y/N glanced back, only to see the blacksmith look at her with pure hatred.

“I don’t understand.”

Saga sighed. “His brother died in Lothian.”

A weight sunk in Y/N’s stomach. She stopped, ignoring the complaints of the people who had to divert their paths.

“Northerners died in Lothian?”

“Three,” Saga answered. “Svala and Bera died in battle honourably. They are now in Valhalla, feasting with the gods. But Torsten’s brother Gunnar…”

“What?”

“Harry wouldn’t want you to know this, Y/N.”

“I don’t care what Harry wants. What happened to Gunnar?”

“He tried to rape a Saxxon woman. Harry killed him.”

The world shifted on its axis. The idea of Harry killing one of his own to save a woman he didn’t know, one from an enemy land, was hard to fathom.

“Gunnar should have known better,” Saga continued. “Harry has always made the rules clear. We do not kill unless threatened. We do not steal from the needy. We do not rape, we do not burn homes, we do no violence that is not necessary.”

“Why? Northerners have invaded other kingdoms before Lothian, and they had no such rules.”

“Kaldagr has always been different. Those rules were set in place long before Harry took the throne, but he enforces them because he believes in them.”

“And what about Skolstrond?” Y/N asked.

Saga’s features hardened. “My father has no such morals.”

Y/N did not pry for details. She looked back through the crowd, and shivered when she saw that Torsten’s wrathful gaze was still on her.

“I didn’t kill Gunnar,” she said. “Why is he so angry at me, and not Harry?”

Saga hesitated. “When Harry told the men they would go to Lothian, they all thought it was to raid. They were promised gold, lots of it.”

“They got it,” said Y/N. “I saw it on the ships.”

“No. What you saw is a fraction of what we usually take on raids. Do you know how many of your temples were plundered? Two. That’s nothing.”

“Say that to the monks.”

“You’re not listening to me,” Saga hissed, her grip tightening on Y/N’s arm. “Men fought, some lost their lives, because they believed it would make them rich. But when they got to Lothian, Harry held them back. He prevented them from fighting as much as he could, without telling them why and he has never done that before. The people of Kaldagr are so loyal to Harry because he has always been honest and fair to them, but in Lothian, he lied.”

Saga leaned towards Y/N, her ice blue eyes boring into her own.

“The only reason he came to Lothian was you. He did not raid your town and villages, for you. He took next to nothing of your gold, for you. His men died, for you.”

“Why?” Y/N cried. “He doesn’t know me!” She tried to draw her arm back, but Saga’s grip was unshakeable. For the very first time, she was afraid of the warrior.

“I don’t know. None of us know. But the people are angry, Y/N. They hide it because Harry has made it clear you are to be respected and protected, but they don’t understand why you are here and it’s only a matter of time before they start looking for answers. Harry is their lord. But you are nothing to them.”

Saga exhaled, her shoulders dropping. Her grip loosened and Y/N pulled her arm to her side. Her wrist ached.

“Be wary of Torsten,” Saga said. “He is a prideful man, who has now lost both his brother and his promised gold, because Harry wanted you in Kaldagr. There is no telling what he’ll do if his emotions get the best of him.”

-----

Y/N spent the next five days in a daze.

She erred in the halls of the longhouse, watching every one that passed her as if they would run her through with a sword. Saga’s words were a song in her head that never ended.

You are nothing to them.

And wasn’t that the truth? She was something to Harry, his actions had made that clear. But to his people? What was she but a reminder of what they had lost?

Gunnar may have been a monster, but Svala and Bera had been loved. Saga had said so, had shown Y/N the house they shared. Used to share. She’d pointed out Svala’s mother in the crowd, and Bera’s brother, who’d been so young it had broken her heart.

Y/N knew she was not to blame. The northerners had been the invaders, they had chosen to come to Lothian and they had expected resistance. But her heart ached. Harry had come for her. He had brought his warriors with him, for her. If she had not existed, Svala and Bera would still be alive.

She snapped on the fifth day, out of nowhere. She had gone to bed, feeling hollow and ashamed. She’d woken up angry.

She didn’t bother getting dressed. She threw on a shawl and marched out of her bedroom, the door slamming against the wall. A redheaded maid was in the hallway, and startled badly enough to drop the pile of sheets she’d been holding. Y/N did not stop to help her pick everything up.

She marched straight to Harry’s bedroom. In her head, a tiny part of her was begging her to reconsider, but the rage made her blind.

A man was standing guard by Harry’s door, but he made no move to stop her as she got near. She thought about knocking for half a second. Then threw open the door.

Harry was in bed still, his chest bare. Curls fell in front of his closed eyes, his mouth open slightly as he slept. He looked innocent. Vulnerable.

What a lie.

“Get up,” Y/N growled.

His eyes snapped open, settling on her figure at once. With a snarl, he jumped up and reached an arm under his pillow. He pulled out a dagger and held it in front of him, his teeth bared as if he would tear out her throat if she came any closer.

Then, he seemed to recognize her. The ruthlessness in his green eyes faded, replaced with worry. His curled up lips softened. The dagger fell from his slackened grip, and disappeared in the covers.

“Y/N?” he asked. God, she hated how gently he said her name.

“Tell me why I’m here,” she ordered.

He froze.

“Why? Hví?” she repeated, her pronunciation hardly perfect but understandable, if the sudden panic in Harry’s eyes was any indication. “You brought me here, to Kaldagr. What for?”

Harry slowly slid his feet to the floor and stood, keeping his gaze on her always, like he expected her to attack. Like she was an animal, crazed and dangerous.

How right he was. She wanted to tear his lungs out.

“It’s been a month,” she hissed. “Einn mánaðr. One month, and no one has touched me, no one has locked me up, hurt me or demanded anything of me.”

“No hurt,” he said, cutting her off.

“I know!” she raged. “You’ve proved it! I don’t need reassurances from you, I need answers!”

He looked at her, his brows furrowed. Confused. He didn’t understand her. She could scream all she wanted, there was no point if he couldn’t grasp her words.

To her horror, she felt the telltale pinpricks of incoming tears behind her eyes and her throat tightened. She ached for home, in a way she hadn’t before. She ached for her father, cold and cruel as he was. She missed the stone walls of her room, the too-tight corsets in her wardrobe. She missed the stags she would see on the edge of the forest from her window, the foxes in their burrows. She missed the sound of her language from strangers’ lips.

“I don’t understand,” she whispered, her tone defeated. A sob ripped out of her throat before she could stop it and her vision blurred from unshed tears.

She dropped her head, pressing her hands to her face. For a moment that felt like a century, she stood there as the rage seeped out of her and left behind a raw, empty void.

Then, a hand touched her shoulder tentatively. Another reached for her arm. She got pulled in, gently, into the agonising warmth of Harry’s embrace.

She wanted to push him away. She wanted to pull him closer. She hated him. She trusted him. He had not hurt her. He had hurt her more than everyone else in her life.

“Sorry,” he said roughly into her hair. “Sorry. I am sorry.”

She sobbed, dropping her head to his shoulder. His arms closed over her back, pulling her close enough that her sobs made his whole body shake. He spoke softly in her ear, words she did not understand but felt comforting all the same. His hand stroked slow circles over the thin material of her shawl.

“I want to go home,” she said.

She felt him shake his head, a hand going to the back of her head to push her closer.

“You are home,” he said.

He sounded almost saddened by it.

-----

A truce of sorts settled between Y/N and Harry after that day.

She had not gotten any answers as to why he had brought her to Kaldagr, and it was unlikely he ever would. But Y/N reasoned that agonising over it would not help the situation.

The fact was, she was to remain in Kaldagr. It was her home. It didn’t feel like one, but she was the only one able to change that.

She threw herself into her language lessons with Robben, insisted on speaking to Saga in Norse as much as she could. She drove the breakfast conversations with Harry, to his delight.

When she walked the city, she now recognized the hidden hostility of the people around her. She kept her head high, smiled and forced herself to exchange pleasantries with those too polite to turn her away. When she passed by Torsten’s stall, she made it a point to greet him.

It took her six weeks to master the northerners’ language, enough to understand and hold her own in most conversations. But the northerners’ culture? That was a different beast entirely.

“How can a man have a horse for a son?” she asked Harry as they sat in the great hall, a book spread out before them. The Nordic language flowed from her mouth, her pronunciation still awkward, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care.

Harry leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest as he pointed his chin to the book with an amused smile.

“Read it,” he said.

“I have read it, thank you,” Y/N huffed. “But it doesn't make sense. Loki is a man-”

“A god.”

“A man-like god. Sleipnir is a horse. How does that happen?”

“How did your Mary have a child, if she is a virgin?”

“That’s different!”

He laughed, and she could not hold back a smile at the sound. They’d been sitting in the great hall since lunch, going through all the books Harry had found that spoke of their religion.

“It’s so complicated,” she said, gesturing at the dozens of volumes stacked on the table. “You have so many gods, so many stories. It’ll take me years to learn them all.”

“You don’t need to learn them all. Just this one,” he replied, riffling through the book until he found the chapter he wanted. “This is the story of Freyr. We will celebrate him tonight at the feast.”

“Why?”

“He is our god of harvest, among other things. We have had good weather this year, and the crops were plentiful. It is right to thank him.”

He leaned closer, his shoulder brushing against hers. She sucked in a breath, face heating up at the shivers that ran down from her neck to her toes. Thankfully, he seemed to take no notice of her reaction.

“Look here,” he said. He gently took her hand in his, guiding her fingers to a specific paragraph. Her skin burned. “This part tells the story of how Freyr fell in love with Gerðr. He saw her across a field and was starstruck at once by her beauty. So he sent his servant Skírnir to her home, to ask for her hand in marriage.”

“His servant? He didn’t go himself?”

“Perhaps Freyr was shy. Either way, Gerðr refused the proposal.”

Y/N scoffed. “Of course she did! I would have said no as well.”

Harry smiled, his green eyes bright with amusement as he looked at her. His hand was still on hers, warm and rough from calluses.

“You would have refused a god?”

“I would refuse any man who does not have the decency to propose himself.”

He hummed. “That’s good to know.”

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat as her harried mind considered the possible meaning of his words. Was that intent in his eyes? Or was it just her imagination?

Lately, she’d been reading too much into each one of Harry’s words and gestures. His hand on her back, when he guided her through a door. The smile on his face when he saw her in the morning. How his voice softened when he spoke to her in the evening.

“What would you have done?” she asked. “If you were Freyr?”

He thought about it for a moment, his eyes never leaving her own. “I do not know. The only time I was ever in this situation, I handled it poorly. I’m afraid she’ll never see me the way I want her to.”

A weight dropped in Y/N’s stomach, and she cursed herself for being disappointed. Perhaps his attentions towards her had never meant anything, or he was flighty with his affections. Either way, she was happy to know before she made too much of a fool out of herself.

“So you see her still?” she asked. “This woman?”

“Every day,” he said with a sad smile.

Y/N frowned, quickly sifting through the options.

“Is it Saga?” she gasped.

Harry’s eyes widened, his mouth dropping open. Then, he reared his head back and laughed, holding a hand to his chest.

“No! What gave you that idea?”

“I don’t know! You’re never with any women except for her and your mother and sister!”

He laughed even harder, if that was even possible. Miffed, Y/N rose to her feet and stepped over the bench. “Mock me all you want,” she said. “I’m leaving.”

His laughter followed her all the way to the door.

-----

When Harry had told Y/N they would be honouring the god Freyr at the evening’s feast, she had imagined there would be good food, some prayers and maybe a bard, if she was lucky. A couple of animal sacrifices, maybe, a tradition she still found hard to get used to.

Her imagination, she now realised, was somewhat lacking.

The longhouse was filled to the brim, and it seemed as if every citizen of Kaldagr was under its roof. There was scarcely enough room to stand, let alone sit.

They had sacrificed three pigs and a lamb, and the priests drew runes on their faces from the animals’ blood. All very barbaric and fascinating. Harry had then given a long speech, thanking Freyr for his generosity and thanking his people for their hard work. Hedda and Astrid had sang a haunting hymn, their hands on Harry’s shoulder as he’d closed his eyes in prayer. So far, the events of the night had followed what Y/N had expected. A solemn, reverent night.

And then, the chaos had started.

Drums had been carried into the longhouse, the tables had been pushed back against the walls and the casks of ale had been split open. Y/N had quickly hidden in a corner as the celebrations started.

She was still in that corner, watching the pandemonium in the great hall like one would a play. There was Astrid, whirling in the middle of the room with her mother, their skirts pulled up to their knees so they wouldn’t trip. Near the doors, Robben was engaged in a poetry contest with Runa Ospakdottir, and seemed to be losing if the way his face reddened was to be believed. Saga was juggling her axe by the firepit, watched with rapture by a group of young children.

“Not in the mood to dance?” asked Harry.

Y/N was so used to his presence that she did not even startle at his sudden appearance. She grinned, stepping closer so she could be heard over the ruckus.

“I wouldn’t want to be trampled.”

“Come,” he said. “I’ll keep you safe.”

She shook her head.

“Wouldn’t you rather be with your mystery woman? Dancing is a wonderful way to make amends.”

“I know!” he laughed, and pulled her through the crowd. She stumbled after him, clutching his hand like a lifeline as he took hold of her waist with the other.

There was no steps, no choreography. She followed the beat of the drums as best she could, apologising between peals of laughter as she bumped into the crowd. She stepped on Harry’s feet so many times she was sure he would have a hard time walking the next day, but he didn’t seem to mind.

Harry gave her a curved horn filled with ale, which she swallowed down with a grimace. She asked for a second three songs later, then a third when Harry begged for a break at last. She danced with Saga as he watched from a bench, the warrior twirling her around the room with so much vigour Y/N felt like she was flying. She was passed from arms to arms, Robben’s, Astrid’s, men she did not know, then Harry’s again.

It was pure joy. The kind she’d never felt before, not even as a child. She forgot about Lothian, forgot about Torsten, forgot about everything except how good she felt, how happy she was.

Hours later, the alcohol caught up to her and a wave of fatigue crashed onto her. She sat by Harry’s side, listening to him as he spoke and laughed with his men. They were close enough that their shoulders touched, and she was too drunk to care about propriety as she leaned against him.

“Go to bed,” he told her when most of the crowd had left the hall.

“I don’t want to,” she hummed, blinking slowly at him. His eyes seemed even more green than usual, like the most precious of emeralds.

He gently bumped her side with his arm, gesturing to the hallway with his chin. “Go, Y/N. You’ve had a lot to drink, and you’ll be suffering for it in the morning. Sleep will help.”

She groaned, her head dropping. He helped her stand, then passed her to a servant girl who accompanied her to her bedroom. By the time they reached her door, Y/N was barely awake enough to thank the girl.

She tiredly slipped on her nightgown and dragged her feet to the bed, falling face first onto the covers. Her entire body ached and she could not find the strength to slide underneath the furs. Her eyes closed, her breathing slowed. Sleep, blessed sleep, was only a few heartbeats away.

And then, she felt it.

Something cold and leathery touched her foot. It rose to her ankle, curled around her calf. From the haze of her mind, alarm rose. She forced her eyes open, blinked away the fatigue.

Her heart stopped.

There, around the vulnerable skin of her leg, was a viper.

-----

Here is the second part, I hope you liked it!

Masterlist

#harry styles x you #harry styles x reader #harry styles x y/n #viking!harry #its-julia-in-outer-space writings

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disasterofastory · 3 years

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Relationship (Finan x Reader)

Relationship Finan x Reader Warnings: mention of sex

You are in a relationship with the Irisman.

“Stay,” Finan says, sneaking his arm around your stomach to keep you in place. “What?” You ask him, surprised. You let him push you down on the bed, grabbing the furs to cover you both with slow, lazy movements. “People in a relationship don’t sneak away in the middle of the night after humping,” he says, still organizing the blankets around you. The man’s voice is light and joking. He finds your reaction and uncertainness entertaining. He can’t wait to teach you everything about a good, healthy relationship, even if he doesn’t know much about it either.

You grew up as a shieldmaiden. You knew how to swing a small wooden sword even before you knew how to walk. You grew up training and fighting, and when your parents let you go to your first raid, your world became more focused on the battles, swords, and shields than ever before. That was it until you met Lord Uhtred and his men two years ago. They saw you fighting against their army. You almost danced in the crowd, killing others and protecting yourself. When the Danes lost the battle, the Lord had mercy on you, offering you a place among his warriors. And you took it. You traveled with them, fought with them, and… slept with Finan. At first, it was nothing uncommon. Both of you were drunk and lonely, and you found each other good enough to repeat your visits more and more frequently. It was something you were familiar with. A quick hump here and there, a few orgasms after a battle, and that is it. But after a while, the Irishman wanted more. Between the fights, drinks, and fucks he fell in love with you. And he was determined to show you that a relationship would be good for you too. Of course, it was not an easy thing to do first. You said no every time the man came up with the idea until he… didn’t care about you anymore. He talked to you, trained with you, but his visits ended, and no matter how many times you tried to seduce him, he rejected you. You were too stubborn to admit that you miss him, but after a while… You just wanted him, and if it means he kisses you in front of the others and spends the whole night in your bed, so be it.

“So… how does it work?” You ask him after a while, looking up at the ceiling. “What?” “A relationship,” you answer a little bit impatiently. Dealing with your feelings is an unknown terrain for you. It scares you and amazes you at the same time. Like the sex. It was much different since you said yes to Finan. He didn’t want it to end fast. He enjoyed your every curve and muscle and soft flesh. He turns on his back, reaching out to you to pull you onto his chest, caressing your shoulder. “Well,” he starts, and you can’t help but roll your eyes, hearing his too confident tone. “As you could see, the sex is much better, and you don’t have to move out of the warm, comfortable bed after it. And if you spend the night next to me, I have the chance to wake you up with kisses.” His voice becomes deep and seductive as he leans down to your ear. “Or licks.” Hearing his words, you squeeze your thighs together. You are still wet. Or again. Who knows? “And after we are done, we can go on our merry way, but I have every right to kiss you when we meet during the day. When the night comes, we wait for each other at home, horny and so full with love that we can’t wait to have sex, so we do it on the table, on the floor, against the wall.” You can’t help but smile, hearing his half-serious voice. His fingers are still dancing on your bare skin. “But of course, you have duties now.” “Yes? Like what?” You ask him suspiciously. “Like you have to kiss me every damn time you see me. But not just a peck. It has to be an all tongue and teeth kiss, so everybody knows you are mine. And the sex. I have a wild fantasy, and you have to be ready, and you have to be flexible,” Finan explains. “Can you place your legs next to your head?” You can feel his grin as he talks before you hit his stomach as he starts to laugh. He hugs you closer to himself. His voice becomes gentle, almost a whisper. “Being a relationship means that I am always there for you. It means you can come to me with every good and bad news, and I do everything to make you happy and satisfied until you get bored of me.” “Prepare yourself because I don’t think it ever happens.” You smile into the dark night, thinking of your future with the man who was brave enough to pull you into a relationship.

Taglist: @bailaycantaconmingo @solinarimoon @hxrzvf

#the last kingdom imagine #the last kingdom x reader #finan imagine #Finan the agile x reader #finan x reader

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westmoor · 3 years

Text

the hart

(«- the fox. «- the hare)

(3.6k, shifter!jaskier, geraskier. some angst, some anxiety, some whump and violence - and healing.)

Destiny had favoured him, or so he’d thought.

Jaskier had been a different creature then. For the creature he is now, the world has little mercy.

Whatever courage youth had given him, darting down secret alleys on daring quests in the streets of Oxenfurt, skittering past the guards of his childhood estate to chase whatever whims the night presented, it’s all gone now.

Driven out by the dying light of day, vacant darkness with its tendrils crawling closer, growing longer, lean and frail. Grasping until they find him, take and remake him, warping his body to this shape he doesn’t recognize. And at last, plunging his world into one of twisting nightmares, undulating breaths hot and heaving through the grass, and the shadowed beasts stalking, searching, as the last remnants of his fortitude slips away under his feet.

Silence, he thinks, is the only mercy spared for creatures like him.

Beyond the concert of the dawn chorus, the lyric of a nightingale at dusk, the mourning of wolves calling their distant brethren as the season grows colder, there’s another world of sound. Imperceptible to all but those that live in frequent danger, that hold their breath and press their bellies to the ground in fields and meadows, straining their ears for a sign to flee.

Sudden fluttering of wagtails and startled sparrows. Squirrels hoarsely chattering above. Watchful rabbits drumming in the thicket, ordering their children underground.

He tries to wield it, to wrap himself in it. If he stays in this voiceless creature long enough, breathes quietly enough, perhaps the savagery that trails the luscious scent of prey in his tracks will go on by, and forget about him altogether.

Perhaps if he is good enough, hides deep enough - perhaps he can forget, too. Forget about foxes and hares and men with infections in their hearts, about whichever sickness has taken hold in him.

Or perhaps his luck runs out, like it so often does for those whose lives are favoured more by chance than destiny. Then, well, that is just a different sort of silence.

But for Jaskier, when chance fails him and he finds himself outwitted and caught in the jaws of that ultimate mercy, silence doesn’t come.

Instead, what finds him is a threadbare cloak, a smouldering campfire, a red mare, and the steady hands of a witcher.

They make it back to the little clearing he had run from, Jaskier’s cloth-wound body bundled in Geralt’s arm like something precious.

As shock begins to lose its grip on his mind, peeling back the layer of numbness he’s been afforded, the pain comes seeping back. With every step and jostle, something rattles in his chest. His joints move, but they move wrong.

He doesn’t know if bones this brittle are made to heal, or if this is just a body built for breaking. The icy wet that trickles through his coat is almost a distraction.

It hurts so much. It should hurt more.

He doesn’t even have a voice to whimper in.

It’s not until he’s lowered gently to the ground that he realises where they are, recognizes the low-hanging branches and the saddlebags piled haphazardly where he’d last seen Geralt standing. Recognizes too the wave that now, his panic bled out into the musty leaves somewhere on the forest floor behind them, feels more like shame. Thought battles instinct in his frayed mind and he knows he cannot run, but he cannot stay, and -

And had he been an excess burden in Geralt’s life before, then now, surely -

For eyes as wide as his, meant to discern between friend and foe at a league, any feature this close might as well be cruel. The details of his face are unclear as Geralt leans over him.

But he does know movement. Feels the fingertip that strokes the divot in his forehead. Geralt speaks, but the tone is clearer than the words, and it isn’t harsh. While passing over dirtied fur, easing down his ears, the other hand moves into the space between them and makes a sign.

Just like that, Jaskier’s world grows small again.

Slowly, the phantoms crouching at his vision’s edge recede, forced back beyond the shadows of the trees, kept at bay by scant firelight. Mighty trunks stand sentinel, barring their return.

Gone is the endless sky and the swift death that soars there. Gone too are the open fields and the dangers that prowl them, pointed snouts pressed to the ground, wetting their tongues at the scent of his injury.

He only knows what moves within this temporary refuge - tonight in the forest, tomorrow in the field - and the rounded silhouettes of those that could, but would not harm him.

There is no grand reckoning. No speech or lofty monologue, no words to twist or tones to ring false. Geralt doesn’t beg for forgiveness, makes no excuses, but he talks - low and smooth, for as long as Jaskier is awake to hear it.

The words will have faded from memory by dawn, but their essence remains - the solemn promise made that night, heard by none but the tall pines, a red mare, and himself. The one wrapped around him like a cloak, applied in layers of soothing honeyed balm over claw marks and wounds before it is spoken into existence: That no new hurt will find him here.

It’s a tedious process, but Geralt is right: his body does heal. Though the first week or so is spent under a dim fog brought by his witcher’s hand, it requires a restraint he never knew he had to hold out until his flesh starts to knit together.

Once his bones grow strong enough not to snap under the pressure as they twist in their fastenings, he finds the gap between one form and the other, and wills it open.

The transformation, though not always voluntary, had always come easy. This does not. It feels like fitting an old key, like forcing a lock that’s threatening to rust shut, throwing his weight against it in the hopes that the bar gives before the hinge.

He takes his first breath in the ribcage of a man like one saved from drowning. It burns and strains, and he is dizzy with the sudden height - but relief floods him like a tidal pool, and drowns out every other sensation.

When he looks up, Geralt is there, holding his clothes and lute, the things he’d left behind when they became too much to carry.

That becomes a pattern.

I am healed, he tells himself, and tells himself until he believes it, once his shoulder bends and deep breaths come painlessly. He believes it when he sings the songs of great grey beasts and their mountain brothers, terrible monsters and greater heroes, piecing together their stories bit by bit.

I will be healed, he decides, and tries to forget the songs about moorhens’ clucking and black little paws through the dew. Putting those pieces together not because they fit, but because they must, and tries to lose the ones left over.

But more often than not, Geralt is there and he picks them up, one by one, and hands them back in all the right order.

“You weren’t a hare when we met,” Geralt states one evening, in a moment of relative quiet - as quiet as their evenings are, one tuning his lute and the other sharpening the hunting knife he’d just tried to give Jaskier a lesson in wielding.

As if conjured by the mention of its name, Jaskier’s heart sets to beating. Although many unsaid things had become topics of conversation lately, neither had tried putting words to that. He suppresses the nervous shudder that crawls along his neck.

“I’m not a hare now either,” he says, and though it’s phrased in jest, it’s a reminder more than anything else: That he is not prey, and he will not run.

Geralt dismisses it with a grunt, and Jaskier knows that wasn’t what he had meant. There was a question in that statement, one of the dozens he himself had pondered over years, though he’s not sure which one exactly. Luckily, they all have the same answer.

“I don’t know,” he says, and the pressure at the back of his throat and how the words in his head refuse to conform into sentences tells him whatever comes next will be a ramble. While he’s never had trouble speaking frankly, honesty is harder. !I don’t know when or why or… how. Not how it started, even. I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t - or when I didn’t - whatever I am.”

He’s aware that he’s stopped playing. Looking at his hands still poised over the strings, he wills the stream to slow, and tries to find solid ground to stand on. Geralt, bless him, gives him time.

“I believe it changed, though,” he continues once the whirling pool in his stomach has settled, when he’s less at risk of going under. “When we were in Rinde - perhaps later? I felt as though I’d come apart. Like a music box shattered on the floor and put back together, looking just like it had before, but the melody not playing the same.”

“In Rinde,” Geralt repeats, frown deepening with something akin to guilt. “Do you think the djinn, or Yen…?”

Jaskier has thought about it. Still thinks about it, when it all comes seeping through a bedroom window, when the sweet beckoning of the wind outside becomes curses. When it raps at the glass and taunts him for hiding his face in borrowed blankets or warm skin of a stranger, laughing at his cowardice. He remembers going out of tune, dissonant thrumming at his core at the disturbance of foreign magic.

“Yes,” he says.

But he also remembers Geralt’s gaze falling on another, losing the weight of it and coming unmoored. A beautiful sorceress, soft arms wrapped around rough, hushed voices ringing in unison. Seasons shifting and roads turning under his feet as he followed that to which he had tethered his dreams and aspirations. He remembers the scent of smoke and hunt and howl, and laying claim to a home, to a heart that wasn’t offered.

“But I think it was me, too,” he finishes. “I think the djinn - or Yennefer - or something may have pulled my pegs loose, so to speak. But the shape I took, that was mine.”

He’s always found it curious - if sometimes unfortunate - how words not intended to be spoken aloud but come by their own volition often seem to manifest more strongly than those initially planned. How much harder they are to ignore.

Curious, too, how a thing once named becomes tangible and must, at least in concept, adhere to the rules and limitations of the real world. How it can be touched and held, put away and taken out, turned over until it stops hurting.

The nights grow long in the wilderness, and the passing of summer shortens the days. And while he is no longer driven to bolt from his skin in fits that feel like madness, the whispers of the dark still tinge the air he breathes with the sweetness of rock-rose and blackberry. There are nights when it becomes inevitable, when he knows before the sun has set that the carefully balanced scales of temptation and trepidation will tip, and he will spend the hours of darkness trapped within this animal that cannot sing.

But even then, there is respite.

An index finger easing the tension of his furred head, careful strokes to coax his ears from their rigid stance, from turning at any sound real or imagined. Palms coming settling over his temples, roughened fingertips on bare skin, providing solid walls against all that feels too vast to comprehend, and reducing his world to just what can be held between two hands.

If the drumming of rabbits is his signal of peril, the signal of peace becomes the rhythm of a slow and steady heart, beating faithfully in the chest just beneath his ear.

It’s there, in the secluded space between their bodies where he draws circles to match the caresses over the small of his back, that he finds the courage to unearth the fragments of what he once was, mismatched bones and unmoored thoughts and instincts all he has been unable to lose, and starts to mold them back together into something recognizable.

As the thing that has sprouted and grown lush from the ruins of what was between them matures and turns vibrant, so do the leaves.

Autumn brings abundance the likes of which he has barely known. Roadsides overflow with wildberries to rival the richest vineyards of Toussaint. Cider sweet as honey pours in every tavern in their way, pressed apples picked from branches hung so low to the ground they must've sighed with relief at the loss of their burden.

Yet no sun-warmed apple cider shines as golden, nor has any Toussaint wine rendered him as drunk as his lover’s eyes or lips on his. At his side, in his arms, Jaskier finds the hollow indentations of a former self still vacant, still waiting. And the corresponding edges, worn smooth like river rocks over time, fall into place with such ease he wonders how they ever came apart at all.

There, safe under Geralt’s gentle touch, the wild may call all it wants.

Another forest’s edge, another contract, another waning moon.

Jaskier stokes the fire, tending to the warding light, wondering idly whether flames ignited by a Witcher’s sign hold more power than those lit by mere mortals. He likes to think they do. If he leans into it, he can easily convince himself of Geralt’s grounding presence remaining long after his footsteps are lost in the undergrowth. Behind him, Roach grazes in a patch of clovers, her calm tempering even the most skittish of his natures.

It is still, stiller than it has been for a while. The slight gale that picked up at the setting sun has dwindled to a breeze. He thought about unpacking his lute near an hour ago, but wouldn’t risk disturbing the sanctity of the evening, its melody would feel too far out of place in the arrangement of grasshoppers and midnight warblers.

Even to his human senses, animals of bush and green play in concert - from the whip of a falcon’s wings to the complaints of adolescent woodgrouse reluctant to leave their natal clutch - unknowingly orchestrated, and all of them distant. None, no matter their place in nature's hierarchy, dare test their mettle against the ever-present sense of death and danger that shrouds the dwelling of a witcher.

They stir and fuss, some waking while others settle down to sleep, until they don’t.

Jaskier’s buried instincts know it before his waking mind does, the urgent shift in pace and tune, discordant notes of prey’s first warning.

He listens intently.

It must be large, or voracious, or both. Seldom does a simple beast inspire such disquiet, word of its advances sending ripples of caution to every ear that knows to harken.

Be quick, they say, or be quiet.

Though he can’t make out the movements of the thing itself, the tell-tale cries and rattles of other creatures point its path. A bird takes wing, then another, each one closer and all too close to their camp.

Roach stands frozen, nostrils flared. He thinks he can hear it now. Smell the stench of its breath if he tries, make out its shape in there amongst the trees, moving with far too much stealth for anything that size. Too large for a cat, too quiet for a bear.

It closes in, so near now that a crouch, a leap, might take it into their midst.

Jaskier holds his breath. There is nothing else to do. Not as a fox, or a hare, or a man. Nothing to do but wait.

Whether real or supplied by imagination, he hears it scuff at the ground, draw a deep lungful of scent down into its massive body. And then it moves - away, back into the woods.

For a moment, he welcomes the silence, rushing elation that fortune has yet to claim his debts. But realization doesn’t follow far behind.

No wild thing would come upon a witcher by accident. None could miss the scent of one, and none should come so close to it before changing their mind, unless...

The lone hunter, whatever its goals, has picked a fresher trail: Geralt’s.

It’s ill-advised. More so, it’s stupid. The knife feels foreign in his hand.

He’s not such a fool that he thinks he can fight it, or that the blade or his ability to wield it would make any difference at all. But he must do something, needs to try. If only he can warn Geralt, call out in time and let him know before the beast can pounce…

But it moves fast, and his eyes are slaves to the light, inadequate under the ceiling of leaves and branches. Soon, he hardly knows if he follows it at all.

Every fiber of his being wills against abandoning this last shred of defense, but he knows he has no choice, not if he is to make it.

The knife lands with a thump, the soft ground cushioning its fall. For the first time in a long time, by his own volition, Jaskier shuts his eyes and folds his frame in on itself, opening them to a world tall and vast and all too sharp.

Speed is on his side. This is a body made for running, and run it does. By whatever force his kind is blessed, by fate or chance or both, nothing stands in his way. Though moments wasted on doubt comes at a price, and though he covers ground thrice as fast, he can’t gain it all back.

His vision is wide. The white of Geralt’s head, back turned as he brings his weight down to end the last of the ghouls, lights it like a beacon.

And the ragged shape, hulking even where it’s coiled to spring, attention locked to Geralt’s undefended back with an intensity that swears violence. Canine eyes do not glow, but in that moment, in his world of ash and shadow, Jaskier swears the werewolf’s eyes shine red.

And a hare’s cry, no matter his haste, no matter how shrill, holds no power to them.

He sees everything at once.

Glints of teeth under snarling lips as it jumps. The flash of the witcher’s blade as it swings too high, going clear of the werewolf’s head.

Its jaws lock at his side, tearing through armour and sinew into muscle, grating against bone. Jaskier has never heard a sound like this. Not from man, or from beast. Not from Geralt. It's sheer anguish turned vocal.

Something in him breaks, then.

Like an old joint, once healed wrong and calcified, cracking open to swing freely. It hurts at first. The snap, burning white-hot and blinding. And then: Euphoria.

His body regresses to the confines of a man, and beyond. The change is too fast to feel, too fast to track.

A new form, new instincts bursting through before he knows how to tame them. Fear gives way to fury. By the time he knows he is moving, he has already moved.

It takes no thought at all to lower his head. To align his skull and spine. Leap from his spot.

The impact ought to hurt, but it doesn’t. There’s an audible crack as something breaks, but not from him. Neither is the inhuman yowl that follows, sound reverberating through the forest.

The smell of blood fills his lungs. He doesn’t balk at it.

His face runs warm, runs wet. Twisting to free himself of frantic limbs and mottled fur, he shakes his antlers to strike again. This time, he finds the wolf yielding, limping back just shy of his sharpened crown. When it flees, he thinks to follow, to make up for every night and every hour spent in terror, driven underground by lesser beasts than this.

But Geralt’s scream still echoes in him, the sound of it a weight he cannot bear, couldn’t move under had he tried.

In the moment it takes to hesitate, doubt rears its head. Face awash and prongs painted red with the blood of another living thing, he feels about as far from the self he has learned to accept as one can come. To anyone else, he must look monstrous.

But when he turns, Geralt isn’t looking at him with disgust. Not with scorn, either. Or pity, or any other thing Jaskier had thought he’d face if he spoke the truth of his nature all those years ago.

Geralt raises the arm at his uninjured side. Had Jaskier been smaller, and softer, he would’ve slipped under it, curled up in the hollow at his witcher’s throat and stayed there, felt his heart beat and his chest rise until morning came to see them hale.

Instead, Geralt steadies himself with a hand on his neck and draws close. Giving more of his balance Jaskier than perhaps he means to, but no more than Jaskier can hold, his breaths so deep they might as well be sobs.

There are words to be had. Answers to be found. Leagues to walk, and promises to keep.

Soon enough, winter winds will sweep down across the continent, summons ringing from empty halls in far northern mountains, and they will answer.

But for now, Jaskier is home.

For now, the witcher leans his forehead against that of his hart - or fox, or hare, or bard - knowing that neither will follow that path alone.

At the edge of the woods and throughout the field beyond, rabbits cease their drumming, and the first few songbirds wake to herald the dawn.

Sorry for showing up half-assed four months late?

Tag list: @llamasdumpsterfire @stinastar @elliestormfound @justjess94 @fontegagrilledcheese @dani-dandelino @honeysuckletook @underwaterattribute @ahhhhhhdonna @biitumen @cinary @saphiramalbec @lilbanili @sulkyshengshou @blooodymoon @dapandapod @kuripon @samstree

@tsukuyomi-selene and @herostag asked to be tagged for this one in particular, I think?

#post before i chicken out #the fox #the hare #the hart #geraskier #the witcher fanfic #shapeshifter!jaskier #geralt #jaskier

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bokettochild · 3 years

Text

Perils of a Pumpkin Patch

Blame the lovely folks over at @ordonianhero‘s blog for this! This is on them and @mayonakaotsumami for creating this idea!

Time sighs.

He loved his pup, by some days, Twilight could be a real idiot.

“Explain to me what the problem is again?” The eldest hero shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose as Legend continues to cackle breathlessly, the veteran hero wheezing for breath that was only stolen with continued laughter, bent over and holding his ribs as he attempted to wheeze out words that continued to make no sense. “Deep breaths, kit.” He reminds, a small smile pulling at his face at the pure joy and mischief on the usually stoic teen’s face.

“I’m trying!” Legend’s breath whistles between his teeth, giggles continuing to spill out for a few minutes as breath after deep breath was pulled into heaving lungs.

“Now,” Time motions towards the vet, leaving the word hanging, it’s intent clear as Legend coughs lightly.

The vet’s face was still flushed pink, eyes sparkling with mischief that makes him look far closer to his actual age, the teen practically bouncing on his toes. “Twilight got stuck.” Legend chuckles, smirk setting in with an almost feral hint to it. “In a pumpkin!”

The old man blinked. Once. Twice. Thrice.

“I’m not sure why I’m surprised.” He finally forces out, shaking his head again as Legend all but dances in place.

“He needs our help.” Legend continues. “He’s in wolf form and if Wars sees he’s gonna lose it!” The vet cackled softly. “Honestly, I’m half tempted to tell him, but Twi says I owe him, and-” The vet shrugs easily. “He’s not wrong.”

“Alright, kit.” Time isn’t dumb, he saw the pink bunny hiding in the bushes, and he knows a shifter when he sees one. Legend’s aura is full of diverse twists and turns, but there’s the dark strain of a shifter that weaves in with the other unique abilities and powers, and he’d known the instant that Legend walked back into camp weeks ago with pink hair, aura flaring and still settling down again, exactly what had happened.

Callused hands reach over to ruffle the vet’s locks. The blue cap had been lost while they work the ranch, and it offers free access to fluffy pink hair, making the vet’s nose twitch as he darts away from the touch.

“Come on. We’d best get him loose.”

Wolfie’s head is indeed trapped inside of a pumpkin.

Time has to pause to hold back a laugh for a minute when he sees it, lifting a hand to his mouth to hide a smile that Twilight can’t see anyway from within the pumpkin prison. Harsh barks and whines echo from within the gourd as Legend saunters over, tone light and feet lighter as he moves towards the wolf, who’s paws push desperately at the orange walls around his head.

“Twi, I got the old man. Hold still so we can get that thing off of you.” The vet giggles slightly as he speaks, and a strained whine meets the words. Time can almost see his protégé's face, unamused and nearly a pout, and the thought makes his laugh lightly as he steps over, inspecting his trapped pup.

“Hylia, pup, you really got yourself stuck, huh?”

“I would have expected this of the Champion.” Legend teases. “Not you ranch-hand.”

Another strained whine sounds from the pumpkin headed wolf.

“Alright, kiddo, we’ll get you out.” Time is already rolling up his sleeves, inspecting the pumpkin and dog combo with a calculating eye as Legend stands aside expectantly. “Kit, grab the pumpkin, I’ll get the pup, when I say pull, dig those pegasus boots-” He cuts off as his eyes dart down to see that Legend is...barefoot.

One brow cocks, unimpressed, at the vet, who only shrugs off his stare. “They hurt my feet when I wear them too long.”

“Get new ones?” He blinks slowly.

“Doesn’t work.” Legend huffs, already moving in front of Twilight, hands working to find a grip on the giant orange gourd that traps Twilight’s head. “Flat feet don’t fit right in any shoe.”

“Right.” He’ll need to talk to Four about fixing tat problem later. “Well, get a good grip on the ground and pull, I’ll hold him back.”

“You act like he’s gonna charge me.” The vet snickers, and Wolfie’s whine joins the teen’s voice, nearly insulted.

“Alright, on three. One. Two. Three!”

Time’s arms lock around the giant wolf, but as Legend pulls at the lareg pumpkin the dirt underneath his skids and slips, and the vet’s feet fly out from under him, landing him firmly on his ass as Time snorts out a short bout of laughter.

“Switch.” Legend grumbles, but doing so yields the same results, Time’s hearty pull on the pumpkin only dragging Wolfie out of Legend’s arms and sending the vet face first into the dirt.

“New plan.” Legend groans, rubbing his sore backside as Time crouches to wipe mud off of the teen’s face.

“I could try and cut it off, but-”

Wolfie’s bark is desperate, and Legend frowns. “Might be our only option, pops.”

The vet is sent to run back to the house, faster than Time and needing to loosen up his limbs again after being thrown to the ground like a discarded toy, and Time is left with his protégé, a pumpkin clad head resting in hs lap as he runs his hands through the canine’s long fur, stifling chuckles each time he glances down at the orange mess in his lap.

“You really did it this time, eh Pup? What on earth could have prompted you to stick your head in there?”

Twilight’s wolf form prevents him from understanding the whine that echoes from the pumpkin, and the reminded of his protégé's plight only has Time stifling laughter again, shaking lightly when Malon and Legend make their way to the garden gate, Malon with a sharp kitchen knife in hand as she weaves around the entrance, light laughter floating on the air as she watches Legend climb the gate rather than walk through, the vet darting back over with a sheepish smile as he meets Time’s eyes.

“Mamalon wouldn’t let me grab any weapons.”

He wonders if Legend hears his slip, but there's no doubt Malon heard it if the way she smiles, pink tinging her cheeks as her eyes twinkle brightly while she crouches at his side.

“Good heavens, how’d he come by this pickle?”

“Only Nayru knows.” Time shrugs, and Wolfie’s despairing whine only adds to the canine’s shame as Malon gently pats his shoulder.

“Don’t you fuss, love. We’ll get you out of there in a sec.” Green eyes dart up to meet Time’s own. “I brought a blunter one. It should cut through alright, but at the most will poke him a bit if it hits him. I haven’t sharpened it in ages, so he should be fine.”

The eager and desperate wiggle of the wolf’s hindquarters and the thumping of his tail draws smiles to their faces, and Time nods firmly. “Give us your orders, ma’am.”

It falls to Legend to hold the pumpkin still while Time keeps the wolf inside still, and it’s Malon who carefully slices through the orange gourd, handing off pieces to the vet, who carefully places them in a clean pail to prevent spoiling them in the dirt. When Wolfie’s head emerges, it’s covered in pumpkin guts and seeds, and the mutts nose it dripping orange as he sneezes and huffs.

Black swirls around them as dog transforms back to Hylian, and then the ranch hand sit there, head, shoulders and hair covered in seeds while laughter rings loud and boisterous in his ears from the family around him.

“Right then.” Malon wipes some seed from her boy’s cheeks, laughter making her voice shake as he tries shaking off the rest of it, only succeeding in shaking gunk all over them. “Guess he’s free now.”

“This is utterly disgusting.” Legend grins, shaking orange off of his hands and back into Twilight’s hair, prompting a very wolfie growl from the rancher, and then Twilight’s launching himself out of Time’s lap and at Legend, pinning the smaller boy to the ground and shaking orange gunk and seeds all over the loudly protesting vet.

“I’ll run baths.” Time chuckles as he watches the two, helping Malon collect the last of the pumpkin’s flesh and the knife into her pail.

“You do that.” A chaste kiss is pressed to his lips as green eyes wink at him. “I’ll get back to the kitchen, we might as well have pie for dinner after all this bother.”

Her hsvand’s eyes light up, and Legend kciks at the larger boy on top of him, violet twinkling as he tries to meet their eyes. “Pie?”

“No! Please! No more pumpkins!” Twilight pleads, shooting around to stare pleadingly at the two adults, giving Legend the perfect opportunity to break free, the vet knocking over his brother and darting behind Malon’s skirts with a cheeky grin when Twilight’s midnight eyes turn to him with a scowl.

“You ruin a pumpkin with pay, I'm gonna make the best of the leftovers.” Malon scolds.

“There was a keese.” Twilight protests, almost whimpers, red tinging his cheeks.

Green, royal blue and violet stare at him, each blinking slowly as laughter breaks out again over the garden, Twilight’s protests and excuses snowballing as he tries, fruitlessly, to make the stop.

“Right.” Malon, scoops up one of the pails of pumpkin. “Link, I trust you’ll help our pup clean up?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Good.” Sharp eyes, rupee green, turn to the vet. “I hear you bake rather well; would you like to help?”

“He’s covered in pumpkin too!” Twilight protests.

Legend pokes his tongue out at his brother before turning an absolutely radiant smile on Malon, one that easily rival’s Warriors’ flirtatious one. “Lead the way, ma’am!”

108 notes · View notes

whatifyoulivelikethat · 4 years

Text

semicolon, m | myg

pairing(s): yoongi x reader

summary: He knew you. You knew him. Or rather, you both had an idea of the other, only to find that perhaps you connected on a much more carnal, animalistic level. It only took a hotel bar, New Year’s Eve, and the words, “Nice tattoo.”

warnings: rated M (18+) for language; alludes to attempted suicide; intense smut (fem reader, BDSM themes, semi-public exposure, restraints, nipple play, tit slapping, m-receiving oral, pussy spanking, doggy); non-idol!AU; rich heir, dom!Yoongi x tattooed, sub!reader; shifts back and forth between Yoongi’s POV and your POV

–

He was sure it was you.

You had tattoos now. A geometric lotus in your right inner forearm and a filled-in circle with a four-sided starburst around it on your inner left forearm. He observed you turning your head and there was a semicolon tattoo under your left ear. You moved your hair to cover it and nursed your rum and coke, alone. The tight black dress you were wearing was sinful at best. Closer to positively illegal with the way it clung to your breasts and squeezed them together. No one was approaching your table in this hotel bar. It was impossible to approach you when you looked that good.

You tapped at your phone, frowning.

He picked up his glass of whiskey and glided to you.

“Nice tattoo.”

You froze. Your eyes followed his finger, to your left forearm.

“It’s the symbol of the Sith Order,” you replied coolly.

“Star Wars?”

You lifted your head, raising an eyebrow. Beautiful makeup. Smokey eyes, red lips, your beauty marks visible. You hadn’t hidden them with foundation. He appreciated that.

“Yes.”

He set his glass on your table and slid into a chair. “Aren’t the Sith evil?”

You didn’t respond to that. Merely smiled at him, eyes sparkling with amusement.

“Do I know you?” you asked, tapping your nails on your glass. Matte black. Interesting.

To be honest, he wasn’t sure. You had attended to the same university. He could guess why you had the semicolon tattoo, because he had been in the hallway, witnessing the event when the ambulance took you to the hospital. He had been sleeping with a girl on your dorm floor.

Admittedly, not one of his proudest moments.

He cocked his chin to your right forearm. “And the lotus tattoo?”

You shrugged. “Just a recommendation from my tattoo artist.”

He took a slow, even sip of his whiskey. “Any more?”

You rested your chin on your fingers, placing your elbow on the table.

“You’d have to take me home to find out.”

Somehow, he did not think you were referring to your under-ear tattoo. He raised an eyebrow. “A woman like you, unclaimed? I can’t imagine why.”

You chuckled, lowering your hand to sip your rum and coke. “Perhaps it’s just personal preference.” You frowned, wincing, as if you remembered something unpleasant. “And perhaps it’s society who doesn’t like women who have their tattoos exposed.”

He thought about his fair skin. The many times he had thought about getting inked, but chickening out because he couldn’t think of committing to one specific image or words for that long. Perhaps he was fickle in that sense.

“Min Yoongi.”

He didn’t extend his hand, just stated his name. You paused, holding your glass over your cleavage, blocking it from his view. A moment of silence, a beat passing between your eyes. And then you gave him your name. Yes, it was you. The name had seen in the school newspaper the next day. The name that left the school, disappearing after the incident. He often wondered if you were okay. You seemed okay, looking at him with discerning eyes.

“You are the son of the owner of this hotel.”

Yoongi paused. He placed his glass on the table.

“Something like that.”

You raised a brow and placed your drink on your table. Expression pensive for a moment before you spoke again, tone light and playful.

“Well, perhaps you’ll be interested to know I just had a very unsatisfying one-night stand on the fifteenth floor, so I’ve come to drink the memory away.”

His lips curled into an entertained smile. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

You sighed and licked your teeth sharply. “On New Year’s Eve, too, no less.” You tapped your cheek with your index finger. “I suppose that means this year is off to a bad start.”

He looked at his Rolex watch. And then at you and your cleavage, breasts violently pushed together by your tight black dress. His eyes flickered back to yours. You were watching him carefully, aware of his traveling gaze. He smirked.

“There’s still time to remedy that.”

There was something about those eyes that haunted you.

You weren’t sure why, because you were quite sure you had never meant this man before. But maybe in a haze, in a dream? You tilted your head. Black hair, half-pushed back to reveal his forehead, dark eyes, pale skin. The kind of handsome that reminded you of midnights and moonlight, with a raspy voice to match. Expensive black suit with ironed lapels, black silk handkerchief in his breast pocket, patterned with the logo of a high-end fashion designer. Crisp white dress shirt, with a platinum tie clip on his slim black tie.

Well-dressed. Sophisticated. Dangerous.

You did not know Min Yoongi, but it felt like you knew him.

The entire time he was talking, you were watching his movements. For some reason, the heir to this hotel chain was speaking to you. You weren’t that special. That’s how you wanted it. The more anonymous you were, the less people questioned your actions. There’s no way Min Yoongi would know you. And why wasn’t he in the hotel club instead of this quieter, more low-profile hotel bar? Most people wanted to party on New Year’s Eve. The hotel was hosting a huge one at the moment.

You?

You just wanted a good fuck, honestly.

So when he offered, it surprised you. A lot of people would tell you that it was dangerous to have sex with a stranger. A rich man, no less.

But you were also the one with the Sith Order symbol tattooed to your arm.

Your lips curved to match his smirk.

“You got a room?”

He licked his lips.

“They’re all my rooms.”

It started the instant the two of you stepped into the elevator. Your long black fur coat was around your arms, shoulders exposed. No purse, because you had sewed pockets into the coat for your belongings. Less to lose this way. Yoongi had taken you to the back of the hotel, through dark hallways and shadows.

“Service elevator. Less people.”

You cocked your head as he pressed the up button, speaking again.

“Less paparazzi.”

You shrugged. “Someone has probably already caught you and posted it on Twitter.”

The elevator pinged and the doors slid open. You stepped inside and he shoved you into the wall, pressing his expensive suit into your body as the doors slid closed. Eyes on yours, hot breath in your face.

“No cameras,” he growled softly.

The numbers were climbing up, up.

Your tongue slid out as you tilted your head. You pressed it against his lower lip. His eyes were so dark they looked black in this lighting. So close to him that you were breathing in his exhale mixed with his pine-scented cologne.

“What are you waiting for?” you whispered. “Give me a taste of your power.”

Should you have provoked Min Yoongi? Maybe not, because his kiss sucked your breath away, his large hands coming up and holding you in place as he teased your lips, nipping at the thin skin, making you gasp into his mouth. He had you pressed into the metal wall of the elevator, one of his legs slipping between yours, thigh pressed into the hem of your short dress. Lips to lips, working you, teasing you with his tongue, not giving it to you.

He backed up a little, breathing down on you and your panting mouth.

“You bought this dress for someone else to take off, hm?” he purred, lips dark pink from kissing you.

“I brought it for the sole purpose of being taken off.” Your chest was heaving, ribcage constricted by the boning of your dress. “It’s not attached to a particular person.”

His hands slid down your head, trailing on your bare shoulders. Sliding into the fur, staring at your face the entire time. Drumming against the slinky fabric of your tight dress as if you were the grand piano and he was the pianist.

“It could be.”

Yoongi tilted his head, lips brushing against yours.

“It could be for me.”

One by one, his fingertips hooked under the hem of your dress, nails pressed against your bare thighs. His hands were cold, sending tingling shivers all over your nerves. Eyes half-lidded, smokey orbs locked with yours. Your lips curved into a succubus’s smile.

“It’s yours now.”

He chuckled, yanking the hem up and over your ass. Chilled air rushed to your naked thighs, your black lace, French-cut panties out in the open. He looked down at your quivering legs and then his eyes immediately fixated onto it. Another tattoo. You watched as Yoongi took it in, able to see it because the boldly printed script was on the space were your right leg and crotch connected, that dip of flesh right above your pussy. His eyes flickered back to you.

He raised his eyebrows.

“’Good luck’, huh?”

You grinned.

“Good luck.”

The elevator dinged.

A housekeeping worker with their cart craned above the supplies to look at you two and then immediately looked away, closing their eyes. Unmoving like a statue. Didn’t try to roll the cart into the elevator, didn’t say anything. They knew exactly who Yoongi was and it seemed like they knew exactly why you were there.

“Come.”

He didn’t take your hand. He simply removed his heat from you and glided through the doors like an elegant ghost. You followed, heels clicking on the floor before touching the carpet. Like your dress, your slim heels were the slightest bit uncomfortable. It kept you at attention and highly aware of your surroundings, even though you had a few drinks.

Your eyes traveled over the lavish wallpaper, the plush red carpet. Over-the-top intricate and extravagant that bordered on gaudy. This was the top floor. The penthouse. You didn’t have to go far. The entire wing was the room.

You wondered why he took you here just for a simple fuck.

Yoongi unlocked the door.

“There’s only one stipulation.”

“Tell me.”

You held up the condoms from your pocket.

Yoongi smiled.

He was going to tie you up.

You watched as he pressed a button and the metal bar descended from the ceiling, complete with leather straps. You raised your eyebrows. Yoongi watched your expression carefully. The bedroom was dark, only lit by moody red LED lights from behind the bed and low sconces. The color reflected off his pale skin, casting half of his face in shadow.

The button had been behind a locked panel. He was probably the sole owner of that key.

“You are welcome to leave at any time.”

He said the words without emotion. You removed your fur coat, placing it on the oversized black velvet armchair. Everything in the room was in various shades of black and navy, in plush fabrics or luxurious leather.

“You spend a lot on your hobbies,” you commented.

Yoongi smirked.

“Sex is a performance.”

Your eyes connected. He removed his blazer. Like all of his movements, it was a swift and practiced manner, with two fingers hooked around the collar as he walked towards you. He tossed it on top of your coat. Now Yoongi was right next to you, your black dress still bunched around your waist. He did not have a particularly oppressive presence, but it was more like the company of the ocean. Expansive with unreachable depth, strikingly beautiful, and would have absolutely no qualms in drowning you.

Yoongi made sure your eyes were on him.

His long fingers deftly removed his cufflinks, sliding them into his pants pocket before slowly rolling up his sleeves. He was wearing multiple silver bracelets on each wrist, no rings. He folded the crisp white fabric up to his elbows, revealing his lean forearms. He had nice hands. Pampered ones.

“Scared?” he asked casually.

You reached up to the hook-and-eyes at the front of your dress. His eyes followed your movement. One. Two. Your words complimenting the removal of each one. Your breasts slowly relaxed from their prison, held in place by your free hand holding the top of your dress so you could travel downwards.

“Fear is natural,” you whispered quietly. “It is merely a tool in the realm of the strong.”

Yoongi’s lips curved into a slow smile. “Do you intend to speak like that the entire time?”

You chuckled as the last one was undone. “No. I’m only informing you I’m a bit of a masochist.”

And then you released your hand holding up the dress, causing it to unfurl and slide down, stopping at your hips and flaring out like a flower.

Yoongi wondered if you did this all the time.

He wondered if this was a product of your life experiences or your instinctual nature. He watched as you slid the dress down your thighs, letting it fall to the floor. You stepped out of it, only in your heels and panties. His teeth sunk into his lower lip.

Yoongi had taken a lot of people to this room. All strangers. Never one he knew from the past, no matter how insignificant. That made you the exception, even if you didn’t remember. His memory was still so vivid to this day.

He let his eyes roam over your body. As he predicted, you had great tits. The dress accentuated them after all. There was another tattoo. Script on the left side of your ribcage. You noticed him looking and turned slightly so he could read it. He had to think. It was in English, like your crotch tattoo, although that one was easier to translate.

“’The world is quiet here’?” he echoed.

the world was written so it was only visible from the front, is visible from the side, and quiet here visible from the back. Printed a typewriter’s font, no punctuation, the placement deliberate and thought-out.

You smiled. “Book quote.”

Yoongi liked it when you smiled. He reminded him of his own, a little hesitant but self-aware of your own quiet confidence. He lifted his hand and placed it behind your head, guiding you to him.

“You are very interesting,” he murmured into your mouth before he kissed you again. Tasting like rum and coke mixed with oceanic blackberry. He had smelled that scent before, although not on skin. He recalled the counter of cologne, the glass bottles with the unisex design. High-end.

On your skin, it smelled like sex itself.

He slid his tongue in between your soft lips, running it over your teeth. Drinking in your gasps, taking it all. He liked it when you breathed into his mouth too. You let it out like smoke, drifting into him. Your hands came up to hold onto his upper arms, steadying yourself. He liked the feeling of your hands as well, the way each finger curled around to grip him tightly. His thrust his tongue in and out, slowly, each moan chaining to the last. His hands in your hair, tangling it up, making a mess.

Yoongi opened his eyes just a crack. They landed on the tattoo in your left forearm, the filled-in circle with the four-sided starburst.

What had made you get a symbol like that tattooed to you?

He pulled you along, still kissing you, towards the metal bar. Turned you around, kissing down your jaw to the back of your neck. His hands slid down your hair, tracing your spine. Fuck. Such a beautiful back, with a lovely curve, so perfect to bend over. He dug his nails into it and you whined under him.

Yoongi didn’t bother asking you if you wanted it. You had a mouth; you could use it.

And you were grinding your ass into his crotch so, clearly, he didn’t have to ask.

He folded your arms behind you, forearm above forearm, tying you to the metal bar with the leather straps. One on each of your wrists, one tucked in the inside your elbows, binding them to each other and then all to the metal. He did not want to cover your tattoos but he had to. The position had you bent over, ass sticking out, tits hanging down, back slightly arched.

“Do I need to secure your waist or can you hold it?”

You turned your head back and raised an eyebrow. The curve of your profile, so perfect against the red light.

“What you need to do is fuck me already.”

He grinned.

Yoongi pulled up a chair and sat down right in the front of you.

You gave him a slightly annoyed expression. He smirked at you, placing his fingers on your chin, lifting it slightly.

“I thought you wanted a satisfying fuck?” he drawled.

“And yet nothing is happening.”

“Foreplay is just as important as pounding your pussy.”

You suddenly felt his other hand ghost under your nipple, palm barely grazing it. You tried to drop your body into it but were stopped by your restraints. Yoongi cocked an eyebrow amusedly. You narrowed your eyes at him.

“What are you waiting for?”

His thumb slid up your chin. He pressed it into your lips, forcing it open, rubbing your tongue with the pad of his finger. You made a disgruntled noise, saliva collecting where he touched you. You tried to close your lips but he held your jaw down, grip strong and immovable. Spit was trickling down your chin, covering his fingers and dripping onto the floor.

“Waiting for you to give in to me,” Yoongi murmured huskily.

Your heartrate accelerated disconcertingly in your chest. His dark eyes on yours, consuming you, keeping you in this slightly uncomfortable position. And you wanted it. You could feel it, the heat inside you, stroked from embers to full-blown fire, because somehow Min Yoongi could see right through you and knew you wanted what he was composing.

This midnight was his.

He seemed to know that you came to this conclusion. Maybe your pupils were dilated. Maybe it was your shallowed breathing. Maybe it was your trembling body, shaking at his touch. He removed his wet finger and slid it down your collarbones, smearing your own spit on you, before cupping your breast, squeezing it. You sucked in a breath, moaning his name softly as his other hand matched the first, kneading your breasts, rubbing your nipples with his palms.

“Y-Yoongi…”

You gasped as you felt his wrists slide up and the chains of his bracelets scrape your sensitive nipples, blooming pinpricks of pain over your chest. His palms came back, soothing you, his dark eyes intensely focused on your face, not looking away. His fingers pressed into your skin and he closed them in on your nipples, pinching them hard enough so that you could feel it, but not so hard that it was unbearable. He held you there like that. Seconds ticked past. Long, grueling seconds that felt like hours.

Yoongi was very calm about it as you slowly unraveled in his hands.

You body began to move involuntarily, raising your chest so his fingers pulled on your nipples a little. He still did not move his hands. You couldn’t go far with the metal bar digging into your back. He watched you try different things to get more stimulation, fingers motionless. If you moved too much, you were afraid he was going to let go and not give you more. You craved more. Needed it.

“Yoongi, please… Harder…”

His dark eyes were hypnotizing you.

The position of his fingers changed. He clamped your nipples between the joints of his index and middle fingers. You yelped, back banging against the metal. He pressed his thumbs against the hardened nubs, rubbing them harshly. Expression unchanging, forever on you.

“I thought you wanted it harder.”

His voice was deep, calm, with a hint of raspy delight. The sensation was a stark contrast to what he was doing before, shooting sparks of pleasure through your body. You shuddered, bucking into it, knees collapsing a bit as he stimulated your nipples.

“Hold.”

A single command and your knees locked to obey, entire body shaking. Yoongi pulled your nipples towards him, pushing your breasts together as he did so. Your back had to curve abruptly against the cold metal bar at his action. He lowered his head, trailing kisses along your collarbone. You whined, his touch hard and lips soft, eyelids fluttering as your nipples slipped out from his fingers. His large hands quickly twisted to cup your tits, keeping them up and pushed together as he kissed down the curve, nipping sharply at your skin. Leaving small red marks all over, sucking at some points to bruise you.

He didn’t need to speak. His lips told you everything, travelling all over your breasts hungrily, your swollen and abused nipples waiting, patterning your skin before his tongue snaked out.

“F-fuck, Yoongi…”

The pink tip pressed against the inflamed nub, pushing it around delicately. Strands of black hair framed his sculpted brows and those dark eyes were on you again. He closed his lips around it. Your eyelids slid closed, feeling the softness of his mouth and his tongue swiping all over, swift circles.

Then he sucked, hard.

Your eyes flew open, jutting your chest into his face. Yoongi chuckled in his throat and continued to suck, pulsating around your nipple, scraping his teeth against it. One of his hands came up and matched the rhythm of his mouth, tweaking and assaulting your other nipple forcefully. Your core throbbed with need, soaking your panties so much that they stuck to your folds. The scent of your arousal was getting stronger and stronger, a heavy sweetness.

He released your nipples abruptly and you gasped, feeling him lick a fat stripe possessively over your tits. Saliva dripping down, coating them all over. He removed his hand. You panted, trying to catch your breath.

“What’s my name?” he whispered quietly.

You lifted your trembling head, hair covering half your face. Your knees felt like jelly.

“Y-Yoongi.”

He slapped your tits.

You yelped, his open palm creating hot friction on your abused nipples. It wasn’t a hard hit, but an expansive one that covered a lot of surface area. It was obvious he knew what he was doing. Pain trickled throughout your body, pussy throbbing with need.

“Again.”

“Yoongi.”

He slapped you again, from the other side. You shuddered, sucking in your stomach at the sudden pain that seemed to swallow you up, but somehow it didn’t really hurt, instantly morphing into tinges of arousal. It was probably the way he was looking at you. His appearance was bored, but his eyes were trained onto your body, ink-black pupils shimmering with power in his dark brown irises.

“Again.”

Your eyes dropped down. He spread his legs. It was like he knew what you wanted. His erection strained against his tailored black slacks. It was impossible to hide with how closely fitted they were to his body. Your eyes went back up to his face. His expression was still unbothered.

“Yoongi,” you breathed, the clearest you’ve sounded yet.

Smack! You whined at the force, back against the cold metal. Smack! A half-moan, a half-sob as you felt his bracelets scrape against your skin. Smack! Your breasts banged together, softness against stinging softness, and it just felt so good as the pain crawled through your nervous system, devastating you. Your head was arched back, staring at the ceiling, mouth open and panting.

Yoongi reached up and pushed your head back down. He used his other hand to trace your lips, smeared with lipstick and saliva.

“I’m going to fuck this hole now.”

There was a short silence. He was waiting for you to say no.

You didn’t say anything.

Yoongi stood up and unbuttoned his pants right in front of your face. Your eyes followed his fingers as he unzipped them. The flaps opened and his cock fought against the smooth fabric of his boxer briefs, swelling as it was released from the confines of his pants. He pressed it into your nose and you inhaled his scent, oppressive and erotic, making you moan hotly against it.

You wanted it in you so bad that your juices were leaking down your thighs.

You felt his palm caress your head, smoothing your hair. He rocked his hips into your face, humping your open mouth. You pressed your tongue against his clothed cock, whimpering at how close it was and yet so far. His words drifted down to you in a low growl, teasing and domineering.

“Good luck.”

He removed his hardness from your face. Your eyes flickered up to him, a smirk on your lips. Yoongi matched your devious expression, pushing down his underwear. His cock sprung up into your vision, overtaking it. Oh, fuck. The head already dark red, leaking pre-cum. Veins standing out along the length, waiting to be stroked by your tongue. It was the hottest image you had ever seen, Yoongi’s smug face above you, his stiff cock so close to your lips that you could feel the heat. And fuck, he smelled so good, as if his pine cologne, his skin, and his arousal made an unholy pheromone combination that made you open your mouth, exhaling hotly over the glistening head.

Yoongi shoved it into your lips with one swift stroke.

You reeled, expanding your throat as he buried himself into it, sucking in a tight breath. It was a skillful, deliberate movement, one that didn’t jar your gag reflex immediately. You had plenty of practice from former encounters to not gag at first instinct, but Yoongi also seemed practiced, as if he had shoved his dick down many throats before.

His large hand fitted around the back of your head. Not moving.

His taste overwhelmed your mouth. Your tongue slid around expertly, running down the length, moaning around him. His eyes were closed but you could see his pink lips curve upward. You closed your own eyes, squeezing him in your throat as your tongue rubbed along the veins, pressing him into the roof of your mouth.

“You do not disappoint,” Yoongi sighed in satisfaction.

He pulled out a little and your tongue instantly went to the head, licking slow circles all over, teasing the opening with your tongue, spreading it out before sliding under to stimulate the thin skin between the head and length. Yoongi moaned above you, your name finally falling from his lips. You did not realize it would have such an effect on you until he said it. It made your thighs clench and pussy throb, agonizingly forced to wait until he was done with your mouth.

He began to thrust into your face, slow but forceful, tipping your head back a little so the head stroked against the roof of your mouth before hitting the back of your throat. You took it, helpless, bent over, knees aching as he fucked your mouth, almost lazily. His hand had a firm grip on your head, pushing himself in over and over.

“Keep it tight for me,” he murmured. “You’re doing so good.”

You closed your lips around him, meeting the base of his cock, your cries muffled and vibrating along his hard length, adding stimulation. You looked up, seeing his tensed jaw, pleasure painting his features, eyes closed. Yoongi wasn’t trying to get off fast; he was trying to build it to a crescendo, and your mouth was his tool to do it. In, out, in, out, each time a little rougher, a little more force. Rubbing your throat raw, jaw aching, but you were so focused on the soft pants coming from his lips that you didn’t notice.

“Your mouth is so perfect,” Yoongi gritted out, rocking his hips a little faster. “So soft and tight.”

His eyes opened halfway and he noticed you staring at him as he fucked your mouth. He inhaled sharply at the sight.

“So fucking sexy,” he mumbled. “You want to swallow me?”

You hummed needily in response, gazing imploringly at him. He smirked.

“That’s what I like to hear.”

He rolled his hips, faster, harder. You noticed the muscles in his neck tense, his hand gripping you tighter as he chased his release, fingers digging into your scalp, his cock trembling in your wetness as you sucked your cheeks in. Yoongi clenched his jaw, eyes closing again. His hips smacked into your face repeatedly, your name a low hiss as he thrust particularly roughly into your throat, the head being choked by your wet vise.

“Fuck...”

Sudden, jerking strings of cum shot down your throat, painting it white, pumping straight into your mouth. You swallowed hard, barely able to take a breath before his cock violently shuddered, filling you up with more of his salty, thick taste. He held your head as you gulped around him, groaning as he felt your throat close in on the sensitive head continually.

“That’s it…”

His fingers curled into your hair, lifting it away from your neck and collecting it behind you so he could look down at you drinking his orgasm.

“What a pretty picture and all for me.”

His eyes honed in on the semicolon tattoo under your left ear.

It flexed and moved as you swallowed, flickering in and out of vision as the small dangling black gems on your ear hid it. His eyes slid back to your fucked-out face, struggling for breath but being denied by his hold on you.

You might have a personal preference when it came to being single, but Yoongi was a rapacious man, and he wanted to own your mouth. He doubted he could buy it with money, but perhaps he could make you addicted to him. He pulled out of your lips and you whined deliciously.

Inwardly, he grinned like a devil.

Yoongi leaned down and lifted your head, kissing your swollen lips. You kissed him back, starved and hungry for his softness, his gentle touches that were matched by his roughness. Did you always look this good? He wanted you beside him so he could study you, so he could push you to your knees whenever he wanted, so you could resist him and so he could teach you a lesson.

But you deserved the fuck you had asked for. He could smell how turned on you were and he had promised after all. His tongue slid into your mouth and he tasted himself, a familiar taste that somehow tasted better when it was mixed with your saliva.

Yoongi did not think he was going to invite any more strangers into this room after this.

He broke the kiss. Your eyes on him, burning him to the core. He removed his shoes and socks, standing up. Stepped out of his pants, still wearing his shirt and tie. He kept them on as a sign of his power over you. You looked so perfectly submissive, just like this. He had to move out of your line of vision.

There was no way you knew what he was thinking, but he still didn’t trust himself. He did not want to get carried away. He had a job to do.

And that was to fuck you.

He moved around to your quivering legs, seeing your soaked panties. Not commenting, but his cock twitched seeing it, knowing it was him that made you this way. His fingers closed in on the top of them, yanking up. You jerked you head back, moaning hotly at the action. The black lace dug into your skin, seeping into your slick folds. He kept his voice measured despite his desperate need to shove himself into you right now.

“Count to four.”

He dug your panties into you as he spoke and made you whine as he pulled from side to side. The delicate fabric was ripping a little.

“One.”

He spanked your pussy with his large palm. The sound was loud and wet, traveling throughout the entire wing, along with your scream of pleasure. Yoongi was getting hard already listening to you. Even in the low light, he could tell your pussy lips were becoming puffy, reddening. His hand was smeared with your juices and he resisted the urge to lick it.

“Keep going,” he nudged gently.

He heard you panting. “Two.”

Smack! The sound, the sound, it turned him on so much as the lustful moan was torn out of you, your raw throat turning it almost feral. He twisted your panties in your slit, watching the fabric tear slowly against your inflamed skin, drinking in your squeals and whines as he tortured you.

“T-three.”

Slap! His fingers were coated in slickness, watching the wetness splatter between your legs as he hit you. Your ass was backing up into your panties, trying to get more, stopped by the metal bar. If you wanted him to stop, you wouldn’t have uttered the final number, gasping it out hurriedly.

“Four.”

Smack! Yoongi slapped the hardest yet and your knees buckled, almost sobbing. He shoved your kneecaps with his, locking them back in place. Your legs were shuddering hard, barely holding up, but your mouth was telling him a different story, choked gasps of pleasure.

“Fuck, Yoongi, yes…”

He pulled your panties down. They were practically ruined by his grip. That was too bad; they were quite beautiful. He intended on buying you new ones. Perhaps he could come with you to select them.

He paused for a moment to grab a condom, holding it in his hand before returning to you.

“Yoongi, p-please fuck me…”

You craned your head to look at him, the perfect profile. He raised an eyebrow.

“Fuck me with your pretty cock, p-please…”

He stared down at your gorgeous back, the peeks of your tattoos in his restraints, your ass stuck up in the air, pussy lips swollen and leaking from his spanking. He couldn’t see it right now, but he knew the ‘GOOD LUCK’ tattoo was there, right next to your pussy. Yoongi wondered who the artist was.

Perhaps they had been lucky like him.

He felt a surge of annoyance.

Yoongi stepped up to your ass, lifting his cock and pressing the length against your wetness. You started, almost moving away.

“It’s not in you.” He kept his voice even. “You will know if it was in you.”

He exhaled quietly as he rubbed his length and his balls against your wet slit, keeping the head away from you. You were warm, soft, and so, so slick. He was semi-hard, but he could feel himself getting harder as he pressed your ass around his cock, fucking the crevice between your cheeks. He knew it would be better inside you, but for some reason he needed to punish you a little. Needed to let you know that he was irate that there were others before him, that somehow fate cheated him by not having your paths cross sooner.

There was nothing you could do about that, but Yoongi didn’t care.

You were moaning under him, hips pushing back to meet his thrusts, your pussy smacking his balls, coating them with your lubrication. He closed his eyes, letting himself enjoy it. Fuck, you had a nice ass, malleable and lush in his hands. He wanted to own this ass too. You mouth, your tits, your ass.

He knew he would want your pussy too once he was in it.

“Yoongi, please…”

He pressed his fingers into your skin, sliding them inward. Held his cock carefully so it wouldn’t leak on you as he retreated.

“Ah, you’re right,” he purred. “You’ve earned it.”

He opened the condom, sliding it on. His cock jerked in his hands, already desperate for what was to come. He was the kind of man who lived under so much discipline that he knew nothing else. Although life could not be controlled, he could control himself and his emotions.

Yoongi pressed the head against your entrance. Sucked in a breath.

Sank in slowly.

Oh.

God.

Yoongi was not religious, but he swore he saw glimpses of heaven the second his cock was fully enveloped by your pussy. It was tight, it was soft, and each ridge clenched around him, roughly stimulating the head after he had mildly edged himself with your ass moments earlier. You pulsed around him, constricting him inside you as the base of his crotch touched your abused pussy lips.

“Fuck,” he breathed.

He needed to own this pussy.

Yoongi pulled back and shoved himself back in, gasping at the tightness. It was not because you weren’t turned on. It was because you were clenching around him, pressing your walls inward to choke his cock and, if possible, his cock became harder knowing this, harder as he heard you cry out in satisfaction.

“Yes, Yoongi, yes…”

He began to fuck you, rolling his hips into yours, trying to keep it slow and steady to drive you crazy, but to be honest, he was done for, because Yoongi had never experienced such power, never had a body fuck him back with such force, never heard such delicious, desperate mewls of need as he thrusted into you, slamming your hips together with loud squelches. It was probably a lot, his cock hitting you deep and your pussy already sensitive from his spanking, and yet you told him to hold you tighter, fuck you harder.

“Use me, Yoongi,” you gasped. “You feel so good, fuck, Yoongi, your cock is so fucking good…”

How did you know all the words that made him weak? How did you know exactly how to sound to make him want you more? And you took it all despite your shivering legs, despite your tits violently bouncing with every thrust, despite him pressing down on your lower back to hit you deeper. He watched you throw your head back, a long sinful wail slipping from your lips, hair flaring out like fire and you came all over his cock, pussy spasming and clenching around him.

Yoongi’s eyes widened, hips ramming into you. The head smacked against your tightest spot and he saw stars, the pleasure hitting its peak and plummeting into him, taking his breath away. He shot aggressively into the condom, pumped out by your pussy clamping down around his length, sucking it all out. His eyes rolled back into his head with how good it felt. This had never happened to him before. The moans of his name rang in his ears, encompassing him as his cock twitched inside you, the perfect combination of sound and sensation.

If Yoongi ever heard your voice again, it would be synesthetic experience for him, because he would remember this sound and this feeling for the rest of his life.

Outside, the clock stuck midnight, and fireworks overtook the sky in thundering booms.

“Was that a satisfying fuck?”

“Very.”

Yoongi reached over and tucked a spare strand of hair behind your left ear. You sat in his lap, in the armchair with the windows wide open, revealing a perfect view of all the fireworks overtaking the moonlight. It was a bit wasteful for your taste. Not that good for the environment. Yoongi informed you that he would look into more sustainable alternatives.

He pressed his lips into your neck.

“The next time you want to stay at one of my hotels, I will make myself available.”

You chuckled. “Can you afford a pause in your schedule?”

You could feel him sucking a red mark into your skin.

“What else can I do when a member of the Sith Order visits?”

You laughed and he smirked against your newly-made hickey.

same au as exclamation mark !

punctuation au dom!myg and jjk | period . | comma , | question mark ? | apostrophe ‘

masterpost

#yoongi x reader #yoongi x you #yoongi smut #bts smut #min yoongi x reader #min yoongi x you #min yoongi smut

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maladaptive-ninja-returns · 3 years

Text

Into The Thick of It (2)

Loki x Female Reader

Chapter 2: The God

Series Summary: Her work as an agriculturist nearly takes the readers life is not for a stranger (and his weird looking dog) who later turns out to be the God of Mischief. Thrown into a completely different realm, you want to figure out a way home while trying to stay out of the way of this literal God. But fate has its own plans for the two of you.

Written for @tarithenurse and her #Taris1Kchallenge

Warnings: sexist remarks

Word Count: My jaw is selectively pounding now that my wisdom tooth is out and the stitches are in place. It feels so weird because its not like you can simply scratch an itch or around the itch in some way.

MASTERLIST in bio, darlings. Tags are open (check bio)

"How does this look?" Zaira is holding up a green dress that goes down to your toes in length. You give the deep shade a once over and turn back to your laptop. "Meh." Zaira tsks. "I mean-" you breathe and give your attention to your friend- "it's okay. For you. For me?" You shake your head and shrug before trying to discreetly get back to the screen. "Bullshit. You look amazing in green." You try to find the mouse on the screen. "Are you sure?" The question is bland. "Of course! No one can carry this like you! And for the sake of all things holy, stop looking at your death again and again!" Your brows furrow at the statement, turning back to Zaira, who still stands there with the green dress, except for one thing- the usual workspace of white and grey is now replaced with an eerily familiar dark forest with trees trying to touch the sky. "What?" It is nothing more than a whisper, this word erupting from your lips at the change in scenery. Your mind is at the edge of a realisation waiting to erupt when your hand feels an unwelcoming heat. The immediate reaction is to get your arm away from the laptop, or at least that is what you think you are doing considering the last saved spot of this occurrence in your memory. But there is no laptop. No chairs or tables. Just a bonfire in front of you and your hands covered in blood and tied in ropes tearing through your flesh. And beyond that fire are figures in the dark chanting verses that are alien to your ears. But just as the chanting grows louder, you can feel a cloud of dread begin to loom of your heart; growing bigger by the second. Zaira! You are screaming her name but your voice isn't audible and you cannot see her anywhere either. Zaira!! You call out for her again when the figures seem to be getting closer to you, the anxiety in your chest beginning to hurt even more. ZAIRA!!!

The loudness of her name in your conscience jerks you awake with the dread transported straight out of your hallucination. Still breathless and sweating from the nightmare, your head pounds at the sudden jump to the reality of finding yourself lying under a fur skin as heavy as you inside what seemed like a tent. From where you lay, the roof is a muddy beige colour dense enough to block sun or rain. Turning your head to your right, you can see a side table housing a copper goblet along with a copper jug. I hope to the Gods that water. I don't care if it's laced with poison at this moment. Turning to your left you are taken a little back to see familiar golden eyes staring from the copper jug back at you, so close that that saliva ridden tongue could lick you if it wanted. "Hi," you greet the familiar creature from the night of your nightmare, your heart still trying to dilute, resting by your side. The creature tilts its neck a little before you can see its tail rise up and swing from side to side. Such a doggo. You try to get up- with much effort, thanks to this animal duvet weighing just as much or maybe more than you- and breathe the cold air around you. Even though the anxiety of this recent incident is still looming around you in the corners you don't want to look at, it is a relief to feel the quiet around you. And the weird doggo looking at you seems to make those corners lighter, convincing your heart that it all ended not so bad at some point. Moving the fur duvet off you to get to the water on your side, you suddenly find yourself quickly putting the fur back on at the momentary realisation of something major amiss, bringing back all that anxiety that was watching you from the corners. "Where the fuck are my clothes?" you whisper right at the doggo despite knowing that poor thing can only swing its tail whenever you look at it. "They were tattered beyond repair." The voice immediately brings your duvet up to your chin before your eyes dart towards the entrance in front of you. No fucki-oh. A woman with skin paler than the pale described for Bella from Twilight stands at the entrance of the tent with a bunch of warm clothing. Her eyes carry a hint of grey and muddy green in them. She takes it upon herself to have already gotten permission to walk towards your side and place the clothes she has got in front of you before going back to secure the entrance. "You were fortunate to be alive in those deadly woods of the dark," she mentions while taking a thermos out of her dress and pouring the contents in the bowl kept on the makeshift table; all the while with her back towards you. You, still cautious of the eyes around you, slowly snuck the clothes inside the duvet to put them on. Only when putting them on, you realise the lack of a bra or panties; just a loose cotton camisole in their stead. ...okay. Maybe they didn't know my size. You look back at the woman busying herself around the tent. All you can see is the huge- and seemingly heavy- overcoat made out of an animal. Or maybe they...don't have the resources? Great, Y/N. Go be a judgmental b for the people who saved your life. The gown is a deep blue shade that neatly wraps around your shape and is put in place with the hooks, the last step being securing it all with the one string tied in what only you would call a bow. "So, it was you who saved me last night?" The woman brought you a bowl with steaming hot stew, bursting out in laughter on hearing your question. You stand there watching her immediately suppress the laughter as if she had been caught red-handed for a grave crime. "My apologies for what you just saw. It was not me who saved you." And before you can ask who it was, the woman gathers a wide bowl filled with water, a couple of hand towels and two bowls of what looked like homemade ointments, and walks out of the tent. You are about to go thinking about the materials that woman just took away when the only being you are familiar with, gets up from the bed, jumps down and struts out of the tent. "Wait...don't leave me," you whimper in a low tone, gathering a bit of strength to walk out right behind him. . The clearing in the forest has been turned into a camp with soldiers bustling in any direction you look. Swords, bows and arrows are being used for practice in one corner and the same are being mended in the other. Helmets akin to the ones Vikings wore can be seen on top of many heads. So can the undercut and braids. "Is this a cosplay fair?" you ask the one guy who passes by close to you. He is nearly the same height as you, but with a lush red beard and hazel eyes. He- and his two friends- observes you from head to toe, almost making you realise how out of place you already look. "This is a war camp, missy. One where you have no reason staying." You mock a laugh at the audacity of this person. "I will decide the reason for my stay myself...boy." You start to walk away, trying to find any familiar figure in this quite realistic cosplay village. But last you remembered, there has been no such fair going on in the vicinity of that cursed town. A heated hand captures your arm and forces you to turn around. A wince comes out of you and flashes of that gory incident move before your eyes. Especially the face of that man. The Viking guy takes a step towards you, not letting go of your hand in the first wank. "Sigmund! Who is this wench with a quick mouth?" Sigmund, the taller of the three men, with bulky features and a sharp nose huffed. "Someone who needs to learn her place, Kare." "Aye," the last of the three speaks, "she does not look like help. Not in that silk she wears." Kare smirks through that unruly beard of his. "Why, are you that prince's mistress then, lassy? Is that why you came out from those royal tents, eh?" Kare turns towards his lads to laugh, who had slowly gathered now to watch the show, giving you something new to be anxious about. Agni, on the other hand, makes his way through this crowd to come and stand next to you, observing the situation. "Fucking dogs," you whisper under your breath- which you are trying your best to stop from trembling- and begin to walk away again but Kare is already hopping in your path. "Why in such a hurry, my lady?" He bows and turns towards his lads to let his words be heard by everyone "Give us unworthy lads a chance to find out how well you warm the royal beds, eh?" But the 'lads' seem to be having a sudden seizure. Either that or the joke did not seem to register. A sudden movement behind you and all the eyes staring past you assure you in your heart that it is the former one. "Your lads do not seem to find that funny, Kare." A voice not too deep but certainly somewhere right under the surface with a weight that can be felt in your bones, speaks from right behind you, freezing you where you stand. It takes some time for you to turn around and look at the source of the voice. And once you do, you realise how tall this man stands. His pale skin is radiant and his features sharp. You could draw straight lines just by referencing his cheekbones. His black hair- perhaps the only one with black hair in this cosplay fair- is neatly braided in braids at each side and the rest of the hair left open. What shampoo does he use? "I pity your mother and sister," this man continues, "for meeting your lads in an alley someday and being asked the same question." He does not stir his gaze from Kare, constantly piercing through that man's existence without so much as a smile. "Apologies, your grace." Your grace? You turn to watch Kare and his buddies drop their heads down and then it hits you. Your grace?!!! Your head whips around with the air of surprise as you watch this man in a new light. I mean, yeah, he kinda looks like a...'your grace'. "It is not me you should be apologising to." He doesn't even blink. He is as stoic as a boulder and everyone here revolves around him. "Apologies...my lady." The words bring you out of the trance that this man's face has created for you and you turn to watch Kare bow to you along with his 'lads'. "Ansa!" the man calls out for someone, finally turning to look at you. You have to catch your breath when those green eyes bore into you, the stare not too piercing and neither too soft. Just balanced. But damn the skies for it is making you lose your balance somewhere inside you. "Yes, my lord," the familiar lady comes out of the crowd to stand before him with her head low. "How is the weather today?" He simply puts the question. Within seconds you realise what the question really is about. You try your best to stand still in this chilly weather despite the sun high in the sky but it is as if he can smell the chill off you. "It's cold my l-" she realises it too, running to the nearest tent to grab a fur coat just like her Lord's and put it gently on your shoulders. "My apologies, my lady. Apologies, my lord." "Are the armies ready for the west front, Aren?" "Yes, your grace. Two battalions are ready to march to the mountains. They wait for my signal." Aren, a tall ginger with soft features gives a warm smile when you look in his direction. "Very well. Go for it then." And with that command, Aren walks to the space vacating in front of you, spreads his arms and transforms into an eagle to fly up and away beyond the nearest mountain. You are left with your jaw unhinged as you try to make sense of what just happened, turning towards the man in charge here; all the while pointing at the sky. "H-how?" "Walk with me..." that commanding voice a couple of minutes ago has transformed into a soft tone that captures a completely different personality of this man. "Y/N." "Y/N," he repeats the name as if to memorise it, and lets his arm gesture you towards the direction you are asked to walk. "I am Loki, of Asgard. Pleased to make your acquaintance." "Asgard?" you wonder the name out loud, confusion visibly dripping from your face. "There is no place by the name Asgard on the maps? Is this further north in the Alps? Wait...are we still in Norway or did we change countries?" The guards by the biggest tent make way for Loki and you to enter. Unlike the place you woke up in, this one houses everything fit for a king. From the bed to the cutlery. And everything has a colour theme going on for some reason. A real deep shade of green. Even Loki's fur coat carries blues and greens as if they had been specially plunged from the deepest corners of the oceans on earth. "Y/N-" he gestures you to sit down on the settee by the foot of the bed while he pours you wine in a goblet- "I have to tell you something. Be kind enough to hear me out before jumping to conclusions." You take the glass from his hand and sit down on the settee. Oh! cold hands! Is he okay? It's really chilly out there. "What?" You wait for him to start. Loki stands by the conference table and faces you, his hands working with each other as he looks at them before finally letting his gaze meet yours. "You are no longer on earth. You were transported to Asgard last night during the Pagan ritual, where you were conveniently made a sacrifice, and would have died if not for Agni hearing your prayers and tearing that scum apart." Silence. Loki’s features show no emotions when he narrates the reality to you. In fact, he waits for a reaction from your end, carefully studying those y/e/c eyes as they blink at him in unadulterated innocence, turn away to look at Agni and then come back to him. Ultimately, you take a sip from the goblet, letting the wine go down your throat, the involuntary reflex of tasting something not to your liking naturally coming over your face. Waiting for a few seconds, you bring the goblet back to your lips, this time gulping down the contents within a breath. "Okay." Loki looks at you with a focused glare before tilting his head a little. "Okay?" You nod. "Are you-" Loki pauses to come and sit down in the chair right in front of you but at a respectable distance- "okay with everything that I just told you? All the parts of it that do not make sense to a human?" You breathe in a lungful. "Oh, Gods! No. I am overwhelmed at this point. To even consider the fact that I am not currently on earth and that I was about to be raped by an eighteen-year-old cultist if not for your wonderful doggo and you, I am considering. Because now that I look at you I completely put you in the silhouette I saw last night. And I thought this was some adult dress-up show going on until a legit person just turned into an eagle and fucking flew away right in front of my eyes. I mean...it would take a good amount of CGI to actually make that happen just in the movies, forget real life. And if I am not on earth, the thought of getting out of doing mindless labour because your boss is an asshole is very appealing, mind you. Even though that means I have been thrown straight into a pit of testosterone-filled sexist Vikings who look like they will pounce on me the first chance they get. So...yeah. I am...I...uhh...have decided to shut my brain down till-" you simply shrug before breaking into nervous laughter and bringing the empty goblet back to your lips, raising it as far as it could go before it decided to release a drop into your desperate mouth. Loki blinks at you before breaking into a smirk that he hides from your eyes. It feels like he has watched you slowly crumble a little within the last few moments when all you did was talk. He has noticed those shaking hand movements and those trembling lips that force a smile to show they are doing absolutely fine. He has observed that shift of your fingers to scratch an itch on your exposed neck and that movement of turning that sole ring made out of iron in your index finger; hiding your anxieties in the rotations of that little circle. And now he watches you trying to dissolve the incoming anxious winds in alcohol. He knows this look too well. The look of fear; fear of the unknown. Loki raises his hand to you. "Allow me to refill that. With something better." You watch his hands and make a mental note of those long pale fingers and how good they would seem wrapped around anything. "Something better? I don't think Asgard could provide me with a Long Island Iced Tea or a Jeager Bomb. Or a Zombie." Loki simply chuckles and you find yourself stuck on that toothed smile of his. Is he the same guy who was dragging his soldiers in the mud like anything? Taking the goblet from you, he gets up and walks towards a little cabinet that opens up like a medieval bar. "I sympathise with you being so far away from home. But I can assure you these...Vikings will not touch you or even think about pouncing on you ever." You furrow your brows and let your arms rest on each side while you tilt your head a little in question. "They know it better than to even think about what I claim as mine." You feel little chills go up your spine at his words, your legs going one over the other as you wiggle away certain scenarios from your mind. Damn! He should write dialogues for the entertainment industry. "Excuse me, sir," you press while raising your brow, "I may have fallen on your royal highness' land but that ain't making me anyone's property...considering this is your property." You cannot see it from where you sit, but the God chuckles at your audacity of raising your voice at him. He comes back to you with your drink. You notice that this time it is not the familiar red wine waiting for you in the goblet but something relatively darker and comparatively with a more medicinal odour. "No one will harm you. Agni will make sure of it. Isn't that right, beast?" You turn to watch Agni sitting right next to your feet, immediately wagging his tail at the mention of his name, contently growling as assurance. You notice how familiar this creature look to the Pitbulls back on earth. Give them pits some pointed skeleton for their backbone, a pair of horns and huge canines and these two breeds will be a copy of each other. "And we will find you a safe passage home once we reach back to the city." Home. unfortunately for you, the first thing at the mention of 'home' is the rush of crude flashbacks from last night of that horrid nameless town. No matter how hard you try to breathe in, the scenes keep on coming. Both Loki and Agni seem to sense the uneasiness creeping onto you. Your racing heartbeat and uneasiness of breath can be heard by them as clear as you can. "I hope you were not too attached to your clothes. I had to tear them apart to treat your wounds," Loki announces, gulps his herbal drink and walks towards the entrance of the tent. "Yeah, no problem. They were just clo-wait what? WHAT? You-" you get up and lower your voice for the fear of any third person hearing it- "you tore my clothes?" He nods with the most neutral expression you wanted to punch. "Yes. As you mentioned, they were just clothes. And nothing I haven't seen before. Now come on." You wonder whether to be relieved or angry with this one. Putting that thought on the back burner to simmer for a while, you gulp down the goblet without breaking any eye contact with him. "Where are we going?" "To get you out of your clothes again," he states without skipping a beat and you have to question all the good you have thought about him till now. Son of a bitch! What an ass- "You stink. About time you took a bath."

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jadelynlace · 3 years

Text

a dead woman tells no tales / vikings fiction

series based on Lady Lazarus, a poem by Sylvia Plath.

chapter two / read chapter one here

synopsis: He left you for dead and now you’re back.

author’s note: the one small detail the reader has, is that she is a red head. smut below the cut.

pairing: Ivar x Reader

✄

There was an ache your feet contained, moving out of memory down the path but you could not recall why this one seemed to be so long. It was childish, your torment and exhaustion, heavy and foul in your heart but you moved forward, incurable search looming across your eyelids. “I will get help,” were the last words Ivar had spoke to you, the last time you were both in the realm of relishing in a life ahead. You spent many nights in those rocks, the moon looming over you and help never came. The tale that churned through the village at the time was how you wandered off into the woods and never returned back out. A victim of the elements, or hungered animals, perhaps gone to another establishment. You wondered who believed the petty story, especially since you knew of the best routes to take through all forests and hillsides from your upbringing. You ached to know why Ivar never brought back help.

The center of how the flowers bloom always caught your eye—spreading for their destiny to be taken away in the brisk spring wind when it would roll through. Your invisible business helped the sun stretch a bit higher, the sky lighting with the same passion that drove back your arrow; the relished sight of her reflection in the puddle of blood. Perhaps you could splash in it before the beasts had gone to lap it dry.

“You have been quiet for a woman of your beauty,” A sudden voice drew your immediate attention, your spot close to the woods that held your secrets as you watched the display of celebration before you.

“I have been watching,” You answered.

“And what is it you are watching for? How to enjoy a moment of celebration?”

“I am watching,” You repeated.

“When you have finished watching, perhaps you would care to come to my quarters,” The man finally spoke, curling the tone of his speech to lace your hair, intertwining the strands of amber.

“I would care not,” But your simplistic spite fell on ears that had long since been drowned with the mead, the man grabbing the neck line of your garment and lifting you.

“I am tired of chasing you to no avail. You are a fighter as I have seen, fight back,” He demanded, pushing you to lay across the ground, clad of covered feet stomping towards how you are positioned for him. “I would like to see the fight you speak of,”

“I watch and I learn,” You hissed, brushing the soot from the fabric of your clothing.

“You do not learn to fight by observing,” He laughed as you stood.

“You learn weakness,” You answered, still not backing from how his eyes watched you: how the silk of the dress hung to your breasts, how your fingers were long and nimble, neat and clean nails and he imagined what else your body could offer.

“Just like how everyone is weak to the end of a blade?” He snickered, the flash of the metal dancing daintily in his grasp.

“Yes, just like how everyone is weak to the poison in their mead,” You promised, a simple smile adorning your face as you crept back into the darkness of the night; only tossing a final look as the man began to gasp, his organs curdling as his body crawled towards his grave.

You visit Ivar’s quarters at night, dawned down the great hall as you creep along the floor. Ivar seated around an assortment of furs as you press the door open to catch him.

“You haunt me,” He say lowly, a gaze torched through the blue eyes he owns as he has his head tipped towards where you stand.

“An evil spirit would haunt you, Ivar,” You state, “A spirit that wants revenge...have you done something you regret?” You ask, your feet taking you to the ledge of the place he sleeps, but his hiss simply stops you.

“I regret nothing in the path to greatness,”

“Do you regret not getting me help?” You finally ask. His shoulders sag briefly before he straightens himself up, a thin line of artwork catching the faint glow in the orange cast of the lingering fire. “Do you regret not speaking the truth about what happened?” Ivar only swallows thickly.

“Is that why have you come all this way to me? For revenge? Or for a different ending? I will kill you myself if that is what you are seeking,” Ivar growls as he raises. You notice the weight on the pillar he holds, how the legs he held so much hatred for are covered with iron as he clunks towards where you stand.

“I would like that Ivar,” You whisper as you watch Ivar’s face contort: his brow creasing to a sudden look of sadness as he catches the flames that crackle behind you. “You will do great things, Ivar the Boneless, but I have seen the gates of Valhalla, and they offer nothing that I can not get for myself now. I want you to remember one thing Ivar: everything always returns,” You hand moves on its own accord towards the chiseled cheekbone, streaked with petty battle scars but he flinches quickly from your touch.

“What have you done with the woman I once knew?” Ivar asked when his eyes finally catch yours. “I am a cripple and you…” His voice trails off as it dances between you two, soaked up completely by the moonlight. “You are back,”

“You need to rest Ivar. I will be gone in the mornings, and you can go forth,” You answer watching Ivar cast a look to where his body should be stationed: gorged in the warmth of the fur as the nightmares swamp through his mind for another night, but instead his hand catches yours as it retreats back towards your hips.

“You are back,” He repeats as the tone softens to such an extent you consider perhaps, someone else in the room is speaking for him. “Would you lay with me?” Ivar requests. “And give me that to remember on my voyage back?”

The room wafts against your nose the smell of him, you cannot explain the scent that has always reminded you of the man you knew, but your search for it came with no promises until you had moved to be next to him. Another couple of logs placed along the amber flames before you hear Ivar groan softly as the limp limbs he carries finally halt their torture to have their rest. The shine of his blue eyes are on you as your feet carry you back, a quick clicking from his tongue halting you in your attempts to pass him. Leveling to his gaze, he taps his own shoulder as your mind catches clue of his poem regarding the fabrics you wear. You carry on the next few moments untying how your dress has been formed, pulling the ends before it drops to your feet. Ivar’s eyes do nothing other than widen at the sight of your body bare for him, the clean, close shave of your mound and the lone traces of the injuries undetectable in the low light.

There’s a scream in your mind to climb over him, smother his body with yours and bloom pleasure between the two of you. There’s an even fainter call to struggle with him, stuffing the furs into his mouth to suffocate the voice that had been calling in your dreams since the nights you spent in the field. You body can do neither as his eyes fixate on you, a soft turn of his head as you find him studying you in beauty, your body written in a language for him to decode.

“What caused that scar?” He asked suddenly, finger outstretched to the crease across your hip bone as it slithered across the supple flesh on your inner thigh.

“A blade,” You response as you hear the man before you chuckle.

“A blade from whom?”

“A man who tried to have his own way with me,” You replied. “More than once,”

“Is he dead?” Ivar asked lowly.

“I poisoned him,” There’s a sick grin that claims Ivar’s mouth as you speak before him, a tick in the bones of his jaw as you spin the tale on to him of your efforts to harm anyone who has tried to harm you. Ivar must wonder why you have gone so long and spared him.

“Lay with me,” Ivar finally repeats, pushing back the mounds of fabric across the bed. As you round the structure, folding your dress neatly to rest across the far table, you still feel the climbing sting of Ivar’s gaze over your bare back. Trickling down the swell of your behind and over your legs, catching your chest in the light as another low hum slips on account of his studying. It does not take too much more of his wordless expressions to send the faint glint of arousal to slide through your womanhood, slipping across the plains of your thighs as you settle near his body. Ivar makes no motions to touch you, sliding down as one arm rests behind his head, the other caught in a line over his chest.

“This does not seem of something that would be memorable, Ivar,” Your voice catches his brows to raise as you too rise onto your forearms. “May I?” You ask as the pads of your fingers come to trace along the hardened length of his arm. He hums in compliance as you turn the limb from your path and gather yourself to rest along his chest, his arm coming back to circle you as half of a halo. His other arm wastes no time to complete the path as you sigh, breath fanning across chiseled muscles and lingering ink. He seemed stuck on how to continue, his arms still resisting to trace your body before you peak up to look at him. “I am not fragile, Ivar,” You whisper. Ivar turns his head slightly to catch your eyes, the faint pooling of the ink across the blue oceans as he watches you rise again, a throw of the blankets back before you’re across his hips.

“You misbehave,” He says to you.

“You bring it out in me. Do you not wish to lay with me like that Ivar?” You ask. But you get no immediate answer.

“You know that answer. But...there are many things you have missed in the time you have been away,” Ivar starts. “I—” But his words die against his mouth as you press your lips along his, sinking a quick pressure of your teeth into his bottom lip as you pull away. Room is limited as Ivar’s arms stabilize you against his chest, holding you there as if he fears you will simply float from his grasp before his mouth is hot against yours. The faint rocking from your hips catches him as his lips falter, his hands not ceasing as they explore every trace of your skin. “You will be disappointed,” Ivar whispers softly enough you almost miss his sentence.

“Can you not feel it? How my body responds for you Ivar?” You ask puzzled the lone pressing of his prick takes your notice from where you have your body spread. Ivar’s mouth parts as you grind your cunt where he grows, his head sinking back across the furs with a simple low moan of your name. You want to peel away the rest of what covers him, but the closer you drew to his lower legs the further Ivar went from you. His eyes situated with lust as your finger danced by his knees quickly dissipates until you pull your hands back to his chest. “Let me pleasure you, Ivar,” You say sweetly. “I will not undress you any further,”

Before you can sink down across him, Ivar stills you, watching how your breasts pebble to his touch, slipping his hands between your legs as your wetness collects along his digits. Your moan is matched with his alike, impatient to continue with his thumb still circling your clit, his own way with you tingling the sensation to bloom at your tailbone as your thighs start to shake. Ivar’s name falls from your lips in a moan as he studies you while you come, the simplest pressure from him still causing such a delicious outpour. You can feel his cock twitching, aching to be touched with the fluid pebbling from its head. Through still pleasure drunk thighs you sink across him, the sting of your walls spreading catching you to halt before he’s fully inside of you. A watchful face of concern as you hiss briefly at his size, finally sheeting him fully inside of you. Your tightness stills Ivar completely, a low moan dribbling from his lips as his chest heaves, tensing through his abdomen as your fingers dance over him. As the pain fizzles to spread a hum of glorious pleasure through you, your hips move on their own, Ivar’s hands gripping your breasts as they bounce slightly, your head tipping backwards. Still stuck watching you before you lean closer to him, his mouth hungrily taking yours as you feel him move his own hips towards you.

No words are exchanged, soft noises from both of yours mouths to be eaten back up again as you feel another wave roll towards you. Ivar’s arm lock around you and your climax hits you, his own pulling a release from his shaft as he fills your walls with his lips still stuck to yours. Breathing each other’s scent in as the final flames go out with the smell of sex through the air. Ivar makes no hurry to have you leave him, his cock softening as you nuzzle his cheek.

“Why must you leave?” You find yourself asking.

“I have a kingdom to return to, my people and my queen,” Ivar suddenly admits.

“You have wed?”

“Yes,” Ivar answers as you slowly pull back. “I told you that you would be disappointed. Freydis is with my child,”

“Freydis?”

“Yes,” His answer pierces your heart, not out of the sorrow of having then lost him to another woman, but of the battles you know he has no knowledge of. You laugh suddenly, a joyous giggle, trying to move away but he stops you. “Please stay, Y/N,” Ivar whispers.

“She is not with your child Ivar,” You find yourself suddenly spitting from your lips, wishful that you could stop them as your laughing dies to an end. “She has been laying with the baker’s son, and she is with his,”

Tagged:

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#vikings #vikings fiction #vikings au #ivar the boneless #ivar lothbrok fanfiction #ivar lothbrok #ivar au #ivar lothbrok x reader #ivar ragnarsson #ivar ragnarsson fanfiction #ivar ragnarsson smut #ivar ragnarsson x reader #ivar x reader #— i am i am i am. ( my writings & creations )#a dead woman tells no tales

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whitherliliesbloom · 3 years

Text

lights, camera, duty commenced!

[ ffxivwrite2021 ] ★ [ masterlist ] ★ [ prompt #14 - commend ]

[ illya, g’raha & emet ] ★ [ 2,263 words ] ★ [ actors au ] passing mention of some friend’s ocs and illyanaud

commend: praise formally or officially

behind the scenes of the critically acclaimed long running tv show, final fantasy fourteen, g’raha tia is (almost) inconsolable after he reads the final act’s script

The not-so everlasting light shining down feels radiant and warm, but not scorching. In the distance, one can hear the push and pull of the tides from the nearby lake, as well as the rustling of the purple hued leaves that hung and swayed ever so gently upon the trees. A light baby blue canvas with dusty cotton candy clouds crowns lakeland, painting the perfect, serene vista for an uneventful day of shooting.

Though, Illya has to remind herself, as she looks up at the peaceful sky, and sighs in contentment that she was in the completely wrong headspace. Even though the sky above was bright and undoubtedly beautiful on this fine afternoon, she knows that all it takes is for a little bit of compuer-generated television effects magic to turn the tranquil landscape into a scene of naught but utter devastation and war.

Think termination. Think termination. You’re in the middle of a large-scale battle between Elidibus and the people of Norvrandt. The tone’s supposed to be somber and tense. You’re the warrior of darkness. You got this!

“Oh.... How could this be...?”

Her train of thought is rudely interrupted by the sorrowful moping of her co-actor, and she has to resist the urge to chide him for dragging his early morning sulking all the way into the afternoon.

“G’raha, please...” the lalafellin sighs, though cannot help but to let a sliver of sympathy slip into her tone. “The next scene’s starting soon.”

“I know, I know... But...” the man heaves a heavy sigh, hanging his head low and letting his arms drop onto his lap so dramatically she’d almost thought that his flesh really was made of crystal and wasn’t just a product of the hard work of extremely talented make-up artists. “I can’t help it. I can’t believe that my poor crystal exarch is-”

Illya can say she at least empathizes - though perhaps not to the same extent. She’s been casted into roles of characters who would meet an unfortunate demise later, but to be fair, they weren’t often major characters within the narrative of the show or film she was playing a role in.

The crystal exarch on the other hand, has played a key role as one of the many recurring supporting casts in the show. He’d lingered in the background as early as the first season, and was, to G’raha’s jubilation, finally given a main role in the fourth season they were filming.

Only to be killed off in the final act - succumbing to the crystallization of his entire body, from head to toe, in the throne room of the crystal tower after the warrior of darkness’ battle with the ascian Elidibus. His death scene was to be an emotionally poignant one... and Illya herself has spent the last few days getting into the headspace of the protagonist - who would understandably be utterly devastated by the loss of a dear friend.

It didn’t help that the crystal exarch was a considerably popular character within the international community of fans - and his significant increase in screen time was due in part to fan demands... though that perhaps made his long foreshadowed death even more of a cruel irony.

And there was nobody in the world who was a bigger fan of the crystal exarch than the actor who played him himself. It wasn’t narcissistic either, in their line of work, it’s easy to get attached to the roles they play... even more so when they’ve hovered within the headspace of their character for as long as 6 years - she would know, Liliya Liya is as big a part of her as the crystal exarch is for G’raha now.

Thus, though she felt the urgent need to get G’raha back up on his feet in preparation for the remaining scenes on their schedule to film... she could not bring herself to so callously talk down his very real and personal attachment of a character he was meant to portray well anyways.

“Oh come now... you should’ve seen this coming.” with a swagger in his step and lazy grin plastered over his expression, Emet Selch strolls over to the pair.... far too comfortable within his own role that he was speaking with Hades’ signature slur in his speech even while out of character. The man has always noted just how similar he was to the god of the underworld, and Illya wouldn’t be surprised if he’d claimed to not even be acting in his scenes at all.

“I...” G’raha pouts, looking up at Emet as his ears flatten atop his head. “I guess I was in denial of it. I thought they would maybe subvert expectations... but-”

“But that wouldn’t be a very compelling story to tell, now would it?” The older man shrugs, and Illya regrets to think that she’s inclined to agree.

“I guess not..”

The robed miqo’te man sighs, and she notes with an amused raise of an eyebrow as his tail that had once been tucked tightly to his side was now swiveling from side to side and puffed up in annoyance.

“Still! They could at least let him go out with more of a bang! Maybe... after he has a solo action scene... or give him a kiss scene to make things more dramatic!”

“Is defeating the big bad and saving the heroine not dramatic enough for you, already?” Emet’s voice is in part mocking as it is exasperated, his arms thrown up to his shoulders in a shrug. “Also I hope you didn’t mean a kiss scene with Liliya.”

“W-what-?? I-” Illya’s mouth hangs agape.

“No! I wasn’t thinking anyone in particular, honest. Besides, she’s already caught in that love triangle subplot with the twins, isn’t she?”

At the mention of the topic, the lalafellin woman’s smile fades.

“D-don’t remind me of that. I’m really not looking forward to acting those scenes out.”

She’s already read the script for the fourth season in it’s entirety... and though she has incredible respect for the masterful writing and the wonderful character dynamics that has only gotten better with each passing season... she has never been... entirely comfortable with the romantic aspects of the scenes involving the elven twins. Scenes of the pair vying for her attention, scenes where she held hands and even got unsettingly close to kissing them...

Though, she will admit... her own uncertainty over her competence in filming those scenes are a result of her own, very personal emotions... something of which Emet Selch seemed to be more than aware of.

“Is it not because you harbor actual feelings for one of them? Would having scenes of you being close to him not be a blessing for you, then?”

The miffed glare Illya’s shoots up at Emet rivals moments of shadow possession Liliya experiences throughout the show, and he can only shrug with a cocky grin as her star-spangled swirl with indignation. Anger aside, heat is spreading across her cheeks in the form of a burning red hue that reaches the tips of her short, pointed ears.

Please stop.

Her expression spells out. She’s as annoyed as she her frightened about something.

Oh dear.

“Relax. Workplace romance here is nothing new.” His words only serve to worsen the already infuriated gleam in her blazing, shimmering eyes. “Mint certainly isn’t shy when it comes to showing she’s in a relationship with Estinien. Nor your friend Laurelis for that matter. She’s still keeping in touch with Haurchefant, no?”

Illya doesn’t say anything, but her silence and the paling of her complexion speaks louder than any words she can spill from her lips.

It’s precisely because he doesn’t know. So please, please shut your mouth.

He still cannot understand why on earth she would stay so adamant about keeping her feelings a secret anyway. For all he knows, the entire cast of actors... and the whole final fantasy crew for that matter, was fully aware of their pining - and Illya’s feelings towards her close co-worker and friend wasn’t unrequited either.

Just like in the show, the pair are completely oblivious to their attraction to one another... something he’ll just have to fix with his bare hands then...

But the matter is neither here nor there, and there was something of greater urgency to rectify now.

Emet Selch turns his gaze back down to G’raha, who has gone uncharacteristically quiet... and sensing his seriousness, Illya too diverts her attention back to the sulking redhead.

“You know... you’re a very talented actor. It’s so very rare to find someone who can capture the emotions and nuances of a character as well as you do.” Emet is the faster of them to speak, and Illya can barely believe the words she’s hearing leave his lips.

Compliments and praise, genuine ones at that, coming from one of the cast’s eldest, most experienced actor who is not only known to be critical when it comes to the art of acting - but is a certified acting coach himself? The monumental honor is not lost to G’raha, as his ears perk up and he whips his head up with widened ruby eyes to look at Emet.

“Death is difficult to portray - dare I say, almost impossible. After all, how can we, who have never experienced death... truly capture the sorrow and despair in it?”

Emet Selch pauses, drawing in a breath before he lifts his hand up to gesture at the pair before him.

“Which is why this is your biggest opportunity to showcase your talents, to move the audience with not just the story, but your very acting! The only thing we can do, as men and women of this field, is to act as vehicles and carry the emotions of the story into the hearts of the fans.”

The man finally sighs, shoulders falling and arms flopping lazily to his side, the sentimentality of the words he just spoke tasting bitter on his tongue.

“Besides, even in death there is a beauty. The crystal exarch lived his life fulfilled and having realized his wish at the end. I expect you to remember that when you eventually see him off.”

There’s a silence that hangs and festers in the air for a moment, before the fur on G’raha’s tail stands and his chest puffs up in a show of renewed determination.

“Y-you’re right, Emet! The crystal exarch dedicated his life to finding a way to save others... There is no better way to end his legacy than to see the world he’s protected for so long finally saved!”

Standing onto his feet, the miqo’te clenches his hands into fists and nods before casting a glance down at Illya.

“Illya! I will act my heart out to the best I can! I’ll act so hard that I’ll make you cry on set for sure!”

The corners of her lip tugs upwards into a wide smile, glowing as the afternoon sun basks down and reflects upon her snowy white hair and the blossoms of her amethyst eyes. Even with the black of the garments she wore and the eastern patterned ribbon that held the braid around her head in place, she was luminous and blinding in her radiant presence... not unlike the heroine of their story.

“Of course! And I’m sure the rest of the crystal exarch fan club will too when they watch that episode.”

“Illya, G’raha!” A pink haired lalafellin calls out to them from a distance away, her olive green eyes wide and excited as she waves her hands high above her head. A raven haired man stands just behind her, his dark blue eyes narrowed as he reviews the script in his hands intently. “We’re starting soon! Get over here!”

“Coming! Just give us a second!” G’raha waves back with a grin before turning back to look at Emet Selch with an apologetic, yet grateful bow, his relaxed tail swaying gently from side to side behind his back.

“Thank you, Emet. I won’t soon forget your encouragements. I’ll do my best and make sure to not let everyone down.”

“Yes, yes. Spare me the nauseating mush. I was just making sure you didn’t drag your co-actor down with your sulking.”

The elder man now glances at the starry eyed girl with amusement flashing through his expression, and Illya can already feel her earlier lighthearted elation fade as quickly as it came.

“By the way... I’m sure if you asked Yoshida properly.. he’d be willing to consider writing in a kiss scene with Liliya and-”

“If I were the warrior of darkness, I’d take my crescent moon cane and stab you with the end of it......”

------

Meanwhile, a little distance away from the trio, Kaye lets out a low hum as he reads and re-reads the words upon the small stacks of paper he held, expression doubtful and confused.

“You sure this is the script to Endwalker?”

“Yeah, I am! Alphinaud gave this copy and said that he got from miss Ishikawa directly! Apparently he’s playing another major role in the next season, which is why he got the script early as a heads up.”

“But... it says here that the crystal exarch gets reincarnated? Assuming that’s not gonna be changed... that means G’raha’s gonna be...”

Kaye’s head lifts and turns, eyes wide and brows furrowing in bemusement only to see an impish smile glimmer upon Lily’s face.

“Should we tell him?”

“Hm...? Nah... He’s gonna film the exarch’s death scene soon, right? I’m sure he’ll appreciate the little surprise later, anyways.”

#ffxivwrite #ffxivwrite2021 #ffxiv #final fantasy xiv #g'raha tia #emet selch #illya skawi #g'raha #kiwisffxivwrite2021 #fanfic #mine #I've only had this au for a day and I've already written a fill for it lmao #*pumps fist*

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peachyteabuck · 4 years

Text

good behavior

summary: bucky has very strict rules for his little, doll. not only does this involve a rigid structure of punishments, but also an occasional, decadent reward.

takes place in the same universe as old school (make me drool) but it is not required reading to understand this fic.

pairing: bucky barnes x little!ofc

words: 2058

trigger warnings: heavy ddlg, heavy d/s dynamics

notes: this was done for @nsfwsebbie‘s birthday! she’s kind enough to write birthday fics for all us mutuals (including me!) and deserves something in return. i hope your next trip around the sun is even more excellent than the last!

ask box / masterlist / commission info / ko-fi

Doll has a pretty pink paci in her mouth, a matching pink dress adorning her body with her hair folded into perfect milkmaid braids with bows the same pink as the rest of her outfit holding them in place. Normally she’s not as dressed up – Daddy prefers her in a simple onesie with her hair in two little buns high up on your head – but today is Bunny’s birthday party, and Auntie Nat had told all of her friends (including Daddy) that she would be taking pictures of all of them to immortalize the event, and she expected all of the littles to be dressed appropriately.

So Doll, clad in clothes she’s not used to, sits in the playroom with the other littles as they laugh and play away all the cake and ice cream and juice their caregivers had allowed them to consume throughout the long day.

Auntie Nat’s house is huge – what her and Bunny called a “playroom” acting as a giant space where the caregivers could watch their littles play with all of Bunny’s toys – an already impressive pile of stuffies and puzzles and whatever else she’d wanted only added to by the presents the other caregivers had bought her to celebrate her special day.

Doll’s Daddy’s house is about the same size, but there the playroom is a much smaller space where Doll is allowed to be alone, a single rocking chair there for when her Daddy needs to keep watch or wants to read her a story.

Auntie Nat also had a large pool they all had swam in (though Doll preferred to stay at her Daddy’s side, napping in the sun), and patio big enough for several large tables where they all ate and watched Bunny open her presents.

Now, though, everyone was inside, the littles playing on the ground while their Daddies and Mommies sat chatting on the large sofa in the playroom, one that was so large it fit against two walls instead of just one.

As the air cooled outside while the sun began to sink out of sight, Doll’s tummy begins to turn inside her as the loudness of the other littles ceases to wane.

She crawls over to where her Daddy is on the center of the couch, pulling on one of his pantlegs lightly to get his attention.

It works, the much larger man stopping mid-sentence to look down at her – his metal arm holding a half-drunk liquid only the adults are allowed to drink while the other rests at the back of the couch.

“You wanna go home, Doll?” he asks, voice soft and low.

Her Daddy pulls the paci from her mouth with his flesh hand, allowing her to speak. Doll nods, picking at the soft lace trim of her party dress. “Y-yes, Daddy.”

Her Daddy gives her a small smile, leaning down so he can pet her head (carefully, though, as to not mess up her hair) and give her forehead a small kiss. “Yeah, I know you wanna go home. Give me a few more minutes with Daddy’s friends and we can go, alright?”

She pulls her lips into a small, tight frown but doesn’t protest – something Daddy notices immediately.

“Do you want to stay here at my feet until we go, Doll?” he asks. He knows what he’s asking her is true – she’s always been awkward in social situations, never as outgoing as Princess or Peter. Even Bunny, though quiet, was able to be around the other littles for longer than Doll is (to be fair, it is Bunny’s birthday party, and her small body has consumed a simply incredibly amount of sugar throughout her special day – but still, Doll is nearly always the first to request to be brought home).

Doll chews on her bottom lip before replying. “Yes, Daddy.”

“She’s a sweet little thing, Bucky” she hears Uncle Stevie saying above her. “Trained her quite well.”

The others on the couch laugh, thinking of all the times the man’s Princess had pulled such bratty behavior she had to be spanked or reprimanded in one way or another in front of the other littles.

Despite the loaded compliment, Doll’s Daddy smiles down at her as she sits between his legs – protecting herself from the rest of the room. “Yeah, she’s my special little angel.”

He wraps the conversation up with ease, thanking Auntie Nat and giving Bunny one more “happy birthday” before carrying Doll to the car and strapping her into the car seat.

Unlike the rest of the caregivers, her Daddy plays no music as he drives home, knowing Doll prefers the silence after a long day of thunderous roar of all the littles together.

The pair arrive home without incident, with Daddy carrying Doll inside and allowing her time alone in her playroom to cool down from the experiences of the day. Her paci and shoes were removed with ease, her Daddy taking them away as he walked out of the room to wherever it is he felt he needed to be.

Her Daddy returns a few minutes later, leaning down with both arms behind his back.

“You were such a good girl,” Daddy tells her, now sitting cross legged across from her on the floor.

It’s rare for her to see her Daddy in such a context – though she doesn’t remember much of it, when she first arrived she was quite firey and refused to be broken. It took all of her Daddy’s might (and much advice from the other caregivers, along with time with the other littles so he could remember why he so badly wanted one of his own) not to give up.

And, of course, it was worth it. All of the nights in the basement and strict enforcement of his many rules molded Doll into the beautiful, fragile apple of his eye that she is today.

Doll says nothing, watching her Daddy with wide eyes as he – for the first time in recent memory – lowers himself to her level.

He clears his throat before speaking, his arms still behind his back. “I know it’s been a rough day for you, and I’m very proud of you, not just because you were so good for so long, but that you told me when you wanted to go home so politely…”

He coughs once more, trying to clear the awkwardness in his own voice. It’s certainly hard for him to be, in a sense, vulnerable; much easier to bring down his hand when Doll needs reminding of the rules than offering her something for remembering. Still, he does his best, and Doll’s wide wondering eyes urge him to continue.

“So I bought this for you,” he says, bringing his arms from behind his back to reveal a soft, plush arctic baby seal with an embroidered eyes, nose, and mouth (Doll doesn’t like the hardened facial features – always telling her Daddy they make the friends harder to cuddle). Its “fur” is a light, hazy blue – nearly white unless one has the sharp eye Doll does. Upon seeing the heinously cute creature, Doll gives a sharp inhale of excitement, whole body tensing as her eyeline locks on the present in her Daddy’s hands.

“I picked this up for you,” he says as he gives it to her, giving Doll a nod, permission to grab at the gift. “When we went to the aquarium with Natasha and Bunny. I saw you eyeing it when we passed the gift shop. Thought you’d like it.”

Even though she wasn’t asked a question, and therefore is not allowed to respond, Doll’s wide smile and how she’s got the stuffie in a tight hug tell her Daddy all he needs to know.

He watches her for a moment, enjoying her sheer delight while she babbles nonsensically while holding the animal’s soft face close to hers. Occasionally she leaves a small kiss somewhere, nimble fingers exploring the two-toned fur.

Eventually he becomes bored just watching her, though, so her Daddy moves closer to her, hand on her bare knee as she continues to play.

“I’ve got another reward for you, Doll,” he whispers in her ear, heat swirling in his stomach as he notices her body reacting to his. “Do you want to know what it is?”

“Y-yes, Daddy,” Doll squeaks out, gnawing on her bottom lip as she watches him loom closer to her.

“I’ll give it to you, Doll,” he says – voice low in his chest. “As long as you keep holding on to your new stuffie. You got that?”

She nods, voice barely above a murmur as her Daddy pushes her onto the carpeted ground. “Yes Daddy!”

He smiles as he pushes her frilly dress to her stomach, adjusting her legs so that her socked feet are planted on his thigh as he undoes the button on his slacks. “Good girl,” he tells her as one hand moves down to her center (Bunny’s birthday party is a special enough event to necessitate big girl panties). He rubs her, reveling in her small, breathy moans as his cock becomes harder against his dress shirt. “Now I need you to be quiet for me, so I’m gonna give you that nice paci you like.”

Doll’s always accepting of her Daddy’s stipulations for their play time together, welcoming the expensive paci he gifted her for her last birthday into her mouth when he pulls it from his back pocket.

He coos more praise towards her as he pushes a finger into her, feeling how wet, how desperate she is for him.

“You ready for me, Doll?” he asks, swallowing the spit that gathers on his tongue as he watches Doll with a sniper’s eye. She nods, eyes screwed shut, hands clutching the stuffie’s fur. He smiles ear to ear as she does so. “Good.”

The anticipation burns at his skin as he aligns himself with her dripping core, easily bottoming out before giving her a few seconds to adjust to his impressive cock.

That’s all Doll gets, though, before her Daddy takes what he wants from – fucking into her pussy as she grips the stuffie with all her might, her loud moans muffled by the paci’s large, pink guard with Daddy’s Little Doll spelled out with circle, black-and-white lettered beads.

“That feel good, Doll?” he coos, arms bracketing her under his much large form. “You like it when Daddy makes you feel good?”

Doll’s eyes roll to the back of her head, jaw struggling to stay closed as she loses herself to the pleasure.

Her Daddy just laughs. “Oh, of course you do. Your Daddy’s little Doll, and Daddy always takes care of her toys.”

One of his hands moves down to the ever most sensitive part of her, his callous flesh thumb making tight circles as her pussy tightens around his cock.

It’s a delicious feeling, one that makes her Daddy moan deep in his chest. “Fuck, do it,” he tells her, rubbing her even faster. “C’mon, make Daddy proud.”

Just as Doll always does, she follows her Daddy’s instructions; obeys his word to the letter, and reaches her peak while her Daddy chases his.

His groans can barely be heard over her high-pitched whines now, caught in her throat but filling the room nonetheless, tears threatening to fall from the corners of her eyes and whole body tense as her Daddy continues to fuck in and out of her.

It doesn’t take long before he knows – before he pulls out to come on her soft stomach, narrowly avoiding the expensive faux fur as he paints her skin with streaks of thick white.

“Fuck-“ he hisses, jaw going slack with his whole body being held in the hair only by his hands planted flat on the ground on either side of Doll’s head. “Fuck you’re my best little girl.”

She looks up at him with eyes hopeful but tired, ready to fall asleep right then and there as she pants through her nose.

“Yes,” her Daddy assures her, picking her up to bring her into the bathroom so he can clean her up. “Yes, you always are and always will be my perfect little Doll.”

With that she falls sleep in his arms, allowing him to manipulate her into the bath as he washes away everything the day had brought upon her.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x little!reader #lukis writes stuff #old school (make me drool)#little!reader

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author-morgan · 4 years

Note

I don't know if you accept requests, if yes, could you write a smut on Ivarr x fem!reader?

maybe the continuation of that work of yours where Ivarr gives flowers to his crush. thank you♥️

here you are! i hope you enjoy it!

Ivarr the Boneless x fem!Reader

TWISTED LAUGHTER FILLS the forest —the morning mist still clinging to the leaves and soil. You press your back against one of the trees, the wide trunk large enough to hide you from your hunter. The air grows still, save for distant birdsong. Branches snap underfoot. Drawing in a slow breath, you dash forward, hiding behind another tree as you listen for footfalls, crunching leaves, and snapping twigs.

The underbrush rustles behind you, and this time you are not quick enough. An arm wraps around your waist, and you turn to face your hunter. His eyes are a bright blue —the same shade as when bloodlust sets in— and his lips kinked into a wicked smile. Ivarr the Boneless has you ensnared. Anyone else would shit themselves if caught by Ivarr, but not you —no, this was only a game. You lay a hand on his chest, fingertips pressing into his left breast through the thin linen of his tunic. “What are you doing, little bird?” He croons, but his answer is only a taunting smirk as you push away from him, darting back into the mist.

You watch for his shadowed figure and dance from tree to tree, laughing as he draws nearer. Leaning your head back against a sapling, you smile upward at the heavens —blue sky breaking through the clouds. Ivarr’s footfalls are close. Taking a deep breath, you make a run for it, not quite ready for this game of yours to end so quickly. Ivarr springs into the opening, both his arms snaking around your waist. There will be no escape this time. You twist in his hold, meeting his manic gaze and grin.

Thinking to distract him, you push yourself close, rising onto the balls of your feet —lips ghosting across his. Ivarr dips his head down, but you pull away. The back-and-forth teasing lasts only a few more seconds before he gives a soft groan, lips firmly meeting yours. His kiss is merciless and demanding. Rough hands trail down your bare arms, around to your back, and down to your thighs. You gasp into his mouth when he hoists you up, legs wrapping around his waist —lips never parting until your back hits the nearest tree.

“Nowhere to run now,” Ivarr whispers at your ear, pinning you to the trunk with his hips, one hand braced on the rough bark next to your head. He tilts your head to the side, a finger trailing across your jaw and down your neck, following the neckline of your dress. The shivers creeping down your spine and turning your skin to gooseflesh sends a thrill through Ivarr. His lips take the same path —nipping and suckling, all of Mercia will know of you and Ivarr given the marks he leaves.

You press a finger to his lips, keeping him from kissing you again. He can read the look in your lust-darkened eyes. Not here. A hard lesson learned from a previous romp in the woods where you both spent the following days scratching at rashes from stinging nettle. “Ivarr!” You cry as he hoists you over his shoulder, giving your bottom a light slap —laughing as he takes the forest path back to Repton.

“A glorious hunt,” Ivarr announces as he strides past his brother with you still strung across his shoulder. It is not a new sight to those settled in Repton. Since the last harvest festival, you and Ivarr had not shied away from affection —often playing these games, returning with cornflowers and twigs clinging to your clothes and hair. “Now I go enjoy my spoils.” Ubba Ragnarsson shakes his head, returning his attention to the fading map of Mercia laid out before him.

Ivarr places you amid the furs and rough-sewn pillows of his canvas bower and quickly sinks to his knees, pushing the skirt of your dress up around your waist like a giddy boy unwrapping a present. Lifting your arms, he rids you of the plain woolen dress and the bindings around your chest. His hands float along your curves until he comes to your breasts, flattening his hands against them. Ivarr groans, palming the mounds of flesh and tweaking your nipples into taut little peaks as his lips drag across your jaw.

“Fuck,” you gasp, moving your hips against his, gasping at the feeling of him pressing against you through his britches. When his hands slip back to your hips and backside, you lean forward, stroking the patchy scruff on his jaw and scattering short kisses across his neck and scarred chest. “This is payback, isn’t it?” You ask, arching into Ivarr’s touch. He laughs, lips kinked into a smile —you have your answer.

His hand moves to the sensitive spot between your legs, making sure you can feel every movement he makes. “Ivarr,” you breathe in a heady tone, causing him to grin. He pulls away from your breast and stares up at you, at the building ecstasy in your eyes. Ivarr drags his tongue down your torso, his mouth clamping over your clit, kissing it furiously. Your eyes roll back; you are caught in his touch, his mouth, his tongue. Whimpering, you scratch your hands into his tunic, pulling the fabric upwards. “Ivarr!” you cry, panting. “Oh, please–” But he pulls away again, and you let out a whine. The smirk unfolding across Ivarr’s face is unbearable —his lips glistening with your essence.

Sitting back on his haunches, Ivarr pulls his tunic off and wiggles out of his britches. He wraps his hands around your ankles —gentle shackles— tugging you closer to the edge of the pallet bed. “Tell me what you want, little bird.” He says, eyes darting across you splayed out beneath him —nipples hard and pink, lovebites blossoming at your shoulder and neck.

“I want you, Ivarr,” you breathe, tracing one of the runes tattooed on his abdomen until your hand slips further down. Reaching between your bodies, you wrap your fingers around his cock. When he hisses through clenched teeth, you smile. Lips against his as you begin stroking him. It takes a moment before he returns to his senses, and when he does, he pins your hands at the sides of your head. His length is heavy, pressed against your core, and slowly you roll your hips up into his. The look he gives you is meant to scold the action, but you only continue.

He frees one of his hands and slides it lightly between your breasts and down further, lining himself up with you and pushing in slowly. His lips seal over yours and capture your groan of desperation and pleasure as he stretches you. You moan and squirm beneath him, but he has you exactly where he wants you. Ivarr can’t help but swear softly at the feeling of your body around him.

As he begins to roll his hips, sliding out and then back inside you, he groans at your ear and shifts his weight upwards again, hands pressing yours into a wolf pelt. You’re lost then, lost in the pleasure of his movements, the thrill of the weight of his body on yours as he sets your body and senses alight. His hands are at your breasts, your hips, then one hand is at your clit while the other pulls lightly at your hair. Your hands dig into his shoulders and scratch down his back —the brief jolt of pain spurs Ivarr on.

It’s only as his fingers are working on your clit and coaxing you towards release that you realize he is moaning your name. It’s soft at first, but his mouth is at your ear, and you can hear it. Ivarr is coming apart inside you, and your name is the one on his lips. You smile and turn your head, catching him off guard in a kiss, legs parting wider and drawing up his sides.

Your toes curl, and what you might have thought was downright impossible became a reality as your orgasm begins to build, coming to a frantic, heated peak quickly that he keeps you at for the entire time he possesses you, holding your thighs tightly so you cannot escape from him. “Ivarr,” your voice sounds foreign to your ears. He wraps an arm around the curve of your waist and brings the both of you to lie on your side, his cock still sliding in and out of you —scarred face twisting as he chases his end with wild abandon.

His hands are on your back while one of yours rests on his powerful thigh and the other on his cheek. Your mouth falls open as a primitive noise comes from both you and Ivarr, though he stifles the obscene sounds by sinking his teeth into your shoulder. Hips stuttering, he pauses —panting as his cock twitches deep in your heat, but then he gives several more, lazy thrusts before stilling completely and pulling you a little closer. “You,” Ivarr pants through breathy laughter, “have ruined me, woman.” All of Mercia must have known by now Ivarr Ragnarsson had gone soft for a baker and farmer.

It is not often Ivarr speaks of a defeat so lightly. “Ah–” you smile, running your fingertips along the edge of the tattoo wrapping around his bicep “–so I’ve defeated the great Ivarr the Boneless?” You ask, teasing. Grinning, you careen forward, giving his scarred cheek a quick kiss.

Ivarr’s blue eyes darken and narrow. He is not one to accept defeat. “I demand a rematch then,” he says, rough hand running up your spine and twisting into your hair.

You’ve no doubt another round would put him on top in this back-and-forth game, but after running through the woods and being fucked properly, nothing sounds better than curling up with Ivarr for a nap. “What say I bake an apple tart, and we call it even?” You offer, knowing between honey cakes and apple tarts, you could almost always get your way with Ivarr.

He groans, thinking of the sweet taste of apples and spices baked in a flaky dough —there is still a store of apples from last autumn tucked away below the Repton cathedral. Ivarr’s lips twitch into a smile. The only thing sweeter than your apple tarts was you. “You drive a hard bargain,” he remarks.

“I’ll let you think it over,” you tell him with a soft laugh and quick kiss before settling your head on his chest. Ivarr glances up at the sunlight streaming in through the seams of his tent and sighs, tracing runes and constellations on your back and shoulder. After a few moments, he glances down at you —fast sleep— and begins to wonder if Ubba’s new dream in England is really so bad after all.

[taglist: @kvitravn @elizabethroestone @kitkitvm @elluvians @fullmoonwolfer1 @ghostieisalone @boodaga @southsideslutt @dynamite-with-a-lazerbeam ]

if you want to be added to my Ivarr taglist just let me know!

#Ivarr #Ivarr the Boneless #Ivarr Ragnarsson #Ivarr x Reader #Ivarr Ragnarsson x Reader #Ivarr the Boneless x Reader #Ivarr Fanfiction #Ivarr Imagine #Assassin's Creed Valhalla #Assassin's Creed #my writing #requested #ghostieisalone #100 points if you know what i was inspired by in the opening part of this ficlet lol

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pricechecktranslations · 4 years

Text

E.A.T. Prologue infomine

Alright, as before:

Bear in mind this is NOT a translation. This is an infomine. I am sharing only the basic info. There’s a lot about the story in terms of tone and characterization that will be missing until I get to a full translation.

Scene 1

Ron is inside the “fat man’s” room, maintaining a miraculous thing inside it that’s neither lifeless nor alive, and gives off a phosphorescent green light that kills anyone who’s in the room for too long (pretty sure it’s some radioactive material). His job is to maintain it because if the light goes out the theater will crash (it appears to be their source of power), and he’s the only one who can survive being near it, given his curse of always regenerating (note, his flesh is largely destroyed by the radiation when he leave the room but starts growing back within minutes).

Oh, and dead soldiers are now being called “dead servants”.

When Ron is finished with his work he heads out, the theater now silent when it was noisy before. He is greeted by his underling Fry Kitchen, who has the head of a chicken and uses “ssu” in his sentences like Chartette (though in hiragana not katakana—he also uses the more working class personal pronoun of asshi). He cheerfully informs Ron that all the other dead soldiers were killed by a hero troupe who invaded the theater (Ron’s not surprised so I guess this was going on while he was working).

Fry is the weakest of them, but he survived through Lich’s help (Lich is still alive).

Ron goes to talk to Lich, who is outside the theater.

Apparently they are not longer in the world of “Giants battling with beastmen” (I think the world at the end of Heavenly). They’re in a different world now.

Scene 2

A bit of exposition on Ron (wandered the earth for ages, now works for Banica, etc).

The new world they are in has wind, the sky is blue, and the scenery appears little changed from the world they were just in save for that it’s covered in the ruins of a crumbled civilization. It seems barren but there is apparently some life left in it.

They see a black bird flying towards them with a girl riding its back. The bird turns out to be a transformed Lich. They open the front door for him.

The girl said nothing while they spoke, and she has a horn on her forehead.

Scene 3

It’s ambiguous how long it’s been since Heavenly—Ron’s narrative implies it could have been a day or several years.

Ron meets with Lich (now humanoid again) in the main hall, getting him some water. Lich doesn’t need to eat, but he does need water, or his mud body will dry up and become unable to move. Also, he can take moisture from food through his makeshift digestive system, and taste things.

Ron asks about the girl, who is sleeping in a guest room Fry set up. He’s anxious because of what happened with Jarre from the giants world (I guess it was his hero troupe that killed everyone). Lich is unconcerned because he can make them new bodies, but when Ron asks about it he gets a little testy and takes him up to his room.

Inside was a beastman (or rather, demi-human) like Fry, someone covered in white fur with two big ears. It’s the rabbit(bunny?) hero Jarre. asleep/unconscious. Ron’s comments make it sound like Jarre betrayed them at the last minute.

Lich explains that it’s not Jarre’s soul in that body anymore, but Pollo. Cue some exposition on how Arte and Pollo had killed Ron, who used to be human. Lich tells Ron that he failed to account for the fact that the mud he uses to make the bodies only exists in Evillious, and their supply was destroyed during the attack. So Jarre’s body was the only one he could put Pollo in.

The same was true for Fry—he was a beastman from the world they were just in. After the giants killed him, Lich put him back in his original body to make him a dead servant as an experiment.

Lich has done the same with Eater and Arte, who are in the next room, using the bodies of Jarre’s friends. Ron asks about Banica, and Lich decides to take him to the clocktower (the cockpit of the theater) to discuss the matter with Seth.

Scene 4

Some repeat exposition on Seth (he claims he’s Lich’s friend, Lich denies it).

When they get in the cockpit, Seth is there in his mask form (which surprises Ron). Lich explains that while ordinarily they would need lots of people to run the ship, Seth actually built the theater so that it could be operated by him alone if need be. They needed to get him a new body when Jarre killed him, but they didn’t have time or resources to do it, so Lich merged the soul archive housing his spirit data with the ship—Seth is now the theater itself.

Seth asks if Lich will give him one of the beastmen bodies they have in storage now that the danger is over, but Lich refuses, saying he doesn’t have one prepared (Seth accuses him of just being mean). The two of them bicker for a bit, and Ron reflects on how he doesn’t get the relationship between them.

Lich then decides to get to the point, saying their goal of finding new food for Banica has to be put on hold for now.

Scene 5

This is just repeat exposition on Banica and what’s led up to now.

Scene 6

As Lich says, they were all killed off by the beastmen. Jarre sliced Ron down himself (but Ron regenerated). But they were all souls to begin with. As long as the “soul archive” they have in the theater isn’t destroyed, they can be revived again and again. Lich ran out of mud to make bodies with, so he used the beastmen bodies instead. This worked for everyone—except Banica.

Apparently there’s a difference in quality between Banica’s souls and everyone else’s. Lich, Arte, Pollo, Eater, and Seth all have souls closer to gods. Banica’s soul was originally that of a normal human. Her soul had special qualities while she’d contracted with Vlad, but now that he’s escaped and didn’t come with them, her soul is now human again.

There are ways to revive her, but it’s tricky. He could make a body with mud, but they don’t have any. And they can’t go back to Evillious because of “Ma’s Ghost”. That is—when they first started dimension hopping, they had issues and almost crashed. Lich investigated and determined this to be a result of Ma’s Ghost. He’s not entirely sure what’s going on there or what it is exactly, but apparently it tries to destroy anything that attempts to enter the Evillious world.

The other option they have is to find Banica’s alter ego. This is out of Lich’s expertise so Seth offers to take over, but Lich refuses, claiming he’ll be too long-winded and sesquipedalian. The alter ego will probably be different from Banica in every way, but her soul will be of the same quality. And so, there’s a good chance that Banica can use their body.

Lich is certain the girl he brought back is Banica’s alter ego, in this world of “Angels and Demons”. He’s certain because he analyzed the Akashic Record (not sure what he means by that, and Ron doesn’t understand either).

Ron is uncertain if they have the right to kill the girl to bring Banica back. Lich brushes him off, but while Ron accepts that they are “close to gods” and thus the rules don’t apply to them, he’s different. Lich argues with him, but Ron isn’t convinced.

He’d already become an undead when Banica contracted, so he couldn’t stop her from falling to evil. Still, he wants to avoid the same thing happening again.

Back before he joined her, he had the option of going through the gate to be reincarnated. But he doesn’t know if his curse would be lifted if he went through. Some of the people who went through were once his family, but he feels like it’s been too long now (and their memories were erased upon reincarnating anyway).

Ron argues that he knows the suffering of never being able to die. He argues about that with Lich (whether it’s the right thing, to bring Banica back to life or not), when Seth interjects that it’s best to ask the person they’re talking about.

He’s put Banica in a red cat body, implied to be a replica of the one he made for Irina, until they can get her in her alter ego’s body. Ron is happy she simply has a body at all, but she’s far from pleased with it (also this body requires moisture to function properly, so we can assume that’s why Irina was able to drink milk as well).

Banica ponders taking her alter ego’s body, not minding her looks but finding her blindness to be an issue.

Lich turns on a monitor in the cockpit that shows a map of the world they’re in, explaining it’s one of the Third Period’s parallel worlds, and is very physically similar to it. The race that rules it (or used to) are demons—though he clarifies they are not like the demons of Evillious, and are more just a race that is called demons. A race called angels fought against them, though they’ve either died out or they’ve gone behind the theater’s reach. He only knows they’re humanoids with wings on their backs because the girl (Baamu Kuuren —Berm? Balm? Barm? Kulen? I don’t know) mistook him for one.

Lich also explains he can turn into a bird partially as a result of running an experiment on himself when putting the others in beastmen bodies to make sure that there wouldn’t be any rejections (not totally sure I’ve understood that correctly).

Banica notes that if the girl is a demon, and she thought he was an angel, it’s weird that she trusted him. Lich chalks it up to her being helpless and seeking salvation, and also his natural charisma. –Before revealing he’s joking and that he expects her to try and stab him in the back.

Balm is the imperial princess of the (Puraashino) Empire that ruled the demons. She is the only member of her family who survived the war with the angels, and it was apparently an angel that burned her eyes.

Lich asks for permission to kill her so they can use it as Banica’s body (note—Banica occasionally claws Lich’s face during this scene), but Banica wants him to fix the issue with her eyes first. Lich and Seth argue a little—Lich plans to use one of the beastmen bodies as material for the eyes, but Seth argues that’s a bad idea because they’re from another dimension.

Lich leaves to begin on his work. Ron asks Banica if she’s really going to steal that girl’s body, and she asks him what he would do if he found his alter ego. He can’t answer.

Scene 7

As Seth foretold, Lich can’t fix the eye problem using the beastmen bodies even after several days.

Ron is setting out milk for Banica in the main room, and Fry is bemoaning what a brat Balm is. She’s plucked the feathers on his arm. He also says something about her horn? (I think that it has some kind of tactile sense of things, despite her being blind?)

As Banica is musing over putting the girl to work, Arte and Pollo (both bunny beastmen) come in, followed by Eater, now an enormous Asian black bear, carrying lumber. As they get to work, Banica explains to Ron that she’s been thinking since the whole thing with Jarre happened. Now that she’s lost her demon powers, she shouldn’t be picking fights with people from other dimensions willy-nilly like that. So she’s converting the main hall into a restaurant (it’s not like Evils Theater 2 has a theater room anyway), I guess to better fit in with the other worlds they go to. Ron laughs because this is very like her.

Ron wonders if she’ll have Balm cook, since Banica only has two at her disposal (Eater and Arte) and they both have other duties as well. Banica is confident that Balm can cook, being another version of herself. And, she’ll have a mentor.

At that, she summons a dog beastman wearing a white chef’s hat. She calls him Mister Dog, and tells him to teach Balm how to cook. He agrees and leaves, and when Ron asks where he came from, Banica says that he’s always been here (it’s Carlos, guys).

There’s a bit of thought on why Ron accompanied Banica this time, that it’s not entirely out of loyalty. When he saw her again she greeted him as though the last few hundred years had never happened and told him all about her travel plans. He’d never traveled with her before, as he had to watch the house. It actually made him slightly envious whenever she would come home and tell him about it.

They had finished talking, and to sum up the convo basically he decided to go on the journey with her he couldn’t do all those centuries ago. Though he’s still not sure entirely why even now.

#evillious chronicles

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tiedyexuxi · 4 years

Text

between the lines. [part one of two.]

yooha x fem!reader.

a/n: my dislike of the Taehee bias in-game makes itself pretty prevalent here, so if you don't like some mild Taehee bashing then don't read. The second part will be NSFW. ♡ Enjoy!

PART ONE. [SFW]

YOUR PINKIE DIDN'T ache for Taehee anymore. It took you a while to realize it, being around him as often as you were, of course; you never attributed the shift because where Yooha was, Taehee was somewhere nearby always monopolizing your attention from even the smallest of things.

You had, at first, liked the monopolization. It was something to keep your mind off of your mom, off of the situation you had landed yourself in by some foolish childish promise you had made that you barely even remembered. It was a distraction--Taehee was a distraction.

So whenever Yooha was jealous or hurt over the eldest goblin, you didn't notice. You were so wrapped up in Taehee, and Hansol and Biho, that somehow, he fell to the wayside despite most of your days being spent with him at shoots or meetings. So close, and yet the distance between the both of you was so far that you only noticed it when it was a gaping chasm filled with cold shoulders, stiff silences, and not-quite-sincere smiles.

And then, slowly, like petals upon fresh grass, your fondness for Taehee started to wither. Or rather, the fate that had tied you to him had started to fade completely and Yooha was becoming an unusually common centerpiece in your thoughts and dreams. Dreams that not even Biho could stop, evidenced by the peculiar look on his face every time you woke up in the morning for breakfast.

You barely even noticed when you stopped rubbing your pinkie in his presence. You were sure he noticed, looking back on it, blue eyes noticing as you shoved your hands in your short pockets more often, or twisting them behind your back as you spoke, but never in that anxious, almost nervous habit that helped the ache in your finger and your nerves. He never said anything about it, but his actions spoke for him; he watched you more closely, after that, seeing which goblin it was that made your finger hurt and not him.

It was none of them, as it turned out.

Over the past weeks or so that you had been coming to terms with your lack of fondness for Taehee, Yooha had been a ghost--at home, at least. He would engage in light banter with you at work when you crossed paths, would do the shoots with you whenever your managers choreographed them in, but past that, you never saw him. You would catch glimpses of him here and there: a tuft of silver hair vanishing into his room; a tail waving as he spoke to Hansol; his blue shirt fluttering in the breeze as he left the cafe you had just sat down in...

Even though you could have called his name and forced him to come to you, you didn't. You hesitated instead, knowing deep down that if he was avoiding you, it had to be because of something you did--you had gone out of your way just to catch those small glimpses of him. He was hard to find when he didn't want to be, and when it was you, it was... painful.

The dull throb in your finger, late at night, reminded you of it. It even kept you awake, sometimes. But you couldn't resist it.

It was why you were awake, now, at two in the morning. The goblins all were asleep; you had checked. Yooha was conspicuously absent, likely doing anything but coming home, and usually that meant he was busy with work of some kind.

But you couldn't wait. This had been eating at you since you had noticed it.

"Yooha."

There was the familiar rush of cool, calming magic. And then he was there, a warm weight resting against your back in your bed, arm closing around your waist to hold you there.

He was quiet, for a moment, silently pondering. You could almost hear the gears whirring inside his head. And then, carefully, he lowered his head down to your pillow. He waited for you to push him away, evident by the way he tensed up, but you didn't--you didn't have the heart to fight him off anymore.

Not with your fate tied to him so thoroughly that not even a goblin could break it.

"You called?" Yooha kept his voice to a whisper, wary of Taehee's keen hearing, but you detected the edge in his tone. He was still... off. Angry, perhaps.

"I did." You reached down and linked his fingers with yours. There was a quiet little inhale of surprise right next to your ear. "I'm sorry."

"What are you sorry for?" You wished you could roll over and look at him. "Calling me here?"

There was a bitter thread in his voice. You could read between the lines: 'Calling me here... and not Taehee.'

His jealousy for the goblin ran deep, almost as deep as his feelings for you, you would wager. At first his feelings had been nothing more than something to irritate Taehee with, you knew that now. But it had turned into something genuine somewhere along the line. Sometime when your thread had moved down the list.

Sometime when you had, somehow, started feeling the same.

"No." You took a deep, shaky breath. "I... I'm sorry for not telling you that... that my thread of fate has moved to you."

He was so silent that for a moment you thought he had left, if his fingers still weren't laced with yours. Then, so quiet that his whisper was a breath against your shoulder, he said,"I know."

"You knew?"

"I can see it. It's faint, but it's there. I honestly didn't think you would notice it."

Again, more reading between the lines: 'Because you were so wrapped up in Tahee'.

"Why didn't you...?"

"Say anything?" He laughed and you couldn't help the goosebumps that erupted over your skin. "Taehee would have killed me ten times over if I did. You would have let him. So I distanced myself."

"I wouldn't have," you argued.

"You would have, you know you would." Yooha's nose drew a line down the bare flesh of your throat. His lips followed, barely a brush of air. "You would have let self sacrificing, sad, guilty Taehee tear me to ribbons and you wouldn't have made a sound."

"Don't make assumptions for me."

"They're not assumptions when they're true, [Name]."

Your name. Not 'master'; your actual name. And his voice was hard, sharp, laced with an edge meant to cut, to hurt, to maim. And once upon a time, he might have been right; you might have let Taehee get rid of him, once, but now it was different. It had changed.

Your feelings had changed.

"Yooha." You turned over to face him, almost shocked when your nose brushed his. You were so close that you could see the individual flecks of iridescent silver in his eyes. He could see you far better than you could see him with those fox eyes, an unusual green reflection in them from the moonlight. "That's not true."

"Sure it isn't." His fingers tightened against yours. "What do you want?"

"What do you mean?"

"I can't keep doing this with you." Yooha's eyes were practically slits. "I can't keep wanting your love, watching you fawn over Taehee, and completely reject me as an option. You won't even accept me as a friend. Just someone who lives here, happens to be bound to you, and comes when called."

You could read between the lines there, too: 'Like your pet.'

"You don't have to." You watched his eyes widen slightly as you reached up to gently brush strands of hair from his face, as soft as his fur. His tails paused in their rioting behind him, frozen in time. "Not anymore."

"You're lying." His tone said he wanted to believe.

"No, I'm not." And with nothing else to say, you kissed him.

His lips were impossibly soft, softer than you had imagined. When you pulled away, his eyes were wide, pupils blown out to cover his iris. Before you could even try to speak, he was dragging you on top of him and crushing your body to his like his life depended on it. You settled into him, two pieces of a puzzle fit perfectly together, and when your lips met again, your finger burned as if someone had set it on fire.

And then, blissful numbness.

#wannabe challenge #yooha x reader

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away-from-anthills · 3 years

Text

chapter five-

He recalled what Tatteredstar had said at the last Gathering as Whitetooth’s words echoed throughout his heart.

Rosefire. He had done little wrong- in his eyes, the only hope for a future was the Clans united. In his eyes, Tatteredstar and Eelwhisker were enemies that had to be vanquished. And yet his attempt at rebellion was gone as soon as it began, like a hare plucking and eating a sprout from the ground. He was killed, or at least that was what Tatteredstar’s dark tone implied, and as far as Antstar knew those who worked with him were likely either on close watch or driven out entirely. He presented a weakness and a challenge to her leadership, and so she handily dispatched him.

But could he say the same of Sparkthistle?

There was no indication she was to actually plan something. There was no indication she had the willpower to truly try to stop Antstar. But every so often, there was this inescapable look in her eye of hatred, and every time Antstar caught it he felt sick.

Would the Clan be better off without her?

Antstar had been just made a warrior when Sparkthistle and Cherrycloud had been born. Their mother was one of the most respected warriors in her Clan at the time, and she had great expectations thrust upon her two daughters. Initially, she adored Sparkkit the most, as Sparkkit had ambitions that Cherrykit did not. She made her favoritism shockingly clear, despite the warnings of Crowflower. But as time went on, when the two mollies were apprenticed, Cherrypaw emerged the more naturally gifted one while Sparkpaw struggled. Their mother’s opinions on them flipped dramatically. Now it was Cherrycloud that could do no wrong, Cherrycloud that deserved all the love in the world; Sparkthistle was a candy wrapper, read once and then discarded. Sparkthistle had been deeply embittered ever since- part of it from cynicism, and part of it because she wanted to emulate her mother to some extent.

It wouldn’t be fair to deny Sparkthistle the rest of her life, to cut her off short. But she had been this way ever since she was an apprentice, and there was no sign she would ever change. But it was as if Whitetooth’s words had bored a hole in his skull. And Sparkthistle is never going to get better, either.

“You’re thinking about what warrior name you want to give me, aren’t you,” said a cheeky voice as Antstar left his thoughts and sunk back to earth. It was Spiderpaw, looking back at him as she sprang into the grasses.

“You haven’t passed your assessment yet,” he reminded her.

“I know I will.” Spiderpaw had all the confidence of a wren challenging a bull. She smirked and trotted away to complete her assessment- then, suddenly, stopped in her tracks and looked back to see if Antstar was watching.

“I have to watch you in secret.” Antstar nodded his head upward, as if he were pushing her away. “Go on.”

She slunk into the grasses, which were turning the deep golden color that late greenleaf always brought upon itself. The sun peeked out from the pitch-black clouds above them, giving everything a surreal yellow glow. Away Spiderpaw went to get herself into the swing of hunting- and as she did, Antstar started to pace in circles, thinking about the Sparkthistle predicament.

Mentor and apprentice were on the far end of WindClan territory, away from the Clan, away from the other Clans, away from the world. Besides the slight rustle of grasses that followed Spiderpaw as she stalked a rabbit and the distant creaks and sighs of the windmills on the horizon, Antstar found the air deathly still, except for his thoughts which buzzed within him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a figure. It was Twoleg-like in shape and size, and after cowering from it instinctively, Antstar realized it was a familiar figure. Shalestar told him back when he was apprenticed that the object was called “Scare Crow”, and that the loners who lived in the barn thought of it as a friend. Scare Crow was moved around by the farmers to keep birds off the nearby crops, but yet it always remained perfectly still, as its skin was burlap and its veins were hay straw.

“Did it always sit like that?” he had asked.

“Perhaps.” Shalestar had looked off into the horizon, the warmth of being about to tell a good story curling up the corners of his lips. “Legend has it that, many moons ago, StarClan took pity upon Scare Crow, and reanimated him to come alive and live among the Clans. His humanoid, flawed figure was made feline. His burlap became handsome tawny tabby fur, his straw became flesh and blood, and his buttons became two beautiful eyes the color of harvested wheat. Scare Crow was sent to live among the Clans, and so he did- but, having once not been a cat, he never truly fit in, despite the beautiful appearance StarClan gifted him. When he was trying to woo a molly to take as his mate, they strolled together through Sunningrocks. In the reflection of the Sunningrocks’s water lay Scare Crow’s true self- ragged, ugly, weather-beaten and lopsided. He ran away, sobbing at the discovery of who he truly was, and StarClan realized then that it was more humane, more gentle, more right to strip him of his mortal coil and turn him back into his true self as the being of straw and burlap. He has remained here ever since.”

More humane. More gentle. More right. More right to stop them. More right to end them.

More right to kill them.

Sparkthistle had barely any friends. Her bitter, dour nature led her to be quite an outcast in the Clan’s community, save for Stoatslink, and even then he didn’t seem entirely approving of her. She had to be miserable. And the Clan was miserable any time they interacted with her. Furthermore, if she was turning on Antstar, she could turn on all the community. If a rival Clan asked her for intel, she could flip. She had little attachment to anyone in the Clan, so it was excruciatingly imaginable that her hatred for Antstar would outweigh her loyalty to WindClan…

His train of thought was halted by a squeak as Spiderpaw bit through the throat of a juvenile rabbit. He watched as the dark gray tabby carefully lined up her kill by a fallen log- leaving plenty of space for the next prey she was to catch.

He knew he was going to pass her. How couldn’t he? She had already proven herself. But having her hunt alone and complete the traditional assessment gave Antstar the space he needed to process the decision he already felt doomed to make.

Sparkthistle could find peace in the afterlife. She had never done anything deserving of Hell, no matter how many times Antstar had probably muttered that under his breath when dealing with her. Perhaps she could calm herself in the heavens in a way that she could never truly do in her mortal life. StarClan would be a kinder land than the rough earth and harsh sky of WindClan.

Maybe he was trying to rationalize himself here.

But then again- what could be gained from her continued flesh-and-blood existence? At best she was an annoyance. At worst… at worst she was an outright security risk.

There was the thumping of paws. Spiderpaw was in full chase, a shrew just before her. It ducked one way and another, around the bend and back again, into and through a log. Faster and faster they went, despite the shrew being so small, so unnecessary, so unimpactful in the grand scheme of the world at large and its moon. And as Antstar made his decision- as Antstar looked to the sky, looked to the unblinking amber sun, hoping that StarClan was with him and approved, hoping that StarClan knew he was doing this for WindClan’s sake- she leapt, and the shrew went out with a final cry, so unimportant and yet defiant to the last in spite of the very jaws that would always defeat it.

As they went home, Spiderpaw holding her catches and lost in the daydreams of what her warrior ceremony might be like, Antstar could only think of what he was about to do. Spiderpaw’s warrior name- something that once seemed so momentous, so important only a scant few days ago- already felt dwarfed by the matter of Sparkthistle’s fate. Antstar paused by the edge of the medicine den. The air he was about to speak with felt like it was caught in his throat. Whitethroat slunk out, always alert, almost as if they already knew he was there.

“About what you said a few days ago.”

Whitetooth nodded attentively.

“…Can we go through with it tonight? As fast as possible, I- I don’t want to think about it too hard.”

Whitetooth took a moment to respond, already visibly figuring out how they would do it. They looked towards the den, where Marblepaw was chewing up a poultice, and then into the general direction of the gorge. Ears pricked, eyes intense, looking almost more like a ferret surveying the land than a cat.

And then, they nodded. A transaction was about to begin.

“The weather is ripe for it… As you wish, Antstar. I am your dearest servant.”

That night, the sky was dark. Thick black clouds had continued to roll in, and there was the distant rumble of storms beyond the horizons. Brief, misty scatters of rain speckled the dusty earth.

Antstar watched the Clan go to sleep, one by one. While some still decided to sleep out in the open hollow, others that were worried about the chance of storm hid away in burrows scattered throughout the camp area, and slowly, the Clan came to rest. He had asked there be no guards or vigils held on this night- while the threat of impending rain acted as justification, he needed there to be no eyes, nothing that could possibly spot him when he and Whitetooth figured out what to do with the body.

“I tell you,” snarled a certain ginger tabby from afar, “I am not sick. I don’t know why you think I am.”

Whitetooth, however, wasn’t fettered. They circled her like an adder, their brown tail gently stroking her flank as if they were attempting to tame a wild horse. “I am aware you may think that. But I can already recognize symptoms of kittencough in you, and the sickness takes a few days to set in. If we treat you now, you won’t be sick later.”

Sparkthistle snarled in defiance, but after a moment of contemplation, she followed Whitetooth into the abandoned rabbit burrow that made up the medicine den. “Fine. So long as you make this quick, pal.”

As she did so, Whitetooth scurried over to Antstar, in that silent, almost eel-like way they were so skilled at. They leaned in slightly and began to whisper. “When I give you the signal-“ -they twitched their left ear- “I want you to come in. We must do this tonight, Antstar- else they may catch onto us.”

From there, Antstar carefully watched, pacing around camp to get a good look into the medicine den. Marblepaw seemed fast asleep at the entrance, her head resting upon a clump of mosses she had fetched earlier that day. In fact, just about everyone was asleep now save for the leader, his medicine cat, and their target. Sparkthistle caught the amber glow of Antstar’s eyes and stared at him as Whitetooth took something small and dark and stuffed it into a dead shrew.

“Kittencough,” they began, speaking in the voice of a lecturing mentor, “is usually much like a mild case of whitecough. The issue, however, is that it is very contagious and can be deadly for kits and elders. Usually, we treat it with whitecough medicines and drowsiness-inducing herbs, so that way the cat involved does not spread it and risk hurting the most vulnerable.”

But Sparkthistle’s yellowish-amber eyes indicated she had paid little attention to their monologue. “Why is Antstar there?” she asked, her eyebrows furrowed.

“He and I are having a conversation once you fall asleep. Mostly about the next Moonstone meeting, StarClan, those types of affairs. That, and figuring out what we’ll do about herbs come leaf-fall.”

“In the night? With this weather?”

“The night lends impulse to new ideas, my Clanmate.”

And then- slowly, slyly, they brought the shrew towards her. The very same shrew Spiderpaw had caught in her apprentice exam. For a brief moment that felt like nine lives and a day, Whitetooth made eye contact with Antstar.

This was it. The last chance to stop now. The last chance to keep Sparkthistle alive.

Every joint in Antstar’s limbs wanted to move, to give a last-minute refusal. And yet, he stood perfectly still.

Whitetooth turned back to Sparkthistle. For a moment it felt in Antstar’s mind as though she had already died. Perhaps, in a sense, she had.

“Here. I want you to take this. Medicine can trouble an empty belly if one is not careful.”

Sparkthistle sniffed it carefully, her pink speckled nose twitching with apprehension. Finally, she gave in, slowly taking a mouthful, ripping away at the skin.

“Now, I’ve put some medicines into this shrew of yours, as to clear out the kittencough. You shall feel drowsy. But- and this is important- do not be alarmed.”

There was a crunch as she bit into the black seeds that Whitetooth had enclosed within the shrew’s flesh.

“Everything is going to be perfectly fine.”

For a moment, Sparkthistle remained perfectly unaffected, continuing to nose around the shrew to pick out its best meat. Suddenly, however, her paw began to twitch. She looked around uneasily, as if her vision was beginning to spot out. She looked at Whitetooth, but Whitetooth gave her the same soothing stare they always had.

“Is it supposed to feel-“

“Like that? Yes.”

She got up to her paws, swaying back and forth like a tree about to topple in a storm. Saliva began to bubble from her jaw.

“I’ve had drowsiness herbs before, and they’ve-“ She struggled to speak. The deathberries had already coursed through her tongue, gradually paralyzing it. Her slurred words devolved into mumbled, slobbery vocalizations. Then, suddenly, Whitetooth knocked her to the ground and pinned her there.

They twitched their right ear as they stared at Antstar. That was the signal.

Antstar rushed in, silently, holding the ginger molly down as spasms shook her. She looked up at him, and he pushed her head into the ground to keep her still as she writhed and tried best she could to fight back. Her stare back at him bore into his very heart, gripping and shaking his very being. She had figured out what was going on, now. This was no look of anger, or of annoyance, or even of betrayal. No, this was a look Antstar had only seen before a scant few times. The look of a cat freezing as a monster runs out before them. The look of a young hare as a patrol leader strikes the killing blow. It was a look of pure, unadulterated horror.

Antstar stepped back instinctively. For a second, a further worry flashed through his head- had he let her go?

But the ginger body simply sank to the earth like a rug wet from saliva and rustled with struggle, sinking inward like a balloon that had slowly deflated from a puncture.

Sparkthistle was gone.

Antstar felt worry creep in as he scouted the clearing, over and over again to make sure the glint of no eye caught him. Behind him, he could hear Whitetooth clean up the blood-tinged cluster of foamy saliva that had pooled around Sparkthistle’s head. For a moment, he checked to ensure that Marblepaw was still asleep, and he felt slight relief when he saw the apprentice still lay in her nest, seemingly deep within a dream.

“Now,” Whitetooth whispered, stepping back as if they were admiring their own handiwork of having cleaned up the den. “What we’ll do is drag this over to the gorge. You would like to hide the body, correct?”

Antstar nodded fervently.

“Right. I know exactly what we shall do.” They picked up Sparkthistle by the scruff of her neck. Her shoulders hung limply. The white medicine cat indicated the other half of her body, and Antstar picked it up by the lower spine. Carefully, the two cats dragged her out and away without making a sound, through the gorse tunnel and out of camp. Dust gathered on her paws as they were dragged across the earth. Whitetooth’s grip was confident, certain; Antstar’s was far shakier and he had to fight to keep his jaw clamped. He had never realized how small Sparkthistle was. How small any cat was, really. It felt as though he were asleep in the leader’s den, and this was all some mad dream that he was watching from the distance of the mind.

Suddenly, Whitetooth came to a stop, and Antstar had to stop himself from falling forward onto the body. They looked down into the river, which looked as black and endless as the clouded sky that loomed above them, and then across to ensure no RiverClan cat had caught sight of them.

“…Why stop here?” Antstar started to ask, but his question was answered by the precise stare that Whitetooth was sending into the depths of the waters below.

“Check to make sure there’s no blood on her or sign of injury,” they instructed. Antstar carefully looked over the body, which had gradually grown a tad stiff. There was still a line of froth around her lip, but besides this, nothing had remained of the desperate struggle from earlier.

“…Nothing of the sort.”

“Good.”

“… We’re going to throw her into the river, right?”

“I knew you had figured it out already. You’re a smart cat. Any scent of deathberry- or us- will be soaked away by the water. If she is dragged away by the current, we shall say she clearly ran off because of her distaste towards your leadership.”

“And if she is found, she…?”

“She stumbled over the edge. Lots of cats have fallen to their deaths here. It wouldn’t look a moment out of place.”

Antstar pushed the body over. It rolled lopsidedly, like a chipped pebble; and soon slipped off the edge. Turning over itself, flank over flank, it fell into the black river and was swallowed up by the hungry waves. There was a hint of orange, and then it was gone.

Antstar looked to Whitetooth. “Can we…” His throat choked upon itself. “Can we never speak of this again?”

Whitetooth nodded. A talon of lightning darted out of one of the clouds nearby, and there was a corresponding grunt of thunder.

They walked back to camp, side by side, master and servant. Antstar looked at the ground, not daring to look ahead; Whitetooth, unflinching as ever, looked right ahead, squinting slightly to keep the dapples of raindrops from hitting their eyes. They slipped into the medicine den, doing one last check to make sure any indication of a struggle had vanished.

Everything was silent, there. Clumps of moss, diligently organized by type and age, lined the den. The nests, clean as ever, were empty. Except for one, which held Marblepaw.

Antstar paid close attention to Marblepaw’s figure. She was shuddering a bit, her breath shaky. Was she having a nightmare? Or- or had she-

Antstar felt his nerves coil in terror as he realized her amber eyes were wide open.

“Whitetooth!” he whispered, a sudden sharpness to the syllables as panic clutched him. “Whitetooth, your apprentice-“

But Whitetooth was unfettered as ever. “Do not fear, Antstar.” They laid a paw on Marblepaw’s shoulder, and she recoiled slightly, gasping with fright. But she stayed in position, letting the medicine cat’s pale, cold pawpads touch her warm dark tabby pelt.

“She can keep a secret very well,” they said, a sudden darkness in their words. “And if not- I can make her keep it.”

This was wrong. This was very, very wrong, and Antstar felt a pang of sympathy for the little apprentice. It was only now he realized he had never seen her befriend anyone else in the Clan.

But it had to be done. For WindClan.

And so, Antstar walked off to the leaders’ den. Just as he got in, rain fell in great, big curtains, obscuring his view of camp. He checked for a moment if he could see any glitters of light from his Clanmates’ eyes, in case they had awoken and seen at least something, but he was reassured by the uniformly dark rainy landscape before him. Slowly, his trembling breaths began to ease into sleep once more.

He thought of Whitetooth, of Marblepaw, even Sparkthistle. How much had changed in the past few hours alone. He had gone from leader, to murderer-

No! He was no murderer, he told himself. He had simply -disposed- of her. She was leading a rotten life and all he had done was let her leave it. And if he truly had murdered her, it was for the best of WindClan, for their safety. If warriors could kill in the midst of battle, if medicine cats could end the suffering of the burdened, nothing he had done was out of line. It was the best for everybody.

But when he looked back to the sky, to be reassured by starlight, all he found was the thick rain battering the earth.

#warrior cats #Warrior Cats OCs #story

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