#this is the time where drawing all those skulls becomes useful. i know teeth :)

[gnaga37]

i wanna see diy evil arc art 👉👈

hehehe :3 such a nice ask gets silly sketch from last night :]

[50cal-fullauto-astarion]

Keziah Niamh. Ffhjjd. This got so fucking out of hand. I LOVE YOU TY DARLING. 💖💖

König x f!OC (Rivka) / 1.8k words / NSFW

AU where for some reason, there's been a concerted effort to imprison skilled operators in the Gulag. König is used to kill whomever the guards point at--he does not question why. His reward is a visit to a solitary cell, where a woman holds his vile heart in her fist like a benison.

TW: descriptions of extreme violence and gore, machine-translated Russian.

When König’s shackled by wrist and ankle, with a chain running up to around his waist, he knows he’s one sin against his fellow man away from getting his little prize. If he were a rat, violence was a lever, and getting dragged up to solitary was a pellet, he’d stomp that fucking lever into the ground every fucking time.

No one had ever accused him of being smart, apart from one person, but there was not a person alive who had suffered the work of his awful hands that would not hesitate to call him brutal.

He’d been such a fucking problem when he was jumped and dragged to the Gulag all those months ago that he warrants a cadre of six guards in their full tactical gear to escort him down the halls to the boiler room. They like a good little show with a nasty atmosphere. It makes them think of home.

Once there, he’s aimed like a gun at another face that doesn’t matter to him. 

Older guy, beard, body hair like a werewolf. He’s got scars across his face that’ve taken one of his eyes, and when he snarls, he’s got no teeth across the bottom. Without his shirt on, König can make out eyes tattooed around his hips. Eh. Poor fuck, unlucky enough to get tagged for liking dick, it seems. Doesn’t matter. Not much of this does.

No one in the room speaks German, and he doesn’t speak Russian, and they won’t answer in English, so he just gestures for whatever weapon they want him to use on the raging asshole that’s about to become his victim. Sometimes, they get creative—hand him a pair of tongue and groove pliers or wire strippers, once even the broken wheel of an angle grinder. 

They don't give him bladed weapons, or anything that can be used like one. He kills too fast to get their rocks off like that. 

Today, it's simple. A claw hammer. His opponent is given an old skinning knife. It's not quite even odds, and König can remember a few fights that had been easier. 

When it starts, König is fast and ugly in nature and action. He's got reach, a hammer, and a lever to break off the fucking hinges. 

The bastard gets a few good slices in trying to go for his neck—a blood-groove carved over his cheekbone, a valley on his bicep that damn near splits the veins in his elbow. But König lands that first blow, and it's all over but the death rattle.

The claws fit perfectly under the windpipe. Can't rip it all the way out, but he can absolutely mutilate it. 

He's the perfection of violence with every arc of his arm drawing the hammer back—cracking it forward, pulverizing the joint on one side, ramming the claws between skull and cartilage on the other. The blood boils in his fucking veins, finally seeing the world in color, iron flooding his sinuses, thick on the soft palette, heavy on his tongue. 

The old man staggers, slurring, eyes unfocused. Trips on his own feet, goes down hard on his ass, looking around in confusion like a toddler. The guards howl like baboons showing red ass; they close in, smother, wanting a look at the damage.

König doesn't feel pity. That human feeling had been demo'ed and ripped out of him decades ago.

Slams a canvas basketball shoed foot on the gushing throat, crushes him back in a crouch with all his weight bearing down, and beats.

And beats. And fucking beats.

Might be the animal rage of being locked in a cage. Never loved a cage that he was forced into. Might be that he's named with his name, never called by his callsign. Might be that he's on an island in the middle of the Baltic Sea, and anything short of an Armageddon-sized riot would be a death sentence when eyeballing escape. Might be he just can't choose how he kills.

Might fucking be that his unit is dead, and the only thing he's got left is in the hole, and the only thing he's got left is the only reason he'd ever capitulate to these filter-faced fucks instead of killing as many of them as fast as he can, dying, but dying in defiance. 

His chest is heaving, he bleeds from the wounds cut into him, and he sits on the corpse's ribcage. He doesn't ask what the man did—wouldn't get an answer, fucker probably didn't do anything, and König doesn't care. 

Their tones change, and the tasers come out once gore streaks up across the floor and the near wall, hammer striking concrete when there's no more bone to crush.

Fuck—the meat, and blood, and bone chips are hot splattered on his legs, up the wifebeater on his chest exposed by his rolled-down jumpsuit. It burns on his exposed neck and face, and he can even detect it on the numb tissue of his warped burn scars. 

“Odinokiy. Seychas.” His voice rasps, throat hot and dry, wanting water, but he grates out the only Russian he knows, throwing the hammer away. 

Solitary. Now.

Rivka had been dumped in the hole five months ago for influencing the guards and other prisoners. For a woman with a subatomic amount of charisma, she was spilling poison in ears across a dozen languages. 

The only word he recognizes as he's paraded with his chains dragging and hobbling him through the corridors on the far side of the facility is Zabludowicz. It's the only one that matters. 

Her eyes never went back to normal—that scope glass gray he'd know in his dreams and mania now gone forever—and she still couldn't read, but she could still run her engines in the red, burning spite and ugly, fester-fuck rage for fuel.

No one needed a reason to pack her off to proverbial Siberia. They just did. And when they dragged her out of the showers, they beat her. It—broke something. In her head.

The first time König had seen her after, both her eyes were dilated black, and she slurred her words together. Told him in the halting sentences of a child that she couldn't read the Cyrillic on the labels of the guards’ gear. Couldn't read anything in the Latin alphabet, either.

König throws his hideous, hyena-pitch cackle when the guards slam him against the cast iron door casket-lidding her miserable cell, grating out, “Rivki—Schatzi—it's me,” in a gout of German that sends the guards cursing, twisting his cuffs tighter, cutting into his raw skin. 

Death is death is death, and it still stands in the place of a gift in this shithole, but they find a purgatory in leverage levied.

It's on purpose. It's all on purpose, and it all hurts, and the worst things they can do to him, they won't.

Pain upon Rivka is his punishment, and they won't kill her until they reap all the connections they can from her head. Pain upon him is her pound of flesh; they know she stops speaking when he bleeds too much, and they know she'd send him to his death with silence, even if his delivery was torture in all its many natures. 

There's coarse Russian yelling, orders and threats spat, and König is wrenched away from the door, his limbs freed and howling just as it slides open with a bang that should burst his ear drums.

He's shoved in with all the force of an aircraft carrier launched out of dry dock on bad water, and there are thousands upon thousands of fucks he can't give, because there's Rivka, against the far wall. 

Her eyes are black, and they keep shaving her head without even the guise of delousing, just degradation. Stupid shit to think they could ever degrade her. 

Not sure which one jumps first after that microsecond of recognition—the space at the bottom of lungs between breaths, where dying eventually finds its way, where the lungs prepare to intake the scent of home—but the crash is painful, and Rivka is the shrapnel edges of broken glass with her starvation-raised bones digging into his bruised muscle.

Here, in hell, is his health. 

Her hands find his wounds, and her voice is a sharper cut than the knife used against him, “The fuck are they giving out now? Scalpels? You-you-you need glue t-to close-close-close.”

Her words are precious now, so he does not interrupt, but Rivka wouldn't know the difference between a limb severe by saw and a neck slit with a straight razor, and the love König carries for her would crush him to death the moment he stopped asking it to.

“I missed you,” he says in place of a reply, feeling the quarks in his atoms want to break apart in the face of his relief and full-body shaking, “fuck, I missed you.”

Her eyes snap back to him, and her expression crumples. Her features—austere, alien, fae—animate as her humanity bubbles back up through the cracks, too strong facing him to remain trapped even with her ruthless burial.

“Missed you bad,” she says, nose wrinkled snarl-like at her recovering vocabulary. Where she lacks in words, she masters in movement, arms around his neck, pulling body against body. She grabs the strap of his wifebeater, warping it, yanking him close, and he doesn't care. He listens. She's the hand on his collar, he'll always arrive when she signals him.

She gropes for hair at his temples that has long been buzzed away. She searches for silver that exists only in stubble. She kisses him like she'll take the soul from his body, devour it bloody, and carry it for safekeeping. 

He gathers her up like there's still some chance in hell that he can protect her, dropping on her miserable bare cot of a bed, dragging her onto his chest, and between his legs, and under his arms. All he can do is wait for her vengeful brain to heal, then there will come a plan, and he will faithfully (faithfully, faithfully, faithfully—as blinded by loving obedience as Abraham on the mountain, with wood for the pyre meant for his sacrificial son) be the finger on her trigger. He will be her executioner. He will carry out her will.

Her body is too tired and worn for fucking, and he wouldn't ask or accept it anyway. If it was a matter of too many eyes, they possibly could swing it from sheer savagery, but it's not. He can't make himself ask her to expend the energy. She has so far to go still. 

But her razor-slide lips are a refrain. We'll make it through, we'll make it through, we'll make it through. 

Rivka is the only higher power König believes in.

[casspurrjoybell-22]

Master - Chapter 6c

*Warning: Adult Content*  

I groan angrily as I make my way through Diablos' mansion.

Here I was making the effort to come to kill him and he wasn't even here.

Of course, I didn't expect him to be here but I did expect something, maybe his little auctioneer to lead me to his location.

But all there were vampires I'd already killed and slaves I freed.

I release my rage with a bloodcurdling shout, kicking one of the dead bodies lying in the hallway like a disgruntled child.

I keep kicking it, blaming this dead vamp for all my problems, then the stamping began.

I only pull away when I feel his skull shatter beneath my shoe.

I look around the crumbling hallways, bodies littered throughout the space that was now up in flames, the fire doing the rest of the work to kill off any that had staved my attack.

I'd managed to break into the mansion and kill every sentry, guard and working officer he had under his name.

Of course, it wasn't hard as I had an enormous advantage over them all, in terms of physical strength.

But it still worked up a sweat in me I didn't expect.

It was an annoying reminder that I'd become a little rusty during my time as a couch potato, after all, I hadn't fought in any sort of battle in nearly half a century.

But it was all for nothing because Diablos wasn't in his main office or his private quarters when I finally made it through.

He must've escaped when the first alarms went off or he wasn't here at all, neither was his next in command, which meant this entire expedition was a waste of time.

Yes, it'd put a dent into his dealings but it didn't do much to lead me to where he'd be next.

The only good thing about this was that the enslaved people who were locked in the basement were now free.

I didn't stick around long enough for them to see my face or the damage I'd done, I simply broke all the locks in a blink of an eye before creating a path for the back door.

Now all I could do is hope they make it somewhere safe.

I leave through the front doors of the mansion, steeping out through the flames that took down anything left of the disgusting building as I made my way back to my car, stopping when I look to the sky to find it already dark out, knowing it was probably later than I imagined it to be.

I curl my fist with blinding rage for myself when I remember telling Kalem that I'd be back soon.

Now even more upset, I slide into the driver's seat, sinking my nails into the leather as my mind wanders to Kalem.

I left him to get revenge on those who tortured him but in the end, I didn't get the one who made it all happen.

I left him for no reason.

I'd made him upset, scared and worried for absolutely nothing.

"Damn it," I shout slamming my palm against the wheel.

                                                   ******

I enter Malcolm's house without knocking, it was never locked any way.

I move swiftly through the house, straight towards the only two heartbeats that rested in it.

I knew it'd take a bit of work to make Kalem forgive me and return to his happy state but at this moment, happy or not I just wanted to see my boy.

He was reluctant to separate and now I wish I never did, just a couple hours apart from him and I was dying without him.

I needed him.

I open the door that stood between us, faltering when my eyes land on his small form curled into Arias' side.

The Elf looks towards me, golden eyes boring holes into me as he bared his pointy teeth, yet he doesn't move, clearly not wanting to wake Kalem.

I step inside the room and move towards the two.

Wanting and needing to scoop Kalem up and take him back home, where he belonged, which wasn't here with some overprotective fake Rapunzel.

"He waited for you for hours," he says icily drawing his eyes down to Kalem before looking back to me. "He wouldn't leave his place by the door where you left him. No matter what we did or said, he wouldn't move because he was waiting for you."

My heart drops within my chest.

I couldn't care less at the clear hatred the Elf was sending my way, that wasn't what was tearing me up inside.

My stilled heart was squeezing itself at the fact that Kalem didn't want me to go that badly, the thought of him waiting shattered even inch of me that had vowed to keep him happy.

I thought because he was angry when I left, that he'd at least find comfort with Arias but apparently not.

"I'll take him now," I say firmly but he chuckles in amusement.

"If you believe even for a single moment that I'd allow you to take him with you while you're literally dripping in blood, then you are disturbingly deluded," he replies with narrow slits for eyes.

I grit my teeth in frustration as I stare at the Elf.

"How do you think Kalem would react if he woke up and saw you like this? It would destroy him."

He was right.

If Kalem saw me like this, he'd either never let me touch him again or he'd never let me go.

I didn't know him well enough to say, especially with his healing state and I wouldn't risk it.

"You can't even draw your fangs in," he spits in disgust.

I lick on my teeth in shock, surprised to find my fangs still present.

Usually, they would've gone by now after a fight but I was still so worked up that they were here.

"The moment he wakes up, call me," I say before sending one last glance Kalem's way.

Taking in his peaceful form like the breath of fresh air I desperately needed.

"He has a phone, he knows how to call me."

I stumble out of the mansion with blind movements, thoughts disarrayed from the pain of it.

I'd left my boy alone and he'd waited for me, waited in vain because I didn't do what I promised to.

I could only sigh as I got into my car, returning home and for once hating being the only person residing in darkness.

[jackrrabbit]

Adversary /// Overhaul x f!Reader (18+)

Summary: You make a deal with the devil to save your life, but it turns out Overhaul’s not interested in your soul.

A/N: Remember when I said I was going to do a fantasy collab and then dipped for like 9 months? Hahaha…anyway…

@pleasantanathema @ present-mel @shadowworks—if it’s not too late, here’s my part for the Pleasant & Strider Fantasy AU Writing Collab from a million years ago. Go check out the masterlist and gorge yourself on these amazing pieces!!

Tags/Warnings: dubcon, demon fuckery & occult things, big heresy/sacrilege/perversion of religion, sex in a church ft. Catholic sex guilt, other than that it’s not that bad lol, inexperienced reader, mild degradation, shameless camp and demon-fucking clichés, Overhaul calls you “little girl” 👉👈

He doesn’t look like a demon.

Not that you really know what demons are supposed to look like. But…red skin, right? Fangs and claws and swirling masses of bad energy. Maybe cloven hooves for feet. Yes, that’s the Disney version—but even if you didn’t expect a cartoon personification of evil, you didn’t expect this.

He looks like a doctor, you think. Lab coat hanging open, surgery mask pushed down under his jaw, stethoscope draped over his shoulders. No, he’s a little young to really look like a doctor…an intern, you amend, shifting back in your hospital bed. He looks like he fits right in here, not a hair out of place. Except for, you know, the polished black horns curling out of the sides of his skull.

Overhaul. It was written in the book. That’s the only thing you have to call him in your head.

He’s standing in the center of the sigil you drew at the foot of your bed before midnight, surveying the room critically without meeting your gaze. He looks annoyed—that’s not a good sign, is it?—but then again, of course he’s annoyed. You’d be annoyed too if you got summoned out of your cozy hell dimension in the middle of the night. According to the book, you’re lucky he even showed up…although ‘lucky’ isn’t really how you’d describe yourself most days.

“So,” Overhaul says after a long moment of silence in which you question every choice you’ve made in your relatively short life. “You’re dying.”

You nod.

“And you don’t want to be.”

You nod again, wondering if you’re supposed to be contributing more to this conversation. It’s a bit difficult when your mouth is so dry it feels like you’ve been eating dirt, but you suppose being in the presence of an unholy servant of Satan will do that to a person.

“Fine.” He sighs, frowns, and then finally lowers his gaze onto yours—and you shiver.

Those eyes. No human has eyes like that.

“Make me an offer,” Overhaul tells you, and through his open mouth you catch a flash of sharp white teeth.

Okay. Okay. The chirping of the heart monitor speeds up (as if it weren’t obvious enough that you’re terrified) and you fold your knees up to your chest and fidget with your ring and think. He’s giving you a chance to establish parameters. You’re supposed to start with his end of the deal, the thing you want from him. That’s what it said to do in the grimoire, aka the 19th century demonology volume your creepy cousin brought back from her pagan anthropology research trip in rural France. The one you keep hidden under your bed because your mother would burn it if she knew you were reading about summoning demons.

Offer nothing to a hell creature without first telling him your price. You know the words by heart, both the winding calligraphy of the original French from the grimoire and the rushed scrawl of the English translation your cousin left for you in sheets of lined paper layered between the pages of the book for you to read. Really, this is her fault. She was the one who slipped you the book, who told you that it worked, who snuck you the ingredients for the summoning. She was the one who left a bookmark at the chapter on this particular demon, one that specializes in ‘Contrat pour Remédier au Déséquilibre des Quatre Humeurs’, which she said meant a contract to cure any illness. Even his ‘name’ is translated in her hand, practically an afterthought in the margins of the page.

‘Le Malin qui Ravage et Rebâtit’— Overhaul?

You looked up the literal meaning of this phrase on your own. It did not reassure you.

“Girl.” His voice is cold, irate. Your eyes snap back up to his and it feels like that burning gaze is laser-beaming into your skull. “Do not test me. My time is limited…as is yours.”

You swallow. “How long do I have left?”

“Less than a single human year,” he tells you without a trace of sympathy. “Seven months, twelve days, three hours. Or so. You’ll be too exhausted to leave this bed in four months, and the pain will become intolerable in six… By the end, you’ll wish—“

“Stop,” you breathe out. The heart monitor is beeping wildly and you squeeze your knees into your chest, trying to calm down your breathing. “Stop, I—I want to live.”

“Of course you do.” Overhaul’s lip curls. “How very predictable.”

Be specific, you remind yourself, doing your best to ignore the stifling disapproval from the man—the demon—in front of you. Something about him (maybe how clean-cut he looks, maybe the indisputable authority in his demeanor) makes you want to impress him. But you didn’t turn your back on your religion—you didn’t draw pagan symbols on the floor in chalk, fill silver cups with various questionable substances (including your own virgin blood), and turn the crucifix your mother hung over your bed upside-down so you could let a demon make you feel guilty for wanting to survive. “I want to be cured. I’m okay with whatever natural death I have instead when I’m older, I just don’t want to die of this illness. I want you to make me healthy.”

“Simple enough. What else?”

‘Simple’? Your heart surges with something you’ve felt very little of since your initial diagnosis—hope. “T-That’s it. Just the cure.”

Overhaul glares at you. “Humans… Every vice in the world available to you, and you limit yourselves to the basest priority of survival.”

“But you can do it? You can cure me?” you persist.

Overhaul steps forward (quiet, so quiet you wonder if he really moved) and holds a hand out to you past the foot of your bed—you hesitate, and a second later you can see the muscles in his hand flex, stretching the latex of his plastic gloves tight over his knuckles.

Just do it. You give him your hand. Carefully. Like you’re scared the contact will burn you. It doesn’t (although his skin feels warmer than yours), but after a moment his grip tightens, sliding down past your hand to circle the fragile bones of your wrist and squeeze.

“Ow?” You wince.

The demon’s eyes flicker closed for a second, lips moving silently like he’s talking to himself—and then he drops your hand unceremoniously back onto your lap. “You could be cured before the sun rises this morning. I doubt your stay in the hospital will extend past the end of the week.”

He sounds bored, voice as flat and passionless as it was earlier, but your heart is soaring. Cured. You’ve lived with this illness for so many years, you can’t remember the last time someone told you you could be cured. And getting out of the hospital that soon? You can just imagine taking down all the decorations from the walls of your room here and setting them up in your old bedroom at home. You could see friends on the weekend and not take an oxygen bag, you could get a job or—or apply to college, you could have a life—

“That is…assuming you have something to offer me in exchange for the cure.”

Your stomach drops. You’d almost forgotten about the other half of the deal.

“Don’t tell me I came all this way for nothing.” Overhaul steps back, and the orange light of the candles you set sends strange shadows over his arrogant face. The fires look brighter now, and you find yourself tracing the lines of those shining black horns. In an odd way, they look natural—so organically framing his temples that you can’t imagine him without them.

“N-No, of course not. I have some money—I mean, my mom has some, and I can get it for you…” Which is half the truth. If you know anything, it’s that your mother’s spent most of her savings on your treatment and care. You probably have more debt than you have money in the bank right now—you’d try to get rid of that, too, if you hadn’t read in the book how important it is to keep your request as simple and straightforward as possible.

…Although it’s apparently not enough. Overhaul’s eyes narrow, molten gold irises carved into slits. “Even if I had a use for human money, do you really believe your life is worth so little?”

“No—no,” you say quickly. “I just thought—in case you were interested—”

The air crackles with energy, the candle flames spark bright blood-red, and the hair on your arms stands straight up. “I am not.”

“Okay! I get it.” You wave your hands back and forth, pulling your IV line from side to side with the motion. The book was very clear about staying calm and rational while you work out the terms of the deal, but that’s easier said than done when you have a real live (live?) hell creature in front of you. You always knew this was going to be the hard part—all the stories say there’s only one thing that a demon would be interested in, and no matter how inviting the prospect of living past this illness is, you know you’d rather die than sell your immortal soul to the devil. “I’ll give you anything except my soul! And—and don’t hurt anyone I care about, or— just don’t hurt anyone, okay? Other than that, if there’s anything I can give you, I will.”

Overhaul’s lip curls, baring a thin strip of those unnaturally sharp canines. “And is your soul really so valuable?”

This throws you for a loop. Isn’t that the standard deal? A soul for a wish? That’s how it’s supposed to work—at least in this twisted version of reality where you can summon a demon to perform unholy miracles for you. But if you think about it, it doesn’t really make sense, does it? Why would your soul be valuable to him? You can’t form an argument, especially since you’re not willing to barter it away in the first place.

Your mouth is pursed open as you search for a response, but Overhaul doesn’t seem willing to wait. A gloved hand wraps its way around the railing at the side of your bed, and he leans in closer. “Little girl…what makes you think you possess anything I desire?”

Little girl. You’re not a little girl, you’re a grown woman—and yet there’s no untruth in the statement. In front of him you feel insignificant, immature, weak. You have nothing real to offer, and something tells you that you’re not going to get rid of the demon you summoned without a sacrifice you’re not willing to make.

You twist your ring around your finger—the nervous habit you haven’t bothered to break because you’ve always had more important things to worry about—and the glint of silver in the candlelight must catch Overhaul’s eye because before you even notice him moving, your delicate hand is trapped in his larger one to give him a better view of the tiny piece of jewelry. “What is this?”

“It’s—um, a ring. A purity ring.” Has he never seen one before? Well…actually, that makes sense.

Overhaul turns your hand over in his without touching the band of silver. He’s looking at it closely, inspecting the lovingly engraved cross in the design and the inscription on the other side. “Matthew 5:8,” he reads out.

“…Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God,” you recite cautiously. It feels wrong to speak the words in front of him, but somehow you can’t help yourself.

Overhaul’s hand doesn’t leave yours. “This ring is important to you.”

“It’s a symbol of a—a promise I made to God. To save myself for my future husband.”

“To ‘save yourself’? To save what?”

You can’t believe you’re explaining this to a literal demon. You close your eyes and inhale slowly and taste smoke. “My…virginity. It’s a promise that I won’t have sex until I enter into a biblical marriage.”

At this, Overhaul is quiet. You give him a moment to answer, half expecting him to question why you think God cares about your sexual status (honestly, you’d be lying if you said you haven’t wondered this yourself), but he stays quiet until you peek up at him to try and gauge the look on his coldly handsome face.

He’s still staring at the ring. He hasn’t touched it—maybe he can’t, because of the cross?—and through the latex, his skin feels hotter than a human’s is supposed to be.

“Is there…” you start, but you trail off when you realize you have nothing to ask. You give a little tug to try and take your hand away and you’re surprised when your wrist actually slides out of his grip to fall back on the nest of sheets in your lap. You didn’t think he’d let you go so easily.

Overhaul turns his head to the side, eyes drilling into you so you feel like you should lower your gaze. The candlelight flickers in strange shadows over his horns. “This will do,” he says quietly.

“What?”

“In exchange for your cure.” The demon taps his own left ring finger, the place where the purity ring sits on your hand, and your heart soars. He actually wants that? It’s just a simple silver band, not worth much, but you’re not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Maybe it has some special significance because of the religious connotation. Your mother will be angry you’ve lost it, but you’re happy to cope with that if it means living to actually get married!

“Yes!” you blurt out before he has a chance to rethink his offer. Sure, you’ll miss the purity ring—you’ve had it since you were a kid, after all—but there’s no question you’re getting the better end of this deal. At least in your opinion.

Something flashes through his yellow eyes, something you don’t even want to try and identify. “The contract, then.”

You barely have time to notice that his voice has gentled, that it’s practically silken in comparison to before, when the candlelight flickers again and suddenly the contract is everywhere. Everywhere. Writing appears on every surface in the room, covering the walls, stretching over the ceiling, coiling around the sides of the hospital equipment and decorating your bedsheets until you and Overhaul are the only untouched surfaces in sight. The characters are inscribed in red, dark red like—don’t think about that, you tell yourself squeamishly. You can make out some of the letters, even a word here or there—French, you recognize, mixed with what looks like Latin and interspersed with what you can only guess are runes.

“I can’t read this,” you tell him, fidgeting with your ring for what you now realize will be the last time.

“I only need your name,” he purrs, and then you feel a fragile weight in your hand: a feather, pearl-black and glossy and too large to belong to any bird you can think of, its angled tip glistening with wet ink. There’s an empty space in the writing before you, and Overhaul’s gloved hand comes to yours again to guide you into place.

This feels wrong…then again, of course it does. Even if you’re getting off relatively easy and just losing your ring rather than your soul, you’re still making a deal with a demon. You sign your name, forcing yourself to think about the future you have ahead of you rather than a disapproving white-bearded caricature of The Man Upstairs wagging his finger at you for haggling with a literal servant of Satan. People have done worse things to survive, haven’t they? It’s just a ring.

You set the feather down and Overhaul sighs, thick black eyelashes obscuring his intense gaze for a moment—and then the contract is gone, leaving your hospital room as blank and sterile as it’s supposed to be (well, aside from the candles and all the other ritual stuff you threw together to summon a demon in the first place).

“Are you going to cure—heal me now?” you ask.

“…Patience, little girl.” He’s pulling his glove off, peeling it down his fingers to bare the pale skin of his hand. You catch your breath and wonder what this is going to feel like, and then the tips of his fingers meet your cheek and—

you stop breathing.

It doesn’t hurt.

Or if it does, you don’t remember the pain a second later when breath floods back into your lungs. What you do feel is energy. Strength in your muscles, blood pumping through your veins, every inhale and exhale as light as a bird and freer. You feel healthy. You’re surprised you even remember what health feels like but you do: it’s like you’ve only been half alive, and now life is surging into you and through you and around you, bubbling up in your core like a spring overflowing. You blink rapidly, thinking you might cry from the sheer pleasure of it, but when you open your mouth it’s laughter that comes out. You’re healthy. You’re alive. You barely notice the IV line literally falling off of your skin because the hole where it entered your vein is sealed shut and healed perfectly.

No more needles. No more hospitals. Even without all the monitors beeping out your heart rate and measuring your vitals, there’s not a shred of doubt in your mind that you’re cured.

“Thank you!” you laugh, looking up at Overhaul and for the first time, not caring that he’s evil incarnate. “I feel—I’m okay! It worked!”

“Of course it did.” His expression is inscrutable, but he lets you have a few moments to enjoy your newfound health.

You roll your shoulders back, flex each muscle you can isolate one by one to test, make fists with your fingers and then run them over your hair, which is already thicker and shinier than it was a moment ago. Your body thrums with energy—you want to run, to feel the ground against your bare feet and the cold night air on your face, and you think you could do it! Your legs are already swinging over the side of your cot, ready to run barefoot out of the hospital if that’s what it takes, but before you can stand up Overhaul’s pushing you back down onto the bed.

“Have you forgotten your end of the bargain already?”

Honestly you did forget, but only for a second, only because you were so excited to just be outside again. “Oh, yeah. Of course.” Your hand goes to your left ring finger, ready to slip the ring off and hand it over, but Overhaul shakes his head.

“Not here.”

“What—?”

You’re falling. Your hospital room is disappearing, the image of your walls and your window and your bed disintegrating into yawning black, and you’re falling through it into nothing, into emptiness, and Overhaul’s still-bare hand in yours is the only anchor you have so you clutch onto it and squeeze your eyes shut. You want to scream—that’s the sane thing to do when you’re falling through miles and miles of empty space, right?—but when you open your throat the sound is swallowed up just like the light was…

Overhaul’s hand burns into yours, an improbable lifeline that you pull closer more out of terror than conscious thought. The slick, empty air rushes around you and you think I am going to die like this and then, incredibly, as soon as you’ve accepted your imminent demise, you feel your back mold onto a chilled, flat surface, vertebra by vertebra up to the back of your head, as if you’ve been lain down onto it.

Your heart thuds in your ears and you brace for an impact because your body hasn’t quite accepted yet that it’s not falling anymore—but at the same time, you know you’re lying down on something. You pry your fingers away from their vice-grip on Overhaul’s arm and feel around blindly for what’s underneath you, and when it seems reasonably tangible you let yourself open your eyes.

Way above, vaulted dozens of feet over your head, is a ceiling studded with gilt-edged frescoes and stained glass. It’s raining (even though it wasn’t in the hospital, you think) but through the massive panes of colored glass there’s enough oily blue light to make out that you’re in a church.

You’re in a church, with a demon. Isn’t that against the rules?

You sit up stiffly and look over at Overhaul, who’s standing at your side and looking down at you…which is how you realize the soft, cold surface you’ve been deposited onto is the blanket on top of the altar in the sanctuary. “Where...did you take me?”

“You should know this place.”

And you do, when you look around. It’s empty now and you’ve never been here at night, but this is a church your mother would bring you to when you were little, back before the disease got so bad you couldn’t risk traveling to it anymore. This is where you took your purity vow…the ring feels heavy on your hand. “Why—why—“

“I can’t stand human hospitals. Filthy places… How that reek of illness and death doesn’t bother your kind, I’ll never understand.” Overhaul pulls his latex glove back on. He’s dressed differently now, no longer impersonating a doctor—black shirt, black pants, and a…bird mask in red leather and gold. So are you, as a matter of fact. Instead of your hospital gown, you’re in a gauzy white dress that’s already been pushed up to pool around the tops of your thighs.

The slip is too thin for the cold, and you can feel your nipples standing up under the cloth so you fold your arms over your chest and hug yourself. “Why did you take me here?” The sound of your voice echoes off the walls eerily and you wish you hadn’t spoken so loudly. The reflection of your words sounds girlish, nervous.

“I told you. Your side of our contract.” Even in this dark, the angular features of his face are clearly concentrating—on you. “Are you already having second thoughts? Such a fickle little thing…”

“You mean the ring?” You reach for it again, ready to tear it off and throw it at him if that’s what it takes to see your deal through, but Overhaul snatches your hand away, pinning it above you.

“Not the ring,” he says. “The promise.”

The…promise?

A chill makes its way down your spine despite the heat radiating off the demon’s body and onto yours. “I don’t understand.”

“The promise,” Overhaul repeats—and you hear a sound almost like wings flapping and then he’s on the altar with you, knees straddling your hips as a single hand holds both your wrists above your head. “To remain a virgin until marriage. Your promise to God.”

A streak of lightning cracks down on the other side of the stained glass window behind the altar, illuminating the room briefly in spectacular pits of red and orange and yellow…and then it’s dark again, and the only color you can make out is the gold in Overhaul’s eyes.

“I’m going to break it,” he murmurs, lowering his head toward your ear right as the answering thunder rolls through the sanctuary, up through the altar, up into you.

///

Méfiez-vous de son piège, the grimoire said. Beware of the catch.

Of course it wasn’t just a ring.

Overhaul’s fingers are in—inside you, his middle and ring finger pumping through the length of your cunt like they belong there, like you were made to be touched this way. A mixture of your juices and your own spit cling to the latex because he made you suck his fingers before he put them in you and he hasn’t bothered to take his gloves off—not that you asked. You’ve been too busy biting your lip to try and muffle the moans that he keeps forcing out of you. He’s bracing himself on top of you with one hand and fingering you with the other, so your own hands are free to push into your eyes and hide your face…until he yanks your arm back and stops.

“Look at me.”

Your eyes are screwed shut and you shake your head back and forth, the movement shuddering your whole body right down to your pussy wrapped around Overhaul’s fingers. He slows the movement and kneels back, pushing one of your thighs up into your chest as he does it.

“Look at me.”

And you’re not sure whether it’s some unearthly power he has over you or the plain old deterioration of your willpower, but you can’t refuse him. You crack your eyes open and he’s glaring down at you, skin pale as ice in the blue light. Once he’s satisfied that you’re watching, the demon leans back in to fuck your cunt with his fingers, slowly at first and then quicker when he hits something inside of you—a spot, a place on the inner wall of your pussy that makes you feel like you’ve been shocked— heat blooms through you like blood in water and you gasp and he curls his fingers up to pet over that spot again.

“Wait—wait, that’s—it feels—weird!” You’ve never felt like this before. You’re not supposed to feel like this, it’s wrong.

“I understand you’ve never touched yourself, but don’t pretend you don’t like it.” Overhaul says, voice as indifferent and calm as ever even though your cunt is dripping clear sticky liquid over the plastic of his glove.

He pushes back in and grinds his palm over the little button on the top of your pussy—your clit?—and you want to scream. “No, I—I don’t—nnhh...”

Do you like it? The demon’s body is so hot next to yours, like he’s running a fever except you’re the one going out of your mind… You’ve heard metaphors for sexual pleasure before (that it’s like having something to drink when you’re dying of thirst; or that it’s the ultimate act of intimacy, love in physical form) but all of that’s a fucking lie. There’s nothing to compare it to, no reference that makes sense, because it doesn’t make sense—you don’t even want him to keep going, do you? You’re only doing this because you signed your name on a devil’s contract, because you don’t want to die and there’s no alternative…but that doesn’t explain why you feel so warm from the inside out, why you’re squirming and your hips are rocking involuntarily no matter how much you try to keep still. This isn’t right. You feel like you’ve been lied to.

A good girl wouldn’t like this.

Overhaul isn’t going to let you close your eyes, so you don’t—but the sounds coming out of your mouth are so…indecent (and how can you think these things about yourself? the word feels like someone else is saying it when you hear it in your head) that your hand is drifting up to your mouth before you can stop yourself, trying to stifle all of it…

“Let your voice out. I want you to hear yourself moan.”

Long fingers slide their way out of your pussy and then move up to rub quick little circles around your clit and you moan, like a whore, like a girl getting her cunt rubbed by a demon— “Oh, uhhhn—something, it’s—coming—“ There’s something building up in your core—a peak, a climax, something that makes you fist your hands in the nightgown he put you in (so tight you’re surprised the thin fabric hasn’t torn) and tilt your hips up into him, begging without words because you don’t have any to express what your body is asking for…

But he doesn’t give it to you. Overhaul takes his hand away from your pussy and the shock of the cool air after his too-hot touch is almost enough to send you over that edge—almost. Not quite. And without it, you’re left shivering and quaking, thighs twitching as your baser instincts beg you to just put your hand between your legs for once and hump your fingers to completion if the demon won’t do it.

You’re not going to risk that, though. Not when Overhaul’s dragging your body closer, bunching up the blanket on the altar under your spine, so your pelvis is angled to his… He’s already shirtless and you hear him unzipping his pants but you can’t bring yourself to actually look at him, even when you feel something hard and hot nudging up against your inner thigh and then aligning to your sticky wet slit.

“This will hurt a bit, but I want you to look,” he says, and you don’t even understand at first until you make yourself feel it—his cock, pushing up against your tight cunt to finish this, this perversion of what your first time was supposed to be…

And what was it supposed to be? Roses and candles and soft kisses? A nameless, faceless husband unzipping your wedding dress and making love to you with the lights off? The way the demon touches you should be cruel in comparison but it isn’t, it’s lighting fires under your skin and turning your brains to mush, so how is your body supposed to tell the difference?

It’ll hurt, you know that, you’ve heard enough about sex to know that it always hurts the first time for girls…women. It was already a stretch to fit his fingers in your virgin pussy, so of course his cock is going to hurt. You turn your head toward the window at your side and try on look out at the rain drawing rivulets like veins over the glass, something to focus on instead of him.

“I said look,” the demon hisses, and his hips push forward a bit and you bite off a whimper of pain. “Watch me take your virginity…look at your tight little cunt swallowing me up just like it was made to.”

“N-No—“ you whine, even though it’s not like you can ignore it. “Don’t make me, don’t make me look, I can’t—“

“Then look at me.”

It’s what he wants, some kind of wicked satisfaction he gets off on, but you’re lucky enough to even get an option so you choose that one, shifting your gaze up into his face instead of the place where his cock is pressing deeper and deeper inside you. Overhaul’s eyes are half-lidded and it’s hard to tell from behind the mask but the look on his face is…pleasure? No, that would be too human. Restraint, at least. He could just thrust up into your body in one stroke, but he wants you to feel it for some reason.

Maybe because it’s a worse betrayal of your chastity if you want to get fucked.

Lucky for you, though, you can barely feel anything aside from the pain. The heat you felt building earlier is draining out of you even as Overhaul tilts deeper, layering his chest over yours. You’re almost grateful for the modest barrier the dress provides between your torso and the solid muscle of his abdomen. His cock in your pussy feels like it’s too big too deep too much and it’s the first time you’ve felt like your body wasn’t created specifically for this purpose so you hold it tight.

“Does it hurt?”

A second of clarity makes you want to snarl (of course it fucking hurts, I’m losing my virginity to a demon I summoned from hell) and you dig your fingernails into your palms to stop yourself from saying it out loud. Overhaul pulls out a fraction of an inch and then pushes back in and you feel like the breath’s being pushed out of your lungs. “Yes! Yes, it—it hurts—“

“I can make you enjoy it…for a price,” he sighs, settling into a slow rocking motion of his hips pushing into yours.

And you want to, every sore muscle in your cunt is telling you to give in and give up, give him what he wants so you can enjoy it like he says—but you’d rather hate every second of this than make another deal. You shake your head quickly and because you’re still too afraid to look away from him, you don’t miss the look of surprise that flits across his face before he tamps it down. “I don’t—I don’t want to—like it,” you gasp out between thrusts. “It’s better if—if it h-hurts…”

This time it’s obvious—his eyes really do widen, and you feel some petty triumph at having caught him off guard like this. Who’s predictable now? you think—and then he’s lifting one hand off the altar at the side of your head and tugging his glove off with his teeth, and you don’t even have time to be afraid of what he’s going to do to you because it’s too late, his bare fingers are already stroking over your mound and onto your core, massaging into the flesh of your stomach so he can feel his own cock sliding in and out of you—

and it doesn’t hurt anymore?

You only have a second to try and understand—he cured you, he healed the pain from your first time just like he healed your illness?—before he hooks his grip under your thigh and folds your legs into your chest so he can fuck into you harder than before. His cock slaps into your pussy and you can hear it, hear how wet your filthy little cunt is, smeared through with your juices. It’s sick—the sound of skin against skin, and the moaning you can’t hold back, you sound like a woman in a porno and you wish the pain would come back just so you could keep hating what he’s doing to you. “What—what did you do—“

The demon ignores you. “It feels good, doesn’t it.”

“Nn—“ It’s deeper like this…deeper and rougher and you can feel it. Now that the pain’s been reduced to the dull ache of a stretched muscle, you can feel everything—his cock sliding against that same spot in your cunt that makes you want to squeal, the friction of his body moving against your clit, all of it, everything you wanted to block out— he pumps into you and you hear your breath sobbing out a moan a second out of rhythm, the sounds of you bouncing on demon cock echoing over the walls. “Please—ah, ahhh…”

“‘Please?’ Are you begging—me, little girl?” Overhaul pushes your thigh up and drags his cock through you, excruciatingly slow, forcing you to feel the thick head slide over every gummy wall in your slick pussy.

You shake your head, mewl, try to force your hips to stop rocking back into his and grinding your clit against him. But you can’t. You’re a—you were a virgin, for fuck’s sake! Overhaul’s immortal. Probably thousands of years of experience on how to make you feel like you want this, like you’re only alive in the places he touches you… You’re at his mercy, if he has any. You never stood a chance.

“Then are you begging your god?” His body lowers directly onto yours and like you’re being controlled by puppet strings your arms fold around him and rake your fingernails uselessly into the smooth skin of his back. You can feel the vibration of his mirthless laughter through his chest. “It must hurt terribly…to know he isn’t listening.”

“Don’t—stop, please,” you sob. “Don’t say—don’t stop—please!”

“Listen to yourself, girl—“ Overhaul’s breath is faster now, but you don’t have time to question it because you feel your peak coming again, the tension rising up through your cunt and your abdomen, harsher and crueler than when his fingers were in you but you want it just as much. More. “Has he ever answered your prayers? Has he...ahh, fuck—who’s the one giving you what you need?”

“No— please, please just let me let me, please—“ You’re talking nonsense now, begging for the release—at least then it’ll be over, and you need it, you need it so badly you feel your muscles locking up, cramping, your ankles crossing each other behind Overhaul’s back.

“Good girl,” the demon breathes, and then he lifts off you so he’s kneeling upright with the two of you still connected, his thick, heavy cock still speared in your pussy, and his fingers come down again to rub at your clit. Everything’s so wet you can hear the motion of his fingers slicking themselves through your juices, sliding up and down the little button over and over and it feels so good that a tiny part of you almost wants to drag it out, to savor it, but the rest of your body is going to die, is going to go crazy if the demon doesn’t let you cum right now, right now, right now!

And he does. Praise the Lord. The pads of Overhaul’s fingers pass over your clit one last time and your head rolls back, your throat moves but you can’t even make a sound, your legs shake and you cum.

You didn’t know it was like this.

Your cunt squeezes down on his cock, throbbing and pulsing and your toes literally curl (you didn’t think that was a real thing!) and your vision goes black for a moment and—oh fuck oh fuck i want this i want more how is it possible that i’ve never felt like this—you understand, more intimately than ever, why sex is wrong:

because nothing that makes you feel this good could possibly come without a cost, could it?

///

It must take longer than you thought for you to come back to your senses, because when you regain awareness of your body you’re in your hospital bed. You’re clean, too, and you wonder for a second if Overhaul bothered to clean you up? Or no…he probably just snapped his fingers and transported you back to your room. You’re not really sure how it works.

What you are sure of, however, is that you just got fucked by a demon. You’re sore in places that you didn’t know it was possible to be sore, and there are already bruises forming on the flesh of your thighs from how tight he was holding you. You don’t really have time to inspect these, though, because apparently your…ordeal (if you can call it that) isn’t over.

Overhaul’s still here.

He’s facing the hints of sunrise through the east window, dressed again in the immaculate lab coat and surgeon’s mask. “You’re awake,” he says without looking at you.

You nod hesitantly. You’re not really sure what the protocol is in this situation, but at least you’ve finally held up your side of the contract, right? And so has he. Despite having been up all night doing sinful things, you’re still itching to get out of this bed and test the limits of your healthy body. “You’re…going to leave, right?”

“Yes—”

At that, you sigh in relief and settle back into your starched bedsheets.

“But there’s one more thing you owe me.”

“Goddamnit,” you swear for the very first time in your life. After what you just did, taking the Lord’s name in vain seems like a relatively minor sin.

Overhaul’s mildly irritated expression doesn’t change, but he holds his hand out to you, palm up, the way you imagine someone would if they were helping you out of a car or requesting a dance at an old-fashioned ball. And really, you want all of this to be over—you want to get out of this hospital, you want to taste what the air outside is like, you want to distract yourself from what you just gave up in exchange for a future. At this point you’re just going to have to hope God isn’t as picky about the whole premarital sex thing as you grew up believing.

So you put your hand in Overhaul’s.

Slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid it’ll burn him, he slides your purity ring down your finger and balances it in the palm of his bare hand. It sizzles when he touches it, glowing orange until it eventually burns down into a ash-black circle in the center of his palm. Once he’s satisfied that your pretty little ring has been reduced to nothing more than a scorch mark, he closes his hand around yours and you feel something sharp, painfully hot, etching onto your finger.

It’s over in a second, but you still yelp and yank your hand away from him as soon as he lets you. “Ah—ow, what was that?”

He burned you, he literally burned you! He’s already healed it, but there’s still a thin, pale scar, an intentional one left wrapping around the skin at the base of your left ring finger. Like a wedding ring.

When you look close, you can make out a symbol on the back of your finger where the cross used to sit—and even though your conscious mind doesn’t recognize it, the sight of it rings out something inside your ribcage, deeper and truer than flesh and blood. It’s the devil’s mark, you think. It’s his.

“…A promise,” Overhaul says softly, and even though it’s a chilly morning, you can feel the heat of his hands on yours a long time after he vanishes back into the dark.

[britishassistant]

What happens if a new villain comes to town and starts tearing shit up? Like a new rival shows up, falls in love with yuu, and kidnaps them before enacting a huge take over the city scheme, will the NRC and RSA finally come together for the same goal? Or would it lead to chaotic in-fighting in their individual attempts to rescue the reporter and save the city/stop this jerk face from showing them up only for yuu to break out just so they can knock them all upside the head?

Thank you for the ask, dear anon!

“It’s so simple, love.” The villain coos, one hand cupping Yuu’s chin gently to tilt their face up, “Just accept my proposal, and we won’t need to have any nasty accidents where you and the tarmac down there have a...terminal disagreement.”

Yuu glances down at the drop from where they’ve been “tied” to the top of the skyscraper by the metal beams that the supervillain bent around their body like they were rubber. They think they can see a flock of pigeons flapping by below them. “That’s your idea of a threat? Really? Because I’ve heard worse over breakfast. Sorry, but I really don’t think we have the right chemistry to accept marriage to the likes of you.”

The villain pouts, leaning against the tip of the building as if they were a pair of people chatting on the streets far below, and not one hapless captive tied to an antenna and their captor floating with nary a second thought in midair. “Oh c’mon now love. Don’t make this more difficult than it has to be—you know that I could do far better with your Daddy’s little league than any of those second-rate bozos crowding around you.”

The reporter’s gaze sharpens, the corner of their mouth curling up in a snarl. “Don’t. Refer to them. Like that. They’re each seven times the supervillain you are, at least. Besides, I’d rather be turned into pancake mix on the pavement than do anything that could advance that man’s little projects.”

The villain tuts, coiffed hair ruffled by the breeze as he leans in far closer than Yuu is comfortable with. “Don’t play hard to get, love. So you’ve got Daddy issues, who doesn’t? It’s no reason to get in the way of progress. Maybe you’ll change your mind if I show you exactly what I can offer...”

Yuu recoils as the villain’s tongue forces its way into their mouth when their lips collide with all the force of a car crash, an invasive writhing thing that makes them gag at how far it pushes in as the villain hums greedily at their taste.

And one that the reporter swiftly brings their teeth down on.

Hard.

“FUCK! Ugh—you foul little bitch!!”

The backhand jars the reporter’s skull even as they brace for it, cutting the inside of their mouth and leaving them worried that if they try spitting out the blood gathering there, they’ll lose a tooth along with it.

The villain huffs, one hand carding through his ruffled hair. His tongue is already whole and unblemished, the last indents of their teeth healing as the reporter watches. “I didn’t want to do this, you know. I would’ve gladly taken you to the altar, and had you screaming in our wedding bed. I could’ve made you happy, if you’d just do what you’re told.”

Yuu sneers. “Frankly, I can’t imagine anything more boring.”

They take cold comfort in the fury that burns in the supervillain’s eyes at that.

“Fine. Fine.” The villain floats away, his eyes glowing that same bright red that melted through the wall to Yuu’s bedroom when they were first taken. “I was prepared to do this the nice way. I wanted to do this the nice way. But if you’re going to be such a little bitch about it, then I can always rely on the old fashioned method of succession.”

The laser beams swipe through the block of abandoned offices four stories below where the reporter is tied up.

The top of the building wavers, then begins to crumble forwards.

The villain says something else, probably something mocking and challenging them to get out of this mess because that’s the kind of cliche line that’s always used here, but Yuu can’t hear him over the whistle of the wind in their ears and the scream torn from their throat as they plummet.

They try frantically tug their arms free as their legs are pulled upwards by gravity, try their damndest to squirm free, but it’s no use, they’re not The Prefect right now, don’t even have the fedora on them, they’re Yuu, just Yuu, just helpless reporter Yuu, who can’t break steel beams with their pathetic powerless normal person strength, they’re going to die, they’re going to die, they’re going to die, they’re going to die, they’re going to die, they’re going to die, they’re going to die, they’re going to die, they’re going to die, oh Great Seven, they’re going to die—!

“KING'S ROAR!!!”

There’s a discombobulating moment of freefall as the metal and concrete around them disintegrates into sand.

Then a strong, wiry arm loops around their waist and they’re pinned to a carpet as their rapid descent gradually slows to a stop in midair.

“Need a lift?” They can’t see Snake Charmer’s eyebrows through the mask, but they get the feeling one of them is raised in a wry fashion as he smirks at them.

The reporter lets out a hysterical, shaky laugh that only narrowly escapes becoming a sob, trembling hands seizing onto the two supervillains like they’re lifelines. “Wh-what took y-you so long? Did you ge-get held up in traffic?”

King grumbles, flicking their temple gently as Water Boy laughs gleefully from where he’s steering the carpet. “You could show a little more gratitude, herbivore. Do you know how hard it was to evade all the goody-two-shoes on the way here to save your ass?”

Yuu’s about to reply, when they catch a movement above them out of the corner of their eye.

“INCOMING!!”

Water Boy jerks the flying carpet to the side just in time for the villain to plunge past them fist-first, close enough to see his teeth bared in a furious snarl.

“DRIVE!!” Snake Charmer screams at his lieutenant above the rushing wind as the villain rises back up to try his luck again. Water Boy presses the corners of the carpet forwards and they go into a rollercoaster dive that makes the reporter’s stomach roil in protest.

King unleashes his powers on the two buildings behind them, disintegrating the foundations in hopes that the tonnes of concrete and rebar would be enough to slow the flying brick chasing them. The villain just bursts through the obstacles with nary a broken sweat, and speeds up to the point where Water Boy has to turn the carpet upside down so they don’t get knocked out of the sky.

“Where the fuck is that computer junkie?!?” King yells at Snake Charmer as they draw dangerously close to the road below. “He was supposed to be here hours ago!!”

“How am I supposed to know?!” They can hear Snake Charmer’s heartbeat hammer in his chest from where he’s pinning them to the vehicle in the absence of a seatbelt. “It was the conman who was meant to give him the si—”

Yuu can barely scream a warning in time as the villain looms behind Leona’s head, eyes glowing red and ready.

A rush of flying metal harpies collide with the bastard’s face, effectively pinning him in midair as he struggles to destroy the thousands-strong swarm that obstructs his path to them.

“OPEN FIRE!!” Comes Hermes’ high-pitched cry as a blue beam shoots past them at the center of the robotic maelstrom.

A pair of red lasers rocket out to meet it, almost seeming as though it could push Ortho’s assault back—!

A white-hot streak of lightening descends from the formerly clear sky to where the villain was pinned, disrupting the red eye lasers and allowing Hermes’ beam to make contact.

There’s a hideous scream and the stench of burnt meat.

“We’re coming in too fast!!” Water Boy yells, tugging on the carpet’s tassels until they’re almost vertical. “Ja—I, I don’t know if we’ll slow down in time!!”

Yuu barely hears the curses the other two occupants spit, lunging to try and cover as much of them as they can with their body. Even if they crash, if Yuu can just absorb most of the shock of the landing—!

Small pinpricks of pain latch onto their scalp, their pajamas, the carpet and supervillains beneath them, hundreds of small beating appendages smacking them all in the face as the carpet’s rapid descent slows incrementally.

“Oh boys~?”

Four sets of strong hands seize the front of the carpet, their owners grunting as they attempt to force the carpet’s stop through sheer force. Of course, the continued existence of Newton’s Third Law combined with the reporter’s precarious shielding position means that though the carpet experiences sudden stop, Yuu keeps going at the same high speed that will ensure serious injury once they hit the tarmac.

Or it would do, if they didn’t collide with a solid chest and waiting pair of arms first.

The reporter finds themselves cradled in a nearly crushing grip, their catcher muttering “child of man, child of man,” into the top of their head and a warm thumb swipes over the rapidly darkening bruise on their cheek. The wind picks up around them alarmingly, whipping into a gale.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, I’m okay.” Yuu reaches up to pat Tsunotaro’s head soothingly. “See? Just a few scrapes and a little scare. Give me an ice pack and a shower and I’ll be right as rain.”

Tsunotaro doesn’t look very convinced, but at least the wind drops to more of a strong breeze.

“Oi, let ‘em down, you dumb lizard.” King growls behind the reporter, the rings on his tail clattering as it swishes irritably. “We did all the work of saving them, you don’t get to take the rewards.”

Tsunotaro clutches them closer, getting that stubborn look in his eyes that makes Yuu want to groan in exasperation. “No.”

“Why you—!”

“Now, now children, the world works in mysterious ways.” Batman beams. “I’ve always found destiny draws those it finds most suitable together.”

The reporter rolls their eyes as King snarls in response to that remark and Snake Charmer mutters, “I didn’t know ‘destiny’ was what you called interfering old fools.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” Snake Charmer climbs off the carpet and straightens his headscarf. “What’s next?”

There’s a crash as the mass of robots pinning the singed villain about three blocks down the street begins to shift, however unwillingly.

“‘Kay, the ‘save the princess’ team barely cleared the parameters for their part of the mission.” Charon’s floating tablet drifts forward, the sounds of frantic tapping on a keyboard almost drowning out his voice. “Now it’s time for the ‘aggro’ and ‘debuff’ teams to move in, Tsuntaro-sshi, Royal-sshi.”

“Understood. I’ll leave the coordinating of the others to you, Charon.” Royal Flush looks up and raises an unimpressed eyebrow at the tall fae. “Well? Are you coming?”

Yuu could almost swear they hear a small grumble as Tsunotaro finally lets them down out of his grasp. He runs his thumb over their injured cheek one last time. “Sebek, Silver. Defend the reporter as you would me.”

“Yes, Tsunotaro-sama!” The two of them chorus.

Royal Flush shakes his head, then reaches out and squeezes Yuu’s hand once. “If anything happens, Three of Clovers and Howl-san will get you somewhere safe. But this shouldn’t take long.”

“Oi, don’t presume to give orders to my minion, Flush.” King growls, inserting himself bodily between the two of them. His mouth curls up in a smirk as he places a proprietary hand on top of their head. “Besides, I’ll be here, won’t I?”

Royal Flush and Tsunotaro narrow their eyes at him, but their attention is claimed by the sound of metal crashing down the street as the villain shrugs off the rubble, the burns on his arms and face healing rapidly as they watch. His eyes flicker over their motley group, before settling on Yuu with laser-precision.

It’s only the arrow that flies into his shoulder, combined with a second lightening bolt striking him from the blue that keeps that metaphor from becoming literal.

Yuu chokes a little at the pressure on their pajama shirt collar as they’re dragged out of the line of fire. From where they’re crouched behind a car, they can see Tsunotaro and Hermes throwing almost everything he’s got as the bastard, while Royal tries to close the distance without ending up attacked himself. They also catch a glimpse of who they think is Leviathan silently gliding closer through the alleys on the far side of the street.

But the villain just won’t stop getting back up. Despite the fact that anyone sane would’ve given up the moment the green flames were broken out, he keeps coming, no matter how many times he gets thrown back.

And he’s clearly getting closer to the reporter he so desperately wants to kill.

“Now what?” Yuu asks, barely able to hear themselves think over the worried growl rumbling from Jack’s chest.

Charon’s muttering to himself as more of his robots fly by overhead. “Need to pin down the rate of regen, if we can get that and surpass it so the ‘debuff’ team can do their thing before the second wave gets here, but what is it?”

The reporter blinks. Well, taking into account the insult, and the backhand...

“He was able to heal his tongue about...four, maybe five seconds after I’d bitten through it? That’s only a rough estimate though, it may’ve been shorter.” They murmur.

The area around them goes very quiet.

“B-bitten through...?” Water Boy asks, hand coming up to his own mouth with a wince.

Yuu scowls. “That creep put it in my mouth when I did not ask him to. Ugh, I would’ve gone for his balls too, but the metal didn’t let me lift my legs that far.”

They huff for a moment at the unfairness of it. Then, “King, stop grinning at me like that.”

“Like what herbivore?” His tone is the picture of innocence, even if the way he’s eying them is most decidedly not.

Snake Charmer ‘accidentally’ kicks him in the shin as the sound of frantic typing erupts from the tablet again. “Setting the Erinyes to follow up on Ortho’s and Tsunotaro-sshi’s attacks within a three point five second time frame...fwe he he he, let’s see how that mob likes this!”

With the clack of what sounds like an enter key, the robots above them begin divebombing the villain in sequence, deliberately targeting the parts of him injured by Tsunotaro and Hermes’ blows.

One of them sacrifices itself in a kamikaze dive that leaves a bleeding scratch on his arm.

The villain roars, the force of his fury almost knocking them over even with how far away their little group is crouched, turning the lasers on every robot within his line of sight.

Of course, this means he stops paying attention to the three supervillains who have been steadily making their way towards him.

“FAIREST ONE OF ALL!”

“IT’S A DEAL!”

“OFF WITH YOUR HEAD!”

The powers hit the villain one after another, his lasers sputtering out with a pained scream. The scratch on his arm doesn’t start healing. Neither does the gash he gets across his face when Poison Queen roundhouse kicks him away with those stilettos of his.

“Was that it?” Leviathan says, his careless facade somewhat ruined by the fact that he wobbles as he begins to levitate. “I must confess I don’t understand what all the tr-trouble was.”

A low whistle by their ear makes Yuu jump. “The bosses can be scary when they wanna be. Remind me never to piss off those three at once.”

The reporter look up to see Ace and Floyd standing behind them. “Ace, wha—where have you been?!”

Floyd giggles and Ace shoots them an evil grin as they chorus, “Sending out party invites~”

Yuu blinks and tries to puzzle out this cryptic phrase, but their attention is swiftly drawn back to the scene of the battle at the sound of manic, unhinged laughter.

“You think you’ve won? You think something like this will stop me?!” The villain cackles, eyes wild and beginning to grow red again despite the way his body tenses and the collar around his neck starts to buckle. “You think that second-rate half-hearted hacks like you can stop someone like me?!? I am your superior!! You all will bend the knee once I snap that ungrateful little bitch’s neck and take my rightful place as head of the League!!! I’ll decimate every last one of those pathetic, moronic heroes who pollute this city like a fungus!! And then, oh , and then I’ll make every last one of you who thought they could get away with this pitiable attempt to stop me—”

“Us? Here to stop you?” Poison Queen tilts his head. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’re supervillains.”

“Stopping the likes of you.” Leviathan proclaims triumphantly, “Is their job.”

The villain stops.

The villain turns.

Over half the top heroes of the Royal Sword Association lead here by the minions meet his gaze.

“Hello.” Niko Niko Neko says with a wide grin.

Yuu isn’t close enough to hear if the villain whimpers, but they almost wish they were.

Almost.

[cdroloisms]

TW; Death mentioned

I had this thought, I was watching the Hunchback of Notre Dame and remember in the beginning where the Gypsy mother ran to the church and claimed sanctuary, but she died on the church steps

What if c!Dream either was let out of the prison or escaped and c!sam chased him down (for whatever reason you want) and Dream runs to church prime in the Holy Land, claiming sanctuary, and maybe Sam accidentally kills Dream on that land in front of the church

this was a FUN ask, anon, sorry it took so long for me to get to it

tw: DEATH, DEREALIZATION, religious themes, blood, grief, vomit, murder, violence, implied torture/abuse, dark themes, dark content, prison arc/pandora’s vault

To be honest, when George opens his eyes, he has no idea if he’s awake or not.

This has become an...alarmingly common occurrence. He’d been bothered by it at the beginning, had spent hours stuck in his own head, dropping and picking up items, counting forwards and backwards, seeking any sign possible that what he was looking at was real and not just a figment of his own dreams. In the end, it’d all been for nothing; he would be 100% sure in reality, that what he was looking at was the real world, only for it to dissolve into shadow and himself back to lying on that same bed in the middle of nowhere that he’d never remembered lying down in. At some point, he must’ve just...given up. It’s not like the dreams were unpleasant; they were the exact opposite, most of the time. Unlike that one reality-bending fit of wakefulness that had ended in him boxed in by lava in the middle of a chamber of red, one that wasn’t a dream, surprisingly enough, his dreams are usually just- normal. He goes to his field, harvests some wheat. Talks to Quackity and Sapnap and Karl, though he’s almost certain he’s not talked to any of the three in a long time in the waking world. Sometimes, he’ll even be visited by a god wearing Dream’s face, XD, though sometimes XD is there in the real world, too, so they’re hardly a determining factor. If he’s really lucky, in the dreams, he’ll even see Dream.

Dream, as he remembers him, not as the monster he’s been told he became. Once, the dream had even dropped in the flustered, confused form of Dream from the beginning of the server, all fluffed up hair and boyish joy. Usually, he’ll see a Dream that’s been let out the prison, hale and whole and sheepish, stuttering through brief apologies and hugging him in that overeager way that makes his ribs ache and then the three of them, for the lack of better words, prance off into the sunset without a worry in their minds.

And then he wakes up.

George rubs at his eyes, looks up at the sky to reorient himself; it looks real. It feels real. The sun is warm on his skin, the grass still wet with dew from the morning, brushing against his ankles as he stands up. He’s in the area behind Punz’s house, his walls and towers looming in front of him, and George blows a breath through his teeth as he goes towards the direction of the Prime Path. There’s no knowing if this is a dream or reality, but either way, standing in one place does nothing for him. Better to get the rest of the day over with than to waste it here.

He’s not even halfway to the Prime Path when sirens sound on the horizon, giving him pause. That’s never happened before. They’re loud, and shrill, and something niggles at the back of his head in a vague sense of familiarity, begging for him to understand and take note. He frowns, and picks up the pace- if he gets on the Path, he might get a better idea of what’s going on. At the very least, if there’s something dangerous, his best bet is the Holy Land.

Surprisingly enough, when he gets there, there doesn’t seem to be anyone around, only the consistent drone of sirens on the horizon. George strains his eyes along both sides of the path; nobody comes, or speaks, or makes their presence known. There’s only George, alone. It’s strangely eerie.

Is this a dream? he considers briefly, before shaking his head. It doesn’t matter.

It’s another several minutes before anything changes. He stands there, at the edge of the Holy Land, until he hears a faint clamor that draws his attention, prompts him to edge forward along the path. The sound, starting faint, quickly swells in volume, underscored by the hum of the siren still ringing in the distance.

First come the shouts, overlapping, too muffled for George to quite pick the words out between the sounds. Then come the footsteps, low and rumbling, making the path creak and shudder. Then-

“Get him!”

George watches, eyes wide behind his goggles, as a dull orange blur reaches the crest of the hill and stumbles down it in a dead sprint, not paying him a second glance as they swing under the arched entrance to the Holy Land to enter within it. They collapse into a heap on the quartz steps- and oh, that’s blood seeping out of them, staining the white red, their hands tight on the stairs as a shivering string of sounds leave their crimson-speckled lips. Their face turns towards him, unseeing, and George feels something splinter, irreparably, in his chest, because that’s Dream.

He’s dreamed about Dream a lot, but never like this. Never injured, like this, face hollow and haunted, scars splitting his skin into shards. The wheezes in his dreams had always been from laughter, not this seething, spitting rattle that emerges from his chest, worryingly wet and irregular. He’s collapsed on the bottom steps of Church Prime, legs bent strangely in a way that must be uncomfortable against the ground, arms resting against the edges of the stairs, all skin and bone and still-bleeding cuts, and he looks like he’ll never be able to stand up again.

“Please, please, pl-please,” he stutters through his sobs, meaningless begs and platitudes falling on George’s ears and making him cringe back at the sound, “please-” and George doesn’t quite know what he’s begging for, doesn’t know what has left his friend in a ruin on the ground, leaving bloodstains on the stone, but the words worm under his skin and into his skull and refuse to leave. Footsteps continue to pound on the path behind him; George turns around, gasps at the sight of two figures, fully in enchanted netherite, thundering over the wood and into the Holy Land.

“What-”

“There!” The voice is rough but familiar, and the figures dash over to where Dream is lying, defenseless. His pleads rise in pitch and volume, becoming almost unbearable to listen to, and there’s an angry clamor of voices and an awful, wet crack and a shrill scream-

Silence.

“Holy fuck-” George’s head is spinning, the voice finally registering- that’s Quackity, stance wide, a sword in his hand. Beside him, tall and imposing, stands Sam, his full set of Warden armor shining brilliantly under the still-rising sun. His hands are wrapped around his trident, gleaming cyan, the end speared straight through Dream’s chest.

“You killed him,” Quackity hisses, head raising and only then meeting George’s eyes. “Sam- what are we going to- you killed him.”

“I-” Sam shakes his head. “I had to, he was going to get away-”

“Sam-” Quackity’s voice pitches higher, more desperate, “Sam, did you- oh fuck, we’re in the Holy Land-”

The air shatters.

That, at least, seems to be the only way to describe what happens; George watches, breathless, as the air shimmers and warps unnaturally, the way his dreams do right before he wakes up, only centralized in the Church entrance instead of surrounding him on all sides. Blood continues to run down the stairs, stark against the pure white of the quartz, so dark it almost seems black. The ripple clarifies, deepens; there’s a sound like ripping fabric, and something carves a tear through what seems to be existence itself. Behind, there’s a starless void, alluring, wanting, calling, dark and deep and everlasting and the End this is The End-

A whirl of white and green and gold, and the tear is gone, leaving something entirely other in its wake. George shivers in his place; he thought that he’s seen XD angry, before, remembers vividly the feeling of being chased, the God’s voice calling after him as he shut the doors of Punz’s house behind him. He remembers the way their voice had glitched, growing deeper and distorted, the rage with which they had growled at him when they thought they were being used.

That all pales in comparison to this. That was all nothing compared to this.

“YOU-” the deity booms, voice echoing and crackling and rolling like thunder and cracking ice and the roar of the ocean on the sand, making George clamp his hands to his ears in vain. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?”

George remembers being uncomfortable, back then, at how inhuman XD had seemed. Their jokes, gory and violent and startling, their idea of a prank being playing with people like dolls subject to their whims. It had taken him a while to really seem to get the God and for the God to understand him in turn, a while for him to understand that ignorance did not mean malice, that even a God that had never once known mortality could be so startlingly human. Here, their wings spread over them, seeming large enough to block out the sun, something dark and writhing behind the mask they wear, a sourceless wind howling around their robes and battering against the walls with aimless fury, George is reminded by how powerful they really are. That they are still eldritch, still a God, that they will not hesitate to judge those below him, the ones that they stare at, now, helpless and mortal and trapped within their gaze.

Sam stumbles back on the church steps, grip loosening on his trident. It continues to stick up out of Dream’s unmoving body, splattered with blood halfway up the handle.

“Oh no-” he hisses, and Quackity backs away with him, “no, no no I didn’t want to kill him,”

“THIS DOMAIN IS MINE.” Anyone else and it might’ve sounded petulant, childish. Here, with the deity’s fury directed on the two of them, even on the sidelines all George can feel is terror. “YOU HAVE TAKEN A LIFE UNDER MY PROTECTION, MORTALS.”

“Sam,” Quackity’s eyes are wide as saucers. “Sam, we gotta- we gotta run-”

“WHERE WILL YOU GO, LITTLE MORTAL?” XD disappears, then flashes back into existence at the Holy Land entrance, making Quackity and Sam shriek with their escape route blocked. “YOU HAVE ABUSED THE AUTHORITY YOU HAVE BEEN GIVEN AND DESTROYED WHAT WAS NOT YOURS TO BREAK. YOU HAVE PURSUED POWER BEYOND YOUR UNDERSTANDING AND OUTSIDE YOUR POSSESSION. YOU HAVE ENTERED MY DOMAIN, MY REALM. DO YOU REALLY THINK YOU SHALL LEAVE UNPUNISHED?”

“XD,” Sam shouts, and thunder cracks overhead.

“A LIFE FOR A LIFE,” XD rumbles, their words final, and in the end, just as every other time, all George can do when the world ends is watch. Lightning spears to the ground, striking both Sam and Quackity with twin flashes of brilliant white, striking from a clear blue sky. The air sparks from the power, charged with static electricity and making George’s hair stand on end; thunder claps, seems to shatter the world into two as they disappear in twin shrieks and the smell of burned flesh. Just as quick as it happens, it ends, and George is once again left alone in the Holy Land, vomit clawing up his throat and tears stinging the backs of his eyes as he dry-heaves into the grass.

“XD,” he more begs than says, eyes fixed on Dream, still lying too-still on the church stairs. The deity turns to him, their face strangely blank. “XD, please- please tell me this is a dream.”

“Would that make you happy, George?” the god replies, and George sobs, face collapsing into his hands.

“Please, XD, please tell me- please tell me this isn’t real, please-”

“I don’t understand, George. Would that ease your distress?”

“XD- THIS CAN’T BE REAL- THIS- I-” George sinks to the ground. “He- he was supposed to be okay. He was supposed to come back, he wasn’t-” he grips their robes within his hands. “Please, XD, you can bring him back, please bring him back- this has to be a dream, he can’t be- he can’t be dead-”

Through his cries, the sirens continue to wail.

[1kook]

skirt chasers - drabble iii

this a skirt chasers drabble in case u couldn't tell uhhh here’s i and ii lol

summary; “I think the alcohol broke my amygdala. Your epidermis looks pretty today— did you use that toner I told you about?” warnings; alcohol mention, tit sucking, unprotected sex, use of the pull out method, uhh making out??? ratings; mature (18+) misc; educational abolitionist!jungkook, drunk jk, mentions of throwing up lol, jk is an anatomy frEAK, more skirts, more jk has questionable kinks wc; like barely 2k

notes; i wrote this in like 40 mins bc i couldn't stop thinking about STIMBO jk from skirt chasers and how cool he is enjoy xxxx also i barely rmr shit from anatomy bc it was the worst course of my life so pls bear with me

His first mistake is getting drinks with the boys. You like to think you know your boyfriend pretty well, know what he’s good at, where he excels, where he thrives, and well. Drinking doesn’t rank too high on the list.

Jimin calls a little past midnight. “Kook’s on the table,” he slurs into the phone, too loud and too sloppy for a Wednesday night phonecall.

“Ha?” you mumble back, rubbing your eyes until you see stars. The room is dark, practically spinning from how out of it you are. Chaeyoung is dead asleep in her room, so even whispering feels like a crime. “Where are you guys?”

Some bar on the south side of town, that strip where all the newly turned twenty-one year olds go to get wasted. Jungkook’s supposed to be studying for some big exam he has on Friday— at least, that’s what he told you —so it takes a few minutes of convincing on Jimin’s part until you’re shrugging your coat on, blindly navigating through your apartment for your keys and wallet. You briefly consider taking an Uber, but ultimately decide you’d rather get stabbed to death on a public bus so at least your family can sue the city afterwards.

Jungkook is indeed on the table, except the table has long since tipped over. So now he’s just sprawled across some dirty bar floor, puppy-soft head of curls spilling over his forehead. He’s so cute, so adorable. You want to kill him. “Up,” you command, channeling the strength of twelve football players to haul your beefy boyfriend off the ground.

“Baby,” he beams, looking at you but not actually looking at you. “I think the alcohol broke my amygdala. Your epidermis looks pretty today— did you use that toner I told you about?”

You don’t even know what that means, can’t even question him, because then Jin is angrily yelling at you to cover his tab. You pay with a stiff middle finger, flail the three dollars in your wallet at him, before sweeping away your poor damsel in distress. “You’re supposed to be studying,” you huff, can’t even be mad when he stops to throw up in a bush outside the bar. You’re so embarrassed, pretend you don’t know him as you pull up the bus times on your phone.

He’s huffy by the time you get on the bus, sniffling against your neck as he cries about his common hepatic portal vein thing— you don’t fucking know.

Chaeyoung isn’t too impressed with you when you bring him home, dump him on the couch while she steals your AirPods from your room. “Explain yourself,” you demand, and his head rolls back.

“I hate school,” he complains, slaps a hand down against his forehead. You’re certain he’s concussed himself this time. Then he’s bending over, head held between his hands. “Wanna cry.”

You sigh, kneeling in front of him. “You’re almost done,” you comfort him, hand on the back of his head. He’s so sweaty, and smells like all his friends colognes at the same time. “You’re smart, baby, you can do this.”

Your words have the opposite effect, because then he’s rocking forward childishly, nearly rams your skulls together and kills you. He’s reached the point of his insobriety where he’s too sad and huffy to think, sadly leaning against your shoulder as if that’ll somehow solve all his problems. You doubt it will, but there’s really nothing much you can when Jungkook reaches this point, so you settle on softly patting the back of his head until the fool is fucking snoring against you.

Chaeyoung blesses you with her divine retribution the next morning by using up the last of your body wash, and then you’re left to deal with a hungover Jungkook on a Thursday morning. You’re pretty sure he had a class that morning, but he wakes up too late for you to even try to convince him to still go, and then he’s moping on your couch in last night’s clothes. You’re getting ready for your internship, blouse half buttoned, pencil skirt wiggled up to your waist.

“Abolish exams,” he mutters, numbly staring at the ceiling as you wipe his face with a cleansing towelette. He doesn’t seem remotely interested in the shower or the pancakes you made, which lets you know this is a much more serious issue than just a drunken episode. “Aren’t they stupid?” You nod. “Sure, test me on every damn thing we’re learning right now as if science isn’t always changing and I’ll have to keep learning anyway.”

He looks over at you, under-eye bags absolutely horrendous. “Tests are stupid,” you agree, and it seems to be exactly what he wants to hear as he sinks into your arms, face buried in your chest. “Too stupid for smarty-pants Jeon Jungkook.”

Jungkook groans, flops over you on the couch all smelly and gross. “They test you for memorization and not comprehension,” he adds, finally wiggling out of his stinky clothes.

With Jungkook, you can never tell where things are going. One minute he’s cursing the education system and the next he’s kissing along your neck in his rambling fury. “As if I these materials will somehow become nonexistent once I’m working,” he huffs, hands on your thighs. Your breath hitches in your throat, fingers digging into his biceps as he mindlessly kisses down the valley between your breasts. “Shit’s so fucking stupid,” he spits, bunching your skirt around your waist.

“Jeon—“

“I’m just trying to be a fuckin’ pediatrician, for fuck’s sake,” he growls, hastily undoes the front buttons on your blouse. Your black bra comes into view, heart pounding in your chest as Jungkook makes quick work of reaching behind and undoing it, pushing it away, and cupping your breasts in his palms. He guides one of your legs around his waist, tucks it around him as he gets to work raining down kisses on your tits. “So pretty, doll,” he murmurs, pretty pink lips leaving smooches down your chest.

You bite down on your lip, watch through hazy eyes as those big doe eyes flick up at you, tongue swirling around your nipple. “N— Not tired anymore?” you pant, hands in his hair. It’s still dry and knotted from last night’s adventures, but you don’t mind. Not when Jungkook’s hard cock is flush against your thigh.

“Nah,” he confirms, rolling his hips forward against your core. Oh he was horny horny this morning. Or was he angry horny? You don’t care, either way you were winning. “I serenaded you last night, y’know?”

You snort, but it morphs into a whimper when he captures your rock hard nipple between his perfect teeth. “Not a serenade,” you whimper, fingernails running along his scalp, “if I’m not there.”

Jungkook leans back, lets you breathe for a second as he unbuckles the front of his pants, jeans pulled down around his thighs. And of course he’s hard as fuck by now; this was Jeon Jungkook you were dealing with. He could get it up and going in two seconds flat at the mere sight of your collarbones. “You were there,” he insists, capturing your hand in his all romantic like until you’re flustered and shaking him off. He levels you with a cheesy grin, presses your palm against his chest. “Here.”

You gag. “That’s disgusting.”

Jungkook laughs, all squeaky and airy because he’s never given a fuck about looking cool in front of you. His next words only prove your point. “Why? Don’t like being nestled against my left lung and esophagus, all sexy like?”

You roll your eyes, tug your panties aside to give him a full view of what his dorky anatomical talk has done to you. “Dick me down or go away,” you say, pointer finger nudging his chin up when he stares too long

He snaps his teeth at you, almost bites your finger, the fuckin’ weirdo. “Sassy today,” he teases, presses the tip of his cock against you. Both of you groan, watch as he glides himself up and down your folds, angry mushroom head pushing against your clit. “Always so wet for me,” he mumbles shakily, eyes zeroed in on your wet folds and how slick they feel against him. “Didn’t stretch you out again.”

“Yo— You’re mean about that anyway,” you pant, pulling him closer by those firm ass cheeks of his. “I can tell when you’re using me as a reference model.”

Jungkook gasps as if he’s genuinely scandalized by your claim, follows your wordless command and finally lines himself up with your quivering entrance. “I’m a hands-on learner,” he offers, his cheeky smile still on his face until he finally sinks into you and his features twist up all pretty. “Your pussy’s just so pretty, baby,” he grunts, hand on your hip.

Your face feels warm, from the pleasure that rolls over your body and the vulgarity of his words. “Shush now,” you say, try to sound strict and in command, but he’s got his other hand cupping your jaw, looking at you like you’re a goddess and not some dorky college student in their even dorkier internship uniform.

“Temptress,” he mumbles, pushes past your clenching lips until he’s flush against you, your walls spasming around his cock because he just feels so good. “Tried to sneak past me in that tiny skirt.” He draws back, lets his swollen head catch at the entrance before sliding back in, pace slow and sensual, too intimate for some random Thursday morning. “Little doll just needs to be fucked in the morning, doesn’t she?” A pitiful whimper catches in your throat, eyes rolling to the back of your head with every glide of his dick back inside of you.

“N- Not my fault you have naughty eyes,” you whimper, hand coming up to bite at your knuckles as Jungkook continues to fuck you so sweetly. “Fuck.”

Jungkook ducks over you, wavy hair tickling your forehead as his hot breath fans across you. Smells like the mouthwash you made him take and hints of last night’s alcohol. “Can’t help it,” he husks, capturing your lips in his. Sloppy and wet, tongue clashing with yours as he guides you along, hips slowing to rhythmic ruts that have you moaning after each roll.

A few drawn-out thrusts later and you’re coming, body so sensitive this early in the morning, and it certainly doesn’t help that Jungkook looks like that (sweaty and worn, dark eyes watching you writhe beneath him). Surprisingly, it takes him a few more rushed thrusts before he follows, barely managing to pull out in time before his sparkling cum is splattering over your tummy and the skirt bunched around it. “No,” you whine, melting into the couch. “Jeon, this is my only one,” you complain, rubbing a hand over your eyes as if that’ll somehow make your legs work again enough to push him off.

Jungkook says nothing as he tucks himself back into his boxers, chest heaving from exertion as he crashes back onto the couch. “Liar,” he responds after a moment, out of breath and half asleep again. He’s still technically hungover. Hand lazily drawing circles on your knee as you sit up, wiggling your skirt back down. He gives you this indecipherable look. “I hid the other one under your dresser.”

You smack his arm. “Why the hell would you—“

He tackles you back into the couch, presses the stain into your skirt. It must feel gross against his naked tummy, but Jungkook doesn’t seem to care. “Makes me too horny,” he announces, pout pressed against your neck. “I had a teacher fantasy the other day. Did I tell you?” You roll your eyes, resigning yourself to this new life squashed beneath your boyfriend. “You were my high school anatomy teacher and I failed, so you made me stay after school for supplemental lessons—“

“That’s an abuse of power,” you point out, back to carding your hands through his now sweaty and greasy hair. “And you would never fail an anatomy class, that’s literally your comfort area of study.”

“Listen,” he stresses, lifts his head until he’s peering at you with these humongous Bambi eyes. “You spanked me and—“

“Go get my skirt.”

Copyright © 2020, 1kook on tumblr. absolutely NO reposts allowed.

[fuckallthegood0nesweretaken]

Jaime X Reader - NSFW Alphabet

Title: NSFW Alphabet 

Words: 1257

Warnings: NSFW content below the cut! Read more may not work on mobile, procede with caution

A/N: I’m trying to clear out my ask box, so if you had asked something a while ago, I’m going to post it soon. If you’d like to request something, please do! I just might not get to it super soon.

Game of Thrones Masterlist

Masterlist

~~~~~~~

A-Aftercare

Jaime in the beginning seasons would be terrible at aftercare.

There would be no cuddling of any sort and if you were lucky, he would clean you up.

This is partly because of his position in the Kingsguard and partly because of Cersei. He was sort of afraid someone was going to catch the two of you but if he was being honest with himself, he truly did not care about what you were feeling.

Jaime in the later seasons, however, would be better at aftercare.

No matter what, he would clean you up and if it was available, draw you a hot bath to relax in.

He would be newer to the cuddling, having only really done that with Cersei, but he’d grow to love it with you as well

B-Body Part

Jaime’s favorite body part of his would be his cock.

His pride goes through the roof when he doesn’t even have to use his hands to make you a shaking, moaning mess.

If he had to pick something else though, he would pick his mouth.

His full lips and flexible tongue get the job done just as good as his cock and he enjoys being between your legs.

His favorite body part of yours would be your thighs.

He loves the way they wrap around his waist when he’s fucking you hard and he loves sinking his teeth into them when he goes down on you

C-Cum

Jaime loves watching you cum. He loves to see the way your face scrunches up in pleasure and the way your pussy just sucks him in makes his eyes roll into his skull.

Jaime also loves watching his cum drip out of your swollen cunt or out of the corners of your mouth.

If he did cum in your mouth, he always wants to see it pool in your mouth before you swallow it

D-Dirty Secret

This would be the fact that he fucked his twin sister and is the father to all of her children.

E-Experience

Jaime’s pretty experienced

He had a plethora of lovers before he and his sister became romantically involved and he fucked Cersei a lot after

F-Favorite Position

He loves it when you ride him

He can see your tits jiggle and his cock sinking into your pussy

His fingers have easy access to your clit and he can kiss you and mark you up without having to go far

G-Goofy

Jaime can be both, it really just depends on a few things

If the two of you are alone with no possibility of being interrupted, he will let go a little bit and not be as serious

If you’re in a place with a chance of being walked in on, he will be more serious and in control

H-Hair

Jaime doesn’t really care about how his pubic hair looks.

If it’s a thing to you, he’ll trim it up and make it look nice, but if it isn’t, he won’t touch it

I-Intimacy

Intimacy ties in with aftercare.

He’s not a very intimate person in the beginning, he learned along the way so it would be very rare to see Jaime be intimate then

In the later seasons, he’s gotten a bit better and you can see that he wants more than just a quick fuck from time to time

J-Jack Off

When Jaime was younger, he’d masturbate at least twice a day.

Now that he’s older, he doesn’t do it as often, but he still does it

If you pass by him and you’re wearing his favorite dress and there’s no time for a quickie, he’ll rub one out

He prefers to fuck you instead of his hand, but if he has to masturbate, he will

K-Kink

Hair pulling

Whether it’s him doing the hair pulling or him getting his hair pulled, Jaime loves it.

He also loves biting you and leaving marks

With the biting, he prefers doing it instead of receiving it. When he’s no longer in the Kingsguard, he doesn’t mind being marked but it’s a no-go when he’s in it

L-Location

The bedroom is his number one spot, but he really doesn’t mind fucking you somewhere else.

M-Motivation

For the most part, it doesn’t take Jaime much to be ready to fuck

The breeze could make your hair move and he’d want you bent over with your hair twisted into his hand

Some wine could be falling from the corner of your mouth and he’d imagine it was his cum instead

All these little things live in Jaime’s brain and if there’s time, he’s going to fuck you

N-No

He doesn’t want you leaving marks on him.

He also wouldn’t do anything you wouldn’t want to do

O-Oral

Jaime absolutely loves going down on you

Sure, he loves receiving a blowjob from you, but he prefers giving

He takes pride in the way he can make you cry out from just his tongue and how he can get you all worked up just by dragging his nose up and down your thighs, barely even touching you properly

P-Pace

Jaime’s pace all depends on where you are and how long you have.

It’s the middle of the night and you’re in his bedroom? Slow

It’s just past noon and he’s taking a break to eat? Fast

Q-Quickies

Jaime doesn’t mind quickies, they get the job done and both parties are left satisfied. He just prefers to have more time spent giving and receiving pleasure

R-Risks

Jaime isn’t much of a risk taker.

He was when he was younger, but not so much anymore

The novelty of it wore off and he likes to keep to what he knows and is good at

S-Stamina

Jaime has a good amount of stamina

He can’t go on for hours and hours on end, but every time he fucks you, it lasts at least twenty minutes

T-Toy

Jaime doesn’t own any toys and has never used them on himself or on a partner

If you suggested using one, he’d be a little hesitant but he’d try it

If he ends up liking it, expect it to become a regular thing in the bedroom

U-Unfair

Jaime can be a little shit if he decides he wants to tease you.

He may not be able to fuck you for hours on end, but he can definitely go down on you for hours

He’ll tease you by just brushing past your pussy but not touching it, leaving to go mark up your thighs and hips.

His fingers will ghost around sensitive areas, barely touching your skin

If he’s in the mood to make you shake and cry, he’s going to be a tease

V-Volume

Jaime isn’t a loud lover

He’s always had to watch his volume in order to not be caught fucking Cersei so it’s just become a habit at this point

The most you’ll get out of him are some groans and you’ll mostly feel those and not hear them

X-XRay

Jaime is about average, maybe just a little above

His cock is six inches and not super girthy

Y-Yearning

His sex drive is decent, not too high but not super low either

It doesn’t take a lot to get him going, but he knows when to control himself

Z-ZZZ

Jaime doesn’t fall asleep quickly after sex, even if it’s in the middle of the night

It takes him a good hour to be able to rest comfortably and most likely another hour or so after that to actually fall asleep

[a-is-for-abel]

“It’s a very odd sensation, standing over your own grave.” prompt from @givethispromptatry

Crows barked, throaty and dry, from their perch high in the gnarled branches of the tree at the head of the cemetery. The letters etched into the granite before him shined and the heavy mist settled over his shoulders, oppressive and thick.

He counted the crows in the tree, a rhyme coming to mind as the black winged birds called into the fog. "One for sorrow, two for mirth, three for a funeral… Four-- Four for..."

A funeral… His brow furrowed. The name on the gravestone drew him back in and he eyed the letters. Bells from the steeple of a church coughed in the distance.

"It's a very odd sensation, standing over your own grave." He turned to see a man leaned against a tall gravestone, a lit cigarette in his fingers. "But you seem to be taking it rather well."

The man flicked a lick of hellish embers off the end and took a long drag. Smoke trailed from his lips and curled over his salt-flat empty eyes. "Say, you haven't died before have you? That'd make this a bit awkward-- See, I don't really do the whole doing someone else's do-over. Those contracts tend to get a little messy, if you know what I mean."

Dressed sharply in a suit jacket and trousers to match, the man didn't stand out quite that oddly against the backdrop of a graveyard. However, with no procession, he was out of place without the rest of the mourners to stand shoulder to shoulder with.

It was even harder not to notice the way he stood a little too tall, a little too pale, and a little too thin...

And the eyes--

He couldn't remember having ever seen eyes like that. Though, he also really couldn't remember how he had gotten here either.

The man frowned, cigarette dangled from his lips. "You're not very talkative are you. That's gonna make this a little hard if you don't at least start asking some questions."

"Who are you?" he asked, voice hoarse.

"Ah, there it is-- Everyone always starts with that one. Never a 'where am I, how'd I get here', it's always the who are you?" The man shrugged. "I got a lot of names, kid. Just make one up, it'll probably be better that way."

Paul. It was the first name that came to mind, risen like the valleys of weathered hands and deep-set wrinkles the name brought with it.

"Paul?" The man hissed, eyes scrunching as he flicked the cigarette onto the ground and ground it out with the toe of his dress shoe. "Wow, you're real bad at this. Look, I'll settle for something like, uh-- How's Paal sound? Good? Great."

Even as Paal dismissed it, he tried to latch onto the name Paul and the hands that came with it. Somehow, he knew those hands had shown him how to hold a chisel and carve with the grain and not against it. That they had smoothed down his hair and lain flat against the crown of his skull as the other drew a new line against the door jamb, and he had childishly smiled at the inch gap that had grown between it and the old one below.

"Well, now that we got names out of the way--" Paal reached into his coat and pulled free a scroll. "Let's get down to business."

The parchment unfurled with a dry cough, ink dripped over the page and rearranged itself into letters that shimmered, ruddy and wet.

"So, for starters, my contracts are pretty straightforward. I don't do all that funny business the others do." Paal pointed to the second line. "The overall payment is going to be your eternal soul, of course. The only exception I'll make here is if you can name something of equal value and I also deem said thing of equal value. Now, don't get all excited. Not a lot of things add up to a human soul. Unless you'll be trading someone's else's soul as your payment. Simple math and all of that."

His eternal soul? He looked at the cross atop the gravestone and wine-dipped stained glass and the pulpit of a church flitted to the forefront along with it.

"We on the same page here? You look a little lost?" Paal asked, tilting his head.

"Sorry, I just--" He furrowed his brow. "Am I dead?"

Paal pointed to the grave. "Is that your body in there?"

"I--" He looked at his hands. "I think so."

"I wouldn't say I'm a genius myself, but I think we can both put two and two together here."

He grit his teeth. "Right…"

"Fantastic-- Now, onto the good stuff." Paal pointed further down the parchment. "So, in exchange for said eternal soul, I grant you a few things. First off, you get to get up on your own two feet and walk out of that grave. A pretty good deal, right?"

"Deals go two ways."

"See, now you're catching on--" Paal pointed at him and then tapped the next line on the scroll. "Alright, so it's pretty damn expensive to bring a soul back to life. Maker's got an idea in mind and tampering with that's always gonna cost you a little extra."

"Do you mean money? I don't exactly..." He held his hands out, the empty state of his pockets hopefully obvious.

Paal laughed. "Money? What the hell am I going to do with money? No, no, no-- I need a favor."

"A favor?" He asked, eyes narrowing.

"Yeah! A favor. something pretty simple, actually. But to get that body back and with all your precious little memories intact, you gotta do something to pay for that. More than just signing off your soul, that is."

"And who exactly am I paying back?"

Paal grimaced. "You're asking questions you really don't want the answers to, kid."

"Fine." He rubbed at his jaw. "What's the favor then?"

"Bounty hunting. Or collecting, I guess?" Paal gestured vaguely. "Whatever-- Basically, a few folks deferred on their contracts and I need to collect on their souls a little early."

"How early is early?" he asked, squinting.

"Well, I'd say I'm a pretty generous dealer. I give you about how much worldly time you should've had-- Had things not gone absolutely shit for you." Paal held up a finger. "So, in this case, I'd be collecting these souls well before they croak from becoming all ripe and old like they normally would've."

"So, I get my life back..." He chewed the inside of his cheek and glanced at the cross on the gravestone. "Is that it?"

"Is that it?'" Paal mocked and then grinned. "Look at you, already driving a hard bargain."

"You wouldn't have come to me if my soul wasn't worth something."

"Did you come to that astonishing conclusion all by yourself?" Paal said flatly.

He glanced over the demon.

Or devil... Or whatever hellish equivalent he was supposed to be. The lack of the classic horns or even a tail made it hard to pin any kind of fiendish charm to him. Besides the eyes and the pallor of someone who's never seen the light of day, he looked rather ordinary...

And his memories, few and far between-- muddled even-- like he was reliving them from underwater-- As unreliable as those memories were, he still remembered sitting upon a pew in a sun-washed room, a pastor at the head of the church, attesting how the devil would always wager in ways that would seem fair and just, but never were.

"What else do I get?"

"Greedy, aren't you? Fine." Paal rolled up the scroll part way and pointed at a line halfway down. "You can't die. At least while you're contracted under me to collect souls. If you call on me and I deem the request reasonable enough I can and will help you. Think of it like, uh-- Praying to a guardian angel. Except I'm absolutely nothing like that and I'll actually show up."

"And collecting on these contracts? What does that entail?"

"Killing them, for starters." Paal said simply. "I can't exactly grab their souls when they're still kicking around like that. And a lot of them have found ways to sort of, eh-- protect themselves from me. But you're just a bag of bones, maybe a little bit juiced up when I'm done with you, but you'll be human enough."

He didn't feel like picking that last aside apart too much. "So, you want me to kill for you?"

"Yes."

"How exactly?"

Paal flicked his hand and the scroll snapped out of sight with a thwick. Reaching into his jacket, he pulled free a revolver. Six-shot, shined, scarred with engravings up and down the muzzle and wrapped around the barrel. Handle a bone-white ivory, pale and unblemished.

Paal held it out to him. "With this."

Dropped into his palms with little fanfare, he cradled it, as if a newborn lamb. He glanced up from the gunmetal shine after a beat. "I can't shoot."

"Oh, you won't have to. You just have to aim." Paal formed his fingers into a mock-gun and pointed it at his forehead before mouthing ‘pow'. "It does all the hard work for you. Unless you're into that kind of thing, then by all means I'll take the training wheels off of it and let you do the trigger pulling."

"No…" he swallowed, careful to keep the muzzle pointed away from himself. "Training wheels is fine."

"Fantastic. Do we have a deal then? All of this--" Paal gestured to the whole of him. "--for the meager, one time price of doing a simple chore for me."

He stared flatly.

"And your eternal soul after you've lived a long and happy life, but that's just semantics," Paal laughed, waving him off.

He tilted the gun in his palms and glanced down at his pockets. It wouldn't exactly fit very well… "Is there a holster?"

"Oh, right--" Paal patted his chest and fished around in his suit jacket before drawing out a belt. "Here. It's a bit used, but at least it's already worn in, right?"

Mottled stains scattered the edges of the leather belt and where intricate markings had been stamped and tooled into the holster itself.

"Thanks…" he said, pinching it between two fingers while trying to find a good way to hold the pistol with his other hand.

"Woah, don't sound too grateful there, champ," Paal said. "You'd think I wasn't about to do you the biggest favor of your life."

He paused in his inspection of the holster and gave Paal the flattest look he could muster.

"Get it?" Paal's grin dropped. "Not a funny guy then… Noted."

Finally, managing to holster the gun he slipped the belt around his waist and fumbled with the buckle before fastening it. "How exactly do we seal the deal?"

"Eager, are we?" Paal held out his hand. "Just shake my hand and that's it. None of that writ in blood nonsense."

He wrinkled his nose.

Paal flexed his fingers and held his hand out further. "Look, if you really need me to draw up a traditional contract and give you a copy, I can do that too, but it's dreadfully boring and I do enough paperwork as it is. I mean, what do you have to lose, honestly? You're already dead. I'm just offering you a second chance… and a little bit of revenge."

"Revenge?"

"No one ends up dead in a ditch with a pack of dogs eating their face without being fucked over somewhere along the road."

"I don't…" He knitted his brow. "It's hard to remember."

"Oh, it'll be like that for a bit. It gets better once we get everything settled. Trust me though, you've got quite the bone to pick with someone back up there. And I for one would love to see how it all pans out."

"This is a form of entertainment for you," he said flatly, eyeing the still outstretched hand.

"What's the harm in mixing business and pleasure?" Paal smirked. "Plus it'll be fun to see what you do."

"Can you not bring back the memories now?"

Paal tutted. "That's quite expensive, and we haven't made a deal yet."

"How do I know I even want to go back then?"

"Does it even matter who you were before if you get a re-do?"

He looked at the name on the gravestone. "Won't they recognize me?"

"Oh, no-- Uh, see, you're not going back into your original body." Paal grimaced. "I can only repair so much and those dogs really did a number on you."

"Great…"

"Don't worry though, I got a good one picked out for you. Close enough to be uncanny even. Just some little differences, barely noticeable."

He grimaced.

"Don't you humans love taking leaps of faith? What's with all the hemming and hawing? What happened to all that stupid recklessness?"

"Not all of us are stupid."

Paal groaned. "I would get stuck with the biggest coward this side of the Mississippi."

'Look, it's lil' yellow-bellied Bern!'

'Just take it from him. He's not gonna do shit-- He'd flinch at a fly if it looked at him wrong.'

'Pa said he's soft. That his own daddy made him like that.'

He blinked, flinching and scrunching up his eyes at the sudden, sharp jab that needled at his skull. "I'm not a coward."

"Then take my hand."

His head pounded, and if he really was dead he wondered why he could still feel that out of everything. If the sweat pricked along the back of his neck was more memory than actual sensation, or if the way his tongue had grown heavy in his jaw was all made up too. He eyed Paal's hand and the discolored fingernails, the sheet white skin, the odd scarring along the knuckles and on the palms.

'Leave and don't you ever come back here. And if I ever see you again, you'll be begging the devil to take your soul from me first.'

He grit his teeth, fingers curling into fists.

The voice bit across his cheek like knuckles, like blood on his tongue and smattered across his hands. It curled like snake oil and melted wax, like the dust settled over the rafters of an ever empty church and like floorboards stained with drying flecks of rust.

He reached for Paal's hand and Paal grabbed his wrist instead, wrapped his fingers around him and squeezed, hard enough he twisted with the motion. Paal didn't budge, no matter how he pried at him, and the hand burned-- Burned the way laying your palm across a sheet of ice stung and wormed its way deeper and deeper the longer you left it there.

He stumbled as Paal released him, clutching at his wrist and hissing. "What the hell?"

"Part of the contract. It'll fade in a second."

The burning stopped and when he let go of his wrist, a coiling band of white took its place. Sat snugly, flat and lined with black, was an ivory snake wrapped three times about his wrist. The head of the serpent rested along the heel of his thumb, eyes a nearly translucent blue. It faded, still standing out against his skin, more like an impossibly pale tattoo and less like the actual snake it was a moment ago. His arm ached dully with it, like he had come in from a long frigid day, and his fingers cramped as the feeling returned to the very tips of him.

"Oh, right-- You'll be needing bullets." Paal grabbed his hand and dropped a freezing piece of metal into it.

More followed as Paal fished around in his suit jacket for them. At the fourth one Paal paused. "What was that little rhyme you were doing before I arrived? I rather enjoy that one. The ending is always my favorite."

He watched where the bullets settled in his palm. The casings a blood-red ebony and the bullet itself the shade of bone.

"And four for birth…" Paal dropped another bullet. "Five for heaven..." Another. "And six for hell," Paal said with a smirk, manually curling his hand around the bullets and patting it. "Now keep track of those, they're not exactly easy to make."

He didn't tell Paal that he didn't finish the poem, that there was still one more line that needed to be said to complete it. Instead, he pocketed the bullets.

"Walk with me a sec--" Paal grabbed his shoulder and nudged him forward.

They meandered along the lines of graves, passing headstones that varied in shape and size, some cared for, with flowers and candles and even worn sepia photos left at their feet. Others were less fortunate. Grown over, dulled, and abandoned.

They stopped before one with a less modest headstone. A large stone cross jutted up from the top and an angel carved above the name of the soul that was laid to rest below their feet.

"You know, I really do think this is the start of a great partnership..."

He raised a brow.

"Marcus J. Bern--" He flinched at the name, not expecting it to fall from Paal's mouth so casually. "It's been a pleasure doing business with you."

He hesitated, shoulders drawing up, hand coming to rest on the gun at his hip. "Uh, you too…?"

Paal smiled, like he found that amusing. And he hadn't noticed how sharp his teeth looked until he was staring the oversized canines dead in the face.

"Now--" Paal said, placing his hands on his shoulders, dusting them off before squeezing lightly. "This might hurt a bit."

"What--"

Paal shoved him.

He fell and fell and the earth swallowed him whole.

Dirt and silt and death surrounded him. Impossibly endless and vast, the grave didn't catch him as it should have. And the chill that bit at his limbs gnawed feverishly, right down to the core of him until he felt a yell clog up with the hallowed ground packed against his tongue. Further and further he descended, gut flipping and twisting with him, until he thought this would be his new forever. That Paal had lied to him, and he would simply be doomed to free fall for the rest of eternity, until all returned to dust as it had once emerged and longer still.

Light broke up the darkness overhead and he reached for it, arm outstretched. The white snake coiled around his wrist writhed and burned at the first touch of it and dripping with pale ichor, his veins stood out a ghastly silver against him. A venom coursed through him as it wound further and further down, closer and closer to where his heart had thrummed to life and kicked against his ribs in a fevered fit. He clutched at his chest as the ground-- as something-- hurtled towards him.

Breath slammed into him with a rattling gasp and his eyes shot open.

Blinded, he blinked and squinted against the grace of a new day, trembling and shaking where he had woken upon the dirt. The cross of the gravestone cast a merciful shadow over him and he could see the tangled fingers of the tree beyond it.

Raucous caws chorused above him. A murder of crows dotted the grey sky overhead, having flighted from their perches high in the dead limbed oak.

One, two, three, four, five, six--

"And seven for the devil, his own self..." he muttered, hand falling to his hip and the gun now holstered there.

[astarryon]

Another Lifetime: Shouldn’t Have Gotten Shot

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Description of war and battle injuries, mentions of blood, gunshots, language, etc.

Summary: Bucky doesn’t like talking about her, but Dr. Raynor isn’t an easy person to argue with. And now that it’s summer –– now that he’s living through the months they’d shared together all over again, only without her by his side –– fighting the memories becomes all the more difficult.

A/N: Listen, I really don’t know what’s gotten into me but ever since tfatws started I have been INSPIRED! Hoping to update this fic sem regularly, but we’ll see where the new school term takes us. As always, I hope you enjoy, and feel free to let me know what you think!

Bucky Barnes has never been overly fond of the summer.

One aspect was the fact that he could remember what it was like to be a miserable kid living in a cramped Brooklyn apartment with no air conditioning and three baby sisters who never stopped whining about the heat. Of all the jumbled, foggy memories bouncing around the confines of his skull, that one is clearer than most. And though he still finds it difficult to picture the faces of his little sisters –– can’t hardly remember arcs of their noses, much less the colors of each of their eyes –– a nostalgic, brotherly feeling washes over him all the same.

There’s also the little detail that he’d received his draft notice in the summer months. That Bucky remembers perfectly, one of the few memories strong enough to remain unmuddied by all those years of shitbag scientists rooting around his head and picking his brain apart. The heat that year had been sweltering, and once his mother found him in her kitchen with that damned letter clutched between his fingers, he felt it burn right through the strings of his heart. 

The first week of July delivered the news. The last saw him shipping out to bootcamp. 

He guessed he didn’t mind the sunshine. That part had always been nice, and it helped to calm him on occasion these days, to remember that the golden rays licking comforting heat up his skin were the same ones which had shone down on him back in the 40s, before and during the war.

Before Hydra had condemned him to seventy long years of dark and cold.

To that end, logic said the season he really should hate was winter, but he’d never felt any ill will toward the colder months, and found now, in the present, that he’d only grown fonder of them. When the rain came down from the sky in sheets, or when snow fell so thick it resembled white, puffy clouds blanketing the ground, he took walks. Partly because no other soul would be idiotic enough to trudge through a borderline natural disaster at three in the morning, meaning he wouldn’t have to put up with prying eyes and conspicuously pointing fingers, and partly because experiencing said natural disasters in solitude did wonders for the soul.

Steve thought it was strange. Hated that Bucky did it, kept insisting that he at least take a goddamn jacket, there isn’t any actual proof he can’t get pneumonia. But Bucky always shook his head and declined, rolling his eyes and muttering beneath his breath about how apparently the tables have fucking turned.

But, no. The winter, the rain, the cold –– none of that could ever draw half as much ire from him as did the gentle beginnings of June, the scorching heat of July, the fading light of August. Because those weren’t the things which served as reminders from before.

Reminders of her.

“James. Did you hear me?”

Bucky blinks hard, freeing his gaze from the wall calendar tacked up and viewable just over his doctor’s shoulder. Glancing down, he sees the familiar green of the velvet armchair –– one of three options for patients to choose from in her office, and Bucky’s personal favorite on account of the way its textures did something to sooth him as he gripped its arm anxiously with his flesh hand –– and the worn, fraying knees of his black jeans against it. He doesn’t bother meeting his therapist’s gaze. He already knows which of her expressions he’ll find her leveling at him, if he does.

“Sorry,” Bucky mutters, sucking his teeth. He hopes his voice isn’t quite as strained as it sounds –– though, judging by the way Dr. Raynor clucks her tongue as her fingers twitch toward her pen, it definitely is. “Guess I’m a little scattered today.”

The sardonic hum Raynor gives in response as she knowingly tilts her head nearly makes him open his mouth to finish the silent argument she’d started, but Bucky knows better than that. The moment he starts up, she’ll feign innocence and inquire as to why he feels the need to defend himself when no verbal accusation has been made. God damn, it would be just his luck to end up with the one government assigned therapist actually capable at her job.

“That’s what you said yesterday,” Dr. Raynor offers. “And the two days before, if memory serves me right.”

Bucky shakes his head and tsks, tapping a metal finger against his temple. “Not a funny joke, doc. Remember the audience you’re dealing with here.”

“‘Deflecting.’”

The word drops from Raynor’s mouth with a simpleness that puzzles him.

“‘Scuse me?” he prompts when she only goes on to stare at him owlishly.

“Oh, that’s what I’d be writing in my notebook,” she explains simply, folding her hands together in her lap and leaning back in her chair. “If we were using it right now, that is.”

Again, Bucky rolls his eyes, and has to make an active attempt not to cross his arms like a forlorn child. The threat in her words is easily recognizable, not that she’d really bothered trying to conceal it. She knows that damn notebook irritates him more than any other aspect of their current arrangement, and he knows she’s not bluffing. If he doesn’t start talking, Raynor starts writing –– and if Raynor starts writing, he gets tailed by government watchdogs to ensure there are no imminent incidents lurking in the near future.

He sighs dejectedly and meets her gaze. “What was it you asked me?”

“What it is about the month of June that makes you so uncomfortable.”

Bucky blinks, red alarm bells shrieking in his head. Fuck, he can’t help but think. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Caught red handed.

“June’s fine,” he tries, but even to his own ears the assurance sounds weak. To think, he’d once been the most prolific tool of espionage around –– now he can hardly deliver a lie with a straight face. “Don’t have any feelings toward it one way or the other.”

“Strike two,” Raynor quips, glancing one again toward her pen.

Fuck!

Exhaling sharply through his nose, Bucky sits a little straighter in his seat, searching for any semblance of comfort to be found while already knowing he was bound to come up short. Damn it all. She wasn’t going to let him out of this one.

“Alright, hold your horses,” he sighs, waving a halting hand. Raynor’s expression doesn’t shift. She simply continues peering at him with her dark eyes, waiting patiently for his next few words to come. “Why do you assume I’ve got a problem with June?”

“Because you didn’t start staring at that calendar until it switched over from May,” Raynor supplies. “Like I mentioned, today isn’t the only day you’ve been scattered. Seems like something we should consider talking about.”

“No,” Bucky answers quickly. Too quickly. Shit. If she thought he’d been deflecting before, he didn’t even want to know the words running through her mind in regards to his behavior now. “I mean–– well, no. I don’t think it’s that important.”

Raynor arches a brow. “Funny,” she tells him, “the way your eyes keep drifting back to the word ‘June’ tells me otherwise.”

He sighs, worrying the inside of his cheek with his teeth. Caught between a rock and an even bigger, weightier rock. The universe really wasn’t one to take his side often.

Bucky knows there really isn’t any choice here. Either he does what Raynor asks and elaborates on his suspicious behavior, or he risks facing the repercussions of those notes she’ll be jotting down in her notebook. Which of the two evils is more definitively the lesser, he can’t rightly say, but he knows which of the consequences he’d prefer to suffer through. And they’re certainly not the ones which see him robbed of the ability to walk freely down the street without a detail of armed babysitters.

So he figures that, maybe for once, being honest can’t be the worst decision to make.

“A few years ago, back before the blip,” Bucky tries, “I spent a summer in Wakanda.”

“Housed by the royal family,” Raynor nods, tone soft. “We’ve spoken about that before. You said you found it peaceful there. That you liked it.”

He did, and still does. On the nights when his mind isn’t quiet enough to let him find sleep but his heart feels light enough to forego the slideshow of horrors he’d been made to suffer throughout the years, Bucky’s thoughts often return to the bliss which life in Wakanda had offered him. He’d remember the farm he kept there, the little children who would come to sing and play and dance in trees to keep him company in the afternoons. He’d remember Princess Shuri –– Just Shuri, James, come now –– and the kindness she’d displayed in deactivating the deeper, most concerning parts of his programming. The day she’d told him it was done, turned off, that he’d never be forced to revert back to the Soldier against his will again, he’d rushed her and caught her up in a bearhug so relieved and forceful that her Dora Milaje detail had actually pointed their spears at him. He’d remember the tranquility of it all, the simpleness.

The peace.

There’s no hope of him being able to return to that place any time soon, much as he’d like to, but the memories sit resolutely concrete in his mind. The first of a new set which he’d never have to worry about being stolen away from him by the currents of an electric shock.

“It’s a nice place,” Bucky affirms, sighing wistfully at the thoughts swirling up in his head. “I bring it up because back then, that summer… I started remembering a few things. From before.”

Raynor keeps her face smooth and composed, but Bucky notices the twitch in her cheek that says she’s got a question. “When you say before,” she asks, voice gentle, “do you mean your time as the Winter Soldier?”

He shakes his head, swallowing thickly. Ironically, things would be easier, were that the case. He might not be so miserable in the present, seeing the month of June start all over again. The melancholy might not be so strong. “No, not then. I mean from before. From the 40s, during the war. I don’t know if it was Wakanda’s heat that did it, or that my programming was officially deactivated. But one night I went to sleep in my hut like normal, and then the next morning I woke up, and… and I remembered.”

Raynor clasps her hand together in her lap, the pen, the notebook, the hesitation all forgotten. Bucky sees it in her expression, the shock at the fact that he’s speaking, that she’s actually making progress in getting him to talk about things so painful he often wonders if they aren’t better left in the past. He’s still trying to figure that one out. Miserable as he’s been for the first four days of June, he figures nothing good or relieving or positive can come from retelling this particular tale. It’s all behind him now, and there isn’t anything to be done to change the ending in any significant way.

But… but he figures he owes it to her. As painful as the memories are, they can’t be anything in comparison to what she must have gone through in the aftermath of it all.

Slowly, Raynor crosses one ankle over the other. “What was it that you remembered, James?”

Bucky sighs, closing his eyes and inhaling as deep a breath as he can pull. He lets it loose after counting to six, then opens his eyes again and crosses his arms over his chest. “It started back in June of 1944. I got shot.”

––

June 1st, 1944

It was damn lucky you weren’t sleeping much these days.

A funny thought, really. One which brings a sarcastic, bitter smile to your lips as you bend your neck to get a closer look at your handiwork. Wasn’t it just two nights ago that you’d been laying in your cot, staring up at the moon through the flap of your tent and counting all the reasons it wasn't fair that the bliss of unconsciousness evaded you? Wasn’t it three that you’d considered sneaking into the med tent and downing a few of the sleeping pills meant for the soldiers? You hadn’t, of course –– god only knew the sort of trouble you’d get in if it came to pass that you were caught –– but the consideration had been there all the same.

“Fuckin’ shit!”

The foul language, mixed with the rough jerk of the body beneath your dexterous hands, was enough to steal your attention back from your jaded inner monologue. Nearly two years back, when you’d first signed on to work as a field nurse, the pained outburst would have sent you flinching. Now, the swearing isn’t anything new, and thankfully for the soldier whose leg you were currently stitching up, it was no longer anywhere near enough to give you pause.

“You better hold still unless you want this to scar even worse than it's already going to,” you tell him matter of factly, gently tugging the thread the rest of the way through your current stitch.

The soldier –– Matthews? Moore? You can hardly remember the name he’d gasped at you in pain, but you’re sure it started with an ‘M’ –– rakes his dirty hands over his even dirtier face, brown eyes squeezing themselves shut as his fingers quake with agony. “Sorry,” he rasps, skin paling. “Just… Jesus, shit hurts so bad!”

You cluck your tongue, guilt racking your heart as you push the needle through his skin once more. “Shouldn’t have gotten shot then, genius,” you murmur, shaking your head disapprovingly.

It works. For a moment the soldier’s face twists in disbelief, and in the next, a shuddering, wheezing gasp of laughter expels itself from his throat. The sight is bleak, but it’s enough to twist your heart with warmth as you once again pull the thread through the stitch. You’d learned in the first few months of working as a nurse on the frontlines that the last thing these men wanted or needed was to be coddled along over their injuries, especially by a woman. Vulnerability was more averse to them now than ever before.

Personally, you don’t much understand it –– but your work isn’t, and has never been, about yourself. 

“Look, why don’t you tell me something,” you start, glancing up to… Morrison’s…? face in apology before sticking him with the needle yet again. He jerks, but not quite so violently this time. Another one down. Only about a thousand more to go tonight. “How’d all this happen? I thought you boys weren’t meant to scope the new territory until tomorrow afternoon. Y’know, in the daylight? When you can actually see whether or not someone in the distance is pointing a gun at you?”

“Unit leader was gettin’ jumpy,” the soldier coughs out, groaning against the pain. Guilt stabs your heart like a knife. You’d have given him something for the pain if you had it, something to numb the wound. But shipments of med supplies were behind, and it would be at least a week before you got your hands on anything like that again. “Said going at night would be better, that we could get the drop on them before they even knew we were coming.”

“Yeah,” you scoff, rolling your eyes. “Never mind the fact that their soldiers know the land better than ours do.”

So, the unit leader had jumped the gun. You’d figured as much, when two of your nurses had run into your tent with messy hair and sleep addled expressions, panicking about the oncoming slew of injured soldiers who needed immediate medical attention. That had been two hours, six patients, and about one hundred and ninety seven stitches ago.

Again. It was lucky you weren’t sleeping much these days.

The soldier whose leg you were currently stitching up opened his mouth to speak –– whether to snark along with you at the poor choice made by the unit’s leadership or to blindly defend his superior’s decision, you couldn’t be altogether sure –– but before he could even fix his mouth to properly shape the words, a sudden roar of someone else’s agony effectively cut him off.

Steadying your hands, you carefully turn to peer over your shoulder, searching for the source of the commotion. All night, you’d been surrounded by a cacophony of screaming soldiers, but that yell of pain is one you’re certain hasn’t yet met your ears. And, as you watch the flap of the med tent swing back before admitting entry to three people –– one of your nurses and two soldiers, one leaning bodily against the other –– you discover that your assumption is correct.

“We got a bad one,” the nurse –– Sally, curly haired, nearing twenty four and a bit more capable than the other girls when met with the sight of blood –– shouts. Her eyes scan the tent, searching and searching until her gaze finally lands on you. She pauses only a moment to turn and direct the uninjured soldier to drag the one he’s supporting over to an empty cot before barrelling in your direction. “Gunshot wound to the abdomen. I haven’t really had the chance to get a good look at it, but he’s–– well, to be frank, that man has lost a shit ton of blood.”

A gutshot. Poor guy would either go through a sickening amount of pain just to die, or he’d survive, and end up having to endure even more pain. Either way, in light of your depleted supply of painkillers, ‘excruciating’ didn’t even begin to describe it.

Oh, damn it all.

“Take over here for me,” you command, gesturing with your chin to the needle perched between your fingers. Sally’s already moving to pluck it from your hand before you’ve even finished speaking. “He’s got about fifteen to go before we even think about sending him back to his tent. Don’t let him convince you otherwise.”

“You don’t think I know better?” Sally remarks drily, but you don’t have the time to come up with a witty comeback. You’re already on your feet and rushing toward the soldier writhing in pain across the tent, reflexively grabbing a collection of gauze, thread, tweezers, and rubbing alcohol along the way.

This isn’t going to be much fun for either of you.

The first thing you do is excuse the uninjured soldier, the one who’d carried him in. For one, there isn’t any need to keep him witness, and for another, you work better when an addition of unnecessary eyes aren’t tracking your every move. Besides. You doubt the poor soul laying on your med cot is at all interested in one of his peers –– one not sick or out of his mind due to his own pain, that is –– see him in this state. So, you simply thank the young man for his assistance and shoo him back in the direction from which he’d come, waiting until he’s passed the tent’s entrance before turning your full, undivided attention to your newest patient.

He’s got his eyes screwed shut tight in pain. You can hardly blame him. Of all the wounds to suffer through, a gutshot has the potential to win least desirable. It’s easy enough to see why, as the young man’s handsome features carve themselves into an expression of despair. A slick sheen of sweat coats his pale forehead, dampening his dark hair and sticking it to his skin. He’s biting down so hard on his bottom lip in effort to swallow his screams that you’re genuinely shocked he hasn’t drawn blood.

Though, part of you wonders if there’s even enough blood left in his body for his lip to bleed. Deep scarlet blooms stain his green shirt, so thoroughly soaked through that the fabric has turned almost black. Swathes of red cover his torso, his pants, the pale skin of his arms. It’s everywhere, already leaking onto the white sheets of the cot.

Sally wasn’t kidding. He really has lost a shit ton of blood.

“Hey there, soldier,” you start up, setting your collection of medical supplies down before taking a closer look at his torso. Shirt sticking to his skin the way it is, you aren’t going to be able to get much done until it’s out of the way. And, given that this man is certainly in no state to shrug it off himself, you’ve got no choice but to cut it. Lucky that you’d thought to grab a pair of scissors too, you suppose. “Don’t suppose you might be able to help a girl out by telling her what year it is?”

His jaw works for a few moments, teeth grinding together so forcefully the sound is audible. You think he might be gearing up to let loose another scream before he shakes his head a single time. “I got–– got shot,” he wheezes, whole body shaking, “not concussed. Don’t–– ah, don’t really… get how the year’s relevant.”

You exhale a bemused scoff through your nose, considering your response as your scissors work their way through the bloody fabric concealing his wound. You’re working as gently as you can, and so far it seems to be doing the trick. The soldier hasn’t flinched once since you started, though it’s hard to tell if that’s more due to the fact that he hadn’t noticed any difference one way or the other, or if it’s because he’s dedicating what strength he has left to keeping his head screwed onto his shoulders.

“Fair point,” you reply, still carefully cutting through his shirt. “How about a name, then? Little more relevant to the conversation, I’d say.”

It takes a few moments of silence for him to respond –– almost as if he’s trying to remember that he’s got a name –– but eventually, it comes.

“James,” he tells you, the single syllable leaving his mouth in a pained grunt.

You nod, cutting away the last of the fabric. “Nice to meet you, James,” you tell him, carefully peeling the tatters of his ruined shirt from his abdomen. “You just hold tight a little longer for me, alright? We’ll fix you up good as new.”

It isn’t a pretty sight, what you find beneath. Under all that red is a nasty wound, jagged and swollen at the edges, punched into the flesh just beneath the southmost edge of his ribcage. Thankfully, no bones have been hit –– a shattered rib would be immediately evident, both in the pitch of his screams and the deformed shape of his chest –– but the wound is more than a little inflated. There’s a puffiness to it that you can’t comprehend, a stiffness to its perimeter that doesn’t click in your mind, until––

Until you see the small, dark center, and suddenly it does.

You swear beneath your breath, a filthy, ugly word that you’d picked up a few weeks back from one of your patients. You don’t even know what it means, not really, but speaking it feels cathartic enough that you don’t altogether care.

Oh, sweet, holy hell.

James cracks an eye open, muttering, “Darlin’, you rea–– you really gotta work on your bedside manner.”

“Alright, listen to me, James,” you tell him, forgoing a witty response. You don’t have the time, not considering what you’re now dealing with, and you figure James will appreciate your working hands more than he’ll appreciate your shitty attempts at banter. “There’s… there’s something I need to do for you, before I can start patching you up. Now, normally I could give you something for the pain, but we’re out of the anesthetic I need. So this isn’t gonna… it’s not gonna feel very good.”

James looses a labored sigh, oddly calm for the clear anguish marring his face. “Shit, well good news,” he mutters, swallowing thickly, “it already doesn’t.”

His lashes flutter in a telltale manner, one which lets you know he’s getting closer to the brink and you’re running short on time. It’s easy enough, not to give in to the panic this incites in your chest. You’ve been doing this job a long time now, know that what James needs is your calm, your level-headedness. Those things have a higher chance of keeping him alive, of seeing to it that he comes out of this on the other side. Scarred up, maybe, and without the ability to breathe as deep as he once could, but still alive.

You shake your head, grabbing the tweezers from where you’d set them down before planting your forearm against an uninjured section of James’ bare chest for leverage. “Alright, big breaths, James. You scream as loud as you want or need to, but just… try and stay as still as you can, okay? I won’t be able to stop until it’s done.”

The only answer he gives in response is a shaky nod, the thick black fringe of his lashes brushing his cheekbones as his lips begin to move at a speed with which your eyes can hardly track. A prayer, you figure, or a plea for a quick end. Whichever it is, it helps him to relax just the tiniest bit more, slightly smooths out the lines of pain and suffering etched into his face.

Until you start digging with the tweezers, that is.

Then it’s all white hot screams of pain.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper beneath his cries, words drowned out by the sheer volume of the howls ripping out of his throat. But you don’t stop working, don’t withdraw the tweezers from his bloody wound. You hadn’t been joking when you told him starting meant you couldn’t stop until you finished. Abandoning the task now meant leaving James to bleed out in a matter of seconds. “I know it hurts, I’m sorry. You’re doing good, though, alright? You’re doing amazing. I’m sorry.”

It takes a moment for the tweezers’ edges to find the metal bullet lodged in his skin. At first, all you can feel is a mess of flesh and muscle, shredded and frayed from the impact of the gunshot. For a few short seconds, you wonder if your eyes hadn’t been playing tricks on you, if it would have been more wise to search for an exit wound on his back than to simply jump straight in without taking the time to stop and think.

But your worries are unfounded –– proven two seconds later when your tweezers make contact with the tiny, foreign object threatening James’ life. Carefully, you maneuver the tweezers into the correct position to properly take hold of the bullet. Then, with one last whispered apology, you slowly and carefully begin to pull.

James’ legs buck hard against the cot, arms straining at his sides where he’s got both his hands fisted into the sheets in an attempt to hold on for dear life. His teeth chatter against each other, knocking and clacking as he tries to get ahold of the screams pouring freely from him, and that thin sheen of sweat coating his skin has turned into a full on tidal wave.

But his torso doesn’t move –– not a single inch.

“We’re almost done,” you assure him, keeping your hand steady as you continue gently easing the bullet up, and up, and up. You can just make out the silver edges of it now, slick with blood and dented. It won’t be long now, before it’s out and you can start working on staunching the blood leaking from his body. Maybe you can lift his spirits with a joke or two then, a witty comment to ease some of the pain. Maybe––

The bullet slips from the tweezers, catching you off guard and jerking your hand to the left. It’s only by a centimeter, not a huge distance, but given that you’ve got edges of metal inserted into this man’s wound, to him, it makes all the difference in the world.

James throws his head back and screams, loud enough that you can instantly hear his vocal cords go raw beneath the strain of the volume. A single word leaves his lips; it sounds like Ma, only it’s warped, strangled. Much as you detest the fact, you know the sound well. A soldier crying out for his mother while under the thrall of delirium and pain isn’t exactly a rarity around these parts.

Guilt twists your heart with the razor sharpness of a cruel knife.

“Stop,” he gasps, voice hoarse. “P-please–– please stop!”

“I can’t,” you tell him, already repositioning your tweezers and going back in. Luckily, the bullet is much closer to the surface of his wound now. It only takes a second before you find another grip on it, instantly deciding to forego gentleness in favor of speed. “But the good news is––” With a slight bend of your wrist and a soft, wet pop, the bullet comes loose from his wound. “––we’re done with the shitty part.”

James’ eyes, glassy with pain and pupils blown wide, fall first to the bullet you hold up for his perusal, set against a backdrop of lowlight and your blood covered hand, before wandering their way up to your face. It’s then that you notice his irises are water blue and clear as crystal. You’re not sure why, but their color fascinates you.

“I wanna keep that,” he mutters weakly.

Then, his lashes flutter rapidly and his head lolls to the side, his lungs expelling a great, big breath before shuddering to a halt.

Your heart lurches at the sight. For one, awful moment, you think you’ve just put the poor man through all of that pain and agony only to end up somehow killing him in the process –– never mind the fact that this isn’t the first time you’ve extracted a bullet from a soldier’s abdomen, and certainly isn’t likely to be the last. But then his chest starts up moving again, at a much less worrisome pace. It’s slow, and his breaths are shallow, but they’re still breaths.

Unconscious –– not dead.

The realization is enough to make you send a mental note of thanks to whichever being was kind enough to have shown James mercy.

You allow yourself the shortest of moments to bask in the relief –– that you’d successfully extracted the bullet, that James hadn’t died during or after your attempts to do so, that you aren’t now left to set in motion the process of another condolence letter being shipped across seas to his family.

And once it passes, once you’ve inhaled and exhaled and wiped your hands on a cloth, you grab a cloth and press it to James’ wound, setting to work on stopping his bleeding –– but not before wrapping the bullet you’d just dislodged from his body in a pad of gauze and tucking it into the breast pocket of your uniform.

––

Chapter Two: Someone Good

[kiki-shortsnout]

If you're still taking prompts from the intimacy prompts list. 43 with IronStrange or Frostiron please! Love your writing! 💙💙💙

Hey! I've finally finished my IronStrange Bigbang!! So I can come back to my prompts! Thank you for waiting!

Warnings: Alpha/Omega, Slight torture, Blood (nothing Graphic)

FrostIron: Head in lap.

***

Tony had been in this position before, more times than he was willing to admit. Hands bound behind his back, his wrists bleeding from where he’d been tugging at his restraints, his palms sealed together from the stickiness of his blood. The strain on his thighs and knees was a dull burn, a constant ache that never wavered, the grip in his hair ensuring he never sat back on his legs in a desperate reprieve.

If he could survive the torture of the Ten Rings, he could survive this. The arc reactor was already lodged in his chest, the frigid metal caressing the bone of his sternum. There wasn’t much more anyone could do to him, he was already in constant pain from the thing keeping him alive, could feel the shrapnel in his chest rattling with every gasp. Apart from taking his life, which he wasn’t sure he was fond of anyway, there wasn’t anything these kidnappers could take from him.

At least, that’s what Tony thought until they brought in Loki.

Bruises were littered over his high cheekbones, his split lip catching Tony’s attention and making him wriggle against the hand in his hair. He grit his teeth at the kick in the back of his thigh for his effort, not showing any outward pain.

Tony had seen lots of different sides to Loki over the last few months. The would be conqueror ensnared in a mind-controlling spell, a contrite younger brother, wanting to make amends with Thor but not knowing how to. There was the Loki who enjoyed pranking the Avengers, mischief, and humor dancing in his eyes, a Loki who read quietly in Tony’s workshop, finding a quiet freedom in being outside of Odin’s influence.

Recently, there had been the Loki who watched Tony when he thought no one was looking, a flirtatious lilt to his words when they talked, completely at odds with the shy Alpha who brought Tony gifts from other realms.

But, Tony had never seen this.

He could feel the livid rage in those green eyes, like fire on his skin, an intense fury that would make lesser men cower. Even Tony, who trusted Loki, tried to shuffle away from the gaze, scared he could see his weakness, his patheticness at being apprehended like this. His eyes shone bright like the magic he wielded, sweeping over Tony’s body, seeking out any injury, his teeth baring in a furious snarl.

Despite the situation, the tongue lashing he was no doubt going to receive if they managed to get out of here alive, shivers still teased over Tony’s body at the sound. He’d always fought against the idea of having a dominant Alpha, despised the thought that he needed taking care of, that he was inferior in any way, but Loki’s overprotective snarl and the dangerous look in his eyes was making Tony’s inner Omega purr and preen at the attention.

Now is not the time.

‘How the mighty have fallen,’ a silky, sensual voice wrapped around them, shaking Tony out of his fantasies about sexy, deadly alien Alphas. Breaking away from Loki’s stare, the ominous promise in it, Tony turned his head, trying to find the source of the voice. He wasn’t sure where they were, he’d already done recon as soon as he’d woken up in here, and the only information he had was that they were in some sort of castle, stone floors, stone walls, candlesticks on the walls.

Alright, not candlesticks, some sort of magical floating orb that was casting light around them, but he still doesn’t believe Thor, or Loki when they’ve tried to explain magic, so he refused to see them floating around like ghostly fireflies.

Loki didn’t answer, but Tony could tell from his expression that he recognized her, a growl thundering in his chest as he looked between whoever was behind him and Tony’s battered body.

‘My, my, what a beautiful Omega.’

Tony tried to look up, but the hand in his hair gripped hard enough to rip strands from his skull, and he understood that no eye contact was allowed. Green knee high boots entered the line of his vision, and a cool hand grasped his chin, yanking his face up. She was beautiful, all long legs and gorgeous blonde hair, looking like a medieval warrior princess or something. Tony knew that beautiful creatures were often the most dangerous ones.

He’d fallen for one after all.

‘Spirited too, I can see what he sees in you,’ she cooed down to him, nails digging into his cheeks, his blood oozing over her fingers. Tony heard Loki’s frantic struggle against his captors, the shift of leather dragging across stone.

‘No matter your beauty, you are still a pathetic, disgusting creature.’

It’s cute she thought her words will hurt him. He’d been called far worse, tortured to his breaking point before. This was nothing, his body being bruised? That was what happened when he got called to assemble. He grinned up at her, feeling a twist of delight low in his gut as the skin above her nose wrinkled at his blatant disrespect.

‘You do not understand mortals, you never have, never looked past your disdain of them,’ Loki finally said. ‘Leave him. He is worthless to you. It is me you want, Amora.’

Pretty name, Tony thought to himself, inhaling deeply as he tried to work out her secondary gender. Omega, interesting.

‘And what has changed that your view of them is now positive? I remember a time when you sought to enslave these pitiful creatures, and now you live among them, spurning my calls for help, the glory of seeing our enemies at our feet…’

Hell hath no fury like an Omega spurned, Tony chuckled, suppressing his cry as her foot connected with his ribs, sending him sprawling.

Alright, that one hurt.

‘I’ve been watching you Loki, and I do not believe your view has changed. You still see Midgardians as pitiful. It is a single mortal who has changed your outlook,’ Amora whispered, her heels clicking across the stone as she picked up Tony by the back of the neck, yanking him back to his knees.

���You’re barking up the wrong tree, sister. Loki doesn’t think of me like that, trust me, I’ve tried to flirt with him, and he’s not interested,’ Tony laughed, running his tongue over the blood that coated his teeth.

He wasn’t lying. Tony had tried for weeks to show Loki he was interested in changing their friendship to something more. Short of pinning him down and scenting him like a crazed animal, there was nothing Tony hadn’t done to try and coax Loki into a courtship of some sort.

Loki hadn’t responded to any of it.

‘How little you understand. Loki has always had everything he’s coveted taken from him. He hides what he treasures most, even to the one he cares for. Don’t you remember, Loki? How we used to wreak havoc across the nine realms to cause your father pain due to his special treatment of Thor, his golden child,’ Amora hissed, tightening her hold on his throat.

Tony refused to react, ignoring the panic building in him as his body struggled to draw in a lungful of air, blotchy spots distorting his vision.

‘Leave him, Amora.’

There was no panic, no Alpha command in his voice. His words were concise, coated with a brittle frost. His gaze slid over to where Loki was kneeling, red bleeding into his eyes, his muscles bunched and tense, losing his grip on his magic, his Jotunn heritage blurring the edges of the Alpha he knew.

‘Careful, you’ll send him skittering away with that monster lurking beneath your skin,’ Amora taunted, moving to the side so they could look at each other, her hold on his throat never wavering. ‘This one is strong, isn’t he? I can see he’s in pain, you can smell it in his scent can’t you, the way he’s begging you to save him, the big, strong Alpha,’ she sneered.

Tugging him higher and off his knees, Tony struggled to get a foot onto the stone floor to support his weight, knowing his neck was going to snap if he didn’t.

‘What will it take to break you, hmm?’ she whispered, leaning towards him. Her sunshine blonde hair slipped over his shoulder, tickling his skin as she brought her nose to his unmarked bonding gland, scenting it. ‘What if I gave you to one of the Alphas who stole you, ruined you for him?’

He’d been threatened that in Afghanistan, one of many taunts to make him give up the Jericho missile.

‘Make sure they’re attractive, my public image will suffer if my bond mate is butt ugly,’ Tony answered, his tone considering even as he fought his restraints, the scalding agony of his lungs becoming impossible for him to ignore.

‘I will tear apart any Alpha that dares touch him,’ Loki spat from the other side of the room, his voice thick as if something was obstructing his throat.

Amora froze even as her lips brushed against Tony’s neck, her gaze flicking up to peer through long eyelashes at him, searching for something.

‘Do your worst, sweetheart,’ Tony challenged.

Pretty pink lips curved in an erotic smile. A hand splayed over his stomach, fingers walking up towards his chest. He could feel the tips of her sharp nails through his tattered shirt, and then she was tearing it aside, the azure light of the arc reactor lighting up the gloom of the room.

‘Found you,’ she taunted, finger tapping across the glass.

No matter how much he tried to keep his poker face, the sheer terror he felt when her nails plunged into his skin surrounding the arc reactor was exposed to them all through his scent, the sour scent of it pungent in the room, trapped by the stone walls and turning thicker by the second. Hating himself, Tony let out a high pitched whine, a frantic call for help.

Not there!

His body crumpled to the floor as the pressure on his neck vanished, shuddering pain coursing through his shins as he fell forward, his face taking the brunt of the fall. The memories of terror and agony he felt at Afghanistan left him deaf to the fight around him, the blurring figure of Loki ferociously attacking their captors nothing more than an afterthought as he curled in a ball to protect himself.

‘Stark.’

Tell us how to build a Jericho missile!

‘Stark!’

The hell did you do to me?

‘Anthony!’

That is an electromagnet hooked up to a car battery, and it's keeping the shrapnel from entering your heart.

Hands fell on his back, and he yelled, rolling on his back to fight, succumbing to his basic instincts in his fear. His lips drew back in a snarl, ready to bite whoever touched him.

‘You are unharmed, Tony, beloved, trust me.’ A wrist was thrust in front of his nose, ignoring the way Tony latched onto it, attempting to bite chunks from his skin. ‘Breathe in, scent me, know who I am,’ the voice instructed, and he could smell crisp snow, permeating the fear gripping his brain.

I know this scent.

‘That’s it, beloved, breathe, regain control of your mind. You are safe, Amora has fled, and I will never let any harm you.’

Tony could feel a hand covering the arc reactor and instead of recoiling from it, his instincts made him lean up into it, knowing this person would protect him. He breathed the scent in deep, the primal part of him knowing he was safe. When the panic had subsided, he looked up into unfamiliar red eyes.

‘Loki?’ he rasped, his words aggravating his abused throat.

‘Do not let my appearance scare you, it is still me. I will regain control of my magic…in a moment,’ Loki conceded, dropping his gaze to look at Tony’s throat.

‘I’m not scared, not of you,’ Tony blurted.

‘Kind words. I know how I appear,’ Loki said in a clipped tone, reaching around Tony’s back and ripping apart the restraints. Tony whimpered in relief, his back sagging to the floor as he brought his hands up. Loki’s eyes blazed ruby as he gently grasped them, bringing them to his face so he could examine the damage.

‘You’re gorgeous,’ Tony argued, delirious from both the pain and the scent Loki was emitting. He wanted to drown in it, wrap it around himself like a blanket and never surface. Even with his body protesting, the tenuous link he had on his consciousness, darkness lapping at the edges of his mind, he managed to put his head in Loki’s lap, breathing a sigh of relief.

‘You, Anthony Stark are a foolish, remarkable creature. Stubborn, brave thing,’ Loki muttered, pulling off his cape to drape on Tony, his thumb smearing across the blood on Tony’s wrist.

‘I’ll take you away from this wretched place once I’ve got better control of my inst…magic,’ Loki amended. Tony liked that Loki’s instincts were going haywire around him, that this gorgeous Alpha was keeping hold of him in case any dared to attack.

‘I’m sorry, that this happened to you,’ Loki whispered at him, stroking a blue hand through his hair.

‘Don’t be, it’s not the worst thing that’s happened to-’

Loki’s growl ripped through the air, making Tony flinch at the force of it, feeling like he could be torn asunder by the noise alone.

‘Sorry, my behavior is inexcusable. My instincts are hard to control when I’m around you, they always have been,’ Loki snapped, forcing his gaze away, the hand in Tony’s hair stopping.

‘I don’t want my Alpha to control himself when he’s with me. I know this is the wrong time to be asking…but was what any of she said true?’

‘What did you call me?’

‘My Alpha,’ Tony said easily, feeling his head droop as his body began to succumb to the pain.

‘Anthony,’ Loki growled, bending over to hold him close. ‘We will speak of this once we return.’

Tony nodded, going limp in Loki’s hold, his last thoughts about how he would tell Rhodey he was going to mate an alien Alpha.

***

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[marmosa]

kisses to make it better.

Fred Weasley x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: none!

A/N: here’s this in the meantime while i try to crank out a longer fic. i’m not sure who to write it about yet, but it’ll probably be one of the twins. i can’t get those two off my mind, it’s impossible. pain 💔 i don’t know what else to say, my brain is like fried right now, but i hope you’re all doing well. i’m sending you lots of love and please remember to take care of yourself, you’re the best. enjoy :)

***

If you’d asked [y/n] what she’d be spending her Friday evening doing, she certainly wouldn’t have said sitting over her best friends unconscious body in the nursing wing. She might’ve guessed meeting up with him and a few friends in the common room for an excess of butterbeer and bunch of shitty games that would’ve lead to way too much personal information being dispelled, but not this.

She bounced her leg nervously, trying hard not to rock in the squeaky chair she’d been provided, glancing over her shoulder every two seconds to try and see if Madame Pomfrey had come back with a potion or a spell to fix him right up.

Of course it was expected that something catastrophic would have happened eventually, him being one of the best beaters on one of the best quidditch teams and all, but she hadn’t expected it to roll over so soon. There was certainly no doubt in her mind that he’d come to from his unconscious state, but she couldn’t do anything to quell the worry swirling around in her stomach.

“Still out?”

[y/n] glanced up from where she’d been staring holes into the ground and felt a small rush of relief when George, looking all the more clam, came striding over, “Yeah, Madame Pomfrey still hasn’t come back with anything.”

George smiled softly at her and ruffled her hair gently, pulling up a chair and sitting next to her, his knees knocking against the bedframe, “He’ll be okay y’know. Fred’s always been trooper, he’s got a skull as thick as rocks. If anything he’s probably just napping to try and scare us.”

“I know,” [y/n] giggled slightly, relaxing her shoulders, “I’m just worried is all. Sure he’s strong and stuff, but you never know. It’s bothering me that we haven’t sorted this out yet.”

“It’ll be sorted out in no time, you need to stop worrying yourself or you’ll end up in one of these bed’s just like him,” George scolded her, a teasing lilt to his voice.

“That would be nice, I could go for a nap, I studied my arse off all morning before the match and I truly feel like my head is going to explode,” she sighed, leaning her head onto George’s shoulder.

He hummed and wrapped his arm around her, squeezing her gently, “You should go to sleep then. He’ll be here or in his dormitory in the morning.”

“But I’d feel bad to leave before he was all healed,” [y/n] frowned, glancing over at Fred’s peaceful form, his chest rising and falling softly.

“Here, how about you go to sleep, I stay here until Madame gets back with something, and I’ll let you know what’s become of him by morning,” George bargained, raising his brows as if to make the offer enticing, “Deal?”

[y/n] hummed, as if to ponder the offer, “Fine, but only because I know you wouldn’t let me hear the end of it if I didn’t accept.”

“You know me so well,” George smiled cheekily, squeezing her in a side hug once more as she stood up and stretched out her arms, twisting her torso side to side.

“Good night George,” [y/n] smiled, waving goodbye as she slipped away to head to bed.

***

“George told me that you’d stayed in your room for the morning because you were tired, so I brought you some breakfast because he had to go drop something off at Professor McGonagall’s, HOLY SHIT-,” [y/n] gasped, nearly dropping the napkin full of food balanced in her hand.

Fred’s head snapped upwards, popping out from under the sweater he was just about to put on as he jumped back, startled at the sudden early morning intrusion.

“I’m so sorry, I should’ve knocked,” [y/n] apologized, covering her eyes the best she could with her robes, while simultaneously trying to maneuver herself inside the room to set the stuff in her arms down, “But good lord Freddie, George didn’t tell me it looked so- bad?”

“First off, why are you covering your eyes, it’s not like you haven’t spent countless summers by the lake with my family. Secondly, it’s because we know you, George said you nearly worried yourself to the bone yesterday over a small game mishap,” Fred chuckled, tossing his shirt onto his bed and walking over, pushing her arm out of her face and taking the plate out of her hands, “thanks for the breakfast by the way.”

“Well it’s not my fault you looked absolutely awful-,”

“Ouch,” Fred interjected, a teasing smile on his face as he plopped down on his bed, taking a bite out of one of the hashbrowns she’d brought.

“Okay, you know what I meant,” [y/n] rolled her eyes, lolling her head to the side with a irritated sigh, “The bruises looked absolutely awful and I was worried sick as to why Madame was taking so long. It’s not my fault she spent ages digging around in her inventory, it’s like she did it on purpose.”

“Hey, the bruises look kind of cool,” Fred mumbled, pouting slightly as she returned his look with a flat expression.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, let me see them, will you?” [y/n] muttered, shuffling over as Fred maneuvered himself around so his back was facing her.

“Holy mother of Hell, that looks raw,” [y/n] sucked in a breath, ghosting her fingers over the purple and red splotches that decorated his pale skin, “I’m going to kill that arsehole who did this to you.”

“Again, you worry too much, it’s totally fine- OW! What are you doing?” Fred yelped as she pressed her fingers against the fresh bruise, albite lightly.

“Would you quite whining, I’m trying to see something,” [y/n] snapped back, poking him in the side, chuckling when he bent away from her prying hands.

“It’s not my fault your hands are as cold as a corpse,” Fred grumbled, sucking in a shaky breath when she carefully brushed her fingertips over the wound.

“My mum used to kiss our bruises when I was little, If it was especially bad she’d bandage it, even if we didn’t need it. She used to say kisses always made it all better,” [y/n] mentioned, drawing back her hand to go grab the napkins out of her bag that she’d forgotten about.

“I think your mum’s onto something,” Fred hummed cheekily, setting the empty napkin down on his nightstand, “Maybe you should try it out, see if it works.”

“You’d like that wouldn’t you, ya twat,” [y/n] teased, sticking her tongue out at his puppy dog eyes, “give me one good reason as to why I should?”

“You were so worried about me, right? Well then make it better, hm?” Fred titled his head backwards, staring at her approaching figure upside-down.

“Compelling case,” [y/n] clicked her tongue, “not. Give me a better reason.”

“Because you love me?” Fred grinned, wiggling his brows.

[y/n] sighed and plopped down next to him, passing him a napkin, “that is true. A promise is a promise then?”

“Only if you want,” Fred shrugged, “you never have to do anything you’re not comfortable with when you’re with me.”

“A sweet sentiment, but I never go back on my word,” [y/n] shook her head, pressing her palms flat on his shoulders, smoothing out his posture, “And please don’t squirm around, I don’t want to get elbowed in the face.”

“No promises-oh!” He gasped quietly as she pressed a soft kiss to the biggest bruise on his shoulder blade.

“You know,” [y/n] began, pausing to press another soft kiss to a bruise slightly below the biggest one, squeezing his biceps and dragging her hands down his arms until they rested at his wrists, “My mom always told me,” another kiss, “that kisses were the best type of medicine.”

“Again, I think she might’ve been onto something,” Fred chuckled to himself, trying to fight off the heat quickly rushing to his face, his ears already starting to hue red.

“Mhm,” [y/n] hummed, continuing her ministrations, quietly pretending to heal each and every wound to the best of her ability, despite no actual change occurring at all.

She finally finished, sitting back and squeezing his wrists to let him know she was done, a small smile pulling onto her features as she eyed him up and down, finding it amusing that she’d finally gotten him to go quiet, “I think I’ve got ‘em all.”

“Actually,” Fred piped up, leaning his back onto her shoulder, “I think you missed one.”

“And where would that be?” she chuckled, reaching behind him to card her fingers through his hair, smiling softly when his eyes fluttered unconsciously at the sudden feeling.

“It’s funny you should ask, I got hit in the face, it was actually really bad, Madame fixed me up quick, but I still have a bit of a bruise on my lips,” Fred grinned cheekily.

[y/n] scoffed slightly, curling the hair at the crown of his head between her fingers, “That, Weasley, is the shittiest line you’ve ever pulled on me.”

“You love it though.” Fred hummed, reaching behind him to tap his fingers against her cheek, fiddling with a strand of hair curled up behind her ear.

“I really do,” she smiled, leaning down so her lips were ghosting over his, “Still got a bruise here?”

“Biggest one yet,” he giggled, tilting his head up so their lips finally connected in a soft, sweet kiss, their eyes fluttering shut.

When they pulled away Fred couldn’t help the massive grin plastered on his features, his teeth pulling his bottom lip between them as he stared up at her with a new sort of sparkle in his eyes, “I’m thinking I should get injured more often if this is the outcome.”

“Absolutely not, I think that kind of stress would kill me,” [y/n] shook her head, pinching the bridge of his nose gently.

“But kisses,” Fred pouted, like that negated the stress of it all.

“You’re an awful bargainer.”

“Hey, I bargained my way into a kiss!”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Freddie.”

“Again, ouch.”

[giorno-plays-piano]

Blood in the water Part 2

Pairing: merman!Steve Rogers x Reader

Warnings: yandere, obsession, kidnapping, non-consensual drug use, brief mention of breeding, minor depiction of violence.

Words: 3496.

Part 1

___________________

He started singing again, and you turned on Slipknot to the full volume, carefully slipping on your noise-canceling headphones you ordered not so long ago. They were really a blessing, but even with them and all the noise surrounding you Steve’s voice still rang inside your head. 

He had a beautiful voice, the one people would call heavenly, but his intentions were far from angelic: the first night you heard Steve singing to you, you had almost went to the beach where he was waiting his prey, charmed by his divine voice. Forgetting about the danger, you floated like a cloud to him, only half-awake and clearly unaware of your actions. The only thing that saved you that night was a sharp rock you stepped on, cutting your foot, blood coloring the cold ground as you broke free from Steve’s charms. When you ran home, covering your ears and singing loudly to yourself to silence his voice, the merman let out an unnatural, frightening growl behind your back.

Then Steve started doing it every night, serenading you by moonlight. It could be romantic if only the merman didn’t try drowning you in the sea, determined to make you “his mate”. Worse, with each passing day the mark he left on your neck was becoming more and more painful and itchy, and sometimes you were waking up with deep scratches left by your own nails. 

The villagers couldn’t do much about it, despite being deeply ashamed of their inability to tell you about the merfolk - you realized they had been under some curse as every time they tried talking to you about Steve they were simply losing their voices. Of course, it all made sense now. 

They helped you taking care of the wound, but from all the words they couldn’t say you understood you wouldn’t get rid of the mark easily. Thankfully, it stopped bleeding, but the nasty scar left by Steve’s sharp teeth had still been there. Well, you could live with it, you supposed, if only you leave this forsaken place.

When you got on the first bus, you had fainted in the middle of the trip for no damn reason. You looked so bad with you eyes rolling back into your skull, your body shaking uncontrollably, the driver decided not to risk it and returned to the town immediately, leaving you in a hospital again. Strangely, you woke up with no pain whatsoever, fresh as a daisy. It was the curse the merman gifted you - you couldn’t be too far from him now, dragged back by the mark on your neck, and your only chance to stay alive was either staying with him or taking him with you. 

Maybe you could get rid of the curse if you killed him, you weren’t sure. As far as you knew from locals, they didn’t manage to kill even one in the last several decades. You didn’t know whether you could, too. Even if you would get a chance to stab Steve, you hardly imagined murdering him. You just weren’t the type.

So, he kept singing in his attempt to draw you to the beach again, and you kept hiding in that little cottage you rented. Oh yes, you were also worried about the rent since the month you paid for was coming to an end, but locals just smiled at you sadly, shaking their heads. This was how merfolk was attracting new people to the town.

“But my friends and family will be searching for me.” You mumbled, covering your face with your hands. “I have a job, a life out there.”

“I’m sorry, sunny, but no one will be searching for you,” the doctor said, giving you a salve for your mark - it was easing the itchiness. “You don’t know the merfolk. They'd stop at nothing to keep their mates close.”

“But why, for God’s sake?” You growled helplessly, unable to face the man and staring at your shoes instead.

“Reproduction, sunny. Mermaids aren’t as fertile anymore, and they are facing extinction.” He shrugged.

“And how is it supposed to work? Human with a merman?”

The doctor patted your shoulder apologetically, shaking his head. ‘I can’t tell you, dear. I... I physically can’t.”

You knew what he was talking about and couldn’t be angry at him. These people couldn’t do much, forced to protect their loved ones and living in constant fear of being abducted by the vile creatures living deep in the sea. Most of the time merfolk didn’t come to the town openly, and that’s why those women were so upset you lived far away, completely defenseless. But they couldn’t open up to you, revealing merfolk’s secret, and now Steve kept you on the hook.

Groaning when the sunlight crept in through the curtains, you rubbed your eyes and slowly got up, taking the headphones away and touching your ears. God, it hurt so much, but it was the only way for you to sleep at least for a few hours while Steve kept singing outside.

Oddly, you couldn’t hear the sound of the music as if someone turned it off, and you immediately went to your laptop to check. Shit, you forgot to plug it in. Thank goodness Steve stopped singing before your laptop turned off.

Sighing, you went to the bathroom, opening the tap and splashing some water into your face to wake up. It was barely six, but the sun was shining brightly, giving you no chance to go to sleep - you had always been up with the sun regardless of your circumstances. Now it was one more of your curses, considering you barely slept. 

Watching your reflection in the mirror, you chuckled sarcastically, touching your bottom eyelid - you looked like you just came back from the dead. Would Steve be willing to let you go once he realized you’re no more the sweet beautiful lady he met? What a fucking bastard.

Feeling nauseated, you rubbed your face and went to the kitchen, reheating yesterday’s coffee. You had no strength to make yourself breakfast, even the simplest one. 

Next minute you were wrapping the blanket around yourself and heading out of the house with a mug in your hand, eager to watch the sunrise. You weren’t afraid of Steve since you had never even once spotted him on the beach in the daylight. Besides, you kept a little knife in a pocket of your pants in case you needed to cut yourself and become free from his charms.

You still questioned yourself what were going to do next. Even if your parents and friends would forget you because of the curse affecting them somehow, you still remembered them. You wanted your life back. You wanted to sleep at night, unafraid of being snatched away by someone hiding in the dark. You wanted to wake up, knowing you are safe, and go to work, have one more simple day, then returning back home. You didn’t ask for much.

Well, you would have to figure out how to live in this small town all by yourself, find a new source of income and pretend like no scary mythical creature lingered behind your back. Maybe you would have to ask doctor to make you deaf. It should help with the singing.

Suddenly, you saw a huge figure rising from behind a rock not very far from you. You froze on the spot, looking at Steve walking carefully on the beach. Despite wearing something reminding you of a torn human sweater, he was naked below the waistline, and you blinked, looking at his soft cock dangling in between his legs.

Legs. Steve had a pair of strong, muscled human legs. 

For a second you forgot how to breathe, watching him coming closer to you, his movements a bit unsteady and slow. You became rooted to the ground where you stood, unable to turn away and run from the monster too human to your liking. Was it his magic again? Was it you who couldn’t keep running anymore?

Biting your lips painfully, you felt tears gathering in the corners of your eyes. Steve was wearing your sweater, albeit badly stretched out and torn in a few places - he was so much bigger than you it was a miracle he had somehow managed to put it on. You suddenly remembered how you were searching for this sweater a week or two ago, thinking you had forgot it somewhere in the cottage. How and where did Steve find it? Was he always able to walk? If so, why didn’t he take you away?

Well, maybe that’s what he was going to do now.

Finally finding some strength, you turned back to your cottage, eager to get away as far as possible from him, but then heard Steve’s angry, raspy voice, “Stay where you are!”

And you stood, moving back to face him and unable to do anything at all but watch. 

Steve looked as tired as you are: you saw the bags under his eyes, his full lips cracked, his expression exhausted as if your resistance was straining him. Wasn’t he supposed to be an invincible immortal being wandering the sea? He looked so much more human now you weren’t even sure anymore.

“You want my throat to bleed, don’t you?” He grunted in a hoarse voice, wincing when he spoke, and you realized he lost his voice after signing night after night to you. “I am doing my best for you, and you just turn on that horrible, distasteful music every night!”

You smirked - how dare was he to call Slipknot’s best songs “distasteful music”?

“This shouldn’t happen this way. You’re ruining it.” Steve continued to grumble as he kept coming closer and closer, and, oddly, you found out you weren’t as scared of him anymore as you were in that faithful night. 

“Ruining what?” You asked, sipping your still warm coffee when he approached you, wet and angry.

“The courtship!” The man exclaimed, breathing heavily - it seemed walking on his human legs was talking a toll on him. “You had to come to me, you stubborn woman! And what are you making me do? Come to you instead?”

He coughed, squeezing his eyes shut and touching his neck. It had to be really painful for him to talk.

Despite how wicked he was and how badly you wanted him to have a taste of his own medicine, you almost felt pity for your merman, handing him your mug when he stopped close to you.

“What is this? Coffee?”

“With milk. Good for your throat.” You replied, acknowledging he knew of human drinks.

Gazing at you skeptically, Steve sniffed your mug and then took it in his arms, glancing at the liquid inside. “It’s hot.”

“It’s warm. You won’t burn your tongue.” You said, taking the blanket off your shoulder and wrapping it around his hips - seriously, you felt too awkward to stand near a man dressed in just a little stretched-out sweater.

“You and you fear of nudity, humans.” Steve grunted, but sipped the coffee, nonetheless, quickly getting used to it and finishing your mug. “Oh, this one isn’t bad. I tried espresso, but it was so bitter I couldn’t have the whole cup.”

You chuckled, wrapping your arms around your own body and looking at the merman. What was he going to do now? He didn’t look vile, probably not as angry and upset as before, but who knew what he had in mind.

“So what? Are we going to stay here in the cold or you will bring me to your house?” Steve asked snappish while you snorted at him. 

“Really? I thought your plan was to drown me in the sea, not bask in the warmth of my bed.”

He grinned, pressing your mug to his impressive chest.

“Why would I drown you, silly woman? Come on, it’s cold out here in the morning. I want to stay at your place.”

He took your hand in his, and you finally moved from your spot as if Steve allowed you. Making sure the blanket was wrapped tightly around him, you went to your house, thinking of the knife in a pocket of your pants. If he was planning to attack you, you could definitely stab him through your thin sweater or cut his throat. It would require some skill, though.

Entering the little hallway, Steve looked at the ceiling and winced from the mirror hanging on the wall, looking at his reflection. Shaking his head disapprovingly, he reached out to touch his swollen bottom eyelid. 

“I thought merfolk aren’t afraid of cold.” You said, entering the kitchen and emptying the coffee pot.

“Not in this pathetic human body.” Steve entered after you, rubbing his arm in your completely wet sweater.

“Then you have to take this off and-”

“What? NO!”

He jumped away from you and stayed in the corner like a kid hiding something from his mother. You rolled your eyes.

“Although this is MY sweater, I’m not going to take it from you. I just want to dry it, alright?” You ensured, coming closer. “You’re not going to get warm if you keep it on.”

“This is my sweater.” Steve grumbled, but took it off, regardless, and handed a miserable, partly discolored piece of fabric to you to let you hang it close to the heater, watching you intently - did he really think you’d ran away with your sweater?

When you turned to face him, your blanket wasn’t secured on his hips anymore, and you stared at his naked member again, your face growing terribly hot from the sight. What was that merman thinking? Was he flaunting his.. physique in front of you? You knew of some animals doing that to attract their mates.

“For goodness sake, cover yourself.” You huffed, taking a pack of milk from the fridge. “You don’t want this thing to freeze in the open, do you?”

“Wait, it can freeze if I don’t cover it?” His eyes shot open. “You mean I won’t be able to have children anymore?”

“Yes, this is exactly what I mean.” Oh damn, it was terribly hard not to laugh as you watched Steve looking at you in horror and hurriedly wrapping the blanket around himself as much as he could. It was hilarious. 

Putting two cups of milk into the microwave, you hit the button and pulled out some butter from the fridge to put into the cup once milk would be ready. You certainly didn’t need this hissing little mermaid who lost his voice because he sang too many serenades to you.

“So, what about the courtship?” You asked, stirring melted butter in Steve’s cup as he waited for you, sitting on a chair near the table. “How do you even imagine making babies with me?”

“You don’t know?” He looked at you innocently. “Oh, don’t worry, I’m a pro at that. I’m sure you will enjoy the process.”

“For God’s sake, Steve.” You groaned, placing a cup in front of him and taking yours. “Don’t play stupid here. I can’t live underwater. I can’t even fucking swim!”

“I’m not asking you to.” He shrugged and took his milk, ensuring it wasn’t burning hot before making a sip. “Though you won’t die underwater now. Believe it or not, you can actually breathe there because of my mark.”

You touched the scar, rubbing it with your fingers furiously and narrowing your eyes at the merman who, apparently, seemed very happy to see his mark on your skin. Once he reminded you of this thing, you were ready to snap at him.

“Do you even know how much this thing hurt?” You asked, furrowing your brows.

“This is because you refused to come to me,” he cocked his head to the side, watching you growing angry. “I only need to kiss it to make you feel better. Don’t look at me like that! It’s true, let me show you.”

You stepped backwards immediately as he advanced upon you, caging you with his large body, pressing you to the kitchen counter, his skin cold. Pushing your hands against Steve, you tried to keep him away, but he was so much stronger than you that you almost ended up with your face buried in his chest.

“What the-”

He quickly lowered his head down and sniffed you, bringing his face to your neck. The next moment Steve was touching your scar with his lips, and you whimpered involuntarily, expecting it to hurt like hell. But it didn’t. He simply brushed his dry, chapped lips against your mark, and you felt nothing especially painful. 

You were growing tired of all this magical things you didn’t understand.

“See? There’s nothing scary.” He smiled brightly, and you saw he had human teeth now, too. 

“Yeah, yeah, now please go sit over there,” you grunted, but he didn’t move, laughing at you and ruffling your hair with his large hand. “What are you doing? Go away!”

“Don’t be so cold. You are going to share your life with me, silly woman, so don’t fuss over such little thing.”

You decided it was time for more effective measures and reached out to your pocket to grab the knife, but Steve grabbed your arm before you could do it, sending you a serious look.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. I’m not here to hurt you, I promise.”

“Really? I have some doubts.” You slapped his hand away, but didn’t try to take the knife again. “Because you have just ruined my life with that bite. How the hell this is going to work, anyway? How do you expect me to live with you? You’re a damn mermaid!”

“I’m a merman,” he said, looking resentful, and returned to his seat, sipping his hot milk with butter - apparently, it was working, and his voice sounded less raspy now. 

You exhaled loudly, enjoying the distance and rubbing your mark that wasn’t as itchy as before, but you scratched it, anyway.

“Listen, I’m not saying I’m totally harmless, but I’m not dangerous for you.” He said as he finished his cup. “You can remain living here, on the ground, I won’t pull you into the water... often.”

“Do you understand I can’t just go and be intimate with you, someone I see for the second time in my life?”

“I’d be surprised if you did. Look, I’m not asking for it either. The courtship doesn’t last for a month. You’ll get used to me, I know.”

His dazzling smile was making you feel nauseated, and you grabbed you cup, having a bit of warm milk, too. Steve was being impossible, but you were thankful he wasn’t forcing himself on you now. Maybe there was a chance to trick him into removing this hex, and you would have to figure it out.

“If you want to know whether we can have children together, I can tell you we definitely can. It doesn’t really matter whether I take my true or human form while making love to you, so it’s up to you how you wanna do it.” Steve grinned, and you clenched your teeth, unable to believe he was talking about it so openly, caring little for your consent. There was something barbaric in this charmingly handsome half-naked man sitting in your kitchen.

Suddenly, you felt like the nausea got much stronger, and merman’s smile wasn’t at fault. What was happening? The world was spinning, and you let go of your almost emptied cup, slipping to the floor. Shit, shit, shit. It wasn’t good.

Oh God. It was him, wasn't it? He had done something to you. He smiled and talked and laughed to make you relax, think of your situation like a simple comedy when, in fact, you were still in grave danger. Were you so stupid to believe him or was it his charms again? You hoped for the latter, curshing yourself for being too carefree and letting him into your house.

“Sorry, sweetheart, it seems I put too much medicine in your milk.” He clicked his tongue as you looked at him in horror, barely able to move now. “I thought we had more time to talk. But, well, we can always do it later.”

Steve was near you the next second, carefully lifting you up in the air in his hands, watching you with a bit of concern on his face.

He proceeded to walk in the direction of the door, but before he snatched your torn sweater and put it on his shoulder, carrying you outside of the cottage that had become your little fortress over these few weeks. However, it could keep the monster off your back, and now all you could do was watching the green door becoming further and further from you with each Steve’s step to the shore.

Your body was completely frozen when his feet reached the water, and the merman left a kiss on your cheek, stroking it tenderly despite that wicked smile on his face.

“I told you, you can’t break the tradition. It is time for you to come to me now."

THE END

___________________

Tags: @finleyjayne​ @alexakeyloveloki​   @helenaeisenhower​ @villanellevi​ @hurricanerin​ @void-hoechlin​ @abyssaint​ @heeeyitskay​ @chris-evans-indian-fanfic​ @navegandoaciegas​ @rosalynshields​ @brattycherubwrites​ @sllooney​ @angrythingstarlight​ @lovelydarkdaydream​ @soleil-dor​ @lookiamtrying @buckysbunny @sourpatchspinster​

[cal-kestis]

You’ve Been Lonely Too Long | Din Djarin x Fem!Reader

(Part I of The Aftermath of Losing Everything) 

moodboard/sketch/gifs made by me, please don’t repost :)

Summary: After parting with Grogu, losing his ship, and battling with the tenets of his Creed — Din is plagued by memories he fears will only ever exist in his past. But when he meets you, he’s surprised to see a bit of himself reflected in your eyes... and the family he still longs for. (Set after S2) Rating: M (for reasons that will happen eventually)      Word Count: 6572 Warnings/Tags: Soft!Din, Fluff, Angst, Eventual Smut (non graphic), Action/Violence, Mentions of Blood, Hurt Comfort, Slow Burn, no use of ‘Y/N’, Din is wistful while talking about Grogu :’), he misses him A/N: Here it is! I've done a lot of research when it comes to lore, planets, etc. But I've taken a few creative liberties. Replies/comments are very welcome!

[Read on AO3] // [Series Masterlist]

Memories keep him awake more than he cares to admit.

They conjure themselves unbidden, slithering through the iron bars of his mind. And just before they burrow, just before they brand his brain, just before they emerge from the shadows and he can recognize them — images of bright eyes and petal ears, sound bites of gentle coos, memories he wants to keep locked like a treasure — they vanish like vapor.

Sometimes he tries to chase them, like a valuable quarry. But even illustrious bounty hunters like Din Djarin know what it’s like to lose. Especially at night, when memories morph into vicious nightmares... and he becomes the prey.

If he ever does sleep, he sure as hell never rests.

And no one would catch wise. That’s the beauty of beskar. Because — despite the deep purple rings circling his wrinkled eyes, the constant dry and chapped state of his lips, and the uncharacteristically unkempt stubble on his jaw — when he walks into a room, everyone only sees the harsh glint of metal armor, the precise swagger in his gait, the loaded blaster at his belt. A Mandalorian: legend coming to life. And everyone quakes in their boots.

Everyone except you.

After he had left Gideon’s light cruiser, helmet replaced on his head — an imposter’s crown — he’d expected to say his goodbyes and carry on the way he always did before everything changed, before the kid. Alone.

He hadn’t known his next move. But picking up another stray? Not part of the non-existent plan.

Yet here he is, coasting in hyperspace aboard his cold, newly bargained light freighter, watching his crewmate modify the jammers.

“Hand me that driver, will you?” You huff, wiping sweat off your brow.

He had found you on Tatooine almost three months ago, fighting off some spice-high lowlife in a dark adobe alley. He remembers seeing you throw a heavy punch to the man’s jaw, extending your other trembling hand toward his throat before softly shutting your eyes, brows pinched in gentle focus.

Something about you had felt familiar, something he couldn’t shake. Your outstretched arm had sparked a memory of tiny green claws. And it had all happened so quickly. You had your eyes closed, the man had reached for his blaster, but Din had always been the faster shot.

Smoke had wafted from the man’s chest, your eyes had opened in shock, and Din had disappeared before you could thank him.

Instead, you had managed to stow away on his ship that same night and hire yourself as his new crewmate.

“I have nowhere to go. No home, no family,” you had explained, eyes glistening. When he’d scrutinized you, he only found a small bag slung over your shoulder and a short, chewed-on pencil tucked behind your ear. “I’m a good worker. I can cook and I’m a decent pilot, a better mechanic. And I’m… crafty?”

“I work alone.” He’d said it so surely, but a cloud of sadness had hovered over the words as he’d forced saliva down his dry throat.

“You don’t have to. I can be a valuable asset to you. Take some weight off your shoulders. Be someone to talk to.”

You had glanced at his stoic frame, his silence filling the room like a smoke grenade.

“Well, you don’t have to talk. But I can be helpful.”

There had been something in your eyes, or maybe even beyond them… something in you, something so achingly familiar. He’d felt it floating around the ship, radiating off your skin, seeping through his beskar armor. And he’d sighed because he couldn’t have stopped his next words from tumbling off his tongue if he wanted to.

“Just don’t touch anything.”

He remembers how you’d gasped, your arms wrapping tightly around his torso without a second thought. And he’d just stiffened like solid carbonite, not allowing himself to dwell on how warm and soft you felt, and he’d gently pushed you off, disappearing into the cockpit.

You’re still chatting away as you continue tinkering with the jammers. You’re definitely a talker. But to him, everyone seems that way when silence is his chosen weapon of survival.

Below that primary qualification of ‘someone to talk to,’ he’d realized almost right after you joined his crew of two that your resume checked out. You’d been invaluable on this new, unfamiliar ship — helping him modify it until it had some of the Razor Crest’s best qualities. Some.

When small memories like that start flooding in and try to take him under headfirst, he thinks it’s better to be alone. At least then, he can decide whether to sink or swim. So, he excuses himself to the cockpit and you hum in acknowledgment, continuing your chatter despite being your own audience. 

He spends a lot of time here in solitary silence, staring at the stars as they reflect off the tiny metal ball that hangs from a string on an unused lever. It’s the only token he has from that life — the days of flying the Crest system to system with a giggling child in the backseat.

More often than not, you find him here exactly like this: helmet hung low, a silver sphere pinched between two gloved fingers, millions of confined thoughts racing through his mind faster than hyperspace and clawing at his skull.

When you find him like this, you try not to speak. Just sit in the co-pilot’s seat and watch the stars with him.

And as he studies the little gear knob from his past life, the one question that passes through his mind the most is:

What can you do when the reason you’re hurting is likely the only thing that can heal you?

 —

ii.

After many months on the freighter, you’re sure of two things when it comes to your new crewmate:

First, the Mandalorian doesn’t talk much. Or ever, really.

But you quickly get used to your questions — and there are many — being answered with a curt “yes” or “no,” sometimes a grunt or sigh thrown in when the question is just right. You don’t mind too much, it’s enough to get you familiar with the way the ship works and you always know what to expect from him. 

When he’s not outside hunting a quarry on some Maker-forsaken outer rim dustball, leaving you inside to tamper with the ship’s outdated systems, he’s usually on one side of the freighter and you’re on the other. If he seems busy, you leave his food outside his quarters, and later, you find his dish empty and washed in the storage cupboard. And when you’re fighting for sleep in your bed, you hear his footsteps echoing all night long. But there are times when you both find yourselves in the small, shared space of the cockpit, when your desire to see the corners of space beyond Tatooine becomes too great to stay away. In those moments under the domed viewport — faced with a myriad of vibrant hues and tremendous textures and infinite stars — he doesn’t speak and you can’t find the words, giving way to a tranquil, transfixing silence neither of you wants to escape.

The second thing you’re sure of is: the Mandalorian gets hurt, a lot.

You can’t count the number of times you’ve watched him drag himself and an unconscious body onto his ship or holed himself up in the fresher, hissing in pain as he tended to his own wounds.

But this time, he comes back and collapses outside of the ship, unable to even pull himself up the ramp, much less the dead weight of the quarry. There’s hardly a thought in your mind as your feet scurry to his side, sprawled across the ground beside his target. You don’t wait for permission before you’re reaching for the gloved hand pressed firmly to the side of his stomach. 

“No,” he grits out between his teeth, groaning when the tiny word seems to tear him apart where he’s already been gashed. “The quarry.”

You frown, almost rolling your eyes at his stubbornness. Always the job first.

Still, no arguments pass your lips when you turn to pull the heavy, unconscious Trandoshan by his bound wrists. It takes all of your strength to drag him up the steep incline of the freighter’s ramp, through the main corridor, and into the supply closet, Mando’s makeshift prison. You’d asked him about it before, one of your many questions, wondering if he should consider more secure holding quarters. And he’d responded with a surprisingly long (for him) statement, “Not as good as a mobile carbonite freezing system, but it does the job.”

After chaining up the quarry’s hands and ankles and locking the closet, you nearly trip over yourself while sprinting back to the groaning Mandalorian. You kneel beside him, pulling the hand pressed against his stomach over your shoulder to lift him on his feet. A harsh, metallic scent suddenly fills your lungs, drawing your gaze to the blood-stained palm of his glove dangling over your shoulder. You do your best to ignore it, refocusing your energy on lugging him into the ship. As soon as you reach the top of the ramp, your strength gives out, sending both your bodies collapsing to the floor with a dull thud. It’s a challenge disentangling yourself from his heavy limbs but once you manage, you quickly turn to examine him before his hand stops you again.

“Gang on our tail,” he rasps, coughing then groaning in pain. “Get us out of here.”

Your lips press into a straight line, a war waging behind your furrowed brow as you decide whether or not it’s smart to leave him alone, bleeding on the floor of the main hold. But his hand shakes as he squeezes your wrist in what you think is meant to feel comforting. You release a deep sigh before getting up to close the ramp and set coordinates in the cockpit.

When you return minutes later with a medpac, you find him stretched out on his back, his neck arching with a groan, and his glove clutching his stomach once more. You kneel beside him to assess the damage, reaching your hand to his waist before he grabs you again.

“You don’t have to,” he grunts. “I can do it.”

“I know you can,” you say, gently removing the glove trapping your wrist. “But so can I. And I can actually move my limbs at a normal, painless speed, get the job done quicker. So, please, let me.”

He sighs, giving a quick nod of his helmet before allowing you to partially remove his armor.

You start with the breastplate, remove the thick padding over his stomach, then grab the ever-present pencil behind your ear and use the dull end to lift the edge of his brown undershirt, just enough to reveal the knife wound in his side.

“What happened?” You gasp, quickly gathering antiseptic, a laser cauterizer, and bacta patches from the medpac.

“Ambushed,” he grunts, wincing as you clean the cut, your breath sliding across his skin as you lean in close.

“I’ve sustained some pretty bad knicks myself. Nothing as bad as this,” you joke lightly, switching the antiseptic for the cauterizer. When the laser touches his skin, he gasps and curls in on himself as you burn the wound closed. Instinctively, you grab his hand, the one not stained with blood, and interlace your fingers with his on the ship’s floor, letting him squeeze your palm as a distraction. “Nothing I couldn’t fix up. When you’re surviving on your own, you have to learn how to take care of yourself.”

“I know,” he says quietly. I work alone, he’d said when you met. 

Even through the shadowy visor of his helmet, you feel his eyes on yours and stare back openly. But as always, you only see your own warped reflection in the silver gleam of his beskar.

“It helps to have the proper supplies,” you chuckle, tearing your eyes away from his helmet to finish closing up his wound. “This bacta patch should fix you up real good.”

After smoothing the gel bandage against his skin, your fingertips linger only a second too long on the exposed warmth of his tanned stomach. You pull down the hem of his shirt, starting to reach for the pieces of iron covering his arm but feel him stop you by squeezing your joined hands.

“They only got one jab in,” he says, his voice sounding more relaxed, almost cocky. But when he sees the worry on your face, his thumb sweeps lightly across your hand and he squeezes once more. “I promise. I’m fine.”

“You’d better be,” you warn, shaking your joined hands in front of your face like a cranky geezer. “Because I’m not carrying two unconscious bodies off this ship when we land.”

He huffs out a short breath, only wincing slightly at the movement. Without another word, you pull his arm around your shoulder once more, limping him toward his sleeping quarters to rest. But you stop just outside the door, not wanting to encroach on his privacy.

“Thank you,” he whispers, leaning his hand against the doorway.

“Your gloves,” you say, his helmet tilting in confusion when you stare at his hand pointedly. “Let me clean them for you.”

He tries to argue but you won’t have any of it, simply extending your palm out toward him until he reluctantly pulls at the yellow leather tips on his fingers and hands them over.

“You can leave your shirt outside your quarters, too. I don’t want you stinking up the ship with your bloody clothes. Wash up. Get some rest. And be more careful next time,” you say, smiling and walking backward as you talk.

“I’ll do my best,” he says, and you swear you hear a ghost of a smile in his voice.

Before you can question him on it, he presses the button to his quarters and slips inside.

 —

iii.

Time seems to pass quicker on the Mandalorian’s ship since the Trandoshan incident. And this man of few words quickly becomes a man of… just slightly more than a few words. Nevertheless, as his crewmate, you’ve learned quite a lot more about him.

One, he never stays in one place for long. He’s a bounty hunter, of course, and he takes multiple jobs at once. That means, together, you visit at least four different planets in the span of a few weeks, expertly flying around New Republic and Imperial scanners without a hitch. Two, he likes your cooking, a lot. You can tell because, by the end of the night, after a soft “thank you” buzzed from his helmet, his dish would always be licked clean — two dishes when you’d made his favorite. Sometimes, he’d even surprise you and try to recreate your recipes, generously leaving bowls of delicious food at your door. But he never eats where you can watch, enjoying the meals in secret and quietly washing up for you when you’re on the other side of the ship and can’t argue with him about it. Three, he doesn’t remove his helmet when you’re around, maybe even when he’s alone. “This is the way,” he’d mumble on occasion, a Creed that sounds like a foreign language even falling from his lips. Four, although he says he works alone, you see the way his helmet leans toward you when you speak and notice how his knees point in your direction when you sit side by side in the cockpit, gravitating toward you yet deeply cautious of drawing too close. And five, he’s lonely. You know because you’ve carried the same sadness in your chest almost all your life.

Several months on his ship have opened him up to giving more detailed answers to your numerous questions, and you take each opportunity where you can, desperate to unveil new pieces of his mind.

Tonight, Mando is particularly relaxed after capturing the last of four bounties, coordinates already set to turn them in. An empty bowl of bone broth sits beside his first helping. He leans back comfortably in his pilot seat as the stars shine off his chest plate and you ask about his past adventures.

“Has it always been just you?” Your voice comes out as a whisper, not wanting to disturb this content stillness, but thinking of all the times you’ve found him sitting alone in the cockpit clutching onto a silver ball.

He’s silent for a moment, thinking over his words. He doesn’t turn to face you when he answers, “No. There was... a child. Not long ago.”

You think back to when you had first met him, how he’d said, “I work alone,” how those words had seemed devastatingly true — in the way only a person who’s lost everything could say them so honestly.

“Yours?”

A beat. “Yeah,” he answers, a small crackling sound coming from his helmet. “Yes, a foundling. But he was as my own.”

“What happened?”

The cockpit stays silent save for the dull tones of the control board’s beeps and ticks. Mando reaches for that silver sphere, leans forward in his seat, and he holds it to the crown of his helmet.

“I... had to let him go.”

His voice breaks over the vowels, just slightly but you hear it: the familiar shattered sound of loss. It radiates off of him in waves, penetrating your skin and crawling through your bloodstream until your own heart aches for the ghost this child left behind.

“What was he like?” 

He’s quiet again and you wonder if you’ve crossed a line. But suddenly, Mando swivels his chair to face you, the silver ball clutched tight against his chest, and he chuckles. It’s fleeting but it’s a sound you’ve never heard in all your months aboard his ship. A lovely sound you’ll never forget.

“This was his favorite toy,” the Mandalorian says, lifting the ball in the air for you to see. “He was a stubborn kid. Always getting into trouble.”

You smile, begging him to continue.

“He could do things I couldn’t even imagine. He saved me, in more ways than one. We were a clan of two.”

“A family,” you agree.

He stills for a moment, ponders your words, and hangs his head. “Yeah, a family.”

“What’s his name?”

“Grogu.” You can almost hear the smile in his voice. “His name is Grogu.”

“Grogu,” you whisper, testing the name on your tongue. “Can you describe him for me?”

You pull out a small, worn booklet of parchment from your pouch and the short pencil from behind your ear. His helmet tilts toward you curiously and you can almost imagine his eyes squinting behind the visor.

“Remember when I said I was crafty? Not a load of bantha crap,” you chuckle, waving the pencil at him. “I made a trade with some stingy Jawas to get these relics.”

He nods, quietly examining the antiquated drawing pad.

“Tell me,” you plead.

His helmet’s gaze drops back to the silver ball and he sighs a wistful sound.

“Grogu was — is special. A green, wrinkly, big-eared... very special little kid.”

“A green, wrinkly child?” You ask, looking up from the paper.

Mando laughs again and you can’t help but smile too. He describes Grogu like he’s a father mooning over his son’s first steps. You’ve never heard him talk so much, so joyfully yet sorrowfully all at once. There’s a wistfulness in his voice, a rasp that tells you he’s not used to putting it into words, at least not out loud, but he still wants to honor Grogu with every word he has. As he speaks, you can feel — almost see the image of Grogu in your mind. It’s crystal clear like your brain is reaching out and can somehow access every archive in Mando’s memories. It’s like a trance and you have to physically shake your head to release yourself.

“He means a lot to you,” you say, a matter of fact, tearing off the weathered page and giving him your quick sketch, your hand resting on one of his pauldrons. “I’m sure you mean a lot to him.”

Mando silently turns back to the controls, his fingers still clutching the little ball as he grips the page in the other hand.

He’s especially glad to have his helmet at this moment because he feels water pooling behind his eyelids as he stares at the uncanny drawing.

“That’s him,” he whispers, looking upon his boy. It’s almost an exact likeness, although in grayscale (he’ll have to find you other colors somehow). But it means everything to see Grogu again, even on a page, after months of only seeing him in fleeting dreams and distorted nightmares. 

“Thank you,” he says, his hand with the drawing joining your hand on his pauldron.

You smile as he neatly, delicately folds the paper and tucks it into the small pouch on his shoulder harness, keeping the drawing close to his heart. You sit together in comfortable silence as the ship drops out of hyperspace.

“I guess you weren’t lying when we met,” he finally says.

“What do you mean?”

“You are… crafty,” he chuckles, his fingers tenderly stroking the leather pouch on his shoulder. “And you’re a good person to talk to.”

 —

iv.

The Mandalorian doesn’t ask you to stay on the freighter while he works anymore.

He doesn’t want you with him while he hunts, can’t afford the distraction. But he doesn’t want you to feel trapped either. So, he tells you to explore villages and draw landscapes of forested planets with the set of pigmented chalks he’d sweetly gifted you after finishing a job one day. (“I saw them at some backwater trading post. Thought you might like them,” he’d shrugged.) 

He doesn’t say it out loud but you know he trusts you even more now, trusts you won’t get into trouble, trusts you can take care of yourself if it finds you anyway. And he knows you appreciate it after being stranded on Tatooine your entire life. Each time he lands on a new planet, he sees entire galaxies reflected in your awestruck eyes and he gains a new page of artwork to add to his growing collection.

His latest quarry leads the pair of you to Felucia, on the hunt for some scum who — according to the Mandalorian — is probably hoping to harvest the planet’s Nysillin, a valuable healing herb, to trade for hefty credits. 

Felucia is a beautiful world you could never have even conjured in your dreams. A dense jungle of flora extends toward the upper atmosphere, kissing the yellow-tinted clouds and glowing orange and teal when night falls. Vibrant purple fungi tower high above the ferns, providing shade that did little to combat the damp heat.

You felt a strange energy running through your veins the moment you stepped off the ship, blaming it on the humidity instantly sticking to your skin like honey, a welcome discomfort compared to the sands of Tatooine.

On Tat, the sand made a habit of blowing and whipping around your ankles, scraping slashes and slivers into your skin. You’d hardly ever felt it, soft skin having evolved into a numb armor over many years on the desolate planet. Even as crystal particles would fly into your eyes, fill your lungs, nestle into your hair — you’d hardly felt it.

Sand is nothing compared to the sinister shudder that would run down your spine as you’d make haste through dark alleyways. The hairs on the back of your neck would rise and stiffen. You’d feel it more than you’d see it: the mass of darkness constantly looming over your shoulder, disfigured shadows merging with yours on the sand. And a voice would ask you each time: are you willing to do what you must to survive?

You almost had that night you met the Mandalorian. You remember your attacker’s voice like you just woke up from a nightmare, coarse and rough, burying itself under your skin like the Tatooine sands. His hands had felt slimy and sticky like the Felucian air as he’d gripped your waist. That same question of will had rung in your ears and your soul had urged you with a whisper: “Survive.” Your hand had quaked as you’d lifted it and focused your thoughts on your attacker’s throat. 

Then, before you could save yourself, you’d heard blaster fire and exhaled a staggered breath, gazing upon the Mandalorian as your hand had dropped limp at your side. You never turned back.

Now, you explore more systems than you knew existed, a Mandalorian warrior at your side, filling your weathered drawing pad with sketches of worlds beyond imagination.

Felucia would be a quick job, he’d assured you when he’d left. Easy and clean. Besides, no matter how beautiful the planet seemed — you couldn’t afford to stay longer than one rotation.

The Mandalorian had warned you of carnivorous plants and mysterious beasts. He hadn’t asked you to stay on the ship, but you knew he’d feel better if you kept close by. In the low shrubs and behind sky-scraping stalks, a deep grumble echoed through the jungle — something hungry and menacing. You stayed far from the sounds, choosing to explore the other colorful flowers that lived nearer to the ruddy soil, not straying too far into the mystifying wilds. You scribble away in your booklet, airways filled with a fresh petrichor that reminds you of a watery star system the Mandalorian brought you to a couple of months back. Your chalks fly across the tiny page as you capture this planet’s inimitable beauty as best you can.

Hardly four hours pass before you hear the Mandalorian’s heavy footsteps returning. Behind him trudges a stout man, wrists in binders behind him as he follows the bounty hunter in defeat.

“You’re getting slow, Mando,” you say, grinning when he comes to a stop in front of you, hands on his hips, a slight tilt to his helmet.

“What are you drawing?” He asks, ignoring your previous comment. He kneels beside you, silently studying the chalk-smudged red flower on the page as you stroke the final flourishes of your sketch. You hand him your booklet, noticing how the quarry leans over Mando’s shoulder to sneak a peek as well.

“Beautiful,” Mando says, tone even, as if speaking a fact instead of opinion.

“Well, it’s easy to see beauty when it’s all around,” you answer, cheeks heated as you gesture to the plant life surrounding you.

“It is,” he agrees, tenderness seeping into his modulated voice. When you look up at him, his visor is already trained on your face, unwavering as you crouch eye to eye with each other.

“Hate to break it to ya,” the quarry says, coughing dramatically behind you. “But all this ‘beauty’ wants to eat us alive, so I suggest we get off this hellhole before we all become dinner.”

The Mandalorian sighs, tearing his gaze to probably glare daggers at the quarry. 

“Makes you wonder what you were doing on this ‘hellhole’ in the first place,” he says, sarcastic to a fault.

“It wasn’t my choice,” the quarry argues, lifting his hands in defense. “I’m here to do a job, just like y—”

A shrill, deafening screech cuts through the jungle like a blade and the group of you shrink at the violent sound. 

“Let’s go,” Mando says immediately, helping you on your feet and pushing the quarry into the freighter.

You watch from the ground behind him as Mando runs in to lock the quarry inside the storage closet, turning only when the screeching sound suddenly stops. Your eyes squint as you try to find a sign of movement in the dense jungle.

“Watch out!”

Before you can register the anxiety in the Mandalorian’s voice, you’re knocked on your back into the red soil by a hulking creature.

It towers over you, casting you completely in its shadow as it slowly stalks forward. Your vision blurs as the horrifying monster draws closer — wrinkled white skin stretching the expanse of its belly and blue spine-covered leather painting its face and shell-armored back. 

“I’m guessing this is the rancor you were telling me about?” You grit through your teeth, inching away like a pathetic crab along the shoreline. Drool leaks from the rancor’s jagged teeth in dangling strands as it reaches long, webbed claws toward you. 

Before they can reach your body, you see the Mandalorian’s whipcord wrap around its arm. On the other end of the cord, Mando yanks the rancor away from you, rapid blaster fire whizzing through the air, hitting the beast with deadly precision. But the blasts bounce off its thick, impenetrable skin as it continues prowling toward you with renewed anger.

“Good guess,” Mando grunts, flying above the rancor with his jetpack, shooting at it in quick succession.

The rancor turns its attention away from you to the shiny flying pest blasting at its leathery skin. It’s at least six times the Mandalorian’s height but seems worlds larger from your view on the ground. 

“Stars, I thought you said these things were peaceful!” You shout.

“The Felucians don’t mind them. You must have scared it with your aggressive craftiness,” he quips, and you imagine what his smirk might look like under his helmet, even as the rancor approaches closer.

Mando launches miniature whistling explosives at the beast, but they do little to deter it. He throws grenades but the rancor swats them away like insects. It stomps toward the Mandalorian, its maw gaping wide as it releases a petrifying roar.

“Mando!” You scream when the rancor’s claws grab him by his jetpack, plowing his body into the ground with brute force.

The Mandalorian groans as he tries to stand back up, falling on his back when his bones prove too weary to support his weight.

“Get to the ship,” he rasps, voice crackling through the helmet with static. He raises his arm, flamethrower igniting at the rancor’s face, making it fumble backward with another roar. Only seconds later, the fire sputters and dies out. “Dank farrik!” He curses, reaching for his hopeless blaster once more before the monster’s claws slap it from his hand. “Get to the ship!” He yells.

Rooted to the ground like the surrounding plants, you’re helpless bantha fodder as you watch the rancor slowly creep forward, stretching to its full height above the Mandalorian. It feels like you’re sinking in quicksand — your feet and your mind hopelessly going under.

Then, you hear a soft voice ask a familiar yet distorted question:

Are you willing to do what you must so he survives?

You don’t hesitate. Anything, your soul resolves.

Steadily braced on two feet, you throw out your hand like a whip, focusing all your energy and emotions toward the blue beast. It sends the rancor flying backward like a ragdoll, wailing as it crashes through the thick jungle, loud cracks echoing from the mist as its body breaks every plant in its path. It lands far away with a heavy thud, but you feel it in your veins when it immediately gets on its feet, vengefully sprinting back toward you.

“Can’t say it isn’t persistent,” you mutter.

“How? You—” Mando grunts, a thousand questions on his tongue that will have to wait.

“I’ll explain later,” you huff, yanking his arm over your shoulder and pulling him to the ship. “We need to get out of here.”

“What’s happening?” The quarry yells from inside the locked compartment when he hears footsteps boarding the ship. You drop the Mandalorian onto the floor of the main hold rather unceremoniously, a metallic clanging sound ringing through the freighter. You punch in his code to retract the ship’s ramp before running to the cockpit. Outside the freighter, the rancor’s screeching grows louder and your fingers flit across the control panel to get the ship in the air. The engines whir to life and you swear it’s the second most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.

With one final glance at the glowing jungle outside the viewport, thunderous roars softening into a low rumble, the ship finally launches out of Felucia’s atmosphere. Sinking back in the pilot’s seat, you let out a breath you’ve been holding for what feels like years. A labored dragging sound echoes behind you and you snap your head back, instinctively on defense.

But your shoulders relax when you see the Mandalorian gripping the walls of the ship as he attempts to limp closer. You run to his side, carrying his weight as you lead him to sit in the co-pilot’s chair.

“You need to rest,” you whisper, standing in front of him to quickly scan his body for signs of a major injury. “Looks like you got away with just a few shallow cuts and bruises. Nothing a bit of bacta can’t soothe.”

Your words come out like the rapid firing of his blaster before a gloved hand on your wrist stops you from speeding off. 

“What happened back there? How did you...” He asks, his visor lifted at an uncomfortable angle to meet your eyes.

Your lips press into a straight line, brows pinched in worry as you turn away from him to rummage through the medpac.

“I don’t...” you start, letting out a long exhale as you gather your words. “I don’t know. Since I was a kid, I’ve been able to do things I can’t explain — move things without touching them.”

You turn back to him, bacta in hand as you study expressionless beskar.

“Sometimes, it frightens me. I have no idea where it comes from or why it happens or how to control it. I never do it around other people. I didn’t want them to know,” you admit quietly, dropping your gaze to his vambrace, wordlessly asking if he still trusts you to remove it. He nods, visor watching you with masked curiosity as you roll back his sleeves and expose bruised, tan skin. “I’m afraid of what could happen if people knew.”

You don’t tell him how you don’t sleep well most nights, your thoughts eating away at your mind as you wonder if your abilities are the reason why you’ve always been alone… if they drove your family away before you could understand and just explain.

It stays silent while you tend to his wounds, applying bacta wherever your hands coax sharp hissing sounds from his helmet. His armor lies on the floor of the cockpit, sleeves pulled up to his elbows and the hem of his shirt lifted just enough to reveal a shallow cut and smattering of bruises on his abdomen. It’s not the worst you’ve seen and the bacta seems to already be easing most of the discomfort, allowing him to sit up straighter.

You leave him for a moment to allow him to tend to the bruises on his legs himself, walking to the supply closet to make sure the quarry is secure in his makeshift prison. When you return, you sit in the pilot’s seat, facing the zooming stars as if they hold the answers to every terrifying question you’ve held inside for so long.

You almost don’t hear the soft way the Mandalorian calls your name. It takes all your strength to pivot your seat in his direction.

“Do you remember when I told you about the mudhorn?” He asks.

You nod. The story of the mudhorn, of course you remember. After he’d first told you about his child, he seemed eager to tell you even more tales of their adventures across the galaxy. The mudhorn felt like their origin story, the birthplace of his connection to Grogu. 

“I didn’t tell you the whole story,” he says quietly, piquing your attention. “Grogu saved me. Not the other way around.”

You stare at him dumbfounded. “But how? He’s just a baby.”

Mando stands from the co-pilot’s seat, testing his leg’s stability before walking to the control board, leaning back on it, his knees brushing against yours.

“Grogu had powers too. He could heal people. And he could move things without touching them,” he mirrors your words, making your jaw drop as you take them in. “Just like you. I was quested to bring him to others of his kind.”

“You mean?” you ask, and he doesn’t miss the flash of hope in your eyes.

“Yes. There are others like him — like you.”

You listen with rapt attention as he unravels the legend of the Jedi — a fierce warrior he’d met named Ahsoka Tano and the hooded figure who had single-handedly defeated a platoon of Dark Troopers and became Grogu’s new mentor. He tells you the few fragments of what he knows about laser swords — lightsabers — the bright colors he’s seen them radiate. But he leaves out the heavy weight of the darksaber locked away in his weapons cabinet. Besides that, he tells you everything he knows, which he regrets isn’t much.

“The Force?” You ask in confusion.

“The Force is what gives you your powers,” he says, reciting the words like folklore passed down through generations. “It is an energy field created by all living things. To wield it takes a great deal of training and discipline.”

Ahsoka’s words have been imprinted on his brain since she first spoke them.

“I can take you to a place where you can communicate with them,” he whispers. Truly, he doesn’t want to do as he says, doesn’t want to repeat the heartache he’s still not fully recovered from. He wishes he could snatch the righteous words out of the air before you hear them. But he knows what it would mean to you to find others, a family when you’ve had none your whole life. “The… Jedi, I mean. On a planet called Tython. If you want to be trained.”

He imagines a familiar hooded figure leading you by your hand, leaving him behind.

“I… I’d like to hear what they have to say. Get some answers,” you say. “If you’ll take me.”

“Of course.”

You stand up, allowing him to take his place in the pilot’s chair.

“After we drop off the quarry, I’ll bring you to Tython.”

His breath stops when he sees your hand reach out to cradle the side of his helmet. His eyes screw shut, imagining the plush warmth of your palm caressing the skin on his cheek instead.

“Thank you, Mando,” you say, a gentle smile on your lips.

“Din,” he offers, grinning beneath his helmet when your chin tilts in silent questioning. “My name is Din Djarin,” he clarifies. “But you can still call me Mando if you want.”

You smile, so wide and so bright it could blind him.

“Thank you, Din,” you say, unexplored galaxies sparkling in your irises. For the first time, he lets himself daydream what it’d be like to discover each one of them with you, for as many years as you’ll give him. Even as he fears his time with you is ending. “Thank you for doing this for me.”

As you walk to your sleeping quarters, the soft sound of controls beeping and ticking in the ship, you don’t hear when he whispers:

“Anything.” [READ PART II HERE]

[exactlyenoughglitter]

Glastonbury

Pairings: Avallac’h/Ciri/Eredin Warnings: NSFW, elves, reality manipulation + unreliable narrator AO3 Link

The bells are ringing.

‘Galahad?’

Sometime in the night, the rain had stopped. Instead, a thick white fog had rolled out across the marshland. In such fog sounds travel far.

Where am I? the girl wonders. Everywhere. Nowhere.

Ciri treads along the soggy ground, unable to find her way either to the Roman road or the chapel. For there must be a chapel at Glastonbury – a chapel, where they toll the bells at dawn, midday, and sundown.

Why would anyone toll the bells at night?

Somewhere high above a wolf moon hangs above the marshes – glowing eerie red.

‘Galahad?’

She bounds against the echo of her own voice. The witcher-girl leans against a crooked tree, her warm breath melding with the fog. It is damp. The darkness rustles – everywhere, nowhere. There is a strange smell in the air... something putrefying and sickly sweet, or...

 ... apple blossoms?

She blinks.

Water touches her boots. Mist rises above the lake.

Faintly, Ciri mouths names; they belong to those she has given away to the cold, wet fog – a fog beyond which there is nothing more.

In the eldritch glow of the moon the mist swirls, milky white, like in a witch’s cauldron. She looks around for a boat. There is no boat. No unicorn. There is only the mist and the bells. And she cannot find the way.

Morgana said it depends on who seeks what the mists show. As man sees reality thus it becomes.

Looking down, the girl gasps.

The restless lake water slides underneath her boots like a fine dance floor. Her entire form freezes in incomprehension before a niggling thought occurs to her: people in this world say that fairies can walk on water. Fairies and unicorns. Finally forcing her foot to move, despite a quaint sense of foreboding that overcomes her, Ciri exhales like she has held her breath for an eternity; the dark swirling ground under her feet holds. It holds! With that, however, a tremendous gushing resounds in her ears and she realises that the lake water is pushing further in-land; the marshlands here flood periodically.

 ‘Ciri?’

It echoes in her mind quietly but clearly – like the ringing of icicles.

Through the mists, across the waters, the witcher-girl runs in the night until the echo of bells becomes more distinct and the putrid-sweet smell of apple blossoms strengthens. Until mussel shells crunch under her feet, until she finds herself on an alley of trees that are closing in on the entrance of the chapel under a bright red moon. Her mind though, is made up.

With the name of the knight on her lips and the images of the witcher and the sorceress in her head, she draws her sword. And bare hazel and alder branches crackle mournfully, giving way under her blade. Their remains rip at her clothes, but she cares not. She notices naught and can say naught, for her lungs are full of the smell of rot and the lake water clings to her footsteps like a smelly, dark ooze.

Yet in the mists, across the threshold to somewhere, Ciri’s voice dies a white death in her throat.

In the cold stone chapel under the Spiral Hill of Ynys Gwydrin, a knight lies in his soft white cloak, his skin snow white and his lips bright red as summer apples. You would think a kiss might wake him, but the ashen-haired girl knows it does not. She knows. She knows too that his lips taste of wine and not the blood of Christ, but it does not matter.

They stay like this before the altar while the bells ring in the fog – somewhere, everywhere, nowhere.

It’s because of that cup! It’s that stupid Grail, this stupid land and these stupid priests, and these stupid people who believe them. There is no justice, no salvation, and no grace given in the universe!

‘For once you understand, little butterfly.’

The soft, lambent hair on the back of her neck can barely rise, touched as if by the breath of a ghoul, before strong fingers crawl across her scalp and her scream pierces the air under stone-vaulted ceilings. He steps unceremoniously across the corpse of the knight, pushing her stooping form in front of him into the bright shaft of moonlight illuminating the altar. If not for the height from where his arm draws her upward, she would kiss her teeth against the stone.

She twists, grinds her teeth against the pain. The putrid aroma of sweet apple blossoms overwhelms her and she looks: at the height of her eyes, a locket of rubies glows on his chest.

A heart – everyone has a heart.

She reaches for a weapon.

Even corpses.

Yet in the looking glass image of enchanted gemstones a different world altogether unravels in a torrent of liquid fire, inside which the sword of the witcher-girl – the blade that does not discriminate – submerges back into the Lake.

‘Did I not tell you,’ the elf says, tightening his grip around her face, around her neck, at which her own arms shoot up, ‘we would meet again.’

Ciri’s heart races in her constricting throat to the fading echo of bells in the night in which small, even teeth smile at her before the altar stone of Ynys Gwydrin – the faeries’ glass castle, the Spiral Hill.

It depends on who seeks what the mists show.

Fey light plays in his green eyes, stirring its poison, making it drip on her lips as he watches from above – with indifferent curiosity – over her struggles. Red, red across his shoulders, red around his neck, red on his... red, red, red... Air rushes back into her lungs, sweeter than ever somehow despite the rot of the hunter in it.

She stumbles. For a moment it goes dark in front of Ciri’s eyes as the whistling in her ears grows to an unbearable level, but oblivion does not take her. That would be too graceful in a graceless universe. Instead, she feels the contours of the warrior’s arm brush hers, dragging slowly around her, back again. She shudders at the strange, new sensation his touch, now benevolently bestowed, instils and tries to move – only to have a solid thigh restrict her. It makes her realise. It makes her flush. Ciri opens her eyes.

Eredin Bréacc Glas is observing her over the edge of an elegant golden kylix.

The Grail...

She watches how the elf dips the chalice against his lips, how the prominent Adam’s apple in his neck jounces once, twice; she watches how the penetrating eyes of the Sparrowhawk close briefly in what looks like genuine bliss. He drinks. She cannot tear her eyes away from him even if she still tastes the faint notes of wine off of Galahad’s lips on hers. She is expecting for whatever is meant to happen to happen.

It never happens.

Her hopes never happen.

Only a grim, mocking smile visits the elf’s glistening lips. ‘Your turn, butterfly.’

‘What did you do to him?’ she growls. ‘Why don’t you die? Die! Why don’t you, damn you!?’

‘Do not talk nonsense. Drink.’

He pushes the kylix under her chin and some of its content sloshes onto her breast. Suddenly, Ciri notices herself: she is in an elaborate deep cut dress of dark red – finer even than what she had worn in the world of the elves – adorned with jewels. Royal is too soft a word for it. With horror she realises that she does not remember how she got to be this way.

‘Drink,’ he repeats.

And Ciri almost screams for the second time: refusing to confront the predatory gaze in front of her she witnesses instead how a faint smile spreads on Galahad’s blue lips. The knight’s lifeless eyes, previously full of inexplicable peace, stay glued on the ashen-haired girl while the blackening, algal waters of the lake begin to swallow him. With bubbling, as in a witch’s cauldron, the lake draws the Grail knight into its fathomless embrace.

‘Is our hospitality too good for you?’ the elf asks. She almost does not hear. She is trying to get away from the water.

Eredin lifts his hand, knowing she will not do anything to rebuke him, and stills her like one would a frightened animal. She almost does not notice. Almost. He traces a meandering line from Ciri’s jawline to her breastbone, to sternum, to the exposed curve of the girl’s chest where he lets his fingers toy with the lace trimming. Slowly, Ciri returns to the elf.

‘What more could you possibly want?’

With a rough movement the elf plunges his hand underneath the expensive fabric, his large palm spreading over the rounded out curve of the girl’s breast. She wonders if he likes it better this way. She wonders why she asks herself something like this. She will not escape his watchful gaze as he pursues the heavy intake of breath, the way her eyes fill with panic, desire, shame. The way she shifts away from her nightmare onto the altar stone – onto the ancient sacrificial stone of the Druids – unable to really do more than part her knees before his large form and allow him everything anyway.

Eredin knows. And she knows that he knows.

Ciri shuts her eyes and thinks, desperately, of a place – but all places are as one place and only place. Here is her place, the only place, and elsewhere there is nothing but fog, nothing but water which washes up against her bare calves, cold as the phantasmal hunter’s scornful laughter against the side of her inflamed neck. Cold as the frost left in the wake of the Sparrowhawk’s lips closing over the girl’s heated pulse, claiming the rapid thrills of her heart.

She moans. Cool metal touches her lips. She accepts.

She drinks and knows at once it is blood and not wine that coats her tongue, before tasting the precious nectar again when Eredin claims her mouth, washing away all false sacraments of humanity.

‘You belong to us.’

It echoes inside her skull like the ringing of icicles.

‘Turn around,’ the elf orders, placing the chalice in-between her shaking hands. ‘He wants to watch your face.’

Freezing stone greets her belly where his hand pushes down on the small of her back, leaning her small form over under the strange moonlight that shines from nowhere. Her mind fixates on his words and she looks curiously. By a fireplace that opens in-between the statues of two mother-of-pearl unicorns Ciri thinks she sees the Alder King lounging in a tall chair, legs spread wide apart. The darkness is rustling around itself, making it difficult to recognise things for what they are, but the girl remembers.

Eredin dips his fingers in the kylix in front of her nose. Some of it lands on her brow.

Ciri feels what these fingers do: how one firm hand traces up and down the back of her thighs, spreading her open until the fabric of the royal dress must tear, while the other dives in-between her legs; how a pair of demanding lips suck onto the side of her neck as her small frame is being subjected to a series of trembling pulsations at the merciless pace of his fingers over her clit; how she sounds like – how wet! – absolutely laving at the presence of the predator, at the feel of his solid weight against her rear.

‘What a prized prey you are, Zireael,’ he breathes.

Her eyes open and close against her will. She feels her lithe form being pried open for sensations, but her mind does not entirely comprehend everything. Firelight soaks the light hair of the Old King with its glow and in a daze she watches how a shadowy shape of a giant python winds its way around his broad shoulders, lazing about his neck in a slow, perpetual movement. The elf looks entirely undisturbed, perhaps even unaware. Something in her clamours to warn Auberon, to speak out in time – this time – against the danger in order to avert the course of such Fate as has already run its course.

Has it... run its course?

The girl hears cloth and leather rustling behind her. The red in the chalice, in the fires, in her – it joins in filling up her pupils with the desire pushing upon her from the mists. In a short moment her stomach floods with writhing warmth at the weight of Eredin’s cock in-between her buttocks. She doesn’t want to think, she wants... she wants. And bucks against one of his powerful thighs leaning on the stone beside her hip as he grinds himself lazily against her. The slap, when it comes, tears a genuine cry from her throat. It firms her up. Again! It disperses all traitorous thoughts in her head. Except one: she discovers she wishes to be embraced as suffocatingly as the elf who wishes to look at Ciri’s face as she is taken by his rival.

He can hear me, Ciri thinks. He can hear me whining like a bitch in heat for somebody young and strong, somebody who would steal away all from him – his throne, his power, that child...

The mild chuckle that reaches her ears pours over the girl like cold water over a stray kitten – unsurprising, and yet absolutely petrifying. The fair-haired elf by the fireplace cocks his head slightly to the side; it is not the Old King who wants to look at her so. Why how could it be? The flame-kissed aquamarines glow rather, like icicles.

Ciri is really quite comically shocked.

A furious blush dyes her cheeks. Quickly averting her eyes, the girl’s breath nevertheless hitches in her throat, because unexpectedly she finds herself staring into an abyss opening up below in the depths of swirling black water. It is everywhere: bare, pathless, infinite. Starless. Shrouded in the mists. It is impossible to find one’s way in such a place.

Where am I?

She makes out a slow procession of shadows, curving like old bones as they tread their way toward eternity in the bowels of the lake. There are people she knows there; people she has killed and people she has loved.

‘You are where you belong, Loc’hlaith.’

Avallac’h’s voice rings familiar this time, and somewhere – perhaps only deep within this mirror realm – a seagull’s shriek carries through the thick white mists. Is it welcoming her? Or is the borrowed time leased with its life simply running out?

It is the elf from her nightmares who yanks Ciri out of the sorcerous whirlpool of illusions, though. By a leather noose, formed, it seems, of Eredin’s own belt. Simultaneously, the girl feels him withdraw his fingers from in-between her buttocks.

Like a mare. He will take me like a disobedient mare.

‘Drink,’ he says shortly. ‘Trust me when I say it’s for your own good, little butterfly.’

‘Go on,’ she hears in her head. ‘You know what the right thing to do is, don’t you, Zireael? I may wonder why others must die for your selfishness, but in the end, the choice is always yours.’

As she lifts the sacred chalice to her lips for the second time under the eyes of elves, Ciri almost does not feel how the dark-haired one sinks forward and inside her. Almost. She is shielded, she later realises, by the bright aquamarines burning into hers, feeling like a blissful caress against their dark brother’s bruising attentions.

Red trickles down from the side of her mouth at the first languid thrust. Her back arches, but Eredin keeps it incurved. Neither are his fluent fingers leaving her unattended, slipping ever so often inside her sopping entrance, but it is altogether more difficult this way around. And she cannot look away from the other one – from the fair one she had offered herself willingly to. As he pushes forward for the second time Ciri senses a strange spell snap around her and squirms, finally allowed to fall entirely back inside her body, into the hungering depravity of sensation.

‘Such funny thoughts guide you, Swallow,’ Crevan says quietly.

He has stood up, approaches, and Ciri shudders, feeling the commander move deeper inside of her and covering her small form entirely with his for a moment.

‘Behave,’ he whispers, drawing his lips along her ear. ‘And we shall reward you.’

As he pulls away and focuses on his own pleasure, Ciri faintly wishes to clench her eyes at the discomfort but can only groan softly. The surface underneath her is cool and smooth. The air smells differently too – of formalin. Through a haze of pleasure she glances up and sees Avallac’h standing over them, looking at her quite calmly.

‘Where am I?’

‘Does it really make a difference?’ the dark-haired elf threads his free hand softly through her hair. ‘Crevan designs such things on the fly. Or, “as Fate chooses”.’

Though sarcastic, for a moment he sounds almost like he could be pitying her. Almost. But instead of a heart in his chest, the King of the Wild Hunt carries a locket of precious stones.

She swallows. ‘It makes a difference to me.’

The girl’s head feels increasingly like full of cotton wool – like something or someone is calling to her from beyond the haze – and her eyes dart around wildly as she supports herself on her elbows. What had looked like a small stone chapel shrouded in the mists on an island of priests, in a world of the Knights of the Round Table, seems so no longer.

‘Has anything ever been as it first appeared?’

Crevan crouches before her. At first, he lifts his hand, curling his long fingers as if to stroke the girl’s cheek, but decides against it in the end and reaches for the golden chalice instead.

‘Do you like my magic, luned?’ he asks.

Ciri recoils: snakes crawl off the kylix and around Crevan’s forearms where they wind in an infinite green spiral, eating themselves. Aen Saevherne smiles gently, smelling what’s inside the chalice, and pours it away. For some reason his move makes her irrationally worried. As if it was all an illusion and a trick. As if Galahad had really died for nothing.

She also realises that the Sage is reading her like an open book.

‘Is this how you must be handled?’ Avallac’h looks at her from close up. ‘Like he thinks.’ He nods toward the other elf and Ciri hears a quiet chuckle among sounds of the flesh she is too ashamed to admit make her heady with want, even as her swallow heart rips in her throat with fear. ‘With a leash and a stick and a carrot?’

Ciri wonders how Avallac’h can stand this – to so calmly look upon her, who bears the eyes of his Lara, while she is like this.

Go ahead, look! Look and may you choke on it! Both of you.

A myriad of emotions seems to flash behind the sorcerer’s bright, pale eyes. He puts his palm under her chin, drags his thumb slowly across her lower lip. Then he stands up.

‘I wish I had met your ancestor who put this burden on you,’ he says, easing aside the robe under his belt. ‘In fact, I wish I had met him much like this.’

Ciri feels the touch of his hard flesh against her cheek. She looks up at him. She doesn’t... but the elf caresses her head insistently, looking at her reassuringly, and soon Ciri understands why people subject themselves to this. He feeds her his cock slowly and suddenly she feels so very small. And embraced on all sides – suffocatingly.

Avallac’h’s head falls back.

‘Beautiful.’

It passes in a flurry from then on.

He fucks into her mouth in a manner that does not allow her – not once – to interrupt the nestling of the weight of his flesh in her throat. What he has done to make it possible she does not know, but it does not hurt as much as she expects. He talks to her, too. She groans around him repeatedly, enjoying the caresses of his hands in her hair and along her bulging neck, and is tempted to simply close her eyes and yield entirely to the tight fullness, the pleasure in her belly. But he wants her to keep her eyes on him and the straining belt around her neck guarantees it in its own way. Thus, she behaves, and while taking both of them at once discovers that there is something comfortable in having something put in your mouth; right before Crevan’s hands tighten in her ashen hair and he leaves copious amounts of creamy cum under her tongue, on her lips, dribbling down her chin – he wipes it with his cock – and streaking against her rosy cheeks.

Avallac’h kisses her before she has swallowed, and she swallows. Drinking in him, as she has drank from the cup of god. And he laughs softly in-between rapid breaths as she writhes through her own orgasm, deaf and blind to the world.

‘Do you have anything at all in this laboratory, Crevan,’ she hears a familiar voice uttering once the buzzing in her head has subsided, ‘which does not scour the living daylights out of you, nor turn you into a mindless sycophant? To drink, I mean.’

‘Of course,’ the Sage replies lightly. ‘Many things. Who would I be if I did not know how to obtain and create things of which even you might not have heard of?’

The girl does not understand how Eredin responds, but she hears the Sage of the Alder Elves snort – quite good-naturedly.

Exactly so Ciri’s eyes flicker open, the press of the metal table against her cheek considerably warmer than usual from the presence of her own person on it. Avallac’h is beside her, cleaning his hands inside a small purple cloth. Noticing her staring, he offers Ciri a clean one for her own use, but the girl can do nothing but stare.

A crimson mage light hangs high above in the darkness, glowing with strange fey light as if it was the hour of wolf’s moon. Small milky-white mist is rolling out of several cucurbits at the edge of her line of sight. She smells formalin and apple blossoms. Fresh, sweet blossoms.

‘There is vodka in the disinfectants cabinet,’ the sorcerer says offhandedly to his collaborator, his attention entirely preoccupied by the girl whose emerald eyes have never looked quite as big and beautiful as in that very moment.

Perhaps it is the misty wetness of them that so makes them resemble infinitely deep and green lakes upon which white fog spreads like on top of a witch’s cauldron.

‘My darling girl,’ the elf coos fondly, taking her in his arms without much effort and seating them both where it feels more comfortable. ‘Did we frighten you?’

For a time that drags on into the infinite Ciri wonders if she has forgotten how to speak.

‘You are blushing,’ Crevan notes with a smile, caressing her face, her cheeks and scar, unbothered by the ugliness. Touching slightly upon her swollen lips. ‘That’s very good. Very healthy.’

Silently, Eredin appears by their side, swooping out of the darkness with a sought-after bottle in one hand and two glasses in another, one of them filled.

‘A drink for the Lady,’ he says with a small bow to Ciri.

Avallac’h accepts the glass for the girl, since Ciri sits on his lap as if frozen like a small marble doll in the most glorious ruined red dress. The commander shrugs and pours himself one, downs it, and flops down on a crimson couch.

‘Is this –’ she begins, too silently even for herself to hear. ‘Is this all about power for you?’

‘Of course it is about power, Zireael. Everything is. Even love.’ The elven sorcerer looks at her thoughtfully. ‘Though humans often like to mistake one for the other – and more often, I think, power for love – what you witnessed here, on your own skin, were different kinds of power and how power can be wielded. I am sure if you think about it a little longer you will also come up with some answers for the most important question of all – why is power wielded as it is? I will gladly answer all of your questions in this regard once you do so.’

‘You may think you can be more than you are because of your exceptional ancestry,’ Eredin’s voice cuts in from the couch. ‘But you are what you are, my butterfly. Do not ever mistake yourself as more to any of us.’

She doesn’t see Crevan’s almost imperceptible annoyance. Her thoughts flood with the Sparrowhawk’s rasping voice by her ear moments before he had spilled himself across her back. It is too real to be a dream. It is too close to skin. Too present... as if she is back in those moments again and again...

‘A dh’oine whore, whose little life cannot sustain much more than the one thing you know so little how to care for. Yet you crave it all the same, like a natural. You want life put inside of you. You want the Young King not the Old King. Fortunate little butterfly – you will never have to live long with the after-effects of all these beautifully intense first experiences.’

Avallac’h is scrutinizing her closely.

Her fingers are clutching painfully at the front of his robes, she realises. It seems she has nestled closer to him unconsciously in the middle of her thoughts. She can tell the elf likes it, though his expression betrays little.

‘Do you know what will happen now, Ciri?’ Crevan asks her quietly.

She looks into his clear aquamarines.

‘Now we will make a child with you,’ he whispers against her lips. ‘A beautiful fairy child who will make you and me very happy.’

He begins to lift her but she puts her hands on his chest, clinging to that shred of long-forgotten love that she has seen in his eyes – something that has twisted and snapped too many times to be quite right again.

‘But I am not –’

‘I know you are not,’ he cuts her off. ‘That is alright. My blood is very good too, you see. And those genes in you which truly matter will be more than enough.’

‘Please. Please, Avallac'h!'

‘Please?’ he looks at her kindly, at her hands clutching his bigger one. ‘What is it, Ciri? This is good, very-very good. It is good you came here to us of your own free will. I will be patient with you; gentle. Kiss you... here? Or do you wish me to put you on that table, over there,’ he nods with his head into the darkness from whence they came. ‘I don’t want to do that, luned. It will hurt us both very much this way and you and I have been hurt enough, don’t you think?’

He strokes her hands.

‘Can we not wait? Do we have to – right now...’

‘Right now is a very good time.’

‘Right here, with him –’

‘Who?’

She blinks and looks around. There is no one else.

Where am I? Everywhere. Nowhere.

The fair elf lord kisses her hand, his laughter ringing like icicles or tiny bells. A locket of rubies glows on his chest.

A heart. Everyone has a heart.

‘Oh, Ciri, you are so very adorable,’ his hands lift her easily as he positions himself at her entrance. ‘You’ll soon forget all about him. Now, relax.’

Ciri awakes.

Mist swims before her eyes.

Somewhere, in the mists, the bells of Glastonbury are ringing.

[honestsycrets]

What She Really Wants X: What Really Matters

❛ pairing | hvitserk x reader

❛ type | multi

❛ summary | hvitserk has a way of getting what he wants. magnus is sick of being one-upped.

❛  tags | verbal arguments, wedding oriented, referenced underage sex, referenced sexual interaction, underage relationships, original characters.

❛ sy’s notes | i've actually had this fic done for some months and totally forgot about it until i was in my drive. thank you @chibisgotovalhalla​ for making me feel good enough to post this. It’s more a connecting chapter.

What Magnus hates about Hvitserk (aside from everything) is how whatever he said, went with you. 

The world could crumble, pebbles could shake boulders on your house, and you would still have Hvitserk on your mind. Because he was your first-- and no one could beat a first. No matter how he worked or raged for a new beginning or for better for Mads. It was still Hvitserk at the end of the day. Mads’s eyes had almost popped out of his skull when Magnus joined the clustered group of friends and parents. It hadn’t gone unnoticed. 

“What did I miss?” he asks because he knows Mads by the expression slapped over his face. That boy has been like his son. He raised him. Loved him. 

“Nothing,” Mads quips quickly, snapping his head back around to the field. His coach howls something long and loud. Mads jabs his finger in that direction. “The game is about to start. C’mon Soren.” 

Despite the fact that Magnus knew there was a certain something very wrong, he didn’t speak as you returned to a very familiar set of bleachers alongside Mad’s new girlfriend. She was pretty. There was a soft and innocent glitter behind those big brown eyes that reminds him of a simpler time in yours. He makes a note to ask Mads after the game all about her when Hvitserk stops on the uppermost stair, guiding you in after Alaia. 

It’s not until they sit, and your hand is laced in Hvitserk’s, does he notice the gems glistening on your finger. 

“What’s that?” he asks, leaning over Alaia’s lap. The girl squints at the rings too, watching it glisten, and smiles when she realizes that she’s forgotten to say something. She speak words that make his stomach drop. As if someone had hauled him off to sea, strapped that very same boulder shook loose by his crumbling world, and threw him out into the deep sea. He was drowning and couldn’t find a way out.

“Oh my god! Congratulations on your engagement, mama,” she beams. “Can I see the ring?” 

Magnus sputters. He’s caught between your jovial smile and Hvitserk’s smug smirk as his eyes burned into the glittering gem. Hvitserk’s hand leaves yours, taking a drink of the metal tumbler that he brought with him as if that would draw attention away from what he’s done this time. 

“There’s two?” Alaia asks.”Papa you didn’t. You’ve gone so far!”

Hviserk chuckles and swashing alcohol between his cheeks before swallowing the spicy liquid. 

“We were engaged in high school. Hvitserk thought I should wear both.” 

“Gonna put that money to use,” Hvitserk mutters, the faint scent of yeasty alcohol on his breath kissing your cheeks. He looks out to the field and catches Mads sheepishly waving. He waves back. “Been waitin’ to get married to my old lady for years.” 

“It’s going to be so great,” she claps her hands together. “I’m happy for you.”

The field cheers through the end of the national anthem. Two dozen players jog onto the grassy stage, flicking the ball between their feet. Go Mads, go! Alaia squeals until her voice becomes high pitched, grating, and odd. She’s the kind of girl that should be on a cheerleading team, but belongs on the football team. She’s outgoing, witty, and you find you like her. 

For all that screaming, Mads’s team loses 2 to 1. Alaia beats you off the bleachers and zooms down the stairs to find your son. You’re stuck with the impending explosion that has been boiling to ahead all evening. It finally overflows as people filter out of the bleachers like a herd of stampeding cattle. Their loud chatter blocks out the bulk of conversation. 

“You really thought that was a good idea.” Magnus curls his fingers under the cold metal of the bleacher seat. “He hasn’t been back a year and you’re already going to marry him.” 

“What is with you? It is her choice,” Hvitserk interjects. 

“I wasn’t talking to you.” 

“Fuck off, rat faced motherfucker.” Hvitserk snaps. “You don’t know when to quit bitchin’.”

It’s spiraling. You know the men well enough to know when Magnus and Hvitserk are headed for trouble. Hvitserk loves a good fight. He lurches up in his seat, probably ready to chuck him down a few flights of bleacher stairs. You grasp Hvitserk’s hand, settling it on your thigh for to restrain him from doing something that you knew he’d regret. Not for his sake, but Mads. Rather than answer Magnus, you stand up and wipe your skirt down. 

“Mads is waiting. C’mon baby.”

You leave him feeling unheard. In the seventeen years that Mads had been alive, he’d not once felt this way. He had been the father figure here. The one who took the kid out to these father events that you lost with the death of your father and the disappearance of your family from Hvitserk’s clutches.

Then he came back. He gave Magnus that same, age-old shit-eating grin, and disappeared behind you. It wouldn’t have burned so much if he wasn’t at the exact same school of the past. The same one where he got his teeth knocked in-- right here. The bleachers may be different but the area is the same. It’s the same place where everything changed. He sits there long after you’ve disappeared down the steps to meet your son.

“Where’s morbror?” Mads, sweaty and panting, has his hand slung over Alaia’s shoulder.”I thought he was coming for burgers.”

You reach for Hvitserk’s hand and lace his fingers with yours. Hvitserk stands behind you with his hand latched neatly around your waist. He cradles your hip as you come up with the latest of poorly formulated excuses. 

“He has to go to work in the morning, baby.”

Better you lie than Hvitserk. 

 Alaia is way too touchy. 

You recognize it in the way she clings to his arm on one hand and punches him with the other. Whatever the cost was, she had to be touching him. All over him. Not just a little friendly kiss or holding hands, but you know for a damn fact that she strokes his thigh or trails up the taut pale muscles of his flat belly.

“They’re fucking,” you say pointedly. 

Hvitserk throws a look over his shoulder to where they were a few rows down. Alaia slips a salty-sweet strawberry candy between Mads’s lips. Alaia’s other hand is certainly not on her own lap, that’s for sure. 

“Huh?” Hvit says around a half eaten sausage. He takes a swig of his booze, “Ya think?”

You thwack him in the arm and glance at the dark aisle beside you. The movie Mads wanted to watch was old. So much so that the theatre reflected its age. “How is he not fucking her? Hvitserk!”

Hvitserk took a glance down. From what he could tell, Mads was the shy one. He glanced down to what had to be a handsy— because he had plenty of those in his day. 

“Calm down. He ain’t initiating anything.”

“So she’s a predator?” You hiss. 

“C’mon baby, they're the same age.” He says, as if that’s exclusionary, and as if that made any difference in the world. “Ain’t like he’s screamin’ for help.”

There’s a shush— the next few aisles down. 

“Aw, you poutin?” 

No reply. Hvitserk glances toward Mads and Alaia, content with his choice, and slips his hand underneath the lip of your skirt. He considers himself a rather patient man but your worries when all he wanted to do was relax? Na. 

“Hvit stop— We used to be like that. Remember?” Hvitserk cuts you off, rubbing his thumb where he shouldn’t, cutting an outrageous smile. 

“This isn’t about us.”

“Ain’t it?” 

It’s not. The soft tingles of his fingertips, caressing your thighs, runs shivers up your spine. Your hand falls on top of his wrist, holding him firmly where he was. Hvitserk glances down toward his hand, then back up. An easy fix: you loved it when he pressed his lips to your neck. 

“You’re doing it again.” 

Hvitserk’s lips part, broadening his shit eating smile. “Doing what?” 

Oh, he knew what. But he loved being called out for it.

His far isn’t bad at football.

“Fuckin’ what the fuck was that!” 

The ball whizzed into the goal behind him and Mads was left wheezing for breath. Not because he was tired. The old man might only be thirty-six but he sucked at playing against him. Hvitserk plucked up the football between his fingers and spun it over and over between his finger tips. He twisted his head from the goal to the ball in his hands.

“A goal,” Mads gestures. “You know? Or, guess you don’t since you ain’t scored all night.” 

“Shits rigged,” Hvitserk says, dropping the ball and kicking it back to Mads. 

Mads shrugs and suggests, “Should’ve picked something you’re good at. You won’t beat me at this.”

“Tch,” Hvitserk throws his arms behind his head. “I ain’ good at shit.”  

Except maybe selling drugs and chasing prostitutes. All of which his father has made exponentially clear he doesn’t want Mads doing. Mads stops with his sneaker on top of the ball, rolling it up and back, then flicks it between his feet. 

“Have to be good at something. Don’t you have a hobby or something?” 

Hvitserk peels off his white shirt sodden with sweat and uses it to wipe away the moist sweat dribbling past his eyebrow. He gestures his hand to the dark wooden wedding band that was strapped to his finger. The wedding is next week and while he’s not technically married yet, Hvitserk wore it as some sort of unspoken promise.

“My hobby was women. Not allowed to do that shit anymore. Getting married next week, yeah?” 

“Wow, well, uh.” Mads picks up the ball at his feet and searches for words. It’s always nice-- when your own son is amazed at how amazingly shitty of a person you were. Hvitserk chews his cheek, running his thumb along the drawstring at his hips to tighten it up. They walk lazily with one another to start the trek back home. 

“I...” Hvitserk starts. “Liked to paint.”

“Gang signs?” he teases. He imagines his father with a can of spray paint or something-- tagging some poor idiot’s unsuspecting business. 

“Na, women-- like Renoir.” 

“Ren who?” 

“I fuckin’ hope ya ain’t going to France like that,” he tsks his tongue, throwing his hand around Mads’s shoulder, chasing away the thought of the Wolves that were so at the forefront of his mind. “Take a class in French first.” 

“I’m taking Spanish.” 

“Spanish? Wha’s so important about-- oh wait. Fuck,” Hvitserk almost laughs, but it comes with the realization that Mads’s little girlfriend was, in fact, Hispanic. He ruffles Mads’s sweaty hair, shaking loose droplets into the air. “Tha’s my boy.” 

There are moments in which Mads feels like his father’s son.

Today was one of them. 

The date sped up on him faster than it should have.

This time, Hvitserk was insistent: the wedding had to happen as soon as possible. After all, he was thirty-six. He wasn’t going to be a man that was forty and single. No, he wasn’t. Not if he had everything he wanted; a woman and his very own grown-ass son. He had something to prove to that son. That he was serious about his family. 

“What’cha think,” Hvitserk grumbled. His hair, newly cropped short, waved in silky honey waves around the side of his face. His jaw was peppered with a new sort of scruff, worlds apart from his clean-shaven, long-haired past. The suit was slim, crisp, monochrome like you liked it. Better be like you liked it: he wasn’t the type to wear suits for just anyone. His woman? Special exception there.

His son stood back. “Yeah, looks nice.” 

“Yeah?” 

He slipped in front of the mirror and gave himself a once over. He turns the ring on his finger over and over until he has residual finger ring burn. He bites down on his lip, ripping it between his teeth. It wasn’t just saying goodbye to his single man’s life; it was the fact that his remaining brothers were coming. Bjorn, Ivar, and Ubbe. Would Mads like them?

“Where my boots?” 

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t anxious. There’s a powerful thud at the door, then another. Booming laughs fill in the hallway just outside the room. Hvitserk exhales strongly. His large hand lands on Mads’s shoulder with a clasp. 

“Those would be your uncles.”

Mads, the little baby, looks panicked as the door cracks open. Ivar knocks open the door, dressed in a deep maroon and black suit. It’s crisp and formed to his chest. You should at least like it-- given the shit that Ivar has given you this year, he looks good. Why would be expect anything less?

“Man c’mon,” Hvitserk rolls his eyes. “Could’ve waited man. My kid--” 

“Why would I wait?” Ivar hums, hobbling forward. “You’ve been keeping my nephew hostage from me. Come here boy.” 

“With good reason,” Sigurd can’t help but to comment. “You don’t really want to know him. He’s a--” 

“Would you both shut up,” Mads hears another man say. He has ruddy hair and a ruddy beard, with sharp blue eyes. He is almost considerate-- if not for the wolfish look in his eyes, he could almost be considered the most placid of the brothers. Instead, he seems to be someone who is always planning. “You’ll scare him away.” 

Hviserk settles a lily in the pocket to his suit and fiddles with the cuffs of his sleeves. Strange, he thinks, how you pick lilies. They’re a bittersweet flower for him to this day. When he bought you flowers, they were roses. Whatever possessed you to chose lilies, he’s not sure. It couldn’t possibly be-- Thora. No, you couldn’t remember her.

“Far,” Mads looks over and pleads for some guidance in those soft, bright eyes of his. His eyes snap toward Ivar’s dragging feet, then the drunken stamped in from huge Bjorn and comparatively more calculated steps from Ubbe. “Help.” 

“What is there to be afraid of, hm?” 

“Go on, go to Ivar.” Hvitserk swings his hands at his hips. Mads looks up the broad body of the blond man and inches toward the darkest haired brother. Probably not the safest of brothers to be speaking to but he’s heard his name multiple times before. Uncle Ivar was scary. And safe. “They won’t hurt you. They’re my brothers.” 

“You want a drink, boy?!” 

“A dr-- drink?”

Hvitserk wonders why he ever thought he could be a Wolf.

Asta has always been supportive. Too supportive. You knew, somewhere inside, she wasn’t happy about your choice to get married to a man that had gotten her into some trouble. Her whole life could have gone down the tubes thanks to him. 

“Are you sure about this?” she said in her slim baby pink maid-of-honor dress. Your hairdresser affixed a soft baby pink pearl pin into your hair. “You can always wait like we said.” 

“Waiting…” You glanced down toward your dress, smoothing out the dress’s slim bodice, leading out into its flowy a-line tulle skirt. Your loved the crisscrossing pearls that formed the straps over your shoulder and connected front and back-- maybe a little sexy for your hypersexual husband-to-be. Everything had gone perfectly. Your make up-- a natural, gentle shimmery pink. Everything was soft and natural, and pretty-- and you were so damn happy. “I’ve been waiting long enough.” 

“I know.” 

“And I want to do it,” you held the bouquet of fresh pink lilies. “I want him.” 

“That’s too much information,” she teases.

The door creaked open behind you. While subconsciously, you knew that it wasn’t him-- you needed to know. “Magnus isn’t coming, is he?” 

“It’s just me, mor.” 

You exhale forcefully. You knew it would be a stretch to ask Magnus to give you away. After what happened to your father, Magnus had agreed to do so with whoever you chose. For sixteen years you banked on that promise. Only now, when it came down to it, he refused to do so. 

“It’s a silly tradition anyway.” 

Asta begins to protest that she can do it when your son, bless him, intervenes by kneeling down by your knee. His large hands overtook yours. Your hairdresser stepped aside after having affixed the veil to the top of your head. Everything had been going so well. Something… had to go wrong, right? That was the way that days went. They could never be absolutely perfect! 

“I’ll do it. I can give you away.”

“You’d do that?” you ask him, unbelievably. You look between Asta-- and Alaia, who looks angelic in a puffy pink dress beside your son. Mads perches kneels beside you, looking like all the man you ever hoped he could be in every sleepless night that you spent up with him as a baby-- wishing that Hvitserk was there. Knowing that your mother said he could never be. 

“But you thought I should wait.” 

“Yeah but; I love you. That’s what matters, right? That you’re happy?” 

That, more than anything, was enough for you. You press back the insistent prick of heat at the corner of your eyes and nod. As you stand up on clumsy metal heels, your boy is there with his hand encouragingly around your waist. Alaia looks for your bouquet of assorted blush and white flowers: lilies.

For a moment-- just a moment, its you and him. No one else matters in the grand scheme of things. He settles the bouquet of flowers between your fingertips, pulling the sheer veil back over your face. “You look… perfect, mor. He’s missing out.” 

“Yeah, that’s what matters, baby.” 

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