#you’re shaking. you’re sweating. you can’t even keep water down. you’re muscles are searing

[tvslashers]

i don’t like to talk about my drug problems but the new years has me reflecting and i just wAnt to say i would not wish dopesickness or withdrawal on my worst enemy. but i do wish that people could be more understanding without going through those things themselves. The instinct IS to wish those things on bigoted people, but it shouldn’t be that way.

[beauty-of-sins]

Unquenchable

Alpha!Natasha x Omega Fem! Reader

A/N:  Def not a reason why I choose this gif.  Enjoy lovelies, and have a good weekend. Made this sweet as a pre-apology for the rest of my writing. Pst also if you speak Russian slide in my dms PLEASE 

Warnings: 18+, A/B/O Dynamics, Possessiveness  

Part One

Bruce said it would take time for your senses and instincts to return after you were forced into being Hydra’s science project. However, you didn't think they were that bad, that you couldn’t smell your wife’s rut coming.

It was Wanda who had told you, after she had sidestepped the hug that you were about to give her. You were confused and a little hurt, a pout beginning to form on your face. Wanda had smirked, giving you an all too knowing gaze.  

“Your Alpha needs you,” she said, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Go home, before she tears the compound apart looking for you.”

Oh. 

You turn on your heels, racing towards you and Nat’s little home in the compound, barely taking notice of the Alphas giving you a wide berth on your way there. 

You almost run into the door because of your shaky vision. Your eyes dilated and unfocused at the thought of Natasha finally claiming you again. 

The door opens suddenly, and immediately your vision was consumed by red. Strong arms pick you up and drag you into the room. The door slamming shut behind you with a finality that sends pleasure arching up through your spine.

Painted lips capture yours as you’re thrown against the front door, and you moan at the slight smokiness of her taste. Natasha quickly wins the fight for dominance, as the heat radiating from her body threatens to overwhelm you. Her hands lift up your skirt, gripping your ass harshly.  

“I should have never gone to that fucking mission,” she whispers once you finally break apart, allowing you to see how far gone she is. Her skin has broken out into a sweat that would only cool from your touch.

Her hips desperately roll into yours, and you gasp at the feeling of her erection rubbing perfectly against your center.  

“I should have reminded everyone who you belonged too.” 

Fuck. You love when Nat talks like that, when the both of you were at your base instincts and all you wanted was each other. You purr in pleasure at the familiar sensation of her weight against you. You reach down rubbing her length through her pants, unsurprised to find that it was already wet with pre-cum. 

Nat gasps into your fading mating gland as she thrusts roughly against your hand. You were greedy for her. Hell, it almost feels like you were starting to be in heat just from being around her. It had been too long, over a month since you’ve been taken, the forced separation taking its toll on the both of you.

She’s shaking hard, to the point her muscles seem like they are locking up.  She needs this. She needs you.  

Suddenly, Natasha bends down, lifting you further up against the door making her mouth level to your heat. Her fingers snap your panties over to the side, exposing your already soaked pussy. Your wife doesn’t waste any time, her lips wrapping around your throbbing clit, sucking harshly, smirking when you arch into her hungry mouth.  Her tongue dives in between your folds, licking long swipes to get as much as you in her mouth as possible, and the sensation of her moaning at your taste made you jerk further into her mouth.  

“Nat,” You moan, head hitting the door violently as she devoured you. You had no idea how she was even breathing. Her face already covered in your juices, while her tongue circles around your clit. 

“Fuck, omega.” she says, her eyes shining, flecks of gold in her green eyes,  “I want to drown in you.”

Her tongue pushes into you suddenly, and you cry out as your orgasm splashes onto her face. She doesn’t stop either, even when your hands grab onto her hair.

“Stay right fucking there,” Nat mumbles into your folds. Her nails dig into your your panties sliding them off, and out of the corner of your eye you see one of her hands move out of your sight. “You taste so good.”

Her tongue laps at your entrance, cleaning up the mess you made. Your thighs lock around her head, holding her there. Natasha’s muffled laugh vibrates through your sensitive clit making your eyes roll back, before she nibbles lightly on your swollen lips. You curse, crying out her name. You couldn’t take much more of this. Natasha stands back up, running her tongue over her now shining canines. 

She pulls back, and you moan at the sight of your wetness dripping off her chin. You see her arm moving, and your eyes follow to see she is rubbing herself with your panties. 

The full sight of her makes your eyes water, and you feel yourself clenching around nothing. You need her. Now. You feel like you’d die without your wife inside of you. 

“Take me now.” You say, licking at the corner of her mouth tasting yourself on her lips, replacing your soaked underwear with your hand.

“Please, Alpha.”  You keen, rubbing her cock before placing it against your soaked entrance, sending shockwaves through you both. “Knot me.”

Nat whimpers, as she wraps her arm around you, picking you up with all the gentleness in the world.  She kneels on the floor, keeping you in her lap as she gives you light nips on your mating gland. Her other hand steadies herself at your entrance, before she pauses.

“I love you,” she says, before she kisses you once more. 

You don't even get a chance to say it back, because she surges into you with enough force to make you fall out of her lap and onto the pillows below. You didn't even notice she made a nest right by the front door.  Your heart swells with love at the thought of her making one, before she would have rushed off to find you. Nat grabs your wrists, and holds them above your head. You are truly at your wife’s mercy. You’re about to fuck like animals, and you weren’t ashamed to admit you loved it. 

She starts at a slow pace, letting you get used to her again. You whimper as your body remembered how big she was, how easily she could ruin you. Time slows, as you look up at her, her hair sticking to the sweat on her face, eyes focused on nothing but you. Even through the lust in her eyes, the love shines there. Tears well up in your eyes, and she kisses them away as love pulses through your bond.  Here you feel cared for, washing away the dark memories of what had happened to you.

“I can’t hold back, Y/N.” The whisper of your name, making you squeeze around her tighter, and you watch her eyes flutter from the sensation. You run your hand along her tensed biceps, as she fought against herself to really take you. “I need-”

“It’s okay. I want you. All of you.”  You purr, trying to comfort her, wrapping your legs around her as tight as you can. 

“You can-

Your words were cut off with a gasp as she begins rutting you roughly against the floor, her own thighs becoming stained with your wetness, as she rammed into you over and over again. You scream in ecstasy, your hips bouncing back up from the force of her thrusts, as she reaches places deep inside of you.  You aren’t sure if you want her to stop or keep going. Your nails dig into her back, making her growl into the heated air, as you mark your territory.  Natasha kept muttering something into your neck, and it wasn’t until she angled herself again that you could hear what she was saying.

“Mine.” she was growling, over and over again as you cried out for her, because of her. You can feel her knot swelling against your entrance, hitting against your heat with every thrust. You whimper, anticipating the tight fit as you were already full with just her cock inside of you. 

“Nat,” you whine, and she leans down to kiss you, nipping at your lips until you can taste blood. Natasha’s breathing was getting more and more unstable, and your own orgasm was well on it’s way. Your heartbeat thuds in your chest as she leans down, her teeth wrapping around your mating bond, waiting for the perfect moment for her to bite down. You’re clenching down around her damn near after every thrust, and you know you aren’t going to last long. Her hand moves down to rub her knuckle into your clit,  her other hand gripping hard around your hip, preventing you from squirming, from running away from what’s yours. 

With force, she bites down right on your gland, washing away the slight pain that you felt from her knot sliding inside of you. You clench down around her draining her for all she’s worth and sending you hurtling to oblivion, stars coming to your eyes as you screamed loud enough that you’re sure the entire compound heard you. Her hips stutter forward a couple more times, as she loses herself inside of you, locking herself completely inside before she slumps over you. You’re both panting heavily by the time you both ride out your orgasms. Natasha licks gently at the fresh bond wound, as she holds you, making sure your neck rests safely on the pillow. 

Their is no one else you want to spend the future with. No one else you want to make love to you like this. “I’m yours,” Nat whispers, “All of me.” 

“Mine.” You whisper back while her hips start back up again. You lean forward and without warning bite down into her own gland, enjoying the way she cries out your name, the way her skin tastes under your tongue. 

You bite down long enough to make sure you sear her taste in your senses, deep in your memory. No one will tear her away from you again. 

They’d die trying. 

[vicious-vixxxen]

Hi, first of all ur work is amazing and awesome, especially the Kiri fics they make me feel so warm inside :)) ANYWAYS I have a drabble idea: Katsuki with a flirty male reader from 1-B that likes to tease him and make him flustered and fired up as much as possible (kinda like Monoma but not as aggressive) and finally Katsuki decides that it’s reader’s turn to get all flustered and blushing and all that hehe :)

AH I absolutely LOVE this idea! Sorry it took me so long to get to it babes, but I hope you enjoy it :3 <3 Bakugou Katsuki X Flirty Male!Reader

“You think /you’re/ tired? I heard class A had to go through ten times the beasts we did yesterday, /and/ they didn’t get to camp until five.” TetsuTetsu huffed, rolling his eyes as he continued to rub at his sore biceps- falling behind as the class walked to their first official day of training. “They’re probably still struggling to work as an actual unit, how disappointing,” Monoma drawled, flinching as Kendo raised a hand at him in warning- her gaze cutting back to you with an apologetic smile, but you shrugged her off. “I’m just saying, if they were half as good as everyone assumes they are, then we wouldn’t have had to make dinner for everyone /alone/ yesterday. A bunch of unimpressive slackers, the fame is definitely getting to them.” “Oh give it a rest, Monoma! I swear if I have to keep listening to your incessant whining i’m going to roundhouse you so hard you slip into an alternate dimension,” You teased, though the sharpness of your tone, and the look you fixed the other boy with managed to reduce him to nothing more than some bitter grumbling, as you jogged ahead to follow directly behind Vlad-Sensei.

“Young Y/N is right! No use in comparing yourself to a separately tiered class, what you all should be doing is preparing yourselves for a day full of grueling training!” Vlad called out to the class behind him, as they came to their final stop. Looking out across the vast fields of the camp, where class 1A was already deep in training. All of them spread out to various areas of the site, some farther out than others, you assumed due to the volatile nature of their quirks. Some out of site all together, given the specificity needed to train their quirks. “The Wild Wild Pussycats have strict regimens for you all to follow, and I as well have critiques for you all regarding your fighting style, and quirk application. Check in with them across the field first, and regroup back to me so we can begin!” “Yes Sensei!” You all chanted back, before hurrying off across the field to do as you were told. Though once you caught sight of- and really, it was more his blood curdling death screams that you noticed first, music to your ears honestly- unruly blonde spikes off in the distance, you reasoned you had at least a few minutes to spare. Giving your classmates time to get their schedules and regimes before you could swoop in for yours last minute. The heat from Bakugou’s blasts was intense- your hair blowing back each time the other boy extended his palms to the sky, screamed, and released an explosion. The air felt thick, the scent of sweaty flesh, and deep, rich caramel wafting against your face, heady, and thick, with each blast. It was intoxicating. The closer you got, the more your cheeks flushed- though it had nothing to do with the heat anymore. Up close, or as close as you could get without being blown back entirely, that is- the more handsome Bakugou became. Pinched, angry expression and all. His front fringe of hair hanging low on his forehead, dripping sweat down onto his cheeks, and then onto the exposed upper half of his chest, bared due to his low rising tank top. When was Bakugou not absolutely breathtaking, you wondered idly, as you reached into your backpack for a bottle of water, and whistled loudly between blasts to catch the blonde's attention. Though the glare he fixed you with as your eyes met almost, almost deterred you from closing the distance between you both, it didn’t quite reach the innermost parts of your brain, meant for rational thought. “What the hell do you want!? Can’t you see i’m busy? Take your ass back to your class, extra!” Bakugou shouted, gaze falling to the bottle of water in your hand, before he focused back in on his task, baring his teeth in pain as the boiling water engulfed his hands. But you were too close now, it was too risky, and before you could think to back away on your own, Bakugou was crowding up against you. Spinning around on his heels and blasting in the opposite direction, back to you now. Shoving you backwards so hard with his own body you fell to the ground. Hissing as you landed on a particularly sharp rock. “See what you did?! I could’ve accidentally taken someone else out because of you! Fucking...gimme that,” Bakugou growled, shaking his hands of the smoke from his blast, before bending down to snatch the chilled bottle of water from your hand with one of his- his other reaching down to take hold of the front of your shirt, and tug you back up to stand next to him. “Always in my way!” Bakugou hissed, before throwing his head back and chugging down the entire bottle in a matter of seconds. Wiping at his mouth roughly, he turned to you slightly, noting the mischievous smile on your face, and the dirt on your shorts. “Tch...what?” He asked, knowing he was walking himself right into a trap. “Just admiring the view,” You sing-songed, skirting around his sudden extended fist easily, and dancing around the boy to get a good look at his training clothes. “It’s not everyday I get to see UA’s own Bakugou Katsuki in the midst of an intense training session. All sweaty, and bulking- muscles just….grr,” You laughed, holding your hands up in front of your face as you growled and made pawing motions at the other boy- bursting into a fit of laughter ass he reeled back, blush high on his cheeks, fingers twitching with the urge to blas your fucking face off. “You’re an insufferable piece of!-” “What I can’t seem to wrap my head around, is how you have such a big chest, such defined shoulders, and such a teeny, tiny waist,” You sighed, cutting Bakugou off with your hands on your hips, tilting your head to the side curiously as you scanned him up and down. “Your tits are bigger than most of the girls in your class, ya know,” You added, as if an afterthought, waving a hand passively at the thought, though you couldn’t help but grin as Bakugou charged you- dragging you up by the front of your shirt again, and pinning you to the barrel of boiling water. One hand holding your head down near the bubbling surface, and one right next to your ear, sparking with unlit nitroglycerin. “I. Don’t. Have. Tits. You. Shitty. Extra.” Each word was laced with venom, husky and full of rage right next to your ear, and god. Was it fucked up you were kind of turned on? Probably. About as fucked up as it was to be genuinely attracted to Bakugou in the first place, you supposed. Oh well. Not much to be done about it now. “Say that to the mounds pressing up against my back right now, babe,” You teased, turning your head to face Bakugou, your noses barely brushing as you leaned in as best you could, given the hand in your hair- mouth curling into a knowing smirk as Bakugou’s face twisted back and forth- confusion, rage, annoyance, misunderstanding...want. “I’m sure your teacher would be thrilled to see you over here keeping one of my students from his training, instead of focusing on your own abilities,” Someone sighed from your right, and both you and Bakugou’s head whipped up to see Aizawa leaning against a tree, staring at the both of you with the most bored expression you could imagine someone having. “Tried to get the loser away from me, but he’s as persistent as the rest of his annoying class,” Bakugou huffed, letting you go, but not before pushing you in the direction of his teacher roughly- crackling his knuckles out in front of himself, and shaking his hands out. Prepared to continue his training. Though thoughts of your stupid face, so close to his- scent of your shampoo, and minty breath still searing his nose made him a trillion times more annoyed then he’d already been. The color of your eyes stuck with him the most though. So clear. So shiny. Full of authority, of mirth, and something so...gut wrenchingly /cute/, he couldn’t stand it. “Sorry, EraserHead. Didn’t mean to disturb your student. Was just being friendly is all,” You assured the older Hero, hands up in surrender as you walked alongside side him, and back to regroup with your class- smiling smugly to yourself when you noticed the barest hint of a smirk on Eraserheads face, just before he turned away and skulked off to whatever dark, cozy corner he had been observing his students from.

Training felt like it had lasted forever, and then some. The following days were no easier. Your bodies were pushed to their limits, and then thrown off the metaphorical cliff afterwards. Every day, class A and B were sore, tired, irritable. But even then, once lunch, and dinner came around, it offered you all a chance to get to know one another more intimately. You talked, and mingled with class 1A- flirting with Todoroki for fun, and picking Midoriya’s brain about his hero notebook- unaware of the red eyes following your every move amongst the classmates. Your flirting with Bakugou was at an all time high- given you could usually spare a handful of minutes each day teasing the young man, whether it be with words during training, lingering touches, or brushes of hands, and legs during dinner, or with outright winks, and kisses blown to the blonde as you all departed to your cabins for the night. It infuriated Bakugou to no end. Your presence. The way he acted out against you...his mother would suggest he needed an attitude adjustment, and that he should allow the fun part of camp to take precedent over his ultimate number one hero goal. As if he’d ever. But still, her frustrated words of encouragement never ceased to ease up as the days went by, and you became bolder with your flirting. Bakugou felt on edge constantly, like someone was going to crack a whip at him at any moment. Say something about it, say something about /him/, but no one ever did. Probably because they were scared. His only saving grace, he supposed. Being intimidating. Though he didn’t intimidate /you/, which was the part he hated the most. ...He’d just have to switch up his tactics, then. His mother would be proud. God, he hated that. After a particularly grueling day of training, everyone was running on fumes, more or less, as they shuffled around the outdoor kitchen, prepping dinner lazily. Monoma picking stupid fights with whoever he came across first, as though he were too tired to even do that. You’d been chatting quietly to Mina and Jirou about some of your favorite albums, when a whistle from across the counters had all three of you lifting your heads. Curiosity piqued to the fullest extent, as your gaze landed on Bakugou- pointing at you with a hard expression, before gesturing to the spot next to him at the cutting board station. His eyes downcast again before you could even register what was going on, before hurrying to head over before whatever demon that had possessed Bakugou, decided to get the fuck out of such a toxic human host. Beaming, you came to stand at Bakugou’s side, arms brushing against each other as you glanced down at the finely minced veggies the boy was working on. “You rang?” Brows raised in question, you ducked your head to try and catch the boy’s eyes again- stopping dead in your tracks as he grabbed a hold of your wrist tightly, and slid a knife between your fingers. Tugging you impossibly closer to his side, and reaching an arm around you to grab a stray carrot. Boxing you into the bench, and maneuvering your fingers carefully as he began to force you to chop the carrot below. His front was flush with your back, and suddenly you couldn’t breath. Breath hitched in your throat, flush high on your cheeks, as Bakugou bent down, face right next to yours, as he forced you to chop, knife always skirting a little /too/ close to your fingertips, but fuck it all if you weren’t willing to lose them for this encounter to continue. “All this time and you haven’t even learned to chop properly. Make yourself more useful, you shitty extra,” He grunted, right into your ear. A sharp shock of arousal shooting down your spine as he spoke, looking away suddenly as Bakugou turned to try and meet your gaze. “Eh? What’s the problem, extra? Cat got your fucking tongue?’ He teased, harshly, though his grasp on your hands lessened, and fuck you were gonna pass out if you didn’t start breathing soon. “Oh,” He huffed suddenly, snickering under his breath, as he crowded you in up against the bench entirely, completely flush with your back, before his lips ghosted the shelf of your ear, and he whispered “-probably because of my big tits, huh? Tch.” And then he was gone. Gone from your back, gone from the shell of your ear, gone from giving you a religious fucking experience, and thankfully gone from nearly making you jizz your jeans in front of the entireety of class A and B. Your hands shook where they now held the knife solo, and you glanced over your shoulder- watching Bakugou stuff his hands in his pockets, arch his shoulders, and stalk off to the cabins. Though not before you also caught the sharp, devilish smirk that twisted up on his face. What a fucking DICK. But a dick who was handsome as fuck, and knew exactly what he was doing. “Alright, Bakugou, you wanna play, big boy?” You whispered to yourself, voice shaky as you continued chopping vegetables. “I’ll bite. Show you how it’s done...right after I pass out, Jesus fucking Chri-” 

[myfeetkeepdancing]

A/N: The gif and the idea of soldier!Tom made me feel things. Not sure if I used right terminology for the army ranks. But enjoy!

NSFW! 18+

The unbearable heat, the sand, and the distance between home. It gets to you. With the sun sinking behind the horizon of sand, you make your way to the latrine. Simple plywood boxes, a couple of shower stalls, and sinks. It's a strange place. Searing heat in the day and cold nights as soon as the sun sat low. You can already feel the temperature drop as the first breeze of the cold wind blows past your exposed arms. Pushing against the door, you welcome the warm and somewhat damp atmosphere. But a wave of disappointment washes over as you spot another person in the corner of your eye. Once again, you don't have the place to yourself.

"Sergeant." You salute in one hand, the other holding your bag of clean clothes. The higher your rank, the better the facilities. That was a blatant lie. Nothing was better. You get a plain simple salute back from the other and continue on inward. You take the other stall, preparing yourself to change out of your clothes. Already feeling the unease of sharing the latrine with someone else.

"Dude...." A familiar voice calls out to you. "You look like shit."

 You turn back, and only then do you notice the person you share the latrine with. Small goosebumps shoot up your skin. "Holland." Unable to keep a straight face. A ray of sunshine between all the bitter and harsh realities. "Yeah… Thanks" You sniffle at his comment. "You too."

"I heard you went outside." He says with a serious look on his face.

"Yep… we went out for patrol." You nod, sighing as you recollect what happened hours ago. "We got caught in a firefight." Jabbing two fingers near your left shoulder. "Connor got shot." Indicating the hit.

"Shit… How's he doing?"

"Lost a lot of blood. But... eh... he'll be fine." Ending the conversation by turning your back to him. Seeing him undress made you nervous. Privacy wasn't much here, but you at least try to respect the others. Hoping to get it in return.

You strip without another word and step into the shower cubicle. Opening the rusty valve connecting the shoddy pipework to release a stream of hot water. That feeling of finally being able to wash away the dirt and sand from your pores is heavenly. The sand gets everywhere. Sometimes you wonder if it's gotten into your brain as well. You close your eyes and let the water pour onto your face. Cleanse yourself of sweat, sand, dust, and stress.

With a squeaky sound beside you, your stream of water cuts half in pressure and dips in temperature. Tom got under the shower as well. "And you?" He continues, standing in the other shower cubicle. Being square in size, made of plywood, and covering very little to nothing. Shower curtains are something the army never heard of. No privacy whatsoever. "You don't look too good."

"I'm fine." You grumble and avoid eye contact. It felt weird in many ways. If you wanted to talk with someone, you preferred to do that somewhere else. "Just… counting down the days, you know…" And try to shrug off your thoughts. Turning away slowly from the conversation.

"Yeah… You and me both." He confessed. "Damn desert. Sand gets everywhere." Chuckling to himself.

"It really does..." You sigh as the water runs down your face. Relaxing you. But time and water are limited. Opening your eyes, you reach beside you for the shampoo.

A shot of heat coursed through you. As if being caught. But you weren't. You caught Tom, arching forward, staring down into your stall. It happens quickly, and you manage to catch glimpses. While his one hand continued washing his abs and chest. The other surely wasn't doing that. You share a glimpse of eye contact. You couldn't help it either. You looked. Your eyes were drawn to it. It was awkward enough for the both of you to look back away right after. Tom shifted his gaze to the front of him, looking at the stream of water. Anything to avoid each other. You pour the shampoo in your hands." Eyes to yourself, Holland."

"Yeah, Yeah…" He mumbled while continuing to scrub himself clean. Instinctively you both turned your backs to each other. "I eh… was looking for my shampoo." Scraping his voice with rather an unease and slight nervousness.

"I… I don't have it, Tom." You said, scanning the floor around you. "M-Must have fallen down the other side." Taken aback by the sound of your own voice. You weren't sure if the last remaining bits of adrenaline from earlier were surfacing or that which you saw earlier. But the authority in your voice was softened. And one thing is sure, you're trembling lightly. Watching the shampoo wiggle in your hand. You try to steady your breathing. You try to shake it off. Continue cleaning yourself. Let the water run down your face again. Count down from ten. Think of happy things. Cats. Dogs. Home. The beach. Shirtless Tom…

You cursed yourself under your breath. Feeling the blood race to places you wish it wouldn't. Think of other things. Reset your mind. But you can't. The trembles become worse. And you can't fool your body any longer. You feel it. The terror grows as quickly as your length hardens. The quick-paced footsteps coming from the other stall send you into a panicked state.

"Let me use yours." He announced as the plywood makeshift door creaks open behind you. It's enough to make your heart skip several beats. You want to scold him, bellow in outrage. Entering one's shower cubicle was strictly forbidden. You know the rules. You knew them all too well.

Turning on your heel, ready to face him. Snarl him a disciplinary warning. "We agreed-..." The words came out shakingly. Quieter than you had planned. But they were silenced. Tom had closed the distance faster than the plywood door could fall shut on its own. You embrace the feeling of his lips on yours wholeheartedly. You close your eyes and let it happen. Moaning softly into the kiss as you both inched together. An erratic groan escaped both your lips as you watched each other, feeling your cocks come in contact. Like blunt swords battling it out. "T-Tom… We p-promised we'd never…."

"No, shut up…" He cut you off, cupping your cheeks in both his hands rather aggressively. Followed by a smashing on his lips on yours. "I missed you so much." He whispered, staring at you with this loving glint in his eye. “Your touch... all of it.”

"I missed you too." You reply with a growing smile. The emotion in Tom's eyes, the passion, the care. Nothing made this hell hole of a desert easier than being with him. Feeling a mutual smile grow. "I love you." You both whispered in unison. Careful not to speak it out loud.

"We have little time." He glanced back at the white clock hanging beside the door. Even showering time for Sergeants had its limits. With a quick gesture, you wind the chain of his dog tag around your fingers. Pulling his lips in. "Will you be quiet for me?" You command, more than ask, pinning him to the corner of the cubicle. Tom's pleading eyes said enough as you put the dog tag between his teeth. Nodding eagerly in agreement. He looks drop-dead gorgeous. But you have little time to take it in. Tom swings both arms to either side of the plywood walls. Seeing him all ready and willing, you quickly grab both his legs and hoist him up by the knees. Quickly repositioning your hands on his hips, and then the asscheeks. Stabilizing the position as you align your cock to his hole.

Air escapes your lungs as Tom's tight hole slides over your cock. Welcoming you with a warm, tight embrace you've missed for so long. You both shudder, shake and quiver in utter bliss. The position allows you to penetrate deep into him. Forcing a whimpering groan of pleasure from Tom. Clenching his jaw as he struggles to stay quiet. Desperate to drown out the sounds. His teeth gritting on the metal of his dog tag. Throwing his head back and tightening his grip on the plywood, he fights to stay in the game.

The first few rolls of your hips are controlled and almost without the sound of flesh on flesh. Careful not to make much of a commotion. Careful not to break the plywood. Careful not to let emotions get the better of you.

But seeing Tom like this. Feeling him. It's all too much too quickly. That short hair. Sharp jawline. Whimpering sounds. The way the muscles in his arms strain and his abs flex and relax. The sway of his muscled chest ebbing to your pounding thrusts. It's a build-up that finds a release faster and faster.

You've been stationed with Tom for months. Both of you leading a squad of your own. Luckily. You couldn't really pinpoint how it started. How the love manifested in the first place. Was it the shared training? That talk on the plane? That firefight? The dinner talks? Somehow you managed to find each other. Talk and enjoy each other's company. Or was it the lack of girls around? Tom assured you it wasn't. Taking every ounce of doubt you had with a kiss you'd never known you wanted.

It didn't make it easier. Because you simply couldn't work together. You only had eyes for one another. Especially in an environment where danger lurks around each and every corner. That dreaded feeling when a squad went out for patrol. For some of them, it might be their last. And Tom thought the same. The grueling long hours of waiting for them to return. Hearing sounds in the distance. It gets to you.

But the happiness of seeing him return. It's unmatched. Bloodied and bruised. It didn't matter. He's alive. You wanted to jump in one's arms. Celebrate life. But you couldn't. A nod had to suffice.

The others didn't know. And you wanted to keep it that way. It wasn't healthy in the least. Some days, you avoided each other like the plague. Differentiate your breaks as much as possible. But once in a while… you needed each other—more than ever.

"You're gonna make me cum..." Tom breathed out. He shook and losing part of his balance. His one arm snapped onto his bouncing cock. Jerking fervently along his length. Grunting and gasping for air. His dog tag sliding back on the chain. You feel him tighten around you—all in a matter of seconds. Tom shuddered in your hold as you try to keep him balanced. Angling his hardened cock onto his stomach as he felt the wave surge.

Cum is hard to clean. It's sticky and leaves a weird residue on most surfaces. Tom knew, when aroused, he could shoot quite the load. Even more so when it's been weeks. Shooting in arches even artillery specialists could learn from. One final rub of his fingers on his cockhead and his balls did the rest. You hold him. Keep him steady. With your cock sheathed deep into him. You watch him shoot his load. Splattering his abs with unfathomed speeds and intervals. Covering his abs and curves in bursts of cum.

"C'mere… baby." He commandeered with a shaken voice. Tom feeling your climax and understanding the need of you pulling out of him. You simply couldn't finish inside of him. But that was easier said than done.

Tom, still recovering from his climax, trembles shaking his frame and muscles weakened by the ecstasy. He helps you pull out, feeling the urgency of helping you with your climax. Your knees already weak, and your hands shaking. You push Tom down as soon as he has his feet to the floor. Forcing him down the plywood plank, ass on the floor. You manage to take a small step forward, one hand of your cock. The other reaching for plywood, holding on for support. Salvation at hand. You try to aim, but thankfully Tom helps.

Warm, wet lips envelop your pulsing length. Tom takes no chances to let you spill any on the floor or on walls. Helping you climax with the help of his mouth and an unexpected finger up your ass. In reflex, you arch forward to the towel in range of you. And clench your teeth down hard on the towel. Desperate to drown out your groan of pleasure. Your knees begin to buckle, and you hear Tom struggle. Gurgling as you length pushed further into the back of his mouth. Almost down his throat. Tom had worked a finger between your asscheeks and pushed deep into your hole. Drilling at your insides. Making you close to spasming out of pure bliss. Forcing you to shoot your load down his throat.

Your vision is hazy and so in your mind. You're barely able to breathe. And nor could Tom. Holding on for dear life on the plywood wall. But you manage to regain your footing. Pulling your length from his throat. A rough cough and wheeze followed, suppressed by him shielding his mouth with his arm. Making sure to wipe away any saliva and more.

Tom sits there on the floor, the water from the shower falling in between his legs. You watch him as you catch your breath. Leaning with both arms crossed on that half wall of plywood. Tom coughing the last bit of wetness from his throat. You comb your fingers through his short hairs. A bit roughly. But he likes it that way. Letting his head follow with the force of your hand. Hanging back against the wall. Seeing his muscled chest rise and fall. A smile out of thousands. It's precious. Eyes that make you flutter. "Almost a minute." You wink. "That was really quick."

"It's been too long." He smirks. With no time to waste, you hunch down in front of him and pull him into the waterfall of the shower. Letting your lips reunite as the warm water washes away the sweat from your exhausted bodies. Giggles go back and forth in relative quiet, giving him a helping hand with cleaning the cum from his stomach and abs.

Something as simple as that, yet loaded with sexual tension in that moment. Simple strokes of your fingers, guided by his hand. Helping him clean. You have to stop yourself from going further. And so does Tom. Seeing your cocks harden within seconds. In the end, it's a necessary clean-up. No evidence. Making sure it does run down the drain. No traces.

Blood on the other hand became a normality. The sight of it doesn't scare you anymore. Seeing trials of thinned-down blood collect in the drain. "Don't worry…" Tom assures you as you observe the whirls of water mixing together before disappearing into the drain. "Old wounds. See?" Turning his torso to the side and showing you cuts and bruises on his back.

"You got a new one." You murmur, running your finger along the cut. It's long and not that deep. But bleeds slowly.

He looks over his shoulder, following your finger. "That's from just now." He beams. "I'm wearing that one proudly." Kissing you as you let that sink in. Slowly starting to get on his knees, ready to go.

"Promise me-..." The air stocks in your throat. And try to blink away the tears welling in your eyes. "T-Tom…" You whisper with a trembling voice, trying to get his attention again as you both rise to your feet. Knowing the moment is there. Tom not letting one moment go by without his lips praising you. Small kisses peppered across your skin. No pattern. No hickeys. Just adoration and love.

With one hand, he reaches for the back of your head, placing his forehead against yours. "Listen to me, (Y/N)." He says staring deep into your eyes. "You have to stay strong. We're almost done here. Just a little bit more..."

"I know." You sigh. "I know…"

"Please stay safe, darling." He whispers. The words burn into your very soul. His kindness and caring nature. It's impossible to keep the tears from rolling. "I know you can do it." Patting your cheek. "Please do…" Rubbing the first tears from your eyes. "Cause I heard your boys talking about how reckless you've been lately."

"I will…" You nod. And kiss him goodbye. "Now go." Slapping him on the ass. "Go before they start noticing anything." Pushing him out of the cubicle.

"Promise me, (Y/N)." He veered back. "I wanna bring you back in one piece. Alive."

"I promise." And you can't help but smile.

"Good, cause my parents are dying to meet you..." Kissing you back before storming out of your cubicle. Taking his towel and closing his shower. "I've told them all about you." He winks. Leaving you all in awe. And a reprimand for showering too long.

[lowkeyorloki]

Glass Warrior

You’re so beautiful, and so breakable. Loki could never forgive himself if he hurt you.

( smut ! 18+ only please, and tbh, that goes for my whole blog )

~

Want is ebbing away at your core.

Loki’s mouth is over yours, robbing you of all your breath in a searing kiss. You’re completely wrapped up in him, fingers tangled in his black hair and eyes closed so you can meet him in the dark. 

The room is heavy with lust, your back pressed against the armrest of your couch. Loki leans over you, and his body is heavy, and all you can think is, good. If you’re going to go out in any way, you want it to be hot and grandiose and because someone just loved you that much.

Neither you or Loki have shirts on, and his bare stomach and chest against yours feels so good it makes you dizzy, but it isn’t enough. Your hands slide from Loki’s shoulder blades, all the way down his muscled back until they reach the curve of his ass. You take note of every curve and divot under your palm, because you know time like this is limited. You have to make the most of it, commit any and everything to memory.

Your fingers have barely teased the hem of Loki’s pants when he sits up.

“Darling,” he says. Loki’s words are sweet, but his voice is sinful. It’s strained, and when you get a good look at Loki, you take in his reddened lips and lidded eyes. You probably don’t look much better, with all the attention hehey’’s been giving your neck. “We have to stop.”

There’s a sinking feeling in your stomach, and you cross your arms over your chest, suddenly feeling self-conscious. Loki sees this, and a look of horror passes over his face.

“No.” he unlaces your arms, pulls you back to him, and presses a chaste kiss on the top of your head. You’re confused, and hurt, but you can’t resist Loki. You accept his embrace, burying your face in the crook of his shoulder. “You’re beautiful.” he whispers in your ear.

“So then why don’t you want to...” you trail off, avoiding eye contact.

Loki runs his finger up and down your spine, his breath returning to a steady place. He sighs.

“I can’t risk you.”

“I don’t understand.” you unlace yourself from Loki’s arms. “I’m an adult, Loki.”

“But you aren’t like me.” you bite your lip. Loki’s words are like knives, lodging themselves deep in your heart. “Your body... we aren’t built the same.”

You reach forward, and when Loki doesn’t move away, you trace the definition of Loki’s chest. Abs. You run your finger over each rib, promising both yourself and Loki you won’t miss a single part of him.

Despite his recent protests, Loki’s eyes slide shut. 

“You don’t seem so different to me.” you murmur. “You never did.”

Loki takes your hand. “I have to protect you, pet. Even against myself.”

“Protection isn’t paranoia.” you say. Loki looks... crestfallen. Like he’s fighting a war with himself. “You’re strong, Loki, but I can handle myself.” you lean in to kiss the base of Loki’s neck. A sound of pleasure escapes from his lips. You rake your teeth up Loki’s throat, and he cranes his head to give you more access. You can tell Loki wants this- the evidence is pressed against your leg, driving you damn near insane. And besides, he’s admitted under the cover of late nights and hushed tones what he fantasized about doing to you. 

With you.

“You ask me all the time to trust you,” you say next to Loki’s ear. “So, just once, can you trust me?”

Loki pushes you back, but keeps a hold on you. His grip on your waist is tight, almost uncomfortable, but you don’t move. Loki brings your forehead to his.

“I can’t lose you.” he says, his lips brushing your own. You bring a hand up, running your thumb over Loki’s sharp cheekbone.

“You aren’t going to. We’re past that. We’re so far past that.” Loki looks at you with worried eyes, but there’s hunger there too, a thousand years’ worth. Loki looks down, then back up again, and suddenly all worry and stress is gone from his face. 

He’s ravenous.

“Tell me to kiss you.” Loki’s tone is borderline abrasive after being so concerned. It catches you off guard, and your breath hitches. Loki attaches his lips to your sternum, sucking lightly and then biting down. You yelp, the action sending waves of arousal throughout your body. His lips travel to your breasts, his tongue swirling around your nipple. You hunch over him, your fingers returning to his hair and pulling. Loki groans.

“Tell me.” Loki's hands trace your back until they dip under the hem of your jeans. He cups your ass, your head falling back. 

You pull yourself together for just long enough to do what Loki wants. You hold his chin, keeping his eyes trained on his own. The next words you say, you pour your desire, your reassurance, your desperation into.

“Kiss me.” the words come out between pants. “Please, Loki. Kiss me.”

Loki knocks you off balance, so you’re lying completely on the couch. It’s small, almost too small for this, and Loki looms over you, a hand on either side of your head, so close all you can see is him.

It’s a wonderful sight, but sight isn’t enough.

You bring your palm towards the tent in Loki’s pants, brushing it experimentally. He hums, pressing himself into your hand. He’s hard, and you whimper upon the realization it’s because of you. Loki is a god. A literal god, and he’s here with you, aching just as much as you are.

Loki catches your lips in a deep kiss, one that muffles any sound you might make. He reaches between the two of you, under your panties and towards your aching core. You’re wet, ready for his fingers as they slip between your folds. Loki’s thumb circles your clit, and you yelp, biting down on his shoulder to lessen the noise. Loki chuckles, pulling away.

“No hiding, sweet girl.” he tells you, his voice deeper than usual. “Let it out.”

Loki enters you with a finger, barely giving you time to adjust before he adds another. It feels electric, and you rake your nails down his biceps. You feel the best you ever have before, thighs trembling and needing less but wanting more. Loki touches you in steady, planned out strokes. He curls a finger inside you, hitting your g-spot, and you feel yourself nearing the edge-

Loki pulls away, leaving you shaking as release is stolen from you. He puts his palm flat against your stomach, caressing you in a soothing way. It does nothing to ease your arousal.

With a wave of Loki’s hand, both of your bottom layers are gone, leaving the two of you completely exposed. It’s slighter colder, but the feeling soon fades as Loki begins peppering kisses to the insides of your thighs. He backs off every time he nears your heat, causing you tremble under each and every touch.

“Loki.” you pant. He looks at you with blown-out eyes. You feel like you might explode. “Loki, I...”

“What is it?” his tongue flicks out against your lips, and your hips jolt. Loki looks pleased, smirking. You clench your fists.

“Take me, Loki.” you say. You look at Loki, all of him, and see his erection. Loki’s cock is throbbing, red with precum. Your mouth waters. “Please.”

Pure emotion flickers across Loki’s face, and he reaches forward to brush a strand of hair from your forehead.

He lowers himself between your legs, his head teasing your entrance. You grip Loki’s shoulders, leaving little impressions of half-moons on his skin. You hope they last, your chest filling with pride over the idea of leaving any type of mark on Loki. 

Loki places soft kisses on the curve of your breast, murmuring against your skin. You can’t tell what he’s saying, but you respond to the light touch, goosebumps forming all over your body. Your heart hammers against your chest in anticipation as Loki teases you.

He thrusts his hips forward, entering you in one quick motion. You gasp, your back arching off the cushions. Loki takes the opportunity to wrap his arm under you, allowing for him to reach even deeper inside you.

Loki is unlike anyone else. You feel full, satisfied as your walls clench around Loki’s member. He occupies your whole being, moving in and out of you so gracefully one would think the two of you had done this many times before. Your sweat-sheened bodies seem to fit perfectly together, completely in sync and euphoric. Your vision blurs, and you see stars even though you swear your eyes are open.

The sounds of sex grow louder as the coils wound deep inside you and Loki threaten to snap. It’s you who orgasms first, brought on by Loki timing nips on your breasts with the movement of his hips. You come with a shout, clutching Loki while feeling too hot and cold at once.

Loki quickly follows suit, his body tensing and then going slack against you. He hides his face in your shoulder as he groans, spilling his seed inside you as you whisper praises in his ear.

Loki lays on top of you for a moment before he eases out of you. You feel hollow at his absence, but you can’t focus on the feeling long as aftershocks consume you.

Loki gathers you in his arms, coaxing you through them and pressing kisses into your hair, telling you how amazing you felt. You want to return the compliments, but Loki shushes you, tracing unknown shapes into your spine. 

You let your eyes rest and breaths stabilize, but it doesn’t take you long to crave Loki’s attention once more. You bump your nose against his, earning a laugh.

“I told you.” you say, but there’s no conviction in your voice. Out of the corner of your eyes, you see the corners of Loki’s mouth forming a smile. 

“Yes,” he says. “Perhaps I did underestimate you.” the air stills. “But...” Loki’s nimble fingers creep down your figure. “It may be better if we make sure this wasn’t a single occurrence.”

[sinsbymanka]

Hello! I uh. Got so many Fenders prompts guys. Like. A lot. 

I combined three of them because I really wanted to try this ship and I really liked writing it a lot. I hope I did them justice! Thank you to @dalish-rogue​, @morganlefaye79​, and @wardenari​ for the prompts! This is for @dadrunkwriting​!

Title: Not What Was Intended Ship: Anders/Fenris Rating: T Word Count: 1561 Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Pre-Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Crimes & Criminals, Bathing/Washing, Sharing a Bed, Bickering, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort

Summary: Fenris doesn't mean to go to the clinic. But when he sees the windows smashed in, he has to check it out. He is not doing it for himself, he is doing it for Hawke. It's a good lie. Almost believable.

Read on AO3

Fenris does not mean to stroll past the clinic. 

It is nothing more than a momentary lapse in judgement. He is too used to walking these darkened streets so the chain link fences, the broken street lamps, they all weave a background tapestry he hardly notices. His feet drag him onwards down the path he usually walks with Hawke, despite the fact that Hawke is not with him. 

Fenris could have gone home. Instead he turns the corner to find the clinic’s windows smashed, broken glass littering the cracked sidewalk. Fluorescent lights flicker inside, although whether the bulbs themselves are finally reaching the end of their life or Anders has not paid the bill again, Fenris can’t say. 

He hesitates a moment, his contraband ammunition heavy against his chest where he tucked it inside his coat. If he is caught with it, the papers Varric somehow obtained will be useless. He’ll be back in Tevinter before he can blink, and for all Fenris knows Anders is about to be dragged out by the Templars kicking and screaming, blonde hair falling wildly about his face, eyes crackling…

That image forces him into movement. He ducks quietly through the ajar door, suspicious eyes darting into every corner. He tells himself he is there for Hawke, for Varric, for all those who for some reason believe the meddlesome doctor and his idealistic opinions are worth the wrath of the rich and powerful. 

Fenris almost convinces himself. It is a good lie. One Varric himself would approve of. 

But the truth shrivels it the moment Fenris slips past the abandoned reception desk and into the triage area. Because standing in the middle of the room is Anders, surrounded by debris and refuse. 

Something loosens in Fenris’ chest immediately. He crosses the wreckage of the clinic easily, voice dropping to a low growl. “What have you done?” 

Anders finally lifts his gaze from the trash littering the floor. Fenris expects a flash of irritation, a scowl to match his own, but it does not come. Instead Anders rubs his stubbled jaw and shakes his head. 

“Just what I needed. A lecture. Andraste’s pillowy tits. Could this day get any worse?” 

There’s a bitter thread of hurt in his voice that makes Fenris uneasy. He does not pull his gaze from Anders, jerking his chin to the destruction surrounding them. “You were raided?” 

“I wish,” Anders snorts. “I expect the Templars to fuck me over cause of what I’m doing. Who I’m helping.” 

“Varric pays the Coterie. And the Carta. This was not them.” 

“I’ve told him to stop but you know how he is.” Anders puffs out his chest in mockery. “Me? Annoyingly taking care of your problems? I’d never do something so blighted risky and-” 

Anders bends down, stumbling to stop in his impression as he picks up a long, ruined piece of unravelled gauze. He sighs hopelessly as he looks at it before he shakes his head and lets it drop in defeat. 

“You’re right, you know.” Anders looks up, a bitter grin twisting his lips into something monstrous and out of place on his warm features. Something that brings the dread from when he saw the broken windows back tenfold. “I’m down here risking all our asses and for what?” 

“Justice and the greater good, or so I’ve been told,” Fenris replies dryly. 

“So a bunch of kids whose bullet wounds I stitched up last week, no Templars involved, could come back and steal thousands of dollars worth of medical supplies and ruin even more. All while I was out doing home visits for a solid thirty hours.” 

Anders closes his eyes, agony breaking over his features, making him look three times his age. “Maker. I’ll never recover from this.” 

The statement rings too loudly in the heavy silence. It stretches on and Fenris waits for the other man to crack a flippant joke, but it doesn’t come. It is up to Fenris to fill it as best he can. 

“This is unnecessarily dramatic,” he sniffs. “Hawke will gladly resupply you.” 

“I’m not living on Hawke’s charity,” Anders snaps. 

“Then you’ll live on Varric’s. How long have you been awake?” 

Anders finally shows some sign of his own temper, straightening up. “Sorry, should I call you daddy or-” 

“Fasta vass, you are impossible.” Fenris surges forward and grabs Anders by the cuff of his coat. The other man is so dizzy from exhaustion it takes almost none of his strength to drag him from the triage area deep into the clinic.

Fenris himself has been stitched up in this location enough times to know it like the tattoos in his skin. He shoves Anders toward the showers with a growl. “You smell of disease and stale sweat. I will secure the clinic.” 

“You say the nicest-” 

Fenris slams the door shut behind the other man and turns grimly to the clinic to survey the damage. He doesn’t bother with the ruined supplies or the evidence of the ransacking. Instead, he begins the slow, methodical business of checking the exits. Securing the bolts. The windows are, of course, a problem. He drags clean sheets from the cupboards and pins them in place to keep out the wind and cold, but Anders needs new windows. 

And perhaps an alarm system. Or a dog instead of the fifty stray cats that linger in the alley. 

When he’s done what he can, he makes his way back to the bathroom. The water is running and Fenris thinks only to pop his head in and announce that he will return with boards for the windows. 

He’s stopped short, once more, by the sight of Anders. No longer standing, but curled into the corner of the shower. Knobbly knees are pulled to his chest, sandy hair plastered to his skin. His shoulders shake with silent sobs. 

Fenris should leave. 

Yet again, he doesn’t. 

He closes the bathroom door behind him and slips his coat from his shoulders. By the time Anders looks up, blinking water from his eyes, Fenris is laying it and his illegal purchases on the counter. 

“What are you-” 

“You are clearly incapable of taking care of yourself.” Fenis lifts the hem of his cotton shirt over his head, not daring to meet Anders eyes. He knows the other man is tracing the elaborate designs, a brutal reminder of his life before, and he doesn’t wish to see it. “If you drown in your own shower, I will have to explain it to Hawke.” 

Anders’ silence is more maddening than his constant babble. Fenris braces himself to turn, only to find that instead of staring at him, Anders is gloomily examining the grout in the shower. 

“I know you think I’m pathetic.” 

Fenris climbs carefully into the shower and grabs one tiny bottle of expired shampoo donated from a cheap motel and a limp sponge. “I have never said that is the case.” 

“You don’t have to.” 

“I do not have to justify things I have never said.” 

Fenris squirts the sickly sweet shampoo on the sponge and rubs it between his fingers. Anders’ eyes latch onto the movement quietly. Fenris thinks his words over before he turns to Anders. 

“I am envious of your desire to help others. I believe that is a part of me that is gone.” 

It had been ruined, as so many things had. Before he can think too much about his past or about the pale freckled skin slicked with water, he brings the sponge to Anders’ chest and swipes it over his collarbone. 

The motion is soothing. Dull. Repetitive. Soap beads on his skin and falls to the drain. Anders is silent, the only noise the lukewarm water streaming from above and the sound of their quiet breaths. 

“They should not have abused your kindness,” Fenris finally says, flicking his eyes up to meet Anders’. 

A moment of silence, fragile as the soap bubbles. Fenris takes hold of Anders’ thin, lithe arms and hauls him to his feet. He tries not to think of the way the other man sways on his feet, the brush of their chest together. He carefully does not look at the golden hair decorating his chest or the taut muscles beneath his skin. 

Fenris tries not to hear the soft whisper against his ear as he drags the sponge down Anders’ stomach. 

“They shouldn’t have abused yours.” 

Everything passes in a blur. He does not remember how he finishes washing Anders, only the brief tantalizing flashes of skin and warmth that are seared into his memory. But the other man is almost limp with exhaustion as Fenris drags him to a cot. 

Anders trips into it, taking Fenris with him. He curses under his breath and Anders chuckles, warm and real and so much better than the heartbroken man he found. 

“You can’t stay here,” Anders murmurs sleepily, lips twitching in amusement. 

“I have no wish to,” Fenris hisses between his teeth. 

The cot is soft, just barely big enough for both of them, and his arm is trapped beneath a man who is rapidly letting exhaustion overtake him. Fenris means only to rest there until he can free himself without waking him. 

He does not mean to fall asleep beside him, arm over his waist, face pressed into his shoulder.

Yet he does.

[shreddedparchment]

Pseudo Princess Pt.28

A Dangerous Homecoming

04/08/2020

Pairing: King!Steve x Reader          Word Count: 5,529

Warnings: wounds, blood, language, fluff

A/N: We are in the home stretch my loves. The end is in sight. Hopefully I can speed up my momentum. I have the chapters outlined out but always seem to slow down when I’m near the end. I’ve done it with lots of my stories. And I am SORRY. Anywho, I hope you enjoy this chapter. If you happen to reblog, thanks so much for helping me spread my work! xoxo

Consciousness isn’t something that Steve is often at odds with.

From that fateful day when his mother gave in to her most rabid of fears and made her deal with the Sun Witch. With Doctor Erskine’s enthusiastic encouragement and his own experimental flare, Steve’s fate was changed.

He was altered, irrevocably so. The man he might have grown up to be—or rather, the man he would have died as—had disappeared and in his place a new one was formed. One of drive but not ambition. One with the will to do good and now with the strength to do so.

Steve had been blessed with the body to fight, but now he understands that he was also cursed to drag everyone he loves into the darkness opposite his light.

He gasps, sweating into his expensive and ridiculously extravagant tunic. The dark blue, etched in delicate silver and blacks is nearly soaked through.

His dark gray undershirt clings to his wounded and bruised form.

His lungs struggle for breath as his fear mounts, choking him as silver steel eyes grow dark, black, and dangerous. A curtain of deep chestnut hair flutters around a pale but cold bitten face. There’s a gleam to this man’s left and a fist curls with a keening cry as metal bends.

Steve’s hands twitch. His lips part, dried blood crackling around the edges of his lips.

His fever rages, burning hotter than he’s ever burnt before. The wound in his side stings. The pain is consistent until suddenly it stops.

As the dark eyes charge forward, his weapon hand raised to strike, a soft dampness coaxes Steve away from the image. He gasps, death poised to strike only inches away, when a soft whisper pulls him out.

“Shhhh.” The whisper says and Steve lashes out.

His eyes open wide, his hand closed tight around muscle and bone.

“Ow.” You whisper, pained but also controlled.

Steve’s eyes search and find you to his left, right hand angled painfully away from his face with a damp piece of cloth in its grasp.

“You’re safe.” You tell him gently, trying to convince him. “You’re alright.”

The panic in his chest dissipates. His heart begins to slow. There’s a searing burn on his left side and he looks down to see his shirt and tunic pulled up to expose a long wound now stitched together and freshly cleaned.

“Steve…” You plead. “My hand.”

His panic returns and he drops your wrist. “Did I hurt you?”

He pushes himself up but stops as you place a restraining hand on his chest.

“Don’t get up.” You order.

And it is and order. No doubt about it.

Though Steve knows that you take your role as Queen of Broklin very seriously, he has never heard you use that very authority on him and it strokes it heartstrings like a harp.

He sits back, resting against what feels like sacks of grain. It isn’t exactly soft but it’s better than the ground. Beneath his is warm mattress, hay by the feel of it. Grass too probably.

With his senses returning, he takes a quick look around where you’ve brought him.

“Where are we?”

“My home.” You tell him, resuming the cleaning of his face. “Or it used to be.”

You gently massage away the grime from his skin. The blood caked on his scratches and cuts require a bit more pressure but you’re as gentle as can be.

While you work, he takes it in. Your once home.

It’s small. Only one room, slightly smaller than his study back in Broklin.

The floor is made of aged wood that creaks as you shift on your knees to reach the far side of his neck.

There are small holes and cracks, moldy spots of green in one corner. In another a vibrant yellow weed pokes through from the ground below.

The wattle walls have been painted to attempt a brighter interior. The paint is scarce. He can see how you tried your best to make this little room a home.

The windows, all without panes of glass and only shutters to keep out the cold in winter, have begun to crumble and splinter. A vine has begun to take over, weaving it’s way in and up into the leaky thatched roof.

“Sorry about the water. It started raining while I was in the village.” You explain and his eyes hone in on you.

“You went out alone?” He demands, fear beginning to grab hold.

“Just for a little bit.” You stop your cleaning, meeting his fretful gaze with what he knows now is a stubborn will to be independent. “I needed to get some food and clean scraps for your wounds.”

Steve frowns, hating that you'd gone anywhere without him.

He reaches up to place his hand along your left cheek, caressing your skin until his finger finds a small three inch pucker across your cheek bone.

“You’re hurt.” He hates it. He hates it so much his stomach begins to bubble with bile.

“It’s just a scratch, Steve.” You shake your head, then lean towards him again to resume your cleaning. “Luckily my old sewing box was still in the cupboard. I tended your wound as best I could but we should get it looked at properly.

“I don’t want you getting an infection.” You sigh.

Steve’s turns towards the cupboard beside the small table by the fire you’ve got going. There’s an old rusty pot resting just beyond, handle broken.

All of your furniture, including this bed that he’s laying on is of the poorest quality. With you gone and without your care, even though it’s been under a year, it has fallen into disrepair.

“I won’t.” Steve assures you, looking at the sewing box by your legs, resting on the tattered skirts if your once fine dress.

“That won’t work on me, Steve. You’re seeing a doctor as soon as we’re with father.” You frown.

“No.” He shakes his head, looking at your stubborn pout.

He could kiss you. He loves the way you are bot afraid to challenge him or show you care. You love him so openly. With no fear.

He’s never known this kind of love. Freely given with no thought of restraint.

“I mean, I can’t catch an infection.” Steve explains. “I’m already healing. Even my fever is already gone.”

You almost dive towards his cheeks, hand thrown out to feel his temperature. You press your little—well, little to him—palm against his forehead and wait.

Steve can’t help but love you in every moment that you are by his side.

Especially now as you teeter over him, face screwed up with concerned concentration. You’re a mess. Like him.

Skin broken in small places from rocks and the falls you took. Hair completely disheveled. Your crown, the smaller one he’d had made for your outdoor events, is gone. Lost somewhere in the crowd and amongst the fight.

He doesn’t dare bring it to your attention.

His eyes naturally follow the curve of your throat down to your chest, and then finally your stomach.

His calm glee at your fussing quickly fades as the small swell of your stomach—more noticeable to him day after day—grabs hold of his attention completely.

With two hands he cups the bump, wondering if he might somehow know how the little prince is in your belly. His son.

“How are you feeling?” He checks, meeting your gaze which calms as you sit back onto your ankles and place your hands over his.

“He’s alright.” You stroke his fingers, a gesture of comfort. “I was a little worried while we were walking. After the carriage flipped over, I didn’t feel him for a while, but he did wiggle a bit as we walked here.”

Steve feels a rush of relief, grateful to you for always being your shared son’s protector. He knows how much you love him already.

“That’s not what I asked.” Steve clarifies, eyebrows raised high as he waits.

“I’m fine, Steve. A little tired. Achy but that’s to be expected after today. And very worried.” You sigh, shoulders rising high and dropping low as you slouch with the weight of your grief.

Steve knows what you’re thinking about, because he’s been thinking about it too.

He thought about how far he needed to get you away from the city. And Bucky. He thought about his son and his health. And Bucky. He worried about his friends. And Bucky. He wished he could do more for the innocents he’d left behind. And Bucky.

“They’ll have subdued him by now.” Steve promises.

“How do you know? He was so…so lethal, Steve. I’ve never seen him like that. How is it even possible?”

Steve takes a slow breath, knowing that it’s time for this story. He would have preferred for Bucky to tell you himself, but this time…he’ll have to make an exception.

“There’s something you should know about Bucky.” He begins, but you nod.

“This has to do with him being taken a few years ago?” You offer, entirely more knowledgeable than he’d expected you to be. You never cease to amaze him. He shouldn’t be surprised.

You’re smart as a whip. Perhaps not by a Lady’s standards, but you know more than anyone knows. You’re observant and your common sense and instinct is unparalleled.

If you weren’t so important to him, so precious; if you weren’t his only love and the mother of his child, he would recruit you onto the team and find a way to make you impervious to harm.

Maybe find a witch to bewitch you the way they’d done him or even Peter.

“How do you-?”

“The other day when Nat and I spent some time together alone, she alluded to a story. She didn’t tell me, but she said she would. Later.” You explain and Steve can see the resignation of your all too special patience.

“I suppose it’s later.” Steve nods. “A few years ago, Bucky, Nat, Clint, and I were on a quest to find one of the secret Hydra camps in the Southern forests. The deep south. In the elder wood.”

He watches as you bring out your feet from under you and settle on the floor. He hates it, you on the hard surface while he’s on the soft bed…but if he asks you to sit with him, you’ll argue.

“He was gone for weeks. Nat was inconsolable. Clint did what he could but eventually they had to move on. They had things to attend to. Responsibilities. Thor had to go back to Asgard, Tony had to help Pepper run his own Kingdom, and although I—I should have gone back to ruling Broklin, but I couldn’t give up.

“Nat and I kept searching. How could we stop looking? Bucky is…he was my only remaining family. And for Nat…well, it would be like when I lost you. Knowing you’re out there with no way of knowing whether you’re safe, only we knew that Bucky wasn’t.”

“This was after Margaret’s death?” You probe carefully, fearful it seems in upsetting him.

He’s driven that fear into you and it upsets him that you feel you can’t be open with him about Margaret. It’s his own fault.

Steve nods. “Only just. It was so fresh. Her death…and I was grateful for the distraction; however painful it was. The thought of losing Bucky too after everything with Maggie…I couldn’t stand it. I was determined in finding him. As was Nat.”

Steve can almost sense his own desperation again. It was just as bad as when you were missing. He ignores the ache in his chest at both memories and instead presses on, pushing those bad times out of his mind.

You’re here, attentive and precious in front of him. He won’t waste another moment on the thought of you anywhere but at his side.

“When we finally found him, he’d been strapped to a wooden bed with no mattress in the lowest level of a ruined castle. It was damp but hot, as we were farther South than I’d ever been. Although Natasha knew the territory well and we were able to search it with ease thanks to her expertise.

“For the most part, Bucky seemed fine. He was a little tired when we pulled him out of that wretched cell, but he was happy to be with Natasha again.

“His arm…it was gone. Replaced by the one he has now. When we asked him what had happened to it, he said that he didn’t remember and that it did hurt, but not as much as he might have thought it would to lose an arm.”

“Weren’t any of you worried about what they’d done to him?” You ask in shock, voice tight and whispered. Steve can only guess at what has you so spooked but he’s certain it’s the loss of Bucky’s arm. Here was no grand tale of him losing it in battle.

One day it was there, the next it was gone.

“Yes. Of course. Nat and I more than the others because we couldn’t understand why they would take him only to do that to his arm. So, we kept a very close eye on him. We secluded him to one room in the castle with guards at his door day and night.

“Tony was also very suspicious. Only Tony…Tony wanted to do more than just keep an eye on him.” Steve says, voice dropping low and his eyes going dark at the memory of Tony’s panic, the fear in his eyes as he looked at Bucky laying unconscious as he recovered.

A perceived threat. But to Steve, it was Bucky. His friend and brother. Like hell he was going to let anyone hurt him any more than he’d already been injured.

As Steve can’t fight his anger, with his brow furrowed, you seem to realize suddenly that this must have been what drove your Father and Steve apart. This was what had needed your marriage to bridge the divide in their relationship.

“He wanted to lock him up permanently.” You say, not surprised one bit, but a little disappointed? “Or worse…”

As Steve’s gaze meets yours, you read his eyes like no one else in his life can and realize that Tony had actually tried to do something about it, not simply wanted to.

“What did he do?” You barely manage to say.

“It doesn’t matter. The point is, I fought for Bucky. Nat did too. We were split, though Thor and Bruce weren’t there for the fallout, everyone else was.

“Peter was the only one who managed to balance both sides even though he initially fought with Tony. He realized what this would mean and helped mediate a stop to our quarrel. At least for a while.

“Tony and I didn’t speak again until we arranged a marriage between Morgana and myself with the full intention of having it end before we could ever truly consummate the marriage. That’s where you came in.” Steve sighs, feeling a surge of gratitude for you.

He doesn’t even plan for it to happen, but his voice becomes softer as he reaches out to stroke the curve of your chin. Caressing you whenever he has the chance. How long will you allow him to show you his affections?

He cannot be touching you always, despite his desire to do so. He must maintain some form of decorum in front of his friends and subjects.

However, here in the dimly lit home of your past, he can be as free with his love as he pleases.

You catch his hand and release a held breath, looking appeased and happy to feel the heat of his skin, just as he relishes in yours.

“So, Bucky never showed any signs of mental manipulation until today?” You wonder.

“No. Nothing until today. When nothing happened, we assumed he was fine.” Steve sighs heavily, the weight of his fight with Bucky weighing heavy on his shoulders. Had he missed some sort of clue? Had there been an indicator of what was to come? Had he been blind because of how close he was with Bucky. “It’s been more than two years…”

As if that might ease his strife. It doesn’t. It only makes him worry that maybe there is more to come. What if it isn’t over? What if they’ve turned his friend into someone dangerous permanently?

Steve pulls you a little closer and you shift for him, moving where he wants you. He wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you even closer. He isn’t satisfied until you’re right against his side, your hands pressed against his chest where your fingers take to restlessly twitching against the loose threads of his shirt.

He watches you, so grateful that you’re safe. You’re as lost in thought as he is. Reliving the terrible day just as he is, no doubt.

Steve’s arm tightens again, and you look up to meet his eyes. Your own worry seems to dissipate as you see the stress in his.

As much as he loves Bucky. He can’t help but think how close he came to taking you from him today. How easily his life might have changed again. For the worse.

With a small quiet sigh, you reach up towards his cheek and begin to wipe at the smudged dirt there but stop after two swipes, eyes going wide as you stare into Steve’s storm blues.

“What?” Steve asks, seeing the shift in your expression. “What’s the matter?”

“I didn’t tell you, because I didn’t think it was important.” You begin, and Steve can hardly breathe.

“Didn’t tell me what, flower?” He coaxes, adjusting on the bed to sit up a little straighter.

“I…I think I know what happened. What set Bucky off today.” Steve begins to speak but you’re quick to shake your head to silence him and he obeys you, shushing if that is what you wish. “I didn’t think it was real. I was just waking up in the carriage when I saw it. I was drifting in and out, but I found it odd and even asked father about it.”

Steve’s impatience begins to prod at him, but he bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself quiet for you.

“Now that I think about it, I didn’t see him any other time except for that moment.” You shake your head, shutting your eyes as you struggle to pull the image together in your mind it looks like, so Steve reaches up to cup your cheek.

“Tell me.” He pleads gently, forced but willing.

When you meet his eyes again, he can see the terror there but also the absolute certainty.

“I saw Lord Pierce across the square, getting out of a carriage. Bucky was there with him. Looking upset, I think. Then Lord Pierce leaned in and whispered something into Bucky’s ear.

“He went a little stiff, his face went blank, but then I must have gone under for a moment and when I opened my eyes, Bucky was gone. Lord Pierce was gone too.

“Even then, my heart was racing. I knew that what I saw wasn’t good, but I could have been dreaming it. And when I asked father if Lord Pierce was in attendance at the procession, he said that he wasn’t. That he’d made sure to exclude him purposely. So, I put it out of my mind.”

Steve’s hands are claws against your back, the rage within him is nearly choking. He wants to scream. To destroy. If he weren’t injured, he might have even torn your house apart with his bare hands.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, he assumes because you can feel his upset.

“No.” He manages to say, voice deep and quaking with his anger. “No, Y/N. You did right to tell me now. I don’t blame you.”

“But I should have said something.” You fret.

Steve looks down at your belly, the agony of almost having lost both of you today eats at him and helps calm him. It levels him out and he breathes in slowly, then releases the breath but pulls you to him in a soft embrace.

“You’re safe.” He shuts his eyes, really letting himself feel you there in his arms. He trails one hand down to rest on your stomach, tracing the shape of the small curve. “You both are. That’s all that matters.”

“What does this mean for the kingdom? For Lord Pierce? For Bucky?” You ask him, looking to him for a response to this new crisis.

Steve doesn’t often feel as if he is a king with people who depend on him.

Though he knows that he does indeed have a responsibility to his people, he doesn’t often feel as if he’s looked on for leadership. Those moments when someone is truly waiting for him to make a decision.

In your eyes he sees devotion and respect. He sees a genuine intention to follow. And yet he knows that even with this willingness, you would easily disagree with him if you felt it were important.

Everyday you are proving to him that you are not only the woman he loves, but the Queen he has needed at his side.

With you beside him, he truly feels as though he could rule his Kingdom with confidence, with grace, and with a will to do better. For you. For his son. And for all of the people who depend on him.

“I will issue a warrant for his arrest.” Steve declares, confident in his decision. “I will state his crimes clearly so that everyone may see what a snake he is. It will ruin his name and he will have no choice but to either turn himself in for trial or run.”

“What if he runs?”

“Then we will follow.” He nods. “He’ll pay for what he did to Bucky. He’ll pay for what he’s done to you.”

You lift your chin, filled with what he hopes is belief that he can do it. That he can bring Pierce to his knees.

“No one hurts my family and gets away with it.” Steve declares. “No one.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“What are you doing?!” Natasha shouts, shoving herself between Tony and Bucky, fully intent on punching if the need should arise.

The beautiful pale stones of Tony’s castle are a stark contrast to the horrors on the bed behind her.

Natasha glances back at Bucky, wary of the amount of blood he’s losing from the countless wounds to his torso.

What tortures her further is the knowledge that she was the one that put three of those stabs into his side.

She’d been careful to avoid his most sensitive spots, but after he’d woken up on the way home, he’d tried to fight his way out.

It took a hard hit from Tony to the back of the head to knock him out completely and he hasn’t woken up since.

“I need to remove the metal of his arm.” Tony replies exasperated with Natasha’s meddling.

“I needs to wait.” She says.

“It can’t. Bruce said I need to remove it immediately. He’ll have to treat that wound too to prevent infection.

Natasha licks her lips, her green eyes blazing with fear.

“Nat…Let me fix him.” Tony pleads.

“I don’t trust you.” Nat replies, brow crinkling with distrust.

“I know.” And Tony can’t blame her. He’d made a bad impression the first time Bucky had shown up altered. Now here is the results of what he’d always feared but he knows better now about what he’s willing to lose by taking certain precautions.

Bucky is irreplaceable to Natasha and Steve. He must respect that if he’s going to keep not only you but the team in his life.

“But you have to.” Tony argues, holding his hands out for her, his tools held tight as he waits for her to move.

Natasha turns around to look at Bucky once more, her face contorted with indecision and grief and reluctantly moves aside.

Tony lunges for Bucky and works quickly on his arm while Natasha cuts away Bucky’s clothing to tend to his other various wounds.

~~~~~~~~~~

“He’s stable for now.” Bruce declares, wrapping up Bucky’s arm recess where before there’d been shredded metal.

“Will he wake?” Tony asks, trying to keep his voice down for Natasha’s sake.

She’s only just fallen asleep, sitting in a large cushioned chair with a high back. Her hand firmly wrapped around Bucky’s scuffed up right hand.

“What did you give her?” Bruce asks, ignoring Tony’s question for a moment as he also looks to Nat to see her sleeping so peacefully.

“Just one of Agatha’s herbs. She’s a witch with herbs.”

“Or just a witch.” Bruce says quietly, fixing Tony with a wary look.

“I’ve been thinking so too. But she’s devoted to keeping Y/N safe so she’s a good one, as far as I’m concerned.” Tony moves to the wall to pull the call. Somewhere in the castle, he’s sure a bell rings.

“She’s going to be upset when she wakes.” Bruce points out.

“She needs the rest. Thor, Clint, and Peter are out searching. Sam has gone back to Broklin in case they head that way.” Tony assures his friend. “We’ll find them.”

“Y/N is going to be upset that you’ve got Sharon helping Samuel.” Bruce teases, a small awkward smile playing on his lips.

“She’ll deal with it. Finding them is most important right now. Not jealousy.” Tony argues.

Bruce huffs a small laugh, turning to seal Bucky’s bandage before checking on the wounds that Nat had tended to just to be sure they were sealed well.

“You are aware that Sharon snuck into Steve’s room to try and seduce him, and your daughter caught them in bed together, right?” Bruce asks, turning a knowing look to his friend.

Tony blinks, hands clasped at his front before he begins to fix his shirt.

“I am now.” Tony admits. “I’m sure she didn’t let them get away with it. And they seem fine now.”

Mind racing with what might have happened after finding Steve and Sharon like that, he resolves to give Steve a scolding when he sees him.

When. He will find you both if it’s the last thing he does.

“Where are you going?” Steve asks, voice groggy from sleep.

You’re uncurling from his side, moving to his removed tunic to rifle along the front at his expensive baubles and medals.

“To get us some food and something less conspicuous to wear. We don’t know if we’re being pursued. We must lay low.”

“And going into the village to buy things isn’t the opposite of laying low?” Steve asks.

You shake your head. “I’ll only be half an hour and I know the people here. They won’t hurt me.”

Most of them…

“Let me go.” Steve begins to get up, but you frown when he groans.

“No.” You insist, moving to him with a handful of jewels and silver.

You push him back down onto the bed and fix the ratty blanket you’d used to use over him.

“Stop arguing with me.” You chastise him. “I’ll be faster. You’re still wounded.”

“I don’t like you going out there alone.” Steve argues.

“Steven, please. Don’t fight me on this. I will be as quick as I possibly can. I’ll be as invisible as I was before I left. You’ll see. No one will pay me any mind. I was an insignificant orphan. No one will care that I’m here.” You assure him.

“You’re Queen of Broklin.” Steve argues. “And you look like her now, whatever you may think. You don’t look like the girl that came to my castle nearly a year ago.”

“What do I look like then?” You wonder, stripping off your dress before pulling on an old ratty set that you’d had here in the house from before.

It’s thin and meant for summer. Does little to shield the cold but it’s better than your regal, however torn up it might be, gown.

“Even in that you look like an angel.” Steve says.

You can’t help it. You laugh.

“Don’t you think you’re a little biased?” You ask him.

He frowns at you.

“Steve, I’ll be fine.” You move back to him and he welcomes you despite the terrible clothes you’re wearing.

He pulls you in suddenly, no warning as he kisses you hard.

You gasp, hands tense on his shoulders as his lips crush yours painfully.

When he pulls away, he does so slowly, his kiss shifting into tenderness.

“What-?”

“Please be cautious. Don’t talk to anyone that you don’t have to. Turn my cloak inside out and take it. I will not have you and our child freezing.” He worries.

“Why weren’t you this annoying when we first got married?” You tease him and he shuts his eyes, head falling forward to rest against your chest.

You chuckle and stroke his dirty hair, smoothing it out despite the blood and grime still caked into it.

“Please be safe.” He begs, looking up at you again. “I don’t know what I would do if I lost you, Y/N.”

“You’d go on. Because you’re strong. And you have a whole Kingdom that depends on you.”

Steve sighs. “I don’t want to be rational. I’d gladly follow you into the end.”

“Then I guess I’d better not meet my end.” You decide.

Getting up, you move to his cloak and turn it inside out as he wished. It’s plain gray on the underside. Still a fine fabric but less ostentatious in its stitching. It makes it much warmer in this clothing and it smells like Steve still.

“Stay quiet.” You tell him, then pick up his shield and put it beside him. “I’ll be right back.”

You slip out into the early morning freeze. The wheat fields are barren and give you no cover as you trek across the cold semi-frozen mud. It sticks to your shoes, much too nice for the plain peasant dress you’re wearing but with the cloak they’re somewhat hidden.

You’re tired by the time you reach the edge of the village and take shelter in the smithy’s doorway. He’s already open, an older man who had tried his best to ignore your hunger plight often. Many of the wealthier villagers had made the very conscious decision to pretend you didn’t exist.

You can’t blame them. You were a child in need of care and many of them, though richer than you, still struggled to make ends meet. They had no way of caring for a whole other mouth to feed.

He’s working inside, too busy making his living to care that you’re resting on his doorstep.

It takes you fifteen minutes to walk across the village make your purchase with only a somewhat lingering look from the tailor who must be the only one to notice your absence in the village as you’d always been a bit of a pain to.

You had offered to mend clothing at a cheaper cost and so stole most of her mending business.

“Haven’t seen you around here.” She states, wrapping up your new dress and the clothing and shoes you’ve purchased for Steve.

“I’ve been travelling.” You say quickly. Offering no further explanation.

“You look different.” She says, pushing the parcel over the counter towards you.

Fucking Steve.

“Do I?” You take the package and throw a silver pin on the counter worth six times as much as she’s charging you for the clothes.

Her eyes go wide at the sight, but you don’t wait for her to say anything and instead leave as quickly as you entered.

You buy some food from the bake, just something to tide you both over until you can go hunt something up and pay with a small ruby.

You’re gone before he can respond to the payment.

With both errands out of the way, you make your way back towards your cottage, eager to be back by Steve’s side.

Your trek is quick across the barren fields, pace increasing the closer you get.

It’s just beyond this slope, beyond the windmill.

As you curve around it, smile stretching your lips, you gasp as a large stocky man blocks your way.

Your free hand drops to your stomach protectively as your eyes take in the only threat to you in this village.

“Well, hello, hello, hello. If it ain’t tha little mouse.” He says.

As you take in his pale skin, a messy array of vibrant red curls on his head, your mind provides you with several excruciating memories of his large beefy body pinning you against the tavern wall. His hands tearing away at your clothing. Ripping your skin as angry tears stained your cheeks.

Both times you’d been able to fight him off. You’d been lucky.

As he devours you with his eyes, you can see the wheels in his mind turning.

“You’ve been gone a long time, little mouse.” He grins. “I’ve missed you.”

[whumpywhumper]

Worse and Worse

Masterpost

Previous: Trouble

TW: Sick character, face mask, delirium, implied reference to past non-con; non-consensual touch (not sexual); forced stripping (not sexual).

This is a special addition as I wrote this as a Secret Santa gift to the one and only @walkingchemicalfire who is an amazing person and has been such a tremendous encouragement almost the entire time I’ve been writing the Markus/Lucien series. Chem is awesome; and, that’s a fact. All hail the president of the Markus Protection Squad! 

Tagging list: @misspelledwitch @insanitywishes @imagination1reality0 @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @voidwhump @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @captivity-whump @liliability @muumimafia @fanastywhump @elisabethrosewrites @unsure-but-alive-752 @jeverest00 @texdoeshalo @fanmanga1357-blog @0idril0 @rosesareviolentlyread @quirkykayleetam

Edit: apparently the tags weren’t working, hopefully that fixed it, idk

V***V

Markus woke up uncomfortable, bones aching, his joints tight and stiff. His head throbbed with every dull thump of his heart as it hung heavy in his chest, his mouth dry, tongue thick and cottoned with his shallow breaths through his chapped lips. The tension through his jaw traveled through the pained creases in his face, down his neck and to his back, his spine curled loosely, his arms crossed over his chest and tight in the blankets. 

Turning deeper into his pillow, he searched for any kind of comfort in the soft surface, but it didn’t give it. The fabric rubbed against the delicate skin of his face, and the simple movement felt agonizing, the pain of it traveling through his body, the sensitivity present in every millimeter of skin under the blankets. God, and he was so cold, but his limbs were coated in sweat, and when he shifted, the blanket moved, and he shivered as the chilled air of the room kissed the back of his neck. 

His body felt like it wanted to shiver, and just keep shivering, but his muscles didn’t have anything to give, the hollow, trembling ache of them almost scary in the weakness that encompassed him. Swallowing past the cottoned dry feeling of his mouth, he tried to take a deeper breath, feeling the drive for more oxygen, but his lungs objected, a rough, barking cough ripping against the back of his throat. Ribs cracking with pain, he gasped raggedly, and moaned, the sound cracking wet and bubbling through his vocal cords. 

“Easy, sweetheart, shhhhhh,” a deep, rumbling voice murmured, gentle fingers brushing over his temple and through his hair. The other person’s skin on his was cool, but soothing, and he whined at the touch, the sound cracking in his raw throat as he turned into it. “I know, sweet guy, I know, buddy, shhhhh.” 

His next breath felt like sediment in his chest, and he coughed again, the air catching in his throat, expanding in his esophagus as dense clots that he had to struggle to breathe around. When the fit was over, it was like all of the ribbing holding his body inflated just disappeared, and he sank into the softness underneath him, wishing that would feel better against his bruised muscles. 

“Is he awake?” someone asked, their voice soft but pitched to carry, the sound of bare feet on tile announcing their location. 

“Not really,” the deep voice answered with another careful stroke through Markus’s hair, “what did the doctor say?” 

“Do a breathing treatment, keep an eye on his O2, and see if we can get the fever down. Bring him in if he gets any worse.” 

“His fever is already over 103, how much worse do they want him to get?” Was the indignant response, and he heard a sigh, the sound of scruff being rubbed in exasperation. 

“We’re going to take him if his fever gets any worse, Kin, but I’m going to go and get that oxygen set up, why don’t you get the pulse ox from my bag, okay?” 

There was a frustrated hiss, but apparently they agreed, because the sound of feet on tile came back. Markus whimpered when whatever he was laying on moved, his entire body shifting as the weight distribution changed. His head was picked up, a hand sliding under his nape until he was resettled on something softer than before. “Shhh, Markus, I know baby, it’s okay.” 

His eyelids fluttered, and he blearily looked up at whoever was talking to him. The room was dim, a distant yellow light casting shadows in the otherwise dark room, and it took him second to make out Kincaid’s frame leaning over him, face barely visible. “Kin’?” he croaked, the word barely a mumble. 

The other man smiled, a splash of white teeth, but the expression was worried, and he brushed his hand over Markus’s hair again, his thumb moving gently back and forth over his temple as he knelt by what Markus realized was the couch. “Yeah, buddy, it’s me.” 

His eyebrows pressed together as he blinked slowly, and he swallowed hard, wincing at the pain in his throat. “Don’. . . feel good,” he whispered between rasping gasps. 

Kincaid’s lips pressed together, but he nodded. “I know you don’t, sweet guy, we’re gonna try and get you feeling better, okay? Do you want some water?” 

Markus nodded, licking his dry lips, and closed his eyes when Kincaid moved away. Water sounded fantastic, something to take the pain away from his dry throat. Ridding him of the awful cottoned taste in his mouth. 

Without Kincaid to keep him present though, the exhaustion started pulling him down. He was so tired, eyelids gumming together, burning with the need to stay closed. Sleep prickled at his consciousness and he settled deeper, fingers tingling, body relaxing. Something landed softly on his shoulder, and he jumped, a dry, pained noise forming in his throat, eyelids flickering back open. 

“Sorry, sweet guy,” Kincaid whispered, “here’s a straw, just small sips, okay?” 

Kincaid held up a cup of water, the coolness of a metal straw pressing against Markus’s lips. He sucked on it gratefully, swallowing down the cool water, feeling the cracked tissue of his throat soak up the fluid. When he was finished, he made a small appreciative sound, and released it, breathing shallowly, fighting the urge to cough and clear his throat again. His ribs hurt already, and he didn’t want to cough again.  

“Okay, Markus,” Kincaid rumbled, his voice passing through Markus’s chest and soothing him, “I got a pulse ox here that I need to clip to your finger, so I’m gonna need your hand, alright?” 

He blinked, nodding slightly in acknowledgement, and clumsily tried to extricate him hand from the knit that he’d managed to tangle his fingers in. 

At his grumpy noise, Kincaid chuckled, and peeled back the layers, worming his way into the blanket to free him. “I’m just gonna invade your space a little, sweet guy,” he said, clipping the familiar weight of the pulse ox around his forefinger, wincing in sympathy when Markus started shivering harder as cooler air plundered his warmth. “I know you’re cold, buddy, I’m sorry, but it’s just the fever, alright?” 

“Yeah. . . “ he breathed, the word small as tears pricked the corners of his eyes. His next breath shuddered into his chest, and he turned his face into the pillow as a cough erupted, ravaging his throat, crunching his ribs together with an all too familiar ache. “Nnn. . . “ 

“Fuck, baby,” Kincaid whispered, his big hand settling on Markus’s nape, his thumb rubbing gently against his sensitive skin. “Yeah, we need that breathing treatment. Ben!” he called, voice not particularly loud but definitely worried. 

The sick witch didn’t really even hear him, his lungs struggling for air as he hid his eyes in the pillow, shaking. He could hear movement and voices, but he didn’t try to focus on the words anymore, exhausted, just wanting to sleep, more coughs wracking his frame, making him hurt even worse. “. . . really low. . . “ 

“. . . getting higher?” 

“…breathing treat—. . . bath. . .” 

“Yeah. . . —up” 

Markus was rolled onto his back, and he moaned as the ache in his joints protested, his head bobbling when an arm slid under his shoulders and knees, lifting him into a bridal carry against a broad chest. He wheezed a little, eyelashes fluttering as he shifted, anxiety thrumming through him when he realized he couldn’t move, his arms trapped against his chest. 

“Shhhh, I gotcha, baby,” lips pressed against his forehead, and that glimmer of magic spread through him, making him settle slightly as those frantic memories of helplessness receded. 

The surface he was placed on was soft, or it should have been, if his miserable body didn’t turn every experience into anguish. His whine as he was settled was met with a matched pair of shushing noises. Another pair of cool hands brushing across his overly hot cheeks. There was an overwhelming kindness there, in those hands, and something deeper, blossoming, something that felt familiar but not

at the same time.

But then there was something cold and wet laid over his throat. 

Panic made him thrash, losing the thread of that emotion, with memories of cold tongues laving over his pulse bubbling up and forming into a weak and pitiful struggle that he wouldn’t give up no matter how fruitless. “. . no—“ he managed to croak before coughing again, no, I’m not going back, no you can’t make me, no please, god, no. 

He sobbed when he was restrained, the sound broken and cracked from the film it was forced through, more shushing sounds that did nothing to soothe the new panic that was building, re-surging, in his chest. He coughed again and again, searching for air, fear searing through him with dizziness and pain. 

“God, fuck—“ 

“—delirious. . . . temp down—“ 

“—ere are the dampeners?” 

Hands that felt bruising and rough to his overly sensitive body held him down, easily trapping his arms back in a material he couldn’t fight through, and he couldn’t feel anything anymore other than the cold weight over his throat. His sobbing drew tight into wire thin sounds that barely made it to his mouth, his eyes closed so tightly that the tears were only able to seep free to make their way down the sides of his face as his head tipped back in search of a way to worm his way free. 

The assault didn’t stop. Strong, calloused hands pulling his arms free and wrapping something around first one wrist then the other, dousing him in cold as he was manhandled and the blanket was stripped from him, stealing whatever warmth he’d managed to capture. 

His crying stole the breath from his lungs, and his struggles weakened into panicked wheezes when something was fitted over his nose and mouth, a sweet medicinal taste coating his tongue as hands returned to his skin, lifting his head and tightening a strap around the back of his head. Markus shook his head in weak denial, pleading with small, wet gasps that barely formed syllables let alone words. No, please, I don’t wanna be sick anymore, I wanna go home, please, lemme go home. He lifted his shaking hands, reaching for the mask, but he was intercepted, and, instead, weak fingers clutched a thick wrists, grabbing at clothing as his heels dug into the bed, and he tried to propel himself away. 

“Shhhh, it’s okay,” a voice slid through the desperate confusion when his grabbing hands were untangled, pushed back so that they were out of the way, and he shook his head again as thumbs brushed over the apples of his cheeks, around the mask. 

“Markus, Markus, look at me.” 

He didn’t want to open his eyes, didn’t want to see Lucien or faceless people hovering over him, hurting him, sticking and draining and tearing into him piece by piece as he struggled to put one breath after the other. He coughed, almost retching with the force of it, struggling against the hands on his face. 

“Fuck, Bambi,” the voice bit out, a command for attention, “open your eyes and look at me.” 

His eyelids slid open reluctantly, a burning itching at his glassy gaze, but he focused sluggishly on the figure in his line of sight. Ben’s face formed from the shadows, and Markus sobbed, reaching for him, hiccuping thick breaths as Ben leaned in, wrapping an arm around the back of his neck and pulling him into his arms. A hand settled into his hair, brushing back the damp strands as Ben shushed him with quick little quelling noises. The wet thing around his throat fell, and Markus flinched with a whimper, clinging to the solid frame that was holding him. 

“It’s okay, baby, it’s okay, shhhhhh,” Ben murmured, pressing his lips to Markus’s forehead, rocking him gently, “it’s okay, Bambi, we’ve gotcha, shhhhh, just breathe, okay? Just breathe, like me. In... Out....In...” 

His fevered weeping trailed off into pitiful sniffles, his breaths settling the longer he was held, his unconscious struggles softening into minute trembling as he melted into Ben’s arms, against that strong chest as Markus was pulled against the other man. 

“That’s it, baby,” Ben praised, murmuring into his hair, continuing to rock him slowly, “that’s it, there ya go, just breathe, let the medicine do its work, okay?” The plastic on his face was adjusted as Markus’s eyelids became too heavy to keep up, but now he could hear the gentle thathump of Ben’s heartbeat as it lulled him into a sense of safety rather than frantic panic, and he didn’t try to shake the thing on his face off again, a lingering tear tickling his clumped eyelashes. “Kincaid’s running a bath for you,” Ben continued, his voice a comforting thunder against Markus’s ear, “and we’re gonna get your temperature down, okay? You don’t have any reason to be scared, we’re taking care of you, Bambi, shhhhh.” 

Ben kept up the steady cadence of reassurance that mixed with the soft hiss that filled the room, and Markus slipped down into a limp lethargy that let him skim against the surface. His coughs spaced out slowly, the tight bands around his lungs starting to loosen.

He could hear the deep murmur of another voice join in with Ben’s, that rumble against his eardrum switching rhythm to conversation, but he couldn’t help his hitched breathing, the flutter of eyelashes when he felt the buttons of his flannel being undone, more cold meeting his skin with an icy touch. Nonono, please. . . 

The rumbling voices rose with a dangerous edge, but the hands on him didn’t stop. 

“—he’s scared, damnit!” 

“. . .gotta happen—“ 

A sob fell from his mouth, wet and desperately confused as he was undressed, but his limbs continued to be maneuvered and his clothes were pulled from him despite his weak struggles. Ben’s voice came back, gentle, pleading to be understood, but Markus couldn’t understand, and he didn’t want this to happen again. Please, Lucien, no, stop, stopstopstop, nooo. . . 

“—sorry, ba— “ 

“—in the water. . .“ 

Markus almost lost being picked up to his fear, the swooping of his stomach causing a tight swallow behind the mask as his head lolled against a broad shoulder, body limp.  

The second his skin touched cold water, however, he became a live wire, arching away with a hoarse cry and a splash as one of his flailing limbs caught the liquid. No matter how hard he struggled, however, his fever weakened frame didn’t have the strength to fight back properly, and he was inexorably lowered into the freezing water. 

His hoarse cries turned into weak whimpers as he started shivering so hard that his teeth chattered, but there was no mercy to be found as a second pair of hands joined the first, holding his legs under the water as a big hand was placed over his chest, keeping him from sitting up. Markus tried to weakly pry it off, but ended up just holding on to that thick wrist, his fingers pulling at it with pleading that turned into raspy coughs. 

“. . .keep him still, Kin—“ 

“—not cold—“ 

“You’re okay—“ 

“—ght here, ba—“ 

The hand on the nape of his neck, keeping him from sliding completely into the water, was inconsequential compared to the misery he was suffering, but it was gentle, a thumb brushing back and forth just under his ear in a soothing caress. 

He didn’t know how long it took, but, eventually, the teeth chattering shivers settled into weak, body aching trembling, his breaths transforming from tight, hitching gasps into shuddering sighs. The fight to get free, to get out of the water, quieted, and he was peripherally aware of the fact that the hands on his legs went away, that his lungs had opened, and he was able to get more air that didn’t escape into painful coughing. 

The low roar of his pulse in his ears separated from the quiet, soothing reverberation of a deep voice in his ear, starting to make sense again as his brain was removed from the broiling pan. “—’s okay, sweet guy, not much longer,” the voice, that Markus was dimly realizing belonged to Kincaid, murmured, “your temperature’s going down, you’re gonna feel so much better soon, I promise.” Sluggishly, Markus forced his eyelids up to half-mast, glassy eyes looking up at Kincaid as he tried to pull himself from the soupy mire of his feverish mind. He could feel the oxygen mask still over his face, taste albuterol and whatever else Ben had mixed together for him, and he wanted out of the water. 

Kincaid’s red rimmed, honeyed eyes met his, and the bigger man gave an anemic smile, leaning down so Markus didn’t have to struggle to see him against the bright backdrop of the bathroom light. “Hey, sweet guy, there you are.” The hand over his chest lifted from the water with an unsteady pitter patter of droplets, and Markus slightly leaned into the other man’s touch as those wet knuckles brushed over his cheek. 

“Nnn. . .’s cold. . . “ he groaned, swallowing with a dry click, eyes closing again with fatigue.  

“I know, but your temp was way too high,” Kincaid murmured, dragging his knuckles down Markus’s cheek again, “just a little longer, and we’ll get you out of the tub and into something comfortable, okay?” 

Markus nodded, just barely an incline of his head, realizing that at some point he must have let go of Kincaid because he was fully submerged in the water, his hands floating at his sides, and he was completely dependent on the other witch to keep from drowning in the tub. He didn’t think he would have the energy to pull himself from the water, and that should have scared him, but instead he felt safe with Kincaid holding him out of the water. With the gentle touch to his face.

 His brow furrowed when he couldn’t feel Kincaid though, foggy eyes opening back up to look around with confusion. 

“What’s wrong, baby?” Kincaid asked, still hovering over him, worry lines prominent over his face. 

He took a deep, wheezing breath, trying to get enough oxygen to be heard through the mask, trying to look around more, gaze unfocused, anxiety spiking as he realized he could feel his magic but nothing else. “. . . can’t. . . can’t feel. . . “ 

“Shhhh,” Kincaid soothed, cupping Markus’s cheek and guiding his gaze back, “we had to put the dampeners on, okay? You were fighting us pretty hard.” His face crumpled a little bit, before firming, his thumb brushing under Markus’s eye. “We didn’t want something to happen on accident, we’ll take ‘em off later, okay?” 

The dampeners made sense. Deanna had made them when he was in the hospital, too weak to have free rein of using his magic without hurting himself or other people if he happened to lash out in fear. Too exhausted to protest, Markus breathed out a hum of acknowledgement and closed his eyes as the door to the bathroom opened. 

“How’s it going?” Ben whispered as he padded closer. 

“Woke up a second ago, seemed a lot clearer. Think it’s about time he got out of the tub?” 

“Lemme check his temp first,” Ben answered. A few seconds later something rolled over his forehead to his temple with a small beep, but Markus didn’t care what it was, still shivering in the cool water, hot tears starting to slip down his cheeks again. I want out. . . ’s so cold. . . please, Ben. . . 

“Okay, 101.5, that’s a lot better. Thank god, let’s get him out of the tub. Markus, are you awake, baby?” 

He opened his eyes again, looking blearily up at Ben, nodding lethargically. “Mmn. . .”  

Ben smiled softly at him, leaning over him with his hand splayed over the wall, his t-shirt dark in places with water splashes and hair sticking up in a wild array. “Hey there, Bambi,” he said, “you look a lot better than you did earlier, that’s for sure. We’re gonna get you settled, okay?” 

Markus nodded again, trying to gather his limbs to get himself out of the tub. He was shaky now, kitten weak, but he could move. His hands, however, were slippery on the tile, and god, he was sore all over. 

“I gotcha,” Kincaid murmured, gathering him up under the shoulders and knees despite the fact that he was going to get sopping wet, “you don’t gotta worry about doing anything, okay?”

Markus whined as he was picked up, the pathetic noise making him feel ashamed no matter how exhausted he was, but the air was like icy sleet against his skin, and he turned his face into the other man’s shoulder. He was sat on the counter, refusing to move his face from the refuge he’d found in Kincaid’s warmth. The oxygen mask was digging into his nose, but he didn’t care. He’d gotten used to the damn things when he was in the hospital, and no matter that the albuterol taste had largely dissipated from the oxygen he was breathing, it still evoked enough memories for him to both be comforted with the fact that he could breathe and freaked out by the fact that he was having to wear one again. The memories of being helpless, unable to take care of himself, yo-yoing with getting sick and getting better, again and again. 

He hated this. 

Gently, Ben dried him while Kincaid served as a leaning post, keeping him secure with a hand on the back of his neck and back. The towel was soft on his skin, and he would normally be self conscious of the still vivid scars over his torso, over the fact that he was naked and hadn’t removed his own clothes. 

But he was too tired to even pretend to give a shit. 

Now that the fever had lessened, he was comfortable with these two men helping him, taking care of him. It wasn’t like they hadn’t seen all of him before, helping him with hygiene in the hospital, with physical therapy. It wasn’t like he could really do it himself right then, either. 

Markus wrapped his arms around Kincaid’s neck at his gentle prompting, and Kincaid picked him up to his feet, one arm wrapped around his back and the other firmly on his hip. “Lift your foot, bud,” he murmured. They both helped him dress. Ben knelt by his feet and pulled the sweats up his trembling legs until Markus was encased in the warm, soft material, the waistline loose around his hips. When they pulled one of his warm flannels over his arms, Markus realized he was wearing a pair of Ben’s sweats, a pair that he’d commented looked like they were made of clouds. 

“Hmm. . . “ he smiled weakly, half-lidded eyes looking at Ben, “y’rem’bered.” 

Ben grinned, pushing Markus’s towel dried hair out of his face as Kincaid breathed out a laugh as he bent to scoop Markus off of the floor. “Figured being sick was a good opportunity to see if you thought they were as soft as you’d expected.” “. . .s’soft,” he hummed, turning his head back into the crook of Kincaid’s neck. 

“Good, baby, I’m really glad.” 

By the time Markus was laid down on something soft, he was mostly asleep in Kincaid’s arms. With the fever down, his body was crying out for rest, for sleep. But when Kincaid moved away, he whimpered, eyes still closed and reaching for him. 

“Shhh, sweet guy,” the bigger man soothed, kissing him gently on the forehead, “we’re not going anywhere. I’ll be right back, okay?” 

“‘kay. . .” he whispered, breath slowing as he fell closer to sleep, barely aware that a blanket was draped over him. He was safe; they wouldn’t leave him alone. 

Markus wasn’t going to be alone again. 

The low rumble of Ben and Kincaid’s voices in the apartment soothed him, made him settle, and, calm sleep stealing over him. He was pulled out of it a short time later when a large hand smoothed over his hair, soft lips on his forehead. He made a low sound of acknowledgement, but he didn’t open his eyes, until he heard Ben’s huffed chuckle. 

The other man was in a fresh, dry set of lounge clothes, kneeling in front of what he realized was the couch. Kincaid sat on the coffee table, also in fresh, soft clothes, leaning forward with a complicated mix of concern and warm appreciation for the scene in front of him. 

“D’you want us to stay with you, Bambi?” Ben asked, voice sotto, his long fingers softly brushing through Markus’s hair. 

Blinking was a chore Markus wasn’t interested in, and he let his eyes slide closed, licking his lips and taking a deep breath of that damp, humid air before giving his answer. “....please...”

“Alright, sweetheart,” Ben responded, kissing him on the forehead. Carefully, he and Kincaid settled onto the couch next to him, his head in Ben’s lap and his legs in Kincaid’s. The flash of the tv soaked through his eyelids, the murmur of voices and the occasional smattering of a laugh track pressing into his doze, but Markus didn’t think he’d been this comfortable while sick since he was a child. 

The last think he heard, before sleep fully claimed him, was, “Joey doesn’t share food!” 

[wendimydarling]

I’m Glad You’re Here

Title: I’m Glad You’re Here

Summary: In which Henry gets sick, and the reader takes care of him.

Pairing: Henry x First Person Reader

Word Count: 1447

Warnings: Only a slight innuendo, this one is mostly floof.

A/N: This one’s a bit shorter than my others, but I felt if I kept going it would have just repeated more of the same, and supposedly a good author knows when to quit. Hope you enjoy some floofy, slightly angsty fluff! ALL THE FEELS!!! 

Tags: @littlefreya​ @sciapod​ @thiccgeralt​ @oddsnendsfanfics​ @brexrif​

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There was a strange sense of silence hanging over the house when I walked in. This was odd, because Kal typically took his guard dog duties very seriously. Henry must be feeling worse than he let on if Kal wasn’t going to alert me to his presence. I kicked off my shoes and climbed the stairs to the master level, toting the bag of goodies I’d bought after I landed. 

Sure enough, there was Kal, pressed as close as he could get to Henry without squashing him, his head lying on Henry’s stomach as Henry slept. Henry looked absolutely miserable. His mouth was hanging open and he was snoring a bit; sweat-dampened curls clung to his forehead. Kal pricked his ears up and turned his head slightly when I entered, acknowledging my presence with only a whimper. I sat on the bed carefully, not wanting to disturb Henry’s slumber, and offered some hushed words of encouragement to Kal as I rubbed his head.

“Such a good boy, Bear, he’s gonna be okay. Have you been taking care of him for me while I wasn’t here?”

Kal just looked at me and whimpered again, placing his paw on Henry. His behaviour wasn’t sitting well with me, so I moved up to sit next to Henry, placing my hand on his head.

“Jeeeeeeeeesus,” I hissed, the heat of his skin searing into my palm. “Okay Henry up, wake up. Wake up now.”

I shook him slightly and he groaned and coughed, but didn’t open his eyes. It was enough for me to know he was conscious, and I sprang into action. Rushing into the bathroom, I turned the water on in the tub as cold as it could go, rummaging in the cabinet for some Tylenol and a thermometer as the tub started to fill. I called Henry’s manager while I searched and left a message for her to either book him an emergent appointment with his doctor or else I was going to take him in to the nearest hospital I could find. I couldn’t find a thermometer but I did find Tylenol, so I ran downstairs to the kitchen for a glass of water, rushing back up to turn off the water before shaking Henry again. 

“Henry up, I mean it, you need to take this. Come on, love, at least show me your eyes.”

Henry moaned again but his eyes fluttered open, confusion clear in his expression when he saw me. 

“Why… what? You’re... Why--why are you here? I’m glad you’re here, but I’m fine.”

“Bullshit, sir, you have a fever higher than I’ve felt on anyone in my life. Get up and take this; you’re getting in the tub.”

Henry balked, hacking up a furball before shoving his face into the pillow.

“I’m fine, really, just let me sleep.”

I rolled my eyes, pulling on his arm as hard as I could. God, the man was heavy.

“Henry, look at your dog.”

Henry rolled back over and side-eyed Kal, who was still being eerily calm. His face scrunched up in concern and he sat up when he recognized the odd behavior. A coughing spell took over him and he wheezed, turning his head to try and keep the germs off of me. He coughed so hard that he gagged, and I scanned the room rapidly as I rubbed his back, trying to find something he could throw up in if needed. The spell passed and Henry sat there, gasping for air. I took the opportunity to peel the soaked cotton fabric off of his torso. His skin was thin, and I could see the muscles in his chest straining to offer his lungs enough support to breathe. Henry pet Kal on the head in reassurance, as the dog had moved closer and tucked his head into Henry’s crotch.

“He’s signalling, Henry, like he’s been trained to... You’re sicker than you think, and we need to get your fever down, ASAP. Will you please get in the tub?”

Henry blinked slowly, groggily, nodding minutely as he tried to kick the covers off his legs. He was so weak, and that terrified me. I helped him up, shuffling him in front of me into the bathroom. Kal followed us, pressing his body against Henry’s legs. I shooed him gently.

“Good boy, Kal, good boy… You did your job; you did good. Go lay down while I help daddy now, okay?” 

Kal huffed at me, but took a spot next to the toilet, lying down on the cold tile. The look on his face told me I was one more scolding away from being his least favorite person. I turned to Henry, who was leaning on the counter with his eyes closed. Gently shimmying the rest of his drenched garments from his body, I cocked my eyebrow at him, smirking a little as his dick hardened a bit.

“You have got to be kidding me… now?”

“You just took my clothes off and you’re on your knees, I can’t help it,” he gasped, his chuckle turning into another cough. I shook my head and stood up, shushing him as I eased him into the tub. He yelped when he first stepped into the cold water, pushing against me in an attempt to get out. I held firm, discovering just how little I liked the feeling of being able to overpower him. It felt backwards.

Once Henry was seated, medicated, and semi-comfortable, I sat on the edge of the tub. I took a washcloth and soaked it in the water, using it to wash the sweat off his chest, shoulders and back, and to sooth his hot skin. He grabbed my hand and kissed it, closing his eyes and leaning back against the wall of the tub. I took a mental inventory of his body as he rested, cataloging his symptoms so that I could answer any questions the doctor had later. Henry tilted his head, opening one eye to look at me.

“I’m glad you're here.” 

“I am too, Henry. Shhhh.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Three hours and one Influenza B diagnosis later, we were back at the house. Henry was somehow sprawled on his tiny couch with his head on a pillow in my lap, wrapped up in his hoodie and shivering under the comforter I had brought downstairs from his bed. Kal was sleeping on his legs, refusing to leave Henry’s side.

Seeing as though there was nothing we could do but wait it out, I had an entire arsenal of symptom-treaters dispersed throughout the house. On the coffee table were the tv remotes, his favorite water, some crackers, and a few of his comic books. In the kitchen I had stocked him with some herbal tea, different flavored applesauce pouches, oranges, and organic whole-grain bread if he wanted some toast. In the bathroom I had a neti pot and some cough drops. His nightstand housed a chest rub and more cough drops. Every room in the house had a box of tissues  and a bottle of hand sanitizer strategically located. Yes, I was prepared.

I’d flipped on a show but we were only half-watching; Henry was fading in and out of sleep and I was too busy monitoring him to pay attention to the television. He turned his body towards the back of the couch and I adjusted the blanket around him as he snuggled in closer to me. I ran my fingers through his curls and he sighed, so I switched to using my fingernails, to which he gave the most undignified moan and pushed his head further into my hands. 

“You are such a dog,” I laughed, using both hands now to scratch his scalp vigorously.

“Ugh, I don’t even care, that feels so good,” he stated, sniffing. I smiled to myself; his voice was so cute when he had the snuffles. Henry looked up at me and pursed his lips, asking for a kiss. I obliged by putting two fingers to my lips, placing them gently on his, then immediately reaching for the hand sanitizer. 

“How dare you wipe off my kisses?” he teased, scoffing at me in mock offense. Henry poked my side as I rubbed the evaporating alcohol between my hands and I squirmed, far too easily stopping him when I caught his hand. He laced our fingers and tilted his face toward me, looking up at me through half moon slits as his eyes were preparing to claim him in sleep once more. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” he whispered, low and sincere. I leaned over and kissed his forehead to conceal my attempt at checking his fever.

“I wouldn’t be anywhere else, babe.”

[willa-marino]

It takes a moment for her knees to stop shaking. 

Willa dislikes heights, dislikes even more that Damon and Bianca - for all intents and purposes - shoved both herself and Sutton out of Damon’s helicopter. She’s pretty sure they laughed after the fact, and it makes her grit her teeth. Willa gives herself two seconds to be mad, two seconds for true, hot anger that rings her scalp and the back of her neck, and then she releases it with a deep breath in and then an even longer breath out. Frankly, it’s too fucking hot to be mad. 

The point of this exercise, she knows, is control. Patience. Like her morning runs, this is a lesson in endurance. How to keep moving, pushing forward. How to survive. Damon had told her they were about eighteen miles from the next town over, so Willa figures it will take them most of the day to get there, though she knows she needs to facture in the desert itself; the heat, the sun, the lack of water or any type of true terrain. Just baked earth, and her hair already heavy on the back of her neck. 

Well, first things first. Willa digs into her bag until she finds a rubber band and snaps her hair into a high ponytail, the ends brushing her shoulders. Feeling marginally better already, Willa offers Sutton a grin the moment the other girl touches down beside her. They each take a moment to check their packs - there’s water for them, and two small meals packed in neatly, as well as a compass, map, a very meager first-aid kit, several knives and even, they’re both surprised to see, a small handgun. 

Sutton says the thought that Willa has out loud. “Maybe they think we’ll just end up shooting each other in the head if we can’t make it.” 

Something about her tone strikes Willa as hilarious and she laughs, hand to her stomach, open-mouthed, deep from her belly. “They probably wish we would,” Willa replies, still laughing. She’s still searching around in her own pack and her fingertips brush past the edge of something - a little folded piece of paper. She wraps her fingers around it and pulls it out, unfolding it twice. Instantly, she recognizes Damon’s handwriting. You’re not thirsty yet. Start moving. 

“Bossy even when he’s not around,” Willa mutters under her breath. She pauses, and then shows Sutton the note. The brunette wrinkles her nose and turns away, ready to start. Willa thinks about tearing the paper up, stomping on it, even setting it on fire - there are matches in her pack - but something stays her hands. She ends up tucking the note back into her pack, and takes out the map and compass, the latter of which she presses into Sutton’s hand. 

Teamwork, too, is the other part of this. Willa glances up at the sun, which has not quite reached its highest point in the sky. Knowing it will get even hotter than it is now - and fuck, is it hot - Willa and Sutton begin. 

It’s alright, really, for the first two hours. Almost half-way through, but Willa can feel them slowing, can feel the sun dry them out, their mouths and skin, their hair. The trek across the desert is hot, yes, the sun sears into them both, sure, and Willa wishes she had a fucking IV drip of water pumping into her, but it’s not horrible. Not yet. She doesn’t let herself or Sutton touch their bottles of water until they’re forty-five minutes in or so, and she times them both on the amount of time they take a sip. Because it’s sips of water out here, not gulps. 

“We want this to last,” Willa says as kindly as she can when Sutton’s about to go in for another drink. “I know you’re hot, but it’s only going to get worse.” 

Hm, probably the wrong thing to say based on Sutton’s reaction, but Willa merely shrugs. She won’t claim she knows what the fuck she’s doing out here, which again, is also the point, but she does know the importance of conserving water, especially in a climate like this. Sweat lines her brow and she feels it between her breasts, the backs of her knees. Sutton is beginning to look miserable, and despite the twinge of annoyance Willa feels in response to her counterpart out here, she can’t say she doesn’t understand or, honestly, doesn’t feel the same way. 

“Look, there’s some brush up ahead. Maybe even some shade. We can rest there for a few, okay?” 

Sutton nods in response, looking a little more hopeful. Willa gives her a grin and they set off, map and compass in their hands, sun bearing down on their backs. Sunscreen, Willa thinks wistfully some time later, as they finally near the tangle of brambles. There’s no shade, unfortunately, but there are a couple big rocks and each girl claims one, dumping their bags and leaning forward, heads between their knees. 

“I feel a little nauseous,” Sutton murmurs somewhere to Willa’s left, and she closes her eyes in response. There’s a bit of a dry patch on the center of her tongue. Water, she tells herself, and then opens her eyes abruptly, reaching for her pack. It’s in this moment that several things happen at once: Sutton makes a startled gasping sound, there’s a loud hissing noise to Willa’s right and then, just a second after, a searing, brutal pain tears itself into her leg and does not let go. 

Despite her training, her compartmentalizing of the discomfort and the godforsaken heat and the rationing of water, her annoyance with their barren surroundings and Bianca and Damon’s humor over the whole situation, Willa cannot help or stop the scream that rips itself out of her lungs. She can’t help what happens next, either, and she feels herself fold over at the waist, falling forward off of the rock and towards the cracked earth at her feet. Her cheek hits it first and it burns. Dirt fills her mouth. Choking, Willa immediately rolls over and covers her face with both arms, protecting her eyes and cheeks from the relentless glare of the sun. 

She hears Sutton scramble up and the sounds of the other girl tearing through her own pack. Willa feels dizzied, dazed, and the pain, fuck, oh god, the pain in her leg slowly emanates outward, throbs with the uneven pounding of her heart. What the fuck? She thinks, and abruptly, her scream cuts off. What the fuck. Willa opens her eyes and moves her arms from her face, her gaze immediately locking on Sutton, who seems to have found what she was looking for: the shiny silver handgun. Despite herself, Willa scrambles around behind her, her fingertips trying but failing to find purchase on the hard, dead earth that surrounds them. She hears herself make a pitiful sound as Sutton trains the revolver somewhere to her left. Her leg is screaming. She closes her eyes, tries to reach out to the pain with her mind, probes it. She makes the mistake of flexing the muscles in her calf and almost screams again. Moments later, a shot rings out, echoing through her brain, her spine, right through her teeth. Sutton looks victorious as she nears Willa, and it takes everything in her not to flinch away from her. She hears a scuffling, and then Sutton appears in her line of vision again, holding up something. Something. Some thing. 

Her vision swims, blinks out and comes roaring back. Willa blinks rapidly up at Sutton and realizes what has happened. 

“Motherfucker!” Sutton yells proudly, swinging the dead body of the snake around her head. Willa feels hot drops of blood touch her face. She licks her cracked lips. 

“Sutton,” Willa says in a voice she does not immediately recognize. It is small and contained, like flame. A second later, she realizes she is furious. But she must remain calm. The snake, the pain, the bullet, it all makes sense now to her. But the pain. Dehydration is a soft kiss, Willa thinks to herself, her fingertips digging into the earth. Being hot is laying on a cloud, compared to the raging fire that flushes through her leg, her veins, beating in time with her heart. 

The brunette pauses to look at Willa, and her clear eyes settle on her leg. Her mouth forms into a small ‘o’. It would be hilarious, actually, if it didn’t fucking hurt so bad. 

“It bit you,” Sutton says, thunderstruck, and she drops the dead snake and the gun at the same time, falling to her knees and crawling over to where Willa sits upright, panting heavily. 

“Yeah, I know,” Willa bites back in frustration and pain. Part of her wants to apologize, but she can’t see through the fire. Can’t reach out to take it back. She feels Sutton reach for her, her leg, and Willa really has to focus on not screaming now, because Sutton’s hands feel like knives burrowing down, and when she rips open the leg of her pants, they still. Willa counts the silence in her head, but it takes too long. 

“Well?” She grounds out, squeezing her eyes closed. For some reason, she can’t bear to look at it. Cannot look at the source of the pain directly in the face, and it is her deepest shame. Willa: 0, Desert: 1. 

“It - I think it was poisonous, Willa. Oh my god. Fuck.” Sutton sounds almost scared, and this simply will not do. 

“You think?” Willa asks, and somehow, miraculously, her voice sounds steady. Smaller, but steady. 

“Definitely poisonous,” Sutton amends, and Willa sees her look closer at the wound. “Two puncture marks, fuck.” 

She does not count. She does not scream, though she wants to, thinks part of herself would be freed from it if she does, but she doesn’t. Sutton sounds scared, and fuck, Willa is definitely afraid, but she knows she has to remain calm. To stall the venom from reaching itself even further into her system, yes, but also to keep Sutton calm. Focused. Because what she has to do next requires it of her, requires it of them both. 

“Okay. Well, it hurts like a bitch,” Willa says matter-of-factly, like one would say, “Oh, look, it’s going to rain.”

Sutton starts to shake, and it takes Willa a moment to realize the other woman is trying not to laugh. 

“What do we do?” Sutton asks, the corners of her mouth trembling. Willa takes a deep breath, knowing that this, right here, is the moment. Another flare of pain lances through her, but Sutton said we, and that has her feeling hopeful. A little. 

“You’re going to have to suck it out. The poison. To the absolute best of your abilities. It’s going to deplete our water supplies by a lot, but we can worry about that later. Go into my pack and get the first aid kit, and both bottles of water in there. You won’t need to cut anything, just apply firm pressure to the wounds and squeeze. Wash your mouth out with water each time you get a mouthful of blood and venom. Spit it out immediately. Do not swallow. Repeat until I tell you to stop.” Willa closes her eyes, and her body feels incendiary. It takes Sutton less than thirty seconds to gather what she needs. She also ends up bringing Willa’s pack to her and propping her back up against it so that she doesn’t have to keep laying on the hot earth. She’s thankful for this, but can’t manage to speak her gratitude. She does, however, reach out for Sutton’s wrist as the brunette turns to her leg to begin. Willa knows this is important. “You can do this, Sutton. I’m right here. Steady, okay?” 

Something seems to clear itself in Sutton’s expression, and the woman nods her head at Willa once, the line of her shoulders strengthening. 

After that, Willa isn’t really sure what happens. She goes in and out of focus, like the pain in her leg, like the dry patch on her tongue. The sun feels like hell on her skin but she very nearly welcomes it, because as long as she can still feel anything, she’s still closer to the living than to death. She can’t claim expertise on snakes; doesn’t know how poisonous its bite was, doesn’t even know what kind of snake it was that bit her. She thinks of her morning runs and coffee, thinks of a particular mouth and a specific laugh, thinks of the opera ticket she bought for herself, thinks of her brother and mother and father, thinks of heat and oasis and the desert all around them. She thinks of other things that feel like dreams, but aren’t. And then she feels Sutton pull away, sees her sit up, wipe her mouth with the back of her hand and spit it out. Watches her swish a small mouthful of water and spit again. She tries to brush away Sutton’s hand when she holds the bottle of water out to her, but Sutton is having none of this and tips some into her mouth, and she could almost cry because it tastes so sweet, almost like liquid sugar. Willa lies very still for a moment, longer, and then she hears Sutton speak. 

“How do you feel?” 

“Help me up.” 

“I don’t think -”

“Sutton. Help me up.” 

Sutton grumbles about it, but they both know it’s necessary. This has already taken too much time and they need to get moving. The pain isn’t gone when she’s on her feet, and she has to steady herself in Sutton’s hands before she motions to her that she’s fine, she can do this, she’s got this. While Willa tests out her leg - Sutton has wrapped it in gauze - Sutton packs up both of their bags and helps Willa get hers onto her shoulders. She’s definitely weaker, but the pain is manageable, almost tolerable. It’ll have to do. Their pace is slower than it was before, but they’re moving at least. Following instructions. 

Start moving, she hears Damon say, like he did on the note at the bottom of her bag. Willa lifts her chin. Gives him a little salute in her mind. Throws him the finger, too, for good measure. 

[bellatrixobsessed1]

From Chin To Yon Rah (Part 30)

She knows that there is not a soul left in the world that cares for her. She knows it because if there was, someone would have reached out and taken her hand. Someone would have realized that she was slowly dying and they would have given her at least a little sip of water and a small morsel to eat. 

Nobody does. 

Because nobody cares. 

For all of its heat, she is certain that the Fire Nation is colder than the poles. 

No wonder she herself is so cold.

Her body aches and pains in ways she hadn’t thought possible. Dehydration leaves her muscles cramped without mercy. She puts one foot in front of the other, over and over. Her mind has grown numb to all else. Her head throbs and she has run out of sweat. She stumbles and pitches forward. She doesn’t have the energy to pick herself back up and so she drags herself on all fours. Crawling on her hands and knees. 

She doesn’t think of anything else, just of moving limb after limb until she finds herself at the base of a cliff. The Black Cliffs she realizes, faintly. She drags herself to the shoreline, tears welling in her eyes. 

She greedily laps at the water, feeling just as uncivilized as she has become. She thinks that there is nothing left of who she had been. Nothing good anyhow. She is certain that she has still retained and regained all of the most unsavory bits. 

After helping herself to copious amounts of water, she lets her body fall limp. Arm outstretched, her fingers dip into the water. Water that laps gently at the sand. The cliffs tower high above her, shadows washing over her. Atop them, short strands of grass sway and swish. A fuzzy green to adorn the otherwise craggy landscape.She bunches herself up; at the very least she will have a nice view to go with her death.

She doesn’t expect to wake up but she does. And she awakes to familiar pains. At least she is no longer thirsty, at least the water cools her body. At least she can refill the waterskin. But how terribly her stomach pangs. And the sun burns on her skin sear a bright red. Her skin is already peeling in places, she feels even less human.

She climbs to her feet anyhow, dizzy, swaying. 

She walks for miles, empty headed, reduced to nothing but the aches in her stomach and feet. The throbbing of her head. 

She isn’t going to make it, she isn’t sure why she is trying. 

She wonders if her corpse will be found and if she will be buried respectfully or unceremoniously. Perhaps her body will rot where it falls…

Approaching from the other direction, she sees the first people that she had encountered in days...weeks? 

She wonders if it would make a difference to tell them that she is their princess.

She recalls her haggard state and wonders if they’d believe her.

She approaches them.

She opens her mouth. She knows that she had.

But the blackness overtakes her--she isn’t sure if she had gotten any word out. Her body, spent and at its limit trembles all over even in sleep. She doesn’t wake up for some time. And when she does, she wakes alone. Alone and somewhere entirely new. 

Her heart thunders in her chest; where have they taken her? Is she dead? It’s dark. She chokes out a little sob. She doesn’t know where she is or how she got there. She shivers; what if she has gotten herself mixed up with the slave traders? Agni, can’t the universe at least let her die a free woman?

But her hands, her ankles...they aren’t bound.

Curiously, her middle doesn’t ache quite as terribly. They, whoever they are, must have fed her. 

Azula sits up and the tarp falls away. She looks around and her eyes fall upon a stocky man with a full beard and ample eyebrows. “What…?” She gestures to the tarp. The man catches it before it can blow away entirely.

“It was to keep the sun off of you.” The man says gruffly. He is a soldier. She thinks that she recognizes him. She can’t put a name to a face right now, neither can she put it to a memory.

Still shaking, she rakes her hands through her hair. 

Her hair!

Her dismay must have registered on her face because the man states plainly, “Matted. We wouldn’t have been able to comb it so we cut it.”

She falls back to the floor of the cart. It doesn’t matter. Long, lustrous hair is for the dignified anyways. She bunches herself back up. 

“We’ll take you as far as the outskirts of Caldera City, then you fend for yourself.” 

She manages a small nod but inquires, “why did you pick me up at all?”

“We’re not savages. We’re trying to show the world that the Fire Nation isn’t cruel.” The soldier shrugs.

But compared to everywhere else that she has been, it is. Very much so. 

“But we’re not about to give rewards to someone like you.”

“Like me?” It is an impulse to ask.

“Dirty. Dumb. Useless. You haven’t earned your keep.”

And now she recognizes him. He had been one of Admiral Zhao’s subordinates. Arrogant and dumber than he thinks she. She has earned her keep more than thrice over. It isn’t her fault that the universe keeps stealing it away from her. 

It isn’t her fault that the universe has a vendetta against her specifically. That it is trying to give her the fill of bad luck she had missed. Maybe in another fourteen years--maybe eleven to twelve if the years she has suffered already count--she will fall into another era of fortune. 

Maybe if she can last that long.

“You gonna get a job when you get to the outskirts or are you gonna…”

She doesn’t have the patience to listen to him anymore. Doesn’t have the patience for small minded assumptions and baseless judgements. She doesn’t have the emotional energy to deal with her own former ideals thrown back at her again. And again. And again…

She isn’t sure how many times she has to pay for them.

When it will end. 

When the world will finally acknowledge that she is doing her best. That she isn’t evil through and through; that she is just a woman who wants a home and peace of mind…

The rocking of the cart jars and unsettles her.

She thinks that she has learned it quite a while back but more subtly, kindly; that day she learns not to sneer at those who are down on their luck. She doesn’t know them. They don’t know her.

.oOo.

She is almost overwhelmed by how much attention she is getting. Mostly it is from Sokka who holds her as close as he physically can. But it is from Zuko too, who fixes her some tea (“just the way uncle always makes it!”) and from TyLee who gushes over what a caring mother she is until her cheeks grow red. It comes from Mai who brings her scrolls to read and occupy her mind with. From the servants and Lo and Li...

Caihong hasn’t spoken with her since she delivered the bad news nearly four days ago. 

“Trust me. Children are just like that.” Ursa insists. “She’ll come around.” 

But Azula hadn’t. 

She still hasn’t. 

She is still angry with the woman. 

The woman who had left her feeling neglected and hated for much of her life. The woman who, with uncle in tow, finally made her appearance--and at the worst possible time--two days prior. 

And yet the woman has her hand on the small of her back and rubs in small circles. At least Iroh knows to keep his distance. But really, aside from the lashing of her tongue, there isn’t a particular risk in pestering her. 

Ursa reaches out and grazes her fingers over the scar on Azula’s neck. The princess flinches back and her mother grimaces. 

“What happened, dear?”

“Ask Zuzu.” She is so tired and she doesn’t feel like explaining it again. She really doesn’t feel like dealing with more pity. 

“She’s been through a lot.” Sokka takes his seat at the edge of the bed. “And she can use some fresh air. Let's go for a walk, Azula.”

“I’d rather not.”

“You shouldn’t just sit in your room all day.”

“I’m not. I leave occasionally to get something to eat and have my bath…” 

“What about to socialize?”

Azula crinkles her nose and he laughs. She is in utter distress and he is laughing. “Talking to people isn’t that bad. Look how nice all of the Earth Kingdomers were to you.” He gestures to her journal. 

She takes it in her hands and stares at it for sometime before shoving it into Ursa’s arms. “Talk to me when you’re done reading it.” 

“Azula--!?”

“You haven’t even read the first page yet.” She scoffs. 

“You shouldn’t be so mean to your--”

Azula cuts him a glare.

“Strawberry garden, let’s check on that.” This time it is a nervous laugh. 

She grabs his hand and quite roughly. She doesn’t mean to be so rough, but he doesn’t even flinch. Caihong is already in the garden when they arrive, babbling away with TyLee. She holds Bao up with a delighted squeal. 

Azula sits down next to the child who turns around with a “hmph!” 

“Oh come on, Caihong,” TyLee tries, “Azula really wants to talk to you. She cares about you a lot.”

Caihong folds her arms, “nuh-uh, she makes me sad.” 

Azula’s stomach flutters. 

“Sometimes bad things happen, Cai.” Sokka tries. “She didn’t make this thing happen she was only telling you what happened.” He pauses. “Don’t you think you would have been sadder if that bad guy took you back to WuJing and no one was there?”

Caihong’s pout grows. 

“At least now you have me and TyLee and Zuko and…” He lifts her up and turns her around to face Azula, “you have a mom.”

“My mom died.” She says plainly, fidgeting with Bao’s claws. “‘S not fair.” 

“No kidding…” Sokka mutters. “My mom died too. Sometimes there are just bad people, Caihong. And they take really good people away. But there are lots of other good people and you have to talk to them.” He scoops her up and plops her into Azula’s lap. 

“But…”

“Is Azula a bad person?” TyLee asks.

Azula cringes at the question coming from her.

“Did she do something bad to you?”

Caihong looks up at her with those bright green eyes and shakes her head. 

“Did she do something good for you?”

Another glance is accompanied by an affirmative nod. “Lots of good things.” Caihong mumbles into Bao’s head. 

“So why are you mad at her?” Sokka asks. 

Caihong thinks for a moment, “she told me about the bad people.”

“And you didn’t want to hear it?”

Caihong shakes her head again. 

“Would you have rather heard it from someone else?”

Another head shake. This time her little fingers curl around Azula’s hand. 

“Do you still want Azula to be your mommy!?” TyLee clasps her hands together. 

Caihong pauses, squeezing and squeezing Azula’s hand before nodding once more.  Caihong nuzzles her cheek against Azula’s chest and Azula holds her close. She strokes at the child’s hair. “Bao and I were having a cave adventure.” 

“A cave adventure?”

“Mmhmm, see.” Caihong points at a small hole that she dug right in the middle of Azula’s strawberry garden. The princess sighs. 

“Did you find anything in the caves?”

“Rubies!” She declares, gesturing to the slain corpses of her strawberries. 

“Those rubies weren’t ready to be mined yet.” She mumbles. 

She isn’t sure why, but Caihong laughs. People, she decides, laugh at the strangest things. “You can plant more rubies, mom!” 

Mom…

Mother…

She could have had so much…

.oOo.

Even after tucking a newly happy and babbling Caihong in, Azula is very quiet. Sullen and withdrawn. Sokka sets a platter of roast duck on her nightstand, “you didn’t come to dinner?”

“I’m not hungry, Sokka.”  She doesn’t look away from the ceiling. She absently toys with the curtains draped over her bed. He doesn’t push her this time, though he decides that he will be delivering an extra nice breakfast to her in the morning. He lays himself down next to her. He very nearly springs back up, unsure if they have reached a point where she is comfortable with him laying on her bed. But she rolls over and reaches for his hand. 

“You haven’t even changed out of your day clothes.” He observes. 

She gives a slight shrug, “they’re comfortable enough. I’ve…”

“Slept in worse?” He rolls his eyes. 

She nods. 

“You’re going to be alright, Azula.” He promises. 

“Perhaps.” 

He sighs, they have been so focused on reassuring Caihong that he has forgotten to comfort Azula. He is certain that the princess has been neglecting herself too. “Ya know, everything we said about family applies to you too? Do you want Caihong to be your child?” 

“Of course, Sokka. I wouldn’t have gone through all of that trouble if I didn’t.” 

“Do you…” He swallows. “Do you want a new lover? A new husband?”

She is quiet for a very long time but she doesn’t withdraw her hand. “I don’t want to replace Hajime.” 

“I don’t want to replace him.” Sokka replies. “I want you to talk about him and tell me about him. But I want to be Sokka, I don’t want to take you on the kinds of dates Hajime took you on, I want to…”

She presses her fingers to his lips. “You talk too much. I got the point the first time.” She rolls back onto her back. “I know that you aren’t replacing anyone. You are Sokka. That’s good enough for me.” 

He takes his chances with moving closer to her. Having success, he slides his arm around her waist. She is quiet for another long span. It might have left him feeling anxious had she not let him trace his finger over the line of the scar on her belly. It is rougher in comparison to her otherwise delicate skin. 

“I don’t think that ‘good enough’, is exactly the right phrase.” She speaks again. “It’s…” she trails off. “It’s something new and it’s...it’s just as special.”  

[frostsinth]

Lost Time - Pt. 2

- Part 1 - MasterList -

Apologies to everyone waiting for this update! I forgot I had mostly finished it and got side tracked with the Raffle winners. But here it is! I hope it was worth the wait.

Check out my MasterList above for other ramblings, and feel free to BuyMeACoffee while you’re there. If you’d like to commission a story or art piece, DM me for details.

I appreciate the comments, reblogs, and asks you guys always send! They make my day and give me life! Thanks for being so great! (Tag request: @decadentsoulbiscuitgoth)

I gasped, my heart racing, my head throbbing. I felt my hands moving of their own accord, searching for something to grab onto. Trying to anchor myself in the spinning void. There was a distant sound, a familiar sound, but I couldn’t place it. I was consumed by the sensation of falling, tumbling. Without an up or down to orient myself. Images flashed past me, blurred and indistinct at first. None lingered long enough for me to focus, and seemed to be wiping past me like trees out the window of a moving carriage. I opened my mouth, tried to scream. Tried to make a sound of any kind. I couldn’t tell if anything came out.

There! A light, a gap amid the strange assault. It spun and drifted, but it seemed to be moving with me. I reached toward it, felt my fingers scrape the edge. Then they passed through it, like an incorporeal cloud. Sparks zapped across my skin, leaving behind tingling skin. But the light shifted, pulsing. Growing larger and coming towards me. Before I could react I was engulfed, and had to close my eyes against the searing light or else be blinded. I instinctively moved my hands to shield my face, but couldn’t tell if I was really moving them at all.

“She can’t have gone far, My Queen,” Came a purring, rasping voice, distant. It sounded like smoke and tasted like sulfur. My heart skittered at the sound of it. “We’ll find her.”

“See that you do.” Another voice, female. Cold, angry.

I blinked, searching through the fading light. But all I could see were outlines and shadows. Blurs at the edges of my vision. A huge form, hulking and glowing as if on fire, though everything was bathed in that unnaturally blinding light. Another, smaller, more slender, more delicate. I sensed the second turn, sensed its eyes settling on me. My breath stopped, my heart raced. I pushed myself back, scrambled to get away. I sensed the figures retreating, as if sucked into a singular distant point; shrinking and swirling as they disappeared like draining water. Then I realized they had not moved. I had. Jerked back from a tether around my middle which bent me in two. I could see my limbs trailing behind me. Could see the tips of my long blonde hair, snapping and cracking like whips as I was yanked away. Tossed back into the swirling mass of images and sounds. A loud ringing was filling my ears, and I tried to scream again.

I woke in a cold sweat, choking on my heart in my throat. I sat up sharply, looking this way and that, my eyes wild. I quickly swiveled my feet out from the furs, moving to stand. I wasn’t sure why, I couldn’t piece together the jumbles of in-cohesive thoughts in my mind. I just suddenly felt this strange urgency. This deep set fear. I needed to move. I needed to run, and keep running. And when I thought I had run enough, I needed to run some more. I pushed off the bed to climb to my feet in the same fluid motion as I had swung my legs free.

I cried out as my bad ankle gave out beneath me, and fell to the stone floor. My rough descent had me jarring my shoulder painfully, but in my confused state, I merely wriggled to try and get my feet under me again. I was shaking so hard my palms slid, unable to find purchase. A growling grunt had me jumping again, and the ground shook just before a large form suddenly crouched down beside me.

“Anha wet, Shikobakin,” Came a deep, soothing voice, “Shie’ka natwe.”

I jerked my head up as a big hand came to rest between my shoulder-blades. As my blue eyes settled on the dark green face with broad features and copper eyes, it all started to come rushing back to me. Well, at least the previous day; waking in the forest. Twisting my ankle. Being rescued by Njord and carried to his home. But the hollow echo of a life forgotten weighed heavily down upon me as I strained to push beyond the dense fog that shrouded everything beyond yesterday.  I let out a breath I didn’t know I had been holding, then gasped at the air as if I had just emerged from beneath the surface of a lake. Each following breath came out ragged, then sucked into my lungs painfully. The big hand at my back rubbed soothingly up and down. As I came to my senses, I shifted, sitting back on my bottom. Stretching my legs out in front of me and wincing in pain as my bad ankle was jarred but hardly noticing it besides. I was still shaking, and I brought my clasped hands to my chest, hugging them to myself in an effort to still the motion.

Njord shifted, dropping one knee to the ground and leaning his elbow across the other. He considered me quietly from the side of his eye, his hand still at my back. I glanced over at him, shaking my head. Wishing to explain my behavior, or reassure him I was fine. My mouth flapped open and closed uselessly a few times, like a fish out of water. Unable to form the lies he wouldn’t understand.

“Netka non fa’alsita,” He murmured, “Anha wet.”

I craned my neck back, looking up at him, still quivering. I felt clammy and cold, as if someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over me. But I latched onto the sound of his voice, shaking my head again and bringing my shaking hands to my face. I laid my palms flat against my eyes, attempting to push away whatever dream or memory had so unsettled me. It was in vain; my shoulders shook even more and I felt tears stinging my eyes as my throat began to burn. It was even more unsettling as I had only the fear. I had no memory of what had caused it, which only frightened me even more. I longed to let it sink away with the rest of my life buried in the heavy fog.

I started as I suddenly found myself hoisted delicately from the ground. A moment later, I was enveloped in big, strong arms. Each nearly as thick as I was wide. My hands dropped in time to catch a glint of his copper eyes before Njord buried me in his chest. Creating a safe cocoon of dark green muscle and flesh. He held me firmly, all but forcing my tremors to cease, but also as gently as if I were made of glass. I didn’t bother to try to resist; for one thing, I doubted I could wriggle myself loose from his clutches. For another, I sincerely didn’t want to.

There was no explicable reason why; I didn’t know this man. Hell, I was pretty sure I didn’t even know what he was. And yet I didn’t care. I turned into his broad chest, ensconcing myself in his embrace. I drew in long, deep breaths of his musky scent, and even reached my arms up to wrap around his thick neck.

I felt his posture change as I did, and felt a bolt of electricity shoot down my spine unrelated to the lingering fear. Neither of us chose to acknowledge it though; the feeling we shared in that moment. One that needed no words. He grounded me, like an anchor in a storm, and I clung to him almost desperately for fear of being swept away. There was no space to consider anything else. I squeezed my eyes shut and tightened my grip around him. And slowly, my trembling eased. Then stopped altogether.

I took one last long, deep breath against his skin, then let it out. I started to lean back from his touch, and almost as soon as I did, I felt his arms loosening. I turned my gaze up to his face, and he side eyed me, half turned towards the back of the cave. But the corner of his mouth turned up, and his thick lips curled around his huge tusks.

“Yukna vat.” He said softly, and one big hand came up. With just his thumb, he pushed the long strands of my hair back from my face.

“I’m sorry...” I breathed, even though I knew he couldn’t understand me. 

I shook my head, looking away from him. There was not even a hint of the memory of what had set me off, but I still felt that lingering urge to bolt. To run far and run fast. It left me on edge, and I jumped at the sound of a branch snapping beyond the entrance of the cave. My heart faltered and my breathing skipped.

Njord paid it no mind, and his thumb traced distractedly down the edge of my hairline. “Netka non fa’alsita.” He told me, his deep voice echoing ever so faintly around the cave.

I peered up at him through my pale lashes, frowning slightly. He had said that before. Just after he had first come to my side. I saw him chew his lip thoughtfully, tilting his big head to the side. Seeming to appraise my questioning look.

“Netka non fa’alsita.” He said again, then lifted his hand, tapping the side of his head. He pointed to the bed, and laid his cheek over his knuckles. Closing his eyes. Even giving a few comically loud snores for effect. I felt a smile coming unbidden to my lips as I watched. When his copper eyes opened again, he tapped his temple, then made a deeply unhappy face. “...Netka non fa’alsita.”

I glanced over at the bed. “Neh..tukuh non fall see tah,” I echoed, working my lips around the foreign words.

He gave a grunt that came from somewhere deep in his chest. “NeTKa non fa’ALsita.” He repeated, emphasizing the strange sounds that he seemed to form in his throat rather than his mouth.

“Netka non fa’alsita.” I tried again, and managed a shy semblance of similarity to his.

He nodded approvingly, then made the sour face, reaching out to tap my temple lightly before pointing to the bed. “Netka non fa’alsita, Shikobakin.”

“Nightmare...“ I translated, and took note of the curve of my palms cupped in my lap to avoid minding the shiver that rippled over my skin at his touch.

His big fingers came under my chin, scooping it gently until I met his eye again. Unabashed by our close proximity to each other. Unashamed to brush his skin against mine and meld my warmth with his. I wondered briefly if it was a part of his own personality or a social construct of his species.

“Nit...Niightmaar.”

My smile returned as I recognized his near perfect attempt to mimic me. “You’re better at mine than I am at yours.” I complimented him.

He tilted his head, looking down over his broad cheek at me. Frowning. I wracked my brain for a moment, then nodded my head and smiled.

“Good.” I told him, then exaggerated my smile and nodded again. “Good.”

He considered this, then tipped his own chin at me. “Guh-d.” At my smile, he gave another deep rooted snort. “Ars’tok.” He grinned, showing all of his teeth, and I looked at him in surprise. It changed the shape of his face, and while the teeth themselves were large, set into the exaggerated smile made him an almost laughable sight. “Guh-d. Ars’tok.”

“Ars...TOkKK.” I almost spit at him, trying to make the deep throated accent as he did. It was less like his, however, and sounded more like I was choking on something.

A great booming sound emerged from him at my attempt, blasting into me with powerful reverberation and echoing around the cave. At first I jumped, but so accompanied was the roaring by his honest grin, that I quickly realized I was not in danger. After another belated moment, I realized he was in fact laughing, and felt my face flush.

“Easy for you to mock!” I scoffed, crossing my arms. “You’re apparently a natural at Common.”

His loud laughter subsided into quiet chuckles at my voice, and he lifted up one hand to gently cuff my jaw with his knuckles. He said something in his own tongue that I didn’t catch, but the amusement in his tone was plain. His thumb tapped my chin, and I heard him speak the name he had given me. He said it with a tenderness that surprised me, and made my heart flutter again.

I realized I was still settled in his lap, his big legs as sturdy as any chair. My face flushed for an entirely different reason. I twisted in place, trying to hide the new shade settling across my features and hoping he wouldn’t notice. I could see his head cock slightly out of the corner of my eye, considering my sudden shift.

I reached down and ran my hands over my swollen ankle, using it as an excuse. I winced, for it was still hot to the touch and extremely tender. And perhaps it was my imagination, but it looked more swollen than the day before to me. 

“...Di’chin yiya?” He asked, and I recalled the words from the previous evening.

I wasn’t given time to answer, and gave a soft squeak as he scooped me up into his arms. Again, I reached for something to hold onto, feeling perilously close to falling despite the fact that his arms all but completely engulfed me as he tucked me back to his chest. My own arms ended up back around his neck, and I felt his chest vibrate as he chuckled softly again. If possible, my cheeks began to burn hotter at that. I pretended to be concerned with where we were going, rather than the proximity of his bare chest and thick neck to my face. Not that there were many options.

He swept aside the canvass covering at the entrance with one hand, easily balancing me in the other, then walked over to set me beside the firepit again. He gathered up some more smoked meat, dropping to a cross-legged seat next to me so heavily the ground shook.

“Tikke.” He told me, holding out the fish meat. As I gingerly took it, he pointed to it again. “Tikke. Tikke.”

A wry smile twisted one side of my mouth at the eagerness in his voice. I gestured with the fish, to show him I understood what he meant. I hesitated. The word was not hard, or at least, didn’t seem to be. Yet my previous humiliation was still quite fresh in my mind.

Njord shoved my shoulder gently with his bent fingers. “Tikke!” He pressed, pointing to the meat.

I opted for a shy glance at him out the corner of my eye. “... Tick-key?”

His grin chewed up half his face, at least what I could see of the good side he always kept facing me, and pushed his copper eyes into his heavy brow. He nodded eagerly. “Ars’tok…” Somehow, he found more room for his smile to grow a few molars. “Guh-d.”

I returned his smile, wondering if he was humoring me. I took a bite, chewing it thoughtfully, glancing around. I started slightly as his hand came up, shoving me lightly again. When I turned back to him, he pointed back at the fish. Then gave a grunt, tapping my shoulder before pointing at it again.

My lips split with my fresh smile, and I almost laughed. “Fish.” I told him, holding up the meat.

His brow screwed up, and he moved his lips for a moment before speaking. “Fii-ssh.”

I nodded. “Good.” I held it up again. “Fish.”

“Fisshh. Fii… Fishh.” He repeated, then seemed pleased with himself. I saw him looking around himself as I took another bite of the meat. He picked up a nearby rock, showing it to me. “Wutbat.” He told me.

I did laugh now, and shook my head. He grunted, frowning, and holding up the rock again. He repeated the word, showing me the rock and pointing as well.

“Wutbat.” I echoed, more confidently and trying unsuccessfully to hide my amusement. 

He grunted again and nodded, then tried to pass me the rock. I scrambled to move the remainder of my breakfast to the other hand to take it from him. In his fist it had looked small, but my hand dropped slightly under its weight. He pointed to it, then to me. Gesturing and waving with his hand. My smile never faltered; I could hardly believe my own enjoyment of his eagerness.

“Rock.” I told him.

His eyes lit up. “Rock.” He repeated, without any issues. His long arm reached out, plucking up another and turning it around in his hands. “Rock. Roockk.”

I tossed mine off to the side, wiping my hand on my pants to get off the worst of the dirt. I saw his copper eyes looking around again, and quickly finished off the meat before he could find something else to shove into my hands. He noticed I was finished and stood, walking over to the cave entrance and scooping up his broadsword.

“Oh, please don’t drop that on me,” I begged, still grinning, “It’ll crush me.”

Njord gave one of his deep snorts, tilting his head to the side. His face appeared quizzical, heavy brow lightly scrunched over his broad nose but eyes bright. I wondered if he had a concept of what I had said, or was merely trying to decipher the tone. He shrugged his big shoulders then showed me the sword, twisting it this way and that in his hand. As easily as if it were merely a branch, rather than a few dozen pounds of cold hard iron.

“Sword.” I told him quickly, before he could prompt me. He grinned back at me, and made a few attempts before getting the word right.

“Tu’kegee.” He returned, and spun the sword deftly as if striking down an imaginary opponent.

Hearing the deep sound he produced in his throat to say the word, I shook my head. “Not this again.” I almost groaned.

His grin returned, and he displayed a few more practiced strikes with the blade. “Tu’kegee.” He repeated, then again as he spun and swung the heavy sword at the air behind him.

I was a little awestruck by his movements, and watched quietly. He seemed to enjoy having me as an audience, and executed a few more maneuvers. His big muscles moved with powerful grace, his shoulders exposed without the armor from the previous day. I felt a strange tickling in my chest as I watched, and my fingertips tingled. He repeated the word after each stroke and blow, and after a final, powerful downward sweep which had him using both hands, he settled his copper eyes on me once more. Jerking his square chin at me.

I sighed, rubbing at the back of my neck. “Tuckeggee.” I mumbled, not even bothering to try the throaty sound.

He grinned, digging the end of his sword into the ground and dropping to one knee beside me. “Ars’tok, Shikobakin.”

My breath caught in my throat as I looked up at him, his face only a few inches from mine. I saw him stiffen slightly as well, his smile slowly shrinking as some unknown thoughts drifted through the depths of his copper eyes. He watched me for a second, his eyes moving back and forth between mine. I swallowed, forcing a small smile onto my face.

“I’m not trying that one again.” I murmured. With him so close, I certainly didn’t have to speak loudly.

He studied my face, his lips tweaking slightly as he seemed to attempt to decipher my tone. A few strands of his dark brown hair fell around his eyes, and I had an itch to push them back out of his face. I barely managed to resist. A sonorous grunt came from his chest, soft despite the strength of it. It seemed a good match to my own soft words, as if an answer in and of itself. But he didn’t move, lingering with our breath intermingling in the air between us. After a few breaths like this, his big hand came up, skimming his fingertips along my jaw. I wondered if he had felt that strange tingling to touch me, as I did. I couldn’t explain it, but couldn’t help leaning into his grazing fingers slightly; almost imperceptibly.

There was a distant snap of a branch that broke the moment, and both of us shifted. Pulling away. The sound of the snap was followed by a different, softer sound. It was too strange to place, and I was far too distracted to analyze it.

Another grunt, deeper and louder this time, and he shook his head. Dropping his hand away and standing. He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye, then jerked his head towards the forest. Words of his own language came flowing out from between his thick lips, and I watched them form in a daze as he gathered up his armor and strapped it to each shoulder. I found I liked the way the straps sinched to his chest, and had to slap my cheek lightly to stop myself from staring. He turned at the noise, raising the brow on his good side. I gave him a sheepish smile. No use trying to explain to him that I found him very distracting… I wouldn’t even know how to begin.

He grunted again, coming back over with some grumbling words I couldn’t distinguish. Even if I had the vocabulary to understand them. But short of a discussion about fish, rocks, and bad dreams (and a very brief discussion at that), it was not likely to be a very lively conversation.

The strange sound was louder, pulling my attention back to it. It was a skittering, scritching sound. Filling the air. Like something scurrying around through the leaves. No… many somethings. It seemed more familiar now, and set me on edge. I looked around, one hand reaching for Njord almost nervously. He seemed wary as well, and I found his hand reaching out at the same time as mine. The hairs on the back of my neck shot up, just before hissing, chittering snarls filled the forest around us...

...

To be continued...

[havebruises]

“Cauterizing a Wound” with Warren + Mitchell requested by...I can’t remember but it was probably @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi and they’re Warren’s hurt tag list anyway! for @badthingshappenbingo​

requests open

cw: | captivity + restraints | injuries, knives + blood | light choking | nausea | noncon touch | intimate whumper | burning, obviously | blink + you’ll miss it suicidal ideation

-

“I don’t know why you cry so much. You’re not exactly made of porcelain, doll.”

Warren gave a half-coughed laugh, because it sure felt like he was, after all the bruises and fractures and injuries. A toy some naughty child had smashed against the wall without knowing how fragile he was on the surface. Blood-brushed bisque cracked all the way over with no hope of repair.

Normally, something so broken wouldn’t be allowed near anyone’s hands, for risk of the shattered material cutting up vulnerable fingers. He would be trashed, simple as that. But Mitchell had no worries guiding his touch over bare unwilling skin. It wouldn’t cut him. Warren wasn’t made of pottery. He was flesh. He had nerves, sparking with pain unlike any real doll and it was so gratifying feeling him twitch with agony.

He was soft, too, under calloused hands. Shaking and taut as a wire against his restraints where his limbs were spread out on the table, wrists above his head and ankles down at either corner of it, leaving him forcibly exposed like the knife sessions. Despite the icy metal surface, lying on the table ended up being the rare place he felt warmth in this place- from the constant intimate touches, and from the smears of fresh blood all over his right thigh. Mitchell loved to have one hand on a blade and the other hand smoothed over some vulnerable part of his body. He supposed it should have been a relief, to no longer be so cold. All it did was make him more sensitive to the pain.

Mitchell had won the scuffle an hour prior. The first time Warren had ever really tried to fight, had had the opportunity to fight in weeks- and he’d screwed it up. Warren had been pinned on his back with Mitchell’s knees squeezing his sides, both of the man’s hands on his jaw looking over cuts and bruises like they were reflections in a crystal. The sudden indignant rage that swelled in his chest and knotted up his stomach prompted him to make a move for the blade Mitchell had set aside nearby. The confidence that assuming he wouldn’t try at least- it was disgusting.

As sudden as the decision was, Warren wasn’t quick enough to avoid a big hand snatching his wrist. It squeezed him so hard he thought it might snap in multiple places, forcing him to let go of the knife. It had clattered to the ground and Mitchell simply released the boy’s wrist and scooped it up. One hand pressed down firmly across the front of Warren’s trachea while he adjusted his stance atop the redhead and sunk the knife-tip recklessly against soft flesh. 

“You know better! What were you thinking?” Mitchell hissed, affronted.

Warren choked and grasped at Mitchell’s wrist, trying to pry it away from his neck with a short scream as the sharp edge cut into the muscle of his thigh like it was paper. Slow at first, dancing a thin jagged line into his skin.

Then, it hilted without warning. A massively impulsive gesture from someone who always took his time with every cut, and had moments of thought between each blow. His captor usually made sure he had the time and energy and meaning required to make every move count. Like someone was scoring his infliction of emotional damage. Like he was being judged by how long he could keep the boy from bleeding out while still making him scream.

This wound in the boy’s leg was agonizing and risky and Mitchell hadn’t thought ahead, but the penetrative motion of it just felt so pleasurable that he didn’t even move at first. He just watched Warren gasp, the poor young man shivering hard to remain still rather than squirm and make it worse. Warren had been there long enough to understand that twisting about always made it worse. His chest still heaved under Mitchell, and his eyes had rolled so nicely in the moment. The fingernails digging into the man’s wrists were easily ignored for the sweet whine that trailed down in the back of Warren’s throat.

Even now, standing above his doll at the body-slab table and cleaning the messy flesh that betrayed Warren’s lack of porcelain- it had been worth it. Mitchell was already considering doing it again. He just wished he had someone else to take care of the mess afterward.

The deep slice had been scrubbed out, but it still bled in rich pulses and pooled over the edge of Warren’s thigh into a puddle at the crease between his leg and the shining metal of the table. It’d be an issue if Mitchell simply decided to stitch it up. A life-threatening, pallid sort of issue unsolved by even deep tissue sewing.

And whoever had any fun with something as small and painless as a needle and thread? It was worth the risk of infection, in Mitchell’s eyes. Well worth it.

Oh, and how Warren wailed when he saw the slim metal rod heat up to that telltale matte coal-red, smoke flickering in the air above it. His arms strained beside him and his wild eyes met Mitchell’s, pleading with him- begging- offering him anything in return for that implement not going in where the knife had only so soon ago came out. He could feel the thick blade’s path in his leg and he knew where that iron would go. 

“Stop stop stop wait--”

A rough hand clapped over his forehead and shoved his head down with a clunk, not wanting to stop those sweet cries but also refusing to let him jerk around like an animal and harm himself. That was Mitchell’s job, as Warren was so often reminded. It was usually an accident, when Warren hurt himself- so far, anyway. The mad grab for the knife had been the closest the redhead had gotten to trying to kill himself, and only because the motion had been so monumentally stupid that Mitchell might have just killed him for it. But Warren was apparently worth the trouble.

“Shh, doll,” his captor called down to him, with a little smirk that implied he didn’t really hate the sobs. “This is for your own good, why are you crying this time?”

He dropped the heavy iron tip down and let it graze the side of Warren’s thigh, the boy’s breath catching as he fell silent to the sound of soft sizzling. His leg felt aflame, like laying his palm flat on the hot metal of a stove only he couldn’t wrench himself away. He arched his spine sharply, but the restraints held him as safely as they always did.

The tip of the iron moved inward, toward the oozing wound, then- inside it. 

Warren yowled, mouth wide open and teeth bared, eyes wide and fists white-knuckled and shaking as Mitchell wiggled the implement into his slickened, open flesh, searing shut any split veins in the way of it. That’s all it took blissfully, the boy’s eyes rolling back and his body falling limp other than the tremble overtaking his whole body and his short panting breaths, sweat sheening his skin. He hardly twitched when Mitchell pulled the iron out and turned it off, setting it aside on the table to cool.

He woke to the scent of cooked meat, burnt hair, and antiseptic, the stench lingering in the air with the misplacement of a friendly barbeque in a morgue basement. It roiled his stomach instantly, and he had to clench his jaw and swallow hard to keep from vomiting. He’s freezing and wet, the table still dripping with water from the hose- though his leg had been towelled off and there was a dry tautness on his skin that implied bandaging. He couldn’t find the energy to move his head and look.

He didn’t want to. There was a dull, hollow pain that radiated up and down either side of his leg, leaving the outside of the radius numb from exhausted nerves and half-consciousness. The muscle in his thigh twitched on its own and he winced every time.

Mitchell leaning above him took up all his vision, toweling off his hands. Warren, shaking and pale, was most striking when splattered in blood. His red hair stuck thinly and contrasted to his forehead, and his lips were bruised and bright from being bitten.

Gorgeous, Mitchell thought, saying nothing. Warren said nothing. The silence was loaded with terror, matched in equal measure by his tormentor’s pleasure. He felt as if his pain was worthless in that way. It meant nothing, and the helplessness that curled around in his gut whenever he noticed it would be distracting- but for the pain.

He’d never felt such pain, even long after the iron had cooled. The sheer amount of it brought blackness into the edges of his vision, framing his captor in a closing tunnel. Soon Warren was overtaken again, finding blessed peace in unconsciousness lying flat on the table.

There was a time when he’d first arrived that he’d fought sleep. He wasn’t fighting anymore.

Warren was nothing less than grateful for it now.

[angelharness]

serious forewarning that this did not come out wholesome at all and is. pretty much entirely angst. heed the warnings!!

BLOOD AND ASPHALT

WARNINGS: plenty of blood, violence, medical inaccuracies 

LAURIE STRODE

Lampkin Lane.

You fall to the ground, a square of damp, flattened grass shielded by a picket fence; your fingers are shaking horribly but move with intent as you force open the plastic clasp of a medkit. You dig blindly through its contents which clink coldly — medical scissors, rolls of gauze, wound dressings, septics. You’re not familiar with these instruments and feel a new, fierce wave of anxiety setting in your system.

Your blood is hot, blooming fast across the fabric stuck to your side with a sick red. Adrenaline has muddled the pain mostly, but you can feel it wearing, subsiding to a gradual burn. 

There’s the damp squelching of muddy turf, footsteps, and you sit up straighter. 

You nearly scream when a figure rounds the corner, but your eyes settle quickly and your heart stills from its momentary fright. A strong face mellowed by tired blue eyes, gently tousled blonde hair. Laurie.

She exhales your name in a breath of relief, though that same breath is sucked back in when she sees your wound, raw and burning, glinting in the weak moonlight.

“Oh, oh no,” she starts, and falls to your side, already gently peeling your shirt up. The cold air stings at first, though its icy breath is soothing on the searing flesh. Your fingers curl around her wrist, “Laurie.”

She looks up at you questioningly, eyes gentle, caring, but sparking also with a will. 

You’ve only been here a short while (however that translates into this realms dubious system of time), but you know you can’t rely on others.

Bill pressed you on it, then David, mockingly, which still stung, and even Yui with a cold, “there’s not always gonna be someone around to help you.”

That’s true, of course, and such an unforgiving environment as this seems to favor selfishness for the sake of survival. That’s not to say altruism can’t bloom in these drab conditions, for you’ve seen it, sparse in occurrence but certainly present. But it certainly doesn’t thrive, and the climate of this realm is unfavorable. 

You don’t want to become reliant on your teammates, though — you don’t want to be a burden. Don’t want to weigh down your peers. 

“I’m fine,” you say after a pause for thought. “I can do it myself.”

Laurie looks uncertain, and rightfully; she’s been around much longer than you have, you’ve gathered, and you’ve seen how expertly she utilizes a toolbox. You, however, are clumsy and uncoordinated with your tools. Your fingers are inelegant, graceless, work sloppily over the exposed wires of a generator. Her hands move purposefully, familiarized. 

You don’t want Laurie to think you’re weak. You’d hope at that she’d scamper off so she wouldn’t have to watch you struggle to tear off a strip of gauze with your teeth, but she lingers, concerned.

“Just let me,” she insists. This time her voice is firmer. 

You suck in a shaky, pained breath. You’d rather not burn time quarreling while you bleed out at a concerning rhythm, but you don’t want to be rude, either. You turn away from her, lip caught painfully under your teeth to force down agonized whimpers. 

Laurie hisses your name, her hand on your shoulder. “Stop being so stubborn! Please, let me help you.”

It’s not anger when you swat her hand away and recoil. Not anger or malice the way you glare at her, but it must hurt. She retreats, then recomposes herself, brows lowering.

“Don’t worry about me,” you plead, softer. She’s moving her mouth, saying something, but it’s drowned out in a sudden, ripping scream. A mass of dark crows flit upward, disturbed, squawking chattily as they dart into the sky. Jane. 

You wince in sympathy, knowing well you never truly get used to the intrusion of the hook. It hurts to hell the first time and hurts still the hundredth time around. You collect yourself though, and take this chance.

“Go help her, I’ll heal up.”

It’s a fair plan. Laurie hesitates initially, then nods shortly and starts off in the direction of the dying wail. 

You watch after her for a moment then return to tending to your wound. The dregs of guilt set in your mind.

Laurie’s a veteran. Over the endlessly burning campfire she tells you about the ghoulish life she led even before the horror of the fog. She always eases it with jokes, “you know how brothers can be,” but you can tell it weighs heavily on her. She’s a tired soul. 

You don’t want her to look down on you, you don’t want her to see you as a teammate. You want something more, tangible and clear, stable, a taste of normalcy.

You pause. You know better than to think like that and try not to dwell on it, busying yourself with the medkit. Tearing open a set of cotton rounds, you unscrew the lid to what you make out to be a disinfectant. You’d prefer to clean the wound properly with warm water first, but you’ll have to make do.

It doesn’t hurt as much as anticipated, though it stings like high hell, but you can bear it through gritted teeth. You dab gently, don’t rub, then wait briefly for it to set in. You carefully apply an ointment over that, then dress it with gauze. Unsure and afraid of cutting off circulation, you wrap it loosely with some room to breathe. A bite of uncertainty tells you you’ve done something wrong, and while you know the pain won’t subside immediately, it’s worrying that it still aches. Throbs, almost. Burns. Your breaths are still unsteady.

It’s quiet. A crow perches on a picnic table beside you, observing you blandly. 

You stand and nearly cry, hand shooting to tentatively cradle the clothed wound. You’ve definitely done something wrong, but you can’t afford to waste more time redressing the skin. Blindly, you grope for the fence, using it to keep yourself upright as you trudge out to the sidewalk.

Jane’s on the hook, still, her hands clawing at the protruding hook, the steady current of blood blackening the pavement below her. Her makeup runs in muddy streaks down her wet cheeks. Where’s Laurie?

You don’t think to look around. The Entity’s system of hooked tendrils web above her, twitching in wicked anticipation, descending. Time is plentiful and endless but somehow there’s never enough.

You start across the street — through slight cries she says something. Your name, then, no, no, no. You don’t connect the dots in time.

A knife in your back, weaseling past the bone of your spine, splitting muscle. Hot, vivid pain, slices of white in your vision.

You can’t scream. Jane does for you, though it’s interrupted. The monstrous purr of The Entity. She grunts with effort, prying away a claw to gasp for air, its dark fingers stabbing at her sides. Your name again, strained.

The Shape looms above you, admiring his work wordlessly. Or perhaps he’s taunting you; it doesn’t translate well onto the mask, if so. You see the wet glint of a blue eye behind the pale rubber, and though it’s a familiar shade (Laurie, you realize) it’s not compassionate like her. It’s dead, dim. You choke.

Above, the dark sky splits, torn open by the spidering talons of this realms unsightly god. Stars wrinkle, the blue expanse folding over itself. Jane’s body is hoisted upward and swallowed into the canvas above, which pours back into place after her.

Michael doesn’t pick you up, to your surprise. You lie there, blinking through tears and grime, sweat on the hot skin of your cheeks. Realizing, frustratingly, he doesn’t want Laurie getting the hatch. He moves, almost entirely silent, along the rows of lawns. His form against the strobing lights of the police car casts a shadow onto the porches of houses as he passes by. He disappears into the brush.

He’s waiting for her. That’s why he left you in the street, your blood spilling slowly out onto the cracked asphalt. A trap, and you’re the unwilling bait.

The night is cold but the ground is hot on your injuries. You try not to move, squeezing your eyes shut. Bleeding out like this may be worse than the hook, you think hatefully, and you suppress little sobs, teeth carving into your bottom lip with how tightly you bite it. 

Laurie’s not dumb. In your head you beg, don’t come for me, just hide, hide, wait it out. You’ll bear the steady agony of a drawn out death if it means she can escape. Laurie’s not dumb. She’s familiar with his tricks, more than anyone else would be. 

You cry when you see her appear on the porch of a house, starting down the stairs, stumbling slightly, tearing across the turf to reach you. 

“Laurie, no,” you sob out. You don’t know if she can hear you; your heartbeat is squelching in your ears. You shake your head but it burns. 

She’s softened by empathy. An empathy unique only to you. It’s sweet. But stupid.

The Shape moves. His knife flickers, a slice of white, the reflection of his mask, a pale crescent, the moon. It slices down.

You cry out again hoarsely. Laurie dives, plunging into the dark concrete, skinning her palms and knees horribly but missing the wide strike of the blade.

She doesn’t make it in time for the second, corrective swing, which catches first in her wrist. Flesh tears. He yanks it out and it descends again, over his head, now colored with blood.

You shut your eyes fiercely, almost painfully, but her scream is horrible. It paints the scene all on its own, the knife, the open muscle.

Mercifully, it’s brief, then he’s lugging her limp figure over his shoulder and starting off in the direction of a hook. 

“Laurie,” you sob. She doesn’t move, mouth agape, sputtering, but her eyes flick in recognition. “Laurie.”

You say her name again and again till it’s painful. Your vision is darkening considerably, but it’s almost comforting. Relief, albeit temporary, is soon. The familiar crackle of the fire. You try to crawl, manage a few inches before you collapse on yourself and breathe shallowly into the floor.

Another scream. It’s worse than the first and you’re taken again by sobs. You force your breathing to even out but can’t help hiccuping and whimpering.

When you struggle your eyes open again, he’s standing in front of you. You can’t make yourself look up, don’t bother trying. You know what comes next and don’t fight when he picks you up and slings you over his shoulder.

Perhaps unintentional, or just to spit in your wounds, he grabs you by the side, fingers sinking into the torn flesh, still tender. It hurts but you’re drunk off of blood loss and can barely register that new flash of anguish. 

“Laurie.”

He stops for a moment. Or maybe he doesn’t (the worlds doing somersaults around you and your vision is reduced to vague shapes), but there’s hesitation. Then he continues. 

You hear the hum of the hatch, a continued note nearly heavenly. Another sob drips out of your throat.

He drops you a few feet from it, makes sure it hurts, leaving you winded and sputtering. He steps back, then, and watches blankly.

You’re not stupid. He’s pulled this stunt before. 

Your hands tighten into claws, raking handfuls of grass, streaking dirt under your nails. You glare at him between coughs, still shaking.

Does he find amusement in it? In gifting you that taunting sliver of false confidence? He’s never expressed it, if that’s the case, though it seems rather that he finds satisfaction in observing his work, the pain it wells.

You crawl toward it, ribs aching so vividly, blades of pain driving up your flesh as you weasel your way forward. Behind you you’ve left a wide streak of blood, almost glittering under the glare of the moon. 

It’s right there, the welcoming roll of black mist exhaling from its depths, the ascending chorus inviting. You don’t react when he slams the hatch shut. The siren gates sound. The collapse begins. 

You chuckle loopily. It spirals into sobs. Bloody and wet and choking. 

Oh, Laurie, you think fondly. She was trying to help. 

You watch Michael step around you, appear again at your side. It’s her blood on that knife. 

Weary, numbed by apathy, you squeeze your eyes shut once more and wait for the fog to roll in. 

[ladyreapermc]

Hiiii I love smutty sunday! Could you do “You should get home quickly…“ „Why?“ „Cause I’m here waiting for with nothing on but my lipstick.“ & “You left lipstick stains all over my cock” With Henry pls & thanks 🥺 I love your writing 🥰

Warning: smut with losts of teasing, a few toys and oral.

Henry let out a long and hard puff of breath as he set the dumbbells down, his biceps burning from the effort, skin hot and sleek with sweat despite being only his second exercise of the training session. His trainer was really demanding everything from him right tonight.

With a quick glance to the clock on the wall, his gaze traveling over the empty gym, Henry sighed, getting ready for his next rep. He still had another hour of this before being able to go home.

After another rep done, Henry set the dumbbells aside and took a sip of his water, his lips tilting into a smile as her name flashed on the screen of his phone seconds before the ringtone echoed in his wireless earbuds.

“Hey love,” he greeted as he answered the call.

“You should get home quickly,” she said, her voice breathless and Henry tensed in concern.

“Why? Everything ok?”

“‘Cause I’m here waiting for you with nothing on but my lipstick.”

Henry groaned, now recognizing that sultry, wanton tone as well as the soft buzzing on the background. His cock responded to it almost like a pavlovian reaction, twitching and pressing against his workout shorts.

“Baby, I’m still at the gym…” he breathed out, taking a seat a little hunched over to hide his not so little problem.

“Then hurry,” she said, her voice hitching a little and Henry could almost picture her legs spread, vibrator moving over her soaked folds. “And come do your cardio at home.”

You set your phone down, a smirk pulling at the corner of your lips. You knew it was a cruel of you to do this with Henry, but he had been out of the house before you had even woken up and you missed him.

More than that, you had been browsing through your photos and found some of his old workout videos and that was enough to set you blood boiling, coursing with thick and heavy arousal.

There was just something so fucking appealing at watching Henry work out, the way his muscles flexed and rippled, the sheen of sweat glistening on his skin, the smell of him musky and powerful and the little grunts of effort he let out, so close to the noises he made while fucking you… Before you knew, you were in bed, playing with yourself, vibrator sliding easily over your pussy, but definitely not nearly enough, hence the call to Henry.

A breathy sigh escaped your lips as the vibrations made your legs quiver and shake, your walls pulsing around nothing and you hoped Henry was on his way because you were driving yourself crazy with desire and you wanted to come on him not on a damn toy.

Kal’s loud barking alerted you to his arrival and you grinned. Usually, you would meet Henry at the door, but tonight you wanted him to be greeted by the sight of you pleasuring yourself.

“Fuck!”

The word was almost a growl and your eyes cracked open to see Henry standing there, his large and broad frame filling most of the doorway, already naked, his eyes dark with lust as he took in the sight of you.

The scent of his musky sweat reached your nose like an aphrodisiac, increasing your arousal, making it coil tight inside your center.

“Henry…” you whimpered, desperate to feel him, teeth sinking on your red painted lips.

The bed dipped with his weight as he crawled on top of you, pressing you to the mattress, his mouth claiming yours in a hard kiss as his hands pulled yours from your center so he could pin your wrists above your head.

“We both know you can’t cum without my cock or my fingers or my tongue, love” he declared smirking down at you. “I don’t even know why you bother.”

“I can come without them,” you protested and Henry arched an eyebrow at you. “I just don’t want to.”

He was away from you in a flash and you sat up confused to see Henry sitting on the armchair in the corner of the room, the challenge clear in his eyes.

“Is that so?” He said stroking himself. “Go ahead and take care of yourself then. I’ll watch.”

Well, this wasn’t going how you expected.

With a huff, you settled back in bed, bringing the toy back to your pussy, but you couldn’t focus on yourself anymore. Not when you could smell Henry and hear his heaving breathing. It felt silly to even pretend.

So instead, you ditched the vibrator again and crawled over to him on your hands and knees and Henry smirked down at you.

“Babe, please?”

You pouted, giving him big doe eyes, fluttering lids, and everything and Henry chuckled, bending down to kiss you before taking hold of your head and guiding it closer to his cock.

“Earn it,” he said, voice low and husky, sending shivers down your spine.

You let your tongue peek out, running up the underside vein. Henry’s breath caught in his throat, his hand tightening on your hair and you smiled, engulfing the head of his cock, hollowing your cheeks, pushing your tongue against the slit and he groaned.

“Don’t tease,” Henry warned, and you looked up at him, catching his piercing blue eyes. “You’re already in thin ice, love.”

You only pushing more of him in your mouth, keeping an innocent look on your face as you hummed in response and Henry cursed, throwing back his head, fingers digging on your scalp and his hips thrusting up.

“What did I just say?” he growled, pulling you away from him and onto his lap, his hand falling from your hair to your neck, circling loosely.

“Sorry?” you said with a barely contained smirk as you batted your eyes at him and Henry chuckled.

“You left lipstick stains all over my cock,” he commented, looking between your bodies and you smiled.

“It’s a nice shade too,” you commented smugly.

“You’re so cheeky tonight,” he observed, bringing you closer, his lips brushing against your earlobe as he spoke. “Maybe I should fuck that bad behavior out of you.”

“Maybe,” you sighed, that need coiling inside you even tighter, spiking up when Henry ran the pad of his fingers over your folds, spreading your wetness before he tapped your thigh gently and you raised your hips only enough so he could line himself and make you sunk on him.

You moaned together at the feel of Henry stretching and filling you until he bottomed out. He pulled you closer for a searing kiss, before whispering against you lips:

“Just remember, you still haven’t earned your right to cum.”

[filthy-rat]

Alright well now you gotta free him because pent up and angry Dew is best Dew.

HELLA NSFW BELOW THE CUT

“Please…” whines Dewdrop, his voice hoarse and desperate. The bindings on his wrists creak as he tries fruitlessly to touch you.

With a sympathetic sigh, you slide into his lap, one hand skating down to his leaking cock. Still rock hard and ready. As you squeeze his flushed cockhead, smearing that bead of precum along the tip, he bucks as hard as he can with your weight atop him, whining and whimpering with need. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him this frantic, and the knowledge that you’re the cause of this desire has heat pulling hard at your stomach.

“My safeword… is rats,” you whisper in his ear, and your fingers move to the bindings on his wrists. “And as a special treat, for being so good… you get to knot me tonight.” You swallow his tortured moan in a kiss, allowing his long, forked tongue to plunder your mouth. With a flick of your wrist, you finally release him from his bindings.

The change in him is instantaneous.

With a snarl ripping from his throat, he launches himself at you, knocking over the chair in his haste. You land beneath him on the mattress with a shocked gasp, but there’s barely a moment to register this new positioning before he’s rolling you onto your stomach. One clawed hand gathers up your hair and tugs it backward, lifting your head. His stiff cock ruts against the bare curve of your ass, sending a jolt of lust straight to your cunt, and you moan with reckless abandon. He laps a long, wet line from your shoulder to your pulse point, and his teeth bear down on the sensitive skin there, overlapping Aether’s earlier mark. Your head swimming with pleasure and anticipation, it takes you a moment to realize he’s speaking.

“--dare you let him mark you, you’re fucking mine. Mine, you hear me? My slut, my fucktoy.” He snarls, snapping his hips forward and grinding his cock between your cheeks until you whine. “Gonna use your fucking holes till you beg for this cock, you understand me? Not gonna be able to fucking walk for weeks after I’m through with you...”

He gives your hair another yank, burying his nose against your shoulder. He grinds himself against you again and again, panting and growling in your ear like he’s actually fucking you, but not yet. Not yet. Just enough to fan the flames. You whine, and squeeze your thighs together, desperate for stimulation. He growls out a warning, and slaps your bare ass until the skin there is tingling and flushed.

Obediently, you fall still and quiet.

“That’s my good little slut.”

Releasing his grip on your hair, he moves down the length of your body, and lifts your hips until you’re on your knees. 

“Satan below, your ass is fucking perfect,” he purrs, and his mouth connects with the meat of one cheek, teeth sinking into your flesh. He sucks hard and you know there will be a bruise there in the morning. Suddenly, a few clawed fingers are tracing your slick folds -- just a quick swipe against your seam, but you moan regardless, whining when he doesn’t continue. 

“Fuck, you’re soaked.” He yanks your head up again. “Open.” 

Breathing hard, he watches with dark, predatory eyes as you lick your own fluids from his slick fingers. Your teeth scrape gently against the pad of one digit, and he sucks in an involuntary breath. You know you’re misbehaving, teasing him like that, but it’s worth it to see the muscle in his jaw jump.

“You want something bigger than fingers to suck on, baby?” 

He shifts to kneel before you. His cock is tantalizingly close to your face now, and you lick your lips in anticipation. With frankly arousing ease, he rolls you onto your back, and angles his hips downward to slide his cock into your mouth. A shuddering, growling moan escapes him as he thrusts shallowly into you and you gag a little on his girth. Meanwhile, he palms your naked tits, pinching and rolling your nipples until you writhe and whimper.

“Look at you taking my cock so good,” he growls, snapping his hips forward, forcing you to take all of his length in one go. You gag, your eyes watering a little, but you want so badly to please him that you merely give his thighs a squeeze.

He reaches out and drags two long, clawed fingers through your slit, spreading your slick over your swollen clit. Your desperate whines go largely ignored, and when you thrash your hips in a futile attempt for more pressure, he presses a hand to your hips to still you. He continues on, stroking your cunt and pinching your tits and thrusting into your mouth until you’re a sweaty, desperate mess with an ache in your jaw. 

You know better than anyone -- Dewdrop has the stamina to keep this up for hours. 

Eventually, he eases his cock from your mouth, moving around your sweat-slick body until his head is hovering over your hips. He inhales deeply through his nose, shivering, and looks up at you, pupils blown with desire.

“You fucking reek, baby. I betcha the others can smell you from here… wouldn’t be surprised if they’re outside the door listening to you sing for me.” 

He twists his head a little and sinks his teeth into the meat of your thigh, marking you for a third time. With his fingers, he spreads your lips, and leans in to flick his forked tongue against your clit. You writhe and clamp your thighs around his head, and he immediately stops. The loss of stimulation wrenches a desperate, tortured sob from your chest.

“You want me to fuck you with this tongue? Better start begging.”

“Please! Please, I--”

“Please, what?”

“Please, sir! Please lick my pussy, I need --”

He doesn’t even wait for you to finish. With a feral snarl, he surges forward and laps his tongue along your slick seam. Your hands fly to his hair, fingernails scraping against his scalp, as he winds you tighter and tighter and tighter. And just when you’re about to crest that precipice and find some modicum of relief, he

stops.

You whine sharply in distress as he pulls away, suddenly sobbing over the loss of your ruined orgasm. Dewdrop presses a hand on your hips, stilling you.

“Such a fucking brat,” he growls, grasping your hips with bruising firmness until you stop thrashing. “Just reminding you that I say when you come, got it?” 

You nod vigorously, whispering pleas and begging him to continue.

Purring, he lowers his head to your thigh, leaving more searing love bites along the meat of it, inching closer and closer to your drenched cunt. You’ve become practically incoherent, whispering yeses and encouragements the nearer he gets. At long last, he laps that talented tongue across your clit, and in one swift, calculating motion, inserts one finger and then it’s twin into your waiting hole.

You bow off the bed with a cry, clenching around his fingers and clamping your thighs around his head as the tightly-wound band of arousal within your belly snaps. Dewdrop continues on, his head almost glued to your cunt as he licks you through your climax, fingers easing in and out until you’re twitching and gasping from overstimulation. And still

he

continues.

Just as you begged him to resume, now you’re begging him to stop. You writhe and thrash and fucking wail as he brings you to that precipice twice more, before finally, blessedly withdrawing.

You lay on the sweat-drenched sheets, just trying to remember how to breathe, arm draped over your eyes. Distantly, you’re aware of him crawling up the length of your body, nestling his hips between your thighs. He buries his face against the crook of your neck, breathing deep your scent. His cock, hard and hot, rubs against your thighs, a reminder that there is more to be had.

“Such a good pet for me. Ready to take my knot now, like the good little slut you are?” He nips at your shoulder, soothing the bites with warm, wet kisses, and draws your arms around his neck.

You nod, even though feel tired and sloppy and you’re pretty sure you just saw heaven itself. Dew isn’t satisfied yet. He hitches one of your legs around his hips, and with a shuddering, animalistic growl, buries himself into you to the hilt in one quick thrust. He sets a brutal pace from the get-go. The stretch of his girth within you is borderline painful already, and you know that it’s only going to get bigger. After the hours of play, he’s struggling to keep his climax at bay, while desperately trying to eke one last orgasm from you.

“Come,” he commands, his fingers clumsily stroking your clit between thrusts. “Come for me, slut. Let me hear you.”

Leg shaking, you twitch and spasm as one last demi-climax pulls deep at your cunt, throbbing and almost painful. As you clench around him, sobbing with relief, he pushes into you. There’s a burning ache as the knot swells within you. Panting hard, you scrabble at his back, clawing for purchase, as his impossibly swollen cock pulses within you. He snarls, each little thrust of his hips moving you further up the bed another inch.

For what feels like an eternity, you remain locked with him, unable to move or pull away. You’re panting and whining and moaning, clinging to him with trembling arms as the knot swells and swells. He kisses you, that forked tongue of his sliding into your mouth to swallow your noises. When you begin to sob from the overwhelming sensations, he nuzzles against your neck, murmuring praise.

When at last the swelling reduces and the pleasurable pain ebbs, you flop beneath him, utterly boneless. Endorphins course through you, and all you can do is giggle breathlessly. Dewdrop shifts, rolling you onto your side, and cuddling in behind you. He leaves a trail of soft, gentle kisses on your shoulder and neck. Already, the sweet siren call of sleep is pulling at your mind.

“You wanna shower?”

“I can’t move…”

“Bath it is, then.” He chuckles, soft and low. “Nothing but the best for you, baby.”