#✘ ― that gnawing hunger will always find you ⊹ it’s all you know ( musings )

[fingons-rad-harp]

set up for failure + astarion

baldur’s gate 3 masterlist, whumptober ’24 masterlist

this man is BUILT for whumptober. have another one.

thank you to gally from @baldurs-writers-3 for this idea

astarion/sebastian. cazador is his own warning

It wasn’t long after the year in the tomb that Cazador told him if he brought the perfect prey, he too would be allowed to drink.

He doubted, of course. But it had been twenty-eight years of rats that were dead before Astarion even got them, and he spent far too much time pressing kisses into necks he couldn’t bite.

He spent hours, sometimes days, choosing his targets. Young, beautiful, wealthy enough to be clean but not so wealthy that they’d be missed. He tried elves, humans, tieflings, dwarves, halflings, even an aasimar once. Cazador always managed to find some imperfection.

His most recent complaint was that the prey had had too many sexual partners, and Cazador could apparently taste it in her blood.

Astarion thought that was probably bullshit, but what did he know? He’d never gotten so much as a taste of thinking-creature blood.

It was a male half-elf this time. His name was Sebastian. He blushed at Astarion’s flirtations and shyly confessed that he had never been kissed.

Astarion smiled and tilted his head. He made his voice low and smooth as silk. “I could teach you, if you’d like.”

He flushed when Astarion whispered sweet nothings into his ear. It was difficult to see in the low light, but Astarion could smell it, and it was so exquisite he didn’t even have to fake the arousal as he trailed his fingers underneath Sebastian’s shirt.

Goosebumps prickled on his skin. “You’re cold.”

“Good thing I’ve got you to warm me up then, hm?”

Another blush and a beautiful smile. Astarion buried his guilt underneath desire.

All too soon and not nearly soon enough, Cazador arrived.

Sebastian looked at him with confusion and fear. “A-Astarion? What’s going on?”

He cried out in pain as Cazador sank fangs into his neck.

Astarion made the mistake of looking at Sebastian’s face. There was so much there–terror, betrayal, agony, nausea–and it seared itself into Astarion’s mind in a way he knew would haunt him for years.

Even still, hunger roared through him as the smell of fresh blood hit the air. His hands clenched into fists to stop them from shaking.

“Oh, this one is sweet,” Cazador mused. Rivulets of crimson trickled down Sebastian’s skin as he whimpered and tried in vain to escape Cazador’s grip. It took everything Astarion had to stay rooted to the spot.

He knew what was expected of him. He looked Cazador in the eye and forced his voice steady. “Please, Master.”

There was a gleam in the vampire lord’s eye. He snapped his fingers, and servants appeared to take Sebastian away.

“No!” he screamed. He fought, but he was already weak from blood loss, and they carried him off with no issue.

“Perhaps too sweet.”

Hope crumbled like a tower. Rage coursed through his veins in place of the blood he had so long been denied.

There was no perfect victim. Cazador would never allow Astarion relief from the gnawing void of hunger. Nor would he tire of giving Astarion hope just to snatch it away once more.

Cazador smiled. The sight never failed to strike fear into Astarion’s dead heart. “Good, boy. You are finally beginning to learn.”

“What do you want?” he asked, and instantly regretted it. Perhaps he should just start stitching up his own mouth now, before Godey had to bother.

Cazador strode forward and gripped Astarion’s chin. His skin crawled, terror lancing through him like lightning.

“You forget yourself.” His voice was calm and amused. “You are vermin, and yet I offer you the opportunity to be something more. Still you scorn my generosity.”

Astarion did not sneer. He knew it wouldn’t be worth it.

He had learned. Cazador wanted him to rise to the bait, to lash out so he could pretend he needed an excuse to torture them.

And still the hunger gnawed.

He wasn’t sure if it was a testament to his self-control or his desperation, but he lowered his gaze and took a measured breath.

“Please, Master. A taste, that’s all I ask.”

“Something you might have earned, were it not for your insolence.”

A fickle thing, hope. Astarion had watched it die time and time again. Better to smother it himself than give Cazador the satisfaction.

[restrainedhungr]

MINI CHARACTER PLAYLIST

Share at least five songs that remind you of your muse, or that you associate with your muse's character arc. Including lyrics is optional.

Barrow Sleeper - Galdorcraeft

Akin to wolves among the trees Ghosts will stalk and follow me

Born from the magic of ancient beings, Briar's unique birth was equally fascinating as it was terrifying. Hunger was all she had been born with, a relentless starvation that demanded more and more blood. The power of the Ancients' corrupted magic flowed through her as naturally as breath. With it, she reaped the very first souls that brought her to life, it was her first slaughter where death would first come to greet her. Surrounding her, Briar's hands were stained in the tantalizingly delicious sustenance, she couldn't help but indulge. Bones of men and women piled up at her feet as they screamed, pleaded, begged, and did anything to save their lives.

Proved to be fruitless efforts as they birthed their perfect weapon who would stain the evening sky red with how much blood she would spill.

Yet despite how the Hunger dominated her early life she still did feel regret. Sorrow, an emotion she hadn't fully realized, filled her stinging her heart with a dull pain in each passing day. Locked away inside a tomb and left with the thoughts of everything she had done. All the bloodlust and all the slaughter would come back to her, echoes repeated back to her in the other's screams. Other kin, other blood golems, who were far too much like that Hunger. That gnawing presence that demanded her mind turn to only death and blood. So she would build herself up strong and new, breaking down the hunger in her starvation to make a person. A new Briar, no longer only a weapon, but a person who would rise above what they had made her to be.

Freak - Sub Urben

No, I don't mind, you are a beauty Not temptation, you're my creation Tinkering with my design, twist and turn my feral mind Play with me 'til you've found another toy Let me be your freak show, I could be your favorite monster Rattle my whole cage, remind me why I can't be fostered Let me be your freak show, I could be your favorite monster Lock me up, don't let me out 'cause you know I can't help myself

Welcome to the Black Rose's freakshow, a collection of golems and experiments. Creatures and freaks made from the darkest of magics.

It was from times locked away would Briar start to build herself up. A weapon and a person, she was a beautiful creation. A monster in it's fullest extent and something she took pride in being called. Briar was the favorite among many and she loved the praise that came with it on every successful test. Trying desperately to keep the title she would make those who still handled her proud but the Hunger was always so hard to control.

In the end, she couldn't help herself. When it came to kin, when it came to her hunger, the handlers she was given, no one was spared from her ravenous appetite yet still she was favorited among her fellow Golems. She could be the Rose's favorite monster, if only she could help herself, if only she had that control.

Cut The Chord - Shinedown

'Cause agony brings no reward For one more hit and one last score Don't be a casualty, cut the cord! Freedom, la, la, la, la Freedom, follow me

How was she supposed to find full satisfaction in her hunger? The ruthless killing and murder she was made for was something of instinct. There was no point to it, there was no meaning, the hunt was a never-ending boring action that grew more tiresome the more her mind learned.

She had to find a way out, she had to find some meaning in her actions that meant more than being a weapon. Knowing full well who and what she was made for now Briar longed to be more than just that. Growing, learning, evolving, and becoming her own person, she learned much from the other blood golems screams and cries for blood and worked to be more.

Briar needed control if she was going to sever herself from these people. She wouldn't be another failed experiment, she wouldn't be another object, Briar steeled her resolve to cut herself loose from the chains that shackled her to the title of weapon. Freedom, all she needed was one more hit, a tiny bit of blood to earn her freedom and she could lead herself and all the others who wished to escape out. And she was thankful that day was sooner, rather than later. Even it took years of control and convincing to the guards to just get a tiny bit closer.

Don't Wanna Be - The Score

I don't ever wanna be someone who will never recognize themself I don't ever wanna be someone hollow from the inside out

Who would ever want to be an object? A simple tool that had no sense of personhood? Briar couldn't imagine it! Resolved to keeping what little humanity and sense of self she has the golem sets off in hopes of discovering who she is. What makes Briar, Briar? There has to be more to her than just violence and bloodshed. With hope she seeks out friends, family, so that when she looks to herself in the mirror she knows exactly what, and who, she is.

Killed the Cat - Cjbeards

Bound and chained up by my Insanity, insecurity Left no judge or jury Locked me up, tossed the key Can't escape or break free Here he comes, oh comin' for me About to run in two, three

It wasn't easy to keep in full control over herself. How was it that people could act so normal all the time? A constant struggle between The Hunger, the enjoyment, desire, and curiosity that those instincts gave her. Briar struggles to keep herself from breaking loose at any given moment. Always a ticking time bomb, jumping from place to place in hopes to escape anyone who might be trying to hunt her down once more.

After all, would the Black Rose let one of their most powerful weapons off the hook without trying to get her back? Call it slight paranoia but it's why she travels so far from her home. Running away from those who would try to bring her back and lock her up. Already having one mental prison she has to keep her own mind shackled in, Briar has no intention to be thrown back into a second once more.

Tagged by: @ferinehuntress + @undercity-merc + @shimmerbeasts + @playgroundmonsters (i love all yo usm thank you for tagging mef hewjk qwq/)

Tagging: @valhiir , @heredis-sanguinis , @nameaprice <3

[hairpintvrns]

Not uncommon, their practice of not realizing just how things worked. Terry did not realize, for instance, that they had already invited themselves into Clementine’s apartment—that in some bizarre circumstance, sandwiched between bird soliloquies and barbs about Dionysus and random how are yous in their conversations, they found their no becoming a yes. 

As they were walking to Clementine’s place—not too far out from their typical Weaver Ridge haunts—the memory of the luncheon swept them away again, a watery blur. That morning Terry had been content to simply let the world run its course, even as little fissures came and went. The gnawing feeling of being left, reciprocated now for Micah, leaving him at a time he’d needed them most. And somehow in between, Clementine had pricked her way through their skin, not quite shattering the mask that hid a sharper version of themselves, but enough for the bolts of hot pain to trickle through.

Their raps on Clementine’s door were pronounced. Three beats, hard and fast, staccato sounds. She opened the door shortly after, finding her a little—distracted, almost, and still wearing what they assume was her sleepwear. “Oh. Were you not expecting me?” Terry began, casting a cursory glance at her figure. Far too much skin again, just as it had been in the luncheon. It had made them feel somewhat overdressed, though they would venture to say that a button-down and jeans seemed only polite. There’s almost an ease to Clementine now that stood in contrast to her more deliberate ensemble then, all sharp silhouettes and curves, the interplay of shadow and light. “Should I have come later?”

Entering the apartment—quaint, but well-loved—their nostrils immediately flared at the scent of cleaning supplies, synthetic citrus that was customary yet almost intrusive. They’d elected not to comment. Instead, they drew focus on something else: “I thought you might appreciate some new acrylics,” they began, holding out a paper bag that contained a set of ten mixing colors, “I had to pick up a pantograph and some poster tubes anyway.” Pragmatic as always, or at least appearing to be. Terry didn’t play the same games of flirtation that Clementine had come to master. Mostly because they wouldn’t know how. And, anyway, the gift had been an innocuous gesture for—

Friends. They were friends, weren’t they? It hadn’t escaped their attention just how few female friends they’d had over the years. Not for lack of trying, Terry mused, just that men had always been more uncomplicated to befriend and easier to untangle themselves from. Yet it was always difficult with women. ‘Your quietude has such a malleability to it, Ketzi,’ their father had said, once. In the company of women, they’d learned to be more gentle, and quiet, and armed themselves against ever showing too much—too afraid to show them their sharpness, the frankness of their desire, the hunger of a butcher’s daughter. 

But something about Clementine’s candidness, then and here and now, made them think they would appreciate it, this person inside them. Just as controlled, but more daring, and unafraid to want.

They walked to the side of Dionysus’s birdcage, the blue budgie flitting back and forth with each of their steps. “Pets are a reflection of their owners,” they slipped an index finger between the birdcage rods, trying to lure him out. It wasn’t a hardship; the blue budgie had come alive at this point, vying for their attention. “Funny. He does remind me a little bit of you.” 

A small smile tugged at the corners of their lips, then, only to look back and meet her gaze briefly. Arms crossed, now, as the first line of defense—or to stop anything else from coming out. “I don’t think I ever asked you how you decided upon naming him Dionysus.” The interrogative is hidden in the declarative. Customary with them: the invitation was never directly issued, only coaxed out.

STATUS: closed for @hairpintvrns (terry) LOCATION: clem's apartment

For all that she’s almost thirty, Clementine still believes that the best way to clean her studio apartment quickly is by shoving all of her clutter in the closet. Though, if she’s being honest, it’s almost a step up from her situation growing up — her bedroom had been a closet, at some point, so really, this has to show some growth. In any case, it’s not gonna fucking matter, because it’s not like she’s going to show Terry her closet. No reason to shove either of them back in there, and all.

Dionysus is watching her skitter back and forth from his cage, chirping occasionally when she gets a little too distracted and stands around for a beat. She’s got some months and months-old cleaning supplies she only half-believes aren’t expired yet, but she’d rather not confirm it. She’s going to pretend spraying down her counter with the faux-lemony scent of disinfectant spray is actually disinfecting something, so that she’s not thinking about it the entire time Terry’s over. 

Clem hadn’t actually thought Terry would take her up on her offer — back at the luncheon, they’d seemed reluctant to provide an answer, see-sawing between no and maybe. Doesn’t take a genius to note the stark absence of a yes, so Clementine had given the possibility up for dead. Then, sudden as anything, a yes sat neatly in their text conversation, hidden somewhere between Terry’s usual word bombardment, but there, nonetheless. It’s not often that Clementine finds herself in a position of wanting to impress someone, but when it comes to Terry, she feels like that’s all she wants to do. 

She’s unsure what to make of the urge — Terry’s hot, yeah, and if they ever said anything even remotely adjacent to the word, Clem would be on her knees in two seconds flat. But this isn’t the first hot older woman Clementine’s been in the constant presence of — wouldn’t even be the twentieth, if she wants to be pompously accurate. Terry is unique, however, in how effortlessly they seem to make Clementine’s stomach turn with the mere sight of their confident smirk, looking through Clem like they know what she’s made of, what she’s capable of, and it intrigues them. Clementine’s been desired before — obviously — but there’s an edge to the heat in Terry’s gaze when they look at her sometimes that makes her feel vulnerable enough to want to chase.

It’s this unbidden thought that the knock on the door interrupts, and Clem almost jumps at the sound. Dionysus, predictable as always, chirps excitedly at the prospect of company, and she can only shoot him a fond look as she shoves her cleaning supplies back under the kitchen sink, wiping the excess muck off her hands with a wayward rag. It takes her a second to realize she hasn’t changed into anything more appropriate — she’s wearing her pajama shorts and a white tank — but then, she’s happy to blame that on Terry’s sudden urge to come over, if called out on it. Not a lot of time to look presentable, in the middle of trying to make this fucking apartment look it, instead.

She makes her way to the front door and pulls it open, finding Terry standing a couple inches over Clem, as always, and she can’t help but offer them an immediate smirk. “Nice of you to show,” she teases, though she had no reason to believe they wouldn’t. She steps aside and gestures further inside, allowing them passage. “Dionysus is excited for the attention,” she adds, because that much, at least, is true. “Show him no weakness, he will exploit it.”

[bovncer]

You were made for this, for the war that blazes an eternal inferno inside you. You were never born, instead you were formed in this world. From iron lacing your edges, and wires lining your insides. Black oozing liquid where blood should be, that hunger that made your sharp teeth glisten. Built to die. You’d learn violence before you knew anything else. Blood on your hands.

* / basics

full name . nolan

nickname(s) .  n/a

age . thirty-three

gender . non binary

pronouns . he/him or they/them

orientation . tbd

from . city of iron

species . android

role . the bouncer

alignment . neutral

* / aesthetics

the warning signs carved your skin ; scars on your palms and the insides of your fingers ; branches grazing against bare skin ; flickering neon of a decaying bar sign ; a smile made for war ; exposed knuckle bone ; metallic shine of oil spilt across gravel ; summers warm and razor sharp ;  unspoken depravity ; destruction like splinters inside your skin ; cracked glass against your own bones ; an endless inky black night swallows you whole ;

* / about

guns tw, violence tw, murder tw,

Shattered mirrors and bruised knuckles.

Glass splinters and stains crimson the tiles beneath your feet. Resentment on your tongue and blood in your mouth. All you know is this hunger claws that at your insides, beating to be free. It’s something feral you’ve known all your life, desperate to devour- it eats all that’s left of you instead. Until you’re hollowed out inside, torn synthetic skin, fragmented wires tangled, proving you’re nothing real inside, but that doesn’t stop you from being wild.

You were made for this, for the war that blazes an eternal inferno inside you. You were never born, instead you were formed in this world. From iron lacing your edges, and wires lining your insides. Black oozing liquid where blood should be, that hunger that made your sharp teeth glisten. Built to die. You’d learn violence before you knew anything else. Blood on your hands.

It was other’s battles you’d fight, the way your limbs would learn to hold a gun, and stretch out under the blazing desert sun. It feels unnatural at first, you prefer your fists as weapons, fractured knuckle bones. That’s all they’d ever see you as, a thing made for destruction. You wouldn’t know any different, but to be used as this wind up toy going into war. Scars against your skin, and your hands splinter with shrapnel. Blood soaking your clothes, you’d learn to smile something vicious and bare these moments like a trophy. Wild and untamed, always burning from the insides.

A luminous sphere, internally destroying yourself. You burnt so gloriously, promising those who dared step too close the same searing. Destruction, to and by.

Crimson and decay painted twenty years of your life. Where it sunk into a place where your bones should have been, and mud caked the soles of your boots as you trek for days where the summers felt razor sharp. They’d say you were a mistake. A malfunction. One of the first batches made to be a soldier. It was never that gnawing weight inside your chest, itching at each new command barked at you. Each new demand you died for another’s hand. That creature inside your chest, grappling at that cavern that makes you. Tearing you apart. Ear piercing, the shots echo through the silence of night. Rot would swallow the camp, where canvas soaked red in blood, and your hands tremble with the weight of it all. They couldn’t control you- and you wanted it to be known.

You’re twenty-three, and you still feel that hunger ripping talons into your chest. You thought since you no longer served for them, you’d stop feeling the burning under your skin- But it doesn’t change anything. You’re still all teeth, and a body built far war. You’re still an android in everyone’s eyes. Swollen lights by flickering bar signs begin to engulf you each night, offering a curse with spat words to all those too close. You were always fighting- it never mattered what. You never learn to settle that ache that swallows you whole, or how to smile without those teeth of barbed wire with words of warnings. It’s easy to be indestructible when you’re built to die, although you never really wanted to be.

Respect only comes to you in the form of fear, it’s the only time those look to you without the disdain of the whirring inside you, or the glint in your eyes that never quite seems alive. You learn it’s when fire sears your tongue, and your fractured bone knuckles splinter in violence, you’re met with fear. You’re met with something so human.

Blackstar would help this, the promise of Diamond- with the gang you could be something feared. Something respected. But they had other plans for you, for your hands made for war and smile that sharpened at the edges. They’d see you just the same. A life to spare for theirs. To lift your fingers instead of theirs.

Fight after fight would lead you in the crew, iron on your tongue, and anger engulfing every ounce of your moves. But they liked that about you, how feral you were. How ready you were to die.

But that was their mistake- you never were ready to die for them.

It was a story seen before, the way something foul aches in you. Waiting, begging for the moment you can lash out. You only grew more restless in time, and claws shaped your tongue where sharp words were spat. You left carnage behind you, it was a story seen before. Purple, blistered bruises, and threats spat from your tongue. You were met with bullets, and the taste of rust in your mouth. An ache at your side, but it doesn’t matter. You leave the same destruction in your path as you walk away from the gang, something grotesque spoken on your tongue. It was the threat you’d leave behind- the promise that you couldn’t be controlled.

That eternal inferno continued to burn inside until finally you were released back into the world- your limbs stretching and splintering where thorns grew in your skin, and violence evident in scars as warning signs. You bring turbulence with you when Bashi offers you a crew to join. Extended talons and venomous words, bruised knuckles from the anger that consumes you whole and spills into the open air.

You were something unsettled before, but you’re something to be feared now.

* / tldr

One of the first Androids made specifically for the purpose of being a soldier, originally under the ID of K2-536, Nolan didn’t adapt their name until later in life. He was designed to serve, give his life the City of Iron in battle. Made for war.

Always a restless being, only knowing how to fight- it aches away at Nolan until he’s bruised and battered, and tearing apart at the seams. He’s something dangerous to be around, only promising destruction because it’s all he knows.

Twenty years of his life was painted with war, and life threatening missions until he finally had enough of being commanded at every corner. He’d always pushed back, fighting for his own respect- so be more than just an android. But none of the soldiers would ever see that, and they’d make the mistake of not fearing him as they should.

Leaving nothing but carnage in his trail as he rebelled against those he was supposed to be serving, Nolan set out to find something that could make him feared. Respected. He had a point to prove- he couldn’t be controlled.

Blackstar maybe wasn’t the right choice of gangs to join with that thought, but he didn’t know going into it. What he knew was that everyone would fear him- everyone would respect him.

Except the crew.

Being nothing more than a glorified weapon, a hired gunman. He put up with being treated like an android for ten years before it grated too much. And again, he left with a message trailing his steps, that he doesn’t belong to anyone. Something to be feared.

Nolan’s been a part of the current crew as the bouncer for two or three years now, and is antagonistic to say the least. Always looking to dig into others soft spots, and start fights.

[ncturnus]

⊹  AUGUSTINE JR. RAMOS  ⊹

the cavernous insides of a man contained a creature he feared to let into the world

·˚.  basics  .˚·

⊹ full name ⊹ Augustine Jr. Ramos  ⊹ gender ⊹ Cis Male, he/him ⊹ species ⊹ Werewolf ⊹ faction ⊹ Omega ⊹ age ⊹ 31 ⊹ occupation ⊹ Mechanic at B.H Automotive ⊹ sexuality ⊹ Bisexual

penned by chester, twenty-three

You were born with a shadow in your back and poison in your veins. It was a family trait, this black oozing liquid where blood should be, that hunger that made your sharp teeth glisten. You were made to be like him with the same smile that demanded war.

·˚.  summary  .˚·

abuse mention tw,

Gus, or Junior as he’s been called most of his life, had grown up with a head on fire and a foot always in the grave. Hands always dark with oil- and knees grazed against the dirt. He’d always be suffocated by the small town he grew up in, even now he can still feel the humidity clinging to his back, and dust clawing his lungs.

His father’s shadow always clung to his back, a volatile man with a temper that would trigger at the drop of a hat. Haunted by his own demons, Gus would always understand that, perhaps it was why he was so accepting of it all. It was under his father’s roof he’d be taught to hunt, and to fix cars. All the things his father did. Ironically, they’re probably the best memories he has with him.

He was an army brat, always moving around since he was seven, stationed in different countries on the occasion. It gave him an opportunity to pick up scattered phases of lots of languages along the way though. That was before he got turned at seventeen and left home.

He’s overwhelmed in group settings all too easily, and when he’s somewhere for too long it starts to feel the walls are closing in around him. Preferring to distance himself from others.

Gus’ last pack only amplified all this for him, it was why he left three years ago and has been an Omega since. Not taking too well to authority, the Alpha and himself were always at eachother’s necks. Until it all got too overbearing, and he left them all. He didn’t bother to say goodbye before he snuck out in the middle of the night.

Coming to Barton Hallow, he’s ran into the last surviving member of his pack- besides himself. Only to find out the unfortunate fate they met with hunters. It’s keeping him on his guard, even now, in this town where there’s supposed to be peace amongst them.

Doing odd jobs here and there, with friends of friends was able to keep him moving around for a few years. Until he ended up in Barton Hollow less than a week ago. He’s reclused, and tries to keep his head down. Most days just going to work and home, and he can be found at the bar on quiet nights.

[lemurious]

Hunger

For @amethysttribble, in response to the wonderful, dark prompt: 

The Elves absolutely ate orcs for food during the leaner years, especially the city-less Feanorions post Sirion, and by extension so did Elrond and Elros, and this is cannibalism! No one after the First Age wants to talk about it!

Do note CWs. Read below the cut and here on AO3. 

Hungry. How quaint; as if he were an Elfling crying for a glass of hot milk before bed. As if he were still in those first days, back when they had contemplated eating horses, who, after all, had little grass to feed themselves. If you looked at it that way, it was merely a compassionate act.

They returned for the bones and the hide, which had remained unspoiled in the freeze, and thanked the Valar with more fervor than the most devout of their leaders had ever uttered back over the Sea.

They returned for the grass. It gave them all stomach cramps, but it could be boiled, and it could be eaten.

This is the interesting part of being immortal, he mused, back when he still had strength for thoughts beyond food and revenge.

It makes you very, very hard to kill.

Somehow, Eru had neglected to explain to his precious Firstborn what it would mean in terms of suffering.

Their leader was in shackles on the wall, and they were still trying to find their way to him in the frozen wasteland.

A pathetic rescue party that would have gone back for reinforcements, if not for the earthquake that had set off the avalanches and buried all the passes they had found so far.

They could eat snow when they were thirsty, and their bodies refused the sweet forgetfulness of freezing, unless they were to fall into a crevasse.

He did not know how long his mind had been wandering when he heard a call to arms. He gathered his last strength to rush into a skirmish with a vague sense of relief. 

His companions, bedraggled and starved, must have thought the same, for they descended upon the band of Orcs with gleeful abandon that had little to do with the original plans for vengeance.

They fought with blades, with fists, with teeth, and impossibly, they won.

Six Orcs lay dead on the ground.

The little food their enemies had carried had been devoured almost before the corpses hit the ice. And they were so hungry.

Later, much later, they would have been punished, except that by then their lord had returned to hear the grim account of the only one from their band who had not been able to sleep without nightmares. He only shrugged. He had seen worse on the wall, and known hunger the like of which they could not even imagine.

After all, they were not going to waste their time building graves for Orcs.

---

It became an unspoken reality, especially when the peasants failed to bring in their portion of the harvests, too concerned about their own children going without. Just something that happened on the long campaigns around the frozen Gap.

After a while, it even turned into an initiation, of sorts. The first Orc killed by a young recruit. The taste of victory, they said, and pushed them ahead.

So that everyone would be complicit. So that everyone would have a taste, which sometimes back in the barracks would turn to bile. But it was war, they reassured themselves, and choices are hard in the war.

And victory makes heroes of us all and banishes the gnawing of guilt and shame to the small hours in the night.

After the great wave rose, there was little to eat in the meager settlements on the shore, but no shortage of enemy soldiers to fight with.

Some of the Elves, who had been there in the North, following their lord who now turned renegade, forced themselves to remember.

They told their little Elven charges to eat their fill and not to ask any questions.

---

There was no meat in the feasts of Rivendell, nor on the tables of the first King of Numenor. Not ever. The smell of sizzling fat was sufficient to send lord Elrond into rage. But the larders were always full, and the guests were always welcome at the table. For nobody would ever go hungry on their watch.

[13atoms]

Grit (Javier Peña x F!Agent!Reader)

This is my first time writing for Narcos, but I really liked Peña as a character, so here we are. I might do a second part of this, let me know what you think!

Friends-to-lovers, set during s2, no smut but canon-typical nsfw. [4.9k]

*

You sighed, then coughed out a delirious laugh, as the news crackled through Murphy’s radio.

It had been yet another trap, yet another informant you couldn’t trust, yet another victory for Escobar. You, Murphy and Peña were sat in a tense little circle, huddled around Javi’s messy desk. The evening had lasted forever, a whole carton of smokes crumbled into the ash tray, each of you nursing headaches from clenched jaws, palms sweaty, tired of the endless threats from Steve to go and join the agents in the field.

Each stutter of noise on the radio had signalled a new round of tense glances between the three of you, notes scribbled down, short fingernails carving half-moon into palms.

Then, it was over. No fatalities on any side seemed a small miracle, but you knew Javi took no pleasure in hearing that the enemy hadn’t lost anyone either. Shot and bleeding and bruised, every bastard who had walked into that fight managed to scramble away. The transmission from the scene finished curtly, and you felt the three of you deflate.

“Fuck,” Peña muttered.

Murphy slamming his closed fists onto the desk painfully hard.

You exhaled, reeling from the whole evening, stretching back in your chair and wondering what the hell this meant for tomorrow.

“Again,” you sighed, hearing the other agents grunt in shared frustration.

Leaning forward you perched your elbows on the desk, throwing your notes away from you in disgust, letting your head fall into your hands. Your eyes ached, your very bones feeling unimaginably fragile as your muscles untensed and your heart fought to restore calm to your body. It was no good. Adrenaline like this would last hours.

Murphy grabbed his gun from the desk, kicked his chair away as he stood, storming from the room. When you looked up to Javier, worried about what the stupid bastard might do, he just rolled his eyes.

You had a sneaking suspicion that the three of you would be spending your pay checks on whiskey that night.

“Fucking hell,” you declared, more to fill the silence than anything else.

Peña gave a strange little laugh, shaking his head. He copied you, elbows on the table, letting his forehead fall heavily to his palms with the weary exhaustion which had plagued all of you since you first heard the name Escobar.

“What a shit show.”

You nodded in agreement, aching eyes closed. Each blink felt like it would scratch, the darkness of the office only broken by the shitty fluorescent light which created a tiny island of life around Peña’s desk. Everyone else was on the raid, or at home.

Sensible.

“We have to get him. One day. That bastard can’t run forever.”

Peña’s hum of agreement had no conviction, it was as uncertain as you felt, but you liked to imagine he really believed you.

You could feel your body giving up on you, so deprived of everything human for so long in pursuit of a man who always managed to escape back into the shadows. Hunger gnawed at your stomach, the muggy heat parched your lips, your head ached from the smokiness of the room and the sleep which evaded you more and more these days. Your skin felt dirty, no matter how often you washed, stained with guilt and the rivers of blood which ran through Bogotá. It didn’t matter how often Peña told you it wasn’t your fault: you knew your guilt, your sense of inadequacy, would weigh on you for as long as the Cartel was alive and operational.

He felt it too, the hypocrite.

The hunt had drained everything from you. Every ounce of softness and humanity. How long had it been since you were hugged? Since you knew a peaceful night’s sleep or a kind touch? Since you entered a room without imagining the ceiling joists falling under the force of a car bomb? You had slept with a gun nearby since you had joined the DEA here, thinking yourself paranoid. Now, you slept with the damn thing loaded.

“I had such a good feeling about this one,” Peña mused, more to himself than anyone else. You knew he would go home tonight filled with guilt.

Maybe he would take it out on some poor sex worker, fuck away his guilt and fear and frustration.

Maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he would call you, pretend the phone lines weren’t monitored as the two of you spoke in vague terms. Unable to discuss work on an unsecured line, desperate to hear something real from another human being, exchanging snippets of your shaking voices until one of you finally managed to find sleep.

With nothing else to discuss, the two of you would talk about yourselves.

You never knew how much was true. How much was omitted. You lied sometimes, out of instinct more than anything, and you knew Javi did too. People like you always did. Beneath it all, though, you got the strange sense that you were really hearing something honest about him.

In the deep grumble of his voice, his landline phone cord stretched to his bed as he took the distraction as a chance to drift off, you would hear something real about him. A story from his youth, some reminder that he was real and mortal, a complaint about an injury that wouldn’t heal, some grievance with a dry cleaner. Even the scratch of his stubble as he ran a hand over it sounded like a confession. A reminder you both had beating hearts.

Every word you exchanged, hitched breaths, waiting for reactions or hums down the phone to tell one another you were smiling.

That felt real.

You blinked, wincing at the horrid overhead lights, which seemed to flicker periodically, only when it would really piss you off. Javi was looking at you with concern, the deep lines of his forehead contorted over a raised eyebrow. His badge was in one hand – he’d been fidgeting with it for hours – but his over hand was extended towards you. Palm up, like he was offering it to you.

When you met his eyes you saw worry, mixed with sheer exhaustion, and tried to offer a weak smile.

Someone was moving in a corridor outside, and he waited for their steps to grow quiet until he spoke.

“Are you okay?”

He didn’t need an answer. The weak smile you offered felt like enough to make you cry, and he closed his open fist, nodded his head in understanding.

“Yeah,” he sighed.

He shared the same burden, the same burnout, pulling him to the ground with ten times the force of gravity, yet refusing to let him take a break in pursuit of these bastards.

“Go home,” he offered sincerely, raising that awkwardly hovering hand to clap onto your shoulder.

You closed your eyes. There was nowhere you wanted to be more than your own bed, but as you devoted a second to thinking about getting home, your body felt impossibly heavy.

“I’m exhausted,” you admitted, hoping Javi didn’t notice the tremble in your voice.

“You look it,” he agreed.

With a raised eyebrow and half-hearted glare you had him scrambling to apologise.

“I- I mean, you look lovely, doll. Always do. Just, shattered. I can barely see it –”

When you laughed, he realised you’d been joking, letting his head fall onto the desk braced by his exposed forearms. You glanced at the clock, realising it was gone midnight. None of you would be in the next day. You’d already gotten the time off, knowing the raid would run late.

They usually did.

Especially lately, everything the DEA did seemed to become an unmitigated disaster.

“Give me a minute, ‘til I can be bothered to walk to my car,” you mumbled, knowing Javi would understand your words.

You admired the mussed up back of his hair, looking worse-for-wear after a day of being tousled and pulled at by his twitchy hands. You wanted to fix the piece which was sticking straight up, but your arms felt too heavy to move.

Adrenaline was a funny thing. It left you jittery, pent-up, and yet completely stationary.

It would be fine once you moved, you knew. You’d forced your body through this gruelling pattern often enough.

You rolled your neck, moaning at the tightness in the muscles, and Javi looked up with that damn cheeky grin. He should be exhausted, but there he was, eyebrows raised, eyes gleaming with mischief. You groaned at him. That man could find an innuendo anywhere.

About to look away, you forced yourself to meet his challenge instead.

“I’m starting to see why you go to those fuckin’ brothels,” you drawled. “You think I could convince them to give me a neck rub?”

“I’m sure they’ll rub anything you want, sweetheart.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing as one hand remained on the back of your neck, the muscle rock solid from hours in this stupid metal chair. He stretched out his closed fists and stood wordlessly, taking his place behind your chair like it was the most natural thing in the world. You were about to say something when he commandingly rolled your head forwards, tugging your collar down. When his warm hands found your neck, you gave him a rumbling, contented moan far better than the one which had piqued his interest.

For just a second you felt the slow movements on your neck halt, before he continued to clumsily kneed at the muscle either side of your spine. It hurt, his strong hands against all those tender spots, but it was the best kind of ache.

His hands grew gentler, rubbing softly for a moment, before he spoke.

“Better?” he grunted, and you found yourself scanning the room for something reflective, disappointed that you couldn’t drink in the image of Javier behind you.

“Better,” you choked out, your voice unnatural as you felt the closeness of his touch affecting you.

It had just been too long, you told yourself.

Fuck, you wanted him to do that to the rest of your back. Your limbs. Those strong hands learning your body. And more, if he wanted it.

He cleared his throat and stepped away, and you rolled your shoulders, starting to collect your notes and belongings to leave. Javi slipped his jacket on, adjusting the collar and shaking the arms into place, and you fought not to watch.

“That’ll save you some money from the ladies of the night,” he teased, his tone just a little flatter than it ought to be.

You knew him well enough to sense awkwardness in that rough voice.

“Who said anything about ladies?” you shot back. “Are there male prostitutes? Must be.”

Javi seemed a little shaken, less steady on his feet as he took a second attempt to kick his chair under his desk. He was squaring up papers and stationary as if that was all it would take to tidy the mess around his typewriter, refusing to meet your eyes.

“I haven’t met any,” he ground out, “so I’m not sure I can help you there.”

“And I thought you were a connoisseur.”

You were a little taken aback when he didn’t laugh, and the playful smile fell from your lips. You hadn’t realised how much you were waiting for his deep chuckle, his silence forming a strange missing link in your conversation. Looking up at him, you found him staring at your shoes.

“I’m just teasing, Javi,” you started to apologise.

“No, no. No worries.”

He cleared his throat, playing with the notebook, badge, and keys in his grasp. Passing them from hand to hand. He walked abruptly to the door, toeing it open with his shoe, one hand on the light switch as he waited for you. As you joined him, he looked down, that handsome face distorted with a slight frown.

Frowning seemed to come a little to easily to his features these days.

“I’ll walk you to your car,” he rumbled, and you nodded gratefully.

He locked up behind you, and you felt a pang of guilt for ruining a perfectly good moment. You could still feel the phantom touch of his hands on your neck, the callouses of his fingers, experienced with women and yet inexperienced in such gentle touches.

The two of you strode down the dark corridors, and you wondered if he’d always walked that far away from you. He was walking a few feet ahead, and it felt like miles.

“I really didn’t mean anything by it,” you apologised, mumbling in the hopes he might not reply.

“No, I… I’m not upset. It’s fine. I’m just tired.”

You hummed, knowing he could sense your dissatisfaction with his answer. You were too dazed to find the right words.

As you stepped out into the muggy evening air, blinking against the flood lights, both of you froze. There was some commotion in the parking lot. Someone in plainclothes detained by a guard and another man dead on the ground, riddled with bullet holes. You weren’t sure why, but even after all the violence you saw every day, the puddle of blood around him made you clench your jaw with disgust.

Peña stepped in front of you defensively. He usually treated you as just another officer, but off-duty his protectiveness always seemed to kick in. Tonight, you felt your heart clench in gratefulness, as he approached the scene carefully, fingers on his holster. You were too exhausted to keep up with the rapid conversation between Javier and the guards, only tearing your gaze from the dead stare of the body on the ground when Peña called your name. A third time. He waved a hand in front of your face, and you blinked rapidly, apologising as you focused back in on the moment.

You expected the off-white flash of his teeth, laughing at your slowness, some snarky comment about seeming slow, doll. His solemn frown, his concern, was more startling than the flash of his palm in front of your face.

“That’s it,” he told you gruffly, one hand wrapped lightly around your bicep, “I’m driving you home.”

You laughed, half in surprise, and he smiled wearily.

“You’re exhausted.”

Ignoring his comment, you frowned, words tumbling from your mouth before you could stop them.

“Can you call me? Tonight?”

You knew it was pathetic. You sounded pathetic. You knew that.

He went to reply, and you found yourself unable to stop speaking to hear the answer.

“I just… I don’t know how I’ll sleep. I think… I want to hear your voice,” you stumbled.

Javier sighed, smiled slightly, gave a surprisingly bashful nod of his head.

“I’ll call.”

The two of you climbed into his car in silence, and you kept your focus on the moving dials of the dashboard as Javi crawled past the crime scene, joining traffic. The radio hummed quietly, indistinguishable from the noise outside, and you rest your head on the edge of the seat. As Javier drove you through the city streets you felt your energy return, as you knew it would. It always happened like this. You would be too exhausted to leave, be tempted to make a camp on the cool concrete floor of the office. Then, as soon as you were almost at your own front door, you would have the energy to run laps of the block.

You watched out the window, catching reflected glimpses of the flex of Javier’s forearms as he shifted gear, the columns of his neck as he shouted to other drivers, and deft way he handled the steering wheel.

Flashes of red and pink lights made you smile slightly as the car crawled through traffic. It wasn’t a part of town you’d visited outside of work, but you recognised the streets. Javi rolled down the window as you passed brothels, the darkness punctuated by flashes of beautiful women who cooed at Javi from their doorways. You refused to let yourself wonder how many he knew by name.

Then you wondered why you cared.

“Don’t want me to drop you off?” he teased, and you rolled your eyes.

You wondered if Javi had really taken this longer route on purpose, just to make a joke. From the smile on his face, you would believe it. He looked pleased with himself as you gave a groan, trying to hide your amusement.

“Any of them your type?” he goaded again, gesturing out the window, chewing his words.

You shifted in your seat, sitting up properly, blinking back a headrush as everything suddenly felt real again.

“None of them look much like John Travolta,” you noted, smiling as yet another gaggle of women gave the car flirty waves.

A few called out male names, fakes names you presumed, and you saw the man beside you wince. You waved back, smiling. Javier groaned, thumping his thumb against the leather of the steering wheel.

“Travolta? Really?”

You laughed, the lightest you’d felt all day, at the grimace on Peña’s face.

“Yes, Travolta! I’d totally pay a Travolta look alike. You got a problem with that?”

“He’s too soft. No grit.”

“He seems nice!”

Truthfully, there wasn’t much time for films out here. Even less American celebrity gossip. But you remembered him being very popular before you left.

“You could pick up a Travolta look-alike at any bar in this damn city, they’d be falling over themselves. You certainly wouldn’t need to pay them.”

You gave a private smile at the hypocrisy in his voice, as he scoffed over the idea of paying someone for sex. As if he was short on women who found him attractive.

“Yes, but unlike any old bloke in a bar, if I paid they couldn’t fall asleep on me after two minutes.”

Even as the traffic picked up speed, Javi rubbed a hand over his face in frustration, groaning yet again.

“That’s fuckin’ depressing.”

You could hear the unsaid pet name on his tongue, a strange stutter to the rhythm of his sentences, and you wondered why he held it back. The drawl of doll or sugar when he spoke to you was as natural as breathing at this point.

“Yeah.”

The red lights of brothels were far behind you now, and yet Javi was still driving the wrong way, taking a longer route to your place. You bit your lip, looking straight ahead and wondering why he was stalling taking you home.

Hoping you knew the reason.

Javier suddenly shouted, clutched the steering wheel as a car full of young guys cut him off, one hand reaching out like a safety harness across your chest as he slammed the brakes on. As soon as his arm was there, inches from your chest, it was gone again. He was changing gear and honking his horn and swearing under his breath, and you were trying to process the tight feeling in the pit of your stomach. He apologised as he swung the steering wheel, taking a side street to avoid the car ahead, wary of the guns and middle fingers waved from the windows by young men still convinced they were invincible under the cover of night.

You exhaled shakily, blinking away sleepiness as you tried to process what had happened, frustrated at yourself for your slowness.

He seemed to remember himself as the car crawled past sleeping houses, the headlights sweeping across cobblestone, finally in the direction of your place.

“Sorry, darling,” he muttered, fingers tapping on the wheel irately.

“No problem. Can’t be careful enough, at the moment.”

He hummed and nodded, gave you a quiet sideways glance before training his eyes on the road again. One hand rested on the gear shift, curved around so his wrist brushed your thigh as you uncrossed and crossed your legs. He glanced towards you again, something so inconspicuous you hardly recognised it, and you wondered if he knew you were trying not to stare.

The brakes complained under Peña’s foot as he finally rolled to a stop outside your building, the night as quiet as Bogotá ever got. There were a few lights on in your block, the faint shouts of an arguing couple muffled as they drifted on the late night air, a baby crying, faint sirens. All reminders that you were yet to settle this torn city.

Javier cleared his throat and reached for the handbrake, cutting the engine but leaving one hand on the ignition. No doubt it was one of those habits which had saved his life once, and then he could never drop it. You felt the slight movement of the car as his foot finally left the brake, and you smiled privately at how overly cautious he was, ready for anything to go wrong.

He shook slightly at the gear shift, checking it was in neutral.

“I’ll pick you up tomorrow, if you want. To get your car. Or the next time you need to be in the office. Whenever you need me, doll. Just be safe.”

He swiped at his moustache nonchalantly as he spoke then reached for a cigarette, leaving it between his lips unlit. He pulled a lighter from his pocket one handed, poised to light it as you spoke.

“Thanks, Javi. I really appreciate it, you’re too good to me.”

He froze up, before slowly moving the lighter to the centre console of the car, dropping it into the tray there with a clatter.

“Don’t say shit like that,” he grumbled around the cigarette, but you smiled anyway.

Seeing his prickly exterior come out only meant he was protecting himself from being vulnerable. He looked up at your building, ducking to survey the height of it. You knew it was rougher than where he and Murphy had ended up, but you liked the community of it.

“We gotta get you moved closer to us,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head for show, and you huffed out a laugh.

“I’m fine, Javi. Thank you for the lift.”

As you reached for the door handle he seemed to startle, the bubble of calm inside the car burst as a rush of hot air and noise swarmed through the open door.

“I’ll walk you in,” he declared, stashing his gun beneath his jacket and pulling the keys from the ignition.

“It’s fine, please, you can call me tonight,” you insisted, your feet finally hitting the ground as you got out of the passenger seat.

When you looked back into the vehicle for a gentle goodbye, you were surprised to see something sad on his face. Something disappointed, lonely, enough to make your heart clench.

“Unless you want to come in?”

He was beside you in an instant, the car needlessly loud in the click as Javi twisted his keys in the door to lock it.

“You’ve had a long day,” he reminded you, one hand hovering insistently behind your lower back, refusing to touch or grow further from you as you approached the entrance to your building.

It felt like forever ago, the failed raid, the violence at your office, the feeling of being fused to that bruising-hard metal chair as your heart raced in time with the static of the radio. The memory of Javi’s hands on you had finally vanished for just a second, until he brought it right back.

“You have too, Javi,” you muttered, looking away as you found your key.

“I’ll sleep like a baby tonight,” he grumbled, feet heavy on the stairwell as you ascended to the second story of the building.

“No other plans?”

Your question was supposed to be light-hearted, both of you breathing more heavily as you reached the threshold to your apartment. Key in the lock, you turned to see Javi leaning against the wall as casually as if he belonged there.

“None,” he whispered, “I’m here as long as you need me.”

Who said I needed you?

His arms were folded, fists clenched, and you wondered if he was stopping himself from reaching out.

He followed you inside quickly, taking the liberty of sliding over every lock on the door before you had the chance to. You could see him mentally sweeping the room, craning his neck to look for anything which might make his instincts rear up. You crossed to the small kitchen counter, dumping everything you were carrying down, as he gently paced the small space. He stuck his head into the bedroom, the bathroom, just checking.

Somewhere deep down, you knew why.

He would never forgive himself if something happened to you.

“Drink?”

Peña nodded, and you stepped back to let him raid the fridge himself, needing no permission. He’d been here enough times, though you couldn’t remember a time without Murphy. It was a different feeling, just the two of you. Calmer. Safer. You couldn’t meet his eyes as you moved around to switch on a couple of side lights. You knew you should eat, but you couldn’t walk back to the kitchen. Not while Peña was there.

The shouting had stopped, the baby had silenced, and yet you knew you wouldn’t sleep if you went to bed now.

Not a chance in hell.

You wondered if that was what Javier was doing too: distracting himself from the thoughts which would find him in sleep. By eating everything in your kitchen, apparently.

“I should cook for you, sometime,” he called, though his voice was quieter than you’d expected. Closer.

“You any good?” you teased, straightening up a stack of papers which would immediately slump into a mess again.

“Not really.”

You laughed a little, hearing his matching chuckle behind you. As you turned you found yourself suddenly between his arms, so close you could see the irritated red threatening the whites of his eyes. You wanted to stroke a thumb across those lines in the furrow of his brow, force him to relax until he turned back into the bright-eyed man you’d once known, who relished wasting government money on the finer things in life, and cheered like he’d won a star player when you were assigned to his team.

It seemed like a lifetime ago, and yet here he was, still in front of you. The same man, beneath the exhaustion and the things he’d seen since starting this damn job. As you were examining the lines of his face, the dark circles which never quite managed to overshadow the beauty of his dark eyes, he was staring at you.

He gave you warning, time to move away or speak or – something. He told you what he wanted with heavy eyelids and a light grip on your jaw, in the slight shuffle of his body closer to yours. Then he kissed you, like it had always made sense. It didn’t feel like the first time, he felt familiar. The slight tickle of facial hair against your face, the tensing of his fingers, seeming to engulf your whole skull and guiding you to lean into him as he groaned into your mouth.

The sound of your lips separating made your eyes open, staring wide at Javier like he was a new man. His grip on your face slipped to hands resting on your shoulders as he watched you, waiting for a reaction, bottom lip between his teeth as he bit down a grin.

You smiled openly, only able to look at his face, and he matched you with a laugh. He pulled you with him as he walked backwards, dragging you on top of him as he sat on your couch, muffling your apologies with a kiss as you fell heavily onto his lap.

The couch creaked beneath him as your mouths met heavily, but if Peña had even felt the weight of you, he didn’t flinch. He was kissing you like the world was ending, like he had seconds before the two of you would be gone forever, and he was determined not to miss a second against your skin.

It had felt like that, you supposed. That you would be ripped from one another too soon. Countless times together you had been seconds from death, an inch from bleeding out, hours from being blown up. It could all end soon, the two of you swallowed in flames or a shower of bullets. Perhaps he was making up for each and every time you had called for one another across a soon-to-be crime scene, desperately glad to see each other unharmed.

Peña’s hand on your waist grounded you, dragged you back into the moment, and you poured everything you had into kissing him so hard his lips would be reddened for days. You wouldn’t apologise for the roughness of it – he was determined to bruise you in response, sharing the kind of desperation which couldn’t be expressed in any other way.

Finally his second hand found your waist, gently prompting you to sit up in your straddle across his lap, staring at this new glassy-eyed, wild expression he wore.

“I’m no Travolta,” he panted, the words ghosting across you face.

You sighed. No living that one down.

“He’s not got enough grit for me anyway,” you promised, pressing a gentle kiss to the aquiline slope of his nose, before strong hands guided your lips straight back to his.

[jeon-kookie-dough]

Caught in the Game - Chapter 01

After growing up in the midst of Toman and a rather wild time in college, you are now working for a popular fashion magazine. You were aware of your boss's gang past - Kokonoi Hajime's name having been well-known during your school time - but after you bumped into an old friend at work the other day, one coincidence follows the next and you find your past catching up to you...

pairings: Koko x reader, Chifuyu x reader genre: angst, gang!au rating: m for violence & slowburn smut word count: 2,536 next>

The subway was much stuffier than usual. Bodies pressed into each other at every curvature, the sweat mingling on the sticky handlebars. And it is only the morning, for fuck’s sake.

The way from my house, which is located kind of in the outskirts of Tokyo, to Chiyoda where my office was located, felt like a lifetime this hot morning. Between trying to avoid creeps in the subway and standing in the longest queue in front of my favorite coffee shop for what seemed like hours, I was trying to supersede immense tiredness.

As of November, of the year prior I was working for one of the bigger fashion magazines in the country and the deadline for my latest article was already scratching at the front door. More like clawing, actually.

Up until starting up this job, I was used to living a half-assed life. School came easy to me, despite having been caught up in some…situations. College was a blur of alcohol and parties and I just barely graduated. After college I held myself above water with various part-time jobs, having been kicked out from home at barely 18 and landed my current job by chance. This upcoming article was more than important to me, thus stressing myself, and crying my fucking eyes raw from frustration, since it was the first time having my work printed in an actual magazine instead of just publishing online.

The second I stepped foot into Marunouchi Park Building, I sighed of relief and thanked who ever invented ACs. I entered the elevator, pushed the button for the 23rd floor and leaned back against the cool metal wall of the cabin. Just as the doors were about to close, somebody sprinted into the otherwise empty cabin. The person was male and of average height, balancing a couple garment bags and shoe boxes in his arms. I wasn’t really surprised that he was going to exit on the same floor, as the other offices in this building were mostly financial firms.

Not minding the other person, I let him leave the elevator before me, clocked in and greeted my colleagues with a friendly nod. I took a while, but in the past eight months, people seemed to have accepted that I was far from a morning person, so they learned to appreciate my curt nods. Only because I bring coffee. At least that’s my hypothesis.

“Good morning, sunshine!”

My eyeballs immediately rolled to the back. Hearing my boss’ voice in the morning was like nails on a chalkboard. I rolled back with my chair, peaking around my cubical. The bright sunlight illuminated the office through the glass front, reflecting in the angled door to the chief editor’s single office. His figure leaned in the door, arms crossed and hand holding out expectantly.

“S’up, Koko?” I mumble. I knew exactly what he had his hand stuck out for, but I wouldn’t give him the gratification he wanted. That rich fuck, I thought. Bet he snorts his coke with 10k yen bills but can’t even get his own fucking coffee.

“Think my hand is missing an iced Americano this morning. Care to explain?” His slender frame circled around the cubicle wall, now towering above my sitting person. My office was usually occupied by five people in total. Inui always being late and the other three on vacation left me as the only victim. I rolled my eyes at him. “Dunno”, I retorted, opting for my most innocent look. “Think I might have dropped it. You can have a sip of my Cappuccino, but I’m afraid I spat in it.”

Kokonoi Hajime was a peculiar person. He stood at 5’9” and his black locks braided away from the left side of his face was his signature look. He cared a lot about his staff being dressed well, as he himself only own designer suits from Italy. Despite enjoying the power he had over his staff, he also was very liberal in the way we communicated with another at the office. I had never met him before taking the job, but I had certainly heard of Kokonoi way before.

Koko was only a year or two older than I was and back in middle and high school he had a reputation. He lived one school district away from me, but the stories about him were also told at my school. Stories of a financial prodigy that hid behind his wannabe gangster friends that, most of the time, resorted to violence.

“You have a foul mouth”, he snickered, grabbing my cup and taking a sip anyway. “Somebody ever told you that?” I hummed in response, counting my coffee lost, and turned on my laptop. “I have a meeting in five minutes, so please take my calls, will you? Inui is useless, as always.” I nod silently, still grieving the loss of my coffee. Koko’s gaze rested on Inui’s empty desk, then on me. “How’s that big article of yours coming along?”

I knew he meant no harm with that question, but my elevated stress levels along with the acid, that always seems to wing in his voice, made me snap. “Fuck off, alright? I’m working on it.”

The chief editor raised his hands in defense and backed away from my desk, a smile playing about his lips. “The meeting’s until noon. Tell Inui to take my phone when his drags his lazy ass here.”

Inui arrived at 10:30, offering a coffee and a doughnut as a peace offering. I told him to screw off and, finally, concentrated on my article. It was almost done, but I needed it to be perfect before handing it to Kokonoi for proof-reading. I couldn’t afford messing this up if I ever intended of becoming a regular in the print.

I was so emersed in my work that I never saw the visitor arrive or leave. At lunch, all that occupied my mind was my hunger. I didn’t really have a lot of money left, thanks to the fucking chief for having me dress in expensive clothes so he quote unquote didn’t have to claw his eyes out at the sight of me, so a snack from the vending machine it was.

With food just in sight, my feet may have become a little too eager and I stumbled a crashed face first into someone walking by, having them fall onto the marble floor with me. I cussed under my breath and tried to get onto my feet, when there was already a hand outstretched to help me.

“You okay?” I averted my eyes immediately, embarrassment written on my face. “Uh, yeah, I’m alright, I guess. Er, I think you dropped something.” I dove right back down, picking up the visitor laminate. It read ‘Visitor for KOKONOI Hajime. Name-‘

My gaze darted up immediately, meeting a pair of silver eyes staring right back at me. “Mitsuya fucking Takashi?” I whispered in sheer disbelief. My opposite grinned, squeezing his eyes shut doing so. “It’s been a long time, huh, (Y/N)?”

I found myself accompanying Mitsuya to a Korean restaurant down the street for lunch. His treat, he said. The sun was merciless, and he scolded me for not carrying an umbrella with me. “It’s bad for your skin, you know?” I grunted, looking up at him. “Like I care.”

My high school graduation ceremony had been the last time I had seen Mitsuya. Up until then, we had almost been inseparable, having lived in the same shitty apartment complex, visiting the same middle school and him only being one year older. Back then, a lot of things happened. We never really had a fall out, at one point things just changed.

At the restaurant, we slid into a booth and a young waitress came to our table to take our order. Her eyes revealed that she found my companion attractive, but as per usual, he was oblivious. A couple minutes passed, and we were handed our drinks.

“Alcohol at this hour?” His eyebrow shot up in worry, vanishing behind his silver hair. He changed it up a bit since then, leaving his shaved sides in his natural black hair color, his top hair raked with black strands in the otherwise light hair. “Thought you had given up on that.”

I stirred my vodka soda with the glass straw, the ice chinking against the glass. “Yeah, I had.”

Mitsuya didn’t dig any further and leaned back into the cushioned bench instead. “So, a fashion magazine, huh? I thought you always wanted to become a sugar baby, what happened?” At his question I emptied half my drink in one gulp, disregarding the straw completely. “Turns out I’m not really cut for sucking wrinkly dick.” To that, Mitsuya busted out laughing. “You achieved just what you always dreamed of. How does that feel?” I asked quietly.

He stayed silent for a while and I watched him gnawing at the inside of his cheek, clearly thinking about how to choose his next words. “A lot of time has passed, you know?” His voice was dull as he finally spoke. “And a lot happened in between. I guess it was either getting my life under control or…” His voice trailed off, but I knew exactly what he left hanging in the air. Prison. Or even worse, death. “For my sisters’ sake, I chose to get my life together.”

I nodded, fumbling with the glass straw, one burning question on the tip of my tongue. How are the others? Is everyone still alive? I was too afraid of the answer, so I pushed the thought way back.

“Tell me about you, though”, Mitsuya smiled and leaned forward, folding his hands and propping his chin on them. “Working for Koko now, huh? How’s that been?” I groaned quietly and let my head hang. “He’s a fucking pain in the ass. Making me buy all this expensive shit so I’ve got nothing left in the bank. If I knew beforehand who the chief editor was, I would have never taken that job.” Mitsuya chuckled and flicked my forehead. Just like he always used to.

“I know what you mean” he mused. “I never thought I’d see his face again after-“ My eyes shot up at the tone in his voice. I never knew they had met before. Back then, I would have feared for his life. Everyone was young and stupid back then; delinquents with nothing but fist fights on their minds. But the folks Koko had surrounded himself with were more on the actual criminal side.

“What? Mitsuya, you never told me!” Even I was surprised at the pure horror in my voice. “Why didn’t you say something?” Mitsuya shrugged. “Nothing bad ever happened. It was just a surprise to see him in a position like this, that’s all.”

After lunch, which was fucking delicious, dare I add, Mitsuya and I exchanged numbers before going our separate ways.

The rest of the day I couldn’t concentrate on anything anymore. Before I headed home, I met Kokonoi’s gaze through his glass door and it gave me the shivers. Like he was watching me. Like he knew something. Creep. This weird feeling followed me all the way home and I caught myself looking back at every turn, at every red light. For some reason the conversation I have had with my old friend had me nervous. Nervous for him, for me, for everyone. What if Koko’s the same old thug, but with a lot more money and influence?

At home I opened a bottle of white wine, dunked the cap in the bin and sat at my desk, ready to catch up on the time I wasted at the office being worried. With a little liquid confidence, of course. Cheers!

I had approximately gotten about three hours of sleep. My body felt like it had gotten run over by a truck, my brain felt like soup. The only silver lining was, that I had, hallelujah!, finished my article – and my favorite co-worker Natsuki returning from her vacation. She had been working at the magazine already when I had started and showed me around.

Only a few days after I had started working, Atsushi Sendo had been transferred from another internal office to ours. There had been a lot of rumors occurring around his transfer, sexual harassment among them, but in the end, he had only royally fucked up his latest pitch and, as a punishment, had been put under Koko’s supervision, since he’s known to be the meanest editor. He ended up liking to work with us so much that he just stayed. The three of us ended up becoming the bane of Koko’s existence.

I stepped one foot into the office, yawning and pulling an Inui, I can’t believe that I arrived even after him, before I heard Natsuki already picking a fight with the chief editor. I silently put her coffee next to her cup of tea, handed another one to Inui and sat down at my own desk.

“With all due respect, Kokonoi, but you can’t expect me to not freak out when I come back after three weeks and find myarticle published under your name!” I leaned back into my chair, eyes closed, and head thrown back, and listened to the bickering in the chief editor’s office. A few minutes later, Natsuki threw the door into the lock behind her, the heel of her shoes dangerously echoing in the otherwise silent room.

It only took a moment before my sleepy body jumped awake when it got hit by a paper ball. My eyes ripped open just to find her eyes lingering over the wall between our cubicles. “Thanks for the coffee”, she said, raising the cup in a silent toast. I did the same, somewhat straightening up my spine in the seat. “Glad you’re back”, I yawned. “Old scrooge was unbearable.”

“Was?”, Natsuki barked under her breath. “He’s the spawn of hell! Remind me to never take anything from him again. He’s the kind of person to always expect something in return and I don’t even want to think about what he would expect.” I grunted in my chair and sipped on my black coffee, leaving a red lip print on the paper.

“Money” Kokonoi, who unbeknownst to any of us had left his office, answered Natsuki whilst keeping his sly eyes on my. “I don’t take anything but cash. (Y/L/N), where’s your article. Deadline’s today.” Natsuki’s and my eyes met over the screen. Our boss rarely called us by our names, much less our family names - he prefers shit like darling or sweetheart. Why the fuck am I still working here?! – so we knew something was up. And maybe I have a hint.

“Check your mails. I submitted it at, like, 3.” “A.m.?” Natsuki mouthed in disbelief, but I kept my eyes fixed on Kokonoi. He beckoned me with a finger to follow me. “Come in my office for a minute, would you, sweetheart.” There he was again. The egotistical, chauvinistic asshole. The chair hit the screen behind me as I rolled back a little more forceful than intended, but I followed him, anyway.

[gatheringfiki]

The following ficlet was written by @patchworkideas based on this photoset.

Fili/Kili, Teen.

You might also be able to read this story on AO3.

If you’ve enjoyed this story, please leave a comment either in replies or on AO3. :)

Apocalyptic world, with all the dark stuff that entails. They do try to find comfort where they can, but beware, this one's dark.

---

The apocalypse came quick.

Near unexpected, for those closest. The truly unfortunate, those that had an hour or two of forewarning, but not enough to truly have a chance, had piled into their cars and tried anyway.

The remains, the left behind cars, as well as the more... human remains, still speckled the landscape, telling the gruesome story.

Most people didn't come here.

There was worry about radiation, toxicity, and all those other kinds of fun things that killed you slowly.

Still, more slowly than the hunger gnawing at their bones. Kili had laughed, the once bright sound a hollow, exhausted echo. "Can't be that bad, right? Chernobyl had essentially turned into a nature reserve within years, hadn't it? And at least we'll have some privacy there." The latter had been said with an eyebrow waggle that was just the same as it always had been.

Fili couldn't help but smile, wincing when the movement pulled on his wounds. Privacy would be a blessing indeed, in more ways than one. Hunger and radiation might be slow killers, but humans were not.

So he had swallowed his misgivings, swallowed his own worries about cancer and possible weird mutations and who knew what else. It was a better chance than staying out in the by now heavily fought over and patrolled outer reaches. Humans had pushed nature so far back in their bid of control, of civilization, that there was hardly enough left to feed the survivors.

Not so here. The cars still had canned goods, hastily packed away by the doomed. And Kili hadn't been wrong - nature was already reclaiming what had once been a thriving city center, greenery and life all around. It was a bit... concerning, how the animals had little natural fear of them. As much as it allowed them to see more wildlife than they had in all their life prior.

At least there was no sign of bears.

"Do those even live anywhere near here?" Fili mused while Kili climbed one of the bigger trees to get a look around. "Animals don't spring up from nowhere after all."

"No clue." Kili answered, climbing down with the skill of a monkey and worrying Fili about injuries and what not. Unnecessarily, Fili knew. Unlike most adults Kili had never stopped climbing, only changed to cliffs and bigger trees. But Fili was still all too aware that none of the meds in any pharmacy would help them if they broke a bone out here, alone. "I didn't see any." Kili brought him out of his musings, and Fili refused the urge to shake his head to try and get the cobwebs lose. Wasn't worth the pain. Maybe he had a concussion after all - not that he planned on letting Kili know and worry about it. "But I did find these!"

Kili held the nuts out like an offering, a gift of all gifts. Fili didn't have the heart to tell him about the possible danger of eating them. They were already here, and planned to stay - might as well live while they could.

Finding a little house in the suburbs that looked stable enough, the door left ajar in its former occupants flight, they settled in, found comfortable spots, and made it their own.

And that night, with the warm glow and enticing smell of the roasting nuts, and even a few decorations they found put up - it felt like home.

[cassiecasyl]

nibble, nibble, little spider

By @cassiecasyl for @an-odd-idea 

Rating: Teen and Up  Relationships: Peter & Morgan, Peter & Tony  Characters: Peter Parker, Morgan Stark, Tony Stark, a witch  Summary: Peter and Morgan are lost in a forest, alone and hungry when they stumble upon a house made of bread and candy. It couldn’t harm to take a bite, could it? Well, yes, it very much could. 

Hunger weaved through the trees, riding on the wind directly into Peter’s lungs, causing the boy to cough. It was a screaming and scratching complaint of displacement. His stomach rumbled in answer to its sneaking sibling. Peter stumbled from the effects of their argument, catching himself against a trunk. The bark tickled his senses, the rough surface scratching at his skin. He recoiled from the sensation. The quick motion made him sway, and he fell back against the very thing he tried to avoid. He didn’t know what was wrong. He just felt so—

“Peter?” Morgan asked, watching him with big, brown eyes. They were the perfect mix of Tony’s eye color and Pepper’s concerned expression stabbing right into him. He could see the same pain reflected back at him. Peter closed his eyes. 

“I’m fine,” he assured her. 

She moved closer and leaned against his leg, tucking at his shirt. His spidey senses barely objected, uselessly hiding behind a headache. Peter looked down at his adoptive sister. Her intensive gaze looked right through his lies in the same way her father always did. They were heartbreakingly similar. 

“Can you try your phone again?” she asked, searching for hope. Peter fumbled it out of his pocket with shaking fingers and blinked against the artificial light. His heart sank into the void the lack of bars at the top of the screen signaled. He sighed. “Still no signal.” Morgan deflated slightly. 

Peter tried to swipe over to the GPS settings, to maybe get some information this way, but right as he did the screen froze. He grunted in frustration, shaking the device lightly. His head pounded as if obnoxiously cheering the phone on. Peter remembered the time he had landed near a stadium during one of his sensitive episodes, leading him right into a sensory overload then and there. -20/10, would not recommend. He’d needed two days in the soundproof tower to recover from that before even trying to go into louder environments again. 

Peter winced as the screen suddenly flashed bright with an app loading screen before turning completely black. Great. Any buttons proved useless. “Looks like it’s dead,” he confessed to Morgan. She nodded bravely, clearly holding back tears, little erosions in Peter’s heart.  

Peter slid down the trunk, shuddering at the sensation, until he was on eye level with her. He stretched out his arm, nudging Morgan closer and into his embrace. She buried her face in the nook of his neck as she cried. “It’s gonna be alright,” Peter promised, rocking her gently, “Tony will find us, you’ll see.” 

“Dad can fix everything,” she mumbled into the hug and Peter chuckled. 

“That’s right! So don’t give up hope, Mo.” 

They stayed in the relative silence the forest provided for a while. Peter stared up into the leaf-obstructed sky, the gears in his head scraping by just barely. The leaves whisper-sung false promises, inviting him to climb up towards the first stars visible in the darkening sky. He entertained the thought of climbing up to see where the damn woods ended, but the bark’s texture made him want to crawl out of his own skin. His stomach acted up again, not a fan of possible altitude, and his headache became nauseating in a warning. He hated it when his body conspired against him. But, he also couldn’t just leave Morgan alone on the ground. Especially not with night approaching. 

“I’m hungry,” whispered Morgan. 

“I know, Mo,” Peter answered and rubbed her back soothingly. There was nothing he could do. If only he knew enough about flora to know what was safe to eat. Though they didn’t have the option to wash whatever they found, adding further danger. “I’m too.” 

The nagging feeling only grew as they sat there, calling and pulling them away, as it caught them with an invisible string. It was a weird by-taste of hunger, one Peter had never experienced before. If they were at home - where he knew where to find food - the pull would make sense, but here, in the middle of nowhere, it puzzled him. He couldn’t even remember how they got here. All there was, was the forest and hunger, slowly taking over them. His spider sense buzzed loudly, sounding slightly like a radio without a proper signal. He wondered dully whether ghosts could speak through it. 

Suddenly, Morgan sat up, tearing Peter from his dazed thoughts. “I know what we have to do!” she exclaimed, standing up. “We can only follow the path we know,” she said and took off. Peter scrambled to his feet. 

“Wait, Mo,” he called out, “What do you mean?” The girl didn’t answer. 

The hunger’s call became louder as they walked. Peter could almost hear it now, the ringing in his ears resembling more and more a feast. He meant to smell chocolate and his stomach grumbled as if to ask how much longer? Huh, he realized, Morgan must feel it too. 

Old leaves crackled underneath their feet, a crystal clear signal of where they were. A deer looked up a few trees over, mustering them before fleeing, its flock following. But Morgan paid it no mind as she walked towards her goal with Peter on her heels. 

The boy couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. It felt like a trap almost, leaving them no choice but to fall for it to survive. His dizzy mind screamed for food, growing more excited the more signs of it hit Peter’s senses. 

They came to a brook and Peter signaled for Mo to stop. He leaned down to drink, hoping the water would quill some of the overwhelming hunger he felt. It was better than nothing. Underneath the pull, his stomach ached, begging, as if what had been there before was only a phantom, an illusion rather than the real thing. Peter blinked. 

A bird landed on the other side of the stream, picking at something on the ground. The spider looked up, meeting the animal’s eyes just for a moment, before it rustled its feathers and took off, carrying a big breadcrumb in its beak. Something was definitely wrong. 

Something about this all rang a bell, but he couldn’t find it. It rang and rang, a warning of impending nightfall, so annoying Peter wished he could just turn the sound off. It didn’t help in the slightest with remembering. An old story, he mused. A fairy tale, maybe?  

“Morgan?” he called, but she didn’t answer. He spun around, almost hitting a tree as he swayed in response. He felt sick and weak, and the moss on the ground looked so invitingly soft. He briefly closed his eyes in an attempt to regain focus. Morgan. Where was Morgan? She couldn’t be gone. Mr. Stark would kill him. His mind conjured up her image, covered in blood, gnaw marks on breaking her tender skin, half-rotten. His stomach grumbled, sending everything it had upwards, a meek army marching to attack his mind. Not one soldier passed the cavity of his mouth. 

“Morgan?” he called again after swallowing, panic inviting nausea to dance. 

“Peter, look!” the girl's voice finally sounded to the right of him. Peter breathed and steadied himself with the aid of a tree. Nodding a short thanks to his involuntary crutch, he stepped into the bushes to find his little sister. 

Now that he was back on the path, his muscles didn’t protest as much anymore. A strange peace joined the hunger-inducing air, washing over him and taking his care. Like gravity, he was pulled towards a place in the middle of the woods, and tired as Peter was, he let himself fall right into it. 

The woods smelled like freshly baked bread, like those obnoxiously sweet candies Morgan loved, like the brownies Happy baked one time, the best goddamn brownies he had ever eaten, like the hot chocolate he would drink with May on late nights when they would just talk and catch up with each other or simply enjoy each other’s company. 

Peter was positively drooling, sludging out into the little opening. A house stood there, idyllic in the middle of the forest, glowing with magic, promising every meal Peter had ever had and more. Its walls were covered with a little flour like a bread’s crust, and Peter could see the softness inside from where something had bitten into it. The windows were adorned with sugar, whipped cream, and colorfully sprinkled candies. The roof was the color of Minecraft’s dark oak, sturdy and soft. Peter reached up and broke off a piece before he could think. Morgan grinned at him, stuffing her mouth with candy. He tiredly smiled at her, taking in her happiness, gleaming louder than the sun. It was all washed away as the brownie roof touched his tongue. It was just the right temperature and consistency, and it filled his mouth with the taste of chocolate without being overly sticky. It was heavenly, it was every peaceful late night conversation and every birthday party combined. This was what ambrosia must taste like. 

His mind stopped screaming, and he was wholly content in his body with only one bite. The overwhelming hunger was suddenly satisfied, yet his stomach still rumbled. He didn’t feel it. Peter looked at the piece of heaven in his hand, smiling brightly in childish wonder. He wanted more. So, he devoured it and took another piece from the house. 

Dully, shushed by peace, a noise drummed on in the back of his head. It was hidden behind a labyrinth, closed off by heavy prison doors. It didn’t matter. Yet, why was it loud enough to bug him? Why couldn’t it just shut up? He rolled his eyes and reached out towards the soft bread wall. 

But, before his fingers touched the food, he stopped. This was wrong. He was stealing, wasn’t he? The buzzing grew louder. A warning. It was his spider senses, Peter then realized. They were in danger. He turned towards Morgan, panic slowly overriding the happiness, weaseling past every magic firewall. He opened his mouth to call out to her. They needed to go, to get away from here. 

“Knusper, Knusper, Knäuschen, wer knuspert an meinem Häuschen?” a high, scratchy voice sang behind them. Peter froze in horror. “Or should I say ‘nibble, nibble, little mouse, who’s nibbling at my house’? Such a peculiar translation…” 

~~~

A warning was drumming on his head, shaking him until he blinked his eyes open against the stabbing light. It roasted him and hung him up to cool down. Peter groaned. A stagger of noise opened his skull, and he flinched. Only after a moment did he recognize words, let alone the voice. 

“Let him out!” Morgan demanded with as much rage as the five-year-old could muster. Which was a lot, Peter knew from experience. She was an angry embodiment of human wrath, her narrow eyes staring down the witch towering above her. Morgan did not back down. 

“I can’t do that, Sweety. It’s for your own good,” the witch talked down to her with a voice like sugary wood. A shudder ran through Peter as he remembered the rough bark under his hands outside. He clenched his teeth, waiting for an onslaught of pain from somewhere as he slowly sat up. 

“He’s my brother,” Morgan argued, “let him out!” Her eyes turned the sunlight into weapons. The witch, a shadow, did not yet realize the danger she was subjected herself to, as self-assured as she was. 

“He is corrupted,” the witch judged, “You, on the other hand, are still young, little lady.” 

Morgan blinked up at her. “Do you know who my dad is? He’s Iron Man. He’s a hero. And he’s gonna come and rescue us,” she threatened. 

“Oh, I’m counting on it.” Her smile sent little spiders crawling down Peter’s back. They examed the walls of his cage for any way of escape, the tiniest crack, but ultimately, they gave up and settled in the farthest corner. She mustered Peter with predatory eyes, pressing her lips together in disappointment. “It’s really a shame you’re all muscle and bone. It’ll take longer to get you tender enough for the grand meal.” 

Peter’s wide eyes met Morgan’s deer-ey ones as they processed the words. “You don’t wanna fight Iron Man,” the girl threatened again. 

The witch sighed. “This is gonna be harder than I expected. He’s really grown his vines around you, didn’t he?” 

“What’s your plan here?” Peter asked. “Kidnapping children, provoking Iron Man while you’re at it, and now what? Waiting for your trial?” 

The witch laughed. “Stark’s a warmonger, but I am not afraid of him.” She quenched any protest from the kids with her next words: “He’s only made himself believe that he’s better now, that he somehow redeemed himself. It’s a mask. We’ll see how good the great Tony Stark really is soon enough.” 

She turned to her sugar windows as a crow landed on the windowsill, picking up some bread crumbs that had fallen from the damaged wall. Her yellow teeth showed in her evil smile, and Peter suddenly felt very self-conscious about the fact that he hadn’t brushed his teeth since the day before. Granted he hadn’t lost more time unconscious in a crazy fairytale witch’s cage. 

“Frolick, my children, he is on his way,” she cheered, spinning around in a dance towards the stove in the corner. “We will have a grant meal to greet the powerful.” Peter strained his ears in hopes of hearing the familiar sound of repulsors. He wanted to scream out, get out himself so Tony wouldn’t have to walk into this weird trap. He wasn’t even sure what the witch’s plan really was. 

The witch grabbed Morgan’s hand and pulled her with her. The girl struggled, hitting and scratching, grounding her feet into the ground as much as she could. She looked back at Peter in pure fear, mouthing a word. Peter frowned at her. 

“A wild one, are we?” The witch addressed Morgan, leaning down to her level. The girl spat at her. “Now, this is really not a way for a lady to behave,” the witch chastised, sighing. “Maybe you’re further gone than I thought. I really had faith… Maybe, we will have you for dessert.” 

Finally, Morgan tore her hand free. She stepped back, suppressing a shiver. “You’re joking like a pirate,” she said, emphasizing the last word and waving one hand at Peter behind her back. Peter frowned, and then observed the cell door he was sitting in front of. Half pin barrel hinges. With the right kind of leverage, he could open them no problem. They had recently watched the first Pirates of the Caribbean movie, much to Happy’s dismay, but Peter couldn’t be prouder of Morgan at that moment. 

He examined his cell as inconspicuously as he could. There was a blank in the corner, probably meant as a sort of bed, with stains Peter rather wouldn’t know about. He grabbed and pulled at it, and, with a crank, it broke free. Unfortunately, it also brought attention to him. 

“What are you doing?” With two big steps, she stood next to him behind the bars. Peter kept still, ignoring her to the best of his abilities. Morgan followed her and then clung to her hand demandingly. It did nothing but annoy the hag more. “I asked you a question, boy. What are you doing?” She spat out every word, spelling it out for him. 

Peter shrugged and finally looked up at her. “I just thought, if you plan on keeping me here, I might as well redecorate.” Morgan snorted and quickly ducked to avoid the veiny hand flying her way. 

“Do you think this is funny? Tony Stark waged war and I’m going to give him what he’s earned and you think this is all a joke?” Peter shook his head, slightly retreating. “And you, little lady, are truly your father’s daughter, aren’t you? I thought there was hope for you, other than for the boy who got drawn into the family that he doesn’t share blood with, but it seems it’s already too late.” 

She grabbed Morgan in retaliation, holding her even tighter than before. The girl screamed out in surprise and pain before going back to fighting. Suddenly, a rope snaked into the air and approached them curiously. It gently wrapped around Morgan, keeping her in place. The tears on his sister’s face might as well have been acid poured over Peter’s head. 

The witch sighed. “I should’ve done this earlier.” She turned to Peter then. “And now to you…” 

“Let her go,” Peter demanded. “You can do whatever you want with me, just, please, let her go.” 

“The time of bargaining has long passed, boy.” She looked back at the giant pot on the stove. “It’s time to get to work.” The door creaked as it opened, as ominously warning and high-pitched as his spidey sense. He stumbled backward, more crawling than walking, until the wall stopped him. It was giving into his touch, and it took all in Peter to not recoil from the touch that felt a little too much like mold. 

The rope peered over the witch’s shoulder, mustering its prey. Just as she reached out to grab his hand, Peter opened his mouth in protest and let the first words that came to his mind tumble out. “Do you know the Muffin Man?” 

The witch stopped mid-motion. “The Muffin Man?” she asked with raised eyebrows, entirely bamboozled. 

“Yeah, the Muffin Man,” Peter repeated, allowing himself to breathe a little, “You know, the one who lives on Drury Lane?” The hag’s eyes narrowed at those words and Peter suppressed a flinch. Fuck. 

“This is another of your jokes, isn’t it?” Before he could answer, the rope shot forward, rolling tightly around him, leaving no place for air. Soon enough, he joined Morgan on the floor, just as Peter’s ears picked up a familiar, wheezing sound. 

“I’m sorry,” Morgan whispered. 

Peter shrugged to the best of his abilities. “It was worth a try.” 

~~~

A knock on the door disrupted the sharp, unruly tension in the room. Peter tried to breathe, hoping, knowing it to be Tony. He heard the telltale sound of the repulsor de-powering and the suit landing. Yet, fear still continued its marathon through his veins. 

The witch sighed. “It’s a real shame,” she mumbled, “I will have to cook you with magic. Things always taste better if you let them cook naturally, but he’s not giving me much of a choice, is he?”  A shudder ran through the siblings’ bodies. 

“You could also just not cook us. Just a suggestion, you know,” Peter spoke up, earning a slap. Heavy air climbed onto his tongue, rolling up and falling asleep like a cat. He opened his mouth again, but nothing came out except for a quiet grunt. The witch was clearly amused by his attempts to speak. Without another word, she turned around and opened the door just wide enough to slip out. 

“Hello, Forest Lady,” Tony greeted the witch, “I’m searching for two kids. Have you seen—” 

“Well, if it isn’t the great Tony Stark.” Peter could hear the malicious grin in her voice. “The fabled merchant of death.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Tony dismissed her, “Listen, there are two kids missing, it’d be a great help if you could just tell me— Wait a minute, what did you just call me?” 

“You are who they call the merchant of death, are you not?” 

Tony was stunned into silence. Peter strained to hear his quickening heartbeat, wanting to cry out, Tony, we’re here, don’t listen to her!, but the airy cat on his tongue wouldn’t budge. Everybody knows that one doesn’t wake a cat, even if they trap you, and the spell took it to another level. It didn’t stop him from trying, however. The rope hit his thigh, annoyed by his constant movement. 

“That’s what they used to say, yeah,” Tony now admitted, “now they call me ‘Earth’s best defender.’” His cocky voice could not hide the anxiety in his veins, not to Peter. 

“Still, you’re wrapped in armor and weapons,” the witch pointed out. 

“Look, it’s not my job to justify myself to random women I encountered in the woods, which is not something that happens a lot, I must say. Actually, I think this is the first time. I’ve got better things to do at the moment. I’m looking for two kids, a girl of five years and a boy of 16. Have you seen them?” 

“Tony Stark, always so ready to fight,” the witch said, completely disregarding his recent words, “Take off that armor and I might tell you.” 

“So you know where they are,” he stated. Peter closed his eyes, letting the familiar clank of the Iron Man suit lull him in, but instead, it just cut into his skin. They were so close. So close to being found, so close to being rescued. 

“I was just preparing dinner. Why don’t you just sit down and stay? It’ll only take a few minutes.” The witch’s steps were silent on the grass. Tony’s vibrated through the ground, which meant he was still in his suit. 

“Now wait just a moment here, lady. You know where my kids are. Why don’t you tell me?” 

“You’re a warmonger, Tony Stark. Why would you ever think I’d leave kids in your care?” Peter laughed out loud in irony, but it was muffled by winding fur catching in his fur. Coughing made it only worse, so he took a deep and slow breath to take back control. 

Tony sighed. Iron Man opened his suit, and it cracked and screeched slightly, and Peter was reminded of the joint he had been meant to oil. His heart sank. “There, I’m out of the suit. Now, will you tell me where my kids are?” 

After a moment of silence, the witch asked: “Did you ever count?” 

“Count what?” 

“How many children were killed with your weapons.” Peter sucked in a breath in shock. 

“Roughly 2.47 million people were killed by Stark missiles. Approximately 9.4% were kids. Probably more. It’s hard to tell. Plus, about 50 billion dollars damage to property—”

“Money,” the witch spat out, “Of course you care about the money more.” 

“It’s just easier to estimate that number,” Tony tried to defend himself, but the witch wouldn’t hear it. 

“All that money will never buy back your soul,” she judged. With that, she walked back to the door, leaving Tony to stand outside. Peter stared at her through tears as she came inside. He almost missed the slight hand wave she pointed at the door, presumably to prevent Tony from following her. 

He changed, you know, he wanted to tell her, but still found his tongue pinned down. He’s a better man now. He’s not responsible for his father’s sins and being dragged into that business. 

The witch glared at him. “Don’t fool yourself, boy. Stark has blood on his hands. People like that don’t change.” Peter blinked up at her in surprise. 

You can hear me. 

The witch groaned and rolled her eyes. “You’re too loud,” she decided and grabbed him by the living rope enwrapping him. Peter tried to kick her, but it was more a battle with the snake of a rope than with the witch. She laid him down next to the stove. The steam from the pot wandered down to caress his cheeks, whispering false welcomes into his over-heating ears. He was sweating, staring into the fire that burned high in the fireplace opposite the kitchen. The taunting flames danced, showing off their relation to hell. 

“Stark Tower is falling down, falling down, falling down. Stark Tower is falling down, my fair lady,” the witch sang quietly as she prepared the last few things. Peter couldn’t tell whether the shiver he felt was from the sweat cooling his skin or from fear. 

Finally, the rope loosened. He stretched his limbs while moving as little as he could. Then, just as the witch came to pick him up, Peter sprang up. The hag waved her hands at him while she mustered him with raised eyebrows. As if he wasn’t intimidating her one bit. Peter channeled his hate into his stare and shot forwards, grabbing her hands to prevent her from casting her magic. All the while, he tried to keep Morgan out of the witch’s view. 

The witch pulled him back, making Peter stumble. He caught himself and kicked at her feet. His feet connected with something soft and he inwardly cheered. Though, somehow, the witch fell forward right towards him. Peter panicked. He did not want an old witch on top of him, not ever. He could already imagine the jokes Tony would make and ew. Stepping back, he evaded her falling body barely. 

Only then did he realize that he had let go. Shit, he thought, somehow dodging a spell. It whirled in the air next to him, wooing before splatting against the wall. The cat on his tongue moved a little and Peter almost hoped it had woken up. 

He launched at her again, struggling to grab her hands. Something hard bumped into his back, sending pain up his spine. Peter tried to push forward with the stove as his leverage, but the witch was heavier than expected. She didn’t budge, instead continued to struggle against the hold he had on her hands. 

Somehow, in the whirl of their fight, Peter’s elbow connected with something hot. He wailed and jumped as it burned him, pressing it protectively against his body. But the witch didn’t follow him. Peter watched as she stumbled back with burns everywhere on her body. In a disoriented attempt to get away from the pot of steaming water Peter had knocked over, she staggered and bumped against the fireplace. 

The witch fell into the flames with an ear-piercing scream and was never heard of again. Peter was shaking, staring at her, heavily breathing even as the air cat left him. Morgan came up next to him, hugging his legs. 

Peter barely registered as the door opened. In a frown, he remembered  the knocks and blasts he had heard during the battle but had ignored. He was there, frozen, forever entranced in the flames’ deadly dance. 

“Daddy!” Morgan screamed and left his side. Peter flinched at the noise. 

Despite the warmth, Peter knew that hell was freezing. It was frightening and un-moving and icy and he had just killed a person. He had ended someone’s life. Watched as they burned without any attempt to help them. I’m a terrible person, he thought. His pledge or morality to never kill was broken forever. 

Warm arms wrapped around him, trying to melt the ice that had claimed him, and Peter broke. “I—I killed her. Oh my god, I killed her. I killed someone. I didn’t mean to. Tony, you have to believe me, I didn’t mean to.” He sobbed into a shoulder he didn’t deserve to.

“Shh,” Tony soothed, gently rocking them and moving his hand in circles over his back. “It’s okay.” 

“No, it’s not okay. I killed someone, Tony. I’m a murderer.” Peter couldn’t tell whether he was snapping for air or snapping in self-directed anger and disgust. Yet, as much as he wanted to recoil, to flee, and just run, he couldn’t move. He was trapped here in comfort that he didn’t deserve. 

“You did it in self-defense. She was gonna— God, I don’t even wanna think about what she was going to do to you.” Tony held him even closer if that was possible. Though, his right hand left him briefly to invite Morgan into the hug. 

“You saved us,” Morgan said as if that was all that was needed to be said about the situation. 

“Let’s go home,” Tony decided, and Peter melted into the touch as all the tension suddenly left his body and he was drowned in exhaustion. Home sounded like heaven, it sounded exactly like the place he wanted to be right now, and the place he may didn’t deserve to reside in anymore after what he’s done. But Tony pulled him along, guiding his kids home, never once faltering to assure himself that they were safe and that Peter was welcome. 

[loismagic]

For the NSFW meme: Relentless 👀 (dealer's voice for edger and edgee!)

Twenty years later but here it is. It took on a life of its own but I hope you enjoy! [also available on ff & ao3]

...

She was wearing those pants again- the washed-out skinny jeans she usually wore on her days off. The skintight ones that couldn’t possibly be comfortable, but she would swear to him were stretchy enough to accommodate her active lifestyle.

And at this moment, watching her squatting as she sifted through his old bookcase in the loft, Clark has never been more thankful for a brand than Levi’s.

Her ponytail swayed as she shuffled on the balls of her feet, causing her white and blue plaid shirt to ride up just a bit. His eyes darted from the curvature of her ass to the small of her back, and down again. He gulped.

“Jesus, Clark. When was the last time you cleaned up here?” She held an old book in one hand, switching it to the other as she dusted her hand against the denim. “I would think that with all your super skills one of them would come in handy enough to- earth to Smallville?”

“Huh?”

Her brow arches as she suppresses the urge to smirk at him. She didn’t need her own set of superpowers to know what he was thinking.

“You know, when you said it would be better to forgo the super speed so we could sift through your old things together, carefully, I didn’t think I would be doing most of the work while you ogled me like a piece of meat.”

His eyes blinked down at her as he cleared his throat, a stack of books in his own hands. “I wasn’t-“ Clark shifted in place. “I wasn’t ogling.”

“It’s the jeans, isn’t it?”

He sets the stack of books on his desk before walking over. “Lois, you could be wearing a trash bag and I’d still have a hard time concentrating.” His words were low and held that tone of huskiness he knew drove her crazy. His hands reached down to help her up, soon residing on her waist as she tossed the book to the side, winding her own arms around his neck.

“Sweet talking won’t save you from cleaning up, super stud.”

His smile meets hers, but she’s pushing him back before he could deepen it. “Don’t tempt me, Smallville. You’re the one who wanted this place spotless before your mom’s surprise birthday bash tomorrow.”

Clark groans, lips falling to her jawline and gently nipping at her skin. “Can you not mention my mother while I’m doing this?”

Lois rolls her eyes but doesn’t pull back this time. His mouth finds her pulse point and she gnaws on her lower lip to prevent a moan from spilling out. “You’re relentless.”

“You’re gorgeous.”

“And you’re horny,” Lois chuckles. “Unless that’s a telescope in your pocket, of course.”

He pulls back just enough to stare into her eyes, now a shade of emerald green and he knows she’s just as turned on as he is. “I’m just happy to see you.”

“You’re always happy to see me.”

“Exactly.” He’s walking her backwards, blindly leading her to the couch that’s barely moved an inch in the past decade or so.

“Clark…” her voice held a warning tone to it, but her eyes told a different story as she let him pull her towards him.

The second the back of his legs hit the couch, she seized the opportunity to push him down. A grunt left his lips as soon as his giant build plopped down. His blue eyes had turned near onyx, even with the midday sunlight streaming in through the window.

Clark’s hand held her waist, ready to sit her down on his lap. But as tempted as Lois was to let him take the lead, to pull her down so she could have the ride of her life, an alternative idea formed in her mind.

She slowly pried his hands away from her waist, inching away from him. With her lips twisted in mischief, she watched as the cloud of confusion on his face turned to realization in a blink of an eye.

“Lois…”

“What?” She carried a look of faux innocence as she settled on her knees in front of him, pushing his legs wide open as she began to unbutton the top of her blouse.

“I wasn’t- I don’t-“

“You don’t, what?” As soon as her white laced bra peeked through, she looked up at him. Her nails raked up and down his jeans, feeling more than hearing the quickening of his breath as her hands reached closer and closer to his crotch. “You don’t want a blowjob?”

Even after two years together, a hundred dozen near death experiences and just as many orgasms, Clark found that he could never get used to her boldness.

He chokes out a nervous laugh, holding her hands in place- right below the waistband. “You already know the answer to that.”

“Then let me continue,” she echoes his raspy tone and waits until his hands slide to clutch at the cushion beneath him before she continues.

She didn’t have to look up at him to know he was watching her carefully, the view of her breasts peeking through the lace making the grip he held tighten.

“Try not to pulverize this old thing while I’m down here, okay?”

She gropes the bulge in front of her, a sense of pride filling her when his breath hitches.

“No promises,” he breathes.

Lois doesn’t waste time to unfasten his jeans, tugging down his fly and using Clark’s help as he shimmied out of the pants and boxers.

A sigh leaves his lips when she finally releases his hardness, but it quickly turns to a groan when her hand wraps around him.

“God.”

“Not God, just Lois. But I don’t blame you for confusing the two.” He’s giving her a weak smile because her hand begins to slowly move up and down his length, and he really can’t be sure he’s not going to rip the cushions to shreds.

Her tongue peeks out to wet her lips as her eyes settle on his cock, incredibly hard and jutting upward toward his stomach. She shifts on the spot suddenly, clenching her leg muscles and Clark lets out a low chuckle.

“It’s not too late, you know?”

“For what?” Lois clears her throat, the words coming out raspier than intended. She meets his gaze to find him smiling.

“For you to get up here.”

She chortles out a laugh and squeezes him harder, relishing in the way he squeals when the cold metal of her ring meets his flesh. “Lois.”

“Shush and let me work.”

Clark learned a long time ago not to refute her demands, especially when she had him at her mercy. So, he watched, intently. His eyes darted from her concentrated gaze to her fist that worked its way up and down his shaft.

A drop of moisture gathered at the tip, her thumb reached up and swiped at it. Clark hissed at the contact, swallowing back a groan as she brought her finger to her mouth.

“You’re-“

Lois sends him a wink as she licks the pre cum off her thumb, keeping their gazes locked as she sucked on it once. “I’m what?” She mused. This time her hands returned to unbutton the rest of her blouse.

Clark groans again, out of frustration and the brand-new view before him. He didn’t need x-ray vision to know that her nipples were pebbled beneath the lace. His own tongue wets his lip at the anticipation of having her in his arms again, imagining wrapping his mouth around her breast and having her be the one at his mercy.

“Insatiable.”

She chuckles half-heartedly, scooting up a couple inches until her mouth is a breath away from his cock. “Thank you, Mr. Kent.” And before he could form a coherent thought, her lips are wrapping around the head and he’s letting out a grunt.

His eyes are closed, but he could feel her smiling around him. It doesn’t take long for him to realize she’s playing a game with him. Sucking him hard into the wet cavern of her mouth, before releasing him and licking up a stripe along his length. Over and over, slowly but not without purpose. Her left hand is settled at the base, gently cupping his balls before squeezing him until he releases another moan. Her other hand raked a pattern along his inner thigh, using her nails to scratch his skin lightly.

Then she released him.

His eyes popped open; his dick felt cold at the sudden loss of her hand. But it’s reaching behind her, expertly unclasping her bra and she tosses the lace somewhere to the side.

He twitches in her hand the next time it wraps around him. Her breasts are grazing the couch between them, and he tries hard not to count the freckles that adorned each of them.

“Lois.”

Her name comes out breathier this time, desperate and needy. Gone was the gentle warning from earlier, replaced by a desperate hunger that ignited her own veins with desire.

She questioned her motives then, tempted to hop on his lap and ride aboard the Clark Kent train to bliss. But this was about him… and she wanted to tease the living daylights out of him before she got her turn.

He was leaking now, and she used the added moisture to aid her movements, mixing it with the saliva her own mouth had painted him with.

“Tell me something, Clark,” she waited until his eyes left her cleavage and met hers before she continued, “did you ever get yourself off up here?”

A strangled laugh left his lips, but it sounded more like a groan as she continued to work her hand around him.

“What?”

“You know, did you ja-“

“I know what you meant,” he pants. He shifted in his spot, closed his eyes and prayed to whatever deity was out there to help him keep his bearings straight.

“Well?” Lois raised her eyebrows in question, as if she’d just asked him what he wanted for lunch. Her left hand still held his dick in a visceral grip, pumping him slowly but deliberately.

He couldn’t fathom the motives behind her question while she had him at the literal palm of her hand. He knew Lois Lane would never cease to surprise him, especially when it came to their sex life, but her question threw him for a curve.

“I, uh- Jesus.”

Lois tilted her head to the side, suppressing the amused smile that threatened to appear.

His abs clenched with every upstroke, and he knew he was close. He closed his eyes and counted to five before meeting his wife’s gaze again.

“Of course, I did.”

“Did you ever think about me?” Her lips hovered over his cock again, the heat from her breath making him jerk in her hands.

“You know I did.” Clark nearly growled. The intensity of his gaze reminded her of the times she’d seen him on red k. It was unadulterated lust, and the ache between her own legs threatened to cut her game short.

But she prevailed.

“Good answer.” Then her lips were wrapping around him again, and he threw his head back against the couch with a groan.

It was an evil tactic, she knew. She’d been privy to his dirty little secrets during their past sexual endeavors, but she wasn’t going to pass up an opportunity to make him squirm.

Her head bobbed over him expertly and try as he may to keep his eyes closed, the desire to watch her won over. He blinked hazily at first, before his vision settled to watch her hollowing her cheeks, sucking him deeper into her mouth.

He couldn’t take it anymore, he grabbed hold of her ponytail, probably a little too roughly if her squeal of surprise was any indication. The noise reverberated through him, and he let out a moan.

“Oh, God, Lois.”

She was on a mission, running her tongue along the length of him, pressing against the flesh just long enough to emit another grunt of pleasure before she was sucking him in again.

He jolted against her mouth when she squeezed his balls again, sending him deeper into her welcoming mouth. She hummed around him.

“Lois, I’m-“

But she continued, breathing through her nose as his grip on her hair tightened, and he didn’t realize until now, but he’s been guiding her through the movements. Not that she needed any guidance because she knew exactly what she was doing. In fact, she looked too happy to be down there and he wasn’t about to get between his wife and whatever brought her joy.

And if it’s having his dick in her mouth, then so be it.

“Lo, oh God, I’m-“

A rush of cold suddenly meets him, and Clark finds himself blinking down at Lois. Her hand was still wrapped around his base, but her mouth was no longer occupied.

She smacks her lips, wet and swollen as she blinks up at him, doe-eyed and sinful at the same time.

“Lo-“

His deep voice sends a shiver down her spine that somehow settles at her core.

“What?”

As fast as he could without using super speed, Clark pulls her up to his lap. His lips fuse against hers roughly, open mouthed and hungry as he thrusts his tongue inside. She mewls against him, clawing at his chest and pulling up his shirt. Their lips part just long enough for the offending object to be off his chest, but he’s pulling back just as quickly.

“That wasn’t very nice, Miss Lane.”

The smirk that appears on her lips is short lived as he dives to her chest to wrap his mouth around her breast.

“Jesus, fuck, Clark.”

He tongues her nipple before tugging it between his teeth. The whimper she lets out makes his dick twitch and he’s suddenly cupping her mound through her jeans.

She’s all but humping his hand as he gives her other breast the same attention. Her head is thrown back, but he’s holding her in place, keeping her close to him as he ravages her with his mouth and hand.

“Clark- oh God, I think I’m-“

Her stuttered words are met with a chuckle against her chest, the hand between her legs riding up to settle at her waist.

He waits until her eyes settle on him, darkened, and narrowed. She was panting and sending him a death glare that could rival his own heat vision any day.

“You jackass!” He’s met with a swift slap to his chest, but he catches her wrist and holds it against him.

“I’m not the only one who didn’t finish what they started.”

Her eyes were slits, the fog of arousal slowly lifting to be replaced by something akin to rage. “Are you sure you want to play this game, Mr. Kent?”

He mentally pats himself on the back for not wavering. He was still thoroughly hard and wanted nothing more than to rip those jeans off her skin- with the intention of buying her new ones in every color- and thrust himself inside of her. But it wasn’t everyday he got on an even playing field with Lois Lane.

“I’m not the one who started it.”

“What are we, twelve?”

“No…” he draws her forward, far enough to where their crotches meet. She lets out a whine she’d later deny, and he grins. “But it looks like we’re in the same predicament.”

“Remind me to burn these jeans when we get home.”

A cloud of dark desire cast over his once baby blues and she gulped as a newfound arousal settled low in her belly.

“Don’t you dare.” His hands slid to squeeze her buttocks, landing her closer to him until her nipples grazed his chest and they both groaned.

“You know,” she panted, lips a breath away from him, “there’s a simple solution to this, hot shot.”

“Oh, yeah? And what’s that?”

Her hand wraps around his cock, making his eyes flutter closed. She’s pumping him slowly again, waits until his eyes meet hers and then she stops.

He groans, “Lois…”

“Just fuck me already, Clark.”

She’s on her back in an instant, and she doesn’t have to wonder whether or not he used super speed.

At least he’s using it for something, was her last coherent thought before he’s pulling down her jeans and ripping apart her thong.

“Clark!”

He settles himself at her entrance, pausing to watch her eyes blink up at him, dazed and wanton. Her nails scratch at the nape of his neck, and he gives her a sly little grin before kissing her. He enters her then in one quick movement, his lips drowning out the whimper that gets lodged in her throat.

Their pants echo in the loft, their bodies still as he gives her a chance to settle. But when she tugs on his bottom lip he begins to move, and he doesn’t stop.

The hand that clutched at his neck reaches behind her, holding onto the arm of the couch as Clark thrusts inside of her. It’s fast and it’s dirty, their mouths meeting in between a chorus of moans and grunts.

The space is small and a little awkward for their tall builds, but they’ve long since christened the old loft couch and it wasn’t about to deter either of them.

Clark runs a hand up her thigh, hitching it higher until she’s wrapping it around his back, pulling him deeper inside.

“God, Lois.”

“Again with the God complex, huh?” She’s panting beneath him with a wry smile. Her ponytail was a mess and her skin was glowing with a fine sheath of sweat.

With the hand not settled at her hip, Clark swipes the hair sticking to her skin. “Only for you,” is all he manages to get out, the pleasure that’s been building through his core and down his groin reaching uncontrollable heights.

Their foreheads meet, breaths mingling as their moans increase in volume and frequency.

“Please, Clark, I’m-“

“I know.”

He gives her a messy kiss, their tongues touching before he buries his face in the crook of her neck. He lavages her skin there, biting and sucking and sending her higher into nirvana.

The ceiling of the roof begins to blur before her. His hands are on a journey of their own, cupping her breasts, tweaking her nipples before settling between her legs. She’s falling and gasping for air and his name as his thrusts grow messier and uneven.

“Let go, Lois.”

“Are you-“

“Yes.”

She cries out his name as the coil in her belly unfurls, hips gyrating against him, urging him to his own completion and he’s not far behind. It’s the sound of her strangled cry that makes him lurch forward, spilling into her with a guttural moan.

They hold each other through the aftershocks, their lower halves slowing as their breathing begins to do the same.

Lois feels Clark pressing a kiss to her skin, letting out a sigh as he lifts his head to look down at her.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” she echoes softly. Their smiles meet lazily before he feels her wince beneath him.

“You okay? Am I crushing you?”

“No,” she pulled him down before he could lift himself off, “my arm is just a bit sore,” she lifted her left arm from behind her, “and my leg fell asleep.”

Clark looks back, shifts to watch her right leg twitching slightly. It was caught between his body and the couch. He chuckles as he watches her wiggling her toes. “Maybe I should have sped us to the house.”

Lois shakes her head, an almost drunken look on her face. “Nah, I like shagging up on ol’ red, here.”

“Ol’ red?”

She nods, wrapping her arms around him, “It’s a little worse for tear, but cozy.”

He hums in response, pressing a featherlight kiss to her cheek, then lips. “We should probably get up, finish cleaning.”

Lois scoffs, “I was doing all the work. You-“ she pokes his chest, “were my gawking audience of one.”

“I wasn’t-“ She sends him a pointed look, “Fine, but can you blame me?”

“Of course not,” she pecks his lips. “I look damn good in jeans.”

[littlefreya]

The Way to Hell - Part 11

Synopsis: Post Mi6, Alternate Canon. August escapes Ethan Hunt with his face intact and is currently the most dangerous man alive. Unwilling to back down from his murderous agenda, he plots to continue where he stopped, unaware of the trained assassin who is sent to bring him down.

Chapters:  Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10| Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Completed.

Pairing: August Walker x OFC (Ingvild)

Word count: 6.2k

Warnings:  Explicit smut, violence, gore, cutting, angst, manhandling, choking, foul language, bondage, breath play, unprotected sex. 

A/N: Assuming my usual panic attack positions! Ok, so there are about 2 chapters left and I fear this story is about to conclude... 😰 This chapter put me through an emotional turmoill! Many thanks for my editor and muse @agniavateira, @yespolkadotkitty for the cover art and @dancingwendigo and @wondersofdreaming who’re helping me through my panic attacks and providing tips

Please comment, review and reblog.  💖

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it or parts of the source material and claiming it as your own*

Title: Hold me, thrill me, kiss me, kill me

Pearly tendrils of light shine through the creases of his lids, waking him from a dreamless sleep. A mixture of iron and dream-like mellowness tugs at his nose, like death and fresh roses. It’s so close he can nearly taste it on his parched tongue. Swallowing the scorching dryness in his throat, the fallen man attempts to move but a leaden warmth defies him, hugging softly onto his upper torso and embracing him in the foreign fog of solace. 

A delicate heartbeat murmurs against his, so frail it virtually feels as if it melted into his own ribs. 

As if she dissolved into him.

Cold sweat layers his forehead. Snapping frantically he shoves the girl off of him, curling against the headboard with a crazed neurotic look on his face as if he was touched by a blaze of blistering fire. 

“What the fuck do you want!?” August yells, his voice hoarse and cracked. His glare shoots through her across the small bedroom, his mind rapidly trying to grasp any recollection of the messy chamber. This location is strange to him; the walls feel like they’re closing in, withdrawing the air from his lungs in a place that seems like a warzone. The light-carpeted floor is soiled by a long path of the darkest red, the trail leading back to them.  

The porcelain valkyrie is pushed to the edge of the bed, seemingly like a rare mythological creature. Her long hair drapes her face like a dark veil, pierced by two shiny diamonds that glimpse through, imbued with naivety. Still drowsy, she tries to collect her own senses, rubbing her heavy forehead and releasing a soft groan.

“Relax, stop shouting.” she pleads with lids half shut. Her slender arms spread in the air, suggesting a peace treaty. 

August scowls, his airflow becoming short and quickened. He lets a hand rave over his chest with panic, finding it bare and sticky with dry blood and sweat. A clean bandage is wrapped around his left pectoral and crossed tightly around one shoulder. While the aching sting still bites into the wounded muscle, his energy has slightly renewed, as well as his sanity. 

Or so he believes. 

Making another hasty survey of the room, he finds his belt and armed holster scattered on the floor. He makes a dash for it, immediately aiming the gun in Ingvild’s direction, refusing to fall to whatever game this may be.  

She stares at him motionless, remaining seated with her knees folded and her feet nestled below her behind. “Feels nice doesn’t it?” she provokes, her lips breaking into a faint grin as if the muscles of her face are still learning the concept of smiling. “To wake up with your tits out.”

Looking back at her unamused, his hand waves the gun. A glower shadows his face, painting deep lines in his forehead. The attempt to greet her with an onslaught of insults results in nothing but a painful wheeze as his throat sears. 

“Don’t move,” Ingvild commands lightly and climbs off the bed, completely ignoring the click of the gun and August’s arm that follows her every movement. Her legs nearly float through as she moves gracefully, rushing to the bathroom nearby. She grabs a glass and fills it from the tap before quickly returning to sit on the bed, offering the tall glass to August.

Wary of her peace offering, he hesitates, scanning her for any signs of wickedness and finding none. Something else glints through her big irises instead. The deep lines that dot those beautiful greys seem so brittle, immersed in emotion he can’t define or recognize at all. 

It makes him feel attacked.

Snatching the glass violently, he swallows its content in one gulp, feeling a thirst he never sensed in his entire existence. He places the glass on the nightstand, slamming it so harshly it shatters.  

Ingvild peers at the light sparkling onto the broken shards and averts her eyes back to August’s profoundly ragged face. He glares with blazes of fury, evidently less than inclined to trust her despite her efforts to make amends, and the fact that she nursed him through a stormy night. 

It pricks her heart, more than it ever did when she tried to gain Liam’s affection.

“I could have killed you at least three times in your sleep,” she murmurs and then pauses, attempting to smirk again. “You should really lay off the snacks, I nearly fainted trying to get you to the bed.”

Unphased, he carefully gauges her appearance. Soft, pale light shines through the window, showering her skin with a mellow haze as she sits holding a hand over her forearm, squeezing it nervously. Her glance is filled with rain clouds, the cynicism and the hatred he grew so accustomed to is untraceable. 

A piece inside her shifted, deeming her fragile all of the sudden. In his heart of tar and stone, he knows she speaks the truth, yet the spirit of vengeance won’t let go. Bile rises in his throat, fingers twitching as the constant hunger to touch her prickles his skin. The woman is a natural prey to him, making his mouth salivate. It’s enough to see her defenceless to make him want to gnaw fresh cavities in her flesh. 

But something else boils in his veins. More than just a primal need.

“Why can’t you just let me be?” he asks sharply, teeth gritted and jaw strained tightly. A slight tremor runs through his bones, his body dominated by anger and despair. 

“You came here,” she answers, staring fearlessly between the barrel and his furious gaze. A small frown forms between her eyebrows, the grey clouds inside her lustrous eyes beginning to take wind. “You wanted to retaliate.”

Fragments of the other night begin to slice into the black matter of his brain: her tears, her lips moving slowly, whispering his own words of a vendetta in her angelic voice. 

Like a dream, nebulous and virginal, how beautiful she was surrendering her will to his. 

‘Fight it! She betrayed you.’

“Oh trust me, princess, I still very much want to see you die.” he retorts, the gun beginning to feel heavy in his hand. He reaches to hold his own wrist, giving a fierce glare. “You should have ended it, darling.”

“Yes, I should’ve killed you,” she agrees, her lower lip slightly quivering as she looks at him with desperation. Her chest begins to heave through the cleavage of her top, the same tarnished one she wore that night. It still smells like his sweat. His musk is so stubborn it lingers. 

“I should be a good girl, for Liam, for Icarus. But I have so many thoughts going through my head over and over again, splitting my mind in half. I don’t want to do this anymore, I don’t want to kill for them, I don’t want to kill you. It hurts.”

Shuffling in a swift movement, she crawls toward him, her muscles flexing inward. Her slick manoeuvres remind him of a majestic feline. August’s pupils dilate as the lines of her face sharpen in his sight and the warmth of her body returns to caress him like a pleasant autumn breeze.

Ingvild reaches her slender arm for his wrist fearlessly before he can even muster any protest. Ignoring the gun aimed at her throat, she forces his palm flat onto her chest and inhales sharply. Her heart thunders against his touch, making his own beat accelerate.  

“Right here,” she says, gazing deeply into his eyes as if trying to enchant him. “I have killed close to 470 people since I was 14. I don’t remember their faces, but I do know I never felt this before, not for any of them.”

The azure ocean in August’s eyes gushes with alarming gusts. The scarce physical contact ignited a spark inside him, driving him to withdraw his hand aggressively, putting down the flame before it begins to spread again. 

“What do you want? What do you think this is?” he asks furiously, boring a frenzied look into her eyes. He feels a certain heat rising in his chest. He reasons with himself that it’s just the gunshot wound festering, burning his lungs to cinders.

“I want you,” she answers, her gaze dropping to his lips, admiring the fine shape. A sharp cupid’s bow hidden beneath the coarse hair of his thick moustache. Her hands dream of stroking his sculptured jaw and feel the bristle of his untamed stubble. 

“I want to follow you on your mission.”    

‘She is lying. Don’t trust her, remember what happened the last time you’ve placed your faith in a woman?’

August’s nostrils flare, his mind scouring frantically, bargaining for a reason why she would be different. Twice he spared her, his murderous will weakened by her manipulative spells, clawed by whatever it was she had on him. The voice in his head warns him gravely, yet the fact that here he is, still alive by her merciful hand spikes his doubts, meddling with his thoughts the way only she could do. 

Ever since she stepped into his life he’s been spiralling into a cataclysm. Something that he always gripped with zeal was no longer in his control.  

Leaning closer, he narrows his eyes with spite. The muscle of his jaw contracts, clenching tightly. He grazes the cold barrel of the gun against the supple skin of her cheek. “Why should I trust you?” he spits out, tracing her face further with the hard, crude metal.  “You think that because I broke you in, I actually care about you?”

Ingvild studies his face, not showing any sign of fear as she nods to herself. “You need proof.”

The young woman looks around her, searching for something in the room thoughtfully. Her eyes rest on the nightstand beside August and she leans to it, brushing her entire figure against his broad body for a split second as she reaches for the broken glass. 

“What do you think you’re doing, princess?” he asks cautiously, his eyes following her every move.  He crooks his eyebrow as she sits in front of him with her legs bunched beneath her bottom. Displaying her left arm with her elbow resting on one knee and her palm facing upward, she presses the shard against her wrist. 

August frowns in a mixture of confusion and agitation, alarm bells ringing at the back of his head. Yet no rational thought makes it to his mind as he watches the glass tear through her skin. 

Silence befalls the room. Abruptly so quiet he can hear the buzz of the electric cords running through the walls. Even her breath pauses as her right hand drops the shard on the bed, her eyes remaining poised, darting onto his. Overcome with disbelief he wonders if she actually did it, scrutinizing her flesh which seems intact.  

Suddenly, a spout of blood emerges through her open wrist. 

Dark red liquor licks down her arm, sensually dripping onto her worn jeans and pooling onto the blanket. August’s heart stirs with shock, yet he attempts to force his emotions away. 

“What the hell do you think you are doing?!” 

Keeping her sight on his, Ingvild remains still, not flinching a muscle as the blood pumps out of her severed artery. The pain is excruciating yet the chants in her mind continue to tell her to hold her groans inside. 

‘Show no weakness, prove your strength.’

“You want loyalty.”

“Won’t mean a thing if you’re dead,” he answers coldly, waiting for her to stop the blood, to show any fear or regret. The thick liquid continues to flow down her arm, tarnishing her porcelain skin that begins to turn paler as the blood drains from her body. He gathers the torture must be unbearable yet she won’t even make a whimper.

‘What is she waiting for?’

“I’m not going to save you,” August warns. 

Ingvild shrugs lightly, trying not to move her arm too much. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll die one way or another, by your hand or Icarus’. At least this gives me a choice.”

The drops staining the bed sound like rain tapping against a window ledge, heavy and dull.

August’s brows knit together, his eyes running back and forth between her arm and her face, watching her lips turning light blue, triggering disturbing memories in his mind. “What on earth does that mean?” Heavy frown lines paint his forehead as he recalls her words before she shot him. 

“I have to kill you.” 

“You’re a slave?” he reckons, looking at the colour vanishing from her face as she nods. “How very disappointing, Ingvild.”

“A tool, controlled by men whom I’ve never seen to manipulate the world and sustain the old order, as you wrote in your manifesto.” she shuts her eyes for a mere second, trying to push back the throbbing twinge in her vein as her body screams with panic. 

“They stole my freedom…” she pauses, finding it suddenly hard to speak. “They stole me... what did they take from you?”

“It’s none of your business,” he snaps, aware of how her voice slows down along with her breath. He swears he can hear her heartbeat getting louder as if begging to be rescued. 

“But I am bleeding for you.” she provokes, offering a small weak chuckle. Feeling the euphoria creeping to her mind. “You should tell me your plans like villains do in the movies. I’m dying anyway.”

August snarls. Shaking his head, his eyes hold a rageful ocean, washed with concern. The image of her dying corpse lying beneath him flashes into his memory. A dead angel in the snow, lips frozen in time. He should have left her there in the frozen lake. But for a split second, she was Lacey and then she wasn’t. 

As she slowly dives into her own death, he still wonders why he couldn’t let her drown.

‘For fuck’s sake.’

Ingvild closes her eyes accepting the shadows that seduce her to join them, the pain dwindling as her body gives in. But she’s quickly pulled back by August who holds her hand, covering the bleeding slit with his tattered shirt and pressing into it. His voice comes as distant thunder, vibrating gently in her ears before words begin to make sense again.  

“Hold it up, like this,” he commands her, folding her arm and fisting her wrist tightly. “Where are the bandages?”

Ingvild tilts her chin, her sleepy eyes gesturing onto her bag on the floor where a pristine white pack of badges lies. 

“Keep the pressure on,” he orders her again. His voice is calm as if once again he follows protocols. Yet something stirred, hiding within the silent sea of his eyes which snap at her for a split second. 

They’re tainted by fear. 

Ingvild watches with hushed admiration as he hurries to grab the bandage and returns to her. A small wrinkle rests between his brow, focusing intently on wrapping her open wound. He makes such a beautiful, neat work dressing her injury, she almost feels sorry for making a mess out of his.    

“Have I proved myself?” she taunts, peeking at him through her lashes while he makes work of tying the dressing tightly at her wrist. His elegant hands wrap a piece of medical duct tape around the bandages, twirling the long thick bands ceremonially as if they were silk ribbons.

His stern gaze rests upon her face, noting every flake of her long lashes, watching the different colours shift like thick liquid as daylight breaks onto her glassy irises. Awe plays with the strings in his chest, mesmerized by the innocence in her that refuses to die even after he desecrated her. 

The craving in him seethes. Like a thirsty man in the desert who stumbles onto an oasis.    

‘You can’t let her go, can’t let her slip between your fingers.’

With her wrist still in his grasp, he allows himself to stroke a thumb over the white cotton of the bandage, brushing the suppleness of her skin.

“This is not the devotion I need from you, princess.”

Ingvild flinches like a scared animal, shivering at the foreign tenderness of his touch. No one ever touched her with kindness. Soft, feather-like caresses embark further up her milky skin, making her moan at the pleasant new sensation. Light and careful, his fingers ascend to her neck and press around her chin.  

“Angel,” August murmurs, low and sonorous. His bulky body looms closer, whilst the grip around her jaw becomes tense, drawing her closer until his lips are a mere inch away from hers. “Do you want to be devoted to me?”

“Yes,” she answers, voice still lingering either by blood loss or the passion that begins to cloud her mind.

Consoled by her answer, a small growl builds in the pit of August’s diaphragm, accompanied by a lustful grin that edges his chiselled face. 

“Then show me your devotion.”

“No…” she protests lightly, finally breaking into a true little smile that glints brightly in her eyes. The radiance almost makes him want to take it from her by force. “I’m not a toy.” 

August smirk widens at her response, exposing his sharp fangs that beam at the faint hint of rosy hues that circles her cheeks. 

“Did I stutter?” Authority paints his voice, his grip putting pressure on her nape and pressing her chin up with the pad of his thumb. The patience in him wears thin, greed weaving in his gut yet he vows to hold back as much as possible, unwilling to tear down her wings. 

She must submit freely.

Fallen by his power, she watches the darkness pour into his eyes, his lips pulling apart slightly, anticipating the moment when he can steal the air from her lungs and nibble into the plumpness of her lips. Whatever strength in her wanes, bending to his will. She meekly takes his lips into hers, suckling him above and below, feeling the rough graze of his moustache. 

It’s nothing like the violent kiss they shared in the pit, yet something in her quickly awakens: a hunger like no other, turning the kiss more demanding. Like fire spreading, their tongues quickly engulf each other, dancing feverishly. August’s growl vibrates all the way down her sternum, his hands roaming down to grope every patch of skin. 

A mewl of protest breaks from her as he leaves her lips, followed by a deep sigh as he begins to kiss down her throat. The scruff of his coarse facial hair makes her blood rush and her heart pumps with exhilaration, nearly halting from the bliss of his touch.

“I want everything.” August blurts out, tugging her shirt over her head and then biting her breasts over her bra. The canvas of her skin is tainted by deep-grey and purple shades. Flicking the clasp of her bra, he wonders briefly which were from their fight and which formed as he fucked her so aggressively. He feels nothing but pride in knowing he will make new ones right now. Brand her as he claims her his own. 

Sharp teeth sink into her tender breasts, coaxing yips of pain, marking her with wet little cavities while his fingers fiddle with her jeans, urgently huddling it down her legs along with her underwear. Impassioned, she shifts from her position, kicking away the last remnants of her clothes. The chill air tickles her wet flesh, making her exhale with ghastly need. More wolf than a man, August leans back, his torso layered with sweat that glistens of the dark fur of his torso. The fabric of his trousers is stretched painfully over the massive bulge and mindlessly she reaches out to feel him, kneading the outlines of his erection through his pants. 

‘Fuck, her touch...’ 

Fervent groans tremor through his sinew as she squeezes him harder. She frees him from his trousers, running a hand up and down his shaft, astounded by his vastness and the correlation of smooth velvet skin over rock-hard muscle. 

Still sore, the pounding heat of need rocks at the centre of her cunt, possessing her into swaying her perky breasts against his cock. Pearly beads of precum exude from the tip, coating the erected peaks of her nipples.

“Fuck!” August pants and swallows hard, as the battle over his self-control drains him. Patience has always been his virtue in bed, his power over women. Release in control by sodomy that inflicted true pleasure. 

But not with her. She strings different tunes, singing seductive hymns to the animal in him. 

He wants her. He needs her. He must have all of her.  

‘I deserve her.’

Drawing back against the headboard, his hands snap at her hip, lifting her with ease to stand on her knees right above his cock. Ingvild nibbles at her bottom lip, her eyes falling onto his hardened shaft which lies heavily against his abs. 

If not for all the injuries she caused him, the large man’s Adonis-like form would have looked like a renaissance statue cut out of marble. 

“Come here,” he commands, removing one hand from her to seize the base of his huge cock which towers with glory amidst the dark bundles of curls. “Take me in”

A stream of arousal rushes inside her, making her quiver as she lowers her soaked crease onto his erection ever so gingerly. Cries of overwhelm break from her lips. His girth splits her apart, whilst his wolf-like glares bore into hers with the triumph of conquest. 

Every push stretches her wider, forcing her body to succumb and accept him despite the painful effort. August is too big, his vastness tears whatever innocence is left to her, and he is not even fully within.

Shivering, she halts, hearing August’s snarl of protest when realizing she has her nails cleaving crescent-marks on his pumped shoulders.  

“All the way in, angel,” he commands, and then bucks his hips into her and snaps her down onto his pulsating shaft, giving no notice to the scream she lets out as he sears her. 

He drives himself in until her ass slams onto his thick thighs. She can feel his hot flinching cock buried within the dark pit of her gut while his sack strains against her clenched cavern. 

“Good girl.” August praises, pressing her against his chest as they both pant and groan in harmony. Calls of pleasure and cries of pain mingle into a sinful symphony.

But suddenly he stills, and his hand snaps at her neck. Thumb pressing at her artery, he makes a small thrust, causing her to whine as little sparks kindle in her cunt. 

“August, please.” she whimpers, trying to ride him to ease the aching despair that boils in her cunt. He fills her to the hilt yet gives no friction but the thundering throb of his thick veins. 

“Devotion.” he replies, his free arm fishing for the leather belt perched on the floor. With one determined wring of his wrist,he wraps it around her neck, giving her a nice little collar with a leash made of the thick strap. 

His finger brushes up and down the leather erotically, staring at the girl’s hazy grey orbs to see if he can find a drop of protest.   

Instead, she presses her hands on his furry torso and desperately begins to mount him with teetering gasps. The noose tightens with the sway of her body yet the tension and the grind within is far too agonizing to stay still; the need to have him sunken in her depth of her soul defies any will to breathe.

August gapes his mouth with awe, groaning loudly as he feels her drenched cunt gripping around. She’s impossibly tight, his fresh little flower, crying out so hopelessly as if it hurts, as if being fucked by his large cock is so pleasurably unbearable yet her life depends on it.

“Poor little tight cunt,” he taunts, urging her to fall faster back on his thighs while bucking his hips into her with deep slams. “you missed this?” he asks with a groan, tying the strap around his fist and pulling her closer to meet his hooded gaze, “You missed me fucking you, angel?”

Unable to make more than strangled sobs, she nods with glassy eyes, feeling the squeeze around her arteries while her cunt convulses and blazes with ecstasy. Flames bloom in the pit of her womb, every assault of his cock inside her pushes the heat further through her nerves. Desperate, she is reduced to nothing but her pursuit of forgotten euphoria. 

The fervent flames lick up her spine, darkness whispering in her mind. Yet she leans back, letting the noose devoid the oxygen to her heart and brain as her body falls lost into a delirium.

August feels her pussy tensing around his cock as the belt halts her airflow; through the heated waves of pleasure, an alarm blares. “Careful,” he rasps, reaching his fist to her throat to replace the belt and pulling her until her chest grinds into his own. “Don’t damage what’s mine!”

Her reply is a cracked wheeze, her body jolting as he fucks her into a punishing rhythm. Hot and burning, stoking inside her, balls thudding and battering her hole, the chant of their wet skin colliding in a violent dance accompanies the chaotic symphony of their moans. His angel latches onto him, wrapping tighter and tighter as her body accepts his offering of rage, sucking and milking him dry.

August pulls her face against his, fingers flexing around her jugular, lips grazing her own and then hovering to rob her of her feeble exhales. 

“You want to breathe?” he snarls.

Ingvild nods, feeling the storm of fire about to erupt inside her. Her canal gripping him so tightly she can feel every tendon and ridges of him grazing her walls. Tears well in her raincloud eyes, her heart shrinking as she feels him, all of him, consuming her with his existence.

“Then come for me, angel.” 

With his words, she arches back, letting the fire implode in her loins and sweep her into a rapture so intense her entire body shakes around him. All she can feel is August, filing her soul, seeping in deeper than her thoughts. 

Tears spring down her cheeks, emotions and pleasure whirl at her heart at once.

“August!”

Hearing his name on her lips spikes the savage spirits within. Reduced to a beast, he takes hold of her hips, flipping her over and riding between her thighs. His hands pin her down by the neck and he ravages her through her climax. He can feel the flinch of his cock, swelling larger inside her narrow space. The innocence of her essence devours him. All the hate and pain diminishes and for a brief moment, he is allowed into heaven, feeling nothing but bliss in his chest. His shouts of pleasure echo into the room, his body jerking into her as the hot, white ribbons of his thick seed sprout into her womb.

Falling down to earth is always the hardest part.

Taking a hard swallow, he leans his sweaty forehead against hers, rolling it slowly and listening to the silent hisses from her mouth. Still basking in the afterglow of his orgasm, he pulls himself to his elbows fighting the spasm in his muscles and their will to collapse. His brow suddenly crumples at her sight: her eyes shine with a wide spectrum of emotions that glisten sadly down her temples. Shivering sobs escape from quivering lips, trying to find words that never make it to her tongue. 

August observes her carefully, removing his grip from her neck gingerly and reaching out a thumb to dry her tears. The crystals in her eyes were broken to dozens of many pieces that reflected the light back in various shades. A look of a lost child that carries an oddly familiar sensation, something that makes him cold and warm, as if Ingvild is inside his blood and he is inside hers. 

They had killed each other after all and then brought one another’s hearts to beat again. In his twisted mind, it made for a more profound intimacy than sex.

“Easy, babygirl.” he speaks unusually compassionate, dipping a finger in the wetness beneath her eyes and then slips it into his mouth, tasting the salt onto his tongue. “That was intense for you, wasn’t it?”

She nods silently, the emotional release tingling through her aortae, making her skin prickle with goosebumps. She never felt like this: whole, vulnerable, and belonging. She never felt anything at all, all her life. Her body tries to control the jitters in her muscles yet her body seems suddenly inexplicably cold.   

“Sh... it’s okay,” August whispers, capturing her lips into a chaste comforting kiss. “I’ve got you.” he murmurs and allows his lips to trail lower, pressing soft butterfly kisses over every patch of skin and bone, descending through the plains of her naked flesh, tasting the mixture of their sweat. His fingers find the large crescent scar in her lower abdomen, tracing the withering stitches in a sick memory of their first night together.

He feels no remorse. Had he changed his action, she wouldn’t have been his right now.  

Ingvild finally manages to release a sound, moaning with exhaustion as she eases into his care, her lungs and heart catching up when her body begins to float. With whatever strength left in him, August holds her the way a groom holds his bride, and carries her in his firm arms. 

~*~

The bath is filled hot near to the brim. Mountains of foam edge onto the water, looking like fluffy little clouds. This bathroom is not as nearly as luxurious as the one he had in Bergen. It’s painfully plain, like something out of an 80’s film, yet right now it looks like the most outrageous, spoiling delight. 

Sitting on the stone, his hand whirls the water, testing the heat before stepping in.   

“Come here,” he beckons, reaching toward Ingvild to join him as he sits down, releasing a deep sigh of relief as the hot water soothes the pain. The bath is hardly big enough for a man of his size, his knees buck up, peeking above the water. 

Ingvild takes his hand, stepping to sit at the spot between his thighs, making sure not to wet the bandages on her wrists. August’s arms guide her to melt back against his broad chest carefully, avoiding friction with the gunshot wound that begins to ache more and more as the last of the endorphins dwindle. He breaks into a small groan and lands his chin atop her head while glaring into the water with rising concern.  

“They will come for us.” Ingvild finally manages to find words, her voice still husky as her jugular strains. “Once they know you’re not dead, they’ll hunt us. We need to move, fast.”

August weighs her words. He muses over the sacrifice she made, and for whom? The man who stabbed her and nearly left her to float in a frozen lake? ‘She chose, you didn’t force her.’

 Indeed, it was her free will that brought her to him.  

“We should,” he answers, rinsing some water onto her torso and rubbing her forearms clean. “Just relax now, you won’t do me good all broken.”

“You care about me,” she teases, a small smile creeping on her lips.

“We will make for my safe house from here, and then we can take the train to Manchester,” he answers, ignoring her comment.

Ingvild catches some foam in her palm, squeezing the dissolving material between her fingers lightly and then blows it with the weak airflow that comes from her lungs. Little specks of bubbles fly into the bath. August watches them with her silently.    

“For the plutonium,” she utters.

“Yes.”

Tilting his head slightly, he looks down to see if there is any disgust or fear shadowing her face, yet finds none. The girl continues forming little abstract shapes in the dwindling white hills, twirling her fingernails on the tiny bubbles. The edge of her spine peeks between the thick strands of her hair, while hues of purple, nearly black, hug her nape. The girl is forbearing, enduring as she was taught; he wonders if it’s to please him, or if it pleases her as well.

Cupping water in his hands, he begins to wash her skin, pouring onto the back of her neck and her shoulders. He brushes his fingers through the brown waves of her hair while she leans her head back and closes her eyes.

It’s as if years of tension peel off from her, uncovering truths she fought to hide. August was right, and so was Liam; no one ever loved her. But now in the arms of a monster, she suddenly senses what she imagines would be care and affection. His touch is no longer clinical and it feels as if vines are growing onto her limbs, twirling around her and pulling her to become one with him. 

In her mind, she can’t help but start picking into the not-so-distant past, recalling being his hostage and the conversations they had when they still hated one another. The anguish that resonates in his eyes didn’t speak of hatred individually toward the world, the specks of brown held a fair amount toward himself as well.

“What did Sloane do?” she asks curiously. “In Bergen, you mentioned she did something to you.” 

She feels August’s sudden halt, his long digits entangled in her hair, pulling slightly while his chest sinks inward. His inhale takes into a heavy suction and his nostrils flare. He didn’t think of Lacey since he woke in Ingvild’s arms. 

“She tricked me.” his eyes focus onto nothing and his fingers resume their course through Ingvild’s wet strands. He becomes slightly agitated, unlacing the small knots that formed at the edge with force. “She suspected me and never liked me- for a reason, of course. She knew someone was distributing secrets and weapons beneath her nose, so she sent a spy. In my case, it was my partner.”

“A woman,” Ingvild continues, the realization hitting her softly. “Lacey.”

Her name on Ingvild’s tongue sends a shiver creeping from the base of his spine. 

“Yes,” he answers dryly and clenches his jaw. “We were partners for months. She got close. She... was loyal, she understood me or so I thought, but then I found out, she wasn’t.”

Ingvild hears the shift in his tone again, in their reflection on the water she sees him staring forward with grim shades painting his eyes. The corners of his lips tugged down as he broods.

“It sounds like you loved her.”

August remains silent, giving no answer. It resonates in her right away - betrayal burnt hotter than the wound itself. In their carnal twist, August burned her, but it wasn’t her carnal devotion he sought for. 

“Where is she now?” 

“Dead.” he answers, releasing a deep sigh of silent rage, not even bothering to shy from the truth this time. Ingvild was bred into a world of monsters; she breathed them, she killed them and he was just another beast for her to slay. Yet she chose to stroke her hand on his snout regardless of what she knew.

“I killed her.” 

In his mind Lacey walks away, her blue heels tapping on the floor, echoing before she gives him one last glance. She turns away, her golden curls dulled by the lack of light as she vanishes into a mist of smoke and shadow. 

Ingvild feels a slight relief at the thought of Lacey being dead, for some reason she can’t explain to herself.  August returns his gaze to her again, removing his hands from her hair. His hand wraps around her jaw, pressing her head to look into his piercing glare. He looks for fear but finds none.

“Try to rest,” he commands and then wraps his arms around her possessively. “Long days are ahead.”  

“Will you read me your manifesto?”

August looks down on her face once more, wondering for a moment if this is another hallucination. A terrible thought crosses his mind and his heart flinches; what if in these moments he’s actually bleeding to his death in the pit, his mind playing tricks as he breathes his last breath?

But the softness and warmth of her body feels more vivid than ever. Stronger than the doubt that creeps into his mind. 

“There has never been peace without first a great suffering. The greater the suffering, the greater the peace. As mankind is drawn to his self-destruction like a moth to the candle...” he chants, accompanied by Ingvild who also recites his words in her gentle voice. 

_________________________________________________

disclaimer: I don’t own Mission Impossible and August Walker

[braindeacl]

Frostbite | Eilidh & Miriam

TIMING: Weeks ago.  PARTIES: @meflemming & @braindeacl SUMMARY: Eilidh and Miriam find a great feast after a sudden blast of cold. WARNINGS: Lots of corpse eating.

White. It covered the streets. The buildings. The people. Everything was lost to the white. A blanket thrown down by the heavens, suffocating everything under its might. The streets and the buildings had no chance, locked in place by their very nature. They accepted their—stood brave against the frost and waited for the melt to break its hold. The people had hope, and for some this hope was justified. As the first white specks fell to the ground, many scurried away. To safety. But the specks soon turned to a pour soon turned to an onslaught. By then, the few who remained had nowhere to go. Stuck in place. Same as the streets and the buildings. But the melt would not free them, only their corpses. The first of these deaths sent an alluring perfume in the air. Calling to Eilidh. Tugging at that hunger that always gnawed no matter how much she fed, only the intensity could be changed. By the time she came upon the scene, the body’s core had turned a pale blue. But the paleness shifted to darkness along the extremities. Darker and darker and darker still. Until the fingers and the toes were a pitch black. Bubbling and breaking along the utmost tips. Lost to the ever encompassing white. 

But Eilidh had no mind for details. Death was all she saw, all she needed to see. Without a thought, her teeth disrupted the scene—broke off more pieces of that brittle body. It cracked and crunched and crumpled against her teeth. Tumbled down her throat like dirt. But filled her all the same. The face and an arm were lost to her insides by the time she returned from the thrall of death. With a new shine to her eyes, she surveyed the area. The truth of the situation becoming apparent. Others shambled through the snow—still clinging to a slipping sense of hope. Others were stilled except for the slow and rhythmic rises of their chests—soon to be like the mangled pile of flesh below her. A source of pain and agony for them. A source of a buffet for her. But confliction tore at her soul. For those who still fought against the creeping death. She rushed over to one. Wishing to grip them back to salvation. But fingers grasped that cold air as the person fell to the ground. Landing as a corpse. And that confliction gave way to the hunger again. 

It was so cold that frost was beginning to form on Miriam’s skin. Not what she expected for a midsummer night, but, really, she had grown up in White Crest; she knew just as well as any of the locals that the expected was to never be expected. So, when a freak blizzard came out of nowhere in the dead of night, she took it in stride. She ended up stuck in it, She managed to break free, one leather covered arm pushing its way out of the snow, and Miriam stood, brushed the snow off, and began walking. The effort reminded her of how long it had been since she’d gone out and fed, an increased workload as well as a desire to spend time with her favorite person keeping her from sustaining herself properly. But it didn’t matter. Miriam could practically taste so much misery on her tongue that she wouldn’t have been able to avoid it even if she tried. Heels crunching through the snow, she headed towards the source. She just wasn’t expecting the carnage that greeted her. “I suppose I’m interrupting dinner, aren’t I?” She asked the zombie feasting, an icy eyebrow raised as she moved her hands to her hair and shook crystalline flakes of snow out of it.

Silence was cut off abruptly by that casual tone. Calm like the blanket of snow surrounding—snuffing out any touch of chaos. Eilidh stopped, spit out a tooth. Not hers—the poor sap’s on the ground. She turned to meet the woman’s eyes. They were cold like the air, but untouched by it. Unlike all the others whose lives were sucked out like the previous heat. Clearly the other wasn’t human. And human suffering and slaughter was not a bother. She wasn’t like Eilidh—hunger did not compel the other’s teeth to bite and gnaw like it did to her. Curious. Her teeth bared for a moment, animal protecting its food. But the other made no motions, and teeth were replaced with tongue. It licked at her lips, removing some of the dark crusts of blood and flesh bits. But it hardly made a difference—her face and neck and arms were caked in the stuff. Not that she particularly cared. The other seemed to place more interest in her looks. Genuine leather ensemble paired with impractical heels. Her face the most evident of this interest, and Eilidh took interest in turn looking. She let out an airy chuckle. “Not really. What brings you here? Hungry, too?” 

The woman was a mess. Miriam had never seen such a messy eater, though, it wasn’t like she was around too many zombies who feasted upon anything more than animal brains cooked or blended into smoothies. And she had to assume that this was a zombie. The lack of heartbeat was, of course, quintessential for one of the undead, but the consumption of flesh, along with the blunt teeth, leaned more towards the walking dead end of the spectrum. “I suppose I was a bit peckish,” Miriam mused. “I was led here because of all the suffering.” It might not make sense, but that was what Miriam craved more than any sort of blood. She felt full, though, empowered in ways that she hadn’t felt in a long time. Mass misery, mass suffering. It sustained her. She looked at her new companion. “My, you’re a messy eater.”

“Ah. Sadist.” Not uncommon in this town, Eilidh had come to realize. Won’t find her complaining—it kept the food ripe. Head tilted at the thought, as she eyed the woman deeper. A waste of a beautiful face, though she’s wasted prettier. But she reminded herself the woman had done nothing. At least, not in front of her. Quick headshake threw that fuzz from her mind. Returning her back to herself. To the easy food surrounding. Motionless, as it seemed the last survivors were gone to the frost or soon approaching. There was a sadness. A wish for a different outcome. But fate decided their time was now. And so graciously decided the two of them would enjoy the spoils. There was nothing to do now but feed and not let their sacrifice go to waste. She broke off a finger; it came off like peanut brittle with a snap. It went into her mouth. That mouth came alive with snaps as her teeth chomped down and down and down. It crumbled on her lips, covered her in more mess. She shrugged at the observation, uncaring. “Food should be enjoyed. Plenty to go ‘round.”

“No, not a sadist,” Miriam said, and she didn’t know why she was so offended by that word. She wasn’t a sadist. The only times she’d ever really, properly enjoyed what she’d done had been killing Theo. But that wasn’t true, was it? She’d cried while she’d killed him, while the overwhelming misery and suffering that he’d felt had sustained her, while she’d turned his skin into a jacket. Miriam allowed her eyes to flash red at the woman in front of her and let her fangs drop. “Just a woman with an incredibly unfortunate set of dietary needs. Tragically, tragedy becomes me.” She looked at the way the woman ate a finger, her face momentarily twisting into something that wasn’t quite but could be very close to disgust. She’d made a mess during her own first large blood meals, but this really was ridiculous. “No, thank you. I think I’ll just take in the misery for now. I don’t enjoy blood slushies.”

Eilidh’s attention snapped back to the woman at her shift in tone. Understanding followed when eyes turned crimson, and teeth turned sharp. There was a shift in her head, a small nod in acknowledgment. “Ah, Dearg-Due.” Arguably tragic, for their name was born from it, as too were they. But Eilidh did not entirely think so—head tilting inquisitively at the revealing display. The woman didn’t share in her curiosity, face squinting in distaste to Eilidh’s own revealing nature. No offense was taken. Instead, Eilidh chomped harder. More gore bits tumbled down, as mischief shined in her eyes. Waiting for the squint to harden on the other’s face. “Don’t think there’s much left. Just the quiet.” As if to purposefully refute her, motion was detected a few meters away. Car door beat and beat and beat against the pile of snow, until it managed to be pushed away. Short, shivered gasps filled the air. Eilidh immediately sat up straighter at the occurrence, gaze locked where she believed the unseen survivor to be. Someone had managed to make it out!

A dearg-due. Miriam looked at this strange woman, not really understanding what she meant and hating that fact. “Right. A dearg-due.” A word that she’d have to look up on her own time, but, perhaps, something of import. Maybe a step closer to not feeling like she was stumbling through this wretched unlife without any sort of instruction manual. She narrowed her eyes at the other woman before rolling them and snorting, a most unladylike sound that she truthfully didn’t care about in present company. “There’s always a little left until it’s absolutely still,” she said, her ears picking up on the sound of a struggling heartbeat before the zombie’s head had even turned. With eyes the color of the blood spilled in the snow, Miriam looked at the man that was struggling, suffering, trying so, so hard to live. His cries were the most dreadful music, a delightful meal. She wanted it to stop. She was lithe on her feet and she made her way towards him, and her hand wrapped around his neck faster than he could blink. “Shh, it’ll be over soon,” she soothed, and she moved her hand, took a bite. It had been some time since she’d had blood straight from the source, and it was still warm, despite the chill in the air. By the time Miriam was done, there wasn’t much left of the man’s neck. She wiped at her face, her chin. She looked back at the zombie. “I suppose I’m a bit of a mess as well.” 

Eilidh’s feet had barely become reacquainted with the ground when the Dearg-Due made her way. Hand gripped tight, threatening to suck out his life. But teeth worked faster. By the time Eilidh was close enough to make out his features, last drops of that life trickled away. Left a red stain on the snow. Left a space for the sadness to return. But it too trickled away, lost to the fog she carried so well. Reverting to a stillness. A deep silence. Where not even a heartbeat could be found, for the two standing had none to spare. Until a chuckle broke it—brought some semblance of life back to the white expanse of the dead. “Ah. You do like blood slushies.” The other’s mouth dripped in the last of that man’s warmth—red blotches against the once spotless mold. But found herself enjoying the sight, more than before. Always an admirer of those with the touch of the wild. “Looks better. One more meal. Might even be stunning.” Like her, with fragments of bodies littering her face and chest, as it did the ground. Stained by that dark, crimson death. 

Wiping at the corners of her mouth as they ticked upwards ever so slightly, Miriam licked the blood off her thumb as she said, “Not quite a blood slushie. He was still lukewarm, at the least.” Amusement and disgust warred within her, both at the bloodbath as well as the woman in front of her. She was no different, now, really, blood on her face, a body in front of her. And she was still thirsty, so thirsty, the kind of thirst that, for once, couldn’t be tamed by misery. It was likely that the bags of blood in her home wouldn’t help much, either. She managed a laugh, though. “I think we have different thoughts on the word stunning, sweetness.” She was still thirsty. She said, “I’m not one to overindulge.” 

Tongue clicked in a baby’s attempt of disappointment. One that held no power, with a touch of humor. But the feeling did linger on the surface. Eilidh simply shrugged at the dismissal. “Only the greedy do.” There was a curious quirk of her brow, noting a strange expression on the other’s face. Causation could not be placed, but assumption was the feast had put the woman in a wild state of mind. Eilidh could certainly relate. Such a state told her to keep feeding, despite the all-consuming hunger being placated. To eat until satisfied instead of simply sated. Eyes focused intently on the recently deceased, whose flesh was still soft and tender and untouched by the stiffness of death and cold. Mouth salivated in turn. Hungry teeth had only ripped out a few mouthfuls when a new distraction arose. A sudden sound in the distance. Unknown but clearly approaching. Another predator? An oblivious local? A hunter? She hissed at the third suggestion, not wanting to deal with that ilk. Body lowered, fingers tensed, preparing for that encroaching mystery.

“Well, then, here’s to not being greedy, hm?” But Miriam was still feeling that tell-tale tinge of bloodlust under the surface, ever present but growing now. It had been so long since she’d fed properly. So long. And she wasn’t starving by any means, and she wasn’t going to complain about it, but, damn, when Miriam used to feed like this, she was ravenous. In the 90s, she’d slaughtered multiple people at a time as a result of her thirst for blood and pain. It would last for hours, only satisfied when she was surrounded by bodies. Much as she was now, but these weren’t bodies of her making. One just wasn’t enough. She heard the sound of a car door slam, saw blue sirens just ahead of them, smelled someone as they approached. Miriam didn’t think. The officer was dead before she properly arrived on the scene, and Miriam ripped her throat before she could make so much as a gurgle. This was warm blood, delicious as it soothed the ache inside her that she hadn’t even noticed. How was Miriam supposed to notice when she neglected this side of herself so thoroughly? She didn’t know. She looked up at her new companion and straightened once more, washing the blood from her face and hands with the snow. The entire altercation had been quick, so quick. Miriam wasn’t one for apologies. She rarely apologized. That was how she was raised. However, she did manage to say, “I’m not normally this…” her lips twitched, “emphatic.”

The situation seemed remedied, as the vampire charged at that approaching commotion. Reduced to gurgles and silence, a seeping redness behind abandoned vehicles. Eilidh feasted as well, hardly one to neglect the hunger. Stripping more of that first kill’s recognizability. Turned from man to meat in tattered clothes. Enough to doubt it was ever a man at all. Calming the pestering part of her mind lost to the fog. She sucked on her own fingers, removing viscera clinging between wrinkles and under nails. Nothing gone to waste. She turned in time to meet her carnage companion. Both stained and dripping in fresh blood. The other trying to hide this fact, transferring blame onto the snow. Eilidh made no such motion, almost wearing it with pride. “Should try it some more. Looks like you enjoy it.” Her attention shifted to what lay behind, the cause of interruption. Lone police car illuminated in that swirl of blue and red, still waiting for its passenger. “Well, they never send just one. ‘Bout to be crawling with ‘em now.” Head tilted at a consideration—to lie in wait for the food to come. But enough death had touched these lands in one night. And, of course, she wasn’t greedy. She gripped onto the remains of that mangled corpse—lugged it onto her shoulder. Before taking her leave, she addressed the woman cut of similar clothe. “What should I call you, lady of blood?” 

Having never really eaten with a zombie before, Miriam couldn’t quite contain the look of horrified fascination. Really, she’d never seen anyone eat with such gusto, not even at dinner parties her parents hosted years and years ago. Maybe Miriam just wasn’t used to watching other undead eat. Not entire bodies, at least, and not like that. It was fascinating, certainly, but it was also unnerving. Not scary, just strange. Unusual. Unnatural. But, then again, they were dead. There hadn’t been anything natural about them since their hearts stopped beating. “Darling, if I indulged like this all the time, we wouldn’t have a town left. I prefer to keep my meals light.” Two people in a matter of minutes was quite the loss of life, even if Miriam was certain the one would have died from the cold. The other was just a casualty of every awful thing that had been growing inside of Miriam unchecked for some time now, she’d need to be more careful. She wiped her hands off on her pants, now free of blood and viscera. “My friends call me Mim, though Miri is fine as well. I own the leather shop in town,” Miriam said, a smile on her lips. “What should I call you, oh mighty finder of finger foods?”

Eilidh’s breath rushed out her nose in a near snort. “Only if you’re picky. Find deer to be just as satisfying. Gives a better chase.” And lacked that sense of… She did not want to place a name. To those emotions that tried to surface at times of feeding. A tainting born from James’ pleasantries. It had been easier in the times before. And when she found herself with those like Mim, twins of that primal nature, some of that ease could be found. Of course, judgement had been placed on her, from that kindred companion. But now, with no sense to hide the parts society deemed too dark and twisted, she only saw a fascination from the other woman. She smiled, revealing a bit of discolored skin lodged between incisors. It grew a smidgen wider, at that fun nickname. Made her consider ripping off a dead finger and chomping down in reinforcement. “Dia dhuit, Mim.” She let out a gentle chuckle. “Guess this means we’re friends. Mine call me many things. Call me Ellie.” Sirens tore her attentions. She saw more swirls of blue and red bouncing off distant walls, but creeping ever closer. As did those shrieking sounds—building on each other into a single blasting. Arm securing her haul grew tighter. Squeezing out those last drops of blood it had managed to hold drizzling down her shoulder. “Better scamper. ‘Till the next.” And she disappeared into the trees. 

[imnotwolverine]

The Monster’s Lair - A Baptism of Fire

Vampire!Henry x Belle - multi-chapter

< Chap 11 | Chapter 12 - A Baptism of Fire 

Disclaimer: Dark adult fairytale, manhunt, blood, gore, death, vampirism, witchcraft, evil fairies, angst

Author’s note: It’s always so bittersweet to finish a long fic. For weeks it has been embedded in my brain, bubbling up on the most impractical moments. Business meetings? Yes. 3AM whilst trying to sleep? Yep. And of course.. once I found a moment to write, the muse was gone and I’d just stare at a blank page for a good hour. Now..after all those struggles..it’s finished. My baby’s finished! *sigh* THE POST-FIC VOID IS CALLING. 😩

Anyways, I’d love to hear from you, dear readers. Give me all your feelings, ideas, tips (and of course fic prompt ideas).❤️I love you and I hope you enjoyed the read!

Word count: 7.801

Reading music: Sowulu - Wulfwiga 

(Link to my Masterlist)

--

Something was there.

Like she owned a sixth sense, she knew when danger lurked. And lurking it did. But quietly. Far too quietly. Flicking her ears the deer listened in more closely, the cold forest sounds muted by the thick layer of snow that covered the earth and greens. Winter was at its deepest and coldest now, meaning hunger pushed the herd further to the borders of comfort.

Turning her ears again, her eyes unblinking, she watched with large doe eyes into the dawn. Another whisper sounded through the trees. Hard to discern. But there. Something was definitely there.

Her heart started to gallop, but her feet remained stationary. Nothing around her seemed to be out of the ordinary, the world as white and quiet as ever before. Perhaps it had been a bird or critter. And perhaps it was death.

Her ears pricked around her head, but neither eye nor ear could spot anything strange. All she could see were the slow sun rays that had started weaving their way through the pine trees, starting yet another day in winter wonderland.

Though it was no wonderland for her. More like a fuzzy white nightmare. As she stood there she felt a strange daze fall over her, her limbs no longer her own as her heart beat for two. Gnawing nervously on the patch of grass between her lips, she tried to figure out what was happening to her. Was it an evil spirit? An omen?

A twig snapped and fast as lightning her hooves spurred into full sprint, back to the safety of the herd that had also started to scatter, away from the invisible danger. With leaps and jumps she rushed over the icy planes and snow-heavy branches, hoping to outrun whatever was hunting her so silently.

Birds chirped and snow fell, the sudden rumour in the forest having caused a flock of birds to set off. Perfect for the deer, as their flight made a soft powdery curtain fall behind her tail, her trail temporarily hidden from her perpetrator. Her scent, however, was not hidden. Nor was her heartbeat; now loud as a war drum in her furry chest. With her small hooves she landed on yet another icy patch, its menacingly slippery mirror reflecting hell as it lapped at her ankles.

But, by a fickle sliver of luck, she got away again. Her perpetrator had also slipped and with the thunder in her heart she raced on, legs scrambling and eyes wild.

Move, move, move! Run, run, run!

Having now lost track of her herd, she felt that same strange buzz in her veins. Like she was possessed. And the spirit inside her whispered; “Go to the light!”

Full sprint she set off to where the trees cleared out, the hunt leaving no moment to ponder and hesitate. The fairy spirit inside her now took over, her long legs stretching in large leaps, near making her fly as a merry chuckle danced through her twitching ears. Here more sunshine managed to break through the canopy, its rays glowing warm and yellow over powdery snow.

When she reached the final trees, a beastly growl was heard behind her. Her perpetrator was obviously not happy with this new direction. Would he maybe shy away? Break off the chase? Had this fairy saved her?

She had no time to wait and see. And thus with restless hooves she jumped into the open field. A field which wasn’t a field at all. It was a garden. Large terraces were layered over a hill, with on the very top a castle that was long past its glory days. And despite that, it looked like heaven’s gates, the sun casting a warm hue over the mossy stonework, snow glittering on its window sills.

“Go, go, go!” The fairy ushered, spurring on the deer to run on. Higher and higher. Deeper and deeper into the garden. Until finally she reached the gates to this heavenly hell.

“Good!” The fairy cheered. “And now you die!”

--

‘Hahaha..oh like you would.’ Belle cooed, teasingly rubbing her foot up the Master’s leg, their chairs settled next to each other before the fire. In their laps lay books, but they had long been forgotten as the two bantered on.

‘Do not underestimate my..-’ The Master’s scoffing words halted as he flicked his head away from her, eyes looking up and over Belle’s shoulder.

‘Is the castle falling to ruin yet?’ Belle chuckled, unaware of what the Master had picked up on - it happened on occasion that his attention would fly off like that. His head tilted up to the ceiling as he kept scanning for the source, thereby presenting something Belle had not spotted yet. Beneath his carefully tucked cravatte two angry looking marks appeared. Bite marks. Purple and blue, little veins around them bruised and broken.

‘AI!’ Belle shot up from her chair, book left in the seat as she rushed to push the white cotton further down. ‘You are hurt!’ She exclaimed, the Master’s heaven blue gaze now turning back to her. With a hesitant swallow he nodded, arms reaching out to pull her into his lap, ears continuing to prick and look for more strange sounds.

Belle still didn’t notice much of any foreign presence, her fingers looping around the knot of the cravatte to untighten it. ‘You should have told me.’ She chided softly, fingertips grazing over the edges of the broken skin. ‘Tis nothing.’ The Master brushed off, but Belle’s expression made it clear that she did not believe a word of it.

‘If it were nothing it’d have healed by now.’ She retorted, referring to the Master’s ability to heal at a phenomenally fast rate. ‘Let me at least clean it for you!’ And with that she hopped off his lap, skirts flying out of the library in a flurry. Grumbling the Master followed, eyes taking one last look over his shoulder, finding the library’s contents still slumbering.

What was it he was hearing? Was it his staff pulling a prank? The icy wind outside? He thought he had lived here long enough to know every single one of the sounds in this castle.

Turning his attention back to the long hallway, he followed Belle, eyes not leaving her again as he admired her slender frame. It had taken weeks for her to finally accept and wear the great many gowns his wife had left behind. But here she was. Wearing a particularly enchanting, silverish white dress, her hair put up nicely and lips curled in a rosy smile. She looked like an angel, and he couldn’t help but think of what his wife had been like. But Belle was more. Not only was she here. She was livelier…. Happier.  

Happiness. It was a strange emotion to feel again. Even now the crooked pull of his lips felt awkward, foreign. But the pretty maiden before him didn’t seem to mind, her large brown eyes looking back at him as he trailed a few steps behind her.

‘Are you gonna hunt me down?’ She teased, eyebrow quirking with a challenge before she upped her step, dainty feet speeding down the long hallway. The Master chuckled.

Happiness. It was strange indeed.

--

‘Oh, you look at that.’ Plumette sighed dreamily, watching as the Master caught the giggling maiden before capturing her in a sweet kiss. The grandmaster clock grumbled something indiscernible, receiving a little gasp from the feather duster as she gave him a scornful look. ‘Say that again.’ She demanded, glaring at the clock that was close to a slumber - least to her amusement.

‘Time..’ He mumbled, before his eyes fully closed.

‘Time.’ She repeated, huffing slightly. “Time this, time that! ‘Tis a tale as old as time’ he says.” Ladieladiela! PFFT!’ She swivelled off to follow the two lovebirds as they hooked their arms around one another.

‘Well. I say it IS time.’

‘Time for what?’ The little teacup joined her from the kitchens, his porcelain body cleaned off and ready for a new serving. The duster eyed him as he panted to keep up, his porcelain foot hopping with great effort to follow her fast feather feet. With a dramatic twirl she halted and turned.

‘Oh..just look at how pitifully you run, dear boy!’ Her long lashes looked down upon him as the poor teacup shyly looked away, embarrassed by his inability to do what any young boy should be able to do. ‘I say, dear boy, that it’s time we get rid of this darn curse, that’s what!’

‘But ..but how?’ He asked desperately. He had long accepted that he would be a failure when it comes to young boys. He couldn’t play, couldn’t run, couldn’t climb trees. All he could do was hop and talk, hop and talk.

‘Well boy! It’s a curse! Curses can be done..and undone!’ And with that she turned back to watch as the Master tenderly folded a rogue hair back behind Belle’s ear, the sight making a small smile tug at Plumette’s pretty duster lips.

Well. That’s how.  

--

‘We are cursed!’ The butcher rose his fist in the air, making the crowd in the great hall of the Les Comtes roar in agreement. ‘First the drought. The hunger. Then the killing of Ismael’s men in the woods…’ He pointed at the seat where a dark haired lady sat, the Grandmaster’s chair next to her empty. ‘..and the sudden death of our Grandmaster!’ - ‘AYE’ - ‘Tis true.’ The gathered men wholeheartedly agreed. More fists rose in the air, before the room calmed again, the mysterious raven maiden standing up from her seat to walk into the middle of the hall, attracting the men’s attention.

With cool eyes she looked around her, the roars dying down until the hall was quiet as mice. She was a beauty to behold and it had been only weeks since they had taken her on as the grandmaster’s wife. With the sudden demise of their good grandmaster, they were left with this calm apparition of pure divinity, her looks closer to that of an angel than of a woman made of flesh and blood. Slowly her long sleeve rose, a pale hand appearing from the burgundy robe.

‘I grieve!’ She chanted, her chest rising deeply before she turned her eyes towards the butcher, his lips falling open ever so slightly - enchanted. ‘So now. What do you suggest we do, good sir? How shall we avenge my dear husband’s death?’ Her voice played her role of grieving wife perfectly, though her cool eyes sparkled with danger.

The butcher swallowed back a lump and stepped in, eyes searching his fellow men for agreement. ‘I’d say..fair lady..’ He bowed his head slightly. ‘..we must avenge him indeed. But first we must find our lord. Ismael! He shall lead us on, as ever he has done.’

The men didn’t chant quite the agreement he expected, his eyes nervously peering left and right as he heard timid whispers about. Finally one man stepped forward; ‘Say nay, is it not strange, that he is not here? Where is he?! Our Grandmaster?!’

The long sleeved arm rose up again, silencing the roaring whispers. ‘We know not.’ She raised her chin slightly, as if the next news was cause for more grief. ‘He is not in his rooms. His bed is unslept. I fear..’ She lowered her gaze to the floor. ‘..he was taken as well.’

‘Tis like the fires!’ A scrawny man with wild eyes stepped forward. ‘The beast is coming into our homes, stealing our wives..children..and now also our new grandmaster!’ The crowd roared in agreement, but then a woman appeared from behind broad backs, her face scowling and voice straining to silence the crowd. ‘NO! SAY NO LIES!’  The rowdy men halted their loud chants. ‘Me and my children were SAVED, not stolen!’

And with that she gave a menacing look at the scrawny man who huffed in annoyance. Another few voices mingled in and before long the whole hall had erupted in another loud quarrel. Nobody was quite sure who was right, and what had been the Beast’s doing. But they sure were ready to avenge themselves, one way, or the other.

--

Halting his step for a moment the Master looked back over Belle’s shoulder, the long hallway before them soon to reach the entree hall. With a mindless lick of his bottom lip he pricked his ears, still not quite sure of what he had heard just now. It had most definitely not been his staff. An..animal perhaps?

Belle’s curious eyes looked up at the Master, her lips still curled in a soft, relaxed smile. ‘What is it?’ She asked gently.

‘A..deer..’ The Master frowned. ‘..or something like it.’

It was unusual for deer to get this close to the castle. They knew well that a predator lived here. And one would only go to a predator’s lair if they were young and naive or..hmmm…Or..Or chased..

Fuck.

Like the devil heard the Master’s inward grunt, the front door was barged open, icy winds spewing a whirl of snow into the entry hall.

FUCK!

Without thinking twice the Master lifted Belle in his arms, his long legs making a sprint for the first room to his right, his brain not even thinking of blocking the doorway; they needed to get out of here. Now.

Was it back? Was it back?!

With all the speed he could muster in his legs he ran into one of the windows - which thankfully were on ground floor level, his shoulder turning forward to brace for impact as they ran straight through the thin glossy pane. Belle yelped in terror, her ever-present smile having melted like snow before the sun as a thousand small shards of glistening daggers now brushed past them, licking their skin. It was a near miracle that the cuts left them unharmed, before the Master landed onto the soft snow outside.

With bewildered eyes he started running, away from the castle, his gaze noting that he hadn’t been wrong. There was indeed a deer before him, her swishing tail pointed up as she too ran for her life, long legs bouncing through the powdery white.

A terror clenched in his heart as he made his way down the many garden terraces, his feet knowing blindly where all roots and bushes were hidden in this fine maze of natural traps.

Behind them the loud growls of a beast were heard, also just as he expected. A deer and a beast, right here in his lair. What was going on? Was he about to lose his domain? Right now, in the broad daylight? FUCK.

He wasn’t the only one whose curiosity peaked. Sweet Belle had finally overcome the initial shock of the sudden chase, her large brown eyes daring to look around as the cold wind cut into her expressive eyes. Tears started to well - be it of shock or the icy air - and as she looked over the Master’s shoulder, all she could see were blurs. It was as if death itself was chasing them, a dark menacing cloud jumping out of the busted window, the cold wind licking at its feet.

‘Sshh.’ The Master hushed, twisting his tiring arms so she could no longer see. He wasn’t entirely sure why he was feeling so sluggish, but with Belle twisting like this in his arms, her weight seemed even greater. Just his luck. On the very moment of a great chase his veins pumped lead and his feet weighed like marble. And no matter how hard he tried to speed up, his pace just wouldn’t quicken.

With a light pant escaping his lips he looked at the deer, the animal now slowly losing ground on him as her legs were far less familiar with this terrain. Her glassy eyes stared back at him with a strange gloss. Almost blue in hue. As if possessed. Strange.

What was going on?

Growling deep in his chest the Master hoisted Belle a little bit higher in his heavy arms, teeth gritting as the deer now finally lost on him, his long legs managing to surpass her before they reached the treeline. Everything in his body seemed to object. Where usually a sprint like this costed him a little effort by daytime, right now it felt like he was running in a fever dream. Pushing hard, but barely moving. Perhaps the sun was particularly strong today - their rays hidden by a thick white nothingness. And perhaps it was the deep snow he was plowing through. Or the cold. Or ..Belle.

He had to admit he had started feeling strange these past couple of days. Especially when near her.

Looking down at the fair maiden, shivering and shaking in his arms, he couldn’t even think of asking her to run for herself. No. If really he wouldn’t make it, he’d stop and defend them as best he could. Even if he felt like a bag of bones. Weak and shaking from running just a half a mile.

--

After what seemed like the longest few minutes in their life, the Master and Belle managed to escape. At least, for now. The Master’s pace immediately dropped to a slow jog, his complexion no longer its usual smooth marble. With a delicate finger Belle traced the heated blush that had crept up his skin, the sensation so foreign as his lips parted in deep exhausted pants. Her cold monster was running hot.

That never happened before, did it now?

Looking back ahead she noticed where they were heading; the Le Comte estate. Which confused her. Why would the Master seek out human interaction, especially now as they were being hunted? Why was he leading them here? Quietly she wrapped her hands more tightly around his vest, the cold biting harshly into their clothes. Perhaps he just wanted to hide out here. Use the presence of humans as a distraction.

But it wasn’t that.

The Master leaped over the small straightshorn bushes and hedges, the garden a pretty geometric pattern of white, before he slowed his pace even more. His long legs stepped onto the main path that led up to the..front door. The front door. He was moving to the front door.

Staring in bewilderment at the Master she wondered if he was as possessed as that weird deer they had seen moments earlier.

‘Master..’ She squeaked, pulling on his vest as he kept heading straight for the door. ‘Master what are you..’

A lacky appeared, opening the door for them, eyes looking down on their slightly disheveled attire and blushing cheeks. He raised his eyebrows, but the Master was quick to respond, lips curling in an apologetic smile. ‘Apologies for being late.’ The Master slowly settled Belle down, her eyes immediately flitting back to the forest - but no movement was seen. ‘I’m afraid the poor lady sprained her ankle and..’ He babbled on, but Belle didn’t listen, her eyes keeping a razor sharp focus on the treeline.

Why had he taken them here? And why were they .. “late”? What did he know, that she didn’t?

‘But of course.’ The lackey smiled, feet stepping back to make way for them to enter, his arm gesturing into the left direction, where the grand hall was situated. ‘They just got started.’ And with that Belle and the Master let out a soft sigh, the heavy front door being closed behind them with a firm shudder.

--

“O, my offense is rank, it smells to heaven;

It hath the primal eldest curse upon ’t,

A brother’s murder. Pray can I not,

Though inclination be as sharp as will.

My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent,

And, like a man to double business bound,

I stand in pause where I shall first begin

And both neglect.

What if this cursèd hand

Were thicker than itself with brother’s blood?”

The new king spoke after his counselor wished to discuss the matter of his late brother’s sudden demise.

Belle turned in her seat as the Master let out a small cough, eyes wishing to look away from the mouse trap and broom stick, who played rather convincing roles as King Claudius and Polonius. After years of begging, his staff had finally managed to get the Master to sit down and watch, the Hamlet play now being performed in full for the both of them.

With tender fingers Belle brushed over his hand, but his eyes once again evaded hers, his gaze instead turned to their entwined hands.

‘What is it?’ She asked softly, the scene now changing as more characters entered the stage.

‘A good play’s all.’ He curled his lips, but the smile didn’t shine in his eyes.

‘Can we continue m’lady?’ Hamlet asked.

Belle raised her finger, requesting a moment, eyes searching the Master’s frowning appearance.

‘Tis fine.’ He shook his head, eyes finally looking back at Belle. ‘Truly. Do continue.’

--

A brother’s blood. Only as they now walked through the hallways of the Le Comte estate, did the similarities click in Belle’s brain. She knew he was a Le Comte. But as they passed by a few stately portraits, the features were uncanningly close to his. It was near frightening.

Their arms entangled as they made way to the grand hall, where loud roars and cheers erupted from what appeared to be a large crowd. It made for a perfect, quiet entrance, as all attention was aimed at a pale skinned lady that stood in the middle of the hall, arms raised high in the air. ‘...His bed is unslept. I fear..he was taken as well.’

The crowd started shouting again, before another woman stepped in, her appearance easily recognised by the Master, whose breath choked. The woman he saved from the fire.

‘NO! SAY NO LIES!’ She spoke, breaking through the loud ruckus. ‘Me and my children were SAVED, not stolen!’ She roared, her eyes shooting bloody murder at the man who had stoked the disquiet with such disdain. He huffed as two more men stepped in to pull him back into the crowd.  

‘YOU!!!’ A new voice boomed through the air as people were roughly shoved aside, their loud yips and groans following the path that was cleared through the crowd. An enraged man had worked his way to the centre of the mass of people, dark hair hanging before his face. With a loud groan he straightened his back, broad shoulders squaring as a hand rearranged his hair. It took everyone by surprise to see who this wild man was.

Ismael.

‘Do you not see?!’ Ismael snarled angrily, the whole room gasping as they slowly took note of the terribly disheveled state of their Grandmaster. His eyes were bloodshot and veins were drawn blue on his pale skin. ‘HE’S HERE!’ And with that he pointed at the back of the crowd, straight at Belle and the Master.

Instinctively the Master grasped for Belle’s arm to pull her back, but she was ahead of him, feet stepping forward as she spread her arms wide, shielding him instead.

In seconds the whole room was staring at her..and the unfamiliar man behind her.

‘Leave him be, Ismael.’ She bit, her lower lip trembling as the whispers started again.

‘Is that Belle?’ - ‘Wasn’t she dead?’ - ‘Who’s that?’ - ‘Where’s the monster?’

Belle swallowed harshly as a new, wide path was created by the people, a lane of emptiness stretching out between her and Ismael’s feet.

‘Or what..pretty Belle?’ Ismael tilted his head, hands folding behind his back as he straightened his shoulders, returning to his usual haughty upright. ‘Are you going to run again?’ He taunted.

The Master snapped his eyes at the taunting smile of Ismael, lips wishing to curl up in a snarl, tongue already flaking out to ...to..He licked his lips again, then more specifically his teeth. Tooth after smooth tooth, they were all there. But different. Furrowing his brow he now realised why he had felt so out of breath in the forest. He was..he was..

With slow, measured steps the young Grandmaster started his way to Belle and the Master, chin tilted upwards and red burning eyes telling of the hellfire he had come walking from. He looked like a dead man walking, jaw tight and eyes deep in their sockets. Positively sickly.

As he slowly narrowed the space until there was just a few feet between them, he quirked his head again. The movement felt so unnatural. Almost as if he was possessed. The Master felt a shiver run down his spine, the worst of his nightmares coming true.

History repeats. History repeats. History repeats.

Belle didn’t notice him. Her eyes were instead transfixed on the strange being that Ismael had become. His nose inhaled, as if he had just stepped outside and the flowers were abloom, his lips curling in an empty smile.

Click.

It clicked in her head. This was exactly like the Master had been when she had just met him. Strange. Inhuman. Obsessed with smell. He was one too. Ismael was one too. And from the looks of it he had some trouble hunting, his skin as deadly pale as the Master’s had been after the long week without feeding. She had to run. To get away. To…looking around she saw all the people. Gruff bakers, butchers and clergymen, all staring at her with bafflement. They probably still thought she had something to do with the curse. No. She shouldn’t run. Not this time.

‘Looks like I’m not running.’ Belle finally spoke, the words escaping with a pent up little sigh from her chest. The crowds had gone quiet, whispers finally silenced, as none wanted to miss a single word.

‘We should go.’ The Master’s fingers melted around her waist, begging for her attention. But from the way she swatted away his hand, he knew that she was a lost cause. And he understood. Ismael had taken everything from her. From the night at the feast, where he chased her until bloody and broken. To the condemnation of her father, who now lay cold in the ground. And then there was the here and now. He was chasing her again. Wishing to take away what little she possessed.

Her sweet rose.

There was little the Master could do, his limbs heavy and feet nailed to the ground. The whole world seemed slow. Dull. Strange. He had lost it. He must have lost it. And now all he could do was hope that Ismael would make a mistake. Make the people turn against him. He did look sickly after all.

‘Did you take something that was not yours, milord?’ Belle cocked her eyebrow at Ismael, her pretty face a mask of calmth.

For a moment the Grandmaster didn’t seem to respond, death staring in his empty eyes. Or perhaps it was hunger. The Master knew that sensation all too well. He had been there. He had smelled the rich delight of fresh blood, he had heard the loud beating of a hundred hearts around him. To remain calm and composed in such a moment, was near impossible.

And so it was.

The young Grandmaster awoke from his contemplation, lips pulling back in a slip as long fangs were revealed. In a whirl of seconds the whole atmosphere changed and Ismael had chosen his fate. People gasped in shock and feet started to flee in all directions, wishing to get away, whilst others tried to find weapons.

The Master also chose his fate - hoping this would not be the day he’d regain life, only to lose it again so soon. Again he tried to pull Belle away, but she stood her ground, head shaking one solid “no”.

FUCK. Fucking stupid stubborn..stubborn...ARGH! His mind reeled at the sight of his Belle, her eyes feraly staring back in Ismael’s vampiric gaze. It both alarmed and aroused him.

Oh..Why after a long life of unmeasured strength, did the Gods choose for him to be weak as of right now?!

With widened eyes he sprinted off to a fireplace close-by, hands grabbing for a hot poker that lay abandoned in the roaring fire, feet evading the many people who ran to and fro in a messy hurry.

In the meantime Ismael had lunged forward, closing the distance between him and Belle, evil hands grasping at her face and hair, wishing to pull her jaw aside so he could go in for a taste. But Belle was fierce and headstrong. And definitely not afraid. With stomping feet and gritting teeth she fought back, nails digging into whatever facial feature she could reach - hopefully Ismael’s eyes.

And it wasn’t just the people that had started to become restless. Also the room itself seemed to fill with a certain disquiet. Windows trembled, before finally they swung open, long curtains drifting high in the wind. It was something out of a beautiful horror story, the vampire trying to sink his fangs in buttery skin, as long streams of heavy red velvet danced on the icy winds. Like blood. Flowing. Dancing. Licking.

Too busy with the struggle with Belle - and her smell - Ismael had lost sight of the Master as he hurled himself at his fellow vampire. Near ready to strike his fangs into her porcelain skin, a loud cry erupted from his lips instead.

The Master appeared from behind Ismael, the hot poker shoved mercilessly between cold ribs, aiming true. A vampire may be strong. But not invincible. And so as daylight lay dust to Ismael’s skin and blood bubbled on his screaming lips, Ismael let go off his tasty snack, poor Belle dropping in surprise from the dying vampire’s grasp. Anguish shrilled through the air as the monster yelped in pain, the hot iron firing straight through his icy heart. Ending his reign of terror. Ending his attempts at pouring poison on the lives around him.

For a long moment the world seemed to have gone mute. The people gawked at the heap of limbs and bubbling, foaming blood that dripped onto the stone, their young Grandmaster no more. And the wind continued to blow, though now far less menacingly, the heavy velvets drifting aimlessly through the curious crowd.

In a mere few weeks the people had lost not one, but two Grandmasters. And how! The first one drowned in his own bile. And the other? The other was a monster...a monster! And a dead one at that, his crimson lifeblood now seeping slowly onto the floor as slow whispers started to travel through the crowd.

Things started to click for the people as well. Gaps were being filled and questions answered.

Ismael had been the beast! It made sense! As of late he had been acting strange. In fact..vile! He had spoken in strange tongues, spat his wine at guests, gnarled like a wolf and roared like a storm. And before that he had lead his people in the wrong way on multiple occasions, the most vivid memory being that of the night of the fires.

And as the whispers circulated, the saved woman from the fires stepped forward again, hands pushing aside the crowds to get to Belle and the Master.

‘TIS YOU!’ The woman cried, her arms instinctively wrapping around his shocked frame. ‘Tis you. OH may God be with ye good lord.’ She looked up from her tight embrace, eyes watering. ‘You saved us.’ The Master swallowed awkwardly, not sure how to respond. He hadn’t been hugged by a stranger in..well..literally centuries.

‘Twas you who grabbed us from the fire, no?’ The woman then asked, realising she might be mistaken. Slowly the Master nodded, blue eyes looking down at her blushing face. ‘It was..I. Yes.’

‘OH blessed be!’ She exclaimed, her next attempt at hugging failing as a new person entered the little get together.

The fayen woman with the raven hair.

Her piercing blue eyes studied the Master as she pushed aside the last of the men who were standing in her way, her lips falling apart in a gasp of exaggerated surprise.

‘MY SON!’ She exclaimed, confusing the Master even more as he immediately recognised her as Morgana.

She was no woman! She was a witch!

Searching for Belle, he quickly pulled her into his side, her large brown eyes looking between him and Morgana to realise that he knew this strange vixenous woman. Fighting away from his grip yet again she stepped forward, brows furrowing as her finger pointed out at the Master’s “mother”.

‘You are his mother? You?!’ Her eyes lit with fire, and Morgana looked in amazement at the fierce little thing.

‘And who might you be?’ Morgana asked, her head quirking in bemusement.

Belle lowered her finger and balled both hands into fists, tongue flaking over her bottom lip. She had to try her best not to fly into the woman’s hair at once.

‘The one who didn’t abandon him.’ She growled.

Morgana smiled, then looked back at the Master. ‘Tis true then. You have returned from the dead and I embrace you warmly.’ She swiped past belle and hugged the Master, long neck stretching as she reached her lips out to whisper in the shell of his ear. ‘What sweet rose you bring.’

Belle watched in bafflement as the devious devil woman let out a theatrical shrill of joy, fingers tracing over her “son’s” cheek. ‘I lose one son, but welcome back another. What cruel faith this day brings. But oh, how joyous am I to embrace you again. You see..Such tragedies have befallen us…’ Slowly she disentangled her branchlike fingers from the Master’s mane, her attention now aimed back at the crowd.

‘..but no more!’ Her eyes trailed to the heap of limbs that had been Ismael - his mouth foaming with blood. ‘Today the tragedies end. And I say we celebrate!’

--

It was like time hadn’t passed. Like Belle was again at that party a few months prior, the whole village cheering and dancing because the beast was gone. And yet, everything was different now. Looking to her left it was not her father she saw. It was the Master, his eyes giving her a sympathetic smile as he listened to an endless stream of words that erupted from the woman he had saved from that fire.

And looking to her right, to the hallway where she had ran off the last time, there was again a light trail of blood - though this time it was Ismael’s blood, not hers.

She hadn’t felt like dancing then. And she most definitely didn’t feel like dancing now.

Even as the villagers deemed her and her handsome saviour as trustworthy, welcoming them with pats on the shoulder and small smiles, the atmosphere felt off. Like..something lingered here still. But maybe that was also just her projection. Her not daring to believe that it was over. Done. The happy end. Book closed.

Finally, the woman from the fires was pulled away for a dance, leaving the Master’s arms open for Belle to slide into, their feet not opting to dance, but to stay, her head leaning into his warm chest.

Warm..chest. Wait…

Settling back a little, Belle looked back up at the Master. In all the fuss and stress, she hadn’t noticed what he had noticed. Hesitantly brushing her finger over his cheek she could feel the gentle warmth that spread there. She could smell him. He had a smell about him. Which was both new, and refreshingly nice. The Master’s lips curled in a careful smile, allowing her to study his changed appearance, fingers touching and eyes studying.

And then, finally, her finger moved to the corner of his lip, her eyes searching his for confirmation before she carefully pulled it up. A gasp escaped her rosy lips.

‘It’s done.’ The Master nodded, his smile growing.

‘But..how?’ Belle frowned, the question remaining unanswered as the raven haired lady returned. Her sly act of motherly warmth not yet dropped as she procured a scarlet rose from her long sleeve, the crowd around them now starting a dance circle. People smiled, feet jumped, patterns whirled and the music whipped. But Belle, the Master and Morgana had little eye for them, as the three of them shared looks.

‘I beg you forgive me for our logy meeting, earlier.’ Morgana curtsied. ‘I do speak in honesty when I say you must be the most beautiful of the land. And, I understand wholeheartedly why my son has taken a liking to you.’ Her lips curled in a smile, but jealousy laced her words. Then, with a controlled force, she offered the rose to Belle, the poor girl yelping in surprise and pain. Its jaggedy thorns ripped through her palm, hot blood oozing from the wound.

‘Ai!’ Morgana expressed, not half as surprised as it was probably foul play from the start. With fascinated blues she watched as the Master grasped for Belle’s hand, soft lips kissing and soothing where it ached, the rose falling discarded on the ground.

So it was true. The curse was lifted.

With a wry smile she looked at the rose as it fell to the ground, blood glistening on its petals.

Too bad that..

‘What is this sorcery?’ The Master whispered through gritted teeth, his dark gaze aimed at her, disturbing her thoughts. Morgana chuckled, then shrugged her shoulders. Sorcery? Did he mean the curse she had lain on him? The deer she had sent his way? Or the ..rose?

Just as the thought whirled through the branches of her wicked brain, she watched as Belle started to wobble, her hands grasping for the Master’s chest as dainty legs gave way. Such a loss. Such a pretty girl.

Too pretty.

With a theatrical gasp Morgana watched as the Master caught Belle in his arms, her body hanging limp like a sleeping corpse.

Much better.

With Belle held in a tight embrace and tears brimming in the corners of his eyes, the Master looked back up at Morgana. The question he posed earlier couldn’t have had a better timing, Morgana mused.

‘Tis love.’ Morgana sighed, making the Master cry out in anguish.

Nothing could ever end well, could it? One moment he regained life. Only to lose it again a moment later. Feeling up Belle’s throat her heartbeat was but a whisper, face calm and restful like she was in a deadly sleep.

‘Hahahahaha.’ A sudden burst of laughter erupted from Morgana’s cherry lips, making the Master’s anguish greater. ‘Oh hush..my son.’ She taunted, then sighed. ‘I just required proof, ‘s all.’

The Master blinked in horror at the wicked witch. The whole world seemed to be unwilling to see what a grievous bitch she was. SHE was the monster. And she made her lair wherever and whenever it suited her. With a snap of her claw-like fingers she could enchant any and every man and woman. She did as she pleased. But he wasn’t sure why. Was she truly vile? Or had she good reason?

‘Proof of what?’ He bit through his tears.

‘Hmm..you know..what.’ Morgana gave him a cold stare, the laughter of seconds earlier melted away, making place for her true nature. With a click of her tongue she eyed Belle. So pale. So frail. So cold. ‘So..very pretty.’ She tutted.

It was then he had enough. With a careful bow he laid Belle to the ground, eyes having a hard time to break away from his dying love. ‘You killed her.’ He whimpered.

‘Well. Then bring her back.’ Morgana also lowered to her knees, head tilting in fascination as the Master’s watery pools of misery looked at her.

And the people? They continued to dance. Like enchanted. No. Possessed.

With a long sniff of the nose, the Master retraced his finger over Belle’s cheek, her heartbeat no longer to be found beneath her marble skin.

‘No..’ He trembled. ‘No please. Please Belle.’ Anguish tore through his breaking heart, his next movement rash and unpredicted. With a deadly force he picked and pushed the rose into Morgana’s chest, its sharp thorns cutting like knives into her pale skin.

‘You keep your vileness...mother!’ He spat.

In the initial wave of shock Morgana couldn’t help but laugh, the irony not lost on her before her laughter too died. With awkward sputters of her luscious lips she reached for slurred words, that were hard to hear even if you leaned in real close. ‘Tcan’t be.’ And with that she sank to the ground too, her face melting into one of eternal sleep.

So lost in his pain and tears, the Master did not notice how the people around him were unleashed from their magical chain, the whole world sighing with relief as the witch had been defeated.

No, all the Master could do was cry. His lips whispering wordlessly, he begged for Belle to come back. With rubbing hands he wished to warm her skin, wake her. But curses were evil. Hard to break.

Was she truly dead?

After centuries of agony he found his love, only to lose it by the prick of a fucking ROSE?! ARGH!! NO! No...no…

‘Belle..’ He begged, his hands lifting up her sleeping form, wishing to keep her as close to his shattered heart as he could.

‘Tis a witch!’ A voice cried behind him, making the angry anguish burn up in his chest. But when he looked up, he noticed what he had not noticed earlier. The body of Morgana was now no longer of lady-like form. Twisted and evil, skin wrinkly and warted, she looked as picture book perfect a description of a witch. Cursed by her own trappings, it had caused her demise.

More voices erupted from the disenchanted crowd, people rushing to come to aid, hands pulling away Morgana’s corpse to get to Belle.

Blinking away some of his tears, the Master looked back down at Belle. With a tender brush of love he kissed her cooling lips finally, one last time.

The poisoned rose crumpled and a clock rang.

It was a tale as old as time.

A tune as old as song.

For centuries he had felt the long minutes melt into hours. Into days. Into aggravating months, years, a lifetime. But time reminded him also of how precious it was. Or had been. The lone years had been forgotten so simply when he stood there one day in the forest, only to hear a sweet voice tinkle through the trees. For a moment he did not exist. He was like a bird on the branches. He watched her as she spoke, rosy lips curling in one of those dream-haunting smiles.

That day he finally reinstalled that darn mirror in the hall. Just one mirror. The rest still locked and stocked away. One mirror to remind him that he existed. That he was no ghost. He was real.

That day he looked upon his form for the first time in centuries. Sharp and pale. Fanged and broken.

Bittersweet and strange

Finding you can change

Learning you were wrong

Without fail he would listen to her then everyday. He would re-read her words in his lair. He’d even go out and trade with merchants far and wide to retrieve as many copies of her book as he could get his hands on; he would have them all if he could. At some point they stacked up high in his room, alongside the many other books he had read in hope that he would learn more about the female heart...and soul.

His every waking hour - which were many - was invested in learning. Reading. Reclaiming what little hold he had of life. Belle was his anchor, his lifeline. She brought a fickle sliver of hope back in his lonely days. She brought him a soul.

‘Please.’

Certain as the sun

Rising in the East

‘Please..’ A finger grazed up his cheek.Two large brown eyes looked up into his tear bleeding eyes and he wondered if he was dreaming, his eyes starting to blink furiously, but the eyes before him remained. What..? OH! OH my! She is awake! With a tremble of his lips he felt his dying heart revived, her lips curling a sleepy smile.

‘Anything Belle.’ He smiled in disbelief. She sniffled, still slightly hazed, before pulling his hand to her thigh, making his cheeks flush in mild embarrassment.

‘Belle..we are..’ He wished to alarm her of their audience, to which some people chuckled, whispers erupting in the crowd. It had always been a weird girl, that Belle.

And then the Master realised what she wanted him to find; his fingers felt the outlines of the book beneath her skirts. Of course. The book. He smiled and reached down her pockets - receiving some silent gasps from the crowd - before retrieving it. The people laughed even louder. Oh! And Belle and her books!! Oh, Belle!

Tale as old as time

Song as old as rhyme

‘You want me to read?’ The master chuckled.

‘No.’ She slowly shook her head and smiled. ‘Twas just that I was right.’

Beauty and the Beast

--

Church bells rang in the morning air, but for once they did not hurt the Master’s ears. In fact, he couldn’t imagine a more welcoming sound at this very moment. With sure strides he walked down the path, the crowding numbers on the square indicating just how packed the chapel had to be. Their faces smiled, and napkins waved in the air, as people wished to bestow gifts and well-wishes. But they would have to save that for later. With a practised, but well-felt smile, their new Grandmaster thanked them, his cheeks glowing with a thrilling buzz.

Before him the large wooden doors to the chapel arose behind side-stepping people, the path to his future cleared as the January sun warmed the back of his tailcoat.

Outside a grumpy old man awaited him, hand folded around his hip as beady eyes peered from beneath thick grey eyebrows. He smelled of wood and grime. ‘Twas about time!’ The man grumbled, tilting his head, gesturing the Master to step inside. ‘Thank you..grandfather time.’ The Master chuckled, offering the man a teasing wink before finally stepping inside.

‘Okay..GO GO GO.’ Lumiere’s wig bounced somewhere at the altar, the small man quick to spur the little orchestra into motion, a soft music warming from their strings and bells.

The Master smiled, halting his steps to allow his ever chaotic staff a moment to get a hold of the situation. They were still not entirely used to their regained human form, but the gladness did beam off their glowing cheeks.

And then, with a grounding breath, the Master prepared himself for the first day of the rest of his life.

It was time, indeed.

--

‘Are you catching up with that?’ Belle sniffled after their staff left the room. Soft candles casted a soft glow around their shared bedroom, a fire burning in the hearth.

‘What is that..wife?’ His smile grew even wider, making Belle chuckle. Without further ado the Master stripped himself of his shirt, the planes of skin and hair underneath unveiling a new life. Like Adam stood before Eve, he stood before Belle, her appreciative eyes travelling a long way down his muscular physique. A very naked physique. He had changed so little, and yet so dramatically. The shapes were the same. But the touch was different. He was no longer hard and marble, but soft and warm.

Though not soft, mushy soft. He made sure to flex his muscles teasingly as she looked back up his large biceps.

‘Very well..HUSBAND.’ Belle grinned and got up from the bed, her long hair falling in soft brown waves over her night gown. ‘I’m just saying that you haven’t stopped smiling since.-’

‘You.’ The master interjected.

The both of them laughed.

‘Ai.. Henry.’ His name still tasted so new and sweet on her lips as he had only dared to share it so recently. But he could keep no secrets from her. No more. They now shared everything. Heart, mind..soul.

‘Tis so.’ She smiled, breaking through his thoughts with a brush of her gentle fingers, Cupid’s wings fluttering in his heart.  

And with that they kissed sweetly, until death did them part.

The End.

Roll-credits reading music: Le Sextet à Claques - Laryngo-rhino-phraryngite

--

General Tagsquad: @harrysthiccthighss​  @magdelen69​ @thereisa8ella​ @mary-ann84​ @darkbooksarwin​ @summersong69 @madbaddic7ed @luclittlepond @maroonmolly​ @elinesama​

Vampire!Henry Tagsquad: @i-cant-remember-my-old-login @wednesdaybraids @othersideofforty @starstruckkittyangel​ @strangerliaa​ @omgkatinka​  

If you want to be added to or removed from my tag lists, shoot me a message!

--

Final author’s note: Thanks for reading my loves! Are you feeling the post fic reading buzz/blues? Here’s a few things to keep you entertained: 

Listen to The Monster’s Lair Playlist

Check out my vampy mood blurb that inspired this fic

Read the original version of Beauty and the Beast: Apuleius’ Cupid and Psyche

Make Lumière proud and read some Hamlet by ye good ol’ Shakespeare

Read another vampire!Henry long fic: @viking-raider​‘s Fangs Deep

[rayshippouuchiha]

Ohhh what about Kisame in calls him home au? It would be nice cause he doesn’t get nearly enough love

You know what? You’re right. Let’s see if we can fix that just a bit cause I do love me some Shark Boi™ …

~~~

There is a rage that burns inside of Kisame.

It’s always been there, just below the surface.  It’s a toothy, gnawing thing that thrashes and hungers and waits.

It has only grown larger over the years, teeth gone sharper and bite stronger with every new slight, glutted on the blood and the fear and the lies.

Kisame wears his titles, the ones others whisper with dread or scorn, with a vicious sort of pride and yet …

Kiri has always been his home but it’s not enough anymore.

Not now, not after everything.

Kisame knows who and what he is but his hands are thick and gummy with the blood of his own comrades now, their deaths ordered by a traitor Kisame hadn’t scented out until it was too late.

Something inside of him feels broken somehow and Kiri holds no more appeal for him now.

‘Sharks,’ Kisame can’t help but muse with something far too close to helplessness, ‘are meant for things like deep waters and dark seas, after all, not for mist.’

And in the end, after a life time spent in service to his village, it’s surprisingly easy for Kisame to pick up Samehada and just … leave.

~~~

He wanders south for a while, makes his way across Hagi Island and to the Sakuru Sea.  He changes directions eventually and crosses into Rice where he kills a Oinin Butai who comes for his head and the sword.

Kiri sends two more hunters, one that finds him in Tea and another who stumbles upon him as he’s passing through the thick forests on his way towards the hot springs that dot Yu.

Kisame kills the second one quickly but he leaves the third one in pieces with their headband shoved between their bloody teeth.

A warning.

~~~

Kiri stops sending hunters.

~~~

Kisame finds himself at the ocean time and time again.

Finds his feet drawn towards the scent of sea salt and deep deep waters.

~~~

There is a man with an offer, a vision.

Kisame listens.

He almost accepts.

But …

He turns his face towards the sea, imagines the scent of sun and salt, and he just …

Can’t.

~~~

Kisame wanders.

He makes his rounds through the Elemental Nations, kills a few people here and there, cashes in a few bounties with various brokers who don’t care if he’s a missing nin or not.

The thrill of a fight is still beautiful but it also feels … shallow for some reason.

Hollow.

Kisame wonders why.

Samehada has no answers.

He keeps moving.

~~~

He finds himself back at the shore again, finds himself staring out over a different ocean with the waves lapping at his sandals, the scent of sea-salt thick in his senses.

He’s somewhere passed Dansu, standing on the edge of the sea and debating between heading towards Yume or going back down towards Iwa and eventually Konoha and Kumo in the hopes of finding a decent fight.

In the hopes of finding something.

“I want to go home,” Kisame breathes the words out, lets himself have this moment of weakness with no one here to witness it but Samehada and the sea.

He isn’t talking about Kiri, not really.

Instead he just wants …

In front of him, almost as if in answer, the ocean surges.

The waves rush up the shore, crashing against his shines in an explosion of foam and strangely warm water.

For a moment it feels as if they’re tugging at his ankles, trying to draw him out into deeper waters.

‘Home,’ the sea breeze seems to whisper, seems to urge, ‘come home, little shark, come home, home, home.’

And Kisame?

Kisame listens.

~~~

Kisame’s not sure, exactly, what’s driving him or where.

All he knows is that this path doesn’t lead him back to Kiri.

All he knows is that he dreams about warm pink sands and blue blue blue waters he thinks he could happily drown in and sunlight glinting gold and warm and welcoming.

All he knows is that he wakes with the taste of sea-salt on his lips and golden sea-sun heating his skin and he wants.

~~~

He cuts a path through Earth and doesn’t bother skirting around Fire even if he’s no longer looking for a fight.

He still runs into the Hatake along the way though and he isn’t ashamed of the way he makes a strategic retreat.

Kisame might be a monster by his own right, might be a Biju without a tail, but …

There’s been rumors drifting around the Elemental Nations about the Hatake going feral.

Konoha has tried to hush them up but … well.

Besides Kisame’s in a hurry.

Plus, sharks?

Don’t mix so well with lightning.

So, yeah.

~~~

Kisame finds himself back at the shore.

He’s closer now to Kiri than he’s been in years.

And yet …

His attention turns in a slightly different direction.

‘Almost home,’ the sea seems to croon. ‘Almost there little shark, come home, home, home. Come make a home.’

Kisame drops his long since slashed headband in the sand, leaves his sandals somewhere near the shell line.

The sea surges up and takes the both of them away.

Kisame steps out onto the water and then he just … keeps walking.

Beneath him, behind him, before him and all around, the ocean laughs and laughs and laughs.

~~~“Hey.”

Kisame blinks, takes a moment, and then blinks again.

Standing in front of him, in a spot he could have sworn was empty just a second before, is a kid.

“I’m Naruto,” the boy says, “Uzumaki Naruto.  What’s your name?”

Kisame looks at this kid, at the shaggy golden hair and blue blue blue eyes and the chakra signature that suddenly glows like a small, wild sun against his senses and all he can say is …

“Hoshigaki Kisame.”

“Did she call you?” Naruto, an Uzumaki in the flesh, asks with something like knowing in his face.

“Yeah,” Kisame answers because it’s true.

“Well then,” Naruto holds out a hand in his direction, slender claw tipped fingers spread wide in invitation, “welcome home.”

And despite years of training, years of blood and battles and death and distrust, Kisame reaches out and takes that small hand in his own.

He steps forward out of the water and onto warm pink sand.

“Yeah,” he says gruffly, “it’s good to be here.”