#Also not shown: an inky black left hand with claws

[subukunojess]

Hepohepo (OC Reference)

Five years in the making, but I finally made a reference for one of my Moana OCs. I got inspired from reading one of my wips which involves this character. For those who have seen my blog years ago would remember him!

This is Hepohepo. Hepohepo is translated to “chaos” in Maori. I was looking at Maori and Polynesian mythology and monsters when I came across a being known as the taniwha. The taniwha is a water creature whose form depends on the body of water they reside. They could either be benevolent beings who help humans and protect sacred items or they could be violent. Some stories tell about how humans could die and become taniwha. With that in mind, I created a gay taniwha couple named Hepohepo and Raruraru. 

Raru was once a taniwha who helped guided a group of Wayfinders to a new island to call their own and became their guardian. The humans gave him offerings and came to him for advice. He gradually falls in love with the Chief’s son (who I cannot remember the name just yet) and makes a deal with him. The two become a couple in secret even though the human was betrothed to another human from a rival group. Conflict and miscommunication escalates to the point where the human gets killed by his own people. Raru becomes enraged and rebels, fighting the humans. During the battle, the human is reborn amid the chaos and calls himself Hepohepo. Reunited, the two taniwha devour and destroy the humans and wreck havoc to the seas and islands. The Gods ask Maui to take care of the situation and both Maui and Tamatoa drag the Taniwha Lovers where they are banished forever from going to the surface. Hepo and Raru then spend their days in Lalotai pampering each other and living together.

For the art reference, I did a possible look at what Hepo’s human form would have been before he became a taniwha. Not shown is an intricate tattoo of a taniwha swirled on his back. First time ever designing what he had looked like before. On the right is what he usually looks like in a humanoid form. He is a shapeshifter, so his true form is akin to a white lizard or dragon with glowing scales and red eyes. I decided to give him a warm color scheme and update his outfit a bit. I miss Hepohepo so much and I want to write more about him and Raruraru soon. 

[noforkingclue]

I love your dark!Zemo fics! Could I request a fic with dark!Zemo and a reader who use a single mother?

Thank you anon! I love writing dark versions of characters so send in all the requests for any characters I write!

Title: Back With Him

MCU tag list: @geocookie21

Everything tag list: @greenrevolutionary

You should’ve known that you could never escape him, that he would always find you however far you ran. That once he had sunk his claws in you were trapped. His precious little doll made just for him. His to dress, his to parade on his arm, his to fuck into the mattress each night. As soon as you found out you were pregnant you knew you had to leave, to run away as far as possible, to raise this child on your own. If you had any say in this child’s life you would make sure that Zemo would have nothing to do with it.

And for five blissful years that was true.

You loved your son even if he did look exactly like his father. The painful reminder of what happened to you still haunted your nightmares but gradually those were becoming rarer and rarer. You were also lucky in the fact that you could work from home most of the time, becoming a programmer for various people around the world. It was surprisingly easy to hide your tracks and it meant you could provide a steady income for you and you son.

Of course it wasn’t easy, you never expected it would be, and the judgmental stares were the worst bit. You didn’t know why, in the twenty first century, that single mothers should still be frowned upon. When the whispers and glares got too much you decided to move back to your home country. And on the way purchase a gold ring. Moving into a small English village took some adjusting but when people took you to be a grieving widow with a young son people seemed willing enough to help you.

But as the saying goes, all good things must come to an end.

You sat up one night with a jolt, looking out into the inky blackness. Recently you hadn’t been sleeping very well, the feeling of eyes watching you as you went about your day. It didn’t matter where you went it felt like someone was spying on you and you had a sinking feeling in your stomach when you thought about who might’ve found you. You had a life here, friends, your son was settled, and you didn’t want to uproot your happy life.

Then you heard it, the soft sound of your son’s laughter. You jumped out of bed and pulled on your dressing gown as you ran towards his room. You burst into your son’s room and froze in place. He was there, holding your son and giving him the softest look you had ever seen. Zemo looked up at you and gave you a smile although there was no warmth behind it.

“And there’s mummy,” he said, “All better now.”

“Mummy!” your son said excitedly, “Daddy’s here!”

“No,” you said quickly walking over to them, “He’s not your father.”

Your son gave you a confused look at he looked between you.

“But-“

“It’s late,” you said firmly, “Go back to sleep.”

“I’m not-“

“And then I’ll take you out for ice cream tomorrow.” You said desperately

“Ice cream!”

“I promise. Have I ever broken a promise before?”

Zemo let out a breathy chuckle and you winced. You son shook his head and you pressed a gentle kiss against his forehead. He quickly got back understand the covers and you switched the light off as you and Zemo exited the room. Zemo was standing too close for comfort so you hurried to your kitchen and put the kettle on. You heard Zemo softly follow you and he said,

“Did you really think I wouldn’t find out. That you could run from me and take away my son.”

“He isn’t you son.”

“I don’t remember allowing anyone else to touch you.”

You flinched at his words. Zemo was always possessive of you and now he was back you knew that you were never going to escape.

“You shouldn’t have left me,” he said, “You never should’ve taken my son, my heir, from me.”

“I wanted to protect him.”

“Did you really think that you can protect him better than I can?”

“Yes.”

You turned around and immediately wished you hadn’t. Zemo had a look of cold fury and you flinched away. Immediately Zemo’s face softened and he walked towards you. He cupped your face as you looked away and tears spilled down your face. He brushed them away with his thumb.

“Don’t cry.” he said softly

But you did. The tears poured freely down your face and Zemo wrapped his arms around you and pulled you against his chest. You always hated is hugs, how warm you felt pressed against his body. Your hands gripped his shoulders as Zemo ran a comforting hand up and down your back.

“I understand why,” he said, “Becoming a mother is a terrifying milestone. I didn’t feel ready when I first became a father and after seeing our son I’m not sure if I’ll ever be.”

“He’ll never be your son.” You muttered against his chest

You felt Zemo tense against you and you knew that you had gone too far. He leant down and said against your ear,

“He seemed very accepting of me. So willing to have a father figure in his life that you denied him so far. Do you really think he’ll be forgiving when he finds out how you lied to him?”

“And what makes you think he’ll want anything to do with you once I tell him what you did to me?”

Zemo’s hand gripped your hair and suddenly pulled your head back. Your neck was exposed to him and he pressed a trail of kisses down it. When he reached your shoulder he pulled back and said,

“What makes you think I’ll ever let you see my son again?”

“What?”

“Did you really think that I’d let you go without a punishment?” he trailed a finger down your jawline as he openly stared at your lips, “You took my son and left in the middle of the night. You had no idea how scared I was when I woke up and you were no longer beside me.”

Zemo’s arms were backed around you and you pushed you up against the kitchen counter. One arm was around your waist, securing you to his body, while the other was laced in your hair. He buried his head against your shoulder and said softly,

“I’ve lost too much to ever let you go again. I should’ve taken better care of you, listened to what you wanted. I should’ve spoiled you when I had the chance and showed you just how much I had come to care about you.”

He raised his head and looked you deep in the eyes. His lips grazed against your and you found yourself resisting the urge to lean in. Zemo smirked, knowing the temptation he had caused you, before pressing a kiss against the corner of your mouth. You let out a soft whimper as his lips lingered against your skin before he moved away.

“One thing,” he continued in his soft voice, “That this little adventure of yours has shown me is just how well gold suits you.”

He held up your left hand and pressed his lips against the band of gold. You tried to pull your hand away but Zemo was stronger than you. He gripped your hand tightly and continued,

“If marrying e is what it take to keep you by my side than I will gladly do it. Although, I’m sorry to say, it must come after your punishment.”

“Punishment?”

“Did you really think that I allow this to go unpunished?” Zemo’s voiced dropped again and you could tell he was getting angrier with each word, “That you prevented me from being in the first five years of my son’s life. For him to see me as a stranger instead of as part of his family?”

“I-“

“Quiet.”

It is an order and you immediately shut your mouth. You shrunk back in fear as Zemo took a deep breath and rested his forehead against yours, eyes shut.

“Forgive me,” he said, “But you must understand why I am getting angry. So,” he opened his eyes, “Because I am generous I am going to give you a choice of punishment.”

“A choice,” you let out a shaky laugh, “Great.”

“Most people wouldn’t be so kind,” Zemo warned, “But because seeing my son has put me a good mood I decided to abandon my original plan and give you another option.”

“And what was your original plan?”

“To take my son away from you for the same amount of time you prevented me from seeing him.”

“No!” you said quickly, “You can’t do that!”

“But you did it to me,” he cooed with a sickly grin, “And by the time he’s ten we’ll see which parent he prefers and who he’d rather live with.”

You shook your head, desperate to not lose the one good thing in your life.

“And the other option?” you asked, dread settling in

“I’ll take the both of you back home, ahh,” he interrupted with a smile, “This isn’t your home. I’ll take you back to what remains of Sokovia and we’ll remain there. You’ll get to keep seeing my son and,” his hand moved across your abdomen, “We’ll have more children. We’ll be a big, happy family.”

“More children? You want an heir and a spare?”

“I would appreciate it if you didn’t refer to my children like that.” Zemo replied coldly

You bit you lip and looked around, trying to find a way out.

“Is it really that much of a difficult decision?” Zemo asked, “I can give you everything your heart desires and in return all I ask is one thing.”

His hand slipped between your legs and you whimpered.

“To lie in my bed every night,” he continued, “To let me fill you. To give me children and be happy.”

When you didn’t reply he smiled coldly and said against your lips,

“Or would you rather never see your first born again?”

“Alright,” you said quickly, “Alright, I give in. I’ll go back with you.”

“Good girl.”

In a flash Zemo pressed his lips against yours. It was a bruising kiss and when you refused to allow him access to your mouth he bit you. You gasped as he completely dominated the kiss and you felt him smirk against your lips. He broke the kiss and your eyes widened when you saw his lips stained red. He noticed your gaze and brushed his thumb across his lips. He inspected the blood before putting his thumb in his mouth and sucking it off. He maintained eye contact with you and if it wasn’t for him holding you up you would’ve crumpled to the ground.

“Now then,” he said, “Let’s get back to bed. I’ve missed the feeling of having you under me.”

[gildorsonofinglor]

Oo oo oo oo oo oo!

Have some soft smut, my lovelies!

Percy peeked at me from over the top of his book. “Jason?” He asked softly, almost hesitantly. I set my carving down and leaned forward, expectant. Percy was rarely reluctant, so I was very interested to hear what he had to say.

“Why don’t you unbutton your collar?”

I wasn’t sure what I expected, but that certainly wasn’t it. Swallowing thickly, I leaned back into the sofa and pondered. I suppose he had a point: it was excruciatingly hot outside, I had my sleeves rolled up, and not only did Percy have the first two buttons of his shirt undone, he’d also seen what I was hiding before. In fact, I’d brazenly shown it to him and my colleagues on E-block my very first day of work. He had tickled me then, though; his sass had sparked a bit of mischief in me, and it was very amusing to see his face turn scarlet after realizing his faux paux.

This was different. Alone in my home after spending the day together felt more intimate; it was a different world to the structured uniforms and professional atmosphere of work. I was in my comfort zone here; the scar almost didn’t exist when I was home.

I suppose I’d taken too long to respond, because Percy set his book down and came to sit beside me. “Please,” he asked, brushing his fingertips along the top of my collar. I flinched away from the touch instinctively; his hand hung in the air for a moment, an expression of hurt clear on his face. My heart seized at the sight, and I felt the color drain from my face as he stood to walk away from me. My hand shot out and grabbed his. I pulled him back onto the sofa and brought his hand to my mouth, kissing his knuckles in apology.

A small smile settled on his mouth, and I sighed heavily, warming the skin of his hand. Guiding it back to my collar, I placed my hand over his and held it there, my heartbeat lurching in my throat.

He’s seen this, I thought, angry at my reluctance. This won’t be new for him.

Percy waited, uncharacteristically patient, and watched as I chewed over his request. His eyes never left my face, and I finally caught his gaze when I made my decision. Our fingers fumbled together to undo my top button, then the next, then the next. I let my hand fall way as he pulled my collar aside, and I broke our eye contact in a sudden panic, flicking my eyes to any other part of the room, anywhere except Percy’s face.

I didn’t was to see pity or disgust marring his lovely features.

“Does it hurt?” He whispered, his fingers softly tracing the outline of the scar.

I sighed and shook my head; it felt tight against the rest of my skin, yes, but thankfully no longer hurt. Forcing myself to look at him again, I was surprised and silently delighted to find Percy’s eyes locked onto my face and not on my neck. He seemed… interested, engaged, but I didn’t see anything upsetting. His expression was relaxed, his impossibly dark blue eyes glinting in the lamplight.

This was the closest we had been since the tunnel, and I was intimately reminded of how beautiful the man sitting next to me was. His full lips were slightly parted, as always, and some of his inky black hair had fallen out of its style and across his forehead. I wanted to reach up and brush the lock back, to feel the silky strands sliding through my fingers.

I was so distracted in my admiration that I didn’t notice Percy’s fingers wrapping around the curls at the back of my head until he tugged. My head fell back into his palm, exposing my neck to him. Before I could protest or flinch away, I felt those beautiful lips press lightly against the ragged flesh of my scar. The touch was ginger, featherlight, and I gasped when the feeling registered. This seemed to encourage him, and he pressed harder kisses along the jagged line.

Everything sharpened, the lights of the house suddenly too bright; the sounds of the woods I hadn’t noticed before became a roar in my ears, and I could feel my heartbeat racing through every vessel in my body. My breath caught, I was fighting for air, and tears soon blurred my vision. It was overwhelming.

I didn’t want it to stop.

No one, no one, in the fifteen years since I’d gotten that goddamned scar had ever kissed it, caressed it, treated it as a part of me instead of a morbid curiosity (at best). I could feel each kiss on the edges of the silvery skin, the scar itself devoid of feeling, and each firm, insistent press of lips made my heart flutter. Percy lavished attention on my throat, tasting the entirety of my scar before moving on to the rest of the taut skin. His fingers massaged under my curls and on the back of my neck, holding me still as he continued his attentions.

God. Goddamn.

I grabbed Percy’s waist and pulled him on top of me, his thighs settling on top of mine with ease. He yelped in surprised, but I buried a hand in his hair and kept his mouth against my neck. Now that I’d felt his lips against my throat, I only wanted more. My other hand slipped around his waist and settled on his lower back, my palm pressing gently into the curve of his spine.

“Jason,” he breathed onto my skin, his lips barely moving as they formed my name. I tensed, my arms tightening around him and pulling him closer. The tears stuck in my eyes finally fell, racing over my temples and into my hair as I began to cry in earnest. This wonderful man…

My chest seized with each barely repressed sob, jolting Percy on his perch in my lap. He pushed against me to sit up, a look of panic on his face. “Jason?” He let go of my hair and pushed my head forward, giving a small gasp when he saw the tears on my face. “D-did I…? I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean t-!”

Shooting forward, I cut off his unneeded apology with a kiss, using the hand in his hair to keep him from pulling away in shock. Our chests pressed together, I could feel his heart pounding against mine. His breathing quickened as I deepened our kiss, my tongue slipping into his mouth around a soft moan.

I kissed him until he was a whimpering mess, his hands gripping my shoulders with bruising strength, his legs spreading to push his pelvis into mine. Now perched on the edge of the sofa, I gave Percy enough room to let his knees slide away from my hips, which lowered him more firmly into my lap. My hand, resting on his thigh, squeezed gently.

I wanted more of him, wanted him more now that he’d been so generous with his attention. I slid my palm along his plump thigh, the thrill of tracing the round flesh sending electricity shooting up my spine. As I circled my palm on his leg, my fingers brushed over his hip, eliciting a weak moan from my partner. Wanting to hear more, I rubbed my hand over his hip; he moaned into my mouth and pushed his pelvis further into my own. The movement encouraged my hand to slide back onto his backside, my palm cupping the fullest part of his ass.

Percy whimpered softly and pulled away from me with a jerk.

Startled, I let my head drop back to look up into his face. He seemed worried, his brow furrowed and his lips turned down into a frown.

“I made you cry,” he mumbled, letting his eyes drop away from mine. “I didn’t mean to…” Taking his hands off my shoulders, he moved to wipe away the tear tracks on my face. “I’m sorry.”

Sighing with a smile, I caught one of his hands and brought his palm to my mouth, kissing the damp skin. I followed the lines of his hand, closing my eyes and simply enjoying the contact. When I looked to him again, Percy was biting his lower lip in a wonderfully endearing way. I released his hands to touch my own fingers to my lips, letting my hand drop, palm up.

<<Good>>

He seemed taken aback by that and shifted uncomfortably in my lap. “It’s good that I made you cry?” He asked, one brow cocked in confusion.

I shook my head and guided his hand to my scar, where he idly began to trace the edges with his fingers. Taking a moment to sign “thank you”, I then pressed my hand over his.

“Oh,” he mumbled. “I, um… you’re welcome?”

Grinning, I pressed to the back of my hand to his chest and drew it back to myself, squeezing my fingers to my palm to form a claw. I then pointed at him.

<<Want you>>

My smile fell away as I repeated the motion more insistently, pressing my hand firmly against his chest to emphasize my seriousness.

<<Want you!>>

I watched Percy’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed, his lower lip again worried between his teeth.

“You… you, too,” he murmured, leaning forward and pressing his forehead against mine. “I mean, I-I want you, too, Jason.” My name was whispered with a sigh, the soft breeze of his breath tickling my lips. His eyes fluttered closed when I brought our mouths together again.

Kissing Percy was so easy for me. Soft lips eagerly paring for my tongue, kisses peppered with precious little sighs, and a greedy nature overall pulled me in like a rip tide. He swallowed me down into an ocean of pleasure with kisses alone; with fingers tangling into my hair and palms holding me close, I could happily drown.

One hand pressed into his back to keep him balanced on my lap, while the other traced his jaw with sensitive fingertips. I let my fingers follow the line of his throat, from his chin to his collar. I tugged at one of the buttons, hoping Percy understood the question I was asking.

“Yes,” was the immediate, insistent replay, his hands fisting in my hair in anticipation. “P-please,” he quickly clarified, his cheeks pinking as he pulled away to look me in the face. “I…” He let his hands drop from my hair onto my chest, splaying his fingers over my shirt. “You’re ahead of me,” he mumbled, a wicked smirk making an appearance while his eyes rested on my exposed throat and three open buttons. He only had two open, after all.

I matched his expression with a grin of my own and popped the third button on his shirt. His breath hitched at the sound, his hands crumpling the fabric of my shirt into his fists.

So sensitive from the sound of a button popping? I wondered if this reaction would be a trend and, if so, how well Percy would take to me happily exploiting it. Abandoning the buttons for a moment, much to his displeasure if the pout was anything to go by, I placed two fingers against his chin. Pushing upward, I gently forced his head back, making him mirror his own earlier actions with me. He gasped softly as my hand slid down his throat again, coming to rest on his collar as I brought my lips to his neck.

I popped another button.

“Are you going to give me more love bites?” He asked, voice low in volume and strained in tone, daring me.

I smiled, my teeth scrapping against his skin in a playful threat. He wanted bites, and I wanted to bite him, to feel his pretty flesh between my teeth. At the sound of another button popping, I nipped at the delicate skin against my lips.

Percy tensed and released a delicious, breathy moan. He let his head fall further back, giving more of his neck to me.

Encouraged, I popped another button and bit him again. Another button, another bite. Another button. Another bite. I moved down as more of him was revealed to me, littering a trail of teeth marks and blooming bruises in my wake. I knew those ruby spots would soon turn a gorgeous, deep purple as the night progressed. Both colors suited Percy perfectly.

He was panting now, his fingers again buried in my curls, and he was holding my face against his chest. I doubted he was doing this on purpose, if the bow-string tension in the rest of his body was anything to go by. While his response to my ministrations was amusing, I was quickly becoming frustrated with his wardrobe. The buttons of his shirt were now opened to his waist, where the rest of the material was tucked into his pants, while an undershirt blocked my mouth from more of his delectable person. I tugged both shirts out of his trousers roughly and immediately splayed my palms over his now naked sides.

Percy murmured something I couldn’t quite hear and pulled away from me. Reaching down, he yanked his shirts over his head in a jerky, irritated motion, throwing them aside carelessly.

My mouth was on him in an instant, marking a trail of heated kisses along his clavicle, from shoulder to sternum. Tongue poking out between my lips, I gave short little laps to the base of his throat.

Percy whined beautifully and jerked his hips forward, and I could feel a distinct hardness against my belly. I placed a hand on his hip and gripped it tightly as I kissed my way to a pink, pert nipple. I lavished attention on the little area, laving his nipple with my entire tongue in slow, deliberate licks.

“Jason!” Percy whimpered, his hips stalled in their movement by my grip. His back arched and pushed his chest more firmly against my mouth, and I closed my lips around his nipple eagerly, alternating between sucking on the supple flesh and teasing it with the tip of my tongue.

“Jesus Christ!” He cursed. Body trembling, he fought against the grip on his hip, trying to cant forward to relieve some of the pressure. “Please, please,” he groaned.

I stood so abruptly that Percy screeched and clung to me desperately, his legs wrapping around my waist and squeezing painfully. Snorting in amusement at the sound, I peppered kisses on his shaking chest while tugged my hair in disapproval. The pull sent shocks down my spine, and I barely heard his “You startled me!” as I moved to lay him back down on his back.

He relaxed again once we were settled, his legs loosening their death grip on my sides. I grinned down at him, and he met my smile with a scowl.

“You scared-!”

His words were cut short by a gasp when I ground my pelvis down into his. All forgiven, he began to move against me in earnest, his hands leaving my hair to grasp at my collar. “Ta-take off your shirt,” he demanded breathlessly, fumbling when he tried to unbutton it himself.

I straightened before he could rip my buttons off in his haste and took the thing off myself, flinging it and my undershirt somewhere in the direction of his discarded clothing.

“Oh.” Percy froze, eyes glued to my chest. He reached forward and placed a tentative hand on my, fingers spreading out to feel my chest hair. “Wow.”

Heat rushed to my face. It had been many years since my military service, and while I maintained some of the discipline I’d been taught, my physique had certainly softened around the edges. Percy drank me in anyway, eyes and emboldened hands roaming every piece of me that he had access to. “Wow,” he repeated, looking up to my face with pink cheeks and a big smile. “For me?”

Well, that sent a bolt straight to my heart and my dick.

<<All for you>> I signed, and his blush spread from his cheeks to the tops of his ears.

“Ha… prove it.”

I’ve been told I have a specific grin, one full of teeth and wicked intent. I know this was the grin I answered Percy’s challenge with, holding his gaze as I reached down and undid his buckle. With a little bit of fumbling and rustling of cloth, I pulled out the prettiest cock I’d ever seen.

A dusky pink head was already leaking precum, and I watched as a glistening bead trickled down smooth, pale skin to rest in a tuft of curly black hair. He wasn’t particularly long, maybe about five, five and a half inches, but he was so perfectly formed I couldn’t help but stare.

God damn, I wanted that cock in my mouth.

Based on his sensitivity thus far, however, I decided against launching myself at it like a starving dog, and instead looked back to his face with a grin.

My smile fell when I noticed that he’d turned away from me, his lip between his teeth and brow furrowed. Confused, I brushed my fingers along his jaw to get his attention.

“It’s..!” He huffed, still refused to look at me. “I know it’s small, but you don’t have to stare!”

My jaw dropped. He thought I was staring because I was disappointed, when that couldn’t be further from the truth! Incised, I grabbed his chin and turned his head to face me.

“What-!”

<<Beautiful!>> I signed furiously, a frown firmly set on my face. At his startled expression, I took a breath to calm myself. It was like my scar, I thought. I needed to be gentle with him, the way he had been with me. As upset as I was at him for not realizing what a treasure he possessed, I looked at him with a soft smile and repeated my sign. A litany of other signs followed: lovely, gorgeous, stunning, perfect, perfect, perfect.

I couldn’t be sure that he understood all of the motions I’d made, but I knew that he was familiar with the sign “beautiful”, and I hoped that he would connect the other words. It seemed most of the blood in his body moved to his face as I signed, his erection flagging while his face turned a bright red. He swallowed thickly, and he had trouble maintaining eye contact.

I released his chin from my grasp and caressed his cheek, encouraging him to look at me again. I could understand what he was feeling, I thought, and I would understand if he needed time to process those feelings. <<Stop?>>

“No!” He popped up, propping himself up on his elbows, his face aghast at the suggesting. “I-I’m sorry, I just…” He chewed on his lip and looked away, conflicted.

“You really think that?” He asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “You think my, it’s, beautiful?”

He peeked at me under long lashes, and I nodded. I signed “yes” multiple times when he turned to face me fully once again.

“I don’t want to stop,” he murmured. “But, you, you come here.” His hand curled around the back of my neck and pulled me to him. As I settled atop him, he caught my mouth in a firm, demanding kiss. He nipped at my lips to leave a sting, then pressed his own to mine to dull the pain. His lips soon parted, and I greedily accepted the invitation, slipping my tongue past a needy whimper.

I felt his hardness return with interest, the firm flesh pressing into my stomach and leaving a slick trail of precum on my skin. Percy gave a mewling whine when I pressed against him deliberately, and I chased that sound, licking into his mouth and sliding my hand between us. My fingers curled around his dick and squeezed, and the moan I received in return was intoxicating. I started a lazy rhythm, gently pumping him with twisting strokes, giving just enough pressure to take the edge off.

Percy laced his fingers through my hair and bucked into my hand, chasing more friction while he kept me locked in a kiss. I pressed a hand on his hips and pinned him to the sofa; with the difference in our size, it was easy to keep him still with one hand while I used the other to undo my belt.

He grunted unhappily when I removed my hand, but he released a breathy laugh of excitement when he felt the weight of me on top of him. Breaking our kiss, he looked down the length of our bodies and snorted at what he saw. “Is everything about you fucking huge?” He asked, eyebrow quirked.

Following his line of sight, I could only see about a two inch difference between us, so I shrugged. To distract him from any potential unhappy thoughts that might follow his observation, I canted my pelvis into him and grinned when his head dropped back onto the cushion. I wrapped my hand around both of us and gave an experimental thrust.

“Fuck!”

My thoughts exactly.

Though I couldn’t close my hand around the two of us, the added stimulation provided enough to pull moans out of Percy and pants out of myself.

“You!” He gasped when I picked up the pace, thrusting into my hand and against him with fervor. “Come here!” Grabbing my neck again, he yanked me back to him. Instead of kissing my lips, however, Percy bypassed my face to latch his mouth onto my scar.

It was my turn to bite my lip, air rushing out of my nose in a voiceless sigh. Persistent; I was lying on a wonderfully persistent little bastard.

He sucked bruises around the perimeter of my scar, confident in knowing that no one would see the marks. I responded by thrusting more quickly, squeezing harder.

“Jason,” he moaned, and I felt the warm air of my name bloom against my throat. I carded my fingers through his silky soft hair, and I help him close to my neck as we continued, returning his earlier favor.

Trembling legs wrapped around me for purchase, locking behind me and pulling me closer. Little whimpers were voiced against my neck, and nails bit into my back. Muscles tensed against me, and hips bucked up into me with need.

He came first, my name breathed against my scar as he pulsed in my hand. A softening, highly sensitive cock caused him to whimper pitifully under me as I continued, chasing my own release. His voice swirled in my ears, his nails dragging more red welts into my back as I moved.

I stilled for a moment, my climax achingly close, my cock thrumming with pent up energy. I reached behind myself and took one of Percy’s hands in my own. Guiding him, I brought his hand to the back of my head, pushing his fingers deep into my hair. I closed my fist around his and pulled, moving my hips again once I felt the teasing pain.

“Hah, hah!” I panted, soundless breaths preceding my finish. My hips stuttered still at last, weak ropes of cum splattering onto Percy’s stomach and chest.

We lay in post-orgasmic bliss for a moment, Percy panting happily against my neck, his breath tickling me. I moved to pull away, very aware of the sticky mess on my hand and between us, but he snatched me back into a lazy kiss. Shifting, I tried to show him my hand and gestured to our torsos. He shook his head.

“Don’t care,” he mumbled, grinning up at me. “Kiss me.”

And so I did.

[robbyrobinson]

Gods Awaken (XX)

“So you’re telling me that even though you destroyed that book Nyarlathotep got his powers back anyway?”  

“Yes, Eda, that is what happened,” Luz answered solemnly.  

Eda sighed. “Well, I guess that means we’re dead then.”  

Luz’s eyes gleamed. “We can all agree that it is worse than my realization that my Mom wrote the Good Witch Azura books and that I’m Emperor Belos’ granddaughter.”  

Eda nodded. “Yeah, that is ba-wait, what was that last part?”  

Luz chuckled. “Yeah, that was my exact reaction as well.”  

“Makes sense now that I think of it,” Eda noted, “but isn’t it kind of...”  

“Cliche?” Luz added onto her thought.  

“What is a cliché?”  

Lilith interjected. “This is not the most appropriate time for a conversation of this caliber.”  

The Owl Lady and the human girl nodded deciding to speak more about the revelation at a later time.  

The witches of Bonesborough scrambled to obtain a state of control over the sudden wave of dark magic that rocked the town and desecrated their buildings. Houses built alongside the body of the Titan crumbled; stores were wiped clean. Most of the witches set their differences aside to use their magic to prevent debris from falling on them.  

The streets were alive with the sounds of ceaseless chattering and raving over the events. Elder witches overexerted themselves with trying to use their magic spells to keep falling columns of buildings from flattening witchlings. From the destruction wrought, the sky darkened from a sudden storm. It thundered loudly as though it were a living creature. The light from the sun completely absorbed into the vast blackness of the insidious clouds.  

“What is going on!?” one of the male witches yelled.  

Thick, sickening black clouds rolled in silently with the currents. Due to the Boiling Isles’ equivalent of weather being a series of plagues, the witches were already dashing here and forth to get under some scrap of wood or a crude assembly of broken rocks to avoid their skin getting scorched by the acidic precipitation. The cloud loomed over the town for a couple seconds. The cloud swirled and writhed in sickly fashion until they merged together to create a large figure.  

It towered over the town with its ghastly size and boding physique. It was a man, swathing with blackness even darker than the darkest of nights. He resembled a man of some high status perhaps one of the elder kings. The man had some aura to him that made the witches freeze in place out of bewilderment.  

“Children of the Isles,” he announced, “it has been far too long, has it not?”  

The witches looked at each other befuddled. They could sense that there was a twinge of hostility he had with the declaration.  

“I see that your scholars had successfully managed to completely blight my name from the records of the Isles.”  

He snapped his fingers. A large slab of rock emerged from the ground and was crafted into a throne for the large being to sit down in. He flicked his fingers drawing a huge chalice filled with apple blood. He took a large swig of the sweet nectar before speaking again.  

“It is disheartening that this is the state that I left the Isles in thousands of years ago; after literally drawing into my very being and giving your ancestors magic, this is truly the gratitude that you would give me?”  

After taking a long drink of the apple blood, he tossed the chalice away blissfully ignorant of the explosion it caused. “All of you are ungrateful; that ungratefulness lasting from generation to generation. Well, no more.”  

Massive claws surged and bubbled on the Dark Man’s fingers. Before their eyes, he tore open a portal in the space-time continuum. The way in which he tore away reality with such ease amazed the witches but also filled them with despair. Never had they seen something of this caliber in the long history of the Boiling Isles. The sheer raw power that this tall man possessed was unnatural.

Droves of crustacean-fungus like anomalies escaped the rip in space-time. Like locusts, swarms of these creatures blotted out the sun. They came upon the citizens of Bonesborough in such frenzy and lifted them into the air. Swarm after swarm arrived to abduct more citizens and fly them to an uncertain fate.  

Smirking, he opened another portal and withdrew his scepter.  The large gem in the middle of it glowed and began to twist and pull reality around it. Portions of the Boiling Isles started to fade out of existence. The fabric of reality was further ripped down to the seams exposing the backdrop of the pure darkness of the void. Strange masses of tentacular monstrosities fizzled from the darkness of the void.

Before any of the witches could react, those that were captured by the winged anomalies were seized and suspended in midair. They fought against the invisible forces holding them in place, but all they could hear was the deep, sinister, shrilled laughter of their tormentors. Invisible, inky tentacles wrapped around them contributing to more frantic movement. With each movement only strengthening the monster’s grasp, sharp suckers stabbed their way through their bodies. Splintering pain flowed through their bodies as they heard the maniacal laughter of the obscure beasts and the hideous sound of their blood being greedily sucked away. Blood was visibly getting vacuumed through the tentacles of the beasts who now were shown as having no visible face rather a large mandible surrounded by endless numbers of appendages. They were becoming bloated from the blood.  

The tall man looked at the chaos with a lack of interest. Stretching his arms, he drew from the ground again and mentally crafted it into a chariot. Once the chariot was made, he summoned more creatures from the void. They resembled birds, larger than the ones typically seen on the Isles roughly the size of an elephant. And yet instead of beaks and feathers, they instead had heads calling to mind a majestic horse; in the place of their feathers were slimy, oily scales of a reptile. They flew in a galloping fashion neighing in the presence of their summoner. Legions of these bizarre horses stopped in front of the chariot and were strapped in ropes. He got up from his makeshift throne and perched his large frame in the front of the chariot.  

“For thousands of years ever since your ungrateful ancestors locked me away, the one thought consumed my mind; that being vengeance.”  

He stared over seeing Belos’ empire at a far distance. “You are all cordially invited to a party.”

They looked at the peculiar man with worried expressions.  

“Before this day is done, the Boiling Isles will be torn down brick by brick, to its smallest atom and from that level of devastation will birth a new age. Out of the ashes of the fire, I will build a new world where my acolytes will not know of what came before them and will pledge their allegiance to me and my alone.”  

The witches screamed in unison again. “What do you want from us?”  

He held his scepter out and twirled it at them. “My star protégé will be taking on one of your witches; consider this a good show that will satiate my boredom long enough to temporarily withhold the destruction of your world.”  

He took his scepter and smacked it against the rim of his chariot. The horse monster, now recognized as being his shantaks, squealed and began to flap their massive wings. With a galloping motion, the legions of winged creatures lifted the heavy chariot off the ground and into the air.

“Come on, put your back into it,” a teacher yelled.  

One of the teachers used their finger to create the illusion of a battering ram. With it, he sprinted for the entrance only for the device to fail when the dark magic holding the barrier in place rebounded on him. He was flung back landing where the guard that Nyarlathotep merged with the lockers was located.  

The Abomination Teacher ordered his abomination to use its fists to punch a hole in the barrier. Like any other abomination, it followed his command, but the result was always the same. The magic wall was reducing the abomination down to the stumps of his hands forcing the abomination to temporarily become undone and then reassemble itself to try again.  

“Are we going to die in here?” a student whimpered.

Principal Bump put his finger against his mouth. “Now, now, calm down, everyone: we are not going to die.”  

None of the students were truthfully convinced by the Principal’s words yet they were trying to grant themselves a little sense of normalcy. The Abomination Teacher called his abomination off and he looked at the school’s principal. “Sir, is there something on your mind?”  

“Could we discuss it by ourselves?”  

The Abomination Teacher ordered for his servant to keep guard of the students and walked over to Principal Bump. Sternness manifested through his eyes. “What is actually going on? Who was that man?”  

Principal Bump sighed. “There is so much more behind the history of the Boiling Isles that was expunged from the records; one of them involved a figure who was probably one of the most evil beings I have ever encountered: now I fear he had returned to his full power.”  

“Well, what can we possibly do about this...man?”  

Principal Bump shook his head. “The magic barrier he made was designed using a powerful, dark otherworldly spell that I am afraid no ordinary witch can ever hope to make as much as a dent in it.”  

Eyes widened, the Abomination Teacher spoke again. “B-but if the students find out-”  

“Hush!”  

Principal Bump looked behind a corner making sure that none of the other students were eavesdropping on their conversation. “We should probably keep the students occupied for a while to keep them from inciting a hysteria.”  

The Abomination Teacher also gave a passing glance behind the corner. “And there is nothing we can do?”  

“Aye; either Nyarlathotep returns and removes the enchantment spell he placed on the school, or”  

“Or?”  

“Or we could get lucky and have an Elder God come to our defense and destroy the barrier.”  

The Abomination Teacher squinted his eyes. “An elder god?”  

“It’s going to be a long discussion,” Principal Bump emphasized, “so listen carefully.”  

Skara and some of the popular clique took their text books and slammed them on the outside. The books returned at full force towards their owners. Only Skara was able to narrowly avoid getting creamed by the books by ducking, but the same could not be said for the other girls.  

“What kind of magic is this?” Skara asked aloud.  

Gus scratched his chin. “Looks like something you’d see being made by the construction coven.”  

He placed his hands against the wall of the barrier, pressing his palms. “Something tells me that this isn’t even the native magic common here.”  

“I am getting really concerned for Luz and Amity,” Willow said. “There should be some way to contact them.”  

She drew a circle in the air and retrieved her purple scroll. She tried to login to her Penstagram account, but the connection was not getting through. A few more of the students saw what Willow was doing and they to took out their scrolls to call for assistance. However, much like before, the connection was terminated.  

“Somehow the magic barrier had cut us off from the outside world,” Willow observed, “we’re sitting turtle ducks now.”  

As she turned away, she caught something in the corner of her eye with her peripheral vision. One of the students had a potted plant that was pitched at a window prior to their imprisonment. It appeared to be a cross between a Venus flytrap and a tomato plant. For whatever reason, likely because of it being almost tossed out the window, it had its large mandibles wrapped around a piece of the magic barrier keeping the shield from completing.  

“Willow, squeeze yourself through the opening,” Gus said.  

Willow looked carefully at the escape route that was seemingly pre-ordained. She then looked at Willow and the others. “Don’t worry; I’ll tell Luz what happened and maybe she and Eda can help us.”  

Taking a short breath, Willow cautiously slid herself underneath the opening while ensuring to not catch the wrath of the sapient plant. Her head and shoulders successfully slid under the barrier followed by her torso. Squeezing her ribs under, she froze for a moment upon hearing a crackling sound. Purple sap was dropping onto her abdomen. Looking up to her horror, the dark magic was slicing its way ever slowly through the potted plant. It still had a strong grip on the barrier, but for how long, Willow could not say. Scrambling, Willow’s forearms bent and nudged the grass.  

Grunting, Willow ben her body in a backward motion practically falling out the school with the back of her head. Now with better maneuvering, Willow quickly drew in her legs. The barrier sliced through the plant’s mandibles like a guillotine splattering its sap on the window and its sill. The school was now completely devoid of any alternative sources of escape. Willow got up on her feet and wiped the dirt off her clothes.  

“Don’t worry, guys, I’ll be back!”  

[hopeless-ro-simptic]

The Death of A Demon - Pt 1

Part 2 is out!

Part 1 of my pride and joy that I have been working on for the last couple months! The Feral fic. This is an OC that I created based off of the idea of not all quirks in the MHA/BNHA universe are “good” ones, and by that I mean that some quirks are awful to have. This focuses on the problems that come from quirks. 

Basic Summary- Feral is on the run from her past due to her quirk, working as a bounty hunter/mercernary and keeping to the shadows of Japan, she’s doing a good job of being invisible. Until one fateful night when she decides to be a good guy for once and ends up kind of saving a reporter who gets her on the news. Thus we start the downwards spiral that is her life, getting the league to help her out when an old foe shows up on Japan’s front door. 

Just letting you know now, things are NOT explained in the beginning regarding the main character. Like you don’t even know her quirk for a good minute. I did this on purpose. I think it works better if you are in the dark, but don’t worry, everything gets explained in great detail as the story goes on.  

Please read warnings: This is one big warning, it would be shorter to put what’s not in this fic, but here is a quick over all warning list, each part will have specific warnings as they are posted. Multiship, unhealthy relationships, nsfw, sexy times, graphic depictions of violence, murder, death, non-con, abuse of alcohol and drugs, main character is not in control, major character deaths, child abuse, also references to heaven and hell as well as demons. Let me know if I need to add another big one. 

Pairings: Female OC X Dabi, Female OC X Shigaraki, Female OC X Compress 

Word Count: 1.4 k 

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Mh…authentic spicey ramen. One of the many reasons why Feral loved Japan so much. Their food was so different, but it was so, so good. Finishing off the last of the broth, she set her bowl down, before calling out to the worker for another.

“Little lady has quite the appetite tonight.” Feral ignored the man’s comment, her fourth bowl of ramen being placed in front of her quickly to which she thanked the young worker before digging in.

“An interesting choice in accessories don’t you think?” She could feel his eyes ranking up and down her body, focusing on the black collar wrapped around her neck, a chain dangling down about a foot before slowly fading out of existence. Like a ghost. To anyone on the outside, it looked like it just stopped there, like a fashion choice, but Feral knew that chain went on for miles. Tethering her to something deep in hell.

“What is a pretty foreigner like you doing all alone in the big city this time of night?” She could see him leaning on the counter, his head in one hand, the other resting on top of the counter.  He looked so casual, but she knew better, men like him were always poised to strike, dangling their bait waiting for the perfect moment when your guard was down before they moved in for the kill.

“Why don’t I buy you a drink? You look a little parched.” His hand that his head wasn’t leaning on raised and reached out to her, like he was going to stroke her hair away.

Disgusting.

She was quicker than he was, switching her chopsticks over to her left hand, gripping the back of his head with her right and slamming it down against the counter, an audible crack sounding causing the worker to jump back, eyes wide as they stared at the scene. Feral released the businessman before switching her chopsticks back over into her dominant hand, eyes focused on the ramen in front of her.  

The offender was slow to stand up, his hand cupping his nose, practically whimpering at the bloody mess he was greeted with.

“Y-you bitch! You broke my nose!”

“Leave.” Feral shifted her eyes over to the man, usually brown eyes glowing red, her voice turning into a low animalistic growl. Her features almost sharpening, looking more crazed and dangerous than before. Teeth elongating, nails sharpening to a lethal point.

The man backed up with his hands up slowly, before turning and taking off into a full sprint. Feral snorted, going back to her ramen, glancing up at the worker who was watching her intently before sending them a weak smile.

“Can I get just one more please?”

---------------------

It was well past midnight at this point, and Feral was stumbling around, drunk off of good food and not to mention the latest of her Tequila bottles gripped in her hand, wrapped in a brown paper bag. She had once again found herself lost in back alleyways that she did not recognize, her sense of direction completely off kilter now that she had her third bottle of tequila in her system. She felt good. Finally enjoying a buzz that she had worked so hard for. She probably shouldn’t have eaten if she wanted to get drunk, it would have been cheaper, but she wanted to be buzzed, not sick.

After turning a couple of corners and finally catching sight of a street-sign that looked somewhat familiar, she picked up her pace, thinking of the bed that awaited her once she made it back to her tiny apartment. She was going so fast she almost didn’t see the man in front of her, halting a few steps away watching as the scene unfolds.

A man, well… a rather large, gross looking, … is he supposed to be a fly or something? of a man had a young women pressed against the brick walls of the alley way.  Feral watched with disgust, feeling her stomach turn, as the fly looking … thing, pressed his lather large and almost tube-like mouth to the woman’s cheek making her sob out pleads to let her go.

He was messy about his ‘loving kisses’, like he was licking her almost, leaving saliva… god she hoped it was saliva, all across the woman’s face. His skinny arms, all four of them groped her up and down and his annoyingly high pitched and scratchy voice coo’d out to the girl, making both women shudder in disgust.

“You’ll look so good carrying my eggs…”

Feral couldn’t stop herself from gagging, gaining the attention of both of them. The women’s eyes looking hopeful as she called out, her voice sounding ragged.

“Please! Help me!”

“Go away, this isn’t your business!”

When he shifted his positions to face her, while still holding his victim against the wall, Feral could have sworn she saw four of him, her head was spinning and she couldn’t help but take a step back to get her footing, setting her tequila down on the ground. Getting a good look at him now that he was looking directly at her, he looked familiar almost… Feral could almost be certain he had a bounty out on him for slighting one of the fancy “business” men around this area. Hm…did it say dead or alive?

“Hey, bitch, I said get out of here.”

Feral couldn’t remember for the life of her. Maybe it said both?

He was quicker than she expected though, or maybe she was just that drunk, cause the next thing she knew he was in her face, peering down at her angrily with his beady eyes that shown hundreds of reflections of her own self. She looked a mess.  

“Maybe I should have you carrying my eggs. Clearly, you want to be bred if you’re wearing a collar out in public like that. What are you, some kind of dog?”

One of his gross little hands, if you could call them that… they were more like… graspers? Claws?, gripped onto the chain, not seeming to notice that the length wavered as he moved it like it was coming from an unknown source, giving it a testing yank to which Feral let out a warning growl, her mind clearing slightly.

“Don’t touch that, bug.” Feral felt her eyes starting to glow red, the voice in her head getting louder and louder even though she had drank it away.  Inky black trendils gripping ahold of her mind, caressing her like a lost lover.

Isabella.

The fly man in front of her ignored her remark, his grip tightening instead on her, all four hands grasping different parts of her now, his gross mouth making kissing noises at her as he drew nearer.

“You look like you will be a good mate. A little smaller than her in the chest area, but I’m sure we can fix that. You’ll be a good girl won’t yo-”

He barely had time to scream, a high pitch that was cut off instantly. Red eyes glowing in the night as Feral stared down at the fly-man a crazed smile on her face, his head was twisted backwards, two of his arms severed and bleeding, still attached to the chain where he had gripped her for a moment before she pulled them off discarding them on top of his lifeless form on the ground.  There was a momentary spasm in his body before it stopped. His wings which Feral hadn’t noticed until now, wilting against the gravel.

“I hope you were wanted dead.”

Feral pulled out her phone, scrolling through things before pulling up the bulletin with his face on it.

A low level thug, wanted for sexually assaulting someone’s wife. 2,000,000 yen.

She scanned the page, a smirk forming on her face as she noted the words at the bottom.

Wanted Dead.

She quickly took a picture. Sending a message to the requestor, her smile growing wider when mere seconds later she got a notification that money was deposited in her account.

What a lucky night.

She picked up her discarded bottle of tequila, making her way through the alley and winding up back at her apartment by some lucky miracle. The voice in her head quiet once again.

It wasn’t until she was halfway asleep did she even remember the other woman that was there, shrugging to herself, a slight smile on her lips that she was able to save someone for once.

She probably wouldn’t have felt so satisfied if she knew who that woman was.

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Want to show your support? Buy me a coffee!

[owlespresso]

Tremble, Duck and Weave / 3

months and more than 5000 words later— also on ao3. Thank you to TenkeyLess and Nightmist on ao3 for beta-ing this for me.

Your senses return to you in a sluggish crawl. First, it’s the invasive sunlight that creeps in through the window. Next, it’s the awful taste of sleep in your mouth. You groan in protest as the world drags you to wakefulness, the sheets twisting and shifting around your fidgeting form. It’s beyond tempting to roll back over and delve back into slumber, but hunger claws ravenous at your stomach, and—nearly every part of you aches.

Raubahn’s arm severs from his body, the crowd screams, the water splashes dank around your ankles. The musky sewer air burns the back of your throat as you leave your allies, your friends behind.

The sheer force of the memories rattle your eyes open, lurching into a rigid, seated position. Where is Alphinaud? Tataru? The rest of the Scions? Your gaze shoots frantically around the unfamiliar chambers, fingers fisted tight in the blankets. It’s a bedroom, that much is plain. The mattress creaks as you begin to shift, inching towards the edge of the bed. Your muscles scream in protest, drawing your gaze down to the bandages that cover your body like patchwork.

Your escape had been hard-won. Even after emerging from the sewers, you’d been accosted by a patrol of soldiers. Though you managed to defeat them with Alphinaud’s assistance…

“Ah. I see thou hast awoken,” The door creaks open. A tall, broad elezen slips nimbly into the rooms, his dark robes swishing with each coordinated motion. The pale morning sunlight casts a vibrant sheen across his waves of grey hair. His gaze is tender as it lands on you, roaming your body up and down. “Take care not to strain thyself. Thine injuries wert most severe when thou wert delivered to me. I am Urianger Augurelt, an astrologian under the employ of the Holy See.”

A quick glance out the window is all it takes to confirm it. The grand spires of Ishgard grate against the cloudy, grey sky. The dull stonework and steel that makes up most of the city seems to blend together the longer you look, your mind fogged and disoriented.

Only when he clears his throat do you snap back from your discombobulated state.

“Thank you. For helping me,” Thanking him is the least you can do, right? Still, you don’t relinquish your grip on the bunched blankets. Having something to clutch so tight helps soothe the anger and the grief. It’s an anchor to the physical while the mental is lost in a tumultuous storm of emotion.

“My condolences,” his voice is a soothing balm and sympathy renders his expression something soft. He’s beautiful, really. He cuts a sharp figure, though his imposing stature is made elegant by the gentle swish and sway of his robes, inky black cloth with gold embroidery… the transparent, veil-like mask hides the lower half of his face, and you can’t help but wonder what his lips look like. “The guards who brought thee to mine chambers gave me a brief summary of the tragedy that befell thee. Rest assured that thou art safe here.” he strides to your bedside, placing a glass of water atop the mahogany nightstand.

Not a moment passes before you’re reaching for it. Gods, how long has it been? The back of your throat is as dry as the Sagolii, sandpaper feeling soothed by the cool water you gulp so desperately.

The muscles and bones of your arms whine with dull pain, left over from the terrible injuries you’ve suffered during your escape, as vicious and unnerving as the memories which accompany them.

“It will take thee at least a fortnite to heal from thy wounds. House Fortemps hath secured thee a place in the Holy See as their ward.”

“I…” It’s all too much to process. “What about the Scions?” The conversation slows to a stop as he carefully thinks over his answer, though his silence is all you need to know the verdict. Sudden nausea churns deep in your stomach, because you know. You were there. You heard the tunnel collapse. You watched Minfilia dash in the direction of the explosion. The allies you have come to know and treasure perished for your sake.

An aching coldness sweeps over you as your body curls in on itself, crushed. Alone, you realize. Alone. The support networks and bonds you’ve built ripped from your grasp in not even a bell’s work. Darkness envelops your vision as you bury your face in your knees, sobs beginning to rattle aching lungs.

What’s the point in being the Warrior of Light if you can’t protect those who matter most to you?

A large hand settles on your shoulder, reminding you of Urianger’s hovering presence. Your throat is hoarse and slick all at the same time, tears smeared wet across your cheeks, leaving you feeling even worse. Your lips part around a pathetic little gasp, drawing a trembling breath deep into your lungs.

“I’m sorry,” you whimper and laugh all in one. “I probably don’t seem like a Warrior of Light, right now.”

“‘Tis no trouble,” Urianger insists, offering you a white kerchief. The fine fabric glistens underneath the spare rays of sun. You almost hesitate to sully it, but you wipe your face down and blow your nose in it anyways, too far gone to feign humility.

“I can only imagine the depths of thou’s grief… but know this be a safe haven. Rest here as long as thou desirest.”

“Resting is the last thing I want to do right now,” you sigh. The grief, the doubt, the ‘what if’s’ press against you like a vice. You don’t completely believe it, still. That they’re gone. A part of you thinks perhaps Y’shtola or Thancred or any of the friends you’ve made along the way will walk through the door any moment, like nothing happened. But you know that’s not going to happen. That cannot happen. It’s that grim realization that spurs you into action. Your arms howl in agony as you press your hand to the mattress, pushing yourself out of bed.

The floor is cold against your bare feet. The plush robe you’re swaddled in shifts with the sudden movement, dangling over your shoulder to—

—to gift him a glimpse of thine exposed skin. Ne’r had he thought the day would arrive when a woman paralyzed him with her body alone, yet here he sat.

The ethereal sight was snatched away before he could truly savor it. Overpowering was the temptation to beckon thee hither and plead for another showing, but nay. Surely such a woeful and pitiful display from a stranger would gain him naught. A quieter, delicate approach must needs do.

He stood from his chair, hastening to your side.

“Prithee, allow me to run thee a warm bath. Thou hast been deep in slumber since yest’rday. T’would be advisable to clean and redress thy wounds.” His gaze rested upon thee, soft and imploring. A brief silence hung in the air, during which his heart thrums so passionately in his ears, so voluminous that he might have missed thy nod of agreement had he not been so focused on thine lips. “A seamstress hand-crafted a new shirt and pair of slacks for thy to adorn, alongside the proper smallclothes.”

He grasped the pile of garments from atop the drawers that rested against the far wall, delicately handing them to you. With great delight did he notice the petiteness of your hands, his heart set aflame at the difference in size between the both of you.

With eagerness did he escort you to the bathing chambers, endeavoring to keep his mind from wandering to the expanse of skin and plane that laid beneath that loose robe.

By his hand would your bond seed and propagate.

As hesitant as you are to trust a man you’ve just met, you allow Urianger to escort you to the bathroom. He slows his pace for your sake, the brief walk giving you a glimpse at the rest of his home… or at least just one, sprawling floor comprised of—well, you don’t get a look inside any of the rooms. The number of ornate doors that line the corridor on either side speak to his wealth and status.

“Forgive me,” he says as you reach the end of the corridor. His cheeks flush light pink, touching the tips of his ears. He doesn’t even look at you as he wraps a massive hand around the brass doorknob, tugging it open. “Dost thou require assistance disrobing?”

“I’ll be fine,” you assure him with a small smile. His modesty is likely a standard among Ishgardian society, but you find it sweet regardless.

The bathroom is wide open and lavish. White tile spans across the floor. The sink is surrounded by a marble countertop and the faucet shines near gold in the pale sunlight. Tiny windows are placed up high, so even the most determined of lechers can’t catch a glimpse inside.

“Thank you, Urianger.” You can’t even begin to repay his hospitality, and while you hate to impose on him further… “I might need your help with rebandaging, though.”

“Of course,” he nods. Perhaps, after you heal and get back on your feet, you’ll be able to repay the incredible kindness he’s shown. For now, all you can do is step inside to the waiting bath. “I shall retrieve the necessary supplies while thou bathes. Take as long as thou require.”

The door clicks shut behind you, leaving you to simple silence and the thoughts that accompany it. Plush fabric slides down your skin as you disrobe, and you take care to drape it over a rack affixed to the wall. Your borrowed raiment is a deep, inky black that shimmers underneath the light, several sizes too large for you. You realize it likely comes from his own wardrobe, making it more of a relief that you didn’t simply shuck it off and let it fall to the floor.

After everything he’s done for you, you’d hate to let even a speck of dust sully it.

The process of peeling off your bandages is both sluggish and painful, but there’s a strange sense of relief that comes with letting your skin breathe. After tossing the sullied scraps into the nearby wastebin, you run the bath and allow the warm water and soap to wash over you. You’re tender still. Each brush of soap over wounded areas makes you cringe anew. The pain, however, is a welcome distraction from the thoughts and qualms that flock so readily to you.

You throw yourself into the task, losing track of time until you’ve finished. It’s with great reluctance that you climb from the warm water. The cold air surrounds you near instantly and clings like a second skin, sending an intrusive shiver down your spine.

After toweling off, you debate how much you should dress. On one hand, being close to bare in front of the man you have just met, you know if you’ll get dressed completely, he might just ask for you to disrobe again. He can’t very well treat you with clothes in the way. Nervousness briefly churns in your stomach as you opt to only tug on the undergarments.

You poke your head out the door. Much to your surprise, he’s already waiting with an armful of supplies.

“Should I come out there?”

“I can redress thy wounds wherever thou art most comfortable,” he informs you, his expression twisting with sympathy.

“In the bathroom is fine, then.” Despite the permanent Ishgardian cold, your palms sweat as you open the door, allowing him to stride inside. There’s no reason to fear or doubt his intentions. He’s been nothing but the finest of gentlemen thus far. His gaze remains affixed to the floor as he bustles inside. He carefully unloads his armful of gauze, bandages and salves onto the kitchen counter.

“I shan’t look anywhere unnecessary,” he assures you—

—And he hoped he did not lie.

Still, he cannot deny the incredible thrill that danced down his spine when his fingers brushed across thine skin. Even while injured, thou attempted to maintain a firm, resolute demeanor. Only the slightest twinge of thine expression betrayed thy agony.

The sight of thou’s bloodied visage returned to the forefront of his mind.

What kind of spectacle had thou created on the battlefield? How many foes had thou felled? Werest thou as incredible and grandiose as thy reputation had told?

Thy’s body tensed and flexed as he rubbed the soothing ointment onto thine skin. He mapped out every wondrous plane and curve. A fleeting gaze glimpsed roguely at thine softer parts, idly admiring thy incredible form as he re-layered each bandage, treatment gentle and thorough, worshipful. As devoutly as a priest expressed his undying love to Halone.

The fire that you sparked within him grew to a steady inferno, and to the Twelve he prayed thou did not notice the sheen of sweat that had coated his palms. Never had he felt such zealous passion.

Hardly a bell had passed whilst in your waking presence, and yet he was absolutely intoxicated. He was not a man, but rendered a beast, a hound, desperate for the slightest speck of attention thou might bestow upon him.

He felt a twinge of relief as he fastened—

The last piece of medical tape affixes yet another patch of gauze to your skin.

“Thank you,” you’ve lost how many times you’d said that to him since waking. “For everything. I can only hope that I’ll be able to repay you, one day.”

“While thine’s generosity is most appreciated, rest assured I have received due compensation. The Holy See ensures my coffers are well filled, but even had they not, seeing the Warrior of Light hale and hearty would have been reward enough.”

Urianger moves away, taking his warmth with him. Again, he collects the supplies he had come in with, strolling towards the door. You hastily shrug on the shirt and trousers he’s so generously provided for you, wincing with each pull of muscle until you’re warm and clothed. The garments are too big for you, but better that than too tight.

You grab the robe from the rack. The fabric is warm and insulated, and covered in a spiced scent you’ve come to recognize as his. Idly, you shrug it on before turning to the door—

He stood in the doorframe, his eyes widening as he drank in thine intoxicating visage. On thy own, thou wert stunning, but draped in his robe thou wert astronomically, impossibly ethereal. The rich fabric draped over thine form, flowing down and bunching on the floor around thine feet. The edges dragged behind you like a bride’s wedding trail.

It took several moments to jolt from his enraptured state, though the sight remained, burned deep into his mind, a lovely picture he would sooner die than forget.

Would his cologne and incense cling to thou after? For how long? How—

How long would it be until you can return to the field? The Scions are missing, not dead. You refused to believe that for the sake of your own sanity. Not until you find their bodies and could deny no further. You will not rest.

For now, though… all you can do is trail after him. He leads you into the same bedroom that you woke in, urging you to get more rest while he fixes breakfast. Had the simple process of bathing not been so draining, , you would try to assist him. Instead, you topple onto the mattress and worm underneath the blankets. The curtains are drawn, leaving the room bathed in blissful dark. Bookshelves line two of the walls, a gap between them left to make room for a desk. It’s hard to make out any other details, not when your eyelids are so traitorously heavy, not when your mind and body coalesce in their desires to corral you into an unsteady, uncomfortable sleep.

There’s no way to tell how much time passes when you wake next. The room is undisturbed, and the stillness near agitates you as you stir. Whether it’s been only fifteen minutes or several hours, you’re quite through with being still. How can you be content to waste away in sleep when there’s still so much you don’t know? When there are people who still so desperately need your help?

Even if you don’t know where the Scions reside, Raubahn is still likely imprisoned. Tataru is out there with no one to protect her. You ignore the twinges and pangs of pain that assault you when you throw your legs over the bed’s edge. If nothing else, the flare of agony helps awaken you further. The polished wooden floor is freezing against the bottoms of your feet as you amble towards the door…

Yet, a strange apprehension takes hold you you as you stand before it.

Should you really be walking around Urianger’s house alone while you’re his guest? Perhaps it’s only been fifteen minutes. Perhaps you’re disoriented and paranoid. You feel like a child who’s stayed up much too late and has to make the perilous sneak up to bed to avoid a scolding. Even after felling gods and monsters alike, it’s still social interaction and customs that worry you the most.

What would Thancred say, if he saw you so baffled by something so simple? He’d probably laugh and tease you. Maybe pat you on the back before offering genuine words of advice—maybe he’d know the ins and outs of Ishgardian etiquette thanks to some bizarre and far flung mission. You don’t know. You can’t ask him.

You don’t like being left alone with your thoughts.

That’s what pushes you to grab the doorknob and stroll into the hall, taking in the long corridor that looms ahead.

“Urianger?” You call cautiously. Steps slow, your breathing quiet as you grab the first doorknob to your left. Upon giving it a cursory twist, you discover it’s unlocked. Of course it is! He likely hasn’t expected you to snoop.

The door creaks open, revealing another bedroom. It’s similar to the guest one you have been given. The bed is perfectly made, sheets black and white, not a single crease out of place. The smell of recently burned incense makes you wrinkle your nose, curious. A desk nestles against a wall, haphazardly covered in papers and scrolls. It’s enough to pique your curiosity, but not enough to make you actually enter and investigate. That honor goes to the familiar pile of clothes nestled in one of the crannies, between the nightstand and a dresser.

Your clothes. A strange, ominous feeling sinks to your stomach as you push the door open and step inside, crossing the room in a few, deft strides. Why does he have these? The garments aren’t clean, still smattered in blood and other stains that make you grimace as you grip your shirt. You guess it makes sense. He couldn’t treat you with your filthy clothes on, after all. But seeing your garments so casually resting in a practical stranger’s home unsettles you regardless. Even worse, his bedroom.

Your glazed eyes roam the length of your ruined clothes briefly before you set them back down, folding them the way they had been. The way you back out of the bedroom is hasty, but the closing of the door is done with the delicacy and precision of a master calligrapher.

Relief relaxes you somewhat as you continue down the hall, glad you haven’t been caught red-handed. It takes a matter of minutes to find him, still in the kitchen, having just finished cooking. Breakfast is delicious, though the food settles uneasily in your stomach.

You don’t know his intentions. Had you not discovered your clothes neatly stacked away in his room. Are his intentions really pure? Had he intended to wash your garments and return them to you at a later time?

Are you any safer here than you were back in Ul’dah?

You blink, and you’re suddenly back in the banquet hall, underneath the dazzling lights and immersed in conversation with some gaudy noble you don’t even know.

The scene changes all too quickly—

A disembodied arm, the screams of innocent servers and bystanders—the way the Elder Seedseer and the Storm General saw fit to merely watch as you and your allies were chased from the banquet. They let this happen, you realize while you sit on Urianger’s couch and drink some tea.

They let this happen. After you’ve chased gods out of their homes, after you lent your aid, assisting their people with everything you have. Cold. It’s so, so cold and the breakfast in your stomach threatens to resurface because-gods, how can you ever trust anyone again? Especially those in power?

It’s Urianger’s voice that distracts you, brings you back to the surface. He returns from his study and remains at your side for the next few hours, much to your surprise. Your memory is a blur from then on. Your senses fade in and out, lost in a daze for god knows how long. Only the gentle touch of his hand on your shoulder brings you back to reality.

How long had he been speaking to you? You do your best to piece through the conversation, half lost in your thoughts and half still in the present.

Isn’t he someone important? You can’t quite recall what he said–something about working for the church, about being a healer. Doesn’t he have something else to do? You imagine the Holy See needs all the help you can get with the ongoing war—but you don’t question him.

Conversation is slow and steady. Only every now and then does he ask questions, things that are easy to answer–

“From where dost thou hail?” “Was breakfast to thine liking?” “Would thou likest more tea? Another blend, perhaps?”

Calm, casual, yet you do not miss the looks he sends you when he thinks you are not aware. Something changes in his expression, the quiet, thoughtful calm touching a shade darker. Those keen, gold glances make your spine stiffen, your body curling in on itself, taking shelter in the robe he so kindly gifted you. The afternoon slopes by, time passing quicker once he grants you access to his incredible library.

The immense shelves line the walls and cluster around a single wooden table in rows. After grabbing an index of fairytales, you tuck yourself into a seat and mindlessly draw your gaze across the pages, taking in the immense detail put into each drawing.

It’s easy to lose track of time. By the time you finish combing through your chosen book, you realize the sunlight is darkened, the day beginning to come to a close.

Your legs cry out and cramp as you push away from the table, the chair’s legs scraping against the hard wood floor.

The hallways of Urianger’s home are lit by several floating orbs of light. They flounce through the air, casting the hall into patterns of warm glow and dim shadows.

You can pass through them without trouble–they part and shape around your body, making room for you to pass. A sudden jolt of stomach that gnaws your stomach prevents you from investigating the lights. Ah, you had missed lunch. Further, you venture, keeping an ear out for footsteps, breathing, any words said–

“Urianger, my good fellow! Too long has it been since we last saw each other!” A broad, familiar voice reaches your ears and draws you forward. You grasp a doorknob and pull it open to reveal the living room,the same as you left it bells prior. The front door on the far side of the room clicks shut behind Haurchefant de Fortemps’s tall, striking form. He’s abandoned the platemail and armor you’re so accustomed to seeing him in, instead donning a thick jacket, black pants and knee-high boots. A plaid scarf is bundled around his neck, checkered blue and white.

Haurchefant brightens at the sight of you, blue eyes widening, lips curling into the widest of smiles. He bustles past Urianger, arms outstretched to receive you.

“Oh, my friend! How glad I am to see you safe and sound.” His voice lowers to a soothing rumble as he wraps you in an embrace, swaddling you in decadent warmth. He’s soft and warm and alive, someone you actually know and can rely on in terrible, turbulent times. The tension dissolves from your body as you lean forward, slumping into his arms. “When I heard of what happened, I feared the worst. I would have stormed through the gates of Ul’dah myself had I not heard of your escape and timely arrival.”

His cheek nuzzles against your temple. There aren’t words to describe your relief, so you settle for curling your fingers into the back of his coat, tears burning at the corners of your eyes.

No, no. You will not cry again. Yda wouldn’t want you to cry.

Regardless, the tears break free and smudge against the fabric of his coat.

“After dinner, we’ll bring you home–back to Fortemps manor. My father and brothers are incredibly excited to meet you.” He pulls back, but keeps you within arms reach, a large hand perching on your shoulder whilst the other idles at your side. Had it been any other day, you would have flustered at his closeness, but now you feel hot shame well up within you. He shouldn’t have to see you like this–not when he praises you as the realm’s greatest warrior, not when he sings your praises as though you’re immortal.

Upon sight of your teary expression, he freezes. The smile on his face dims, expression contorting in the deepest sympathy. That’s what does it, your mind and body cracking like an egg as a sob breaks free from your chapped lips.

“Oh, do not look at me so,” he shepherds you close to his chest a second time, rocking you gently back and forth. His sweater smells like a warm hearth. The faint scent of chocolate clings to the thick fabric, bringing you back to Camp Dragonhead, to a place softer and simpler. “A smile better suits a hero.”

“I… shall begin preparations for thine dinner,” Urianger says awkwardly from the corner of the room. In the middle of the your emotions breaking free, you quite forgot his presence.

“Ah, as much as I appreciate your magnanimity, that will not be necessary.” You can hear the regret in Haurchefant’s voice. “I will gladly set some time aside for us to fraternize at a later date. However, I came with the intent to bring her to the manor. We already have a room prepared, you see.”

“I see’st,” There’s a tension to Urianger’s voice, like he wants to object, but he offers no argument, no refusal. He says your name softly, breathing out a tender sigh. “I left thine belongings in the guest bedroom. Permit me to retrieve–”

“No!” You break away from Haurchefant’s hold, voice impassioned, “I can get them myself.” Despite your injuries, you’re not made of glass. This constant state of inaction leaves you feeling worthless, helpless, even though you’re not. You’ve felled countless gods! You can weather the pain, you can do something as simple as climb the stairs to get your own damn belongings.

“As thou wishest.” Urianger nods, and Haurchefant allows you to fully break from his embrace to journey back into the hallway. You fumble in the dark of the guest bedroom until you find your staff and the bag of items you had on your person during the battle, minus… your old clothes. Before you leave, you cast off the robe Urianger so generally lent you, immediately missing its warmth. Perhaps you’d have taken a last indulgent sniff of it, but the sight that greeted you in his bedroom haunts you.

You want to get out of this place as soon as possible. Maybe the fresh air will help clear your head and relax you.

You shrug the bag’s strap over your shoulder, thanking the Twelve that at least one part of you was left uninjured. You don’t linger, ambling out of the room, journeying back down the corridor, coming to a stop before the living room door.

“I would prefer it if thou left her in my care for the time being. The nature of her injuries is severe. T’would be most advised to keep her close to a professional–” Urianger’s voice is imploring yet hesitant, as though smothering pure fervent passion.

“It is quite fortunate that House Fortemps has some of Ishgard’s best chirurgeons under their employ, then,” Haurchefant cuts him off, steadfast and assured. He leaves little room for argument. You’ve never heard him cut someone off so abruptly. “Pardon my assumption, but you seem quite flustered, my friend. Is there a reason she should be left exclusively under your care?”

“My simple wish is to see mine task doled to by the Holy See through to fullest completion, tis all,” Urianger dismisses him.

“Then on behalf of the Holy See, as a member of the Heavens Ward, allow me to assure you that this will have no effect on your standing nor your pay. Archbishop Aymeric was notified of my intentions and approved them.” A pause. The creaking of the floorboards underneath someone’s feet. “It’s unlike you to be so emotionally transparent, my friend. You usually covet your feelings like a dragon hoards its treasure.”

“Thou art jumping to conclusions in your theatrics, lord Haurchefant.”

“If that’s the case, then, I so humbly beg your forgiveness and thank you for your service. Your… attentiveness to my lady has been noticed. And appropriately appreciated.” There’s a sharpness underneath Haurchefant’s typically airy voice that you’ve never quite heard from him.

...You don’t want to hear it anymore.

You grasp and twist the doorknob, the living room falling silent as you enter.

“There you are! Come along, come along,” Haurchefant wastes no time in bustling over to you. “Allow me to take that. You’ll bear no such burden while I am at your side.” He tugs on the strap of your bag and you submit, allowing him to throw it over his shoulder. “You should also take my coat, tis cold without,” in an admittedly impressive juggling act, he both keeps grip on your belongings and shrugs off his jacket at the same time, handing you the heavy, soft garment.

“Are you sure?” you hold it up and eye it with a raised eyebrow, before looking to him.

“Of course. I have long adjusted to Ishgard’s admittedly inhospitable climate, whereas you have just arrived. The walk is short. I’ll be perfectly fine.” He’s wearing long sleeves, so you don’t push it. Instead, you slide into the coat, taking in the warm, soft fabric and enjoying the scent that clings to it. The heart and the home, warm hot chocolate prepared upon your arrival to Camp Dragonhead.

The sleeves cover your hands by a long shot and the entire garment is big enough for you to wear it as a dress. The weight of it, and how much it covers is comforting.

Comforting to the point where you don’t allow yourself to bat an eye as he wraps an arm around you, pulling you close to his body. You don’t want to read into his actions, don’t want to think about anything you overheard. Even the notion of having something else to worry about and lose sleep over nearly makes you break down all over again.

You say your last thanks to Urianger and promise to visit him. It’s the least you can do after he was kind enough to heal you. Perhaps he was being paid to do so, but you don’t imagine cooking breakfast was a part of his job. Nor was it his job to make you tea and fetch you new clothes, new shoes, most like.

A cold gust of air greets you as soon as Haurchefant opens the front door. The light has long died, leaving the street lamps to illuminate the grand avenues of Ishgard’s upper class district. This is your first look at the city’s interior, you realize. Your gaze draws over the grand buildings, taking in their steepness and structure. It’s grim, but beautiful. Deadset and stiff in its design but stable and confident in the face of the tragedy it regularly endures.

There is no moon, tonight, as though it too has decided to hide away with its own grief.

---

He apologized to you as he tread upstairs. He apologized to Minfilia, to the vast pantheon of gods and goddesses, to the Scions, to all those he hadn’t been able to aid in their time of need.

Urianger’s exhaustion burned him raw. He was not privy to the framing and ambush of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn. However, that doesn’t alleviate him of his guilt and grief. Having thou so politely dropped into his lap by the newly appointed Archbishop had granted him brief succor. Knowing he had the chance to help the survivors of the incident was a soothing balm to the wound.

He had not anticipated the way he had grown so instantly attached. Neither had he anticipated the fervent desire that gripped him, nor the way his blood boiled when that rapscallion barged into his home and stole you away.

The guest bedroom did not bear your scent as he hoped it would.

He felt as though a hostage in his own body as he navigated to the bed, gaze fixed upon the robe thou hadst cast so generously onto the sheets. A mere piece of thee to tide him over until he saw thou next. The mattress bounced as he fell upon it, face shoved into the plushness of the garment, taking in a deep breath. His cock throbbed at the scent of you, blood rushing down whilst he parted his robes with a trembling hand.

Like a howling, braying beast did he rock his hips. The friction was painful without oil, but pain mattered precious little when he craved thou so. Moans rattled from his weary lungs, his mind corrupted with images of thee, so decadent underneath him.

Thy nails, digging into his shoulder as thou let thy voice ring free–crying and sobbing and begging for benediction by his hand, by his cock. That mattress creaked as he worked himself to completion, a final cry freeing itself from his parted lips as he spilled sticky and hot onto the robe.

He collapsed to the side, hot shame washing over him as he lifted his gaze to the window, contemplating a moonless sky.

[gigiree]

On Sentiment

Le Paon makes a sentimonster who looks like Chat Noir. Adrien now struggles to take care of him and not let him get hurt like the Ladybug Sentimonster was. I GUESS CONSIDER THIS ME JUMPING ON THE CRACK ADRICHAT BECAUSE IT REALLY IS CRACK. THANKS @buggachat. interpret however you want. im going with agape love.

On the day you are made, it is discovered just how powerful sheer emotion can be. On the day Le Paon swipes her fan and the winds give rise to your form, solid and warm, Chat Noir mirrors your wide-eyed wonder.

You are shocked when his green eyes (exactly like yours) narrow with fear. A hiss escapes his bared teeth. Even his hair seems to be on end, puffing all over the place with the static arcing in the air. You think it’s sort of funny.

What is this strange ticklish feeling in your chest? It’s all bubbly. You don’t stop it as it bubbles up and escapes from your throat. Ah! It’s a laugh. You like it. It’s warm and this new existence is oh so cold.

Le Paon’s will prods at your mind. It makes your body want to leap forward. To pounce and rend Ladybug and Chat Noir into black and red ribbons.

You don’t like that.

But still you pounce because your body burns when you don’t. 

Ladybug and Chat Noir save your feather from Le Paon’s clutches. Things feel a little warmer. A little scarier because things are out of your control, still.

“What do we do with him?! I don’t...We need to find a place for him. I don’t want him to be hurt. Not like her...” Ladybug tells Chat Noir desperately, running her hands through her inky hair. You want to touch it. It looks shiny.

Chat Noir looks pained. Scared. Not distrustful, but he looks at you like he might look at a spectre. He pinches the bridge of his nose with clawed fingers just like yours.

“We have to hide him. He’s got the same powers as me and he doesn’t have a limit that we know of. And I don’t want a version of me running around Paris up to no good.”

Ladybug laughs.

“You’re usually up to no good. Would there be a difference, Kitty?”

Chat Noir pouts. You smile. You like their humor. It’s funny. You want in. You want to be included. The feather in Chat Noir’s hand is held gently. You can trust them.

“Let me stay with you Chat Noir. I promise I won’t be trouble.”

Chat Noir still looks suspicious. Ladybug sighs.

“It’s probably for the best. You said your house is really big. I don’t have that much room in my home.”

So that’s how you, the doppelganger, ends up going home with Chat Noir.

----

Chat Noir, much to your surprise, is Adrien. 

His eyes are still green, but they are no longer exactly like yours.

There’s still the same suspicion in them, but it’s softened by the worry in his eyes as you struggle to slip on the pajama set he gives you. He seems very confused that you are able to take off your suit and glove, but cannot remove your mask or ears.

“H-how...How does that work?” Adrien asks you. Plagg seems unconcerned. He’s already curled up with his cheese on a stinky sock.

Plagg simply says “magic”.

You merely accept it, like you do with everything in this new life. You hadn’t existed up until yesterday. Why question little things now?

“Don’t know.” You say blithely, wincing when you accidentally tear the sleeve of the silky pajamas with your still-sharp claws.

Adrien sighs, but he’s gentle as he extricates your fingers from the fabric and helps you slip it on over your unruly hair. He doesn’t linger. He’s very quick about it.

But you still feel the warmth of welcome in his actions, and it makes you feel at peace. The feeling curls in your chest, warm and content. You let it rise up and lift the corners of your fanged mouth into a grateful smile.

“Thanks!” 

Adrien’s smile in return is sheepish, if somewhat uncomfortable. He tucks your feather under his pillow.

“You’re going to have to stay here until we can figure out what to do with you.” He says, then frowns. “Don’t go out without me. Don’t let anyone in this house see you.”

He tosses you a pillow and a soft blanket. You have to sleep on his spare couch, but it’s warm and you are safe and free.

You have no trouble accepting those terms as you curl up sleepily. You dream of red and black ribbons and feathers floating against the stars.

-------

You break your promise. You let someone in this house see you, but to your credit, it was to save Adrien.

They’d called for Chat Noir and Ladybug. You’d watched as Plagg’s magic, sharp and hor, wrapped itself around Adrien’s form. You’d watched as he’d given you a sharp glare with those same green eyes, before leaping out his window.

He’d left the piano music playing from his phone. You’d hid in his expansive closet. But your sharp hearing catches the jingling of a door knob being shaken. 

You only think of Adrien. You think of his kindness and his gentle exasperation as he’d brought you food and showed you how to brush your hair and told you how to play a game called Brawl Bros.

You only think of Adrien when you wrap himself in one of his luxury cardigans and sit on the piano bench and set your claws on the bench. 

You catch your reflection on the shiny, black surface of the piano and nearly hiss. You will yourself to change. You will it so much that your body burns.

It burns as your ears recede and your mask disappears and your claws shrink a bit.

It is without much fanfare that Nathalie opens the door, merely sees your mop of golden hair moving over the top of the piano, and leaves. She’d bought the ruse.

You stay there a bit more, heaving a sigh of relief. When you look back at your reflection, you are shocked to see that you look a little more like Adrien...but you’re not him. Your corneas are still green. Your fangs still large and your mask has gone away, only to give way to an inky darkness that mars the space around your eyes.

Strange.

You are tired. You take your blanket and your pillow and curl up in the closet to rest. The bed is Adrien’s space. You refuse to take it, in any capacity. You are not him.

-----

When Adrien and you can finally get down the rules for your ability to change your features, he decides it’s safe to take you to school.

“So yeah. This is my British cousin from my mom’s cousin’s uncle’s side. His name’s Garfield. He’s decided to study in Paris for a year.”

Nino blinks at you. Then he blink at Adrien. Then he blinks at you once more. 

“The family resemblance is uncanny, man. Your other cousin Felix looks just the like two of you too. Daaaamn.” He finally announces. 

Adrien sighs with relief. The arm he’s slung around your shoulder relaxes.

“Hahaha. Yeaaaaah. Family genes are strong. But Garfield, meet Nino.”

“Nice to meet you, bro.” Nino says, offering his hand.

You have it. You have your own name. It makes you so incandescently happy. You feel that familiar bubbling sensation in your chest. The one you know means you want to laugh. You do not hold back. Adrien usually holds back his laughs. Tucks them into the corner of his mouth and releases a modest puff of air when around people he doesn’t feel comfortable with.

You, however, have no such compunction. You were created in Chat Noir’s image. And Chat Noir laughs freely.

So you do.

You reach forward to take Nino’s hand and shake it so hard, his headphones rattle.

Adrien looks embarrassed. Nino looks enthused. 

Your sharp hearing catches the whispers of speculation from the class. But Adrien looks relieved and he shoots you a quiet smile that says “good job.”

You are warm and content. You have two friends now.

----

Marinette makes for a wonderful, third friend. She also happens to come with a myriad of others clinging to her wake.

He can’t blame them. She’s so bright and kind, she matches Adrien well.

She takes your hand after you cut it trying to work on your physics project. She uses a pretty, embroidered handkerchief to wrap up your wound. Her blue eyes echo familiar as they peer up at you.

“Up to no good again, Garfield?” She says this, but it’s teasing. 

That echoes familiar too. Her small hands are warm. 

You’ve already decided that you like her by the time she’s done wrapping up your wound.

“I can help you with this?” She gestures towards the pile of foam blocks on your desk.  

You feel a burning on your face. Ah embarrassment. Still, laughter always feels good. So you laugh at yourself. Then you nod. 

“Yes please. I’m not all that good with this stuff.”

----

Adrien screams into his pillow.

Plagg looks a bit sad as he curls up next to his boy. You click your claws together in agitation. It seems your base form will always be of Chat Noir’s double. It’s the most comfortable way to be when you want to rest.

A lot had happened today.

You’d stayed out of the way, but your sharp ears had overheard it.

Adrien begging his father to show up for the school’s talent day. His father’s frigid dismissal. Then he’d leapt out the window leaving you behind.

He’d come back. A little angrier, a little sharper. But also resigned. Like he’d given up on something that had been making him happy.

You don’t have to ask much to gather that it is Ladybug. He’d gotten a more final answer.

“She likes someone else.”

You don’t know what to do about that. The one time you’d met Ladybug, you’d thought she was kind. A good person. Remarkable. But you’ve met plenty of kind people who are remarkable in their own way. 

Rose was remarkable when she’d made you a bracelet. Juleka when she’d done your makeup for a fun class film. Alya when she’d taken your hand and shoved an ice cream cone into it while you’d hung back from the group. Nino when he’d shown you his wonderful new remixes. Kagami when she’d arm-wrestled you and laughed as she took your arm down. Marinette was remarkable when she brought you eclairs everyday because you’d said once a while ago that you liked them.

Adrien was remarkable when he’d brushed back your tangled hair and asked you to play video games with him. Adrien when he’d shared with you his collection of favorite anime. Adrien when he let you make a mess and try on all the interesting clothes in his closet.

Adrien when he’d handed you your feather in a show of ultimate trust. He’d freed you.

Your chest feels tight? The color green comes to mind, but you don’t think much of it when you sit on the foot of his bed.

“I’m sorry. That...That sucks,” You say quietly. Which is unusual for you.

Adrien doesn’t move, but he moves to face you. HIs gaze softens with sorrow.

“There’s nothing for you to be sorry for, Garfield.”

Then you snort.

“I get it now. You named me after a fat, orange cat.”

Adrien rolls his eyes. Good. You’ve distracted him.

“An iconic orange cat.”

“I don’t eat that much!”

Adrien grabs his pillow, startling Plagg and hits you with it. You fall on the bed from the impact. The pillow over your face.

“You’re a good friend, Garfield.” He says after a moment.

 Adrien’s laughing. You’re in his space, and it’s okay. You’re his friend.

-----

Marinette likes Adrien. She’s told you this in confidence.

You don’t quite know what to say. Pain is a nasty feeling. It eats away at your chest and kinda makes you want to pounce just like Le Paon had. Pounce away from the source of the pain. Marinette is your friend. 

She cries into her hands. She’s been tired as of late. More stressed. Then she’d overheard Adrien rejecting an upperclassman’s confession.

I’m sorry. I like someone else.

She falls into your arms when you offer her a hug. 

The tight feeling in your chest returns. It’s painful, but not angry. You know it could easily become a bad thing, but your appreciation runs too deep to do so.

You keep it to yourself, but you get it. You understand Marinette. You really do.

Because Adrien is remarkable and it’s finally hit you that golden things can’t stay.

-----

You hold your feather in your hand. It’s fading.

You and you alone are responsible for this. Choice is a wonderful thing.

You take the shot for Ladybug and Chat Noir. For who you know now are Marinette and Adrien. The people who are most precious to you.

Rena Rouge shrieks behind them, just running up to catch sight of this new Sentimonster’s beam of energy piercing through you.

It was a good life. A short one, but the choice is all yours.

Because you exist. Because you feel. Because you’re you and your friend gave you a name and a home and memories worth dying for.

You feel really warm in their dual embrace. Chat Noir’s holding you. Ladybug’s stroking your hair. Rena Rouge has knelt to hold one of your clawed hands. Carapace watches, grief etched onto his face.

You suppose, you should feel grateful. Although you wish you could’ve spent a little more time with them.

Just a little more. You fade away, a “thank you” the last thing that floats from your lips like a lost feather in the breeze.

-------

You wake.

Their smiling faces greet you. Your friends.

They look a little older. A lot sharper and care worn, but their hands are warm as they stand you up in your shaky, solid form.

“H-how?” You cough out, incredulous.

Adrien laughs. Marinette looks amused.

“We made a wish. We missed you, Garfield.”

You feel that familiar bubbling feeling in your chest. You are breathless as you laugh and that laugh turns into sobs.

It hurts to feel, but it’s such a warm, comforting pain.

You’re glad of it.

[rk800isalive]

The Fall ~Drabble

Music fills the air, falling in line just like good soldiers marching into battle. Pure white wings fluttered in the air as the angel descended down to his charge. A small human child, sick and probably not going to make it. Conchobhar knew she didn’t have much time but he was assigned to watch over and help in any way he could. 

At times the angel wished he could cry. He’d watch emotions run through her small face each day wishing he could also share in that. If he could feel as she did then maybe he could be of more help. His voice would echo through the air as she slept filling the small human with dreams of a better life. 

A world without war, death, or hate. He sang of peace, of good health, and a long life. She past quietly in her sleep and the angel wished he could weep. He took her soul carefully up into the gates of heaven. She wasn’t the first he’d been assigned to and it wasn’t the last.

“If we are sent to guard them then why can’t we protect them from death?” He asked one day as he relaxed against his brother in wings. A fellow angel of music just like him. Twins of the same feather one never going without the other. 

 “You can’t ask such things. If someone heard you then you know what would happen, Con.” His sibling whispered gently placing a hand onto his own.  He frowned in response as his wings dropped downward mimicing what he saw humans express as frustration. 

“The walls have ears, you know this.” Another voice cut in, an angel of of battle. The three of them had grown close over the centuries bonding to one another with their worries and fears. Whispers they never dared to say to anyone on the outside. 

Finally, Conchobhar had been assigned to a five year old in the mists of a war. She’d seen so much death that she could see and hear him and Con had grown close to the human. Thinking of her as he did the angels he was close with in heaven. Family came to mind to him, her laughter echoed in him and made the angel feel like he could take on even the strongest of winds. 

Her life was taken from him by the angel of death. He screamed and yelled begging the angel to bring her back to life. To allow the small one to live. She didn’t even make it to eight, she was gone all to soon.

His family came to his side trying to drag him away from the small girls soul. But the damage had been done...

 He was placed before the almighty and deemed unfit of his wings. The angel of music cried out that it wasn’t fair that humans were the only children of god’s allowed to feel. How he wanted to share in his charges pain. To feel as they did, to help show he cared. He wanted to cry when they passed, to laugh when they made a joke. God turned his head and sent the order to cast him out.

His very own mentor who had shown him so much through his first years of creation was the one sentences to follow God’s law. Amanda was cruel as she spat her disappointment at him. She didn’t just cut his wings from his body, she pluck feather by feather till his back was left bleeding before she broke each bone and ripped them from his back. 

Screams echoed in the holy halls as his sibling watched silently as he was throw from the gate. For the first time Con understood what humans experienced as death. 

His body landed to the rough dark inky ground of hell. Landed broken and bleeding, shaking and afraid.

       “Aww, my child.... Did our wonderful father cast you out?”

He knew that voice but was far to broken to move. White wrapped around him, scooping him up held to a chest. Broken brown eyes looked up to see the very ones he cared about most in heaven. He could see the corruption already affecting them as their wings were shifting from pure innocent white and stunning ivory to ink and dust. He tried to push, he needed them to leave but they wouldn’t.

     “How greedy are you? Taking two from the good father.... You will fit in just perfectly.”

A bone like hand reached out to them.

  “Stay here and you can all be more then anything the good father ever wished you to be. Stay here and I can give you everything you want and more.” A smile filled with lies but a voice like honey and warm tea.

      "Be come mine and you all will be free.” 

Three hands reached out and the deal was made. Wings shifted and changed their bodies contorted as screams filled the air. Ink covered their bodies clawing and screaming as new feelings took their place. Freeing himself from the black mess the newly formed fallen angel took his steps towards the king of lies. A smile ever present on his face. Beautiful like nothing the other had ever seen before. A clawed hand trailed down his face.

 “800, you have been reborn. You are 800 and you are mine.”

The demon blinked and nodded his head the new command echoed through his body like fire marking him. He was the kings, Lucifer didn’t lie completely. Being a demon was freeing in ways 800 couldn’t understand, but he craved his wish. He just needed to bid his time to find a foolish human to give him everything he wanted....

For now 800 would laze about enjoying the screams of hell in the arms of his siblings.

[writinginavacuum]

Tenebris ad Lucem Decrescit

The stronger you are, the more brittle you become, and everything has a breaking point.

I’m so relieved to have gotten this out before KH3′s release, even if it’s sneaking in by the tiniest little margin. I needed it out before the new game absolutely destroyed all my ideas. THERE ARE NO SPOILERS HERE.

This was originally my @treasuredmemorieskhfanzine submission before I decided that it was going to be too long and also too upsetting and went with my original submission instead but hey, that’s life.

I love Aqua with all of my heart. Which means, of course, that I have to make her miserable. Those are the rules, right? Right.

Thanks to the Terraqua discord for helping me out with this. 

It hurts.

One foot in front of the other.

It hurts.

She can't stop. She can feel it behind her. Feel it reaching, claws scraping lines across the bare skin of her shoulders, scars sinking deep into flesh and sinew and bone, ripping her open and laying her bare for the blackness of the world to seep in to her empty heart.

It hurts, it hurts, ithurtsithurtsithurtsithurts-

One foot in front of the other. There is nothing left in her barren soul.

In the moments where she allows herself a moment to pause, to rest her aching, weary legs, she stares up at the inky dark above her, searching for any speck of light above her, any sign of stars. Sometimes, when her head swims with exhaustion, she can see little pinpricks above her, but those nights are worse. Once she had felt hope when she saw those sparks. Now she feels nothing but the bitter taste of loss.

The sparks blur, twist, and Aqua becomes aware that her eyes burn from staring up at them. Her chest spasms with a hunger she cannot remember not feeling. When was the last time she felt full? When was the last time she was rested, full, peaceful?

When was the last time she had been whole? There had never been anything but this neverending walk, nothing but the pain in her feet and the exhaustion in her soul.

Who even was she anymore?

It hurts.

She was Master Aqua. She was an apprentice of Master Eraqus, a partner to her friends Terra and Ven. She was a Keyblade wielder. She was strong.

She was exhausted.

She was beaten down.

Was she even a Master anymore? Her home didn't exist anymore, her friends lost to the ever present dark threatening her every step, her Keyblade long gone in a final token of affection to a young man she wasn't sure she'd ever see again.

Could she be a Master of nothing and a partner to nobody?

Her eyes blurred. At a time, there might have even been tears.

It hurts.

-

She wasn’t sure when the tendrils stroking along her ankles started to feel inviting rather than terrifying. There had been a point and time when she would have been horrified by the way the darkness felt brushing across her skin, threatening to grab her and drag her off the path and into the darkness. Or at least, she thought there might have been. She thought she remembered the sickening, sharp touch of ice. When it touched her like this, soft and cool and promising her an end to her ceaseless wandering, it was hard to remember.

The false moonlight of the sandy shore was just enough to stare out at the shoreline, see the way the water curved along the horizon, the way the surf lapped at her stocking-covered feet. Her shoes lay abandoned somewhere behind her. It felt good on her warm, swollen toes, soothing blisters she thought should be there. She wished she had Master Defender, though she couldn’t quite remember why that was its name or where it had gone.

She knew it had belonged to her Master, a man she had respected and trusted without question.

She knew her Master was dead, struck down by a boy she had once considered her closest friend.

She couldn’t remember what he looked like.

Hours passed, and yet she still sat there on that darkened beach, head bowed, staring sightlessly at the dull gray metal, mindless of the way her tears warmed and cooled the metal.

What had the boy looked like? The boy who had killed her Master, shattered a part of her soul?

She pictured blue eyes, the color of the ocean beneath a moon, but her brain stopped at that point as though it was an insurmountable road block.

“What else?” she whispered, her voice too broken from lack of use to make more sound.

He had brown hair- or was it silver? Maybe blond. Somewhere in the torn crevasses of her mind, she could picture blond hair, short and spiky and puppy soft, but when she tried to put the blond and the blue together, it didn’t seem to fit quite right, as though the blue was wrong, even though that shade of blue was all she could remember.

Trying to remember made her head hurt, and so she quit. It did her no good to dwell on half-remembered mysteries, not when they made her ache like this. Sometimes, she had learned, it was just easier to let things go without the fight.

At her feet, the waves lapped a little higher on her ankles, threatening inch by inch to pull her out to sea.

How she wished she could just lay back in the sand and let the ocean take her away.

-

There came a day- or a week or a month or maybe a year because she had always been down here, really, so what did the days matter really?- when the darkness didn’t frighten her anymore.

No, why had she ever thought that the dark surrounding her had ever meant her anything but kindness? Now when the tendrils surrounded her, the soft cool smoke sneaking into her lungs and caressing her heart, she relaxed into it with relief. It had never been there to tear her down, no. No, it had always meant to rip away the parts that brought her pain, to lift her up. The light that she had fought so hard to carry in her burdened soul really did nothing but cause her pain in the end.

When she tried to think of that boy, she no longer got stuck on blond hair or blue eyes. How easily she had allowed herself to be deluded by her panic, how her pain had twisted the truth in her mind. There had been two boys, of course. One strong like the earth and the other quick as the wind. But neither of them had blue eyes. Where had she ever gotten that idea from? They both had amber eyes, glowing like warm coals. Just like hers.

They were so beautiful, her two boys, one with hair made of sunlight and the other with moonbeams. She missed them terribly down here, but she could sense that they would be joining her soon. It was safe here, in the dark, so very far away from the light that threatened to tear her soul apart.

She was so grateful that the shadows had shown her the light. Where would she be if they hadn’t? She no longer needed her Master’s lost soul, poor fool that he was. Placing his faith in his sword, in his light, had been his downfall in the end; she could see that now. She trusted nothing but her claws and the comfort of the dark now. Her clawed hands brushed icy streaks out of her face, tucking them back out of her way as she slunk along the jagged, rocky paths.

Something was pulling her along, guiding her feet at every crossroads. It was instinctive, the way she followed the familiar roads toward the ocean. Something was waiting for her on that shore, or someone would be soon enough.

Her feet sunk into the sand, leaving footprints from the end of the stone path to the shoreline. Whatever intended to be waiting for her… she would be waiting for them first.

She was, and had always been, a hunter. And whatever had decided to try to hunt her…

Would regret it.

-

It was hours before anything stirred. The girl, arms soaked in blood red and inky black, with claws stretching her fingers into razor-sharp crescents, waited, crouched by the shoreline. She might have looked like a gargoyle to any passing person, had anybody actually been living in the darkness to walk by. She waited, muscles couled like a cat, amber eyes glowing in the darkness like warning flares.

A sound, footsteps through the darkness. She tensed, her head swiveling toward the sound, every muscle poised to strike.

He was standing there, across from her, close enough that she could taste the bitter taste of his light on her tongue, not alone for the first time in an eternity. The boy she had gifted her only chance at freedom. A splash of color on a dark horizon, his hair like starlight, holding his hand out to her with a soft smile, like they were friends. He smiled like he knew what she had suffered for the last ten thousand, million, trillion steps across a world razed to ash by hopelessness. His eyes sparkled like stars beneath a silvery-white moon.

His smile was soft, warm, like home. It was familiar. For a moment, she imagined a tuft of rowan hair, the glint of armor on his arm, the sound of laughter under a star-strewn sky. Her heart felt like it was being torn open. The girl wanted to know why, why the thought of this stranger threatened to rip her chest apart. Who was he? Who was she?

The boy took a step closer to her curled form, said something she couldn’t hear past the roaring of the ocean- or was that her own ears, the blood in her veins calling out to kill the boy in front of her.

She wanted him to suffer. She wanted him to feel the ache in her bones, understand the terror in her chest at his light. She wanted freedom, to go home to her boys, to bury herself in silver and gold and hide in the darkness their bodies created.

She wanted him to burn, the way the blood pumping through her threatened to set her body alight.

Her teeth bared, hands curled into claws, she leapt across the empty landscape with all the strength in her tattered soul.

[uas-art]

Title: The Thoughts on Day 9,999

Summary:  Wilson learned a long time ago that one can only live so long before they final come to the conclusion it doesn't matter anymore.

Rating: T Fandom: Don't Starve Ships: N/A Content Warnings: Mild gore, suicide Other: Inspired by an amazing art piece by @mazurou ! Please check out their awesome blog! :) You an also read this work on Ao3

~~

There were two things Wilson knew with complete and utter certainty: one, none of this mattered anymore, and it probably never did, and two, that he was so very tired because of it.

Both those facts weighed heavily on Wilson's mind had he trudged through the swamps. The distance echoes of birds and the occasional unidentifiable grunts carried on the putrid breeze use to make him nervous. He would pick up his pace and hurry to his camp in the middle of the swamp on a small island of forest trees that had taken root in the slightly less acidic ground. Wilson would fumble with his flint, trying to craft a makeshift spear to hold close while he waited for daybreak, huddled near to his fire.

But that was a different Wilson than the one walking down the muddy path now. That Wilson still had hope he would escape this hellish wilderness, return home with the knowledge he had gained. That Wilson had not been trapped on the Throne. That Wilson hadn't heard the horrible, tragic, and yet so very lovely whispers of Them in his head. That Wilson had been ignorant.

That Wilson had been a very lucky bastard.

The telltale whipping of a tentacle made Wilson stop for a moment and turn his gaze. About a twenty feet off, two tentacles trashed around as a small clan of merms ran and punched at them. One of the tentacles slapped a merm across its stomach, sending it flying into its own dilapidated house.

The merm did not get back up.

Wilson considered watching them for a moment, to see the outcome, but chose against the idea. Whatever spoils there may be would likely still be there tomorrow, or, if they're not, it doesn't matter much.

Nothing really did anymore.

~~~

The bed roll from the chest was warm. Bits of bunnymen fur had worn away from use, but Wilson didn't care. He tossed the roll out and lied down, face towards the burning fire. The flames danced in the pit as they made their way to the sky. One of the blacken logs inside the roaring white and orange flames crumbled. Small embers flew up.

Absentmindedly, Wilson reached out to grab them. The fire licked the exposed skin between his glove and his sleeve. The man jerked his hand back to his chest with a hiss, then winced. He'd bit down on his tongue as well.

Blood welled up in his mouth. He jolted up and spat into the fire before wiping the remaining dripple away on the back of his glove.

With a heavy sigh, Wilson sat crossed legged on the bedroll. He pulled off his gloves and tossed them aside then turned his wrist over. The burn was gone now, a quick heal, just like his tongue.

Wilson slowly began to unbutton his vest, then his shirt. He slipped his finger under his tie to pull it lose before setting it near his discarded gloves and removing his suit jacket. He held the pinstriped jacket in his hands, running a thumb over the smooth fabric and watching as the shadows flicked off it. Then it too was tossed into the growing pile, soon with his vest and shirt.

Wilson steeled himself before looking down.

Though he could feel in always there, thrumming in time to his own heartbeat, sometimes Wilson needed to set his eyes on it.

A life giving amulet, resting in the middle of his chest. Its blood-colored gem pulsed with energy. Every few seconds, a shadow would slither through before disappearing.

Sometime during his stay on the Throne and without Wilson noticing, his flesh had grown around the gold the gem was set in. Only a few small slivers glinted against the orange fire light.

In the beginning, when Wilson was first tossed from the Throne after a millennia of sitting, his new attachment had been a Godsend. A life giving amulet that never wore out.

He only needed to wait but a few moments for his strength to return after a fight. If he was killed, he would always been returned to life in a matter of seconds, ready to pick up where he had left off.

No matter the biome, no matter the enemy, Wilson always got what he was after. He built camp after camp, growing and cultivating the world around him until he no longer had to fear starvation or the seasons or the beasts that roamed the lands.

But that had been long, long ago.

After about 1000 sunrises, Wilson had stopped counting the days he had been here.

They didn't matter anyway.

He had just grown so bored with it all.

Though Wilson detested the man who brought him here, he couldn't help but empathize with Maxwell. If given the opportunity to escape, to exchange his life for another’s, Wilson knew he would do so in a heartbeat.

Wilson pressed his exposed fingers against the gem. Around the 800 mark, he had tried desperately to carve the gem from his chest. He'd tried flint, an axe head, even a sharpen piece of thulecite, but all it did was make a bloody mess of his campsite and leave chips of stone under his skin. Every wound healed too quickly for him to dislodge the amulet.

Wilson let his hand fall to his side then turned his face to the sky. The stars flecked the inky blackness, and the moon shown a waning crescent. His lips twitched in a half smile. It was too bad those stars and that moon were fakes. If he let his eye unfocus a moment, the celestial bodies above looks so much like those back at home. Or he thought they did. After all this time a fog had settled into much of his memory.

The man stood. Still bare chested, he walked to the edge of the firelight.

The night beast, the Queen, had killed him before. Many a deep winter's night, his fire would go out and without fuel to feed it, he would be at her mercy. Dying, coming back, dying, coming back dying all throughout the cold night.

Maybe this time, if, as she bit and clawed at him, he pleaded with her to please end it: Tear his body into too many pieces to be fixed, carve this wretched gem from his flesh, she would be kind to him.

If it did work, he would be free. If it didn't work, well, that would be more proof that none of this really mattered anyway.

With that final thought echoing in the back of his mind, Wilson stepped into the darkness.

~Fin~

Notes:

If you haven't checked out the piece that inspired this, then I suggest you do so, mostly because it's awesome! When I first saw it on my dash, I couldn't help thinking how much it really would stink to just keep living in the don't starve world, never really able to fully die. With that thought in mind, I got on typing. ^-^)/

[mrsbenedictbridgerton]

smut prompt: close friends that were always in love but never got the chance to be together (timing etc). They both know how the other feels, and with only one night left they decide to give in to what could have been, before they have to say goodbye to it (and possibly each other) for good. (one's getting married in the morning or something) Angsty smut! :D

Your wish is my command!

Also on FF.NET and AO3

A lingering glance. A soft smile. A desperate yearning that wouldn’t fade. So much communicated between them without a word. Emma sighs into her wine glass. There just isn’t enough time. There are so many things that remain unsaid between her and Killian. But her bags are packed and a cab booked for 8 am. She is leaving and it was too late. Best leave things unsaid.

The party is in full swing. After a year in London she has returned to essentially say goodbye to Storybrooke forever. Her temporary transfer is being made permanent. The life she has created for herself over there awaited. The new friendships she has formed. The small apartment that she would soon share with Simon.

Good, dependable, kind Simon.

She tries not to think of him as her eyes seek out Killian. He’s done a good job of avoiding her that night. He was still hurt, she knew. The way his face had gone cold when she’d told him she was leaving for good was something she would never forget.

He’d thought she was coming home. He’d thought-

She doesn’t want to dwell on that.

Tipping back her glass, she pulls on a practised smile and pushes her way through the crowd.

/

Leaving had been a childish thing to do. She knew that now.

It had been last summer. The gang had spent a weekend camping. Bugs, tents and campfires. It was everything she loved and more about living in New England. The scent of pine needles and wood smoke so vivid and evocative. Killian was there, of course. He was one of her closest friends. Had been, well, forever. Since they were teens.

But that’s it. Just friends.

All through their friendship one or the other of them had been in a relationship. Neal. Milah. Walsh. Tina . They were always there to be a shoulder to cry on when the other had relationship woes and pick up the pieces when they inevitably fell apart. There was never a chance of anything more. Timing, you know. Which is not to say she hadn’t considered it.

Killian was that good kind of handsome. Not intimidating in his beauty, but breathtaking all the same, with strong arms and a stunning smile. But he was more than that. As much as he was good looking, he was a good person and a good man. Real salt of the earth. That’s not to say he was perfect, but he had fought his demons and never made excuses for his mistakes. She admired that.

The week before the trip, Emma had finally ended her long running on/off relationship with Walsh O’Connor. Stretching over two years, with as much time on the outs as actually together, she’d finally grown tired of his lies and broken promises and was more than a little relieved when she’d actually caught him cheating and he had given her an excuse to end things. They were not right for each other at all, he’d just been… convenient, she guessed.

So that weekend, they were both single.

And that weekend had opened her eyes. She’d let herself think about what something between them could be like. And she liked what she saw. His easy smiles and warmth, the care he’d shown for her and their friends, his adventurous side that had him climbing trees and scrambling over rivers. He was just so very… something. The trip had kicked the dirt up on a whole bunch of feelings she’d never let herself think about.

Once home, she’d ruminated on those feelings for hours, before picking up her keys and driving to his place. The lights were on. She’d knocked on the door, her nerves jangled, not even quite sure what she was going to say.

Then she’d answered. Milah . Only a cotton sheet around her.

He’d been a few steps behind, their eyes met. She tried to hide her upset but it was impossible. She’s smiled and made up some bullshit excuse that she couldn’t remember before pretty much running to her car, blocking out the sound of him calling her name.

A week later a position in London became available. A fresh start. She had no ties, just an aching heart. So she said yes.

/

Later, the sky is dark. All the inky purple of the sunset has faded into black. She has a missed call from Simon but it is late, will be past midnight for him now, so she pushes the phone back in her pocket. Promises herself she will call in the morning.

Outside is quiet. Autumn is nipping at the heels of summer and most people are clawing at the warmth of the small house she had once shared with friends. They kept her room when she moved, always saying it was there, for when she returned. Because she had meant to.

But then burying herself in work and all the logistics of setting up somewhere new took over. She was busy - almost busy enough to forget her feelings for Killian, at least until he texted or emailed. Funny, he never mentioned that night. She didn’t ask. It was almost easy then to dismiss the little happy feeling whenever he messaged her. It was like that night hadn’t happened.

(Maybe she had dreamed it.)

And then Simon had came along and he was kind and caring and wanted to take care of her. So she let him. From there, it was easy to say yes to staying on, to believe that she could be really happy in London.

(Couldn’t she?)

She’s ruminating on that thought as she sips her rose.

“You alright, love?”

“Killian,” she whispers, without looking. She feels him take his place beside her on the decking, both resting a hand on the balustrade that runs along it. The garden is big, a perk of being on the outskirts of town, with a lush lawn heading down towards a small wooded area of trees and flower beds.

She clasps her hand tighter around the wine glass. “I’m good. The party is great. Thanks.”

“No problem. One of Storybrooke’s finest deserves the best of send offs.”

He looks her way, a lazy smirk on his lips, but his eyes are sad. They don’t rise up as they usually do when he smiles, they lack the lustre she always associates with him.

“I appreciate it.”

They let themselves drown in the white noise coming from the party behind them. He shifts a little closer and she automatically tilts her body, angling it towards his heat.

“Are you happy?” he asks, unexpectedly, placing his glass of rum - she knows it’s rum - on the railing.

“Um,” she fumbles, not really sure how to answer. She could ask him what he means - but she knows. She knows.

“I’m not unhappy,” she finally answers, feeling all the patheticness of that cop out.

She isn’t unhapppy . She likes her job, it’s challenging enough but gives her enough space to have a life. She likes her London apartment and all the quirky aspects of Britishness that she has discovered. There’s nothing bad about her current situation.

But maybe nothing great, her heart whispers.

“That’s not really an answer, is it?”

He turns, almost imperceptibly, until his hip nudges against her and his face is mere inches away. So handsome, as always, but even more in the half light- all shadows and angles. It is a face she knows so well, one she had seen wear a thousand expressions. But yet not this one.

This is a dangerous line of questioning, especially with the dancing around each other they had done for the past few days. She knows the honest answer, but saying it loud was risky and foolish. The time has passed- maybe it was never there after all-

“I’m content,” she settles for, looking past him at the little fairy lights that are strung amongst the bushes.

Maybe that’s it, the end of the conversation. That’s enough, right? To be content-

“I’m miss you,” he admits, his voice low and gentle.

Her heart sinks. It’s what she was afraid to hear.

Because now those clear waters that were leading her back to London are becoming muddy and uncertain.

But she can’t lie. “I miss you too, Killian.”

A hand slips to her waist, tugging her closer to his side. She hisses out a breath. It’s a little too much to process. She tips another mouthful of wine past her lips.

“Don’t go,” he whispers.

She tilts her head until it’s barely touching his shoulder. So much is being unsaid. She can barely stand it.

“I have to I,” she replies. She does. She’s made a commitment. People are depending on her-

Until she turns to look at him, sees in his eyes the same expression she knows she wears. It’s yearning and regret and so much missed opportunity.

Her hand snakes upwards, her fingers slipping around his neck. Her thumb brushes against his collarbone. She’s glad he’s wearing an open necked shirt. Blue, with the sleeves rolled up a little. It suits him. (It i s him.)

(She has missed him.)

“Don’t,” he repeats.

She thinks of London. Of the flight ticket sitting in her email account. Of the cases packed and the boxes that the shipping company will be picking up next week.

And Simon. He drifts through her thoughts.

It doesn’t stop her reaching up on her toes, urging his lips to hers, kissing him.

/

Waiting was torture. Pretending that everything was fine when inside her world was imploding. In the best way.

Their garden kiss had been brief. They both knew it wouldn’t end there. But there is a party and people and-

Thankfully he lives only a few blocks away, in a tiny little cottage that he’s rented for almost five years.

The party winds down, she sees him leave, she yawns, says she needs to sleep.

The remaining guests don’t notice that she actually slips away, her feet breaking into a run as she makes her way to him. His door is ajar, just a little. She tumbles inside. She’s breathing so hard; the running, the need for him.

He’s there a second later. Capturing her in his arms, pulling from her a kiss. But this kiss is different to their earlier one. It’s dirty and desperate and teeth and hands and tongues and-

They tumble backwards. She loses her shoes and jacket, his shirt is half unbuttoned before she grows impatient and tears at it, snapping buttons, bearing his chest to her. Her hands roam over his skin. His lips find her neck, his tongue tracing a trail that his teeth follow, his fingers tug at her pony tail until her hair falls over her shoulders.

She’s backed up against the little table in the hallway - the one where keys and little pieces lay. He lifts her onto it, her legs splay apart, she wraps her ankles around his thighs and leans into his kiss.

“Please,” she begs. She doesn’t know for what. Just more.

And more he provides. Her blouse is pulled away. He noses at the silk cups of her bra. “Christ, Emma,” he mutters into her skin, “I’ve wanted- so long-”

She knows. She understands.

They waited and waited until it was too late.

(It’s too late now. This is wrong and-)

(She doesn’t care.)

She loves his body. Lean, strong, he runs- she used to run with him occasionally. His skin is soft, the hair on his chest giving a delightful friction under her hands. His actions are making her burn up for him.

(It’s never like this with- no, she can’t think that-)

“Please,” she repeats, “I need-”

He knows. He understands.

His bedroom is mere paces away. He carries her like she weighs nothing. Kissing, touching, feeling- Every press of his fingertips leaving a burn.

Naked feels natural with him. Her clothes discarded in seconds. Then he works on his as she stands and watches. She wants to touch. He’s hard for her, thick and heavy - she imagines how he will feel, in her hand, inside her- He drags her hips closer, his erection between them, one hand holds her close, the other presses and caresses her breasts, just the right side of hard, enough for her to really feel.

Then he stills. She looks up. He’s watching her, his lips still damp and pink from their kiss. His hair ruffled.

“I-” he begins, then his brow furrows.

She knows. She understands.

“Shhh,” she whispers, pressing a fingertip against his lip. “Tonight,” she says. Not really sure what she means, but it seems enough. He nods.

It’s easy to fall onto the bed. To explore one another. Dips and curves, flat planes and softness. She gasps when his fingers dance between her legs, sliding over her, teasing at her, dipping into her dampness, twirling and twisting-

So she takes him, weighs him in her hands, bites her lips when a finger slides inside her, imagines it is another part of him. Her toes clench, she tightens her grasp. They rock into each other. Just a taste. A tease.

“God-”

“Fuck-”

“Just there-” she pants.

“Christ,” he groans, “I need-”

She needs it too. This isn’t enough.

She urges his mouth to her breast. She loves them to be touched and kissed- and he is, well, with him it’s- wow. Hands and lips and something beneath it all. She’s all twisted up, her body contorting.

“More,” she pleads.

He tilts up his head, burning blue catches her breath.

An understanding. A mutual need-

“More,” she says again.

He knows. He understands.

He pushes her further onto the bed. She licks her lips.

(She should be thinking clearly, condoms and- fuck. She’s on the pill. She trusts him.)

Stalking over her, caging her in with his limbs, he takes himself and runs his tip through her dampness. She shudders. Soft, hard, heat.  The slide that follows is quick - she’s so ready for him - a easy, fluid motion, and she’s full and it feels right and oh why, oh why did they wait-

(It’s too late now, isn’t it?)

Ebb and flow. Give and take. They move easily, the little kinks and missteps smoothed over. No awkwardness. Eyes locked on one another more often than not.

“This is- Emma-”

“Yes,” she cries, her teeth digging into his shoulder to stop her saying more.

Then she nudges him, pushing him onto his back. She wants to look at him, to see him as he comes.

Her her hips rock, his cock shifting so perfectly inside her, tilting forward so her clit receives a little pressure. Her breasts are within easy reach of his hands. He presses his thumbs against their peaks. She bites her lip.

So good.

Faster, she rocks; harder, she moves.

He pants and moans and she knows he is close. She wants to tip him over the edge.

“Emma, I’m-”

She can feel him trying to pull away. He’s there. She wants-

“Inside me,” she says, bending down to kiss him as he comes, swallowing his cries, grasping tightly onto his shoulders-

She’s dizzy and lightheaded-

His head falls back. Silence falls between them. Brief but sweet.

“Did you-?

She shakes her head. It wasn’t about that. She doesn’t care-

He’s kissing her again, rolling her over, slipping out of her, lips travelling down her body.

“Oh,” she gasps, when his tongue finds her, swollen and wet.

And it’s not hard for her to fall. It feels like she has been dropped from a height. The room is spinning. She can’t make out exact movements, just feelings. He’s insistent and relentless. She crumbles, curling upon herself.

“Killian!”

Every nerve fires, every muscle stretches.

/

It’s later. They must have dozed off, but it’s still dark. His hand is tangled in her hair. Her face nestled against his neck.

“Killian?” she whispers.

He sighs.

“I have to, you know, go.”

She feels him stiffen beside her.

“Just tonight,” she adds, to his unspoken question.

He trails his hand down her back, as if memorising her shape. Then he kisses her one more time. A kiss of meaning and regret.

“I’m sorry,” she apologises as she slips on her clothes, then before she can think again, she leaves.

/

He isn’t really sure how he managed to fall asleep again after she left. Maybe it was pure mental exhaustion. The past few days had been so hard. He’d hoped this was a real chance for them when she’d said she was coming home. He’d not stopped thinking about her the whole year she was gone. Then she was coming back, but then, she wasn’t.

She’d be gone, maybe forever.

He had to say something. Too many chances had passed to share how he felt, always thinking there would be another. He’d wanted to use words. He’d wanted to say it. I love you.

Instead, he’d loved her in another way.

He awakes, eyes bleary, heart heavy. He checks his phone. It’s 9am. No messages.

She’ll be on her way now. Back to him. The man he has never met yet feels so jealous of.

The pillow beside him bears her outline. His skin smells of her perfume. He knows he won’t wash for days. His sheets will stay the same for longer.

Yes, it’s foolish and crazy- but he can’t let this dream of her go. Not yet.

He pulls on some boxers and a t-shirt, decides he needs coffee. He needs to be busy today. To not think.

Maybe he’ll go to work, do some overtime.

He’s making a cup of tea, taking out a tea bag, filling the kettle when he hears it. A creak.

He stills, ears pricking up.

Soft footsteps.

It’s her . Face tired, hair pulled up on top of her head, baggy jeans and a hoodie.

She looks perfect.

“Sorry,” she whispers, pausing a few steps from him. “I left- I shouldn’t have-”

He’s beside her, pulling her to him, shushing her words.

“You’re here,” he says, “You came back.”

She snakes her arms around his waist, he holds her so tight. He never wants to let her go again.

They stay like that for an indeterminate amount of time. They sway into each other.

She looks up at him.

She loves him. She knows what love is. It’s never felt quite like this but she knows. She understands.

“I love you,” she tells him.

He runs his hand over her face, tracing its curves with his thumb.

“I love you,” he echoes, watching as a happy smile breaks out across her face. Wide and broad and real-

So he kisses her. How many kisses have they now shared? He’s lost count. It just feels so natural. So right.

She pulls away. A hand on his chest. A speech she practised on the way over, melting into a few words. “This will be complicated. London… Simon.”

In all this, it’s her regret. He doesn’t deserve this.

“I know,” he promises, “I understand.”

A kiss on her cheek, he leads her to his little kitchen table, places the kettle on the hob.

“First, tea?”

She nods. She smiles.

She knows there is so much to do, so much to decide.

But one thing at a time. One thing at a time.

[laurlovescookies]

Kadam Week Prompt Six: The Boy in the Well, Part 1 of 2

- Kurt meets Adam’s ex-boyfriend and realizes that he may not have cornered the market on bad relationships.

Soooo, I noticed that there are no horror genre Kadam fics. (Which is ironic, because I’m terrified of even the corniest of scary movies.) So I thought I’d give it a go. This is a fic wherein Kurt and Adam meet while Kurt’s still in high school, shortly before A Very Glee Christmas.

This fic features a morally-ambiguous Adam (to put it mildly.) I know that seems anathema to the Kadam fandom (because Adam is so sweet and easygoing) but I wanted to try it just the same. And also to challenge myself to write outside my comfort zone. ^_^

Adam’s jerk boyfriend is mentioned in this story, but he doesn’t actually make an appearance, for reasons you’ll soon understand if you decide to keep reading.

Warning: Dark fic. Um, Not really any graphic stuff (and no sexual content), but there are some un-jolly shenanigans just the same. Adam is by no means a threat to Kurt, but the same is certainly not guaranteed for some other parties.

*whispers* Run like hell while you can.

-O-

The slithery-dee,

He came out of the sea,

He ate all the others

But he didn’t eat me.

The slithery-dee,

He came out of the sea,

He ate all the others

And he only spared me. –Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark, Adapted

-O-

He staggered through the brush, wading through knee-high, frozen snow. But however far Kurt got the man’s screaming still rang in his ears, and there was still the sound of dry leaves and branches being crushed not far away as the black silhouette ploughed after him. It sang, mocking and singsong, although taut around the edges with obvious fury:

“OLLY-OLLY-OXEN-FREE!”

By now the snow was glittering under the stars like a threat. It was scarcely light enough besides to see his own hand inches away from his face, and he kept smacking into trees and getting tangled in branches, liberally scratching him. Again he felt for his phone in his pockets, and again scrabbled at empty space. He’d dropped it. His one lifeline and he’d dropped it.

His ragged breathing appeared in the frosty air in puffs that swam over his face as he hurried downhill, slipping more than once and soaking himself. He forced himself up and running again, heart beating so painfully in his throat and blood pounding so prominently in his ears he wondered that they hadn’t given him away yet. The moon and stars watched through the trees as he swallowed the cries for help that he knew would only kill him in the end.

“DON’T MAKE ME DRAG YOU OUT, YOU DIRTY LITTLE FAGGOT, DON’T MAKE ME COME FIND YOU!”  

However deep he went, Dave’s voice was not getting any further away, and he was clearly following the evidence Kurt could not erase in the snow drifts. He stopped cold and looked round, clutching at a searing stitch in his side. He knew immediately it was no good throwing Dave off track with a false trail—it would only slow him down.

Chest heaving, the young man went deeper, mind blank with futility and hot with terror. He choked on dry sobs, his clawing hands angry-red, aching and burning fiercely.

“I’LL KILL YOU! GONNA RIP THIS KNIFE THROUGH YOUR ASS AND FUCKING CUT YOU!”

Better to give up now—it was the only left to do, besides hanging himself with his coat—he had his pick of trees, none of which he could scrabble into, however—but his treacherous feet kept moving automatically as he crashed through several bare branches. No good, no good, no good, was the mantra his slipping feet kept crushing through the snow.

Kurt tripped over a tree root, and his vision briefly turned white as he fell for the third time, this time feeling an awful pop in his ankle. There was a brief, horrible split second before the pain fully registered that he understood that he’d been hurt badly before he hit the ground. Pain lanced its way up his ankle, throbbing madly. Voice catching in the lump in his throat, he lay crumpled and winded, wet hair falling messily over his face. Any moment now there would be Dave and his knife and he would tear out his throat and it might be a relief, compared to what else the man might like to do. Especially because he’d shown a proclivity towards assault before.

He screwed up his face and moaned.

It also meant leaving his father alone, harming the only friends he’d ever had, possibly even the boy he crushed on, regardless of how he treated Kurt in the end. Strange how evident that was on the cusp of dying. He pressed his bitterly-cold hands against his mouth to restrain the primal shriek of despair that rattled inside his ribcage like a pinball.  

After some time—he couldn’t tell for how long—he rose again, dripping, glowing with cold and hurt, and hobbled forward. There was a retaliatory stab of pain in his ankle with each step, as if he were the mermaid in the original Hans Christen Anderson story.

Gritting his teeth, a fine sheet of sweat on his brow despite the extreme chill, he managed ten steps before he was forced to clutch a tree for support, every inch of him crying for release as he shakily limped away again, spotting a fallen branch. He quickly broke it into an adequate staff, limping with the birch over his shoulder as he came into a small clearing.

Dave’s shouts and intermittent curses had faded somewhat, but he couldn’t have got away so easily. Perhaps the darkness protected Kurt somewhat, but it wasn’t yet late enough.

Kurt came to a stop before a yew tree, sagging against his support, face deathly-white. Gasping, he looked up to find a small well. The weathered, cracked stone and splintery wood looked positively ancient, but maybe it meant there were buildings somewhere not far away. And inhabitants.

Tasting his heart in his throat, Kurt staggered forward, plunging deeper into the heart of the forest. By now the branches had grown so thick and so clustered overhead he couldn’t see the moon or stars anymore; he was running near-blind.

Kurt’s path narrowed into a thicket-tunnel, and he forced himself to crawl through it, previously throbbing hands rapidly losing feeling in them as they slapped forward against the snow. Dave was still yelling what sounded like lewd promises in the distance, but they sounded more distant now.

Not as distant as Kurt would’ve preferred, however. Maybe this pass would be too big for Dave to lumber through.

The inky tunnel eventually began expanding around him, and soon Kurt was able to shakily rise, wincing as he put some pressure on his injured ankle. Chest heaving, he hurried on, falling and rising upon a gently-sloping hill, nearly rolling down upon it twice as he hauled himself up.

It was then he came upon a house. His breath hitched.

It was an enormous, Victorian beauty, pillared and with pale green shingles lacquered so distinctly even in the night Kurt could see they looked like scales. The roof and dilapidated window panels were a dark slate, and upon the roof and ground floor there were iron fences. Somehow they managed to look both delicate and threatening, the intricate, spindly spirals in the metal belying the sharp arrowheads atop the fence. Kurt squinted at it, struggling to breathe.

Had the light been improved, Kurt would’ve been able to fully recognize the weathered loveliness and hideousness of the house. Clearly it had been elaborately designed, with two small towers constructed into its frame.

But with the panels scattered on the snow about it like missing teeth, the faded paint, the splintered wood and the fact that the distinctly-unwelcoming looking place seemed sunken into the snow, it had a foreboding feel of neglect. Had Kurt not been so frightened, he might’ve sensed how the whole place had a stale taste to the air.

But as it was, not even Kurt cared to appreciate aesthetics as he rushed towards the house, rushing past the old gate, which stiffly opened, creaking in his wake.

Kurt ran faster than he ever had in his life, the pain nearly unrecognizable in the face of overwhelming adrenaline. He slipped twice along the way—the stony pass was icy beneath the snow.

He had to drag himself to the door, pounding furiously. “Hello? Hello, is there anyone here? Help! Help me! It’s an emergency!”

Somewhere Dave bellowed his name. Tears dashing down his face, Kurt frantically hammered the door with both fists.

“Please, please, please open up, he’s going to kill me,” he cried, hot tears splashing on the door. “He’s come to murder me and I’ve got nowhere else to go, no phone, so please—“

The dark windows suddenly lit up like jack-o-lantern eyes, painting the outside yellow. A second later Kurt yelped as the door he’d been leaning against disappeared and he crash-landed on a thick plush carpet. Two hands immediately touched his shoulders and he instinctively recoiled, looking up with terrified eyes.

A young blond man was stooping beside him, visibly concerned. The door was shut—the stranger must’ve opened and closed it in a hurry. He withdrew his hands slightly, pale blue eyes wide.

“What happened?” He asked urgently, trying to heave Kurt to his feet. The boy hissed with pain through his teeth and the young man nearly dropped him in his haste. “Oh, oh, you’re hurt—“ He stared incredulously at Kurt’s face, and Kurt wondered wildly if he looked as bad as he felt. “—you really are hurt, you look like you got into a fight with a bear—“

“Please,” Kurt whispered again, tears continuing to fall despite his shock. He couldn’t stop babbling, everything that he’d kept silent for months slipping out from his crumbled defenses: “All I wanted—all I wanted was for him to leave me alone, he kept torturing me every chance I got because he assaulted me, and I left and I just wanted it to be over, but he—he found me—“

“Shhh. Shhhh.” The young man tentatively looped one of Kurt’s arms around his shoulder. This time the latter tolerated the contact, and Adam’s eyes closed for a brief moment.

“The door is locked.” He pointed toward the door with his foot. “And I have a gun.” Kurt flinched, partially out of the insinuation and from guilt over the shuddery wave of relief that passed over him at the words. He normally objected gun ownership. “No one is coming to hurt you, I promise.

“It will be alright,” The young man soothed as he and Kurt stiffly went forward, Kurt dazedly allowing himself to be led. “My name is Adam. Adam Crawford.” He turned to look at Kurt. “You can explain once we get you down—easy, easy now, you look dead on your feet—“ And while Kurt barely took in anything of his surroundings, he felt himself gently lowered on a sofa that sank beneath him. Adam tentatively let him go, muttering beneath his breath as he hurried away, “Water, hot water, bandages, and ice—“

Kurt’s head sagged back against the sofa, and he took in the background with a mite of curiosity. There was a small brass chandelier with glass bulb-frames that looked as if it’d recovered in an antique shop. There were two small chintz armchairs sitting near a beautiful mantle, beneath which was a fireplace. It was surrounded by two enormous shelves filled with leather-bound books with beautiful, peeling good lettering on their spines.

There were delicate tables scattered around the room, and velvet curtains with tassels hung heavily before the windows; he was grateful the drapes were drawn. The wallpaper was a discolored, intricate floral pattern that looked vintage. There was a cabinet filled with delicate-looking teacups, and on the heavy-looking coffee table before him was a glass decanter and two cups. His brow furrowed as he took in the grandfather clock ticking dutifully in the corner and its swinging pendulum. There were some embroideries hanging on the wall beneath glass. Kurt vaguely remembered his grandmother’s home before she passed away.

His eyes fluttered shut and open as he heard Adam’s footsteps approach, and the young man approached him with a tentative smile, bearing a small tray and steaming bowl. “I like your home,” he couldn’t help but say quietly as Adam set the tray on the table and knelt beside him. “Very 1950’s chic.”

“That’s what mother was going for,” Adam said, sounding amused as if enjoying a private joke. He dipped a small hand towel into the hot water and wrung it out. “She always liked to keep it just so. It was my Grandad’s before he died. Sorry—this might hurt a bit.”

Adam prized Kurt’s boot and sock off the swollen ankle, and the pale boy dug his fingertips into the sofa arm and suppressed a whimper. Adam gave him an apologetic smile as he examined Kurt’s puffy, bruising ankle.

“I’m not a doctor, but if you can still flex it—can you flex it? Oh, good. Then it’s likely a bad sprain.” He wrapped the hot towel around the wound and Kurt watched him with eyes filling up again, so grateful he couldn’t speak.

“Thank you,” he managed at last. Adam looked at him, brow furrowing.

“You’re soaked. Can you take off your coat?” Kurt would’ve blushed, but no color rushed into his cheeks. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to get your furniture wet—“

“Nonsense. I just don’t want you to catch your death.” Kurt shed his soaking coat in an instant, and Adam took it away.

The sound of a snap made him jump, and he turned to look at a roaring fire which had certainly not been there before.

“Oh, you have an electric fire,” he said as Adam returned. Kurt thought the fireplace looked like wood-burning one, but you could make anything look like anything for the right amount of money.

Adam looked startled, and then chuckled as he stooped beside Kurt again. “That’s a relatively new addition. This house is historical, so the city of Lima can’t raze it. Not that anyone would care to, anyway��this place is in the middle of nowhere.”

“The middle of nowhere in the middle of nowhere,” Kurt murmured, and was pleased when Adam laughed. Adam had a nice laugh, and for the first time he noticed the taller man had an English accent. A little color did return to his face as Adam poured what smelled strongly of anti-septic into another cloth, and leaned forward to dab it on his face. It stung fiercely; he must be raked raw. “Sorry, sorry. Have to clean these.”

“Does it look bad?”

“What are you apologizing for? And yes, it really does, love. I’m sorry.”

“I can do it if you want.”

“No, pay no mind.” Adam applied a bandage to his cheek, cupping the other to hold Kurt’s face steady. He prayed the latter didn’t feel it burn.

Adam slowly withdrew, reaching for a glass on the table which was filled with something dark and pushed it into Kurt’s hands. Kurt took it at once, too distracted to remember that it had been empty seconds before.

“Now, drink this. It’ll warm you up.” He sat beside Kurt and looked at him expectantly. “Drink this and start from the beginning.

“Whom are you?” Kurt’s eyelashes brushed his cheekbones. He took a sip of the maroon contents a little and coughed at the dry tang of wine, which he’d seldom tasted.

“What’s happening? Who’s chasing you and why?”

“Kurt Hummel.”

Mind racing, Kurt hesitated out of sheer habit, and began.

“I came back from school to spend winter break at my home.” He said sadly, thinking of how worried his father must be at this point. He’d certainly broken curfew by now, and if Dave wouldn’t kill him, Burt would.

If Kurt could stand to tell him the truth. Burt might have another coronary then and there.

“It was snowing outside and so beautiful…it’s been a few years since I had a white Christmas, so I thought I’d go out for a walk on the nature trail a few miles away.” Several miles away by now. He would’ve frozen to death had Dave not got him, had Adam not saved him. Another rush of gratitude. “It got darker faster than I expected.” He closed his eyes, remembering the scene vividly as he’d headed towards his car. “I needed my phone to light my way back to the parking lot.” His fingers tightened in the sofa again. “But there was no one else there, no one but s-someone waiting for me.”

Kurt had to take a few deep breaths, and Adam put a consoling hand on his arm. Smiling wanly at him, Kurt went on:

“His name is Dave Karofsky.” The name felt like something acidic. “It’s because of him I had to change schools, he was—he—“Kurt fumbled. “In the parking lot, he asked me if I’d told anyone that he’d—“ He couldn’t say it. “And I said no. He said ‘Good,’ and then he drew a k-knife from his pocket. He said he was going to cut my tongue out for in-insurance. I ran because he was blocking my way to my car.”

Adam leaned close and Kurt felt like something contaminated. But Adam slipped a finger under his chin and made him look up. “Why was he hurting you?” He said, so gently it made Kurt want to cry again. “If you don’t mind my asking?”

This was dangerous, because Adam might throw him from the house any second, but he owed Adam the truth.

“Because I’m gay.” Kurt bit the inside of his mouth as Adam stared at him. “And I was out at school, and he wouldn’t let up on the bullying, until I confronted him.” He shook his head, so weary he could scarcely hold it up. “I confronted him, and he wound up k-kissing me.” He shrank from the memory, but it followed him. “I didn’t want it, I pushed him away, but he said he’d kill me if I told anyone.” A tear slipped down his face, and Adam thumbed it away, still watching him acutely.

“I didn’t. And I didn’t tell my dad…all of the truth, I couldn’t, he has a bad heart, but he tried to get Karofsky expelled. And failed. The school board took his side. So I just changed schools. Like I said, I came home for the holiday.” A lump rose to his throat again, threatening to burst. “And—“

Adam pulled him into a hug, a tight one, and Kurt squeezed back just as hard, burying his face against the other’s boy shoulder as Adam whispered to him. Kurt was too far away to understand much of it, other than that it was kind, comforting, and beautiful.

Adam pulled back, eyes overbright and with a tremulous smile of his own.

“You know,” He turned to look at the flames, expression inscrutable. “I’ve never met someone whom just…came out and said that before.” He gazed at Kurt again, expression wistful. “Certainly it’s not something I’ve managed yet.”

Kurt frowned, confused. “Come out and—“ His eyes widened. “You…”

Adam nodded, exhaled in a short puff. “Yes. Though I’ve never told my parents. It—“ Now it was Adam’s turn to struggle. “You already know, I’m certain, how hard it is.”

“…you can’t tell them? At all?”

“I never could. Not if I wanted to stay in this house.”

Kurt’s heart broke not for the first time tonight. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Adam hesitated, and then slowly took Kurt’s cold hand in his own, squeezing it. Kurt squeezed back, feeling the tips of his ears burning. “Do you know for sure?” he couldn’t help but ask anxiously. Adam looked down at his lap. “That they wouldn’t…accept…”

“One hundred and ten percent,” Adam said offhandedly, though there was a slight tremor at the end. “My parents have made it perfectly clear to me what they think of homosexuals.”  

“What’s that?”

“That they should be gassed.”

Profoundly disturbed, Kurt allowed his head to fall against Adam’s arm—under any other circumstance he would not be so forthwith coming, but he was so vulnerable at the moment he couldn’t help it. “I’m sorry again.”

“You really don’t need to apologize so much, dear.”  

“Are they…are they here tonight?”

Adam looked at the flames writhing again, back at Kurt’s head pressed against his arm. “No. For better or for worse, it’s just you and I. They’re away…quite often.” He snorted near-inaudibly. “And I’m afraid they took the car with them.”

“When will they be back?” Kurt asked hesitantly. “And do you have any brothers or sisters?”

Something in Adam’s eyes flickered. “No siblings. My parents are actually out of the country right now.” Adam grinned weakly. “They’re on their own winter holiday, and I’m on mine. It’s peaceful enough here and I can do all the reading I like, but it’s felt like a very, very, very long holiday, mind you.”

“…I’m…”

Adam poked Kurt playfully on the nose. “I’m going to start charging you money every time you say that. I have enough food to last us through a nuclear holocaust and life in a post-apocalyptic society.”

That wasn’t very reassuring to Kurt. The sentiment must’ve registered on his face, because Adam added, “Even if they were on their way home as we speak, they certainly couldn’t get very far with all this snow. You were right; I’ve not seen so much in years.”  

Suddenly Kurt remembered his own situation, and felt remarkably stupid for having briefly forgotten it. But he’d been so excited to meet another (sane) queer person, and had felt genuine pain for Adam’s situation.  “Do you have a phone? I need…”

He was faced with the awful truth; Karofsky couldn’t be allowed to threaten anyone else. “I need to call the police. Or at the very least my dad, and let him know I’m okay.”

Adam’s face fell a little at that.

“I’m afraid…we do not. Have a telephone, I mean.”

Kurt’s mind wiped itself clean with a blinding-white panic.

“How do you…” he began, and the concept was so utterly alien to him he didn’t know what to say. “Your parents left you here alone without a phone? Not even a cell phone?”

“…I don’t have a cell phone. We did have a phone once, but it was disconnected. And no one ever really bothered to replace it.”

“But you have wii-fi,” Kurt heard himself say feebly. “And I can still send a message to the authorities via email—“

“I’m afraid not. I don’t have any of these things.”

This was so utterly unbelievable and ghastly Kurt didn’t want to believe him, but as Adam steadily held his gaze and looked so genuinely apologetic, he understood with no small amount of dread that Adam was telling the truth. He inhaled a sharp breath, which didn’t seem to reach his lungs…

“Kurt? Kurt, breathe.”

Adam put a steadying hand on Kurt’s back as the smaller boy’s chest started rapidly heaving up and down, spots looming in front of his vision. “Look at me.”

Horrified, he just barely managed to obey, and Adam shushed him. “Hold your breath. Hold—I know, I know, it’s hard, but it will be alright, hold, that’s good, hold, and slowly release. Very good. Another. And again. Remember, slowly. And a bit deeper than that, from your diaphragm. That’s good. You’ve done a fantastic job tonight, Kurt. Call it intuition, but I suspect anyone else in your situation would be dead by now. There we go. Have a bit more wine.”

Shakily Kurt obeyed again, profoundly relieved that someone else was more or less in charge for a change because he was on the verge of falling to pieces. Breathing unevenly, he took a small sip of wine, and then another, savoring the warm bloom in the pit of his stomach. “There really isn’t…you really don’t have wi-fi at all?”  

Adam hesitated again, and then drew a wet strand of Kurt’s hair back. “No.”

“…any neighbors nearby whom do?”

“I’m afraid not, Kurt. This house was built by my granddad to be a summer home far, far away from his business partners at the logging firm he owned in Lima. Otherwise they were forever calling him for help and advice even when he was on holiday…I think that’s why my gran disconnected the phone to begin with. No one else has bothered building out here, and believe you me, I’ve searched.”

He got up and went to look out the window. Kurt wobbled as he stood again in alarm.

“What are you doing? Close them! He might see you!”

“Not in this snow, he won’t,” retorted Adam as he pulled back the curtain a bit more so that Kurt could see. The younger gawked, and wondered faintly if what he saw now was proof of the existence of a all-powerful, omniscient deity. Although whether or not said deity loved or hated him tonight remained yet to be seen.

Enormous, fat snowflakes, the kind that looked like they belonged in a snow globe, were tumbling from the heavens in torrents so quickly it looked like a white, sparkling blur at times. The wind was rising, whistling, and while Kurt’s spirits lifted slightly with the knowledge that an incoming blizzard might deter Karofsky from pursuing him, it would also strand Kurt here.

For whom knew how long.

He swayed. He was in the middle of the wilderness, with no phone, no internet, no neighbors, his car miles away and concealed near a forest no one was likely to visit anytime soon. Not in this weather. Only Adam’s soothing admonitions that he remember to breathe kept him from another full-scale panic attack. How many could he have in one night?

He closed his eyes, the full implications washing over him. He hadn’t told anyone where he had gone this evening. Karofsky certainly wouldn’t divulge that Kurt was missing because he’d tried to slash him open. His mind raced with panic; Burt’s heart would give out. And what would Finn and Carol do, if their brother and stepson never came home? Finn would call the Glee cavalry, that was certain, but again, Kurt had told no one he was, and certainly no one knew he was a tremendous distance away now. Even he didn’t know where he was.  

And his swans…they’d been at the mall together just a few hours ago, laughing and catching up in the food court, tossing fries and blowing straw wrappers at each other. All they’d know was that he’d vanished off the face of the earth. Possibly for days, if what the morning’s forecast said was true.

It was a selfish thought, Kurt knew, but would Blaine even care that he was gone? He didn’t want to answer that one.

“Where’s my coat? I should go, while I have the chance.” he said faintly, opening his eyes again. “I…I have to make my way back, before it gets too bad…follow the tracks I left before they disappear tonight”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Adam said at once, letting the curtain fall again. “And sit back down, Kurt, you can barely stand.”

“I managed before.”

“Barely! It’s a wonder you escaped at all from that menace!”

“…do you have a snowblower? I’d accept a dog sled team at this point.”

Adam’s eyes told him before he’d finished speaking that it was hopeless. “It’s already looking terrible out, and I’m not about to let you go into a storm, hurt and with a maniac out for your blood.” Adam gave him a pitying look, but shook his head in a firm no. “I’m sorry, Kurt.”

Kurt knew Adam was right, but that didn’t stop him from nearly toppling to his ground like some stupid Victorian woman with the vapors and why did he feel so effing fragile tonight when he’d made it a point for so long to be strong? Even when he’d been physically sick in the mornings with fear over going to school, he’d hid it. Now he couldn’t stop feeling as weak as if there’d never be anything again.

The back of his knees hit the couch and he fell back upon it, burying his face in his hands. It didn’t seem like such a bad trade-off for not being killed, but snowbound. He was snowbound, for goodness knew how long. Christmas was in three days, and this was the first one he would spend with a brother. Would’ve. His mind swiftly attacked the thought.

It was very possible that he wouldn’t survive in any case. Not if Dave found them…

A second later Adam was standing in front of him again, thumbing away the fresh wave of tears. “Whatever it might mean from someone you’ve never met—I won’t allow him in, and I certainly won’t let him harm you.”

Adam pulled him into an embrace and allowed Kurt to cry heartily into his shoulder.

[x-readerpairings-fandomorie-blog]

Snowflakes

Fandom: The Last of Us

Pairing: Joel x Female Reader

Warnings: Language, Angst, Character Death

Word Count: 1935

A/N: Holy shit I was going to make this smutty but my mind just kinda went down a different path. So, I hope you’ll enjoy this? I’m not even sure anymore. Be on the lookout for more Joel x Reader. Also, I wrote this at 2 in the morning so if there are spelling mistakes, I apologize, as well as apologize if this doesn’t make much sense!

Snowflakes were falling gently around the two as they walked, silently taking in the landscape around them. The untouched path they were trekking upon was gorgeous in (Y/N)'s eyes, the only downside being the near deadly temperature seeping into her clothing. During the total ten years of this hell on earth so far, winter never had gotten as bad as this before.

Joel was silent like always, his weatherproof gear only being a shirt, a long sleeve, a flannel, and some jeans and boots. The woman was covered in the complete opposite, four different layers of shirts and jackets on with three layers of pants. A bright green scarf, obviously dulled over the years, was the only major splash of color on her, the clothing she managed to grab either black, gray, or brown. The man would never admit to it in his wildest dreams, but seeing (Y/N) all bundled up like that, the tip of her nose all red and cheeks flushed, made him really want to stop what they were doing, push her up against a tree, and claim those plump lips for all their worth.

The reason they were put here in the first place was because Tess had signed them up for a smuggling job unknowingly, with them having to travel across the state of Massachusetts to Iowa. When Tess had told them both, a devious glint in her eye, (Y/N) instantly knew what the woman was trying to do. Give them some alone time as it was a rare thing to have in the Quarantine Zone, maybe have someone get attacked while the other saves them, and presto manifesto, you have some possible sexual tension that springs up out of nowhere.

Snapping out of how pissed she was at Tess, although having to admit it wasn’t that bad of a plan, she focused her sights back on their surroundings. Rays of sunlight were starting to peek out from behind the gloomy cloud coverage, offering them the wonderful experience of being partially blind for a few moments. Looking away and towards Joel, she took a good, hard look at the resilient and hardened soul walking next to her. Of all the shit they went through, what with Tommy wanting to join the Fireflies after Joel became a Hunter, (Y/N) torn about whose side to go on. So when Joel’s brother suddenly left and the man himself started doing even more questionable things to help them survive, she knew she needed to find her closest friend all the way in Boston.

Joel suddenly halted the woman, an arm out in front of her to keep her still. His shoulders were tensed, eyes flicking across the landscape while she slowly reached down for the pistol holstered at her thigh, the metals cool handle making her cringe at the absolute freezing temperature. Her own eyes kept flicking between Joel and the covered path in front of them, the snow piled so high that she knew they would have to loop around. (Y/N) had heard nothing, but then again, she realized, the whole time she couldn’t stop looking at the man beside her.

Deciding to take charge, she ignored Joel’s protests and stomped through the cold substance, her snow boots not doing anything against protecting her. When she rounded the other side of the mound, the view that was shown was spectacular. How (Y/N) didn’t take in her far surroundings she didn’t know, but when Joel was about to snap at her for being stupid, the words died in his own throat. The man took in the absolute wonder shining in her (E/C) orbs, the color darting around, scanning the wide open space before them while she was too distracted to notice his gaze.

There were a series of cabins scattered on the other side of the obviously frozen lake, looking as if they hadn’t been touched by the world around them. When she took in a second look, she noticed that if they were getting to those houses to stop for the night, that they’d have to cross directly on the hardened water. “Shit, shit, shit!”

“What is it?” Joel worried, accent flooded with warmth and caution and that damned worry that made her fall in love with him all over again. Yes, (Y/N) was in love with the man too far in his grief to probably love anyone else ever again. She never pried as he had never told her who he had lost, but she knew the feeling all the same. After all, she was pretty much all alone in the world of the infected besides the fact that Tess and Joel didn’t tire of her company.

“Well, if we decide to take shelter and scavenge those amazing looking cabins, the only option we have of getting there is by crossing the lake. We can’t go around as this piece of shit is too wide.” She gestured to the frozen water, Joel glancing at it before taking in her words. “I have a feeling that we’d get stuck on the side and have to retreat away from the jackpot just waiting for us to find it.”

Joel chuckled at her enthusiasm over the prospect of heading in for shelter and a place to rest for the night. It sounded appealing to him as well, (Y/N) noticing his longing glance casted over to the other side of the lake. “Well, if we head out now, we should be there within no time.” And with that Joel started striding towards the water’s edge, slowing down his steps to carefully place a foot on the ice. (Y/N) followed behind him, smile wide and joyful as she surpassed him quickly, knowing she was lighter than him with his heavy backpack than she ever could be.

She managed to not slip as Joel was fully on the slippery surface, his pace slow and steady while (Y/N)’s was a little more excited, still mindful of the icy waters just below her feet. Snow started to fall lightly when they were about halfway across, the woman a good distance away in front of Joel for her to stop and look on. The sky was starting to get a tad bit darker, the sun from before disappearing behind the clouds as (Y/N) started to take another step. However, before she could even set her foot down, the loudest noise she had ever heard in her life sounded from beneath her.

Joel froze, staring at the back of her in alarm when the woman stopped walking with her foot suspended in midair, trying to balance. “J-Joel.” Another crack and this time she looked down, seeing the thin lines forming in the frosted ice, breathing starting to pick up just the slightest. Before he could even react, the ice plunged into the icy depths, taking (Y/N) down with it.

The water hit her like a ton of bricks, air rushing out of her lungs as the cold enveloped her completely. Her eyes were squeezed tightly so she couldn’t see anything, and the only thing she could hear was her elevated and erratic heartbeat along with the rush of water all around her. (Y/N) felt like she couldn’t move but tried to anyways, managing to break the surface of the water miraculously, clawing at the ice.

The frigid water had gotten into her mouth, spluttering it out while calling out to Joel. The man snapped out of it from where he was frozen, swiftly maneuvering on the ice and just reaching a hand out when (Y/N) was pulled back under. Her hands hadn’t found the purchase she so desperately needed so she plunged back in, mouth open in a gasp with her eyes open as well, now being able to see the inky blackness beyond, the lightened ice above her head.

“(Y/N)!” Joel shouted, kneeling at the edge of the hole while running his fingers through his hair, not knowing what to do. When he heard a pounding from under the ice three feet away from his right, he scrabbled over to it, barely spotting her outline, the bright green scarf standing out. He wasted no time in taking out a spare hatchet from his pack, slamming the blade's sharp edge into the ice. He repeated the motion continuously, keeping an eye on where he was aiming and spotting her weakened arms stop

Joel pushed on, focusing on the task at hand while trying not to cry out in frustration. It felt like his whole world was crashing down with nothing to pull him back from the thoughts plaguing his mind. When he finally broke through the layer of ice with a decent sized hole to pull (Y/N) out, he reached down into the water, cursing at the temperature. Joel hefted her body and dragged her far from the cracked ice, immediately set on checking for a pulse.

“C’mon, C’mon (Y/N). Don’t do this to me now,” the man mumbled, trying to keep his voice from trembling. It didn’t stop the tears springing under the surface, an uncharacteristically broken sob leaving his lips when he couldn’t find the pulse he so desperately needed to feel. Joel was shaking but continued on, hovering his ear over her opened mouth, waiting for something, anything to happen.

There. It was barely detectable, the man guessing because it was so cold that her heart rate would be slowed drastically. Joel immediately set out, placing his locked hands on her chest, the pace fast as (Y/N)’s body shifted with each press. After counting in his head, he stopped at thirty, shuffling and bending down to her face, tilting her head back as he pinched her nose. 

I’m sorry. This should’ve been more romantic, Joel thought morbidly, pressing their lips together. He glanced at her chest, making sure it rose two times with each breath he transferred before switching back to the compressions, repeating the back and forth cycle. The man didn’t know how long he had been doing the process for, his mind chalking up multiple, horrid thoughts when he still didn’t see (Y/N) wake up. Joel wanted to see her genuine smile, hear her voice reassure him that everything was going to be okay, see the look on her face when he finally got up the courage to admit his fucking feelings to her.

Joel tried pushing it to the back of his mind, steeling himself as he once again begged for this to work. Their lips touched again, Joel’s body sagging in defeat when there was still no response, tears now freely falling down his face. He stopped his movements, their lips separating as he pressed his lips to (Y/N)’s forehead, (S/C) skin frigidly cold under the heat emanating from his mouth.

“B-Baby girl, I need you to w-wake up now.” By this point, his hands were woven in her damp locks, foreheads tightly against one another as his eyes searched her face. Still, nothing, lids closed, blocking the wonderful (E/C) that he so loved to see shining. “Shit, s-shit, I l-love yo-” Joel’s voice cracked, a sob wracking his frame as he placed another, fleeting kiss on blue lips. “Don’t leave me.”

And so he stayed there, the frost seeping through his thin layers, weeping over the woman he thought he could possibly have a decent albeit shitty future with. All was still in the world, besides the snowflakes falling gently over them, blanketing them in sadness and death.

Don’t forget that I take requests for one shots and imagines!

[hra-devine-blog]

IC Photo - Hallowe'en Bash

She’d coated herself in fake blood from head to toe, her long golden mane replaced with an inky black jagged style. It had been Karam’s idea that they go as Sweeney Todd and Ms. Lovett for the bloody masquerade. He’d shown her the film last summer. They strode into great hall together, arms linked and her tray held out in front of her. “Meat pie, dearie!” She’d call out as she scanned the costumes in the room. She’d slide her arm around his waist and push up on her tip toes to peck him on the cheek. “Lets go get punch.” She’d say, both of them unaware it’d been spiked with bishops brew, it heightened current emotions and turned up the rage flares in veelas. The night was filled with chaos and confusion.

All the punch was talking, obviously….not to him nor her, but alas that had been the culprit of his jealousy “If you /knew/ it would be a problem why were you insisting on being here and doing the absolute most?” his words were quite inconsiderate but he couldn’t tell. She’d been pulling people in left and right. She’d hadnt even tried to hold back her charm. Though she hadn’t realized it, the bishops brew had taken her happy through the roof.

Hunter threw her hands up to her head in exasperation only to ball her hands into fists as her palms started to itch. ‘no!, no’ now!’ she’d scream in her head at her tingling hands, they’d been starting to heat up, veela magic threating to bubble to the surface. “Oi ain’ purposely tossin’ out mah charm willy nilly! Oi am doin’ mah best tah hol’ it back! Oi insisted on bein’ ‘ere ‘cause oi ‘ave every righ’ tah be! if oi wanna dance an’ be mahself dan oi’ll bloody do it! Yah ‘ave no righ’ tellin’ me how tah act when yah can’ even understan’ “ Karam had mostly started an inaudible argument between the two as he spoke over her as well; not as loudly, but his voice was still presently weaved into the music. “I was being polite! You know, something you should /learn/ to do, Hunter.” he’d just insulted his girlfriend. Boy, would this be wonderful. He hadn’t noticed the balling of her fists; even then he was unsure if he would have continued speaking or not.

Her nails would claw into her palms as she restrained against a natural instinct. “If dat is what yah tink dan why are yah even with me! Yah’ve known me dis long an’ now yahr sayin’ dis!” One of her worst fears and insecurities would come bubbling out “oi still affect yah sometimes, dats it isn’ it! or ‘ave yah jus’ had enough of dealin’ with da attention from everyone else!” She woul’ bite down on her lip hard “Oi bloody knew it!” she’d say as she tore her mask off. She’d swipe up the cup she’d set by the fountain and drink it down. This was cup number 7 of the unknowingly spiked bishops brew and she was spiraling into herself. She would step closer to him pulling his mask off if she was able.

He had his lips pressed together; by doing so he’d hope he’d say nothing he’d regret. He would sigh as she yelled; he himself tired of yelling “Look, Hunter – yes! Yes, you bloody affect me. Why act oblivious to the fact?” his words cut through the air. He hadn’t been yelling, but only speaking loud enough to where she could hear “And yes, I get jealous of the attention. I’m jealous now.” he’d say as if that wasn’t obvious. She was for once speechless, for a moment. “oi don’ know wha’ yah wan’ me tah do! What am oi supposed tah do! Oi can’ bloody fix it.” She would sit down on the edge of the fountain shoving her hands into it. She continued to angrily bite on her lip. Karam sat beside her, his arms resting over his legs as he looked to the ground and also to anyone who looked at them. ‘Well, this is embarrassing.’ he’d think to himself having completely forgotten where they had been when the two of them were arguing “Nothing. I know.” he’d say, his fingertips then pressed together before his hands would simply fold into each other. “It’s who you are. And I like you….” he’d shrug, not making much sense.

Following a release of breath and some silence “Still staying here?” he’d ask, looking over to the table where their friends sat before looking her in the face for the first time in minutes. She would shake her head “oi don’ know if oi shoul’, look at me! Oi’m a tidal wave!” Her hands were still in the water, in an attempt to curb the sensation in them. “Dis is mah own faul’.” When she finally looked up at him to see him staring back at her maskless. In one night she’d jumped from extreme happiness, to anger, to sadness and now this….Her blue eyes fluttered briefly before she threw herself at him, lips meeting his.