#His wrist are slit so yes the blood curse can work

[huh-1260]

Ah yes, a ritual that turns Hyrule blood into a certain pig, which just so happens to be in Wild's Hyrule and the end results won't totally end up as a malice creation that is a boar dragon (Do majority of people widely accepted th fairy Hyrule headcannon or something) hylian Chimera

[atsadi-shenanigans]

What Shall We Become 5 - Fed

The rogue enjoys a nice meal, despite the rising, existential dread.

On AO3.

This is the third time he’s tasted her in this way. The first crunch of teeth piercing skin, sliding through muscle. He’s careful not to go too deep—a wrist isn’t a neck, with more tissue and thicker vein walls. He doesn’t want to cripple her hand.

Blood spurts. That first release. It hits the roof of his mouth, slides down the back of his tongue and his throat opens and he cannot help the low sound he makes. It would be embarrassing in any other context; a needy thing. But the monster within him is too focused, already too intoxicated in the taste of her.

Rich, like the memory of cream custard on a spring afternoon. A hint of spice—some hot drink as gray rain patters on windows. Salt and iron, surely. But so much more.

He’s got her arm in both of his hands, now. Lips latched, tongue lapping at the inside of her wrist. He tries to let it fill his mouth, wants to savor the feel of it, the hot slide of a gulp. But he’s too impatient. He needs this in his belly, needs it inside of him now.

He catches a sour tang: her fear. Not of him, he thinks, but of this cave. Of the Absolute and the gith and their uninvited cranial guests. And something else, something old woven all through her veins.

Beyond that, there’s her breakfast that morning: toasted bread with peppered eggs, her delight at slitting the yolk open and letting it run over her toast and the rich flavor as she chewed. There’s the scent of woodsmoke and the heat of roasted venison. Flesh tearing between her teeth and the grease she licked off her fingers lest it go to waste. The warm contentment of a full belly and a cool night. Laying on her bedroll and staring up at unfamiliar stars.

The acidity of sorrow.

He suckles as gently as he can. Pulling too hard hurts her, and he doesn’t want that. Gods, but it is a glorious temptation. Draw her in, draw in all that life. Suck it right out of her until it fills him, until he’s drowning in it, stuffed full and fit to burst—

A tap on his shoulder. Her captive hand flexes.

“I think that’s enough,” she says.

Oh, but it’s not. He could seat himself at the bottom of a river made of her blood and open his mouth and let it gush into him until he drained the whole of it, and it would never be enough.

But she doesn’t have a sea of blood within her. And he rather needs her alive if he ever wants to indulge again.

So he breaks off. Laps at the rivulets still so eager to be taken by him. Tongue at one of her punctures, feels the shape of it—he wants to jam the tip of his tongue into it, rip it wide open—

She hisses. He forces himself to pull away. She’s ready with a cloth bandage; of course she is. He takes over clamping it down. Needs that pretty wrist to seal itself back up. Seal off that delectable blood so she can make more. So he can feast upon her again.

“Did it help?” she says as they sit there, her wrist held tightly in his hands.

He’s kept his lids shut tight. Didn’t want to sour the experience should it not…

But now it’s time. He needs to know.

He cracks one eye open.

To utter blackness.

Both eyes open and it’s the same. Nothing. No light. No shape or colors, not even the miserable gray shades of his cursed nightvision. Just the deepest black he can imagine.

“No, it didn’t work,” he says. He’d fling her arm away if he wasn’t trying to stop her bleeding everywhere.

“What the fuck,” she says.

Indeed.

The panic turns sharp, claws digging out through his abdomen, climbing up his throat and he doesn’t need to breathe, but still he’s choked. He’s blinded. Left in the dark forever. Hideously underground, trapped and forever and he can’t claw through the walls, can’t even depend upon the tender mercies of his master—

“Astarion?”

Their leader. She’s here. He’s squeezing her too tightly, and he forces his grip to loosen. Clears his throat. “Yes?”

Her free hand touches his shoulder. Though “touch” is a generous description. It’s barely more than a pluck of his padded armor.

“We’re gonna figure this out,” she says.

Shit. He smooths his expression back to calm. Can’t go around wearing his weaknesses for anyone to see.

“Gale thinks it might be some kinda curse, and I know I can’t do magic stuff—”

“You do realize you’re making this worse, yes?” he says because he cannot stop himself. The fear is too great to contain. So rather than crumple before her, he does what he usually does to anyone not above him and opens that pressure valve to blast her instead. “You’re incapable of doing a thing about it, and we’re gods know how far from anyone who can. So spare me your reassurances. We’re both useless and we both know it.”

She says nothing. Hardly moves, save for a flex of the hand he still holds captive.

“The Underdark might be fun if I could bloody see, but now the both of us are going to die in some gruesome manner.”

While she continues to sit quietly, he feels her pulse pick up between his hands. Yet her voice is a forced calm when she says, “Gale seems to think there’s a network of them waypoints down here. All we gotta do is find one. Just one.”

“Because that’s likely.”

“Would you rather sit here and starve to death?”

She doesn’t understand. She can’t understand. He’s done this before. Curled into a ball in a dark, cold corner as his flesh mummified around his bones. How those bones cracked and chipped at the slightest movement as his mind cracked and chipped, but never sank into oblivion. He lay there for tendays, for months as his eyes withered into useless, wrinkled things like dried fruit. As his gums pulled back and his skin eventually cracked open, with only the stink of his own flesh for company.

“And you’ll have us do what, exactly?” he says. Sneers, if he’s being honest.

But their illustrious leader doesn’t lash back. Doesn’t belittle him or snap at him. Doesn’t strike him or choke him or command him to kneel and prepare for punishment.

He almost wishes she would. Because that he knows. His mind knows the paths to exit the immediate area, knows how to fade away and wait until it’s over. Instead, he has to sit here, still holding her arm while she churns things up inside him that he left long, long buried in two hundred years of rotting detritus.

“I will do my best to get us the fuck outta this tunnel,” she says. “And then I will do my best not to lead us into a crevasse or some kinda ambush and to find one single, goddamned motherfucking waypoint stone.”

Even her swearing isn’t angry. Not aimed at him. She just…just uses it as a vulgar garnish for her calm, steady words.

The woman is infuriating.

“Will you?” he says, all bladed tongue.

“Unless you got a better idea?”

Which… “settle in and wait for death” isn’t an actual idea and he pointedly doesn’t want to waste away down here, thank you very much.

He can feel her gloat.

“At the moment, no,” he says.

“Alright.” She’s so very good at not letting the gloat he knows she feels seep into her voice. Always acts like she’s listening to everyone. Even him. That she’s genuinely open to one of his silly ideas.

Ideas she…actually incorporates into her plans for some reason he can’t even begin to decipher.

Because she’s clever like that and she’s better at the game than he initially gave her credit for.

“Well, as we’re in a tunnel, which way shall we go?” he says.

She hums. The tadpole behind his eye squirms as she reaches out—not to him, but to the others.

“That way, I think,” she says after a pause.

And likely points, because that is helpful to a blind man. But then she does something. Taps the wall behind him with her staff, and then tugs his sleeve until he releases her wrist (the blood scent is weak and fading; she must finally be clotting).

She holds her other arm out, and he realizes she points his arm in the direction she intends to go. She’s used the sound on the wall to orient him, and he begrudgingly lets himself feel the first slither of relief.

It’s not towards the boulder field.

“The ground here is cracked to hell,” she says. “And there’s big rocks all over, looks like chunks fell off the walls and roof a long time ago. They’re all worn smooth around the edges. I’m thinking you give me that torch, and you take my hitting stick, and you can use it to feel the ground ahead of you a bit?”

She’s not going to leave him. She’s taking him with her and handing over her only weapon. Just so he can use it as a prop.

“And…” She pauses again. “You got rope in your pack, right?”

He does. Plenty of it, in fact. She’s not the only one who likes to stuff her pockets with more than the standard valuables.

“I was thinking we tie ourselves together. So we, y’know, don’t get separated somehow?”

He cannot fathom what her play is, here. He’s not valuable enough to keep as an ally now. Certainly not one for this level of investment. Should one of them fall down a crevasse or be snatched up by something lurking in the dark, the other one will be at risk themself. He’s not sleeping with her, can’t use his superior vision to scout ahead or even see an enemy to strike, and he’s just taken enough blood from her that he can catch the slow, deep inhales she takes now and again (she must be dizzy).

He’s a liability. Yet she’s treating him like an asset. Like there’s something he can do for her and she’s yet to name it.

He saw things when their tadpoles connected. She truly doesn’t want to have sex with him. She had such a visceral reaction to it, and he doesn’t think that’s changed overmuch in the last tenday or so.

But then, what else could she want? What kind of alliance could this even be?

Damned alien yokel.

“Lead on, then,” he says. He’ll just have to find another way to ingratiate himself to her. Find something he can provide her.

Previous - Index - Next

[xoxo-teddybear]

It’s Too Late - Bakugou Katsuki

Bakugou x f!reader

Warnings: angst, cursing

Summary: You’ve always made it clear to him about what you feel for him. It’s always been known so you’ve never had to say it. Until months had passed and yet nothing’s been reciprocated or cleared up on his end. He didn’t express any emotions of desire or love towards you so when you finally confess, you get an answer you halfway anticipated. And when it breaks you and you move on, finally taking 1 step forward, Bakugou comes back and pushes you 2 steps back.

BAKUGOU’S MASTERLIST

“I just-“

“Love me?” Bakugou said with a raised brow and his hands in his pockets. “You love me? Is that what you’re gonna say?”

“..Yes. I love you, Katsuki.” You openly confessed to your best friend with a tired voice. You and Bakugou had been friends since childhood. You grew to love him as a friend, then a best friend, but now you wish to have him as a significant other. You’ve always been clear about your feelings. Telling others you liked the blonde, putting in a little extra effort to show some comfort and affection, or even just canceling everything for him. But you never said anything specific until now.

Your best friend continued to stare at you with a blank face. You were almost offended by it but you saw the gears in his mind trying to move. He was trying to say something but it’s like something else was stopping him. “Katsuki?”

“I don’t love you, Y/N. Why you think I would is ridiculous.” His words made you grow shock. He was lying now? You get it. This whole confession wasn’t cute or anything similar to what you would see in a cartoon. There was no blushing from either ends, no smiles. This was holding a dark element of hurt but you hoped that despite all that, he would still be able to find the light you always brought with you, just for him.

“…I know you love me too, Katsuki.” You said calmly.

“Don’t tell me what I feel.” He responded in the same cold tone but with a little more harshness.

“I’m just saying the truth. It’s the one thing you seem to be running from. I’ve accepted it, I’ve embraced it because I want it. I know you do to so why can’t you just admit it?” You asked before a block of silence filled the dialogue. “….I know you told Kaminari you love me.”

“That spark plug heard me wrong.” He defended.

“You also told Kirishima you love me too.” You added on. “You tell Kirishima, you tell Kaminari, you tell everyone and anything but me. Why can’t you just tell me?”

Bakugou looked at you in silence before squeezing his eyes shut in frustration. Frustration and anger with himself. Why couldn’t he just man up and say it to you? Why couldn’t he tell you? You were right here letting him know exactly how you felt! Letting him know you felt the same way he did so why wasn’t he saying anything to help?!

“You can’t run. You have to stay and hear it out ‘till the end.” You began making his shut eyes tremble. “Bakugou Katsuki. I love you. I love you so much that it hurts when you just walk away from it. So tell me what I know. Tell me you love me back so that everything we went through, the gossip, the lies, the secrets, everything will have been for something. So that we could end up right here where we are now with a purpose and happy ending. Please.”

Finally, after collecting himself and coming up with an answer, he speaks.

“Maybe it was.” He said with a softer tone..almost hurt. “And maybe I did love you…but it doesn’t matter-“

“Why not?!”

“Because I don’t love you anymore. It was a crush. It was for a short period of time. I’ve moved on so maybe you should too.” He said and began to walk away. “You know Damn well feelings don’t help you achieve anything. I don’t want love or a relationship, I want to be a hero. That’s all.”

There it is. He said it. He wants to be a hero. Only if he was smart enough to say the rest. He wants to be a hero to protect you. He wants to become strong enough to keep you safe in his arms. Let him achieve this dream first so he can move on to his second dream. You. You will always be his dream. He knows he still loves you and he knows he will forever and always love you..but he’s accepted that he can’t be with you. Not yet. Let him secure everything first. Let him become a hero and make shit tons of money so he can provide for you and protect you. Let him become so domestically secure that he can give you the love he knows you deserve. Let him grow first so he can be good enough for you. Please.

—

He shouldn’t have disregarded you in that moment. He should’ve told you right then and there that he loved you too. He should’ve been smart enough to be able to multitask a relationship with you and his career. He could’ve done it! But now he’s here, 2 years later sneakily watching as Todoroki asks you to be his girlfriend at the hero gala he’s brought you to as his date.

As if his night couldn’t get worse. After your confession, you distanced yourself from Bakugou after his harsh replies. He’s tried to reach out to you and stay in touch but you didn’t let him. Despite that, when 2 years passed and the hero gala came up and he’s still been so in love with you, he asked you to be his date..but you said no. You said no and shut the door on him and the roses he brought to your house that day. Then when he thought it couldn’t get worse, you show up. Looking as beautiful as ever in a red dress that matched the tie of his tux and reached the ground. It had a slit in it to reveal the smooth skin of your leg. You were the pinnacle of perfection. And he was now ready to make you his. But before he could reach you, your date did. Todoroki. He stepped up from behind you and snaked his arm around your waist before moving with you deeper into the event. The sight of you two made him nauseous. But it got even worse when the night continued and the two-toned hair colored boy was pulling you to a corner and confessing to you. Nobody but Bakugou saw and it was making his blood boil. He wasn’t about to lose you to this icy-hot bastard. So before you could answer the calm hero, the blonde came rushing in and dragging you away forcefully by the wrist.

Bakugou pulled you into the empty parking lot of the event and looked at you while saying nothing.

“What the hell was that Bakugou?!” You shouted.

“That’s not my name.” He replied swiftly.

“I’m pretty sure it fucking is. Why did you bring me out here?” You asked.

“I fucking saved you from that idiot and his pathetic excuse of a confession! You’re welcome!” He shouted. You gawked at him before slanting your eyes.

“I didn’t need your help.” You said calmly. Afterwords, a block of silence returned and Bakugou couldn’t help but feel like it was that one moment all those years ago when you confessed to him. Growing tired of this, you attempted to walk back inside. “If you’ll excuse me-“

“Are you going to say yes to him?” Bakugou asked from behind you now. You turned to him, shocked at the whimper in his voice, and noticed he wasn’t even facing you. He had his back turned to you as he looked to the ground.

“I don’t think that concerns you.” You said and began to walk away. Until you felt Bakugou hold onto your arm.

“I think it fucking does!” He exclaimed. You turned to look at him in shock and noticed a fire in his eyes that you never saw before. “You can’t be his girlfriend, Y/N. You can’t be his!”

“You’re in no position to tell me who I can and can’t be with.” You replied.

“I actually am because you’re mine!” He shouted. You looked at him with wide eyes and shaky breath as you stared at him.

“W-what?”

Bakugou smiled as he took your nervousness and shaking as a sign of happiness. “You’re mine. I love you too, Y/-“

*SMACK*

“The hell-“

“Don’t you dare say you love me, Bakugou.” You said coldly.

“What?” He asked in shock.

“You had years to tell me how you felt. Before I confessed and even after! But you can’t just tell me that you love me when I’ve already happily moved on!” You shouted.

“…moved on?” He winced. You moved on? You didn’t want him anymore? Didn’t love him anymore? “W-..WHY THE HELL WOULD YOU MOVE ON?!”

“Are you fucking serious?! Why?! Because I loved you and gave you my entire being just for you to stomp on my heart-“

“You can’t move on! Not when I love you too! Not when I’ve loved you for years! Not when I’ve loved you from even before you fucking told me! That’s right!” He exclaimed as he stepped closer. “I’ve always loved you Y/N! Always! So you can’t move on!”

You stared at him and bit your cheek before turning around. “Too fucking late.”

“..N-No.” He whimpered. Without being in control, he ran to you and pulled you back before forcing a kiss onto your lips. To Bakugou, it was heaven on earth. You tasted the exact way he always imagined. Addictive and sweet. Your lips were soft. So soft. So perfect. So..you. You are heaven on earth for him.

You were surprised and infuriated by his actions so you of course pushed him off the best you could but not without a fight. The more you pushed back the tighter he held on, the more you pulled away, his lips would find yours again and steal your breath. Eventually, you ended up having to use a small amount of your quirk on him to keep him at bay. “Y/N please! You can’t be with him! Please! You have to love me! I didn’t work my ass off for years to not have you by my side in the end!”

“The hell are you talking about?!” You shouted.

“I did all of this for you! Because I love you! I didn’t tell you then because I wasn’t ready for you! You were too good for me! I had to change! I had to fix myself! And I did! I’m a hero now, I have money now, I can provide for you, love you, and take care of you now! I did this for us!” He shouted as tears trickled down his cheeks as he confessed with a smile. You only looked at him as if he were crazy.

“It didn’t matter if you were a hero or not, or had money or not. You didn’t have to change for me! I loved you because of you! And I was ready to have you just the way you were, Bakugou.”

“So please say you’ll have me now.” He begged.

“I can’t.”

“Yes you can! Y/N I’m right here. I’m not running anymore. I’m not going anywhere. Just tell me that you love me too and we can be together! Please.” He exclaimed while you shook your head with small tears pricking the corner of your eyes.

“….it’s too late now, Katsuki.”

At least in the end, you finally said his name.

Taglist: @sxcker4you @aomi04 @tessabrown101 @ebiharachan @is-this-ash @iris-shihabi @sxturn-stars @isolight @lanantoine @whatdidshesayyy @qtsuki @lazyafgurl @dessykcm @misssugarless @unicornlover25 @sweethcnvy @hanamura-manami @thisuserlovesyouandyouandyou @ssurewhynottt @uchihackerman

A/N: SURPRISEEEEEE!! I’m back. Not gonna lie, I’m still getting over the large amounts of hate as I am still being sent them despite over a week already passing. However, the urge to write has been getting so strong and I poured out a bunch of thoughts in my head. They’ve been filling my mind and I couldn’t sleep without typing something down. Then I just couldn’t let my work sit in the drafts, I needed them to be seen for others to enjoy! So I’m back, little by little though! I’ll start posting but I might not start replying. Idk, we’ll see.

Also, but thank you to those kind supporters. I hope you know that to those who are consistent with my blog (meaning you’ve commented at least more than once) I see you and remember you all. I appreciate you all and every time I see your name pop up in my notifications I always get a little happy bc I know you all are so nice. Please don’t think you’re just another follower out of the bunch. You’re not. You all mean something to me and whether it be through messages or comments or likes, I have fond memories of you guys. So thank you guys, so much love for my Cubs!

[thesevro]

So I read desert rose and loved it. It gave me an idea for an imagine where Sukuna and the reader kinda have a relationship like Hades and Persephone. They meet at first, not fond of each other, but they start to understand each other and slowly they fall in love. Not just any love but one that's so deep that it envelops them, a love so deep its embedded into their soul. You can add smut if you want, I don't mind. I just thought that this would be amazing!

thank you for the first request i’ve received here on tumblr!! 

this shit actually turned out longer than i thought it would. i got a little carried away. ahuhuhu~~ hope you enjoy this anon bby!! 

WARNINGS: mentions of rape, sukuna calls you a whore and a slut AWOOGA, explicit smut

---

“No man has ever survived that curse.”

Her laugh cuts the air. It is dangerous. Snorting and derisive. The absolute opposite of the slack-jawed shock on his tattooed countenance.

“Well, then it’s a good thing I’m not a man.”

Her hands spin in a small, tight circle, focusing the cursed energy in the tiny space of power she traces with her hands. She stares at the man with unblinking eyes. Bears insults down on him with the laughter in her eyes.

“You fucking bitch,” he seethes, hissing at the scorn curling her mouth. He does not need his hands to form his own curse. It only takes another vilifying look at her for one more curse to fly in her direction. He breathes an aggravated breath through his nose as one of her servants takes the shot instead, performing the same technique with their own hands.

“Ooh, that one was a little weaker, don’t you think?” she mocks, then turns to her servant with a pleased smile on her lips. “Good boy.”

The boy simpers at the praise, leaning into the touch the woman pets onto his head. Sukuna loses control at the casualness, the apathy. To have such inferior, lowly beings smile in his presence…  for them to have the fucking nerve to even meet his eyes…

He is the King of Curses. Whoever the fuck it is this woman may be, he knows he has to put her and her proletarian flunkeys in their damn places.

His four hands tremble as a wild rush of cursed energy pulses through his veins. A manic grin cuts his frown into a smile.

I’m going to fucking kill you.

But in the next moment, his hands begin to tremble for a wholly different reason. His blood goes cold.

“You know, you aren’t that bad-looking for someone with two faces and a mouth on their stomach.” The woman traces the frowning tincture of a smile on his stomach, arm raised into the air in order to reach it. She almost stands on her tip-toes. Even with her diminutive stature she seems to be the most powerful in the obliterated room. 

When did she—?

“If you accept defeat, your highness…” A sharp, sardonic quip comes to make him fraught with wrath, “Then I might just let you live and have you become one of my menials instead. You could do plenty with those four arms of yours.”

Her fingers have opened the mouth on his stomach. Now she only tries to prick the pads of her strong fingers on the razor-edged ridges of teeth there, awaiting his answer with easy patience. Her hand grows sticky with his slobber.

“She could kill you in seconds, King,” the boy from earlier speaks up. “Could just grab that tongue in your stomach and wrench it upward ‘till the tip of it comes out one o’ your eye sockets.”

“Oh, don’t spoil my fun Jackie,” she says, still playing with the mouth on his abdomen. “I was planning to keep it a surprise for our man here.”

“I’ll be part of your fucking band of delinquents,” he interrupts, locking eyes with the woman, head lowered. “But you will make me the superior of the rest of your blue-collared pack of idiots.”

“You’re going to have to work for that, Ryomen-chan.” She flashes a smile at him. Her hand slips further into the mouth on his abdomen. He knows what she’s doing. Tempting him into trying to bite her hand off, if only so she could acquire an excuse to kill him.

And no one. No one fucking gave her the authority to call him Ryomen-chan.

“I don’t fucking care,” he snaps back at her, grabbing her hand before quickly relaxing his grip. He falters ever so slightly as something in her eyes goes dark, then with a begrudging gentleness slips her hand out of the mouth. “I’m already part of your ragged band of lackeys, bitch. So fucking tell me what it is you me to do.”

---

He hates her with his entire being. With each day that passes he thinks of slitting her throat open and raping her as she dies. It is a train of thought that has been of much prominence since he was forced to join her group of brainless monkeys.

And he hates this, too, but he can’t say it’s all that bad. It’s much better than letting the bitch climb onto his shoulders and stand on his head to gain the elevated vantage she constantly insists is necessary to scout the area. When she has the ability to fucking fly. Fucking dumbass. 

So, yes. This isn’t… as demeaning as the rest of the orders she gives him.

“No, Ryomen-chan, you’re supposed to twist that strand over the middle one—oh, you’re hopeless.” 

Scratch that.

“That is the middle strand, bi—Ms. (Y/N),” he disguises the anger shaking in his voice with a call of her title, then shoves the strands of hair between his fingers to the front of her face. “Are you fucking blind?”

“As opposed to your deluded delusion, Ryomen-chan, this is the middle strand.” She holds a lock of her hair, plucking it from between his fingers. Something thumps in his chest as her fingers brush his palm. “Are you blind? Now that would be a horrible addition to your already damaged brain.”

“Let me fucking try again then. Give it here.”

Jeez. No one said styling a woman’s hair would be this… toilsome. 

“No, let me show you how to do it, Ryomen-chan. Sit down.” 

His knees bend as she shoves him down onto the plush pillow she uses when presenting herself as the Queen of Curses (a title he finds himself unable to contradict, fuck). His brows furrow and he turns back to protest but she only grips his chin in her fingers, her eyes meeting his, and snaps his head forward. 

“I said let me show you.” 

Something thuds in his chest again. He wills for it to shut the fuck up.

Her hand falls from his face, though her fingers stroke the bottom of his chin with the fleeting touch of danger before her hand moves to twine into his hair. He sits still, the breathless tightness in his chest soon giving way to ennui as he watches her braid his hair from the mirror. He finds himself observing the way her eyes glaze over with focus as she styles his hair. For the quickest second he wonders how hazy her eyes would go with him inside her.

“Alright, done. Did you take notes, Ryomen-chan? That was an important… lesson…” 

Her voice falters. He looks back at her and finds her eyes on his legs. Particularly on something protruding from between his thighs.

“Sukuna... I just braided your hair—”

“Not. Another. Word.” 

---

The first time he slides inside her, it’s like fucking himself into heaven.

He makes no sound as he fucks her, as she lets him fuck her, but everything in his head has blurred together to narrow his vision to only the sight of her beneath him.

He’s missed fucking women. Missed being inside them. He hates the fact that she is better than any bitch he has ever shoved his cock into.

He tries to keep his head in the crook of her neck. But then her legs hook together from around his waist, fingers curling into the hands he’s pinned to her wrists, and she’s moaning like the bitch in heat she really is. The curiosity to watch her face as he fucks her overwhelms him completely.

The touch she shares with his hands is more intimate than it should be. It’s as if his hands keep her grounded, keep her here with him as he makes her cum. 

Her back arches, and a third hand of his grips the small of her back to keep it arched, so that her stomach touches the mouth on his own abdomen.

For some fucking reason he wants to give her all the pleasure he can. Make her go cross-eyed. Fuck her 'till she goes stupid with sex.

He lets the mouth on his stomach fall open. The tongue there is long enough to slide between their bodies, wet enough to slither between them with ease. He smirks with the smile of a devil as the Queen of Curses, his only superior, cries out in pleasure as the tip of his tongue curls around the free space between their joined bodies. His tongue flicks her clit. Dips inside her to join the fullness of his cock. His eyes shut in lazy pleasure as she squeezes him tighter.

She has the body of a virgin. He can tell she’s only been touched once or twice in the past, judging from the way her dominance had fluctuated the moment she finished undressing him. Her touches were hesitant. Apprehensive. But for some reason she had also sought his pleasure, had taken his cock in her mouth and sucked not like an inexperienced little village girl but a masterful whore. 

He says it now, “The Queen of Curses, Ms. (Y/N), now the desperate bitch of her King.” A chuckle rumbles in his chest as she trembles in the wash of her fourth orgasm. He knows how many she’s had. He’s been counting; plans to give her ten. “A slut in the sheets, a queen in the streets. How delightful.”

And this, this makes the slut cum. 

And when she does, her authority returns. With a look of glaze-eyed intoxication in her eyes, she pushes his behemothic body off her, and rides him until he finally says her name. 

And at that point, he knows not whether he is her whore, or she is his. All he knows is that it’s fucking good to be inside her, and that she sounds and feels better than any other hole he's fucked.

The next time he fucks her, there are braids in her hair. 

[imaginesupply]

Spencer Reid Imagine: Just peachy

Spencer Reid Imagine: Just Peachy

Summary : Reader (female pronouns, no Y/N, third person) is hosting dinner night at her apartment for the time. Spencer volunteers to help with the preparations. Derek is a good friend.

Warnings: Smut (handjob – male receiving, cum in pants), sub!Spencer, the Lord’s name in vain (only once), one mild curse word. (Because some of this shows Spencer’s thoughts, I had to refrain from using slang words for bodily parts and bodily fluids sometimes. Please don’t judge me.)

Word count: About 1.5k

Note: I wrote this really quickly when I was taking a break from working on my thesis (how Spencer went through the PhD pain thrice willingly, I will never understand) and my brain was fried. Consequently, this is the fic equivalent of the snack you make at 3am when you’re tipsy.

"Remember what we discussed?" Derek asked an exasperated Spencer for umpteenth time as he pulled over in front of their new co-worker's apartment building.

"Yes," Spencer groaned softly, adjusting his hair. "I have an eidetic memory, you know."

Next to him, Derek chuckled. "I know. No need to be so defensive," he teased, "just be yourself and there's no way she won't fall for you."

"Actually, it's not that -"

Derek cut him off before he could say anything more. "Bullshit. It really is that easy, pretty boy and" - he leaned over, grabbing Spencer's satchel from the backseat - "while everyone is due to arrive at seven, I can divert the rest of team if you just send me a text."

Spencer frowned, staring at his friend like he had grown two heads. "Why would I want you to stall -" He stopped in the middle of the sentence, his eyebrows rising high up his forehead and his cheeks turning pink when he finally realized. "Yeah, no, yes" - Spencer shook his head clearing his now corrupted mind - "what I mean to say is that I would definitely text you but - nevermind. Bye." Then he escaped from the car as if it were on fire, almost tripping on the laces of his converse.

Not even thirty minutes had gone by and Spencer already knew he was in trouble.

They walked through the farmers' market, Spencer carrying the fast filling linen bag. She guided him through the crowd, making them stop at the stalls that held anything of interest and buying various ingredients for dinner: vegetarian gratin and peach pie.

Eventually, they stopped at the fruit stand where she approached and asked the vendor if they could taste the peaches. Though they were out of season, they were looking quite ripe. The old man handed her a peach with a smile. "There you go."

She thanked the man and pulled back the sleeve of her lightweight jacket before taking a bite. That was the exact moment Spencer realised this had been a terrible idea. He should never have listened to Derek. He should not have offered to come earlier and help make dinner.

She took in the scent and hummed against the fruit, softly so, that only he would hear and erotically enough that he had to swallow down the saliva gathering in his mouth, his Adam's apple bobbing. She bit down on the fruit, the tips of her lips curling up and then licked off a thin trail of juice along the inside of her wrist and forearm, eyes closed. Then, as if nothing, she turned to the old man. "They're delicious!"

She turned back to Spencer and he noticed she was sporting her usual slightly bemused grin. "Have a taste, darling." She turned the pale fruit in her hand and offered it to him, an expectant look in her eyes. And there, in the middle of the busy farmers’ market, Spencer felt like a teenager whose girlfriend had just slipped her hand down his pants for the first time. Which, of course, he had never experienced so he didn't actually know what that would feel like.

Knowing better than to disobey her, Spencer leaned forward into her hand and took a bite of the remaining fruit, leaving behind only the endocarp, while adjusting his satchel to hide the prominent bulge in his crotch. It was the way she looked and the way she looked at him, the way she made him feel like-

“Are you alright?” She asked.

Spencer swallowed the fruit, his throat tight. “Just peachy.”

If he thought that was torture, nothing had prepared him for the actually cooking part. The space between the cabinets and the kitchen isle was narrow, which meant their bodies always brushed whenever she passed behind him, and he was already a sweaty, blushing mess.

Just be yourself, he reminded himself of what Derek had told him. "Hey, umm," Spencer stammered, drawling off, "did you know that until refrigerators were invented in 1834, salt was widely used to preserve meat."

He heard her soft laugh behind him, immediately turning around at the sound before realising she was bent over the counter, trying to reach something on the highest shelf and he had just inadvertently placed himself right behind her backside.

For some reason he couldn't even begin to explain, his first instinct had been to touch. Luckily, though, he had managed to stop his hands mid air before he could effectively ruin everything, but now all he could see was the black fabric of her pants stretching over the roundness of her hips and the warm pressure against him and-

"Spencer!"

He started, finally looking away. "What?"

She chuckled again. "As much as I appreciate your ability to be a walking encyclopaedia, I'd really enjoy it if you could put your height to good use and pass me the pie dish."

"Of course." Spencer shook his head, clearing his mind. "Yeah, I can do that."

She stepped aside, allowing him to grab the item from the cabinet. "Thank you, darling," she said, grinning.

"No problem," Spencer quipped, wiping his clammy hands on his leg pants as he subtly made sure his predicament wasn't too noticeable.

"Great! You can go ahead and knead the dough before stretching it over the dish."

"Yes, ma'am." His brown eyes went wide when he realised that he'd just said it out loud. It wasn’t even his fault. There was just that natural authority about her that made him very compliant.

She laughed once more, softly, looking up at him almost endearingly. "You can call any m word you like, darling."

His start stopped in his chest. Was she flirting with him? He had noticed her body language did not indicate repulsion and she did touch him more than was strictly necessary, but he didn't think she'd actually flirt with him. Spencer considered that he might really have to send Derek the text, but he tried not to get his hopes up too much. He was already nervous enough as it was.

She came up behind him, taking a look at the dough he had absentmindedly tortured and shook her head in amusement. "No, darling, not like that," she cooed gently, coming up closer until her body was pressed up against his. Spencer gulped nervously, acutely aware of the way her breasts were being squashed against his side.

Then her hand wrapped around his over the dough. "You do it like this, Spencer," she whispered. Her fingers lodged themselves between his, applying light pressure, making them bend to her will. "You need to feel it. Are you feeling it?"

Spencer was certainly feeling it, but not in his hand. He would almost be amazed at how a simple touch on his hand could make him radiate warmth and make all the blood in his brain rush to his dick, if he weren’t becoming so lightheaded.

She kissed his arm over the fabric of his shirt. "Here, let me show you." He felt her free hand slide across his stomach and down to his belt. His body jerked at the touch.

"What are you doing?" He asked, his voice raspy and sounding like a whimper.

Her hand stilled over the now undone buckle. "You want me to stop?"

"No!"

It came out embarrassingly loud and he might have felt ashamed for it, hadn't she managed to remove his belt and open his pants in record time. She pressed her palm to the front of his boxers, cupping his bulge. The fabric was thin and damp, doing little to numb the sensation of her touch. Spencer knew there was already a stain from the pre-ejaculatory fluid he was leaking, but he couldn't get himself to look down. Two senses at once would be too overwhelming and he was already trembling.

At first, she just ran her the tip of her finger up and down his length, making sure to trace the small slit where the wet fabric clung to the damp head. He shivered against her and let out the cutest, most delicious whimper she had ever heard.

"Do you like how it feels?"

"Yes." He choked out the word. His eyes were shut tight, focusing on the sensation but then she surprised him, sliding her hand inside his boxers. And, oh God! Spencer panicked, if her hand alone already felt this good, how could he possibly survive being inside her - "Stop," he moaned urgently, his hand frantically rising to grab hold of hers but it was too late - it was too good.

"Oh, my darling boy," she sighed gently, pressing another kiss to arm as his dick pulsed in her fingers, making a mess of her hand and his boxers.

"I am so -" He didn't know what exactly he was apologising for and he didn't have the time to find out. The bell rang while he was still enjoying the aftermath of his first non-solo orgasm.

Panic set in. He had never gotten around to text Derek.

"Don't worry, darling," she said reassuringly before sliding her hand out of his boxers and bringing it to her mouth to lick it clean. "I'll go get the door and you go clean yourself. Don't want everyone to know how naughty you really are, do you darling?"

[master-sass-blast]

Children of the Gods: Part Three, Chapter Two.

I had to input every single italic you see in this fic by hand because Tumblr doesn’t hold text format when I paste it innnnnn. *pained smile*

Please give this chapter some love, because that was fucking painful to do.

Summary: The aftermath of capturing Allison proves messy -both in dealing with the teen's evident trauma, and in all the skeletons in various closets that get unleashed soon after.

Pairing(s): Piotr Rasputin x Reader, Nathan Summers x Wade Wilson, Frank Castle x Karen Page, and Alexandra Rasputin x Nikolai Rasputin.

Rating: M for gun violence, depictions of death and injuries, depictions of emotional trauma, and gratuitous use of the word “fuck.”

Word count: 8.9k.

Set after “Children of the Gods: Part Three, Chapter One.”

Taglist: @marvel-is-perfection, @chromecutie, @super-darkcloudstudent, @girl-obsessed-with-things, @leo-writer, @emma-frxst, @sadstone-s

“What the hell were you thinking!”

“Ooh, careful there, Doohan,” Wade snarks, head rolling to indicate he’s rolling his eyes. “Get any more agitated and you’ll be saying all the no-no words.”

Scott scowls at Wade. “Stuff it, Wilson.”

“Every damn night, laser pointer.”

A mixture of grimaces, sighs, and groans go up through the crowd.

You’re all gathered in the medical wing of Xavier’s –the X-Force and nearly all of the X-Men. Allison’s off being examined by Dr. McCoy and Alyssa –to make sure she’s stable enough to be taken out of the handcuffs and the suppression band—and Frank and Karen are sequestered in a separate room until it's clear how everything's going to shake out.

Because, naturally, there’s been a wrench thrown in the situation.

Or maybe the whole damn toolbox, you mentally amend as Wade and Scott resume arguing.

“We cannot harbor a mob criminal here—”

“She’s thirteen, Summers!” Wade snaps. The eyes on his mask narrow into slits. “She’s not a criminal –and her parents’ choice don’t automatically make her guilty!”

“Murder, illegal theft and possession of firearms, assault, stalking, kidnapping,” Scott starts listing, ticking off each of Allison’s misdeeds on his fingers.

“She lost her family,” Nathan interjects, voice going to gravel. “Where the fuck were all of you when she needed support? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?”

The room goes silent. Many of the X-Men members look away or hang their heads slightly.

“We had no way of knowing that Allison was a mutant,” Ororo speaks up. “Without the proper information, we can’t help. It’s unfortunate, yes, but out of our control all the same.”

“But you know now,” Wade argues. “You knew with Russell. You knew with all the kids at Essex house. You turned your back on him and those kids, just like you’re turning your back on Allison now.” He scoffs, disgusted. “Same shit, different day. You’re all a bunch of cowardly cocksuckers.”

“We do have limits,” Professor Xavier speaks up from his chair. “Russell and the other members of Essex house were considered wards of the state. Legally, that meant Essex house had custody of them until they turned eighteen. We wrote petitions. We did as much as we could to bring attention to the issue. Unfortunately, it got swept under the rug or stonewalled by anti-mutant members of the legal system. As for Allison…” He sighs. “Taking in wards with criminal connections put the school at risk. Not just for fear of retaliation –as would certainly be a risk with Miss Ricci’s connections to the mafia—but also our funding and licensing. As an orphaned mutant, she is certainly deserving of our help—” he pauses to glare sternly at Scott and a few of the more stubborn, self-righteous members present “—but we have to consider the needs of our other residents and students, too.”

“I think we’re overlooking that Allison is here right now,” Jean pipes up. “Whether or not she stays with us is one thing, but we need to decide what to do for at least the next forty-eight hours.”

“She stays here,” you say automatically. “As far as we know, she has no other guardians, potentially even nowhere to go. I don’t think it’s gonna kill us to give her a bed and some food to eat.”

“Absolutely not,” Scott fires back –and, behind him, Angel and Iceman nod. “She’s far too aggressive to possibly put the students at risk.”

“She’s agitated and traumatized,” you reason, “but that doesn’t mean she’s going to lash out at people left and right.”

“Doesn’t she have a guardian of sorts?” Neena pipes up. “Artemis? Has anyone gotten ahold of them?”

“We reached out with the number Miss Ricci gave us,” Xavier explains. “The call picked up, but there wasn’t any verbal response for the duration of the call.”

Well, that bodes well. “What about her attorney?” you ask. “If we can’t keep her here, wouldn’t her attorney be able to arrange some sort of safe place for her to stay.”

“Thus far, we haven’t been able to reach her attorney.”

And that bodes even worse. You fight the urge to sigh or roll your eyes, and instead mentally curse monkey wrenches and whoever thought to invent the damn things.

“For the time being, I’ve contacted some of our external resources” –the glance Xavier shoots at both you and Piotr tells you that it’s your uncle and Alexandra—“to help with matters until the dust settles. They should be arriving soon, so—”

There’s a loud crash from down the hall, the sound of glass shattering, and an angry screech that sounds suspiciously like, “Fuck you, Castle!”

You give into the urge to sigh before booking it towards the sound of chaos and rage. Great. Now it’s an entire toolshed.

***

Subduing Allison this time, at least, is easier for several reasons.

First, she’s still wearing the repression cuff on her wrist. Without her powers –without a way to pop in and out of this existence, specifically—she’s much easier to catch.

Second, she’s tired. It’s not just the bags under her eyes or the sweat glistening at her furrowed brow. She’s stumbling unevenly, panting as she tries to exact her revenge.

Third, Illyana happens to show up at the exact same time with your uncle and Alexandra (and Nikolai as well, though he has less involvement in the “subduing process”).

Alex reacts fastest. She hooks one strong arm around Allison’s waist, then scoops her away from Karen and a hangdog-looking Frank. “Alright, that’s enough.”

Allison, however, doesn’t seem to agree. (Though whether it’s due to general teenage contrariness or trauma-induced rage, the jury’s still out.

…Actually, it’s probably both.)

“You don’t even get it, Castle!” Allison snaps with a manic grin, eyes wide and haunted. “You killed a good man. My dad was getting out! He was going to testify against them—”

Alex clamps a hand over the teen’s mouth, making her cut herself off with a garbled grunt. “I said enough.”

Allison thrashes in the older woman’s iron-clad grasp –to no avail, unsurprisingly. Her face scrunches up, then her jaw starts flexing. There’s a moment where her expression goes slack when Alex doesn’t react, then her nose scrunches up again and her jaw starts working harder.

Alex sighs, then starts carrying Allison back down the hall (she’s astonishingly unfazed by been chomped down on). “Come on. Let’s get you calmed down, malen’kiy.”

At the other end of the hall, Neena pokes her head into the fray. “Someone who calls herself Artemis is at the front door.”

Professor Xavier nods, then says, “Please escort her back to Miss Ricci’s room,” before wheeling after Alex and Artemis.

You look between Neena and the Professor –then, in the interest of going where you’re actually allowed to be (and not being bored out of your mind because you’ll be literally shut out of the room), you head towards the foyer.

…

“Do you think Frank was set up to stop the trial?”

Your uncle shrugs; the two of you have taken up a spot at the back of the room, where you can watch things unfold and gossip like the two old ladies you are in spirit. “It’s possible. It’s also possible that it was retribution for Allison being a mutant. The Ricci syndicate is notoriously… intolerant.”

You grimace. You certainly understand just how far people will go against their own flesh and blood for intolerance’s sake. “Blood and water.”

Your uncle nods, expression equally sour. “You fucking said it, punk.”

There’s not much point in hashing it out any further –both from the standpoint of “forbidden knowledge” and digging up old trauma—so you settle back into watching Artemis go through the mandatory security check.

She’s tall, with broad shoulders. Her hair’s dark, just starting to streak with silver at the temples, and her eyes are deep, intense, borderline black color. Her nose is slightly crooked –comes with the territory in this walk of life—and she’s dressed in black motorcycle wear and combat boots.

She honestly looks so fucking familiar.

You frown, brows pinching together as you try and place her face in your memory. Failing your own abilities at recollection, you lean over and whisper, “Is she one of your team members? I swear I’ve seen her before.”

“Uh –no,” your uncle replies (and it’s too fast and shaky, but you’re too caught up in figuring out whom the fuck you’re looking at to notice). “I mean –everyone has a doppelganger, right?”

“I guess.” You squint at Artemis, as though physically narrowing your eyes will help your brain puzzle things out—

And then Alex strides into the foyer –wiping the hand that Allison bit, and if you look close enough you’re pretty sure you can still see a few bloody teeth marks—and the cloud of confusion lifts from your mind.

“Oh!” you gasp quietly. “That’s why she looks familiar! She looks like Alex.” You look from the Rasputin matriarch, to the other black-leather clad woman, then back again. “She looks… a lot like Alex, actually.” You laugh softly –coincidence is a hell of a thing—then keep rambling when your uncle doesn’t say anything. “Two women who love the color black and carry enough weapons on their person to stock an army. You’d think the universe broke the mold with Alex, huh?”

Your uncle shifts from foot to foot next to you, but says nothing.

“You really weren’t kidding about the whole ‘doppelganger’ thing, huh.” You cock your head to one side, then frown as another epiphany starts growing in your mind. “Actually… she kind of looks like you, too.”

Your uncle makes a quiet, pained choking noise. “Punk—”

“Yeah, she’s got more of your build…”

“Punk.”

“And her lower lip has that weird lopsided curve like yours—”

“Punk—”

You peer closer at Artemis’s face. “Actually, her nose looks like you took yours and Alex’s and mashed them together—”

“Punk.”

You finally look up at him and take in the pale, wide-eyed, tight-lipped expression on his face. “What?” When he doesn’t say anything, you look at Artemis, then Alex, and then back at him—

Oh God.

Oh God.

Holy fucking shit.

You stare up at your uncle, agape. “Wait a second –you and—”

“Okay, shut the fuck up!” he hisses, panicked, before dragging you out of the foyer and into the nearest hallway.

“You and Alex had a baby,” you blurt –albeit in a voice no louder than a harsh whisper. “Artemis is your and her lovechild!”

He winces, then holds up his hands. “I can explain—”

“I don’t think you can!” you hiss. “Why didn’t you tell me that I have a cousin who happens to be my husband’s half fucking sister! Oh God, does Piotr know? Do any of the Rasputins know?”

“I…” He trails off, then cringes. He rubs the back of his neck. “I’m not sure, actually.”

You stare up at him, dumbfounded. “You’re not sure. How are you not sure? Nick knows who you are –what, you think Alex just kept a whole child from his knowledge—”

“I mean, he probably knows that there was a baby at one point—”

“The baby is in this fucking house!” you snap in a quiet growl, arms flailing wildly. “She’s a full grown adult who probably pays taxes and has a 401k going! Why wouldn’t Alex tell her husband—”

“Look,” your uncle interjects, cutting you off. “As far as Alex knows… she thinks she’s… dead?”

You gape. Then, as quietly as you can manage (given the circumstances), you exclaim, “What the fuck!”

“Keep your voice down!” your uncle hisses, gesturing wildly in panic. He looks over his shoulder, then when he’s certain no one overheard you, he sighs and looks back to you. “Look, it’s a long story—”

“I’m sure it fucking is!” You cross your arms over your chest when he winces. “How is it that you know your secret lovechild is alive, but Alex doesn’t? What, did she just abandon her?”

“No, no—”

“Didn’t think so. So what the fuck happened?”

He sighs, shoulder slumping, and runs one hand through his already disheveled hair. “Look –long story short, the people who ‘made’ Alex took the baby—”

“Artemis. Her daughter. Your daughter.”

He purses his lips, but concedes with a nod. “They took her away after she was born and told Alex she was dead –and that’s actually what prompted her to get out, but that’s another story for another day—”

“Okay, hang on a second.” You squeeze your eyes shut and hold up one hand. “Alex thinks her baby is dead –probably one of the most traumatic things in her whole life. You’ve known that she’s alive…” You open your eyes again and fix your uncle with a stern stare. “Okay, how long have you known for?”

He grimaces and shifts uncomfortably. “…well, the US took her, but she didn’t present early, so they turned her loose into the foster system because she didn’t have potential as an ‘asset’—”

“How fucking long?”

He ducks his head, carefully avoiding your gaze. “…tracked her down when she was ten.”

Your eyes widen –and then you slug him in the shoulder. “You fucking colossal asshole!”

He panics again, motioning for you to keep it down while checking over his shoulder. “Shut the fuck up!”

“No! Not only have you lied to Alex for decades—”

“She never asked—”

“A lie by omission is still a fucking lie!” you snap in a gravelly whisper. “So, not only did you lie to her, but you also abandoned your daughter to the mercies of the US foster care system!”

“My life wasn’t safe to keep a kid around!” he hisses back at you. “I couldn’t take care of you, and I couldn’t take care of her! If anything, it was safer for her if the government thought I didn’t know she was alive!”

You sigh, pinch the bridge of your nose, and wave dismissively with your other hand. “Okay –fine. That still doesn’t justify the whole lying thing, but whatever. Does Artemis know that you and Alex are her parents?”

“…Yes. She tracked me down when she was in her twenties and I told her the truth.”

“Well, it sounds like determination runs in the family,” you mutter. “But at least you two have kept in touch…” You look up, see your uncle’s grimace, and sigh. “You didn’t keep in touch with her.”

He shoves his hands in his jacket pockets. “I didn’t know how to handle it.”

“Pretty sure ‘not like that’ is a good answer.” You sigh again, then shrug and put your hands on your hips. “Well, you’ve probably solved your own problem. She’ll probably just tell Alex who she is just to spite you, assuming she got the ‘petty vengeance’ gene too.”

Your uncle’s eyebrows spike to his hairline, and his expression goes through the five stages of grief in a matter of seconds. “She –she can’t—”

“She can and she probably will.”

He hunches over, crouching, and grips the back of his head. “Shitfuckshitfuckshitfuckshitfuck—”

“Myshka?”

You and your uncle both jump, then whirl in unison and give your husband your best convincing, “we’re totally not talking about long lost, hidden family members and other poor life choices” smiles that you can each manage.

(Consider that you don’t look like you just shit your pants, you win.)

Piotr’s forehead wrinkles with concern. “What… is everything alright?”

“Just fine, baby,” you assure him, subtly kicking your uncle so he relaxes. “Just talking about what happens next.”

Piotr nods after a moment, likely picking up on that whatever’s going on right now isn’t life or death and that you’ll fill him in later. “I actually came to find you,” he says, gesturing to your uncle. “Professor Xavier still cannot reach Allison’s lawyer. He has asked for your assistance.”

“Right. Absolutely. On it,” your uncle says with a none-too-convincing smile. He shoots your husband a pair of finger guns, then books it out of the hall and towards the medical wing of the mansion.

Piotr stares after him, then shoots you a confused frown. “Is he okay?”

You shrug. “He’s doing about his usual.” You decide to further sidestep the issue by ambling over to him and giving him a gentle hug. “How are you?” Are doing okay?”

Piotr wraps his arms around you and kisses the top of your head. “I am fine now. Just a little sore.”

“Me too.” You nuzzle your cheek against his burly chest. “We really should invest in that hot tub we keep talking about getting. It’d be great for post-mission recovery.”

“Hot tubs are expensive, myshka,” he chuckles.

“Yes, but we’re not getting any younger. It’d be a good investment in taking care of our bodies.” You tilt your head back and grin up at him. “I thought you were all about that life.”

He sighs and shakes his head, feigning exasperation, but his amused smile is a dead giveaway. “Whatever shall I do with you, myshka?”

You grin wider. “You could kiss me.”

Piotr grins back, then dips his head and presses his lips against yours—

Mikhail appears next to you out of thin air. “Ah. Gross. Big meeting is happening. All hands on deck.”

Piotr rolls his eyes when his elder brother teleports away once more, then looks back down at you and strokes your cheek with his thumb. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s fine, baby.” You unwind your arms from his massive trunk of a torso, then slide your fingers between his as the two of you walk towards the medical wing.

…

“—I am telling you, Charles, not being able to reach this kid’s lawyer is a bad fucking sign.”

You and Piotr walk into a conference room to find your uncle and Professor Xavier locked in a heated argument.

Wade, Nate, and Neena are leaning against the table to watch, occasionally leaning over to whisper bits of commentary to each other (or, in Wade’s case, speak at normal volume).

In the corner of the room, where a couple of armchairs are positioned, Nikolai sits with his two other children; they’re speaking in hushed Russian, but none of them seem too concerned about everything else going on.

“As I previously stated,” Xavier says, words clipped, “we cannot release Miss Ricci without speaking first to her attorney. The X-Men operate as a special law enforcement service, and failure to comply with criminal and civil statutes will have enormous consequences for the Institute—”

“There’s going to be a bunch of fucking ‘enormous consequences’ for the Institute,” your uncle interrupts, growling through clenched teeth, “if you don’t evacuate this building right fucking now! Fuck’s sake, Charles –you hired me as a security advisor; just listen to me.”

Piotr frowns and curls one hand over your shoulder. “What is happening?”

“What’s happening,” a new, strong, feminine voice interjects from the hall, “is that we’re leaving.” Artemis shoulders past your husband –a feat not easily achieved by many—with Allison in tow, then holds up the teen’s arm that has the repression cuff still attached. She glares at Xavier (and God, she really looks like Alex when she does that), then spits out through gritted, bared teeth, ���Get this fucking thing off my kid.”

There’s a longsuffering sigh in the hall, and then Alex steps into the doorway. “She has that cuff on for her own safety –as I already told you—”

Artemis whirls, face contorted by a vicious scowl, and snaps, “I didn’t fucking ask for you input!”

(Boy, if that doesn’t just scream ‘repressed trauma and mommy issues.’)

Your uncle looks like he’s about to pass out again, but Alex seems remarkably nonplussed. She merely raises one eyebrow at Artemis, as if to say ‘that’s all you got?’

There’s no way she knows, you think as you watch the two stare each other down. Not with how much she cares about her kids. There’s no fucking way—

“Actually, we’ve got bigger problems,” your uncle pipes up, voice quavering slightly before he clears his throat. “We can’t reach your kid’s shark.”

“They have other clients,” Artemis retorts, upper lip curling in a derisive sneer. Her dark eyes smolder with barely constrained hatred as she tosses a withering glance in his direction (daddy issues, too, this chick won the whole lottery). “Or maybe they got stuck in traffic.”

Your uncle narrows his eyes at that (and now the two of them look so much alike, overcome by ire as they are). “You cannot possibly be that fucking stupid.”

Artemis sucks a breath through her teeth, eyes widening with rage and hurt. “You fucking dick—”

In the corner of the room, Illyana bolts upright before going stock still. Then, she gasps and reaches out towards her mother. “Mama!”

(The way Artemis’s face mars with a pained grimace makes your heart ache.)

Alex tenses, eyes glowing gold as she starts scanning the horizon (presumably checking for heat signatures). “Gde?”

The room goes quiet –and then you hear it.

The sound of engines rumbling –multiple engines—and car wheels crunching against gravel. Doors thumping open and shut, followed by footsteps. Hushed voices.

You scamper over to the nearest window and float up, just enough to see several men clad in black and Kevlar and carrying rifles stalking towards the front door and around the sides of the house in groups. “Guys with guns. Lots of them.”

“Then get down!” Nate hisses before yanking you back from the window.

“Lights out,” Alex orders before hitting the switch herself. “Get everyone to a reinforced room.”

“There’s a safe room at the end of the hall,” Xavier says before wheeling himself towards the door.

Allison clings to Artemis’s sleeve, much like a baby koala. “What’s going on? What’s going to happen?”

“Go with the Professor,” Artemis says. She quickly –but gently—frees her arm, then clasps the teen’s face with both hands. “Look at me. Listen to the Professor, and stay put until I come get you. Okay?”

Allison’s forehead puckers, and her lower lip starts trembling. “But—”

“Is alright,” Nikolai interjects with a kind, reassuring smile. He gently ushers Allison towards the door, then down the hall before she can protest further.

A few doors down, Karen pokes her head out of the room where she and Frank have holed up. She frowns as she takes in the chaos. “What’s going on?”

“Mafia men with guns!” Wade chirps as he half-skips, half-jogs towards the mansion’s entryway. “Tell your boy to suit up!”

“There’s a safe room at the end of the hall,” Neena adds as she runs after Wade.

Frank squeezes around Karen and kisses her temple before falling in line behind the two assassins.

You step to the side so Karen can run past you, then turn and press a hasty kiss against Piotr’s cheek. “Love you.”

He kisses your cheek in return, equally as brief. “Ya tozhe tebya lyublyu.”

And then the two of you run towards the danger bearing down on your home.

***

In all the firefights you’ve been in, there’s always this moment of silence. A calm before the storm. A moment where everything goes still, while both sides wait for the other to make a move.

You duck behind a wall as the mafia gunmen continue hammering away at the front door, tucking yourself in a shadow. Your stomach tenses, breathing going quick and hard as your mind starts putting a plan together. Don’t want to risk collapsing part of the house by doing a pressure vacuum. Best option is to probably knock them to the ground so the others can jump them.

The door rattles. The wooden portal splits on one side, sending jagged splinters poking out into the air.

You slow your breathing, forcing yourself into a calm, focused state. Wait for them to get past the entryway so you can hit as many of them as possible.

In the back of the house, near the kitchen, you hear glass shatter.

They’re in. You clench your fists at your sides, watching as the front door slowly gives way. Three… two… one…

The door breaks open, swinging inwards as the first gunmen step into the foyer—

And then the door snaps off its hinges and slams into the men, taking them out like bowling pins.

Strike, a small, inane part of your brain giggles.

Shouts go up through the house. You can hear the sounds of rushed footsteps, shattering glass, and what sounds like people being bodyslammed through tables (and, given the type of people fighting for your side, it just might be that). Gunfire pierces the air –and is accompanied by the telltale, metallic plinks of the bullets ricocheting off your husband’s armor.

Angry screams emanate from the front step. Men barge in, firing down the hall, towards some unseen target (likely Alex or Nate, given the door trick).

You wait until as many men are piled into the foyer as possible, then send down a downdraft that blows out the windows on either side of the door.

The gunmen tumble to the floor, swearing in a mixture of English and Italian.

Nate, Wade, and Neena swoop in. They descend upon the mafia men like a pack of wolves, breaking bones, dislocating joints, and cracking skulls as they disarm –and, in some cases “un-alive”—the gunmen.

“It’s raining men!” Wade sings as he runs one of his katanas through the gut of one assailant. “Hallelujah! It’s raining men!” He ramps off a nearby wall, then t-bags another man before stabbing him through the temple. “Amen!”

You crouch, tracking the movement of the scuffle. You tense when you see a couple of the men jump Nathan, then charge towards the railing and dive over when a few more try to break past to run down the hallway. You flip in the air, land in the hallway ahead of them, and unleash a blast of wind right in their faces.

The mafia men fly out through the front door. They sail over half the front drive, then bounce off the gravel surface and roll several times before coming to a stop.

You let out a harsh breath, then dart down the hall towards the kitchen when you hear glass shattering and the sound of Frank bellowing angrily.

The kitchen and rec room are a mess. Glass shards from shattered windows coat the floor, glittering before being crushed underfoot. Doors are cracked from having people slammed into them. The rec room couch is overturned –and is sagging suspiciously on one side, hinting at a cracked frame. The entertainment system is shattered, with smoking bullet holes littering the TV, speakers, and media systems.

Frank has one of the guys pinned down over the sink. He’s snarling as he uses the lip of the sink to choke the guy out. There’s blood smeared his lips and chins, trailing back up to his chin.

Another gunman stalks in through the dining room, gun trained on Frank’s head.

You whip a blast of air at the second man, sending him sailing into the wall so hard the drywall cracks.

He drops to the ground, unconscious.

There’s some terrified shrieking –and then a gunman is punted up and out of the basement stairwell. He sails through the kitchen window headfirst, crumpling in a heap in the hedges outside.

Your husband storms up the staircase, teeth bared in an angry snarl. The waning daylight glints off his metal exterior, almost making him look like some sort of avenging angel. He stops short when he sees you, though; his irate expression vanishes, replaced by concern. “Ty v poryadke?”

You manage a smile and flash him a thumbs up—

And then a truck with a Gatling gun strapped to the roof rolls up to the back door.

“Get down!” Frank hollers before tackling you to the ground behind the kitchen island.

The room explodes into chaos. Bullets plow into the walls, sending up spurts of drywall dust in their wake. Wooden doorframes and floorboards crack, unleashing cascades of splinters in every direction. Glass shatters, raining down upon everything in its reach.

Frank positions himself over you, shielding you as fragmented bullets rain down upon your both. He cups your head with his hands, doing his best to protect you from the hellfire.

Over the din, you can just make out a loud, angry bellow –and then the sound of bullets hitting metal. Heavy, deliberate stomps make the floor shake.

The gunfire cuts off. A shriek pierces the air just before you hear what sounds like a car being tossed into a tree.

(As you’ll discover later, that’s precisely what you heard.)

Frank lifts his head, then carefully rolls off you. He crouches next to you and holds out a hand. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Your ears are ringing, and you’re pretty sure you’ve got glass shards and splinters in your hair, but you’ve been worse. You take his hand, flinching when you hear the sound of more gunfire outside.

Frank peers over the lip of the island. “Reinforcements. At least five more cars headed our way.”

You suck in a breath. “Piotr—”

“Is holding his own for now,” Frank says.

“I’m gonna help him,” you rasp out. “Make sure everyone in the house that’s not on our side… stays down. And that we’ve still got all our people.”

Frank nods, then runs off towards the foyer.

You catch your breath, then creep towards the back door (better safe than sorry). You flatten yourself against the wall next to the doorway, then peer around the broken frame.

Piotr’s facing off against the new influx of cars. He’s got one hand on the hood of one Range Rover, arm extended out like he’s fending off a five-year-old. With his other hand, he flips another SUV over, causing the thing to land on its roof and putting the vehicle squarely out of commission.

Your stomach sinks when five more Range Rovers tear across the lawn, leaving deep, muddy tracks in their wake –and are followed by three more trucks with Gatling guns attached to the roofs. You sprint out the door, take a flying leap over Piotr, then send out a shockwave of air when you land on the ground.

A few of the cars fly backwards, rolling across the lawn like tumbleweeds. A majority of them, however, manage to stay upright or bump into each other and recover.

Your eyes widen when one of the Gatling gun operators aims directly at you. Shit.

Piotr leaps in front of you, whirling so his back is to the gun. He curls his body over yours, shielding you as gunfire rains down on you both.

You grit your teeth, grunting. You can feel the impact of the gunfire resonating through your husband’s metal body. Worry clutches at your heart when Piotr lets out sharp, ragged groans; he’s largely invulnerable in his armor, not to mention his sense of touch is severely dulled, but you know that with shit like this he’s still feeling some sort of pain –and there’s nothing you can do. You’re both pinned down, and as powerful as your shockwaves are, they’re not enough to stop or even skew the trajectory of a bullet—

Blue light washes over both of you. The sound of the gunfire wanes, replaced by warbling, pinging noises instead.

You peer around Piotr’s side to see Illyana standing between the two of you and the oncoming cars. She has her arms outstretched, palms facing the onslaught of adversaries. A shimmering, sky blue shield with various magical incantations floating through it surrounds all of you, stretching into the sky for at least forty feet.

Illyana grunts. She’s being shoved backwards from the force of impact from the bullets. Her feet are digging into the ground, leaving ruts as she tries to hold her stance. “We need new plan!”

“How about ‘stay alive?’” Piotr shouts back as he digs shrapnel out of the grooves on his arms.

Wade, Neena, Nate, and Frank come barreling out the back door, faces streaked with soot and blood. They dive for the ground, covering the backs of their heads and necks with their hands—

An explosion goes off inside the mansion. The shockwave shatters windows on both the first and second floor, blowing out window frames and trim.

Piotr covers your body with his once more. He cups your head with his hand, shielding you from the falling debris and the worst of the shockwave.

You cough and hack as smoke billows out the broken windows and doors. You do your best to make a vortex to suck the smoke away and send it up into the air. Your lungs burn, and your ears are ringing like a bell from all the gunfire and the explosion—

Four more gunmen emerge from the smoke pouring out the back door.

You snarl, then whip blasts of air at them, slamming them into the exterior walls of the house.

One of them goes down, while the other three are merely stunned.

Mikhail comes barreling out next. He lets out a guttural battle cry, then sucker punches one of the men in the back of the head before aiming a blast of rust colored energy at another’s gut.

The man screams as he sails into the air, arcing over the tree line and disappearing somewhere in the canopies.

The third man aims his gun at Mikhail –then staggers and drops to the ground when a beam of golden energy sears through his chest.

Alex storms out of the smoke with Artemis and your uncle trailing close behind her. She glares down the remaining gunmen and cars, teeth bared in a vicious snarl. Blood is flecked across her face and spattered over her leather jacket. “House is clear!”

“Yeah, except now we’re about to be cleared out!” Wade hollers back. “As in, ‘all sales final, no returns, no exchanges!’”

“If we could make plan,” Illyana screams, voice strained with the effort of holding the shield, “would be very great!”

You look over to Alex –and see her eyes widen. You whirl towards the gunmen just in time to see one of them aim a rocket launcher at all of you. “Oh, for the love of—”

The first hit is technically deflected by Illyana’s shield, insomuch that the projectile and the shield both shatter the moment they meet. The force of the magic breaking sends out a shockwave of blue energy that flies backwards into all of you, knocking those who managed to get up back off their feet and stunning the rest of you.

You groan, head reeling. Your vision clears slowly, casting double images when you move too quickly. Shit.

You can make out Piotr, just next to you. He’s lying face down on the lawn, grunting and moving in slow, clumsy movements. He turns his head, brow furrowing when he sees you, and reaches out towards you.

You extend your hand to grab his –but he’s just out of your reach, no matter how far you strain. Your body feels heavy with fatigue and pain; everything inside you is screaming to get up, to fight, to keep moving because death is knocking right on your door, and you’ll be damned if this is how you go out—

Alex recovers first –no surprise there. She shoves herself to her feet, seething and growling like a feral beast. She hurls a blast of energy at one of the cars –and, from the sounds of the carnage, makes a direct hit. She storms towards the sea of mafia men like an avenging angel, hell bound on vengeance and blood.

Audible gasps go up from the amassed assassins.

You lift your head to see several of the gunmen backing away from the mansion and crossing themselves with shaking hands. You chalk it up to Alex being Alex, and make to drop your head back against the ground once more—

And then you see Allison standing in the ruined doorway.

She’s glaring down the gunmen with a viciousness that doesn’t suit the youthful roundness of her face. Her brows are knit together, and her mouth is twisted into an ugly scowl. Her eyes are glowing a brilliant shade of blue and give off little wisps of azure colored smoke. Her skin and hair are smoking as well, creating an aura around her body. Blood drips down from her nose and onto her shirt –which is stained with ash and soot. There are burn marks and indents on her wrists from where the repression cuff and the handcuffs used to be, respectively, but the restraints themselves are gone.

The ground begins to shake. Two patches of cerulean light appear underneath the grass, growing larger until they form swirling vortexes of magical energy. The ground begins to crumble at the edges of the portals, eroding away and growing wider until they make gaping tunnels that channel so deeply into the earth there’s no telling how far they truly go.

You recoil when the smell of sulfur and smoke blenches forth from the tunnels. Shit, did she hit a gas line? Fucking dammit, like this day can get any worse—

Echoing, blood-chilling howls emanate from the tunnels.

Your eyes widen –and then your heart starts working overtime when you see two, then four massive hellhounds (like the ones Allison summoned at the mall) crawl out of the tunnels.

Shrieks of terror sound from the gunmen. Several take off running, while others try to shoot the beasts.

The hounds snap and snarl at the gunmen, then charge at the group. Two of them go off after the runners, while the other two start lunging after the assassins like they’re rabbits.

You stare at the chaos in disbelief –and then a set of strong hands grab you underneath the arms.

“Get up.” You uncle tugs you to your feet, keeping you steady when you stumble. “You can’t be in the flow of traffic for this.”

Behind you, Allison is panting like she’s run a marathon. The aura of blue smoke is growing around her, trailing into the air and floating over the ground. Veins of light spread across her face and arms, glowing the same shade of vibrant blue as her eyes. Her breathing grows louder and more ragged, until she’s growling and shaking with each exhale— and then she screams.

Much like the first confrontation in the cemetery, all those months ago, the scream unleashes a shockwave of blue energy. This time, though, the shockwave is far from a decoy for escape. It washes over you, the X-Force, your uncle, the other Rasputins, Frank, and Artemis harmlessly enough –then slams into the mafia forces and vehicles like the wall of a hurricane.

Alex charges after the shockwave, carefully trailing behind it. She waits until it clears the first line of gunmen, then slams her fist into the face of the man closest to her. She blocks his attempt to strike her, then twists his arm –dislocating the shoulder, which makes him shriek in pain. Then, she wrenches his rifle away from him. She shoots him once in the center of his forehead, then turns the firearm on his fellow men and keeps firing.

Mikhail and Artemis go after the one surviving Gatling gun. Mikhail teleports onto the truck bed; he sweeps the back of one man’s jacket over his head, effectively blinding him, then kicks the other man present in the balls before shoving him over the side of the truck.

Artemis, on the other hand, stops a few feet away from the truck. She uses her telekinesis to rip the Gatling gun off its mount, then yanks the driver out through the windscreen –headfirst, no less—and dumps him on the lawn.

He doesn’t get back up.

“Come on,” your uncle says, pointing towards the further reaches of the property, where some of the gunmen are still trying to outrun the hellhounds. “Let’s give the dogs a helping hand.”

The two of you reach out, creating a wind current that slices through the air and slams into the stragglers.

The men careen into nearby hedges –and the hellhounds have it from there.

The familiar sonic blast of Nathan’s gun rips through the air. The shot slams into the last remaining SUV, rendering the vehicle to little more than glass shards and mangled metal.

The back lawn and gardens fall silent, save for the sounds of groans of pain and the hellhounds chewing on various gunmen.

Mikhail takes a fall off the back of the truck bed. He flops onto the ruined grass below, limbs splaying like a rag doll’s. “Alright. Is time for nap. Wake me… never.”

Illyana scoffs from where she’s sat next to a smoldering bush. She picks up a nearby stone, then chucks it at her eldest brother’s head (and hits her target, no less). “There is still clean up. Bezdel'nik.”

Mikhail flips her off, then groans as he rubs the bridge of his nose.

“She’s right,” Alex lectures her eldest as she picks her way through the carnage. She nudges one body with the toe of her combat boot, then shoots him through the temple when he groans.

“Mama!” Piotr gapes at her, expression scandalized. He sputters, looking between her and the body at her feet.

“Chto? Vy khotite yego zhivym? Chtoby on mog dolozhit' svoim khozyayevam? Chtoby on mog obrushit' adskiy ogon' na etu shkolu i vsekh, kogo vy lyubite? No –no.” She holds up her index finger and stares sternly at Piotr when he tries to argue. “You do not leave enemies on your six o’clock, medvezhonok. First rule of survival.”

Piotr swallows hard, then says softly, “X-Men do not kill.”

Alex shrugs. “And I am not an X-Man.”

“We’ll handle it,” Nathan says. He holds his hand out for Alex’s rifle, nodding when she hands it to him after a moment’s hesitation.

(Wade and Frank are already working their way through the sea of dead and wounded. Frank’s traversing the chaos methodically, sticking to minimal shots to kill the survivors, while Wade’s alternating between singing “Dancing Queen” and getting post-mortem revenge.

“You shot my dick off inside!” Wade gasps as he peers down at a –slightly chewed on—corpse. “Extra bullets for you!” He then shoots the dead body several times before resuming his pitchy serenade.)

“What now?” Allison asks, staring out at the carnage with a slightly shocked expression.

“‘What now?’” Artemis repeats, laughing incredulously. She stomps towards Allison, pulling a pack of tissues out of her inner jacket pocket. “What the hell are you even doing out here? You were supposed to stay in the safe room—”

“They had cameras in there,” Allison says with a roll of her eyes, as if that justifies her decision to join the fracas. “You guys were getting your asses kicked.”

“We would’ve handled it.”

“Yeah, except you weren’t,” Allison fires back. She scrunches up her face when Artemis starts wiping the blood off her face, but otherwise takes the mothering without any complaint.

“It’s not your responsibility to deal with this shit,” Artemis says, voice and expression softening for a moment. She cleans up Allison’s face –then scowls. “And where the fuck are your cuffs? How did you even get out of them?”

Allison shrugs. “I used my powers to short the repression cuff out and ash it off.”

Illyana’s, Alex’s, and your uncle’s heads all snap around to stare at Allison.

“Are you kidding me?” Artemis hisses through clenched teeth. “You could’ve fucking killed yourself!”

“Or caused magical paradox that ripped hole in space-time continuum,” Illyana snaps.

“Ruptured blood vessels in your brain and caused an aneurysm, made the cuff deliver a lethal electrical shock, turned your magic against your own body and rendered yourself to ash,” your uncle continues, ticking off items on his fingers.

“Well, I didn’t do any of that!” Allison snarls, glaring at the others while Artemis keeps cleaning up her face. “And I made sure you losers won the fight –so fuck off!”

“Get her something to eat and drink,” Alex says. “Her blood sugar is bound to be low after pulling a stunt like that.”

Artemis glares at Alex and opens her mouth to respond—

Across the yard, Wade lets out a pained shriek. “My balls are not fetch toys! Bad Fido! Bad!”

Your eyes widen as you watch one of the hellhounds swing Wade around by his legs. You bite down on your lip, holding in a shock-induced laugh.

“Where’s this mutt’s off-switch –hey, hey! No!” Wade wriggles in the hellhound’s mouth, panicking as another beast bounds towards him. “My spine is not a tug toy! Can someone get rid of Fido and Rufus before they rip me in half!”

Allison snorts –then, before anyone can stop her, holds out her hand and flicks her wrist.

All four hellhounds melt back into the ground, disappearing to the depths of hell from whence they came.

Artemis swears under her breath, then catches the teen when she stumbles. She moves frantically, grabbing more tissues as blood starts pouring out of Allison’s nose once more. “You fucking idiot. Why the fuck did you do that? When are you going to fucking learn that you’re not invincible—”

Allison lets out a sharp, hoarse laugh –then passes out.

…

The wreckage inside the mansion is heartbreaking.

You stare at the ruined furniture, the scorched walls, the splintered doors, the ruined rec room and kitchen, and you have to wonder what was the fucking point?

Part of you understands that the mafia came prepared for war; they were going up against powerful mutants, so –naturally—they would want to be prepared. Having the strongest, most powerful weapons available increased their chances of success. Logically –from a strictly tactical standpoint—it makes sense.

Glass crunches under your shoes. You stare down at a litany of fallen picture frames, heart wrenching as you stare at the ruined pictures of graduates, students, and workers inside. We’re just a school. We work with kids. What was the point of trying to wipe us out?

Piotr ambles up behind you. He puts his arms around your shoulders and kisses the top of your head. “Cleaners and repairmen will be here in less than one hour.”

You feel numb. You place your hand on his arm. “That’s good.”

“We have back ups of pictures,” he murmurs. He kisses your cheek. “Insurance to cover replacing damaged items. We will be fine.”

“I know.” You sigh, leaning back against your husband’s chest. “We’re just a school. What… what was the point? Why try to wipe us out?”

“I do not know.” Piotr kisses your other cheek, hugging you reassuringly. “Perhaps they believed we knew information about ‘family business.’ Or that we were protecting Allison for some reason.”

“She’s just a kid,” you argue, voice breaking as your grief and exhaustion wells up and threatens to overtake you. “She’s only thirteen…”

Piotr says nothing, merely holds you closer.

You sigh—

And then a door slams. Hurried stomps echo down the hall. There’s creaking as a door opens again, followed by more footsteps and exasperated shouts.

Allison storms past you and Piotr, heading towards the kitchen. Her jaw is set, fists clenched at her sides.

You and Piotr look at each other –then follow after her, if only to be sure that nothing else is going to explode today.

She slams her hands down on the island counter –and, on the opposite side, Frank and Karen both flinch and stare at her warily.

Allison glares at Frank, jaw working convulsively. Her shoulders heave with each breath she takes. Her eyes shine with unshed tears, making the bags underneath seem darker and deeper by comparison. She trembles, expression flickering wildly between grief, white hot rage, and the neutral mask she’s trying so desperately to hold. She sucks in a breath that sounds more like a pained sob, then stares Frank down and spits out through gritted teeth, “You leave my people alone, I leave yours alone. Deal?”

Frank sighs. He nods, expression heavy with grief and eyes shining with remorse. “Yeah, kid. You got a deal.”

Allison clenches the edge of the island so hard her hands go white. She lets out a strangled, angry laugh as the tears finally start to fall. She ducks her head briefly, then glares back up at Frank. “I fucking hate you.”

Frank grimaces, but nods and says, “I know kid. It’s okay. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

“That ain’t worth shit.”

“I know… believe me, I know.”

Artemis –who’d previously been watching at the kitchen threshold—steps forward and puts her arm around Allison’s shoulders. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s go.”

Allison clenches her teeth together, but still lets out a choked sob. She presses her lips together, looking around the room to try and regain her composure, to stop the flow of tears. She manages a deep breath, then takes one last look at Frank and snarls, “If I have to see your fucking face again, I’m ripping out your guts,” before storming out of the room.

Frank, to his credit, doesn’t respond (though you suspect he feels too guilty to even consider arguing). He merely hangs his head, expression that of a kicked dog.

Karen leans against him. She interlocks her fingers with his, murmuring in his ear (likely about how it isn’t his fault, and while it looks like that may technically be the case, you’re glad you don’t have to walk the spider’s silk of a line those facts lie upon).

What a shitshow.

Piotr puts an arm around your shoulders and gently leads you out of the kitchen. “Come on, myshka. Let’s go find spot to rest.”

…

Frank and Karen leave shortly after “making the deal” with Allison.

Allison and Artemis hang back for a bit to talk to Xavier. You don’t get all the gorey details but from what you can tell, it’s essentially an offer to help train Allison’s powers so she doesn’t hurt herself rolled in with a warning to keep her nose clean, stay on the straight and narrow, etcetera etcetera.

The sun’s just starting its descent from the sky before the two of them walk out of the meeting room.

Allison is wearing Artemis’s jacket and looks downright haggard.

Artemis has her arm around the teen and is gently guiding her while she talks to Xavier (though, perhaps the term “talk” is too generous, considering most of her responses are nods or terse, one-to-two word replies).

The rest of the Rasputin family, you, Piotr, and your uncle are all gathered in the foyer to make sure Allison and Artemis leave without too much trouble (or causing more trouble themselves).

Your uncle is sweating bullets and looks like he just shit his pants; he’s glancing between Alex and their daughter so fast it’s a miracle he hasn’t given himself a headache yet.

Now or never, you think, watching him with pursed lips. Tell your secrets before they’re told for you.

Alex kneels down next to Allison. “Are you okay?”

Allison’s gaze doesn’t leave the floor. “The fuck do you think?”

She quirks her mouth to the side. “Not all that good.” Alex ducks her head lower, trying to catch Allison’s gaze. “You remember what we talked about?”

Allison’s eyes narrow. She moves her gaze away from Alex. “Go to hell. I know what I know.”

“Sometimes… it’s better to not,” Alex says. She stares at Allison for a moment longer, then pats her shoulder before standing and walking away.

Artemis stares after Alex, expression morphing rapidly between fury and shock. She sputters for a moment before snapping, “What –that’s all you have to fucking say?”

Alex pauses, turning slightly so she can see Artemis. She raises one eyebrow, otherwise looking unbothered. “Is there something else I should be saying?”

“You don’t have anything to say to me?” Artemis presses, crossing her arms over her chest. “Nothing at all?”

“Is there something you want me to say to you?” Alex fires back, smirking slightly.

Artemis stares at Alex for a long, hard moment. She shakes her head, eyes welling up with tears, then turns her glare onto your uncle. “You really didn’t fucking tell her.”

“What?” Alex’s expression sobers, going wary as she looks between your uncle and Artemis. “What didn’t you—”

“This really isn’t the time or place—” Your uncle tries.

And here it goes.

“I’ve gotta do all the work, then,” Artemis snarls with a vicious smile. “Yeah, I guess that makes sense, considering I’m not your favorite,” she tacks on with an angry glare towards you. She storms towards Alex, one hand outstretched, with a cruel, angry smile stretched across her face. “Hey, mom. How’s it going?”

Alex’s eyes widen. She stares at Artemis, eyes tracking over the younger woman’s face. “What…”

“You fucking heard me.”

Illyana, Piotr, and Mikhail look at each other, then at Alex, then at Nikolai. They explode into confused Russian, gesturing between their parents, Artemis, and your uncle—

Realization dawns in Alex’s dark eyes. Her expression trembles, tears welling up in her eyes as she stares at Artemis’s face.

And then she uses her telekinesis to yank your uncle over and decks him.

[bbugyu]

no warning + xu minghao

he saw you laying there, swimming in his pillows, and suddenly he never wanted you to leave.

wc.2803 | smut, fluff, this is some real sappy shit, fuckbuddies to crushbuddies, artist/uni au, yall probably go to nyu or sumn, cursing, mentions of alcohol use, fem reader (sorry), realization of feelings mid-coitous, someone please stop me from writing more vanilla porn

suddenly just really needed to write this? idk man. based off the song sleeping in my t-shirt by zak waters! because apparently i only write fics abt boys getting turned on by their partner wearing their clothes.

*

"fuck, i am so not excited to walk home. it's so cold outside."

"stay, then."

you both had only just slipped your underwear on when the words came from minghao, and you watched as he settled back into his pillows and lifted an arm for you to lay under, a far cry from what had happened on those pillows less than five minutes earlier. you thought of his hand on the back of your neck, pushing you into the mattress while he fucked you silly from behind, and you decided you must still be drunk when you spotted his shirt hanging off the side of the bed, pulled it over your head, and settled into his side.

the two of you exclusively met under the cover of nightfall, but you never slept. an unspoken agreement, that the two of you used each other to relieve stress and fill a need, not for comfort or love. minghao was a man of few words. you never spoke to him much outside of quick conversations and whatever filthy shit he felt like saying while you were under him, but he seemed intelligent and kind. you met him the first time at a school run art show that you were both in. you really loved his paintings, and he made an insightful comment about the societal implications of your mixed media sculpture before you were dragging each other into a bathroom.

minghao was fun, you thought. you were compatible, probably, considering how good of a lay he was, but it had never even crossed your mind to let it go any further than that. you knew he felt the same way - minghao was someone that couldn't not be honest - happy to call upon you at 1 in the morning when he was feeling needy, or to come home with you when you ran into each other at a party, but always walking you to his apartment building's entrance or slipping out of your dorm room before either of you could even think about spending the night. he was candid. knew what he wanted. you did, too, and neither of you thought you wanted anything more than you had.

when minghao was suddenly ripped from sleep by his hangover, he winced into his palm and rolled out of bed. stumbling only once, he made his way to the bathroom to chug a glass of water and immediately take a piss. he pushed a thumb between his eyebrows to attempt to alleviate some pressure, a steadying hand landing the wall in the hall outside his bedroom.

he blinked and looked into his room, noticing the figure on his bed for the first time since waking. you were framed by the doorway, your beautiful curves barely hidden under his own shirt. the thin fabric cascaded down your skin in a way that made gravity look like an artist and you it's canvas. his cloudy brain felt clear, suddenly, and he struggled to understand why. minghao stared at your form, knowing full well that you could make his hot blood pump, but since when did you start making his heart race?

he closed his door behind him as quietly as he could. almost cautiously, minghao returned to his bed, pulling at the loose covers until they were over both of your bodies. he stared at your sleeping face for a moment, wondering if he had ever seen anything so beautiful in his life. his fingers itched for a paintbrush as he hovered over you, elbows planted on either side of your ribcage. you stirred slightly, and he shoveled a hand under your waist and pulled you into his chest, placing a gentle kiss on your cheek.

as you awoke, you squinted at minghao's ear, recognizing it but still slightly confused. you resigned to letting out a soft groan as his lips moved to your neck. "what's all this?"

"you stayed the night," minghao said, pulling back to let his eyes flick across your face, brushing your hair from your lips as your arms settled around his shoulders. the early morning light that peeked through his curtains made you think that it was far too soon after you had passed out to be awake again, but you thought it highlighted his features well. "you never stay the night."

you kept squinting at him, doing your best to remember the night before as your fingers carded through his hair. "you told me to."

the smile on his lips was brief, but didn't go unnoticed. he kissed down your jaw, expertly pulling a small noise of enjoyment from your lips, his fingers splaying under his shirt across your waist, feeling as much of you as he could before skating it over your ass and down your thigh. you gasped when he bit at the vein below your ear, causing your thighs to part just enough for him to slip his hand over your clothed core. you groaned again, wiggling your hips slightly as you stretched, still working through your sleepiness.

"are you not satisfied?" you joked, your voice laced with the fragments of a yawn. you felt his lips part on your neck, and you had half a mind to believe he was smiling as he slowly began rubbing you above the fabric of your underwear.

"i don't think i can ever get enough of you."

a low moan left your dry lips, and you bit at them as he teased you, gripping any part of him you could - his hair, shoulders, bicep. it took a moment, but your arousal woke soon after you. your limbs tingled in anticipation as his long, lean fingers ran across your slit, giving you less than you wanted. "minghao, please."

"shh," he brought his face to yours, planting a kiss on your lips between your whimpers. "patience."

minghao knew you. and he knew your patience was thin. even still, he enjoyed the noises that fell from you as he circled your clit, feeling the moisture gather at your perfect tight hole. swiftly, he pulled aside your panties and swirled his middle finger in your juices, pushing the prepared finger into you. you gasped, clutching him closer. "f-fuck."

he admired the way your eyebrows knit together, your eyes squeezed shut. he kissed along your neck again, making your curl your nails into the back of his neck, surely leaving crescent moon imprints as he pumped a finger into you, his palm rubbing against you in a way that made you squirm. your breath was labored, maybe still partially asleep, and you couldn't help the sustained moan that tumbled from your lips when he added his ring finger. you wondered, briefly, how a man's hand could feel as good as his. how he managed to park you right outside of an orgasm just by pumping a couple fingers into your vaguely sore pussy. 

and he kissed you. it wasn't the first time, of course, your mouths had been all over each other many times before. but the way he slotted his lips against yours made you whine, thighs squeezing shakily around his wrist. he slowed his pumping slightly, working your lips into the open mouthed kisses he craved from you. you gasped into his mouth, and he curled his fingers in you, pushing skillfully against his favorite spot of yours. your eyes opened, eyebrows raised and staring at him in awe of the feeling. he watched you a moment, hair splayed across his pillow, and wondered how many times he had underappreciated this view.

"h-hao-"

he kissed you quickly. "yes?"

"please let me cum."

he looked at the clock on his bedside table. "it's only six in the morning and you wanna cum?"

you pushed a frustrated closed fist against his chest. "you started this, you better finish it."

normally, your attitude would have earned you an extra five minutes of teasing and a stinging red handprint on your ass, but minghao found your blown out pupils and your sleep riddled gaze endearing. he kissed you again, curling his fingers as he pumped into you. you let out a squeal, hands moving from his chest to his shoulders to his neck, trying to grip any amount of him as you tried to hold on through your orgasm. you trembled as his fingers slowed in you, letting him place gentle kisses all across your face. you blushed, unused to the intimacy. if you were in a less dazed state, you would have commented on it, but minghao's palm kept you quiet as it unhurriedly rubbed against your almost overstimulated nub, fingers remaining in you.

despite your release, you ground against his hand, biting at your lip again. the corner of minghao's mouth quirked upwards, pleased with your responsiveness. "do me a favor, baby."

you blinked, your hands landing on his chest as he began pumping his fingers again. "what kind?" you asked, forcing the words out instead of the whines that wanted to escape you. 

"grab a rubber."

your hand immediately went to the table, feeling for the drawer handle. you peeked once to pull it open before shoving a hand into the abyss, fumbling for the familiar foil packet. minghao admired the way your chest rose and fell, the way your thighs moved slightly as he worked you up again. the way your eyes shone at him slightly when you successfully presented a condom to him. he chuckled lightly, his hand never leaving your core as he forced his boxer briefs down his hips. he pulled back until he was sitting between your legs, discarding his underwear. "you know where it goes."

your back arched at his fingers brushing against a sensitive spot before he helped you up, pulling you by the arm with his free hand, the angle of his fingers changing and pulling a wanton moan from your lips. with half lidded eyes, you ripped the shirt from your body, minghao's hand running up your side to caress a mound while you tore open the condom and rolled it down his length, hands lingering on the member as you felt your mouth water. he scissored his fingers in you before squeezing your thigh and pulling the fingers out. you watched, mouth slightly agape, as he sucked your juices off his own hand.

you hardly even registered him pulling your panties down your legs, but every part of you felt on fire as he pushed you back onto the bed, caging you in as he readied himself at your entrance.

you were gripping his jaw when his hips pushed into yours, and you moaned into his parted lips. "fuck, you feel good."

minghao would have returned the sentiment if he could think of anything to say, but his mind was blank as he sank into you, suddenly realizing that the feeling of you was much more intoxicating than any liquor he had ever had. he slipped his hands under you, lifting your bare chest to press against his, wrapping his arms around your body. you whined as he thrusted into you, his pelvis rubbing against your sensitive nub, your fingers grasping at his jaw and sinking into the hair at his nape as he groaned against your lips.

"fuck, hao-" feeling your breath, short and hot against his ear, was the only thing that made him realize his forehead had sunk to the pillow beside you. he attempted to compose himself, pulling back, pressing a hand into your hip and pushing into you slower than his previous pace. your hands stayed on his neck, and he stared down at you.

"the sun suits you," he said. and with only those four words, you realized that minghao needed more from you than your previously agreed upon arrangement. you also realized that you might need more, too. your fingers brushed aside the hair falling over his brow, and you pulled him back down to kiss you. despite the fact that he never asked, and you never responded, he knew your lips on his was a confirmation. the resounding yes you had given him was never vocalised, but he tasted it on your tongue as it fought with his, felt the electricity in your fingers as they dug into his hair and gripped at his shoulders. he knew it from the way your legs wrapped around his hips, pulling him even closer to you.

you gasped when his pace quickened slightly, the familiar coil winding tightly in your gut. "minghao," you whined, pressing your head into the pillow. "right there."

he let out a delicious low groan at the way you tightened around him, his hips almost stuttering to a stop just then. his grip surely bruised your hip as he held his own end back, continuing to roll into you until you were babbling against his lips, a white hot wave washing over your body. you quaked against him, and he held your jaw steady, foreheads together, as your tight walls milked him dry.

you were panting, staring up his eyelashes against his cheek. you had always thought minghao looked intimidating, even when he was laying you out. but, in this moment, as he opened his eyes slowly, all you saw was a boy finally giving into something he wanted.

he kissed you, his lips pressing gently against yours. you let out a small noise when his lips moved, letting your head fall to the side as he worked down your neck again. you whined as he slipped out of you, desperately trying to keep your grip on one of his hands as he sat up to trash the rubber. he laced his fingers with yours, his other hand running up your torso and his lips settling on the peak of a breast.

"minghao," you warned, gripping his hand tighter. again, you could have sworn you felt him smile against your skin as he worked his way down your body. he ran his hand down your thigh, pushing it to the side to open you up. "w-what are you doing?"

"nothing," he muttered against your inner thigh, slipping his hand from yours to push your other thigh out of his way. he placed kisses on your thigh in a line, pointed directly to your core. your hands gripped at the sheets, at his hair, anything they could when he licked a stripe up your slit. you moaned, your back arching off the mattress as he pulled your thighs over his shoulders.

his tongue gently lapped at your spent pussy, and it took everything in you to not squeeze his head between your thighs every time the tip of his tongue flicked against your clit.

minghao knew your body better than anyone. he knew your weaknesses and your sensitive spots. his lips felt like worship, and his hands ran up your body like he was making sure you didn't drift away. you wrapped your fingers around one of his hands, sighing when he laced his fingers with yours. "what did i do to deserve this?"

you caught a moment of eye contact when he looked up to you, giving you a bit of reprieve from his tongue against your core. "stayed over."

a laugh fell from your lips. "is that all?"

he ran his tongue through your folds again, eyes meeting yours. "be your beautiful self."

your face burned, partially from the state he had brought you to with his mouth, and somewhat because of the words that left his lips. a moan surprised you on its way out your lips as he slipped a digit into you, curling directly into your g spot. your knuckles turned white against his as he dug a third orgasm from you, your legs shaking helplessly as he held his tongue against you.

it took you yanking on minghao's hair before he pulled away from you, and you panted with your head buried in his pillows. "c'mere."

you didn't have to ask twice. minghao licked his lips and wiped at them briefly, licking his finger clean again, then wasted no time as he crawled back up to lay with you. your arms found his shoulders easily and he wrapped his around your torso, pulling you into his chest as he settled. your heart skipped a beat when he pressed a kiss against your cheek, and you wondered what the hell you had been doing keeping him as a booty call when he could make love like that.

"do you wanna get breakfast?"

you couldn't help but laugh at the sudden question.

"later, i mean," minghao clarified. "after more sleep."

"are you asking me out, hao?"

it was his turn to laugh, his hand running down your side. "uh, yeah. i am, i guess."

you smiled, your palm resting on his jaw as you kissed him. "i'd love to."

[tothemeadow]

kinktober: Sanemi’s a naughty brat who needs to be put in his place

Day 1: handcuffs / punishment / begging

warnings: NSFW, degradation, dry humping, handjobs, oral sex, cum swallowing

words: 1,587

(a/n): art is not mine

“Pathetic little brat.”

Sanemi’s blood spikes as you step around him, your shiny shoes glistening in the dim light. He swallows the lump in his throat.

The handcuffs dig into his wrist a bit too much for his liking, his skin turning raw and sore. However, he refuses to utter a single word. It’d be against your orders, after all. The rough fabric of the rug rubs his knees; it burns, the fine bristles marking his skin, but he keeps silent. It’s all for you. Everything is for you.

You stop directly before him, a sneer painted on your face. You drop to a crouch, the fabric of your slacks scrunching around your thighs. It takes every ounce of his willpower to not stare directly at it. Instead, Sanemi keeps his eyes trained on the floor.

“Look at me,” you order. Your voice carries that same husky sound, absolutely sweet to Sanemi’s ears and other regions. He does as he’s told and brings his eyes up to meet yours. “You know what you did, don’t you?” You lightly smack the side of his face. “Speak.”

Immediately, Sanemi’s lips pull back in a snarl. “And handcuffing me is going to make things better? Heh. You fucking wish.”

Your hand clamps around his face, effectively squishing his cheeks and pursing his lips out. “It’s this damn mouth of yours,” you mutter. You don’t yell, but Sanemi knows all too well that you’re seething. “Always backtalking me, cursing whenever you feel like. It upsets me, you know?”

Sanemi pulls at the handcuffs pulling his wrists together. The both of you know he can easily break his way out, but where’s the fun in that? Sanemi enjoys his punishments as much as you enjoy dealing them out. His eyes narrow into a glare.

His chest huffs with each heavy breath, the beads of sweat sticking to his skin glowing in the light. He feels like he can’t properly breathe. You release his cheeks, then, and click your tongue. “Goddamn brat.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Sanemi purrs, a wicked smirk spreading on his face. He grunts when you grab a fistful of his hair and give it a sharp tug.

Leaning in, your lips brush against the outer shell of his ear. “That’s because it is, brat. I feel like I should tie you to the bed and shove a vibrator up your ass.”

Sanemi shudders beneath you.

You continue. “Bad boy. You act like a naughty little brat just for my attention, don’t you? It pisses me off.”

“Like you don’t like showering me with affection and shit,” Sanemi snaps. He jerks his head to the side, his nose brushing against yours. You can feel his hot breath against your face. “Personally, I think you like it when I act like a brat. Or am I wrong?”

“There you go again, running your mouth,” you mutter, glancing down at his lips. You could give in and give him what he wants, but that’s not how things play out here. Bad boys get punished for their behavior, and Sanemi’s is long past due.

Sanemi scoffs as you pull away and bring yourself to a stand. Kicking your foot out, you press right up against the prominent bulge in his pants. Sanemi groans under the pressure, his hips instinctually bucking into your touch, seeking out that delicious friction. And you let him do so – he gradually begins to buck wildly, increasing his pace, all the while his face scrunched in pleasure. What a fool. You know for a fact that he’s trying to not moan out loud.

“What, are you ashamed that you’re getting off to my foot? I’m not even touching you, baby boy.” Sanemi growls at the name you address with, but his hips stutter. Hell, you can even see the patch of precum gathering in the front of his pants. You press your foot down harder.

“Fuck,” Sanemi moans, his head falling forward.

“What?” you hum. A devilish smile blooms on your face. “You like that? Such a little bitch for pain, huh?”

“Fuck you,” Sanemi stutters. He groans when you pull your foot away. His chest heaves, a delightful blush creeping all the way up his neck and face. You lick your lips at the sight.

“You wanna cum, baby? Say you’re sorry and I might just help you.”

“Hell no.” Sanemi furiously shakes his head. Seriously, his pride is starting to get rather annoying. “I don’t have anything to apologize for.”

And, as if to piss you off even further, he quickly shuffles around, shifting onto his stomach. The audacity of this guy – his hips jerk against the rug, that wicked smirk of his returning. Anger swirls inside your tummy, grasps onto your heart.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” you snap. Crouching down once more, you dig your fingers into his hair and yank his head up. “Humping the floor like some filthy mutt? God, you’re so pathetic.”

You’re met with very little struggle as you force him onto his back. Forcing his pants down, you rip them off from his ankles and toss them somewhere behind you. The front of his boxer briefs is so fucking wet that you can’t hold back your snicker. You quickly rid him of the last article of clothing, leaving him completely naked. Arousal pangs at your insides at the sight of his flushed, sweaty body, the angry red head of his cock as it bobs over his stomach.

“Like what you see?” Sanemi mocks.

“Shut the fuck up,” you tell him.

Grabbing onto his cock, you work him at a furious pace; the amount of precum oozing from the tip is more than enough for an easy slide, the wet sounds of his cock fucking into your fist resonating throughout the room. Sanemi pants, his back arching and chest rising towards the ceiling. His dusty nipples are delightfully red and swollen; you grin at his state, knowing he isn’t going to last very long.

“Oh my fuck-“ he curses. “Fuck, that’s so good.”

Enough.

He promptly whines at the loss of contact, his abdomen rippling with want. He looks at you wildly, the whites of his eyes glowing in the dim light. “Why the fuck did you stop?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” you start slowly, your hand clenching onto his muscular thigh. “Maybe it’s because you’re acting like a damn bitch in heat. Where’s my apology, huh?”

Sanemi’s teeth bite down on his bottom lip. You can see the battle in his eyes; he’s debating whether he should continue putting up his pathetic façade or should just give in. He swallows thickly.

Bingo.

“I’m sorry,” he grumbles.

Your nails dig into the flesh of his thigh, making him wince. Another bead of precum swells to the head of his cock. “What was that?”

“I’m sorry,” he says again, although through grit teeth this time. “Would you please make me cum? It feels so fucking good.”

You smirk. “Now, was that so hard?”

Angry tears prick the corners of Sanemi’s eyes. “Fucking Christ-“ He abruptly cuts himself with a loud groan when you duck down and swiftly take the head of his cock in your mouth.

You waste no time; hollowing your cheeks, you suck hard at the bulbous head, flick your tongue at the weeping slit. His cock tastes heady, the heavy weight pressing against your tongue as you lower your mouth on him. His breath catches in his chest and a prominent thunk tells you that he threw his head back.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck! Please, give me more! Your mouth is so fucking hot, oh my god!”

Now, since he asked so nicely, you decide to give in to his pleas. You take his cock further into your mouth, holding your breath as the head reaches your throat. Heat rushes down south as he cries out in pleasure when you swallow around him. Oh, such a lovely baby boy when he’s compliant. You’re absolutely going to wreck him.

You hold his hips down as you continue to suck on him. Pulling back, you lap at the glans, one of your hands reaching down and pumping at the rest of his spit-covered cock. Sanemi keens beneath you, mixtures of your name and curse words filling your ears. Releasing his cock, you quickly duck down, your mouth latching onto one of his balls.

“Fucking shit,” Sanemi hisses. “I’m gonna cum, shit, please keep going.”

You replace your mouth with your hand as you take his cock back into your mouth. You slip the whole way down, a steady stream of air escaping your nostrils. You fight back against your gag reflex as you press your nose into his neatly trimmed pubes. Glancing up, you catch him staring straight at you.

“Oh my god, (y/n)-“ Your name quickly turns into a husky, drawn out moan as his cum shoots straight down your throat. You milk him for what he’s got, fondling his balls and swallowing every single drop of his cum. A good baby only deserves as such, doesn’t he?

When you finally pull off of cock, strings of spit and cum stick to your swollen lips. Sanemi trembles from the force of his orgasm, his face an entirely new shade of red. Licking your lips, you quickly discard your shirt and begin to work at removing your pants.

“It’s my turn, baby boy. Can you do that for me?”

Sanemi eagerly nods his head yes.

[fanfic-collection]

Loki x Reader: Ice Elf Assassin

Who knows what I wrote, have a read, please like and comment if you can, I appreciate that.

It's based on a prompt about people removing hidden weapons while undressing

-

The cold of this land was far different than what you were used to. As an ice elf, you had experience with cold, bitter winds, but Jotunheim? This frigid land chilled you to the bone.

Your boots crunched miserably through the wind as your partner walked lithely beside you, silent and unheard. You were out of your element.

Some great assassin you were turning out to be.

Your thoughts turned back to the shady tavern your companion had met you in. It was not unusual to meet potential employers in such places. You were the sort of assassin who was often hired, quite skilled at your job, lethal, efficient, you were known to get the job done. Even if few people actually knew who you were.

However this patron had set you on edge, he seemed to guess your every move, know your every thought. He was clearly not of that realm, Nornheim, and did not appear to be of the realm he was hiring you to visit. Who he was though, with such a heavy coined purse, perplexed you. Usually you made it in your best interest to know your employers. When you tried to press him, the man laughed it off, merely assuring you he was wealthy enough to compensate you and that you could call him Loki.

“Loki.” That name sounded familiar.

Stealing a glance at the tall man with sharp cheekbones and long black hair, he wore regal green and gold armor. The armor was fitting with his wealthy persona, clearly he was some sort of nobleman, or wealthier. Yet he carried himself with an assured stance, like a warrior, yet always casting furtive glances around, always on the ready for any signs of ambush - just as you did. He was cut out for the life of an assassin just as much as you were. Evidently he was used to watching his back and not trusting those around him. Yet he had wrinkles around his eyes that indicated he was as quick to smile as he was to worry. The heavy green cloak that trailed behind him offered no camouflage in this blue and white barren environment and yet he did not seem to care.

You had clothing for any land you were traveling to, mottled cloaks aimed to disappear into your surroundings. Loki strode with confidence beside you, silently challenging anyone who dare step out and face you. While you could hold your own in an open battle, you preferred to ambush, slit their throats and recede into the night. What this strange man was thinking… as before, you could not fathom.

“The sun is setting.” Loki murmured suddenly.

Your rattling teeth were so loud you almost missed his soft voice. “Yes, it appears so.”

“We need to get shelter.”

You nodded, wrapping your cloak tighter around yourself. “Good idea.” With the fall of night, temperatures would rapidly plunge.

Loki glanced at you, a bemused expression on his face. “I thought ice elves could handle the cold.”

“We can.” You sniffed indignantly. “This wretched place is an entirely different beast altogether.”

“Oh?”

“This isn’t just cold, this is death. What could possibly live out here?” You grumbled, looking around for signs of shelter. Stamping your boots and rubbing your hands together beneath your cloak, you tried to keep blood flowing.

Loki nodded thoughtfully, “I chose correctly in bringing an ice elf at the very least, it seems if I had brought anything else, they’d be dead.”

You shrugged, “Jotunheim is certain death. But if you want to bring death to death, I suppose I’m your best bet.”

“Sounds a bit cliche, no?”

“It would be if it weren’t true.”

Again, Loki nodded thoughtfully.

“I’ve earned my reputation, and I’ve kept my head down too. That’s why you have to know how to contact me.”

A smile spread across Loki’s face, “Yes, the bribes I had to give out to finally reach you could bankrupt a small kingdom.”

“So you’re a prince then?”

“Would you like to know?”

You threw your hands up in the air exasperated, “Yes!”

Loki tapped his chin as he looked back up at the sky, “It’s getting cold. You need shelter.” He turned, saying no more and began to trot away as the winds picked up, whipping the snow covered ground into flurries.

You scrambled to keep up with him, the icy wind burning your throat as the snow stung at any exposed skin. There wasn’t much, as you knew what you were getting into, but the nature of walking for a long distance in the cold always meant some skin eventually was revealed.

Arm held up in front of your face, fighting against the buffeting wind as your field of vision faded to next to nothing, you let out a soft squeak of a scream when a hand reached out and grabbed you through the white out.

The hand tugged at you and suddenly you were in a cave, falling forward and into the armored chest of Loki. Your gloved hands rested on his breast plate as you stared up at him, while he looked down at you, holding your wrists - your clothing caked with snow.

Despite yourself, you felt your cheeks heat up, and for once, you were thankful for the thick scarf wrapped around your face.

Stiffly, Loki righted you, as you forced yourself off his chest and straightened up, each of you clearing your throats.

“Come,” Loki muttered, motioning for you to follow him.

Back a short distance from the mouth of the cave, it took a sharp turn and the howling wind outside was blocked off.

To your surprise, a small green fire sat on the floor flickering lively and warmed the area a small amount.

For an ice elf such as yourself, it may as well have been a blazing bonfire.

You gasped and rushed forward, holding your hands up to the fire and knelt down, allowing yourself to thaw.

Loki chuckled as he leaned against the wall of the cave, watching you.

Biting your gloves, you peeled them off one by one. Throwing caution to the wind you let them drop to the ground with a loud clatter, the hidden daggers within bouncing on the hard cave floor beneath you.

Loki raised his eyebrow as you glanced back at him with a sheepish smile.

Slowly you unwound your scarf, carefully setting it on the ground. Barely visible, but making sure he could see them, were a half dozen throwing stars. You lowered your hood, that you had kept in place with hair sticks. Setting the hair sticks carefully on the ground, you paused to look at them, checking to make sure the poison vials within them were still intact.

And so it went, as you began to undress, making sure your clothes could dry.

Loki walked over and sat beside you, leaning back on his elbow, one knee resting on its side on the ground, the other bent so his boot was flat.

While you took out weapon after weapon, Loki merely took a knife from his boot and held it on the tip of his index finger, balancing it; all the while his gaze was fixated on you.

Finally down to your tunic and trousers, boots removed, and a small arsenal beside you, you turned to openly face Loki. “There, I have no secrets from you.” You said, bowing your head.

Loki hummed thoughtfully as he straightened up. “Do you?”

You narrowed your eyes at him. Slowly you reached up and unclasped a silver chain around your neck.

Loki laughed, “How does that one work?”

“The lock activates barbs. It’s a last effort usually.”

“Your mother’s necklace I imagine.” Loki raised his voice mockingly, “Please sir, don’t take it away from me, it means so much.”

You pursed your lips before scowling at him, “Yes.” You replied shortly.

Loki laughed, “Wonderful. And the others?”

“There’s nothing.”

Loki hummed.

You squinted your eyes and glared at him, “What about what you’re hiding from me?”

“Me?” Loki’s eyebrows rose, feigning offense.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Loki.”

“Where is your money from?”

“Surely you should have researched your employer before agreeing to go to such a deadly realm with him.”

“I can hold my own.”

“Can you? Against me?” Loki leaned forward, pointing his dagger at you.

“Can’t take on a helpless, unarmed elf?”

Loki chuckled darkly, “We both know neither of us is unarmed.”

You grabbed the knife hidden on your thigh holster and leapt to your feet, holding it at the ready.

Loki stood up slowly, dropping his dagger to the ground with a soft clatter. He held his hands up in surrender, head turned to the side warily.

Staring him down, you held the dagger out. “Who are you exactly?”

Loki snapped his fingers and the fire went out.

The cave went black.

The temperature plunged.

You fought the urge to step back, possibly tripping.

From somewhere in front of you, Loki’s voice replied, “I am Loki, prince of Asgard.”

You cursed softly, “Asgardian. I should have known.”

“And I was tasked with executing you for the thorn you’ve been.”

You swallowed hard. Your teeth started to clatter as you began to shiver violently. Even worse was the oppressive blackness of the cave.

“The Allfather is not fond of assassins that aren’t strictly in his employ.”

Your mouth dropped open, “You’re kidding… he hires assassins.”

“More than you know.” Loki replied dryly. “Though usually he’s not so subtle.”

“What?”

“Normally he just sends my brother to murder whoever he needs in daylight. I think an assassin who actually can do such a job would be imperative to Asgard’s security.”

There was a snap of fingers and the flames burst to life again. Feeling began to return to your extremities, and you rubbed at your frigid skin.

Loki walked over and put your mostly dry cloak around you, rubbing his hands through the fabric against your body wherever it was polite. You felt another shiver run through you for entirely different reasons.

Inwardly you wanted to slap yourself, he had just nearly tried to kill you. And yet…

You looked up at him gratefully as his large hands smoothed at the cloak.

“I apologize.” Loki murmured, “It was a formality, I had to know you were as good as they said.”

You nodded, and without realizing, rested your head on his shoulder. Letting out a heavy sigh you closed your eyes, “Yea, it’s fine.”

Loki blinked looking down at you. The corner of his mouth quirked up.

“So, are you going to show me where you keep all your weapons?” You muttered.

“Absolutely not.” Loki replied.

“Someday?” You asked.

Loki chuckled and shook his head.

You touched his thigh abruptly, “Is that one?”

Loki sighed and reached down into his trouser leg, pulling out a wicked jagged dagger, “Yes.”

You blinked, mouth opening and closing. “Oh.”

Snorting, Loki tossed it onto your pile of weapons as he scooped you into his arms, cloak and all. “Come, you need warmth to get you back to the Bifrost. Rest now.”

You nuzzled your face into his neck, too sleepy to realize what you were doing, and slowly drifted off.

Loki’s face flushed pink as he gazed down at you. It had been some time since he had known someone to be so affectionate. He found he quite liked it.

[writing-of-a-british-bitch]

Blame Me- Chapter 3

Fandom: The Walking Dead

Specified gender: Female

Word Count: 5.7K

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x reader,

TW: Cannibalism (thanks Terminus), reference to past major character death, detailed gore, canon typical violence, canon divergence, reference to past child death, angry Daryl (if that counts), Daryl being mean about religion( IG?)

Genre: Horror ig?

Series: Blame Me

Requests: CLOSED

Masterlist

A/N: I will warn you, I kind of got carried away with Chapter 4, so get ready for that tomorrow. This one felt a little rushed, but the ending is worth it (I hope!) Enjoy!

For once, Daryl was cursing himself for being right. Terminus had been too fucking good to be true. Ask too many questions, and apparently, you get eaten. He was lined up, with Glenn, Bob and Rick, and apparently, he was the only one fighting against them. They just sat there and let them tie them up for fucks sake. He couldn't die, not like this. He wouldn't die just to be someones damn meal. Daryl got shoved in front of a trough-like bowl that stretched before the other men who were on either side of him. One look from Rick and Glenn made him pause, and he glared right back, breathing heavily, but he stopped fighting. The room was deadly still as two people dressed in butchers outfit came in, and he went cold. Fuck. They walked to the opposite end, grabbing the hair of a blonde guy at the end and one smacked him with a baseball bat. Once he was out, the other slit his throat, and immediately panic arose, and Glenn started panicking beside him. This continued down the line until it got to Glenn, and Daryl felt the dread building and building in his stomach, watching the blood run through the trough. Shit. Shit. Shit.

Glenn's hair got pulled back, and Daryl could tell the younger man was already apologising to Maggie in his head. The first butcher raised the bat above his head but was stopped when the leader, Gareth walked through.

"Hey, guys, what were your shot counts?" He asked, looking up from the clipboard in his hand. The first guy answered almost instantly with "38" but the guy with the knife hesitated "Hey! Your shot count"

"Crap, man, I'm sorry. It was my first roundup," He sighed. Daryl had to resist making a face of disgust. How could they discuss these things so casually as if they weren't killing people for food right in front of them?

"After you're done here, go back to your point and count the shells. Kaylee won't be gathering them until tomorrow. Oh, and also, did you both register your reports on that girl who tried to escape the other day?" Gareth questioned, raising an eyebrow. Rick narrowed his eyes at the man, while Bob started wriggling, and making small noises to get his attention. Both butchers gave responses of yes simultaneously "Great."

"What happened to her?" One asked, but Daryl couldn't determine which. Didn't fucking care at this point.

"Kaylee's got her. She's a fighter, I'll give her that. She'll break eventually. Don't worry about it," Gareth shrugged.

God these guys really were another level of asshole. If eating people didn't qualify that enough.

"Hey, let me talk to you for a minute! Let me talk to you for a minute. Let me talk to you for a minute!"Bob exclaimed, muffled through the gag. What the hell was he doing? Gareth turned back with an exasperated sigh, crouching down in front of him and yanking the gag out.

"What?"

"Don't do this. We can fix this," Bob tried to reason.

"No, you can't," Gareth rolled his eyes and moved to put the gag back in Bob's mouth.

"You don't have to do this. We told you there's a way out of all this. You just have to take a chance. We have a man who knows how to stop it. He has a cure. We just have to get him to Washington. You don't have to do this, man. We can put the world back to how it was," Now he was being stupid. Gareth was clearly a psychopath, there was no reasoning with a man like him. Daryl was, however, becoming increasingly aware of how long the guy at the end had been dead. He'd turn soon if they didn't deal with it.

"Can't go back, Bob," Gareth put the gag back in. Bob's eyes widened as he kept begging.

"We can! You don't have to do this!" Gareth rolled his eyes, turning to look at Rick instead. Daryl saw him stiffen, eyes hardening as he looked to the man who threatened his son. Gareth pulled the gag out and Rick held back a snarl, clutching the chunk of wood tighter

"We saw you go into the woods with a bag and come out without it. Had to pull my spotters back before we could go look for it. What was in it? You hid it, right? In case things went bad? Smart. Still, we'll find it. But it's too dangerous to go out there right now.," He suddenly grabbed Bob by the back of the neck and held a knife to his eye., but Rick didn't say anything. "What was in it? I'm curious. And it was a big bag. You really gonna let me do this?

"Well, let me take you out there I'll show you," Daryl watched the exchange carefully. Rick had started to go full Shane recently, and Gareth was messing with the wrong fucking guy.

"Not gonna happen. This might," Gareth moved the knife closer to Bob's eye, and he could see him trying not to flinch.

"There's guns in it. AK-47. .44 Magnum. Automatic weapons. Nightscope. There's a compound bow and a machete with a red handle. That's what I'm gonna use to kill you," Rick growled, glaring. The sharpened piece of wood he was holding was starting to make his hand bleed he was holding it so tightly.

Gareth only laughed, putting the gag back in "Thanks," He stood up and began walking back, calling to the two butchers "You have two hours to get them on the driers. I'm gonna go back to public face. Now's the time we can get messy, but we need to dial it all in by sundown."

The butchers nodded, pulling their goggles and gloves back on, but just when they were about to get back to work, they heard gunshots ring out from outside. Gareth looked at the window puzzled before pulling the radio from his side. Glenn's breathing was getting rapid as the panic built back up. One of the butchers raised the bat again slowly.

"Hey, Chuck?" Another gunshot sounded, stopping the butcher. Daryl looked around, meeting Rick's gaze briefly before a loud explosion shook the ground, knocking them to the floor, so Daryl was on the back of Glenn's legs. He could see black smoke through the window, and he already knew that there would be a herd of walkers following through.

"Hey, what the hell was that? Do you copy?"Someone on the radio asked, sounding slightly scared.

"You stay here," Gareth commanded, beginning to walk out.

"Gareth these guys aren't going anywhere-"

"Stay here until I know what's happening!" Gareth screamed, running out. The butchers exchanged a frustrated look, but stayed put, rising from the ground. Daryl and Glenn had started rubbing their wrists together hoping to break the zip ties holding them down, and Glenn let out a noise of pain.

"So we just sit here?" Knife guy asked

"Got a job to do," the Baseball guy replied, nonchalantly. They stood there for a minute, not even noticing Daryl and Glenns escape attempt, but the knife guy started pacing as they heard more and more gunshots. They started bickering. Daryl didn't even fucking care anymore. He had to get out of these restraints and get his family out of this shit hole. But apparently, while the butchers had failed to notice him, he'd failed to notice Rick, as he came behind one of them and stabbed him in the temple, then moved and stabbed the other in the neck. Except he stabbed the guy in the neck over and over and over, showing that Rick style homicidal rage, that stopped Daryl in his tracks. Rick rushed over and used the stake to tear his and Glenn's bindings, eyes frantic. Daryl stood up, tugging the gag from his mouth in relief.

"Sounds like a damn war," He huffed, picking up one of the knives from the table while Rick cut Bob free.

"What the hell are these people?" Bob asked, scrambling to his feet.

"They ain't people," Daryl remarked, and for a split second, his mind flickered to his girl. That was something she'd say. Maybe she'd rubbed off on him. But he couldn't think about that right now. He had to get out. Had to get them out. Bob went to stab one of the butchers in the head but Rick stopped him immediately.

"Don't. Let him turn."

The four men made their way out of the room, further into the slaughterhouse. They entered a room, where there were bodies hung up like animals, dried and headless. Daryl had never been someone with a weak stomach. Hell, all his years of hunting and the apocalypse had stopped that. But seeing the bodies made his stomach churn in disgust. Rick clearly had the same thought in mind.

"You cross any of these people, you kill them. Don't hesitate," He walked further in the room, Daryl following behind. He tucked the machete into his belt and picked up another knife and Rick looked over to him. "They won't."

Gunfire kept roaring from outside, and Daryl used his elbow to break off a chunk of metal from a machine. He didn't even want to know what it did. They reached the door and saw walkers crowded around a container, where some people were screaming for help inside, possibly some of Terminus' other hostages.

"If we run, we can get by them. They're distracted," Rick stated but Glenn shook his head.

"We got to let those people out. That's still who we are. It's got to be," Glenn replied, determined. Daryl didn't take his eyes off the walkers, knife out and ready to kill if he had to. There was a short pause, and Rick nodded, opening the door. All the noise from outside rose to an insane volume and it almost made Daryl's ears ache as he rushed out first, stabbing walkers, the rest of his boys right behind. It turned out the guy in the container was not only a member of Terminus but also absolutely batshit. They didn't have to worry about him long though - a walker took quick care of him, tearing out the muscles of his shoulder, as the guy screamed.

The place was overrun. There were walkers everywhere, and they weren't entirely sure how they were going to get out of this one. Daryl was more focused on keeping Glenn in place so he didn't do anything rash to get back to Maggie. He couldn't blame him. If (Y/N) were in that container still, he'd do something stupid to get back to her. Rick suddenly sprinted off, ignoring the groups' calls of his name. They watched as some of Terminus shot down a bunch of walkers, Rick crouched out of view behind a car. Daryl let out an annoyed growl. The damn fool was gonna get himself killed doing this. So, he followed after him, watching his back as Rick killed one of the Terminus men and stole his gun, using it to shoot walkers and Terminus alike. The walkers were helping to take out some of Terminus, but it was getting too full, and even Rick could see they wouldn't be able to get past all the walkers. He and Daryl ran back to Bob and Glenn, who looked pissed off that he'd run off again.

"We're gonna have to double back."

They made it back to the container their family was in and they pried the doors open. Daryl, Glenn and Bob were watching Rick's back as he instructed everyone, Abraham, Sasha, Michonne, Carl, Tara, Rosita, Eugene and Maggie, out of the box. But the annoying bastards just kept coming and coming. They were running out of time. Out of the corner of his eye, Glenn saw someone fighting a ginger woman. One of Terminus. The other woman was covered in walker's guts, using the disguising trick but he could see (H/C) hair. But he didn't think anything of it. She was probably just another hostage who was taking advantage of the situation. He couldn't worry about her now, he had to worry about his family. Daryl saw Carl and Rick talking for a split second before the chaos resumed, and they were fighting their way out, guts and blood spilling everywhere.

Anywhere you looked, there was a walker or a Terminus person. Daryl was leading, keeping his people safe from the front, and Rick was a the back. They were storming ahead, so so close to the fence. But Rick and Carl were slowing, from exhaustion and panic. Rick heard an awful yell from his son and spun around to see a walker gripping his sleeve and trying to pull his arm to its mouth. Rick went to rush forward, but the walker was suddenly dead, crumbling to the ground. Carls fearful eyes looked over and saw a woman, covered in guts, (H/C) sticking to her face and (E/C) eyes looking at him almost tenderly. Rick ran to his son, and pulled him away, staring the woman down. But she only narrowed her eyes and yelled "Go!" before disappearing into the crowd of walkers. Within seconds, she was gone. They didn't have time to dwell on it now. Gareth and the few members of Terminus that remained started shooting at them from the rooftop. They rushed through the rest of the walkers, ducking bullets and stabbing walkers and met their group at the fence. Daryl climbed over first, then Abraham lifted Eugene over, then Carl and the rest of the group, leaving himself for last.

When they were back at the bag, Daryl crouched down, taking a deep breath. Shit, that was way too close. They'd gotten lucky. Whoever had caused an explosion had saved their damn lives. And he didn't even know who it was. Maybe one of the idiots at Terminus had fucked something up and caused it. Or maybe someone was looking out for them. Hell if he knew. Hell if he cared anymore. His family was safe and that's all the mattered now. Rick started digging out the guns, mumbling out a plan as the rest of the group caught their breath, letting what just happened finally sink in. That is until Rick started talking about back to Terminus. They'd barely gotten out the first time! Some of the group started arguing back, but Daryl didn't give a shit anymore. He just leant against a tree, watching, listening.

A rustle of branches made him turn around and he froze, as the rest of the group did. They stared wide-eyed as Carol came out of the trees. They watched in amazement as Daryl sprinted over and dragged her into a tight hug, grasping onto her desperately and lifting her off her feet. She laughed lightly, grinning when he pulled back. Holy shit. She was alive. She was alive. She'd saved them. If anyone saw the tears running down his cheeks, no one said anything.

Daryl's feet were aching. The roads seemed to stretch on for miles. But the pain in his feet was nothing compared to the anger and undealt with grief. The losses were building up and up and he didn't know how much more he could take. Half the camp, Sophia, Dale, Shane (but no one really missed him), Patricia and Jimmy (though admittedly he didn't know them that well), Lori, T-Dog, Merle, Andrea, almost everyone who'd come to stay at the prison, Hershel, Bob, Tyreese... Beth. The only thing he was holding out hope for was his girl. Her ma lived in South Carolina, and with them being en route to Washington, he had to pray that maybe she made her way up there. Carl, Little Ass-Kicker and the hope of his girl were the only things keeping him going.

He'd started losing hope in his girl. Beth had died, and he'd been right fucking there. He was a hundred and more miles away from (Y/N). Now, she was strong, but he doubted she could live in a world like this. It'd destroy her. While he wanted to hold out hope and go looking for her, where would he even start? She could be anywhere by now, and there's no guarantee he'd even find her. An awful part of him wished she was dead. A disgusting, horrifying part of him, deep deep down, hoped she was dead so she didn't have to live a life like this. Didn't have to suffer like this. Deep down, Daryl knew she would hate the person he'd become. Probably hate him for what happened to Merle, too. He couldn't face that. He couldn't. Carol could see the way his eyes had drained. She could see what was happening. She was exhausted and hungry, but she wasn't blind.

She'd been hovering. Watching over him like a damn mother hen. He was getting sick and fucking tired of her constant gaze. He knew she only wanted what was best but god if he wasn't getting frustrated. Daryl could practically hear his girl's voice in his head, lecturing him about not being so cold to her, since Carol had done everything to protect him, and was his best friend. He snorted quietly at the thought of his girl standing there lecturing him, and being worried more about him and Carol than finding supplies. Sounded like her.

It was quiet now. No one spoke unless they had to. They were too weak. They hadn't had proper food in months, living off the little amount of food Daryl could hunt down, and the water was so scarce, some people were starting to get dizzy. Most of the food and water went to Judith and Carl now anyway. Everyone was hoping. Some, for the few that still believed in that shit, were even praying that we'd get some rain. But apparently, someone had seen them first and left them some water. Daryl and Rick eyed it suspiciously. Nowadays you could never be too careful. Abraham was still angry, but that wasn't anything new. That man was filled with more rage than anyone Daryl had ever met, except perhaps Merle. Shit, he missed that son of a bitch. Abraham was so angry that he smacked the bottle out of Eugene's hands when he went to take a sip. The atmosphere bristled, and Daryl could already tell an argument was about to start, and he shook his head, readjusting the bag and his crossbow. But it was all cut short when there were a few claps of thunder. Everyone looked up, hopeful glances being exchanged when the skies opened, and rain began pouring. Tara and Rosita started laughing, lying down on the floor, and some people opened their mouths to drink it before Rick ordered people to get out any bottles they had and filling them with the water. Daryl couldn't smile. He couldn't find enjoyment in it, and by the looks of it, neither could Sasha or Maggie. Every day it got harder or harder to meet her eyes. There was no blame on him, so he had no reason for guilt, but he couldn't help it. And it was eating away at him. Had been for the past three weeks.

The group were sat around a tiny fire, lightning flashing every so often and illuminating the room. Maggie was laying alone on the opposite end of the barn, and Carl was curled up behind Rick, clutching Judith to his chest. Carol walked over and plopped herself next to Daryl. Glenn was sat on his other side, engaging in an entirely different conversation. Daryl gave her a glance. She was staring at him, eyes narrowed like she was trying to read his mind, and it was starting to freak him out.

"You can't give up on her," Carol muttered, after a long moment of her staring him down. He scoffed, looking away. The hell did she know anyway. "You haven't given up yet, why give up now?"

"It's been nearly two years Carol. She's probably dead by now," He grumbled, watching the glint of his ring in the light of the fire. She shoved him lightly, her eyes moving to a glare.

"Don't talk like that," She snapped, quietly. Daryl kept his eyes on his ring, but he could feel the irritation starting to radiate off her. "You still wear your ring. You still carry that recorder. You've nearly broken a man's arm to get it back for god's sake. You can't give up on her. I won't let you."

For some reason, that got under his skin, and he could feel anger pouring in. It bubbled and boiled and his cold stare fixed on her so suddenly that Carol almost jumped.

"The hell ya gonna do to stop me?" He snarled. She didn't know shit about (Y/N) who the fuck was she to talk about his girl "You've never even met her. Ya don't know what she's like."

"No, I don't, but I know how much you love her. How much you're relying on her. And I can see how guilty you feel about Beth," Daryl was glaring now, and Carol understood she was walking into dangerous territory. "It wasn't your fault. There was nothing you could have done. But you can't start separating yourself from us, from (Y/N). You'll get yourself killed."

"What do you care? I ain't your responsibility," He growled before picking up his crossbow before walking to a corner of the barn. Carol watched him leave and made no move to stop him. Glenn gave her an alarmed look, only having heard the tail end of the conversation. Who the hell was (Y/N)? Carol shook her head, telling him not to push it and he reluctantly looked back to the others, who were still deep in conversation. She then noticed the little recorder where Daryl had been sitting. It had a few chips, and it was dirty as hell, but Daryl had gone through hell to keep it safe. Carol picked it up and spun it in her hands, before opening Daryl's bag, wrapping it in a bit of cloth and tucking it away.

How they'd managed to convince Rick, he had no idea. Though, in honesty, Daryl thought he would have jumped at the opportunity to be somewhere where Carl and Judith would be safe. But after Terminus, he couldn't blame the man for being sceptical. This guy, Aaron, there was something off about him. He couldn't put his finger on what. Either way, part of him was relieved to be out of that damn barn. Stunk of horse shit. But getting holed up in a car service place tucked into a wall with a guy with a broken ankle, wasn't exactly that much better. Daryl's family was safe. Rick's family was safe. That's what mattered. When dawn rolled around, he was startled to find himself actually hoping for this place to work. They didn't have many other choices if it didn't. They couldn't have another Terminus situation. They were all piled into the small RV and an even smaller car, and it was definitely too close quarters for Daryl to be comfortable. As usual, it went to shit when the battery went flat. Glenn was quick to use the skills that Dale had taught him to fix it up, but Daryl had taken refuge on the roof, looking out for walkers. He could feel Carol and Glenn's eyes on his back. He'd much prefer it if that could just fuck off rather than giving those annoying ass pity looks.

When they pulled up, they heard a noise they hadn't heard in a long time. Children laughing. It felt almost alien to them, and maybe this place could work out. There were no kids at Terminus. Barely any at Woodbury. If kids were having fun here, maybe they had a chance. Collectively, the group sucked in a breath as the gate started to pull back. When it opened, a ton of pristine houses were revealed down long roads, children running in the street. Aaron helped Eric limp inside and someone took him and started leading him off, presumably to the infirmary. A bristle in the bushes made the group snap over, and Daryl didn't hesitate on pressing the trigger and picking up the possum, presenting it to the man behind the gate.

"We brought dinner!"He declared, and he heard some of the group stifle chuckles and smiles. The man behind the gate looked at them warily.

"It's okay, Nicholas," Aaron reassured, placing his hand out "C'mon in guys."

Gradually, the group started wandering in, Glenn and Daryl in the lead, as Rick held Judith tightly.

"Before we take this any further, I need you all the hand over your weapons," Nicholas stated, eyeing Daryl carefully, who still held the possums tail "Stay, you hand them over."

"We don't know if we want to stay," Rick responded instantly, somehow still looking threatening even with a baby at his hip "If we were gonna use them, we would have started already."

"Let them talk to Deanna, first," Aaron turned his head to Nicholas but was turned back by Abraham, who had his shoulders squared.

"Who's Deanna?"

"She knows everything you wanna know about this place. Rick, why don't you start?" Aaron advised, and Rick tilted his head. Daryl observed him, noticing the suspicion behind his eyes. Rick turned around at the sound of a walker snarling and signalled Sasha to take care of it. Headshot. Daryl tried to hide his smirk and the astounded look on Nicholas' face. Guy seemed like a jackass. He wanted to keep his eye on him.

The group were forced to sit outside on someone's porch (a house! what the fuck) while Rick was lead inside by a short, blonde-haired woman. She seemed innocent but she was hiding something. Daryl and Michonne could see it. In the way she held herself, the way she talked, the way she looked at them. When Rick came out about fifteen minutes later, Daryl was next to go in. He was still holding the possum, crossbow on his back as he was lead into the living room. It was nice. Untouched, as if the world hadn't ended outside the gates. He hadn't been in somewhere like this since before the apocalypse. Since (Y/N). He kept messing with random shit he could find. Pacing, restlessly. Deanna just sat on the couch opposite, her eyes following where he went. Acting like a damn hawk. She already pissed him off, and she hadn't even done anything. There was a video camera set up, recording everything. He had to thank Carol later for putting his back in his bag.

"You're welcome to sit, Daryl. I won't bite," Deanna finally said, and he looked up at her through long greasy hair, frowning.

"Yeah, I'm alrigh'" He replied quietly, turning to look at the bookshelf behind him. He didn't really know what he was doing, he just didn't want to have this awkward conversation and was trying to avoid it as long as possible.

"Daryl, do you want to be here?"She questioned, a touch of impatience in her voice but Daryl still didn't look at her.

"The boy and the baby. They deserve a roof. I guess," He answered, turning his ring with his thumb as it dangled by his side. Apparently, she didn't miss the motion.

"You're married?"

"Does it matter?" He shot back, voice becoming icy and there was a glimmer of amusement in her eyes.

"You'd be surprised," Deana smiled slightly and he glared back at her, his suspicion only raising further.

"The hell does that mean?" Daryl challenged, getting closer. She shook her head, smile dropping, before standing up and moving to turn the video recorder off.

"You're free to go."

"You okay?" Carl asked, making Daryl jump a little as he appeared at his side. Daryl knocked the brim of his hat, making Carl chuckle.

"That woman asks some weird questions," Was his reply, before he sat down, waiting for the others to finish their 'interviews'.

Rick looked between the two houses in amazement. He and Carl had left after Carl had finished talking, trusting Glenn and Maggie to look after his daughter. Aaron has whisked the pair away presenting them with the two houses they were giving the large group. He'd since walked away, walking down the road towards his house to look for Eric. Rick looked at his son, who had a grin on his face at the promise of being in a house again. Carl looked out after Aaron. A woman, maybe a little younger than Rick rushed out as Aaron neared, and wrapped her arms around him. Even from the distance, he could see the relief on her face and Aaron laughed lightly before leading her back inside. He was sure he'd find out who that was later.

Rick had insisted on staying in one house for the time being, just for safety, but Daryl wasn't complaining. He'd rather his family be together if they couldn't have their weapons. He felt almost naked without his crossbow. And he'd made very good work of pretending not to see Carl's knife. Smart kid. Daryl was sat next to Little Ass Kickers crib, peering over it protectively as Michonne came back through from the bathroom. She and Rick exchanged a hushed conversation when a knock at the door sounded, and Deanna walked in. She started talking but paused when she saw everyone huddled together rather than being separated. She gave some bullshit speech on family and how amazing it was, and Daryl rolled his eyes. He couldn't help it.

"Everybody said you gave them jobs," Rick said, but it sounded more like a question and Deana made a hum of agreement.

"It's part of this place. Looks like the Communists won after all," God if someone didn't put a bolt through her brain soon Daryl swore to whatever was up there he would. Rick gave a polite smile but it was strained.

"Well, you didn't give me one," He stated

"I have. I just haven't told you yet. Same with Michonne. I'm closing in on something for Sasha. And I'm just trying to figure Mr Dixon out, but I will," Daryl scoffed at that. Yeah, it took his group two years and they still haven't. Good luck with that. Deanna gave Daryl a smile, but it felt condescending. She looked back up at Rick "You look good."

And she was gone.

The group took off the next morning, going to explore, but Daryl stayed on the porch. Rick exited, raising his eyebrows at the redneck.

"They said explore. Let's explore," He almost commanded but he was smiling. First time in a long time.

"Naw, I'll stay," Daryl said, shifting. Deanna had dropped by earlier this morning and handed him his crossbow. He was still extremely confused as to why but he sure as hell wasn't going to complain about it. Rick sighed, closing the door behind him.

"C'mon brother. Just come with us for a few minutes. Then you can come back here and brood all you like. Just pretend for a few minutes," Rick teased. Daryl scowled but Rick could see the playfulness in his eyes. It was nice, seeing Daryl slightly more at ease even if he was struggling to settle.

There was a long pause before Daryl gave a grunt of agreement, grudgingly picking up his crossbow and shoving it on his back. The pair jogged to catch up with the others, soon falling into the crowd of their family. They saw Aaron coming out of his house and Maggie raised a hand in a small greeting. He stepped over and the group started chatting. Daryl could tell the recruiter was hoping to clear the water a little bit. He didn't seem like a bad guy but Daryl couldn't let his guard down. But then someone followed out of Aaron's house, walking out onto the road and looking over to the family with a gleeful smile. Carl waved at her, recognising her from yesterday and she waved back. But the smile dropped, and Daryl froze in place like a statue. Carol noticed how stiff he'd gone beside her and followed his eyes and she froze too. A small smile climbed onto her lips. He couldn't breathe. He could hardly believe what he was seeing. He had to be dreaming. This couldn't be real.

"Daryl?"

But it was, she was right there. (H/C) hair blowing in the slight breeze and her eyes sparkling with building tears. Holy shit.

(Y/N).

His (Y/N).

Carol watched as the crossbow fell from his shoulder and Daryl shoved past his group and sprinted. He didn't think he'd moved so fast in his whole damn life because he blinked and all of a sudden, she was stood right before her. She stood there, taking him in. He couldn't breathe. She was there. She was right there. And he lunged for her, pulling her into him tightly, and placing a hand on the back of her head protectively. He could feel her fingers digging into his skin through his jacket, and he knew he couldn't let her go even if he wanted to. She was alive. She was here! Daryl wasn't a crier, that was for sure, but hell, he couldn't stop the relieved sobs he was letting out into her neck. She was whispering to him, though a trembling voice, but he couldn't hear what she was saying. He just felt her, her breath on his neck, his fingers on his back, her hair tickling his nose, her tears on his chest.

"Holy shit, "Was all he could get out, and (Y/N) let out a weepy laugh, pulling back just enough so she could see his face. Her hands moved to hold his face, running her thumbs over his cheeks.

"If you haven't brushed your teeth, I am going to kill you, Dixon," she grinned, before pulling him into a hard kiss. He held onto her, even as the outside world started coming back to him. As he heard the confused voices of his family and Aaron. As he heard the joyful, but the slightly teary voice of Carol.

He just held onto her.

TAGS: OPEN

Tags (for this series): @graniairish @fuseburner @gloomystorm @bxxbxy @browneyes528 @hoemadegrace​

[wolf-and-bard]

Drown With Me If You Can

Prompt: White Frost/Apocalypse

Relationships: Arnaghad/Erland of Larvik (from one of the witcher-centric cards)

Rating: M

Content Warnings: swear words, grief, themes of giving up on life and hopelessness at the beginning

Summary: After the fall of Kaer Seren, all that is left for Erland to do in his gloomy cave is write his journal and let the cold take him. He doesn’t expect to be saved, especially not by his former-lover-turned-nemesis Arnaghad. In which: Erland wallows and Arnaghad calls him out on his bullshit. A lot.

Word Count: 5.6k

AO3 link

I.

I close out this account with a warning: the knowledge I hereby hope to preserve is essential for the day the monsters return to our crypts, our battlefields, and our gardens. It is a call to battle and heroism and in that it is treacherous. If you use these pages with the intention to do good in this world, you will soon find yourself to be an outcast among humans. You will save them and they will spit at you. You will beg for fair payment and they will burn you at the stake. Be prepared for that, and take up the sword nonetheless for if you do not, no one will. Peace, brothers and sisters of the future, peace and blessings of the Gods. May you never need this journal.

Erland signs the bottom of the last page with fingers gnarled by the cold, trembling from how his muscles have hardened as a result of his lethargy. When it is done, he grips the quill hard, clings to it. It is a childish instinct that makes him do this, but this feather has been his lifeline for the past… past. A lifeline to the past. Time flakes away from Erland the same way the tattered pieces of the quill do once it breaks under his tightening fingers. The last few pages of his journal are barely legible and he can’t tell whether that is because his vision is fails him, like a pane of glass slowly devoured by a sheen of ice, or because his script has fallen prey to his tremor. As Erland waits for the ink to dry, he uses his weak hand to arrange his good one into the proper gesture for an Igni and casts it down the dark tunnel of his home.

A perfect cone of lightly crackling flames shoots outward, illuminating the glazed rock all around. The sign holds for several breaths, steady and sturdy and its heat singes Erland’s frayed cuffs, has the ceiling drip crystalline melt-off.  Erland smiles grimly to himself and shuts the journal. This time can’t take from him and the ice won’t feast on, this his body will always know how to do. A perfect channelling of what Chaos he may access.

Shaking, Erland crawls over to his makeshift bedroll – a dirt-hardened pellet of furs he collected on his way up here, a long hike with Kaer Seren a steady ruin at his back and the names of his brothers and children a steady weight on his shoulders – and collapses on top of it.

It is done. His lips trace the outlines of these words, but his tongue is too heavy to lift. Erland sneezes into his pillow and draws a ratty quilt over himself. It used to be bursting with reds and oranges, a gift from an old woman for saving her granddaughter from an early death by harpy, but now it is faded and as grimy as the rest of him. Erland cannot distinguish the colours of his belongings any longer, not even in the stale light of the last sparks of the Igni that cling to the cave’s walls.

It is done.

His journal is finished, his life chronicled, his school honoured and his knowledge preserved. All that is left to the former griffin master is to wait for the sparks of his life to die out alongside those of his magic. Erland flops onto his belly and uses his weak hand to arrange the fingers of his good one into the shape of Axii. His wrist creaks when he angles the hand at his own face and he casts it with the same impeccable precision. The spell hits instantly and his body goes slack, his mind punctured through by holes. Erland sleeps and hopes a harsh wind will blow through his abode tonight.

II.

There is a long interval of darkness that is marked by bursts of hot and cold shivers that wreck his body, but Erland doesn’t truly wake and by the time he does, he isn’t sure that they were real at all. He goes through a stage of sleep paralysis in which all he can do is to stare at the coarse ceiling of the cave. It has frozen back over and if there were any light, Erland would see his own face reflected in it. Sunken cheeks, eyes reddened from burst capillaries, undercut grown out into shaggy strings of hair. The griffin tattooed on the side of his skull drowns in them, just like the griffin witchers drowned in dust and snow the day their school was buried in an avalanche.

Erland sighs. He cannot move a muscle for half an eternity. His nose itches and another sneeze finally frees him, releases him into an unsettled slumber that pushes him along the maze of corridors that is his own memory. He retraces every step he took along the Path, faces all the monsters he slaughtered and all the humans he failed to convince that he shouldn’t be slaughtered alongside them.

There is no lesson to be learned from these dreams. Only patience. Erland has long lived with his regrets, knows them as intimately as the beasts whose traits he noted down in his journal. Only patience, yes. In all his striving to be more than a mere mercenary or rat-catcher perhaps his most undervalued and least practiced virtue.

Erland can be patient.

He vaguely remembers one who never was, an old friend, a former lover who faced the world with steel first and foremost, steel accompanied by a detached pragmatism that was so at war with everything Erland believed in. That friend – now less than an enemy – would not have lain here so wallowing in the drawn-out pain of his end days. He would not have waited for his death, he would have summoned it by drawing his slowly rusting blades and cutting himself open, would have watched his hot blood hiss against the ice at the heart of this mountain and would have born a proud curl of his lip until the moment the fire in his own heart extinguished.  

Erland smiles and his jaw creaks.

He takes the high-road.

He…

He sleeps.

He thrashes.

He recites every lesson the knight Gryphon ever taught him. They are the foundation of his life’s work, they are all he has left.

He is patient.

III.

Erland is caught in a sleep paralysis once more when it enters the mountains. The monsters usually haunt him when he’s somewhere in the realm of insanity, but now he is wide awake, body one rigid line under the quilt that has long since lost its ability to keep out the winter, which means the thing could be very real and out for his blood. Its steps boom and quake through the rock for hours before the giant passes into the dead end that is Erland’s makeshift dwelling. Even with no light to illuminate it, Erland can see it glittering, can see its giant head swing left and right, can hear the scrape of its fragile marble skin against the walls.

An ice elemental.

If Erland is extra lucky, this used to be its lair and he accidentally usurped it. There is no moving away, no putting up a fight and he resigns himself to a quick and violent death after all. How graceful of Destiny to show her face now, after everything else has passed her by.

But then the ice elemental shakes off the snow, hundreds of flakes that rain down to cover the floor, and Erland blinks. The outline of the monster softens from harsh crystals to wet strands of fur that hug broad shoulders. A werewolf? Erland can’t draw breath, doesn’t trust his ears when the thing opens its mouth and speaks, a deep baritone. Not nearly raspy enough to be of anything other than human origin.

"Alzur’s rotten balls, Erland is that you?"

Erland wants to laugh. Of all the demons the depths of his consciousness could have summoned to this cursed place, it had to be Arnaghad. Arnaghad with his hulking form and his smooth voice, his tattered bearskin overcoat and his terrible timing. Always terrible. He can’t laugh, of course, can’t do more than wheeze faintly.

A torch flares up, casting eerily long shadows at the feet of the apparition, more real than anything Erland has thought in a long time. At the same time, Erland catches Arnaghad’s eyes – dark ochre with narrow slits, eyes that are set deeply under bushy eyebrows which underline the blocky shape of Arnaghad’s face as though it was whittled from planks of red birch – and Arnaghad starts.

“It is you,” he says and follows that up with a curse Erland can’t discern, courtesy of Arnaghad’s Gemmeran linguistic oddities that persist to this day. With them comes a harsh edge to all his syllables and a tendency to mouth-breathe. Funny how after decades of reciprocal avoidance, Erland still remembers these details. Casting his mind down the drainage canal of history, he also remembers himself: a young fighter, just two decades of age, stuck in a body that was overflowing with emotions of visionary self-determination, of rough-and-fast passion, of compassionate anger. Erland waits for the spark of that anger to rekindle, especially as he watches Arnaghad toss his swords and pack and drop to his knees by Erland’s pellet, the torch held close. It’s heat licks across Erland’s cheeks and cradles his skull.

It remains the only heat.

His anger is but a relic of a more complicated time.

“By all the gods,” Arnaghad breathes, hand passing over Erland’s sweaty forehead. His touch too feels familiar, feels too familiar, but his scent isn’t and neither is the concern that drenches his tone. “You look like a giant lump of bird shit.”

Erland’s nostrils flare. Slowly, ever so slowly, his lips peel back in a snarl. He still can’t move, no matter how much he tries. He wants the ice elemental back, if only for the simplicity of its puny gravel brain. Arnaghad’s may only be a smidge bigger and more substantial, but with that comes so much. Arguments that have been left unburied, thoughts that have been left unspoken, memories that have been left unfinished.

Erland hisses weakly through his teeth and Arnaghad growls in reply. He doesn’t extinguish the torch, he sticks it into the ground somewhere to Erland’s right and sits back on his heels, the growl building and building. Erland drifts off again, waiting for Arnaghad to speak. He hopes that when he wakes, the phantom will be gone.

IV.

If anything, Arnaghad has solidified by the time Erland opens his eyes again. He sits by Erland’s bedside still, even cross-legged tall enough that his head grazes the ceiling of the cave if he straightens. Before him he stokes a small campfire with several crude bursts of Igni.

“That is a waste of precious firewood,” Erland says, voice croaky. He pushes himself up onto his forearms, head sluggish to lift from the scratchy pillows. Arnaghad doesn’t turn around, instead he retrieves an iron pot from his belongings and presses it against the cave’s wall, using his dagger to scrape off the ice there. Practical, first and foremost, that is exactly how Erland remembers his lover of yore. Lover being a euphemism for something Erland still cannot name.

“I’m hungry,” Arnaghad says and fires another sign. Briefly, the cave explodes with heat and Erland just about stifles a vulgar moan. When did he last have the pleasure of warmth this intense and indulgent? The fire slowly seeps into his blankets and furs and nestles against his skin. He sinks back into them and closes his eyes. “Besides,” the bear witcher continues. “You might have died of hypothermia if I hadn’t started it. It’s almost funny, Erland the righteous asshole letting himself freeze to death, where is the glory in that? Alas, I find it hard to believe that you have developed a sense of humour since last we met.”

“Neither have you.”

“Ha,” Arnaghad says and that’s it for a while. Erland listens to the water boil, to Arnaghad hacking at dried vegetables and jerky. It doesn’t even smell bad and despite his self-imposed fast, Erland’s stomach rumbles and the inside of his mouth feels coated in dirt. How long has it been since last he drank? It didn’t matter until Arnaghad stampeded into his life again, shaking him awake.

Erland sneezes.

Maybe not all of him.

“Bless you,” Arnaghad grumbles. “So, how did you end up here, little birdie? Your wings broken?”

“I’m not little and griffins aren’t birds.”

“Smartass.”

Erland snorts. He isn’t about to stoop down to Arnaghad’s level and start bickering and he has no inclination for small-talk. That’s what he tells himself anyway. A part of him is almost… glad for the company. Glad for this company in particular. Fuck that.

“I will allow you to stay the night,” Erland says, and squints to see Arnaghad raise one of his caterpillar eyebrows at him. It isn’t like either of them can tell day from night, and depending on where Arnaghad entered the tunnel system of the Dragon Mountains, the last time he saw sunlight may have been weeks ago. “Fine, I will allow you to have a rest. After, I want you gone.”

“I don’t care what you want. If it hadn’t been for me you would be a corpse right now. Take a peek.”

Erland follows the gesture of Arnaghad’s hand and glances down himself, gingerly lifts the blanket. He is swathed in thick, padded linens, an extra pair of breeches and woollen-knit socks. The bearskin that usually hugs Arnaghad’s shoulders is draped across him and what is more, his lips do not feel chapped any longer. His hair curls around his head in a long, neat braid, like a viper in slumber. Shit, how long was he out for?

“Have you considered that it might have been my explicit wish to die?”

“I have,” Arnaghad says on a low chuckle. “A ridiculous notion. You’re sick, that is all. Sick people lean towards melodrama.”

“I’m not being melodramatic,” Erland replies and, oh, there it is. Frustration breaking through the hard-packed stratum of the years like a flower through the earth in early spring. It’s fast to burst and blossom. He does try and sit up after all, but before the world can start to spin around him, Arnaghad has roughly pushed him back into the sheets.

“You are always melodramatic,” the bear witcher replies and glowers at him, face cast in darkness by his bulky outline. Erland’s eyes narrow.

“One night,” he says. “And then you’re gone.”

“We’ll see about that. The stew is going to have to cook for a bit, and you should go back to sleep. Want me to Axii you?”

“And have you make minced meat out of my brain? No thank you, I can do that myself,” Erland snaps. He’s being petulant, why is he being so petulant? It’s all these rifts tearing open in his chest, all these holes he abandoned when he left the order with his friends to found the griffin school. These holes pull him back to life and reality, pull him back through time and into a persona he thought he buried. Erland is not a child. Erland is the griffin grandmaster, Erland is a knight, Erland is a witcher. It doesn’t matter that these functions are all theory now, they make up his identity. Not Arnaghad and his quarrels. And yet…

Erland turns away, facing the wall. When he makes the gesture for the Axii, he doesn’t even have to use his hand to arrange the fingers. He didn’t want to live. Now he does. And that’s more than he can take after everything he’s lost. More than he deserves, really. Erland puts very little force behind the sign, letting it spill to the tips of his fingers then gently touching them to his own face and thankfully, the world blots out around him.

V.

Arnaghad’s voice pulls him up again, like the detonation of a bomb.

“Wake up, stew’s ready.”

Before Erland is fully awake, a coughing fit grips his body and although it scratches at the back of his throat, it also feels freeing in a way, loosening the plaque on his bones and the dust in his chest.

“So you’re still a victim of your winter sickness,” Arnaghad laughs. “I wondered.”

“What do you know of it?” Erland’s voice is muffled as he wipes his mouth, the words come out spiteful, acidic. This time, he does have the strength to sit up on his bed, but he needs the sturdy stone wall at his back to keep him upright. It’s a cool antithesis to the slight swelter of the cave’s air, a gracious counter-force to the merrily burning fire and the bubbling stew.

“Erland, you have spent twenty odd winters in my embrace, would you not think some of that has stuck with me?”

“In the face of your betrayal, no, I would not,” Erland says, crossing his arms, though admittedly, Arnaghad is right. Erland has always been susceptible to the cold, more so than any of his fellow witchers. Perhaps that is because Skellige, in the shape of his mother, rejected him when he was young, or perhaps it is because of his father whose origin Erland still doesn’t care to investigate. Either way, when the frost’s first tendrils start to wind their way into the atmosphere, he falls ill with sneezes and shakes, fevers too. It must be winter already then.  

“My betrayal, yes,” Arnaghad mutters and retrieves a wooden bowl from his pack into which he shovels some of the stew. It smells prickly and hot, thick with Ofieri spices and has Erland’s mouth water. Now that he is fully himself again, his senses have returned, an assault on his mind. As with any battle he ever fought, Erland decides to be methodical about it. First the food, then the fight. He reaches out for the bowl, but Arnaghad scoffs at his trembling hands. “Don’t think I’ll let your atrophied muscles spill any of this. It’s too damn good, here.” Arnaghad settles into a cross-legged seat before Erland and the fire paints a halo around him. He’s so big that it cowers at his back, which suits Erland fine. This way it is easier to ignore the concentrated, caring expression on the bear witcher’s face as he submerges a wooden spoon, scoops up a chunk of whatever dried meat he put into the stew and gently blows on it before holding it out.

“Why do you care?” Erland asks weakly, lips parting around the spoon. As soon as it hits his tongue – the perfect degree of scolding hot and spicy – he can’t help a small groan. Blunt though Arnaghad may be, his cooking has always been phenomenal. Erland’s stomach mewls for more.

“I always cared.”

“Funny way of showing that.” Erland gives him a pointed look and Arnaghad’s eyes dart along the scar that neatly sections Erland’s face. He has yet to receive even an attempt at apology for it. “Back then you didn’t seem too caring with me. In fact, I acutely remember your sword flaying me.”

“If I’d wanted to kill you, you would have died. But I didn’t want that then and I don’t want it now. I hold to my promises, Erland.”

Accusation is slabbed thickly onto those words and Arnaghad holds out another spoonful of stew which Erland dutifully swallows. It’s not the first time the sickness held him down so hard he had to be fed, but it feels strangely agitating for Arnaghad to be the one to do it. After he left and founded his own school, the only snippets Erland ever heard about the bear witcher were rumours of his death, especially with the vipers splitting off the bear school. Perhaps, Erland liked to believe that Arnaghad was dead because that took away the possibility of whatever was happening now. Perhaps, Erland left the one promise he spent all his life circumventing at Morgraig Castle the day he set out for Kaer Seren. Perhaps, Arnaghad didn’t change at all and neither did Erland.

“Do you even remember?” Arnaghad asks quietly, then allows himself a few gulps of soup before refilling the bowl. He doesn’t meet Erland’s eyes, but Erland can see the faint glow of anguish speckling his cheekbones. Oh, but this is bad. If Arnaghad goes berserk in here, they’ll both be buried in rock and ice and Erland is too awake and vivacious now to want that.

“Remember what?” Erland asks, feigning ignorance as long as that leaves him the proverbial high ground, the only place from which he can match Arnaghad’s sheer height. He accepts another two spoons, then shakes his head. His stomach feels brilliantly full, close to bursting, and he rubs it weakly. Arnaghad puts the bowl to his lips and drinks the rest of the stew. They’ll both want more later, especially with the firewood dwindling, but for now the next field is to be played. It all gets muddled anyway, who is he kidding. Erland sighs and that lets Arnaghad’s gaze snap upwards, latching onto Erland’s. They silently glower at each other for a handful of breaths.

“Of course, you do,” Arnaghad says eventually. “Knowing you, you remember your exact words.”

“I do,” Erland says and the ghost of his own voice flashes through his mind.

My heart lies at the end of a dream, Arnaghad. And as long as that dream remains unfulfilled, I cannot give it to you.

“You lied.”

“I didn’t lie, I never lied,” Erland protests, but Arnaghad shakes his head.

“I don’t understand. You obviously felt something for me, feel something still. Oh, don’t give me that look, I told you I care. I always paid attention to you, you know that.”

Erland does. It pains him to admit it, but he does.

“I didn’t lie,” he repeats, hands balling into fists.

“You threw me scraps of affection when it would have cost you nothing to invite me to your table,” Arnaghad says.

“Do we really have to do this now? I told you I want you gone.”

“I saved your life.”

“UNBIDDEN,” Erland screams and his arm shoots out in an arc. It is only by Arnaghad’s quick reflexes that the Aard doesn’t have him fly into the back wall. Erland heaves, watching Arnaghad’s thick Quen dissolve with a buzzing static, and he doesn’t know what’s gotten into him. After everything, he doesn’t want to hurt Arnaghad, of course he doesn’t.

“Why couldn’t you love me?” Arnaghad says, so fucking stubborn in his resolve to have this conversation. What a stupidly vulnerable question.

Back then, Erland bought in to the delusions he liked to paint for himself in blood and gore. He was destined for more, he was a noble knight, he was to rid the world of evil forevermore. Arnaghad didn’t fit in with that dream. He would try and keep Erland from it because he didn’t understand, had no ambitions for himself. And while that was, and likely still is true, it was never the reason Erland didn’t allow anything more than physical between them. But it was the reason he clung to and dangled before Arnaghad’s eyes over and over. After the night of the sundering… it didn’t matter so much anymore and Erland locked the true reason away in a dark corner of his heart, huddled together with the feelings he held hostage in the hopes they would fade to nothing.

Erland listens to his own heartbeat thump at his temples in a nagging ache and he forfeits his answer. Arnaghad doesn’t deserve forgiveness for what he did to Rhys and Erland and whomever else his sword cleaved, but he deserves the truth.

“You really want to know why?” he asks weakly, cringing inwardly at Arnaghad’s curt nod. Erland continues on a sigh, feeling fragile now that his anger evaporated with the sign he just cast. “I was afraid. I ruined my mother’s life by existing and I couldn’t spare Jagoda the experiments Alzur put us through and I never managed to make the humans see us as anything other than aberrations. I can slay monsters and teach others to do the same, but I can’t save the people I love.”

“That is horseshit, just complete and utter horseshit. Your mother was a right old cunt and nothing could have saved Jagoda. All the girls died, remember? Do you blame yourself for their deaths too?”

“My school,” Erland whispers, blinking rapidly to do away with those questions. “I loved them too and now they all lay buried under rubble. My brothers, my sons, my whole life. I loved them and I couldn’t save them. I’m a curse.”

“…why did you never say anything?” Arnaghad reaches out and his thick fingers brush Erland’s scraggly face. Erland stifles a dry sob. Some truths are better left unspoken and this was definitely one of them. He never dared to utter it to himself, in the quiet safety of his own mind, and now Arnaghad knows it. Arnaghad his ex-lover, used-to-be friend, nemesis for some years, phantom of his past for more, saviour of his life. Arnaghad who does, when it comes down to it, have a claim to his heart.

“Because you would have ridiculed me, as you itch to do now.”

“It is true that I was never good at understanding how other people feel,” Arnaghad says and his thumbs come to rests against Erland’s temples, smoothing out the ache there. He shuffles closer and their knees bump together which sends a jolt through Erland’s weakened frame. “But if you would have told me this, I would have found it impossible to demean you. I care, Erland, why won’t you believe that?”

Because you don’t care about anything other than your own survival.

Because it took five years for you to ever look at me twice and double the time for you to answer my frequent knocks on your door.

Because you attacked our brother and cut me and your eyes were filled with pure hatred.

Because you spent decades on your mountain, pretending like that was the only life you ever knew.

Because…

Because…

Erland grasps for more reasons, grasps for the steely indifference he felt for Arnaghad ever since the day he left Morgraig for Haern Caduch. He stops. No forgiveness, not yet. But perhaps, in the face of his grief and all that he lost, it would do well to cast his gaze into the future. Erland releases his tense muscles and lets go of something. After, his breath comes easier.

“You would have me believe that your care is rooted in love? Even after all this time?” he asks.

“Yes,” Arnaghad replies. So simple, huh?

“So maybe you love me. That doesn’t change the fact that I would have let you down.” Or Arnaghad him. Or maybe they were fated to let each other down.

“Look, birdie. I don’t know what it means to dream big, but I know this, and I know it for certain: you did what you could and because you’re a persistent shit, you did it exceptionally well. There are forces at work in this world one man alone cannot overcome. You did what you could.”

Erland doesn’t know what to say to that. Because that isn’t simple, that is insightful and attentive and not at all Arnaghad’s usual refrain. Maybe he did change and Erland is the only one who stagnated. He feels stupid, all of a sudden. Stupid for holding himself up to such high standards, stupid for being afraid in the face of his own bravery, stupid for ever calling himself honourable.

What man gives up on love because he assumes himself to be cursed? No knight. A coward.

“Could I have stopped you?” Erland asks. “If I had loved you, could I have stopped you from attacking Rhys and from waging your war on the rest of us witchers? Could I have changed the course of history?”

“You’re doing it again,” Arnaghad replies with a sly smile. He shakes his head and leans over his own legs to press a dry and warm kiss to Erland’s lips. In a way, it’s a homecoming. In a different one, it’s completely novel. Erland tilts his head for a second kiss that has his body thrum with wanting more, and Arnaghad allows it, for a bit. It’s another kind of warmth, that of their bodies re-learning one another and before long, Erland finds himself on Arnaghad’s lap, held close in a way he thought he’d never be held again. It isn’t forgiveness. It’s far from forgiveness. But it’s a start.

VI.

“Erland, there is something I have to tell you,” Arnaghad says long after they have spent the pent-up emotions of the last centuries in drawn-out kisses and frantic clashes of their body. They’re both tucked under the quilt and the bearskin, Erland’s beaten body sheltered in Arnaghad’s mountainous embrace. Erland gives a sated mumble, basking in the magic of the moment for just a heartbeat longer. Of course it couldn’t last, contentedness with Arnaghad is always the eye of the storm. “Listen to me,” Arnaghad continues and a sense of urgency replaces whatever fluttery feelings Erland just had. “I didn’t come to the Dragon Mountains to find you nor had I head of Kaer Seren’s fall. I came here for a reprieve from the storm. Have you seen it before you entered?”

“It will pass,” Erland says, unwilling to match Arnaghad’s frantic cadence. His chest is a warm rumble behind Erland, an upset sky. Damn Arnaghad and his terrible timing. “Winter is always brutal in these parts and the storms bite, but they pass.”

“It’s not winter, we are coming up on Belleteyn.”

Belleteyn… that means it’s almost May. Erland blinks stupidly before the implications sink in. Snow storms in May simply don’t happen.

“By the gods,” he breathes, and grips Arnaghad’s hand which is splayed over his own chest. His body tenses up and the cave feels stuffy now. “How long has the storm been going on for?”

“October,” Arnaghad says warily and that is so much worse than Erland expected. A harbinger of conflict Erland can deal with, an old love he can squabble over, but he is not at all equipped to handle an apocalypse. It has to be the end of the world because October is only a month after Erland entered the mountains and straight-out winter for close to eight months can only mean one thing:

“The White Frost.”

Arnaghad nods, cheek rubbing against Erland’s head. A branch in the fire bursts with a mighty crack right then, as though it is afraid too. The prophesised end of the world. Erland always assumed it was a tale to scare children and he doesn’t believe in foresight. There is no other explanation. Arnaghad’s other hand draws Erland closer and his steady mass of muscles help anchor Erland as the emotional storm resumes alongside the one that rages outside.

“I know this is a lot, but we don’t have much time. Is there anywhere we can go? You are weak still and these peaks will not protect us for long.”

“I… yes. There is a gulf that runs deeply under Kaer Seren, it carries heat out of the earth’s core and disperses some leagues out into the ocean. We have dug our cellars deep enough to tap it for the winter months… we might have food stores left too, but… I don’t know that there is a way in any longer and with a snow storm we might die trying.”

“Better to die trying than to die giving up,” Arnaghad says.

“If this truly is the White Frost, is there any chance of survival?” Erland asks closing his eyes. This is not how he wants to go out, not when he still has so much grieving and loving to do. Not when he just discovered that he can.

“I’ve never been through an apocalypse before, I couldn’t tell you. We got this far, though, so we might as well try.”

“Might as well,” Erland sighs, pulling on Arnghad’s fingers to bite the tip of one of them. The other witcher grunts indignantly. “But I’m not spending the rest of eternity stuck in a damp basement with you if you are going to keep wearing that bearskin. My nose may be clogged up with snot, but I can still smell it and it reeks. Did you piss on it?”

“I didn’t, but you might have with all the feverish thrashing and moaning you did.”

“Fuck off,” Erland snaps and they both laugh. It’s a glimpse of a relationship they barely scratched the surface of back then. If they survive now, they could learn its ins and outs yet.

And if Erland is anything, if he’s ever been anything, it is determined. He is determined to give his long life one last purpose. It’s a selfish purpose, lacking chivalry and heroism, but Arnaghad was right. He did what he could and now he can allow himself this, a shot at love in the middle of the apocalypse. Erland’s had more idealistic and futile dreams.

“What a horrible retirement Destiny has chosen for us,” he says.

“This isn’t worse than being dragged away by an ugly mage and suffering his experiments for years and years.”

“Speak for yourself, big bear, speak for yourself.”

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

@witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo , @littoraly-art

[itgetsdarksometimes35]

Revenge is Best Served out of the Ice

Warnings: Non con, dub con, death, cursing, blood, rough vaginal sex, other things, Bucky isn’t okay. 18+

Word Count: 2,529

Prompt: I’m as mad as Hell, and I’m not going to take this anymore

Pairings: Dark ex-Hydra Bucky / Ex-Hydra Reader

Summary: Reader is in hiding after the fall of Hydra.

~ Indicates a time change

--- Indicates a POV change

A/N: This is my very late submission to @kellyn1604 challenge hope you guys like it. I’ll be in the woods for about a week, but I’ll upload an equally late submission to a challenge when I get back. 

XXX

It was never meant to go down like this. You had answered a silly job as an assistant with a company; never did you think you’d be helping a man who leads a terrorist movement looking to take over the world. 

You wanted out the minute you saw the asset. The way Alexander treated him wasn’t human. Even though he insisted he wasn’t, he was an experiment of sorts, it still didn’t sit well with you. His icy cold eyes held life, even if they did make you queasy every time you looked into them. 

Very rarely did you go into where the assassin was kept with Pierce, but when you did he always stared at you until his attention was drawn back to his abusers. The instruments made you feel awful, so you avoided invitations inside as much as possible. The machines that tortured him when he did wrong, the ice he was put in to keep him alive, the electricity that would go through his brain to make him forget. You wondered how old he truly was and who he was. Did he have a family? What did he do to get here?

~

You gasped as you woke up with a jolt from your nightmare. The same blue eyes that had met yours for 5 years refused to go, even in your dreams. You saw him everywhere; the Winter Soldier. After he was ordered to kill Captain America, Hydra was found out. Many were arrested and tried, some people had to go into hiding, including yourself, and others were ordered to rebuild under a new name. After Alexander was killed you had faked your death and ran away to Vienna. Nobody knows where the Winter Soldier went. 

That all had been nearly two years ago. You had moved on in every sense. You had gotten a new job, and this one you loved. Sure, it wasn’t anything you dreamed of doing as a little girl, but it awarded you the privacy you sought. You weren’t ready to reconnect with the world yet. Plus the hours were flexible and no job beats the one where you can be at work in your home in your PJ’s. 

You went out once a week for groceries. You didn’t have a tv, a computer, and the only time you used your burner phone was for work. You kept yourself entertained with the old books left in your old apartment. It was a life different from the one you were used to, but that’s what you liked about it. 

Today was the day you go shopping for food. You sat up in your bed, noticing the little bit of sunlight that passed through the black blankets you’d hung on the windows as makeshift curtains. 

You got up and started your routine before heading out the door. The small market was filled with buyers bargaining for better prices and sellers yelling their final price. You make your way from the seafood to the fruit; the seafood was always the first thing to go in the market. Vienna seemed to have too much fruit. 

As you’re checking out the apples you start feeling watched. You look around but see nobody. Weird. You get enough fruit to keep you satiated for the week so you leave the market as soon as you can. The less human contact and time outside as possible the better, and you were starting to feel off. Someone was watching you, you could feel it, but no matter how many times you turn you see nobody looking. Thank God the walk home is short. 

When you get near your apartment you run up the brick stairs and shove the key into the door, pulling it open and slamming it closed then locking it. You didn’t realize you had been running until you tried to catch your breath and calm your crazy heart. 

You look outside through the peephole before concluding nobody followed you. And if they did they at least left you alone for now. You walked to the kitchen to set down the mesh grocery bag before unloading everything. 

That’s when you heard it. 

The only way into this apartment other than the front door was the fire escape that was connected to the window in your bedroom. The sound of the window opening, no matter how faint it was, has been trained by you to be heard. Your irrational fears of being robbed or found while you're sleeping has finally helped you as you quietly reach for the knife on the counter. 

You continue unpacking and pretend like you didn’t hear a thing in order to trick the intruder. You keep the knife in front of you on the counter, hidden by your body, as your ear strains to listen to what’s happening behind you. 

“You don’t live where I expected.”

Your eyes widened at the voice. The amount of times you heard that voice is less than the amount you saw the face connected to it, but you could recognize it in a concert of sounds. 

You spin around with the knife in your hand to see the man who plagued your nightmares. The Winter Soldier.

He looked down at the puny weapon in your hand. It would do little to protect yourself against the super soldier, but it helped your confidence a bit. He smiled at your shaking grasp on the knife.

“Do you think that’ll work?”

“What are you doing here?”

The man narrowed his eyes at you a bit before ignoring your question. He made a move and you stuck out the knife in a threatening manner. It did nothing to the assassin as he reached for the milk you had just bought, and popped the cap off before taking a few sips. He wiped his mouth before continuing. 

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere. You’re hard to trace, you know.” Your breathing is getting more erratic and your heart is beating so loud you can hear it. But even if you couldn’t you know the superhuman before you could. “Do you remember me?” His eyes seem searching, like he’s not sure he’s got the right person. Or if he’s confused as to why you’re scared to see him. 

“Yes.” The man nods at your response. 

“After my last mission I was on the run from Hydra. I wasn’t sure what would become of it, but after figuring out I started a plan. I started tracking down the people who the government failed to bring into custody and killing them one by one.” Fuck. “At first I wasn’t looking for you, you hadn’t hurt me after all. I could see your hesitation every time you saw me.” Then why are you here? “But then I remembered the way you looked at me. How disgusted you were. You saw me for the monster that I was.” The man paused, waiting to see if you’d argue. You didn’t. You couldn’t. He was right, even if you felt bad for him, you saw him as a war machine, murderous monster.

“So, I tracked you down. I found you on a car camera at the market, but you never leave. I thought I had the wrong place for the longest time, but today I finally saw you. моя маленькая сука.” The blue eyes that haunted you weren’t dead anymore, they held a flame now that terrified you. 

“Listen, I’m sorry. I am. If I had any idea what was going on I would’ve never accepted the job. I was just trying to work, I’m sorry. Please, just go.”

The man just scoffed at your words. “You would’ve never taken the job, but you wouldn’t have helped me. You wouldn’t have helped innocent people. You think I wanted to kill all those people? I still see their faces, no matter how many times they fried my brains, I can’t fucking forget! I don’t have the option to just run away. Unlike you, you fucking bitch!”

You jumped as he was starting to get angrier, the container of milk crushed in his metal fist, leaking down to the floor. Tears started to sting your eyes and you were shaking even worse. “Please, I get why you’re angry, but you don’t have to do this.”

“And you didn’t have to keep quiet for all those years, but you did. Didn't you?” You shook your head. He didn’t get it, you could’ve died. You had no choice but to stay silent. “My name’s James Buchanan Barnes by the way. Everyone called me Bucky. I had a life, a family, friends. A career that I loved. Hydra took all that from me and turned me into the thing you see today. I should’ve died a long time ago; but now I’m as mad as Hell, and I’m not going to take this anymore!”

The soldier suddenly lunged at you, twisting your wrist causing you to scream out. You dropped the knife to the floor with a clang, and you were shoved against the counter with your back to the man who had broken back into your life. 

“I could easily kill you, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t always have a thing for you. The way your ass would look in your pencil skirts, it made me feel normal again, the feelings I’d get when I’d see you. Well, that is until Hydra just fucked me up again.” He whispered low in your ear as you felt him unbuckling his pants. Your struggles were kept to a minimum due to the metal arm holding your body uncomfortably close to the wooden counter. 

“I used to even daydream about a life with you. White picket fence, big house, two kids, the whole nine yards. The normal shit I had as a kid.” the man dryly chuckled, “How stupid of me.”

Without warning he slaps your ass. Hard. He gripped your panties before shoving them down your legs, riding your dress up your thigh to reveal yourself to him. You squeezed your eyes shut as you felt your face get hot with embarrassment. 

The soldier suddenly drops to his knees and grabs your ass cheeks in his hands, spreading yourself more for him to see. He moaned before diving right in, licking at you slit. You moaned out before you could catch it with your hand causing the man to groan into your core. 

“You like that don’t you?” Slap. “Fucking slut.” 

The man continued to eat you out as you reached hopelessly for an escape. He held you steady and firm up to his face, and you had no control over the vulgar sounds that were leaving your mouth. 

You let out a high pitched scream as the soldier started sucking on your pearl of nerves, driving you over the edge into ecstasy. He continued to suck up all that you had to offer him before standing up.

“You’re slutty cunt has me hard as a fucking rock, you know that?” Another slap to your backside has you jolting forward just a bit and groaning out at the pain that blurred the line of pleasure.

You heard more clothes shuffling before you felt something hot poke at your entrance. “Ready Babygirl?” The man chuckled as you shook your head. 

“Please, you can still stop! I won’t tell anyone, just let me go!”

“Aw, imagine it being your choice.” With that he shoved himself to his limit within you. You both moaned out at the feeling of your walls stretching around the thick member inside you, pulling at him as he moved deeper.

“You’re tighter than I always imagined, Doll.” the soldier moaned into your ear, starting to find a rhythm inside you. He wasted no time using your body as his toy. He deserved this after all that Hydra put him through. After all that you allowed him to be put through.

“Y-you’re hurting me!” 

“Good.”

You’re closing your eyes so hard you can see stars. You feel hot tears escape from your eyes as you’re trying to wait out the torture your body was being subject to. Pretty soon the pain is too much and you’re sobbing.

“What are you crying for, bitch?” the man grabs a handful of your hair and yanks it back, your scalp burning from his roughness, “You don’t get to cry, not after what you let happen to so many people. You don’t know true pain.” He shoved your head forward and you barely miss hitting your head on the counter. Your neck still hurt from his force, though. 

The Winter Soldier’s movements start to get harder and he starts hitting a spot within you that makes you clench around him, your orgasm creeping up in your lower stomach.

“That’s right, clench my cock, cunt. Just like that and I’ll cum for you. You’ll like that won’t you?” Bucky slapped your ass three times before grabbing your left cheek, making you squeeze him again. “Answer!”

“Yes! Please cum inside me, Bucky!”

That was a mistake.

Bucky shoved your hips into the counter for sure causing bruises to rise. You cry out, more tears escaping down your hot and inflamed cheeks. “Don’t call me that. It’s sergeant to you,” The man growls out at you, “You know that? I was a fucking sargeant before this shit. Respected. Now look at me,” he chuckles humorlessly. 

You can feel blood trickle down your leg as the sergeant continues to abuse your pussy, any orgasm you might’ve had is gone now, replaced with a painful yet numb ach. 

“God, fuck-” You feel warmth spill into your channel as the soldier stills inside you. He pulls out of you, letting your weak and overused body fall to the tile floor painfully. You draw your legs up to your chest as you examine the blood on the floor, some of it gushing out from under your inflamed core. You have no idea what he fractured, he had to have done something, but it sure as Hell hurt. 

You hear a click and look up just as a loud bang is heard. Then everything went black.

---

Bucky looked down at the woman he just fucked, saw how the blood trickled from the bullet wound in her head down to the floor to mix with the blood from her pussy. 

He looked around at the dump she called an apartment. It is a place where nobody can trace easily, he thought. She was the last person he had to kill on his path of revenge, and now he needed somewhere to lay low. Maybe he’ll stay, nobody will realize a difference. The bitch never talked to anyone or interacted with people, and those who did know she existed would probably assume she left or that he was her boyfriend or something. They wouldn’t ask questions. They didn’t care.

Bucky finished putting the food she had gotten away before working on disposing of the body. He smiled to himself, content with the job he had done. It wouldn’t right all his wrongs, but it certainly helped. Besides, revenge is best served out of the ice. 

XXX

Tags: @coconutqueen21 @kellyn1604 @jtargaryen18 @collette04 @nsfwsebbie @what-just-happened-bro @gigistorm @avengerimscreaming @venusavengers @saharzek @navybrat817 @bucksgoat @xoxabs88xox

[twhstuckylover]

AS DARKNESS FALLS

CHAPTER 2

SUMMARY: Henry is trying to live with the curse he was given. He believes he is doomed to live eternity in the shadows. But when someone comes into his life, he starts seeing the light.

Previous Chapter: 1

WARNINGS: There are dark themes in the first couple chapters. Death and other serious topics will happen, so if you are uncomfortable with these things, no not read! If you are under the age of 18, please do not read. It is not appropriate for teens and children!

A/N: This is the first time I’ve really written any sort of smut, so it most likely isn’t that well written. This is unbeta’d, so all mistakes are mine! I hope you all enjoy this! Let me know what you think of it! Thanks for reading

WORD COUNT: 2241

PAIRING: Vampire!Henry x Secondary female character

RATING: 18+ (smutty goodness and death)

TAG LIST: @viking-raider @angryschnauzer @dancingwendigo @henrythickcavill @raspberrydreamclouds @mary-ann84 @demivampirew @littlefreya @feelmyroarrrr @angreav @la-rousse-folle @inlovewithhisblueeyes

If you would like to be added to or taken off the tag list, let me know!

I do not give permission to post my story to any other social media site. I don’t give permission to use my story in any way other than to read it and enjoy it.

WARNING #2 Again, there are dark themes in here. If you are not comfortable with death or smut, please don’t read this! If you are under 18, please do not read!

Henry goes to the edge of the forest that surrounds the town and waits. It’s a sick game he likes to play with himself. He sits and waits for someone to find the body.

Maybe deep down he wants someone to catch him and put him out of his misery, so he no longer has to live this sort of life.

But he knows in reality that if someone were to catch him, he would fight for his life. No one can find out about his secret. Even if he does loathe being a creature of the night. He needs to keep this part of him away from everyone. It’s safer for them not to know.

As much as he hates being a vampire, he hates how little disregard humans have for their lives even more. How much they take for granted on a day to day basis. He would kill to be a human again and not take his life for granted. There are so many things he would change if he could go back.

Maybe that’s why he plays this little game. To show the humans just how fragile their lives are and how quickly and violently they can be taken from them.

For several hours, he sits in the tree and waits for the dawn to break. He's so caught up in his thoughts that he doesn't notice the woman coming towards him.

His body stiffens when he hears, ”What are you doing up in the tree, sir?”

Henry glances down and spots a “rough around the edges“ woman staring up at him. ”Nothing that concerns you, miss.”

A smirk plays on her lips, ”I can help you pass the time while you do whatever you're doing, sir.”

He rolls his eyes, ”It would not be wise for you to be around me, miss. I would move along if I were you.”

She chuckles, ”Well, no one has ever called me wise.”

She slides her hand up his thigh and he sighs. ”Not to be rude, miss, but I want to be alone. Please leave me be!”

She moves her hand up higher, ”No one wants to be alone.”

”I do! Now, please leave!”

She shakes her head and her hand reaches her goal. She firmly grabs his manhood through his trousers and Henry lets out a deep sigh.

He runs his fingers through his curly mop of hair, ”I am begging you to leave me alone, miss.”

”I’ll leave once I take care of your need, sir.”

Henry flies down from the tree and startles the woman with his speed. A wicked smirk begins to play on his lips as he checks out his next victim.

He declares, ”You can’t take care of my need and never will be able to. No one can. Now please go before you regret coming near me.”

She pays no mind to his words and begins to undo the buttons of his pants, ”I like a challenge, sir.”

The soiled dove leans up and licks at his plump bottom lip. He leads her backward until her back is against the tree and his eyes turn almost black.

He gets a sinister gleam in his eyes then a wide smile spreads across his face. ”So be it! I will play your little game, but we're going to play by my rules. Do I make myself clear, little fawn?”

She chews on her bottom lip and slowly nods. ”Let me tell you about my fares before we proceed.”

He shakes his head, ”There’s no need for that. I'll pay you whatever your price once we are through.”

She raises her eyebrow at him, ”Well then, sir, shall we start?”

”This is the last chance for you to back out of this and leave me be. Because you will hate yourself for even glancing at me tonight.”

As she nips at his jawline, she says, ”I’ll take my chances, sir, because you're in for a real treat.”

His eyes grow a bit darker, ”I will be the judge of that, little fawn.”

Henry pushes her down on her knees and slides his trousers down his thighs. He grabs the base of his hardening member and moves it around in front of her face. He smirks when he sees her eyes go round when she takes in his size.

”Now be a good girl and wrap those pretty lips around my cock.”

She shakes her head and pleads, ”It’s too big!”

He tsks, ”Now, now! I don't want to hear that negativity. We will take it slow at first, but you will get my dick inside you in more than one of your holes.”

The harlot shakes her head again, ”I can't do it, sir!”

”I am paying for your services, so do as I say. Now take my penis in your mouth. I will not tell you again!”

She grabs the base of his growing erection and brings the tip to her lips. She licks the bead of precum from the slit and gets the first taste of him.

He groans, ”Oh, fuck! Just like that, my little fawn.”

She hums at his praise and laps at the slit again. More precum comes forth and she devours it. He tangles his fingers into her hair and holds her head in place.

Henry thrusts his hips forward and she finally takes him into his mouth. He pushes her head forward and makes her choke on his entire length.

She tries to move away from him, but she is no match for his strength. He keeps her in place and begins to fuck her throat. He gives her no opportunity to catch her breath with his brutal pace, but he doesn't care.

He feels the way her body is moving towards unconsciousness from the lack of air getting to her lungs. He finally pulls away from her when he sees that she's going to pass out.

She lets out a loud gasp when the oxygen comes rushing in, but she gets no rest. Henry picks her weak body up off her knees and swiftly turns her around to face the tree.

The air leaves her lungs again when he roughly thrusts his dick into her soaking core.

”Look at that, little fawn, your cunt is dripping for me! Your body craves to have me in you.”

She cries out, ”Please stop! You're hurting me!”

Henry stops his movements and lets out an annoyed sigh. ”Fine. I'll give you about a minute to get comfortable with my size but after that, you'll have to just take it. Do you understand?”

She nods in agreement and he takes out his pocket watch to see the sixty seconds go on by.

The vampire thrusts shallowly into her as the seconds go by. He smiles to himself when he hears the way her breathing changes from the pleasure she feels.

She jumps when Henry whispers into her ear, ”Ten...nine...eight...seven”

Her body tenses up again in anticipation of what he's going to do and he tsks again. “Relax or it's going to hurt still. You only have four...three...two...and one!”

Henry gives her a hard thrust and the head of his cock slams into her cervix. She lets out a loud moan and moves back into him.

He grips her hips with a bruising pressure and lets his need for release take over. He stops holding back his strength and works his dick in and out of her wet hole.

It's music to his ears as her pleasurable screams fill the night air, ”Yes! Yes! Fuck! Right there, sir!”

She throws her head back onto his shoulder and he growls when he gets a whiff of her scent. His mouth begins to water at the thought of having her blood on his tongue.

He grabs the base of her skull and shoves her face into the bark of the tree. He keeps his hand there while his other hand moves to find her clit.

The soiled dove melts into him as his nimble fingers play with her sensitive nub. ”Does that feel good, little fawn? Do you like the way my fingers rub over your clit? Are you going to cum all over my big dick?”

She yells out, ”Fuck! Yes! Oh, yes! Please don't stop, sir!”

”Oh, I wouldn't dare stop now, darling!”

The smirk comes back onto his face as he feels the way she throbs around him as her orgasm draws near. He thrusts into her hard until his entire manhood is nicely inside her then freezes.

She lets out a long whine and tries to circle her hips to get him to move, but it's to no avail. She's about to protest when he begins the assault on her clit.

She grabs at his wrist to stop him, but he moves his hand faster. It's getting to be too much for her.

He growls deeply into her ear, ”Cum for me, little fawn.”

She doesn't think twice and let's go. Her orgasm travels up and down her nerves and leaves her shaking in their wake. Her knees start to give out on her and Henry holds up her dead weight.

The high of the intense orgasm is beginning to wear off and he picks up a much more punishable pace of his hips.

The pace feels good for a brief moment until reality sets in. She moves her hand back between them and pushes against his hipbone to get him to slow down. He tosses her hand to the side and proceeds to ravish her swollen lips.

”Please slow down, sir! It's beginning to hurt again. I can't take it!”

He lets out a dark laugh, ”Too bad! I let you cum, little fawn. Now it's my turn to have some fun. Shut your mouth and take it!”

The lady of the night begins to cry and Henry slams into her harder. He grips her hair tightly and pulls her head back. The new angle of her head exposes her neck more to him and he licks his lips.

He slides his tongue up the vein in her neck and feels her strong pulse. He whispers into her ear, ”I hope you're ready for this. This is going to be the last thing you'll ever do in your pathetic life.”

The frightened girl looks back at Henry and notices how black his eyes are. Her own eyes grow large when she spots his fangs.

”Wh...wh...what are you?”

He chuckles, ”Your worst nightmare, little fawn.”

Her scream cuts through the hush of the night when she feels him plunge his fangs into her throat.

Henry begins to drink her blood and gets the immediate rush he craves when the liquid touches his tongue.

He feels his climax approaching and his hips begin to falter. He growls against her neck as his orgasm spills into her womb.

He gives her one final rough thrust then moves away from the prostitute. She crumbles to the ground and holds onto her neck. She makes herself into a ball and stares at Henry in horror.

As he tucks himself back into his pants, he sneers, ”I gave you the chance to leave, but you wouldn't listen to me. Now I have to kill you!”

The tears begin to fall down her cheeks again as she begs, ”Please, sir! I won't tell anyone about you! Please don't kill me!”

He stalks towards her with eyes full of evil and blood staining his lips. ”It's time to say goodbye.”

In a quick motion, he snaps her neck and her body goes still. He turns his head up towards the sky and lets out a large outcry of frustration.

He falls to his knees and buries his face in his hands. He hates this part of his curse. He hates taking another life to make sure he stays alive.

It takes him a few minutes to compose himself, but he knows what he has to do. Henry picks up the corpse and discreetly makes his way back to the alley to dispose of it with his other victim.

He makes sure that the coast is clear before he bounds off into the forest again. This time he doesn't stick around for someone to find them.

He's so angry with himself. How could he be so stupid and let that happen? He had a feeling that he shouldn't stay and wait, but he couldn't help himself. He just hopes no one saw him slip up in the forest.

But little does Henry know, someone was watching...

[whereisten]

Adrenaline

Part 1 Preview

Summary:

One night Street Racer!Yuta stumbles into your diner. He’s a dangerous mess that turns your life upside down.

Pairing: female reader X Street Racer!Yuta

Genre: Angst, Fluff, Suggestive

Preview Word Count: 1.4k

Warnings: car accident mention, blood mention, cursing, cigarette use.

(A/n: YOOOOOO YUTA!!! Mr. Nakamoto..this comeback..has been killing us all and I was inspired..so hope you all enjoy this preview of what bad boy Yuta is all about)

—————

Yuta was feeling a bit too confident when he whipped the car around the corner this time. His over-eagerness and heavy foot pushed his speed to 90 mph as he turned the wheel, causing the vehicle to flip and land into the bushes. Maybe he wouldn’t have driven like a mad man if there wasn’t so much money at stake. Maybe he would’ve driven better had he focused on the race and not his ex.

Cocky? Yes.

Upset? Yes.

Stupid? Yes.

And what happens when you combine all three? A walking disaster that tends to have too much adrenaline a.k.a Yuta.

The airbag deploys just as quickly as the crowd disperses, running from law enforcement that would surely show up once a nosey neighbor notified them of the crash.

And so, Yuta, the loser of this race, is left alone and without a car.

“Shit.” He says as he stumbles out of the car and feels blood trickle down the side of his face.

He slams the dented sardine can of a door shut and curses to himself as he watched the smoke fill the air. He’s dizzy and as the adrenaline starts to fade, he begins to feel the pain in his head and it’s like a thousand drums being played at once.

But he doesn’t call the police or an ambulance. Instead, he thinks to himself “I just need some coffee.”

So he limps over to a nearby diner and seats himself at the bar. The vision of one eye is completely blurry, but he makes it.

He sits down and takes a cigarette out, placing it between his lips before reaching into his pocket for his lighter.

You look up from your book and walk over to the lone man that visits the diner you work at at this strange time of the night.

“Sir..” you place your book down.

“You can’t smoke in—oh my God, you’re bleeding!”

Yuta chuckles “no shit.” He takes a drag from his cigarette and looks up at you and immediately he swears to himself that you’re an angel—or is that just his messed up vision playing tricks on him?

He closes one eye and focuses on your face and sure enough, you are beautiful. In this town of familiar faces, yours stood out the most to him.

You were like sunshine, clear skies and flowers. You were the summertime, for there was a warmth about you that Yuta immediately felt.

“You have to go to a hospital.” You say with concern but Yuta is unfazed.

He rolls his eyes. “No can do, sweetheart. Can I get a cup of coffee?”

The man’s blood drips all over your counter and his nonchalant attitude about it all makes you upset.

“You have to leave! You can’t just..bleed all over my counter like this!” Your arms flail about as you speak and Yuta really wants to laugh because you’re cute, but there’s just too much pain settling in.

He takes some crumpled up cash out and places it on the counter. “Coffee..please.”

“That’s it. I’m calling the cops.”

Yuta jumps up and grabs your arm before you can walk away. “Listen, sweetheart..”

“Let go of me!” You try to pull out of his grasp but can’t.

He takes the cigarette out with his other hand and licks his lips. “You look like a smart girl..if you know what’s good for you, just make me some damn coffee and I’ll get out your way..forever.”

That’s when you realize that he’s not just any regular guy. Your eyes drift down to his hand. The tattoo on his slim wrist is that of a dragon, but not just any dragon. The one that was specifically designed for members of a notorious underground street racing group. A group you wanted nothing to do with.

Oh, how lucky are you to have the night shift.

He lets you go, but as he’s about to sit back down on the stool, he collapses onto the floor.

“Shit!” You run around the counter and bend down. He still has a pulse but has blacked out from the blood loss. You can’t take him to the hospital and you can’t call the police. It’s just you in the diner and you can’t just leave him there to die.

You close your eyes and sigh. “Why me?”

But lucky for him, you’re a nursing student and know just enough to get him fixed up.

So you clean up, lock up the diner and drag the slender man to your car, noting that his blood has stained your headrest so you’ll definitely have to charge him for that once he wakes up.

You take him to your apartment and sit him down on your couch. You then take out your first aid kit along with a needle and thread.

You’re almost ready as you dip a cloth into a bucket of water to clean up his head wound. You have to sit with your legs over his so that you can get as close to his face as possible while sewing the wound up.

He looks handsome, peaceful and ethereal when his eyes (and mouth) are closed.

You take in his facial features as you clean the wound gently, noticing his cute nose, clear skin, small mouth, and sharp jawline.

You also notice the two slits in his perfect eyebrows and the strange color of his hair, white with streaks of purple throughout.

You don’t even know his name, yet here you are fixing him up like some 1800s military nurse. Why did you feel obligated to do so? You’re not sure.

He’s a criminal and calling the police would’ve gotten him out of your hair. But you didn’t want that for some reason. He’s dangerous..and unfortunately, you’re attracted to him for that.

You admire your handy work and smile to yourself. “Not bad for a student.”

You’re surprised that Yuta didn’t wake up yet but you take his silence as an opportunity to examine the rest of his body. You see that his arms are fine and hesitate to go further down.

But you do anyway, you had to make sure your patient is okay. You start by carefully removing his leather jacket.

You slowly lift his shirt and you’re shocked to find a belly button piercing.

But before you can react, Yuta quickly takes your wrist in his hand to pull it from his shirt.

He is disgruntled and confused once he awakens, flipping you onto the couch so you’re on your back and he’s over you with your wrist still in his hand.

“W-who are you? Where the fuck am I?”

Yuta looks into your eyes as your faces are just centimeters apart from each other.

“I’m-I’m the girl from the diner..I was just making sure you’re okay.” Your eyes widened. How did he move so fast? How was he so strong? It was the adrenaline, it was still running through him like a hungry jaguar.

“What did you do to me? Why does my head hurt?” He held your wrist tighter, you started to wince in pain.

“I didn’t do anything! You hurt your head so I stopped the bleeding!” You pulled out of his grasp finally and looked up at him.

He looked to the side and focused. He finally recalled the last few hours, the accident, the diner. It was you, you were the angel.

His face softened as he looked back at you. He looked at your round lips and thought about how close they were to his.

You didn’t mind being close to him and in this position with him either, your thoughts became cloudy as you watched the handsome man above you.

He breathed heavily as his eyes traced over your neck then to your cleavage below him. He shook his head and lifted himself off of you quickly.

He stood up too fast and swayed slowly.

“I’m sorry..”

You jumped up. “You shouldn’t leave yet, you’re still weak.”

You reached out to hold him and keep him level, but he backed away. He wasn’t sure why you were so caring but it made him feel weak. He was starting to like you, and he didn’t know why.

“I’m..fine. I have to go.”

“Wait..” you start but he’s already made his way through the door. The loud slam echoed through your apartment as you stood there in shock.

You never got a thank you, but even worse, you never got his name.

[when-a-humble-bard]

what my heart just yearns to say

Word Count: 5575

summary: Jaskier’s a romantic at heart. So you would think he falls in love at first sight. But... when he falls in love with Geralt, he falls very, very slowly. Or, ten moments where Jaskier falls a little bit more in love with the Witcher, until he's really not sure when it started in the first place.

Warnings: hurt/comfort, fluff, injuries, vomiting, mentions of death, nonconsenual almost-groping by a patron, shipping lens on a canon scene, near-drowning, cursing (of course), first kisses, feelings confessions, Jaskier yearns so much oof

A/N: In which I continue to be amazed by the other creators in this fandom, inspired by them, and also wanted to further explore these two. I hope you enjoy it! A companion piece is in the planning stages already... Heh. Edited by yours truly, so all mistakes are mine.

Read on AO3

...

I.

“They said it’s a water nymph?” Jaskier asks the Witcher one evening.

A fire crackles in front of them, sparks shooting up into the night sky. Stars peek between the breaks in the forest canopy above them. Geralt glances at the bard, then sighs and turns his attention back to the fire.

“That’s what they said.”

“But you don’t buy it,” Jaskier says. It’s not really a question. He can tell from Geralt’s tone.

Geralt’s lips press into a thin line. “Rusalki and some bruxae share a number of similarities in terms of appearance. The rusalki they described has pale skin and dark hair.”

Jaskier’s fingers twitch with the sudden desire to grab his notebook. “And… rusalki don’t look like that?”

“They can,” Geralt replies, glancing at him, “but so can bruxae. They also have similar tastes in prey.”

Jaskier purses his lips as he remembers what the townspeople had told them. “Men.”

Geralt nods. “Which is why you’re going to stay here with Roach tomorrow.”

Jaskier glances over towards the horse grazing a few yards away, then looks back at the Witcher. “So what’s the difference?”

He doesn’t know if the question tumbles past his lips because he’s genuinely curious about the answer or because he just really likes hearing Geralt talk. The Witcher’s subdued cadence was stubbornly persistent. Often when Jaskier made a concerted effort to engage Geralt in conversation, his responses were brief, clipped, and straightforward. A staccato drum against Jaskier’s lilting melody.

But apparently, Geralt was a fountain of willing knowledge when it came to monsters. And Jaskier could listen to him for hours.

Geralt’s brow quirks in surprise at the question. “To start with, bruxae are of the vampire family. They lure men to their death so that they may feed on their blood. Rusalki are, usually, much more amenable. They lure men to them for procreation, and rarely intend death.”

Jaskier’s brow furrows. “Which is why you think it’s not rusalki. You think it’s a bruxa.”

“Hm.”

Jaskier feels something twinge in his chest. “How do you kill a bruxa?” He tears his gaze towards the fire as he feels Geralt glance at him.

“They’re susceptible to silver, like most monsters. Igni is also useful. Bruxa tend to hunt in packs, so its unusual that the villagers here have only seen one.”

“Have you fought them before?”

“Yes.”

“Are you nervous? About tomorrow?”

A pause. “No.”

Jaskier huffs and offers a faint, uncertain smile. “That makes one of us.”

“I told you you’re not coming with me.”

“Yes, but that’s quite beside the point, isn’t it?” Because Jaskier isn’t nervous about himself.

Geralt’s head snaps over to the bard in surprise. “Jaskier—”

Jaskier waves him off. “So tell me, dear Witcher,” he says, because he just wants to hear Geralt talk as much as he can tonight. “Why does silver work so well on monsters?”

 II.

Jaskier watches him. The early spring air tugs gently at the loose strands of his white hair. Birds twitter happily in the canopy above them. The stream nearby is still. Mid-morning sunlight filters through the leaves and branches, leaving a mosaic of light around them.

Geralt breathes.

Kneeling in a patch of grass with his hands resting on his thighs, the Witcher has his eyes closed and just… breathes. Jaskier watches the steady rise and fall of his chest. The way it expands with each inhale, the way the ever-present tension in Geralt’s shoulders eases just the slightest bit with each exhale.

Jaskier knows he’s not asleep. Sleeping and meditating are different things. But he thinks that Geralt actually looks more peaceful like this. Jaskier had spent many nights in the bedroll near the Witcher and knew all too well that when Geralt slept, it was usually fitfully. But when he meditates like this…

Geralt is still.

Jaskier can’t help but feel like he’s getting a rare glimpse at who Geralt was—is—beneath the layers and layers of training and mutations. He knew Geralt didn’t regret what he went through to become a Witcher. At least… not exactly. Can you regret something that wasn’t your choice to begin with? Had been his rhetorical response when Jaskier had been brave enough to ask him one evening. But the bard knew that no amount of trials and training could erase the parts of Geralt that was still—sometimes painfully—human. Geralt held within himself a carefully balanced dichotomy that seemed, at least to Jaskier, to be a storm built on regret and guilt and (in his darker moments) self-loathing.

But watching Geralt meditate—the steady breath, the perfect stillness—makes the bard wonder if the storm metaphor isn’t quite accurate. Because really, when Jaskier thinks about it, Geralt’s humanity is perhaps more like the coastal waves. Relentlessly returning to the shoreline no matter how many times it’s sent away.

Jaskier watches Geralt meditate and feels something tighten in his chest. He’d follow that tide to the end of the earth, he realizes. He’d call the waves back to shore for as long as Geralt would let him.

Geralt’s eyes blink open and Jaskier unapologetically meets his gaze.

He arcs his eyebrow. “Composing, Bard?”

Jaskier offers a small, sincere smile. “Something like that.”

 III.

“I’d rethink that move.”

If he’s being honest, Jaskier is almost as surprised as the patron when Geralt seems to materialize out of the crowd and grab the man’s wrist in a vice-like grip. The man’s other hand is still fisted possessively in the waistband of Jaskier’s trousers, uncomfortably close to his crotch.

“What,” the patron spits with a sneer full of rotting teeth, “unwilling to share your whore, Butcher?”

Jaskier grimaces. Butcher made his skin crawl, and he knows that Geralt didn’t take kindly to that term either. The bard had learned that very early, and very quickly.

Geralt growls low in his throat, his eyes flashing dangerously. “Call him that again and I’ll slit your throat.”

The threat makes Jaskier freeze instinctively. Call him that again… Him.

As in Jaskier.

The patron roughly lets go of the bard, who stumbles a step from the suddenness of the motion but still hasn’t taken his eyes off Geralt. In truth, Jaskier really hadn’t been particularly bothered by the term itself. He’d been called it before, and been called much worse than that several hundred times over. But Geralt took issue with it, evidently.

Geralt was defending him. He’d never had someone who’d done that before. Not even his own family.

“Not worth it,” the patron says gruffly. Geralt releases him with a shove to send him stumbling away from Jaskier. He staggers a few steps, muttering something under his breath. Jaskier doesn’t hear it clearly—something about his voice and screaming as pretty as he sings—but Geralt evidently does hear it, quite clearly. Something bright and furious ignites in his gold eyes.

“Geralt,” he says quickly but quietly. “Let it go. It’s fine.”

For a moment, the Witcher looks torn. Jaskier places a hand on his forearm, and Geralt levels a withering gaze on the other man. He rushes through the crowd and out the tavern. It’s not until the door closes behind him that Geralt turns his attention back to the bard. The hot anger in his eyes evaporates slowly into something that Jaskier almost wants to call… soft. His gaze flickers—quick and calculating—over Jaskier’s form. Looking for signs of injury.

Geralt’s gaze meets his again in a silent question. Jaskier offers a reassuring smile and slight nod in answer. I’m okay.

Geralt shakes his head, but Jaskier doesn’t think he’s imagining the tinge of relief under the veil of exasperation. “You really ought to learn some self-defense, Jaskier.”

Jaskier offers an affronted scoff. “I can defend myself perfectly fine, thank you very much.”

“Hmm.”

“I can! I’ll have you know, he is hardly the first over-enthusiastic fan I’ve dealt with.” Jaskier tries not to wince at the way Geralt’s expression darkens, and rushes of add, “And I’ve fended off unwanted advances just fine. He just happened to be particularly, ah, insistent.”

“Hm. And what happens when you can no longer talk your way out of such situations?”

Jaskier’s flippant smile wavers, then stays in place. “Are you offering to teach me, Geralt?” He’s mostly joking.

“Yes.” Geralt’s answer is immediate and unflinching. Jaskier tries not to think too long about why that sends a flutter through his stomach.

 IV.

The kitchen of the small house on the outskirts of the town has barely enough room for the three of them. Geralt, beside him, reeks of death and decay and monster guts. In front of them, the young boy—who couldn’t be older than 16 by Jaskier’s best guess—hoists his baby sister up further onto his hip.

“Truly, Witch—ah, Geralt?” At Geralt’s slight nod, the teen smiles. “Truly, Geralt. Thank you. I, um…” he trails off, turning to rifle through a drawer behind him. The middle sibling, a young boy of about six, runs around the corner and nearly barrels straights into the two of them in the entryway.

“Oi!” the teen snaps. “Slow down, will ya?”

“Sorry,” the younger boy mumbles, and then is off like a flash the moment Geralt takes a step to the left to let him through.

His brother watches him with a certain fond exasperation, even as embarrassment colors his cheeks. “Too much energy for his own good,” he says. Jaskier realizes then that he has a small pouch in the hand that isn’t supporting his baby sister’s weight. He extends it out to the Witcher. “It’s not much. Certainly not nearly enough for disposing of the monster that took our parents, but...”

Geralt shakes his head, making no move to take it. “No payment necessary.”

Jaskier glances at him and feels something unexpectedly soft warming in his chest.

“Please,” the teen says. “I insist.”

“Keep it.”

“My father taught me to never accept charity.”

Jaskier thinks of the empty cupboards around them in the kitchen and feels a small tug in his gut. He remembers all too well singing for literal scraps. Barely surviving. He knew desperate times. And he also knew that some people still ranked their pride higher. The bard figures he can’t really fault him for it, and besides, the poor kid had just lost the very father he’d spoken of. Grief did funny things to people.

Geralt stares at the boy for a long moment. Jaskier sees the tension work in his jaw before he holds a hand out and lets him deposit the coins into the outstretched palm. Twenty ducats fall from the piece of cloth.

“It’s all I have—” he begins apologetically.

“It’s plenty,” Geralt interrupts, folding his fingers over the paltry sum. It does not escape Jaskier’s attention that he doesn’t slip the coins into his own pouch.

The infant in the teen’s arms shifts and makes a distressed noise. “I… I should put her down for a nap, I think.”

Jaskier can hear the uncertainty in the boy’s voice and offers an encouraging smile. “We’ll see ourselves out. I’m sure a bit of rest is exactly what she needs. As a matter of fact, I could use a nap myself.”

Geralt rolls his eyes, but Jaskier sees the relieved smile pull at the boy’s mouth. “Right. Well… Thank you. Again. I… thank you.”

He disappears up the rickety wood stairs. On their way out, Jaskier sees Geralt discretely drop the ducats into a partially-opened drawer by the entrance to the kitchen.

That soft, warm feeling in Jaskier gives an aching, happy tug.

 V.

Jaskier watches, fascinated, as Geralt’s eye twitches. The music that fills the tavern is not coming from Jaskier, and while the other bard is clearly less experienced, Jaskier seems less bothered by the amateur display than the Witcher. Which is odd—really odd—to Jaskier. Because he had been certain that Geralt really couldn’t give a rat’s ass about music.

Jaskier looks at the Witcher over the top of his wine glass as he takes another sip. “What’s troubling you, Geralt?”

Geralt settles an irritated golden gaze onto Jaskier as the bard (the other one) starts another song. It takes only a few seconds for Jaskier to realize it’s the same simple, mundane chord progression and structure as the last song played. Jaskier doesn’t miss the way Geralt’s gaze flickers lightning quick to the lute beside him.

Jaskier stifles a grin. “Don’t tell me you’re already missing my serenades.”

Geralt isn’t looking back at him, instead watching the other bard parade around the room with a look that is very nearly a glare. “At least your songs have some… complexity.”

That sends a very unexpected surge of warmth through Jaskier’s chest. He sits up a bit more, leaning forward. “Musically or lyrically?”

“Music,” Geralt replies, almost absently. “The… chords?” The Witcher’s gaze flickers uncertainly to Jaskier, who can’t help but feel like he’s clinging to every word. He gives Geralt a slight, encouraging nod. Geralt shifts. “They’re better than this shit.”

Jaskier stares at him. Sure, the Witcher didn’t have the same musically-inclined vocabulary, but even that couldn’t hide the fact that Geralt listens to his music. Really listens.

Geralt tears his gaze away from Jaskier’s after a moment, taking a long pull of ale from the tankard in front of him. “Your lyrics,” he continues, “are little more than inaccurate stories.”

“Ah, my dear Witcher, ordinarily I would balk at such a baseless accusation—”

“It’s not baseless.”

“—but you cannot hide the fact any longer.” Jaskier cannot contain the grin that pulls at his lips any more than he can contain the surge of a warm, fluttery feeling in his chest. He points a finger at Geralt. “You listen to me.”

Geralt looks back at him and—though he knows Geralt would deny it—Jaskier swears he sees a twitch to the corner of his mouth. “Impossible not to,” Geralt replies dryly, “what with you filling every damn second with song.” He takes another swallow.

The thinly veiled deflection does nothing to diminish Jaskier’s smile. “And you like it.”

This time, Geralt can’t quite contain the tilt to the corner of his mouth. “Hmm.”

Jaskier knows it’s a hum of agreement.

 VI.

Jaskier’s heart still hasn’t stopped pounding, even though they’d finished the treacherous part of the shortcut around an hour ago. The image of Borch, Téa, and Véa plummeting—their bodies disappearing into the mountain mist below—still leaves Jaskier with a slight roll to his stomach and an ache in his bones that had nothing to do with the long day of foot travel.

It’s close to dusk. The chill of evening mountain air begins to stiffen the bard’s fingers as he sets his lute down beside his bedroll. The dwarves busy themselves with setting up camp and starting to prepare a meal, but Jaskier can’t help the way he keeps watching Geralt.

Geralt, who hadn’t said a thing since Borch let go of the chain.

Jaskier kneels by his bedroll and pretends to adjust it, but he watches the Witcher sitting on a boulder a few yards away. He gazes out over the jagged terrain off the cliffside. He is still. But Jaskier feels his chest knot with concern.

Geralt was perhaps the single most selfless person that Jaskier had met in his 40 years of living. But that came with its pitfalls too—especially as it related to how Geralt tended to view himself. There had always been splintered shards in Geralt’s soul that Jaskier didn’t know how to begin to dig out. But he can still picture the way Geralt had stayed kneeling for a moment on those wooden planks, his head bowed like the weight of the world had—for just a moment—dropped on top of him.

Jaskier fears he knows that body language, and the weighted silence that had followed that moment. He fears that his 22 years of traveling with the Witcher means that he really does know Geralt. And that Geralt feels that he has let them down somehow, despite all he did to try to save them. Even at great risk to himself, Jaskier remembers with a bit of a wince, hearing the creak of those boards under Geralt’s feet.

The Witcher could never catch a break, it seemed.

With a sigh, Jaskier stands and crosses to him. Geralt makes no move to acknowledge his presence, not really, but his stillness is a sign of recognition in and of itself. The bard sets himself carefully, gingerly, on the boulder beside him.

“You did your best,” Jaskier tells him softly, the words managing to push through his slightly tight throat. “There’s nothing else you could have done.”

Jaskier looks at Geralt as he says it. The Witcher had spent more years constructing a mask of passivity and stoicism than Jaskier had been alive, but the bard knows him. And when he sees Geralt’s gaze drop by a few degrees, he knows he’d been right about where Geralt’s thoughts had been.

Something in Jaskier’s chest pulses with an ache that he cannot name. Geralt has carried too much for too long and Jaskier desires fervently to ease that burden. To find a way to let Geralt breathe and be and exist without quite so much heaviness.

“Look, why don’t we leave tomorrow?” he offers, his fingers fidgeting in his lap against the sudden desire to take Geralt’s hand. “That is, if you’ll give me another chance to prove myself a… worthy travel companion.”

It’s a weak, flimsy attempt for a smile. Geralt doesn’t, but there’s just the slightest tug at the corner of his mouth when he hums in response. Geralt glances at him briefly, and though Jaskier doesn’t meet his gaze, that aching in his chest gives a sharp lurch with hope.

“We could head to the coast. Get away for a while,” he adds softly. He’d never said the words aloud before, but they resonate with a certain familiarity. “Sounds like something Borch would say, doesn’t it? ‘Life’s too short. Do what pleases you… while you can.’”

Jaskier swallows, setting his hands on his thighs because they are only getting more fidgety with each pulse of that sharp warmth in his chest—more insistent now. Harder to ignore.

“Composing your next song?” Geralt rumbles quietly.

Jaskier looks down at his hands. “No, I’m just, ah—” I love you, he thinks without daring to look at him. “Just trying to work out what pleases me.”

 VII.

They’re half a mile out of town when it starts to rain. The starting sprinkle lasts just long enough for Jaskier to think he’s glad he invested in a case for the lute before the sky opens up and it starts to pour. Then he’s also glad he bought some decent boots at the last town they were in.

“Fuck.” Jaskier knows that tone. Geralt is annoyed. The bard glances at the Witcher beside him, a faintly amused smile pulling at his lips and a teasing quip on his tongue, but… it dies on his tongue .

Because Geralt meets his gaze, and for a moment, Jaskier forgets how to breathe.

He doesn’t know why, really. The rain soaks Geralt’s white hair, causing some of it to fall into the man’s face in damp, loose strings. His dark shirt is quickly becoming plastered to his broad shoulders from the downpour, having left his armor to be cleaned during their quick trip to the woods to collect some medicinal herbs. Jaskier thinks it’s something about the Witcher’s eyes. Maybe it’s something to do with the way water droplets cling to his lashes. Or the way his golden eyes seem so much brighter in the downpour. Maybe it’s something else entirely.

Jaskier is a man of many words and many metaphors. But he finds words failing him entirely now, and he can’t explain why. Except that he’s left with the sudden, clear sense that looking at Geralt feels a lot like being called home.

Geralt tilts his head slightly, the way he usually did when he was about to ask a question, but Jaskier blinks and jumps in before he can.

“And you thought the lute case was a poor investment. Well, how do you feel now, Geralt? We still have half a mile to go before shelter, and such time for a lute to spend in rain like this…” Jaskier shakes his head. “It would be nothing short of an absolute, irrevocable tragedy.”

“Hmm.” Geralt looks away from Jaskier then, squinting briefly up at the sky. Not squinting, Jaskier realizes after a beat. Glaring.

“Not a fan of the rain?” he asks, mostly rhetorical. Geralt rarely vocally complained—usually Jaskier did it enough for the both of them—but the slight crease between his brows is a familiar look of displeasure. Jaskier pulls the lute case off his shoulders and shrugs out of his doublet.

“It will make it harder to track—what are you doing?”

Jaskier rolls his eyes as he slings the lute case back around his shoulder. “You left your cloak back at the inn, and I know, though you will adamantly deny it, that the real reason you hate the rain is because it gets into your eyes and makes it harder for your sensitive, Witchery eyes to see. So, here.” He hands the purple doublet out to him, looking very pointedly down the road where they can just barely make out the silhouette of the edge of the town.

“Jaskier…” A hesitation. A surprisingly heavy one.

“Honestly, Geralt, you’ll be doing me a favor. Wet doublets are dreadfully heavy, and as I am already saddled with carrying the weight of this lute and your reputation…” Jaskier looks back at the Witcher then to flash him a smile.

Geralt stares at him for a long moment, then takes the garment. As he does so, Jaskier swears he sees a twitch to the corner of Geralt’s mouth.

The bard quickly spins around and rushes a few steps in front of him, arms outstretched to welcome the rainfall, feeling a little breathless again.

 VIII.

Jaskier jolts to awareness with a desperate, strangled gasp. Bile surges up his throat and he barely has the wherewithal to roll away from the person beside him—whose presence is more sensed than seen. Jaskier groans and shuts his eyes against the rolling nausea and the oddly briny taste it leaves in his mouth.

“Fuck,” he mutters, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. He feels a hand rest between his shoulder-blades, so gently it almost seems hesitant.

When Jaskier takes a breath, it trembles. More bile—salty and acrid—rushes up his throat. When the second round of nausea abates and the coughing that wracks his lungs eases, Jaskier feels something cool and smooth pushed against his lips. He instinctively jerks away.

“Damn it, Jaskier,” snaps a rumbling voice. It’s weirdly familiar, even if the strain in it sounds foreign to the bard’s ears. “There’s not—”

Whatever the voice was saying is drowned out by a beautiful, echoing melody. It whispers promises of safety and warmth and love, and something in Jaskier’s chest gives a near painful lurch towards the sound. It’s also not until then that Jaskier gets a sense of his surroundings: the lake in front of him, the grainy sand sticking to his sopping wet clothes, the slate gray overcast sky above him. There are ripples in the lake and that song is calling to him from the water.

Overcome, Jaskier scrambles towards it.

“Fuck—”

Something thick and heavy grabs around Jaskier’s torso and pulls him back. The bard’s back hits something solid and firm but Jaskier’s chest is still pulling, pulling, pulling towards the water, towards the song.

The cool, smooth thing is pressed to his lips again. Jaskier wrenches his head away. But then he can hear something, barely, rumbling like distant thunder beneath the lilting song.

“Drink it, Jaskier. Please.”

The “please” sounds… odd to him. Strained and choked.

Jaskier lets his lips part in response, and a cool liquid floods into his mouth. It tastes of honey and cotton, washing away the briny taste that had been lingering in his mouth. He swallows it down.

A second later, the song fades away. So does the sound of the lake and the dusk breeze brushing past his ears. Just… silence. Jaskier feels the pulling in his chest release and the bard nearly goes boneless from the sudden relief.

He blinks a few times as clarity starts to trickle back into his thoughts. He’d been… traveling. Tracking a siren, or a mutation of one anyway. Yes, that was right. But he’d been with someone. Specifically…

“Geralt?” he asks, his own voice sounding odd in his head with the rest of the world muted. He realizes as soon as the name leaves his lips that Geralt is the thing that’s holding him in place. Jaskier cranes his neck to look at the Witcher, who still hasn’t relaxed his grip. Bright gold eyes meet his blue ones, then flickers over his form with panicked speed.

The stoic, collected look the Witcher usually wore has splintered, just a bit, and Jaskier thinks he can see a glimpse through the cracks that Geralt is frantically trying to piece back together.

He’s… afraid, Jaskier thinks. Or he had been, a moment ago.

“I’m okay,” Jaskier tells him, if only because he has the feeling that maybe Geralt needs to hear it.

The Witcher doesn’t reply, instead swallowing thickly and sinking his head to where Jaskier’s neck meets his shoulder. And if Jaskier traces Geralt’s arm around him to find his hand and lace their fingers together, well. Geralt doesn’t seem to protest.

 IX.

Jaskier is about halfway through the song about the vampiress when the door to the tavern ricochets open with a loud crack. Geralt staggers a step into the room—and it’s the fact that he staggers that makes Jaskier stop mid-song. The Witcher’s entrance is less than graceful, but Jaskier watches closely as Geralt grits his teeth, straighten his spine, and step fully through the threshold. Geralt’s eyes flicker over the room like he’s looking for something, or someone—perhaps the woman who had hired him—when they settle on Jaskier.

Oh.

The bard gracefully, if quickly, jumps to his feet and slings the lute in his hands around his back. Geralt is hiding it now behind sharp eyes and a rigid posture, but something is wrong. Jaskier can tell.

“I hate to cut a performance short,” he says to the crowd as he maneuvers through them towards the Witcher, mostly in an effort to break the sudden silence in the room, “but alas, I must bid you all adieu for the evening. Geralt, shall we?”

Geralt doesn’t argue. Doesn’t even hum. But he follows Jaskier as the bard carves a path through the crowd towards the stairs. Jaskier flashes patrons reassuring smiles despite the way his own throat is tightening with concern.

They make it to the room—barely—before Geralt’s steps falter again. Jaskier steadies him by grabbing his arm and bracing a hand against Geralt’s chest.

“Easy,” he says softly.

“Fuck.”

“Here. Let’s get you sitting before you end up face-first on the floor, because if that happens then we’re both out of luck because—Melitele’s tits—” Jaskier yelps  when he staggers for a second under Geralt’s sudden weight. “Okay. I’ve got you. Here we go.”

Jaskier is rambling as they cross the small room to the bed. He helps Geralt sit, kneeling in front of him as the Witcher sinks to the edge of the mattress. Geralt grimaces tightly and pitches forward into the bard, his head landing on Jaskier’s shoulder. His weight sinks a bit more, as if too weary to pull away. This close, Jaskier can feel the echoes of faint tremors wracking through his body.

Jaskier swallows the rising panic down. “Potions?” he asks in as level of a voice as he can manage.

“Out,” Geralt answers. “The venom isn’t lethal just—” Another shudder and a tight grunt. “—hurts like a fucking bitch.”

Jaskier releases a faint breath. He supposes he should feel relieved that it’s not lethal, but he can’t help that the tightness in his throat doesn’t quite ease. “What can I do?” he asks, because of all the things Geralt could have done and all the places he could have gone, he chose to find Jaskier when in immense pain. He wants to live up to that display of open trust.

He feels Geralt fist a hand in his shirt. “Just… stay.”

“My dear Witcher,” Jaskier says thickly, and if his voice breaks just a little, at least Geralt doesn’t seem to notice. “I’m not going anywhere.”

 X.

Jaskier doesn’t think about it. He sees the mage thrust a hand out in Geralt’s direction when the Witcher’s back is turned and Jaskier lunges on nothing but instinct and the acrid taste of fear on his tongue.

A bolt of sharp green slams into his chest. Something cracks when Jaskier hits the forest floor, something that the bard doesn’t think is magic. His head snaps against the ground, his vision swimming. Heat and sharpness tears through his chest.

Someone screams. Maybe it’s Jaskier. He thinks he hears his name shouted, but it sounds far away.

He is drowning. Can you drown without water?

The bard gasps, desperately, searching for air that he can’t seem to drag into his burning, burning, burning lungs.

His eyes sting. He doesn’t know how much time passes.

There’s a hand on his shoulder—and Jaskier tries very hard to let that tug him from his haze of thoughts. When the hand pulls at him, rolling him onto his back, Jaskier can’t quite contain the choked whimper that releases in the back of his throat. He grimaces, his eyes squeezed shut.

“Jaskier.”

He definitely knows that voice. Jaskier blinks his eyes open, setting squarely on Geralt above him. It occurs to him that he’s never seen Geralt’s eyes quite so wide.

“Fuck,” Jaskier wheezes. He grimaces again. Is he dying? He doesn’t know.

“What the fuck were you thinking, you goddamn idiot?”

“My dear Witcher,” Jaskier replies, pretending he doesn’t notice the way Geralt’s voice very nearly breaks. Jaskier voice is tight with pain—his lungs are throbbing—but soft. Unapologetic. “You’re quite lucky I love you, or else I might be insulted.”

He’d never said those words aloud before—I love you—but he means them. He thinks perhaps he’s meant them for quite a long time. Long before even the thought had occurred to him on that mountain all those years ago.

And he thinks Geralt knows this, from the way his eyes widen, and then his whole expression crumples.

“Jask,” he says, a hand cupping the bard’s jaw, his thumb skimming Jaskier’s cheekbone. “You can’t—you… fuck.”

Jaskier takes a breath to reply but cuts off with a wince at the sharp jolt it sends spiking up through his ribs. But he realizes then that the burning in his lungs is easing—gradually, but quickly—and the bard’s next exhale trembles with relief, even as his vision blurs with tears. Whatever spell the mage had sent at Geralt, it seems like one meant to briefly incapacitate and not kill outright. With a quiet grunt of effort, Jaskier presses a hand against the wet leaves beneath him and pushes to sit up.

Geralt looks startled, but he helps nonetheless. The hand on Jaskier’s jaw slips back to cup the back of his neck and the other grabs his free hand to ease him up. The bard sees Geralt’s gaze flicker over his form.

Jaskier tosses him a shaky, wan smile. “Not a lethal spell, it would seem.”

“You didn’t know that,” Geralt snaps, like that should have made a difference in Jaskier’s decision to jump in front of it.

“A moot point, really, Geralt.”

Something bright and pained flickers through Geralt’s gaze. He takes a breath as if to reply, then stops. A crease appears between his brows a second later. “You’re still hurt.”

“Some broken ribs,” Jaskier replies dismissively. The fact that Geralt is still gripping him like he’s afraid Jaskier might just dissolve into smoke in front of him doesn’t escape the bard’s attention.

“Hmm.” He sees Geralt swallow. Watches the way his pupils flicker over the bard’s chest and refuses to meet his eyes.

“Geralt.” The gaze snaps to his own, wide and splintering. Jaskier takes a shallow breath, his gaze as steady as the words that leave his lips. “I meant it, you know. I do. Love you, I mean.”

Though Jaskier can’t be sure—his ears are still ringing a bit—he thinks he hears Geralt’s breath catch.

“Jaskier,” he says, and the bard doesn’t know why his name sounds choked in Geralt’s throat. The Witcher leans forward until his forehead rests against Jaskier’s, and he’s clutching the bard’s hand to his chest like it’s a lifeline. “I… fuck. Fuck.”

And then Jaskier feels Geralt’s lips brush against his own—soft and careful, warm and asking. And Jaskier kisses him back with answers and promises on the edge of his lips.

It feels like coming home.

[purefrostbyte]

Temptation or Distraction

Dabi One-shot

Rating:  Mature

Smut

 Dabi had only ever seen you in passing. You would come in once or twice a week, speak with Kurogiri and Shigiraki and then leave. He didn’t know why he found himself staring at you whenever you did come in, he didn’t know why he would secretly hope to bump into you or get you alone somehow. He had never been good with emotions, and he hated the very idea of love. A past like his can do that to you.

You were Shigiraki’s trusted best friend. You had killed groups of people at a time on his order and you would continue so that your dream of a world without heroes would be a reality. This was how you had found yourself with another kill order for a small group of heroes currently situated in a nearby warehouse, only difference with this mission was that you weren’t alone. Shigiraki had insisted you take Dabi as a precaution and you hated the idea. You could handle the heroes on your own, that and  the fact Dabi was more of a distraction than help to you.

Dabi to you was nothing short of dark and dangerous, and unfortunately that turned you on profoundly. You couldn’t look at him without some twisted thought or desire popping into your head and it infuriated you to no end. You were here to make a better tomorrow, you couldn’t effort distractions you told yourself. But the more you were around the base, the more you noticed that Dabi couldn’t seem to stay away from you either. You noticed the staring, the times he would sit near you and subtly order you drinks. Once he had offered to light your cigarette, and the smirk you got when you agreed had made your knees weak.

Now you found yourself outside of the warehouse with Dabi by your side. “Stay here.” You command as you take a step towards the warehouse. Dabi’s eyebrows furrowed, “Excuse me? I’m not doing shit.” He had a hold on your wrist and it’s sent sparks up your spine. “Look, I do this for a living and I don’t need a temptat- distraction,” you corrected at the last second hoping he didn’t notice.

Unfortunately he had. “Temptation?” he smirked, pulling you closer to him. “Am I a temptation to you Doll?” Heat rushed to your cheeks and you pulled yourself from his grip. “No, now stay here and let me do my job.” You wouldn’t let him win, you couldn’t. Dabi smirked, “Sorry Doll, but Shigiraki would kill me if anything happened to his best friend, though I can promise that the faster we get this done,” He stepped closer trapping you against a wall of the warehouse, “The faster I can tempt you into something a whole lot more fun.”

He walked off, leaving you blushing against the wall. It was only when you hear the yelling form inside that you snapped out of your trace. “God damn it,” you muttered before going in to help.

 The fight had taken no more than 15 minutes. The heroes hadn’t expected it, and were completely unmatched for your and Dabi’s abilities. Only problem was that Dabi had gotten cocky and now had a metal pole sticking out of his shoulder. “Fuck,” he cursed leaning against a few crates as he held his shoulder. Bodies scattered across the floor but you couldn’t care. The base was too far from here, but your apartment wasn’t. You bit your lip, this was a bad idea you told yourself but it was too late Dabi need medical attention.

Dabi was now sat on your couch while you attempted to pull out the pole from his shoulder, “This is gonna hurt,” You muttered as you gripped the pole firmly. Dabi chuckled, “I gathered as much.” You look at him and then the pole, “On three. One-“. You pulled it out. Dabi hissed as you dropped the pole on the floor, not caring about the blood stains it would leave. “Fuck, you said on three.” You rolled your eyes, “I lied.”

The wound was at an awkward angle, one that no matter where you sat on the couch you couldn’t reach. Dabi noticed you problem, a light bulb flickering in his head before a smirk spread across his face, “You seem to be having difficulty there. Why don’t you sit on my lap doll?” You gulped, it wasn’t a bad idea, and you would be able to get to the wound easier. Taking a breath you slid onto his lap and started to clean and bandage the wound.

Dabi didn’t even feel the pain anymore, how could he with you on his lap. As you finished bandaging his wound his good arm came to wrap around you waist and pull you closer. This made your breath hitch. You could feel something pressed against your core, and you knew it wasn’t his leg. “Something wrong doll?” he teased as you swallowed the lump in your throat. That’s when you made your discussion, to hell with everything.

You moved your hips against his, a move he hadn’t expected. He groaned in pleasure as you ground your hips against his, enjoying the sensation. You stopped when he got really into it, causing him to growl in annoyance. “What’s wrong Dabi? Don’t like being teased?” you mocked moving your hips slightly and then stopping. Dabi growled again and soon you found yourself pinned against the couch. Dabi loomed over you, and the sight made your thighs squeeze together. “I’m gonna make you regret that doll.” He threatened and you couldn’t stop yourself.

“Is that a threat or a promise?”

Once minute you were on the couch and the next you were being tossed onto your bed. Dabi shed his top, as he stalked towards you. Grabbing your ankles he yanked you towards him, ripping off your clothes leaving you in a bra and panties. You sat up, trailing a hand down his chest before reaching his belt. You look up at him as you give it’s a tug, and then completely undoing it. Before you could throw it away Dabi took it from you. He laid it on the bed next you before pushing you to the floor between him and the bed.

“Be a good doll, and suck.” He commanded and you obeyed. Unzipping his pants and pulling them and his boxers down you were brought face to face with Dabi’s member. You lick from base to tip before taking the tip into your mouth and kitten licking it. Dabi weaved his hands through your hair as he groaned, “Fucking tease.” Soon you started taking more of him in, your hands working what you couldn’t fit. Soon you started popping your head and working your hands in a way that had Dabi groaning and moaning, slightly. “That’s it Doll.” He panted as you worked him past your gag reflex, ignoring your need to breathe. You were staring at him through your lashes as you sucked and licked him the best you could, and from what you could tell he was definitely enjoying it.

He pulled you off his member, which confused you because he hadn’t cum yet. You stared up at him as he panted, “What? You want me to cum down that throat of yours?” You nodded causing Dabi to smirk. He thrusted his member back into your mouth and took a hold of your hair once more. He was now face fucking you, using you to reach his high and the though made your thighs clench. Dabi cam with a groan, still thrusting through his high. When he pulled out he made sure you swallowed every last drop and smirked when you had. “Such a good doll for me.”

The statement made you mewl happily and soon he lifted you back onto the bed. Undoing your bra and throwing it to some unnamed corner of your room, he took pleasuring in just staring at you squirming beneath him. He grabbed his belt and tied your arms together above your head, before running his hands down your body. “What a pretty little thing you are.” He stated before pinching one of your nipples, causing you to gasp and arch you back into his touch. “That’s it doll, moan pretty for me.”

He bent down to take one of your nipples into his mouth, enjoying how you squirmed in pleasure. He made sure both breasts got equal treatment of squeezing, pinching and sucking. When he was finished he kissed down your stomach to the seam of you panties. Using his teeth he pulled the article of clothing off you and threw it away, “We aren’t going to be need that now are we Doll?”

All you could do was pant and squirm as he pushed you thighs up and dipped down to you core. He dragged his tongue up your slit causing you to arch your back and moan loudly. You had never been touched like this, you had always put off normal things for your dream. You felt a sudden intrusion as Dabi stuck a finger in you, moaning as the feeling. Dabi moved around, noticing the tightness and how you withered. “Oh, Doll. Are you a Virgin?” You froze momentarily before he pushed another finger in. “Answer me Doll.” He started moving his fingers in a scissoring motion. “Yes Dabi,” You gasp, he adds a finger and starts pumping as he smiles sadistically at you.

He couldn’t help but thank whatever god was up there. Not only did he was he about to fuck you, but you were a virgin too? “Oh it’s my lucky day.” He said as he pulled out his fingers causing you to whine. “Don’t look so disappointed doll, I’m just getting started.”

Dabi lined himself up, holding one thigh against his hip. He pushed in slowly, wanting to savor the feeling of you taking him in. “Oh God Dabi.” You gasp as he buries himself inside you. “God Y/n you feel like heaven.” He groans and soon he slowly starts rocking his hips. He buried his head in your neck kissing, suck and biting as he thrusted into you. All you could do was moan and gasp, words not formulating in your head. The only word you seemed to be able to say was Dabi, chanting and moaning his name as he rocked your world.

His thrusts picked up speed, the need to make you cum and to full you was driving the most primal parts of Dabi. He wanted to make you fall apart, wanted to be the only one to ever see you like this. So logically the best way to make sure that happened was to fuck you better than anyone ever could, that way you would always come back to him. “Dabi, Dabi,” you chanted, a coil forming in your stomach. God why did it feel so good.

Dabi shifted slightly, and suddenly you were weeing stars. If the loud scream like moan you gave was an indication, he had found you sweet spot. “That’s it Doll, scream for the world who makes you feel this good.” He commanded as he pounded that spot with vigor. “God Dabi, you-AHH.” The feeling of pleasure over took your body, high washing over you. Dabi kept thrusting prolonging your high and catching his own. “Dabi, it’s too much. I can’t,” You sobbed in pleasure. “Yes you can Baby Doll, be a good girl for me and hand on ok?” He said as he kept thrusting. He was close he just need, suddenly your walls clenched hard around him and he cam with a groan. She gasped at the feeling of him painting her white. He thrusted sloppily through his high before collapsing on top of her, head in her breast.

The room was filled with heavy breathing as you both came back to earth. Dabi pulled out before collapsing next to you. You were dazed and Dabi couldn’t help but smirk knowing he had done that. “Come back to me Baby Doll,” he whispered as he tucked a stand of hair behind your ear. You look over at him and a small smile graces your face. Dabi smiled back, something rare but not unheard of. “So am I a temptation or distraction Doll?”