#Wolf mother fic

[lemon-russ]

I lived, bitch. jk I am back and feeling much better after being run over by the metaphorical train of my failing body lol.

The poll has time but Wolf Mother is winning, it was good I asked because I thought it was one that people weren't super into, but I'm glad for it! It was a nice change of pace writing Leman again ❤️

Thanks @squishyowl for dividers! Taglist: @sleepyfan-blog @scriberye @undeaddream

Wolf Mother (Ch. 3)

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Ao3 || Taglist request ||

Leman Russ x Fem OC

CW: Trauma/ PTSD, Talk of missing limbs/ prosthetics/ bionics, General WH40k violence (playful fighting here), If I miss any let me know!!

Summary: Wren gets a tour of The Fang.

Word count: 2,932

Small note: previously I wrote Wren was in the Astra Millitarium. Obviously she can't be, we are in 30k. I corrected it in the first chapter to the Auxilia, which was my original intent, I just mixed up Imperial Guard and Imperial Army. Fixed now :)

Wren scrambles behind Leman as he makes his way through the tunnels of The Fang. ”So, Paper-thrall, what use will you be exactly?” Leman asks, inquisitive Space Wolves eyeing her as they pass.

Wren frowns a bit as she is leered at like a new chew toy, but the wolves seem to be curious and nothing more. “Well, for Lord Guilliman, I’ve been handling things like logistics paperwork, transfers, budget approval forms…” she says, trying to keep pace with his long strides.

Russ scoffs. “Busywork. Leave it to Roboute to have a form for every bolt round that changes hands.” He chuckles, leading her to a rickety lift. The platform never stops its slow movement, just suspended standing decks going up on one side and down on the other perpetually down a rock hewn shaft. She nervously hops on behind him and they are lowered down the dark hole down a few floors.

Russ disembarks the lift at one of the openings, and when he sees Wren not keeping up, he reaches back and picks her up by the scruff of her coat and plops her next to him. She blinks, a little confused, but just blushes as she returns to chasing after him.

“Having clear and concise forms and regulations keeps things moving,” she stammers as she catches up to him again. “Without it, how would we know when to order more supplies? Or who is where and who is available-”

“You just tell someone.” Russ chuckles. “My sons tell me we are almost out of rounds when they see we are low, and they tell me where they are going. All the paperwork causes is headaches for little thralls.” He says, smiling down at her in amusement.

Wren’s mouth twists down. “That sounds like anarchy.” She replies flatly.

“Hah!” The primarch barks a laugh, “Anarchy, or freedom from your tedium? We get things done just the same.” He gestures through an archway. “Come, I will show you around the main areas of the Aett. It is vast and complex for little baselines, so try not to get lost.”

Leman leads her through what feels like miles of caverns. Wren’s legs and lungs ache from having to jog after him. While she was a little out of shape since she’s been on desk duties, she still kept up on her fitness as any good ultramarine employee would. But Russ was tall, taller than Guilliman, his brisk walk and long legs outruns her jogging. He doesn’t slow for her, just expecting her to keep pace.

As he shows her various store rooms and barrack areas, she pulls out a notebook and starts noting things that she’ll need to start organizing. No inventory sign-outs in the storerooms, no regular counts on supplies, things tossed into mixed crates and shoved on shelves. She was going to need to commandeer a small army of serfs to get this place in working order. She stops and grimaces when they pass the bathing and laundry areas. Piles of dirty clothes lay haphazardly around washing pools where tired serfs scrub them by hand over stone with lye soaps. She notes to ask to import at least some rudimentary cleaning machines like wringers and wash tubs.

Everywhere they go she sees the same things, unorganized supplies with serfs working with incredibly low tech tools that make things take ages to finish. Which makes them not have time to organize and clean as much, so the mess piles and piles. Wren starts laying out the overhauls she would need to make to get things moving efficiently.

Leman peeks over her shoulder at her notes, making her jump with a start.

���Inventory lists? Washing Barrels? Rotating thrall schedules? Skíthof little paper-thrall, you worry about such minor things.” He chuckles, ruffling her hair.

She frowns and lets out a huff from her nose, pushing her hair back in place. “Minor things build up, My Lord. All the time wasted with having to search for supplies and wash clothes by hand make up hours and hours of wasted time, and more wasted time means more Serfs needed to run the place, which means more food and housing for them.” She says tiredly, closing her notebook with a snap.

He tilts his head, standing upright again. “So? We have plenty of food for the thralls, we are good hunters, and we have many miles of caves for them to live.” He shrugs. “Why not have many of them live here and not bother with the teeny details?”

Wren scrunched her brow and sighed. “Because it’s, well, inefficient. And messy…” But Russ was already walking ahead, ignoring her again.

He stops at a large archway, and she smells bread and meat wafting invitingly through the halls. Her stomach grumbles, she hasn’t eaten since getting on the thunderhawk this morning. Leman smirks at her, then nods at the archway. “Come, little paper-thrall. We don’t let let our pack go hungry.”

They head into the warm, bright hall, full of space wolves talking and laughing and eating. The sweet, acrid smell of Mjød mixes with the warm bread aroma, and a large crackling hearth serves as backdrop to an Astartes telling an animated story to a group of space wolves and baselines alike, who enthusiastically cheer and laugh at his tale.

Wren sighs and happily takes the seat next to Leman at a long table, her hand going to knead at her thigh above her bionic leg. Though her bionic moves it’s own weight, she still needed to use her real muscle to lift it. She hasn’t had to push it so much yet, and her quad thrums sorely.

Russ watches her hand massaging her leg thoughtfully, but is interrupted from whatever he was about to say when a couple of Space wolves sit across from them, grinning and giddily staring down Wren.

“See-” The blond one says and elbows his brother, “I told you, The Wolf King has a new pet.”

His redheaded brother tilts his head curiously at her, then leans over the table and sniffs at her, making her shrink back with a frown.

“She smells odd.” He huffs.

Wren furrowed her brow at that, sniffing her own shirt. Leman laughs though, “She is not my pet, she is my paper-thrall.” He proclaims. ”Assistant.” She adds with a sigh. “I’m his assistant.”

The wolves tilt their head at her again, then smile wide. They are young enough to not have fangs yet, and playfully move to sit next to her, making her pull back into herself as she’s suddenly dwarfed by the massive marines.

“You smell odd.” The blond one says happily. The red haired one who sniffed her first does so again.

“Yes, you smell like Ultramarines.” He adds. He gently tugs on the sleeve of her poofy coat. “And you wear their inferior clothes. Do you not have furs?”

“My coat is fine-” she starts, but the red haired blood claw interrupts.

“Ah, has no one killed for you yet? Is that why you have to wear silly clothes?” ”My clothes are not si-” she squeaks out, trying to crowbar her words between them uselessly.

“She must not!” The blond replies, “Would you like me to kill a Great Bear for you?” He asks excitedly. Wren could almost see his metaphorical tail wagging.

“No no- I will get you a much nicer pelt than Thorarr would, let me.” The Redhead interjects, grinning ear to ear.

The blond, Thorarr, scowls at his brother. “Myrnir, I would slay a far greater bear than you. You only attack small, weak bears that are easy kills.” He gruffs as he crosses his arms.

Myrnir scowls back. “How would you know! You have not seen me hunt-” his brother rebuked.

“I have see the sad pelt you presented that thrall girl who polishes your armor, it is no wonder she rejected you.” He retorted.

Suddenly they are on their feet, growling and snapping words at each other, Wren forgotten. She blinks a few times, disoriented for a moment at the sudden shift. The blood claws argue and shove at each other, Russ, however just chuckles. “The youngest of my sons have less restraint.” He tells her as he reaches across the table to a wooden tray of breads, handing her a large roll. “Their attention is fleet and their tempers hot. They will outgrow it after a few decades of battle.”

The blood claws start grappling at each other, and an older wolf throws a large mug at them, conking the redhead in the back of the head. “Take it to the fight grounds before you break another table!” He scolds the pair. Myrnir grumbles, rubbing his skull where the tankard hit him, and they both stalk out of the hall.

Wren chuckles to herself, “They are certainly spirited.” She says, taking a bite of the roll. It’s grainy and hearty, and she wonders when the last time she had anything that tasted so much like real food was. It feels like it’d been a decade at least since her meals didn’t come from a package.

Leman rumbles a low chuckle in his chest. “That’s why they go first in battle. To get them trained, to let out their energy, and so they don’t clip anyone else on the way in.” He says with a smile. He glances back at her hand, still kneading her thigh. “I’m sure you were similar in your new years as a soldier?” He asks a bit softer.

She smiles and chuckles softly. “I suppose I was. I had a bad habit of going after much bigger opponents.” She says nostalgically. Her early days in the Auxilia were full of feats of glory and adrenaline. She sometimes thinks back and wonders how she managed to make it so long without ending up paste under an Orks boot, but her ferocity was what helped her climb the ranks so fast.

Russ grins and nods to her leg. “That how you lost it? Bit off more than you could chew?” He asks curiously.

Her smile falters a bit. “No.” She says quickly, turning back to the table and picking at her roll. The primarch deflates a little, huffing softly. He watches her nibble at her bread, then smiles again, perking up. “I have somewhere good to show you next.” He says happily.

He leads her up a few more terrifying lifts and through more dank tunnels before they get to a large complex of wide rooms. She could hear growling and barking and big padded feet stomping before they got there, and the distinct but not entirely unpleasant smell of wolves gave her an idea where they were before they actually entered the kennels.

Massive Fenrisian wolves play, sleep in piles, and gnaw on bones the size of Wren, spread out across what was mostly left as natural cave formation rooms. One was coming in from a large tunnel that seemed to climb upwards outside, shaking off snow from its stark black coat. Another two roll in a play fight together, their white fur making them look like an avalanche. Dozens of them lounge and play, drinking water from a small natural stream through the rocks and napping on beds of dirt.

As they get closer, Wren’s steps start to falter. These weren’t just wolves. The smallest was, as she could begin to see, the size of two men. The larger black ones, some were the size of artillery vehicles.

“By the throne…” She mumbles in awe, feet refusing to bring her closer to the massive predators. Leman looks over his shoulder at her standing, jaw agape, and laughs. “Come, little paper-thrall, they will not harm you. Not these ones at least. These are our pack members, they fight beside us and lend us their speed and strength.”

As he speaks, the two largest wolves, one black and one white, perk up and thunder over to them, paws thudding against stone enough to feel the vibrations through the ground where she stood. Wren recoils back a few steps, but the wolves stop at Leman, licking his face and pawing at him as he laughs cheerfully.

He turns back to her and motions her forward. “Come! These are my kin, my brothers, I was raised with them by the same wolf mother. This is Freki, and this Geri. They my companions.” He introduces, rubbing their ears as they wag their tails and lick at him.

The two beasts are massive, taller than any space marine, coming up to Leman’s chest at their head. Wren swallows hard. “Uhm- h-hello, Lord Russ’s… brothers…” she says warily.

The black wolf, Freki, radars his ears toward her voice, staring her down with eyes that almost glow with reflection from the dim torch lights of the halls. He pads over to her, and she cringes down a little as his massive nose sniffs at her face.

He tilts his head and pads around her in a circle as Geri comes over and gives her a snuffles at her too. She grimaces at their warm breath assaulting her face, before Freki licks the side of her head in a long motion, making her squeak in surprise. Geri wags his tail and licks her too, making giggle as shes suddenly attacked by their affections, tails wagging happily as she devolved into breathless laughing.

“O-okay-! please-!” She gasps through her giggles, and Leman, grinning and laughing softly calls them off of her.

“Enough of that, give her a second to breathe.” He tells the wolves as they happily trot to him and nuzzle him with their snouts. He grins at the disheveled, slobbered Wren as she tries to still her laughter. “See? My wolf-kin are friends.”

She tried to wipe her face with her hands, making a soft blehch at the slobber. “They certainly are personable, sir.” She chuckles. She uses the clean stream water to rinse her face off and returns to Leman’s side when he motions for her to.

“I want you to see some of our pack.” He says, softer now. She follows his gaze to two playing wolves. They growl and play bite at each other's legs, tumbling and snarfing and wagging their tails. But one of the wolves has the advantage- a shiny, metallic limb replaces his back leg.

Wren raises her brow, looking up at Russ. “You… You give the wolves Bionics?” She asks quietly, looking around and spotting a bionic eye, a front leg, a missing ear….

“Of course.” He says, smiling down at her with a gentler expression. “They are our pack, and we care for them the same we would any who suffer an injury.”

Her gaze falls back to the playing canines. The wolf without bionics is playing just as roughly with its kin as the others are playing, snapping teeth and body checks and leg bites. The bionic using wolf returns it in full, even using the leg to it’s advantage - its friend doesn’t like to bite the metal, so it uses that one to kick at the other wolf.

Across the cavern, she sees another wolf with a bionic front leg. This one limps slightly, and still has stitches and shaved areas from whatever injury it had. It flops down, licking and chewing at the place where the metal limb meets flesh.

Habitually, Wren’s hand went to that spot where her own leg met her thigh, massaging the muscles there.

She has to swallow back some emotion, watching the juxtaposition of the hobbling, recovering animal licking its sore phantom limb, and the lively, playing wolf who is well accustomed to his own.

Leman glances down at her, seeing her a little misty eyed, and frowns. Following her gaze, then watching her knead at her leg, he smiles understandingly.

“They bounce back.” He says as he kneels on one knee to be more level with her. She glances to him at her side before returning to watching the canines.

“They have a period of readjustment.” He continues, nodding to the limping wolf. “They need time to heal, and relearn their senses. And I think also, to grieve.” He says in a low, careful voice, watching her face as she bit her lip. “It is not an easy thing, losing something so life altering.”

He points at the happy, playing wolf. “But they do come back, with encouragement. That one has had about a year with his new body, and now you could hardly tell. Sometimes he itches at it, or favors the leg a tad. But he is him again.” Leman says softly. “And the survivors, they come back even more driven. I think getting that second chance pushes them.”

It takes a lot of effort to swallow down her emotions this time, eyes wetting threateningly. She grips the knee of her pants on her bionic side. The primarch gives a small smile down at her. “How long have you had yours, little paper-thrall?”

She takes a steadying breath. “About… About a year. Year and a half.” She rasps quietly.

Leman gives her a firm pat on her back, making her have to stumble and balance herself. She looks up at him in surprised, brow knit in confusion.

“About time you get back to it then, right, little paper-thrall?” He says with a warm, fanged smile.

[barbswo]

THIAM prompt: “PDA”

They weren’t really big on PDA—public displays of affection, that was. Stiles knew that there was nothing wrong with that, after all, all couples were different, but.

They were Liam and Theo.

No, sorry, not like that.

They were LiamandTheo.

As in, together.

When Stiles first heard about it, he was still in Washington, and it happened during a group call they tried to put together at least twice a month, which was a real bitch to accomplish, counting different time zones and personal schedules. Stiles was peacefully organizing some documents, listening to Malia complain about weird french customs, when Mason let out a mocking whistle, and Stiles lifted his head.

Of course, he knew that Theo was hanging around Beacon Hills. He knew that Liam’s parents, being real-life saints, let Theo to stay with them, knew that the chimera got close to the Puppy pack (Liam still hated that nickname, but Stiles thought that it was hilarious and on point), but knowing and seeing were two very different things.

Theo never joined their calls, acted like he didn’t even exist, always silent, hovering on the periphery of everybody’s minds. Theo was the blurry picture one deleted before trying to focus their camera, a word in a dictionary with no definition attached. And now Theo was just there, shirtless, a towel wrapped around his hips, walking around Liam’s room like it was the most normal thing to do.

“There is a naked chimera of death behind you,” blurted out Stiles, and it was fascinating how fast Liam’s head whipped around. Laughter pulled the lines of his mouth when he turned back to the camera, shaking his head.

“You almost got me there.”

Stiles blinked. Frowned. That wasn’t the reaction he was expecting.

“Stiles, I swear, you don’t want to be around Liam when there is a naked Theo nearby,” grinned Mason from his square on Stiles’ laptop, Corey’s head on his shoulder. Even cut by the camera frame, they looked so disgustingly sweet Stiles wanted to lick their faces.

Liam flipped Mason off. Scott nervously chuckled on his end, looking away for a second, and Stiles felt like he had to fight for his life while putting two and two together. It was his thing—to know stuff. To see it before everyone else did.

And maybe it would’ve been more obvious had he been around more after Theo’s… resurrection?.. but instead, realization hit him in the middle of the pack call, and Stiles almost fell off his chair.

“For all that’s sweet and pure, Liam, are you two an item? And why is everybody acting like you knew, did I miss the announcement of Theo seducing our baby wolf, and why in hell—”

“You didn’t tell him?” Asked Corey, lifting his head. “Liam, you said you would weeks ago!”

“Weeks?” Squeaked Stiles.

Liam sighed like someone had deposited the weight of the world on his shoulders. “First,” he lifted his index finger, “not your baby wolf. I’m eighteen, thank you very much. Second,” there went the next finger, “us dating is our business, and there was no announcement, Stiles, for god’s sake…”

“You called me in the middle of the night and wouldn't calm down for two hours,” dryly reminded Mason, and somewhere behind Liam’s back, Theo scoffed.

“Two hours, really? That’s kind of pathetic.”

And hey, maybe it was a little bit pathetic, but Stiles still remembered how it felt when he realized that the girl he’d been crushing on for ten years liked him back, and he wasn’t the one to judge, not really. Even if the subject of Liam’s affections was a murderer raised in sewers. Tastes differ.

But, because the subject of Liam’s affections was a murderer raised in sewers, Stiles couldn’t help but take his sudden revelation with a grain of salt. After all, he’d watched the kid grow, and in some ways, felt protective not only of Liam overall, but of Liam’s heart, too.

And Theo was known for stealing those.

“Pathetic, huh?” Liam turned his head, presenting everyone with the view of his sharp jawline, “Says the guy who whimpered when I—”

A book that looked like it could’ve taken Liam’s head off if thrown at a slightly different angle hit him in the nose, and Liam yelled, waving his hands around to steady himself. That, unfortunately, resulted in him knocking off his own laptop, and the picture of his room circled around, blurred and went totally dark.

“Maybe they will kill each other and we won’t have to deal with their weird flirting anymore,” concluded Malia, and Stiles gaped at her.

“Flirting? You call that…” he struggled to get the rest of the sentence out by choking on his own tongue, “are you absolutely sure they are together-together, because that didn’t look—”

“Oh, we are sure,” Corey wrinkled his nose, “more sure than we’d like to be.”

“I second this,” chuckled Mason, and just like that, no matter how hard Stiles tried to circle back to the potential danger of Theo dating Liam, conversation shifted to the future summer break, plans, hang-outs and trips.

And honestly? Ever since that call Stiles couldn’t wait to be back home.

Not because of the summer break. Summer, of course, was good as a concept, and it highlighted Stiles’ freckles and made his skin strawberry pink while Scott paraded around with the most picture-perfect tan ever, and it smelled like ice-cream and all-night hangouts and freshly cut grass, and for some reason made Stiles’ dad smile more, as if all the warmth and sun brought him back to the good times with less monsters and cares.

However, Stiles had a talent for getting obsessed with things he didn’t understand. No, even better—he had a talent for investigating the things he didn’t understand until he could confidently say that if needed, he could write a whole book on the subject. It just happened so that currently, LiamandTheo made absolutely no sense.

Stiles recognized that his tendencies of going deep into the trenches of “observe, think, pin down, look, understand” weren’t… well, common. Normal kids didn’t spend their nights reading every article on hair follicles just because they were fascinated by how age turned black and red and gold into silver and wanted to know how and why it happened. In Stiles’ line of life and work, meticulousness never hurt anyone.

And it wasn’t that he thought Theo would go off the rails and slit all their throats one night. It was nothing like that. Stiles was stubborn, but he wasn’t an idiot, and neither was Theo. He had countless opportunities to turn his back on the pack, yet he stayed—as Stiles was well aware, to drive Liam around and help him to do his homework.

Homework didn’t have an evil ring to it. Stiles could’ve subscribed to the idea of Theo being a chauffeur and a tutor, but Liam’s boyfriend? Theo Raeken? The same nine-year-old kid who once looked Stiles dead in the eye and said that he believed love was nothing but a concept invented by desperate people? The teenager who grew up in the sewers of dozens of cities and was raised by three faceless psycos? Same Theo who killed his own packmates because he was hungry for power before recognition?

Granted, Theo had changed, and Stiles even admitted it once, but still. Theo didn’t do anything unless there was something he could gain from it. His ever-calculating, manipulative mind would never allow him to be just selfless. It had been injected into Theo’s veins to be a perfect weapon and to survive no matter what, so excuse Stiles for not buying the cute-caring-honest-boyfriend act.

Liam certainly had a thing for mean people, but Liam was a freaking golden retriever puppy. He would let Darth Vader pet him. Stiles was not trusting his judgment, because while Liam wasn’t exactly dumb, love did weird things to human brains. Stiles would know. He was friends with Scott McCall.

Thus, upon arriving at Beacon Hills, Stiles started doing what he did best. Investigating.

And that was how he ended up glaring in frustration at his current dilemma. Also known as the pack’s movie night.

You see, Stiles was an awkward person, and he sure as hell couldn’t keep it together around his crush, but even after he did a lot of thinking and grew up, there was still a part of him that wanted to reach out to Lydia and just touch. Make sure she was real. That he hadn’t imagined her by his side like he used to do before Scott got bitten and Stiles was fourteen and helplessly in love with the most popular girl in school.

And Stiles wasn’t even a werewolf, or chimera, or—anything freaky. But he knew how it was when a lupine creature found a mate (the term tasted like pure cringe in his mouth, but there was nothing Stiles could do about that): scenting became a primal instinct, a tradition to follow of sorts. He was fairly sure every member of the pack started smelling at least a little bit like Scott on the second day of their summer break, because Scott was the alpha and they belonged to him (there was that cringe again, but Stiles’ entire life had become cringe so... whatever), but it tended to be even more intense when romance was involved.

And Stiles was starting to question whether there was any romance between Liam and Theo, because really—they didn’t act like it.

At all.

“No, we are not doing Lord of the Rings marathon,” Mason rolled his eyes at Liam’s offended face, “each movie is like, three hours long, Li, nobody has that strength of will!”

“Those movies are classic,” argued Corey, and Mason’s gaze shifted to him.

“You will be the one to fall asleep on me in twenty minutes.”

Corey sent Liam an apologetic smile. “That’s true.”

Liam let out an irritated breath and pulled Theo’s sleeve to get his attention. “Help me convince these idiots that the best saga of all time should be savored whole—oh, and we can watch the director’s cut, too!”

Theo threw Liam the most unimpressed glance Stiled had seen in his entire life. “I don’t want to know what the director’s cut even is. You and your nerdy brain should’ve really stayed home.”

Liam scoffed. “It was you who wanted to stay home, Theo.”

“Hoped to get a break from you, really.”

Stiles immediately felt offended. He, of course, believed that the best saga of all time was Star Wars, but he wasn’t going to argue on the topic, because his mind was elsewhere.

Now, sarcasm might’ve been Stiles’ first line of defense, but there was a balance between being sarcastic and mean. He wasn’t sure Theo got the memo of the said balance.

Stiles wasn’t sure what he was expecting to change, having given the idea of LiamandTheo quite a lot of thought, but he certainly didn’t expect to encounter… that. Theo behaved like he was forced to be in Liam’s presence. Reserved, cold, irritated nine times out of ten, Theo was willingly waving red flags in front of Liam’s very nose, Liam turning a blind eye on every single one of them.

It was the first time Stiles got to hang out with not just Liam and Theo, but with LiamandTheo, and he didn’t like it. They ended up watching the first Narnia movie, (which was Lydia’s favorite, so Stiles knew it by heart,) and instead of keeping his eyes on the screen, he found himself studying the new happy couple. Or, “happy” “couple”. Quotation on both words for the irony.

And that was how Stiles discovered they weren’t big on PDA in the first place.

And listen, it wasn’t like he yearned to see the chimera of death sucking on the beta’s tongue. Stiles was many things, but a creep wasn’t one of them, and in his head, Liam was still a freaking baby. He didn’t even expect to watch them make out like the world was ending—but he was starting to think that they barely did at all.

There was no peck on the lips when Liam grabbed a cherry coke not only for himself, but for Theo, too. No touch of gratitude, not even a glance, just a dry “thanks” that must’ve escaped Theo’s lips by some gruesome mistake. They sat next to each other, but didn’t even touch—not their shoulders, not their knees, not even their knuckles. Nothing.

If Mason had kept his mouth shut during that call, Stiles would’ve never guessed they were something more than enemies turned allies. And it was messing with his head.

“Something is wrong,” blurted out Stiles when the pack started migrating to their respective houses, leaving him, Scott, Malia and Lydia in the McCall kitchen.

Scott, who was stacking pizza boxes atop one another in a way that made them look like the Tower of Pisa, turned his head, his eyebrows raised. “What?”

“Theo,” pressed Stiles, and Lydia sighed a small “here we go again” from where she was sitting at the kitchen island. Stiles passed by her, his hand involuntarily brushing over her shoulders, because it was the most normal thing to do and because Stiles was allowed, and nodded at the window. There, the Puppy Pack gathered around Theo’s truck, talking about… something.

Scott followed Stiles’ gaze and shook his head.

“I know you don’t trust him—”

“It’s hard to trust someone who did what he did,” snapped Stiles, “but it’s not his loyalty to the pack I’m worried about. It’s…” he paused, staring at the window. Mason and Corey, apparently, were giving Nolan a ride, their trio getting in Mason’s car and leaving Liam and Theo to their devices.

Technically alone, the couple didn’t try and move closer—if anything, they drifted further apart and, if gestures and body language were anything to go by, arguing. Liam’s side was pressed into the truck’s hood, and Theo was leaning onto the driver’s door, leniently responding to Liam’s remarks.

“I don’t think he is good to him,” he said at last, his gaze drifting back to Scott. “Liam.”

“Want me to punch him?” Malia lifted her head, and Scott shook his head.

“Nobody is punching Theo,” he looked at Stiles, “it’s their relationship. I don’t think we have a say in who Liam dates, Stiles.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes. “But you agree that if we had, Theo wouldn’t have made the list?”

“He changed,” spoke Lydia, snatching the last piece of brownie from the plate before Malia could swallow it whole, “I know you don’t like him, and nobody is forcing you to, but Theo is different now. More… real.”

“We thought he was real senior year, and look where it almost brought us,” mumbled Stiles, reaching out and grabbing the Tower of Pizza Pisa (ha-ha) before it could fall down, “look, I know he isn’t a psycho maniac anymore—but you can’t convince me that Theo has an inch in all 5’8 of him that actually cares for Liam. As in, wants to hold his hand and stare lovingly into his eyes and kiss him until the moon dies. You know, typical teenage romance shenanigans?”

Lydia chewed her brownie, looking thoughtful. “But do we think that Theo—and Liam too, actually—are typical teenagers?”

“Exactly,” sighed Scott, closing the dishwasher soap dispenser and pushing the door shut, “I can sense Liam in my head, remember? And he is happier than he ever was before, I promise. I don’t... really feel Theo, because he is an idiot and keeps pushing me away, but what I do feel doesn’t alert me—quite the opposite, actually.”

Stiles bit his lip, looking between his friends. He did trust Scott’s senses, but it was also true that Scott had been wrong before. Crucially wrong. And it was water under the bridge now, because they all found a way to move on, push past their offenses and differences and mistakes, but it didn’t change the fact that Scott trusted people easily and was as naive as a princess in a tower.

And Liam, obviously, turned out exactly the same.

Maybe Theo didn’t want to really hurt him. Maybe he had what he always wanted to—a pack, but he realized that he needed some sort of validation, admiration, actually, and twisted and turned Liam’s barriers until the boy fell in love with him. Liam always liked people who were mean to him. And had a tendency to fall for his anchors. Theo surely knew that and used it for his own advantage, like he always did.

Of course, there was no way Stiles could say his thoughts out loud without coming out as paranoid, and to be honest, he didn’t want to burden anyone with his raw theories. His dad always said that proof was steel that nothing could break, so Stiles would have to look for that before making further advances on the topic.

After all, it was summer break. They all deserved a little rest.

The problem was, Stiles was restless.

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

(i love you, i love you (kill me in the morning) ; bonus part)

kenjaku rests on a tatami mat, admiring the ephemeral glow of the starry sky.

it’s a sight to behold, truly: the infinity within it, blooming endlessly across the milky way, before his very eyes. that swirling of indigo and pure white. endless possibilities, just out of reach — so close he can almost reach out and touch them, feel them glide across the skin of his fingertips.

slowly and sweetly, savouring the cold air, he ponders. legs crossed, hair swaying gently in the summer breeze; about this, and about that. about a plan that’s been resting in the back of his mind for thousands of years.

he wonders if there is any way you could be of use to him. 

without too much contemplation needed, he decides that there isn’t. that nothing about you could benefit his goal, that there’s nothing your presence could possibly accomplish. that you have no place, in the world he resides in, no place in the narrative of the story he is crafting. no place in the clash between curses and sorcerers and everything in between.

(and kenjaku understands, without needing to peek into his host’s memories, that perhaps that is exactly why suguru geto loved you.)

he goes to visit you, anyway. just for the fun of it, just to satisfy the ingrained urge his body has to do so. and it’s fascinating, it truly is — the fondness that sprouts in the confines of his chest when his eyes meet yours. a childhood muscle memory, one this body could never fully rid itself of. 

it is nothing short of horrified, the expression on your face; you look like you could pass out any second, and kenjaku finds it just a little bit amusing. 

but he bites back a laugh, and his lips curl up into a smile. not the smile of a people-pleaser, nor the smile of a liar, but the smile of something rather monstrous.

kenjaku does not think you will figure him out. he does not think it possible. how could you possibly? with such miniscule cursed energy, without any concept of the soul? 

and yet you do.

you tell him that he isn’t suguru geto, and you’re absolutely right. and now, kenjaku is maybe just the slightest bit intrigued.

(how strange. how amusing.

is there really no limit to what love can accomplish?)

eyes shining with barely contained, gleeful curiosity, he takes a step forward, and you call out for a dead man. a ghost. kenjaku does not expect anything to happen, because how could it?

— a hand comes up to squeeze at his throat.

it is a firm grip, with strangulation as its intended purpose. a lethal kind of ferocity. almost desperate, primal, like a mother wolf protecting her cub; the pads of his lithe fingers press into the sides of his own esophagus, and prevent any air from entering his lungs. those chipped nails dig into his pale skin, vicious and ruthless, hard enough to draw blood.

it is violent, it is gritty, it is devoted. an instinct of the body, as natural as the beating of a heart.

kenjaku can’t help it — he chokes on a laugh, as suguru’s hand curls around his throat. within the vice grip lies an old promise, molded into the very fabric of his being. a promise that transcends death.

he’ll protect you forever. 

kenjaku smiles, all teeth. drool dribbling down his chin, neck bruised and bloodied. pondering; about this, and about that. about two children by a dusty summer creek.

(no matter what, huh?

— such a fool.)

[takaraphoenix]

Please tell me to shut up if I start bothering you with all the asks 😅 I’m definitely gonna be asking about your WIPs now 💜

Mother Tongue. I am so curious. Is it about Stiles being Polish? I’m always feral about his partner understanding and knowing about his heritage.

I'll tell you a secret: I fucking love talking about my OTPs and talking about my stories so believe me you are not bothering ^-^

And YES Mother Tongue is about Stiles being Polish. The story's title was supposed to be in Polish but my bestie had to break the devastating news to me that in Polish, it's father tongue, not mother tongue. Absolutely broke my heart.

I just love the idea of Stiles being fluent in Polish, because his mom and her side of the family spoke it, but after she died, he had nobody to talk to anymore since his dad never learned.

This story is basically just going to be about Stiles learning that Peter speaks Polish and it does things to him. Yearning and desperate things that confuse him.

Additionally, sharing alone time as they have to research something that only they can and it brings them closer and only confuses Stiles more.

(Check out my WIP folder post if you too are curious to see what's coming up!)

[bagel-with-creamcheese]

Alright folks it’s November second you know what that means; Christmas-y ao3 recs send em my way!! Pretty pretty please

[galvanizedfriend]

Klaroline Fic: The Wolf III [14/21]

Summary: Months after their return to New Orleans, Klaus and Caroline try to settle into a semblance of normalcy, while Elijah struggles to forgive his brother's sins. But a mysterious prophecy that foretells the downfall of the Mikaelson family brings them all together in a war that will reopen ancient wounds and see each of the siblings doomed: one by friend, one by foe and one by family.

[It's The Originals Season 3, but Caroline had Klaus' baby, now she's a vampire and they are back in New Orleans after a stint in Mystic Falls. It's mostly about Klaroline, obviously.]

--

S03E14 An Old Friend Calls

"You collect trophies from all your victims?" Freya’s question comes tinged with reproach. Klaus finds he doesn’t much care for her tone.

"Letters to their loved ones, to be specific," Elijah adds.

Klaus slants a glare at his judgmental elder siblings as he inspects the pile of letters he just got out of the safe. "It was a phase," he grumbles. He wasn't asking for their opinions on his choice of collectibles when he decided to share these mementos with them.

Whenever it was possible, if one of his victims - not the word he would use to describe some of these scoundrels, mind you - was of any particular meaning to him, he'd try to find a souvenir among their personal belongings. Letters to loved ones were always his favorites. It was the closest thing to keeping their hearts preserved.

There's something very intimate about it. Very powerful. As though he still held their lives in his hands, in that precious second right before the light went out in their eyes. If his siblings had a dust more of artistic sensibility, they'd see the poetry of it.

Sadly, Klaus was forced to abandon his hobby. Not only because the technological advances made it harder to find any meaningful written memorabilia - and saving mobiles and laptops simply does not hold the same lyrical value - but also because he has the distinct impression that, few exceptions aside, people have become dreadfully shallow and more boring over time. He doubts the likes of sweet aunt Jenna or Mayor Lockwood ever produced anything worthy of making it into his safe.

Read the full chapter here

--

First update of 2023! 🥳 Happy new year, folks. :) As always, please mind the authors note and, if you enjoy the update, consider dropping me a comment and/or kudos if you haven't yet and let me know! ✨

@definedareasofuncertainty didn't beta this, but she had a very special cameo fulfilling her life-long dream of being a part of Jackson's murder. 🤧 Thank you, Luiza!

The edit wasn't done for the chapter, but I remembered I had this here cause I have dozens of those I've never used for anything lol Felt like the right time to use. Thank you for reading, hope you enjoy it!

[cosmic-walkers]

Hmmm if Henry wasn't king and just some normal lord or Duke or whatever and he did some shit that required him needing a lawyer and that lawyer was Thomas...Thomas would drop him as a client expeditiously I fear.

[oldfangirl81]

Melissa: I went to the will reading for Grandma McCall. She left you her fetish collection.

Scott: *opens his mouth*

Stiles: *Remembered the bestiary debacle tackles Scott and slaps his hand over the boy's mouth* Neat. I'd love to see what stones are used in the jewelry.

[arsenicflame]

i didnt get as much wolf izzy fic OR cross-stitch done as id have wanted to but. its ok

[saintsofwarding]

WE SHALL BE MONSTERS

Header by @keltii-tea

Chapter 28: Epilogue

"Hey. Boss."

Chris Redfield looked up, his mug of green tea half-raised to his mouth. Tundra- Emily- stood in his office doorway, her forearm braced against the frame. Her dark eyes flicked up and down, taking in Chris's hunched position over the desk, his tea, the thin laptop he'd been staring at with brow furrowed, the stacks of papers heaped all over the desk, and the shelves, and the floor.

"Am I interrupting something?" she said, after a beat.

"Someone's always interrupting something," Chris said.

"Something important, though?"

Chris's mouth quirked in a smile. "What have you got for me?"

"All business, Chris." She stepped into his office and immediately crossed to the window to pull open the blinds. Chris squinted in the wash of gray sunlight, weak and rain-filled though it was. "Jesus, boss, this plant is barely clinging to life."

She'd turned toward the struggling money tree set atop an overflowing filing cabinet in the corner of the room, giving its dry leaves a flick.

Chris groaned, finally tearing his eyes away from the laptop in front of him. "Take it if you want. There's not really room for it in here."

"Nor water?"

"No water. Only caffeinated beverages and protein shakes."

"You need a life."

"Find me the time, and I'll get one. Come on." He beckoned to her. "Show me what you brought."

Emily kicked the door shut with her boot heel, cutting the sounds of the BSAA European HQ down to a murmur. The huge glass-and-steel edifice was uncomfortably modern, and made Chris feel like he was in some kind of biohazard research facility, or, God forbid, an Umbrella lab. But he'd got used to it, like he'd got used to a lot of things. He had to.

The work wasn't over yet.

Six months had passed since the events of the village. The second events, specifically, and one had to be specific when dealing with the BSAA bureaucracy. Chris longed to get back out in the field, dispense with this endless paperwork, but it was necessary for this latest project, this latest mission. Its parameters were simple:

Locate Rosemary Winters, the second host of the Romanian megamycete.

Easier said than done. Once the dust settled and the sphere of impenetrable mold-roots Rose had summoned around herself and the other Lords collapsed, it was empty.

Not surprising. She had found her family. She probably wanted more than anything to be alone with them. Time would tell whether that was a good thing- or an apocalyptically terrible one. Still, Chris reasoned, she'd been able to keep Heisenberg in check, albeit by a thread. As for the others...well. At least she wasn't Miranda.

The BSAA was there within a few hours, called in by Hound Wolf Squad to evacuate the townsfolk from the neighboring valley. They swept the area, the destroyed village, the great pit his bomb had blasted into the landscape. Chris hadn't seen Mia Winters amongst the Lords. Most likely she was dead, murdered by Heisenberg or one of the others in retaliation for her crimes against them. Or, knowing them, just for fun.

That was probably the tidiest solution, but Chris sure as hell hoped it wasn't how it had gone down with her. Mia had done terrible things over the course of her involvement with bioterrorism, and not to mention withholding Ethan's death and resurrection from him, but she'd still been his friend. They'd shared experiences. They'd shared grief. And in the end, all she'd wanted was to get Ethan back and maybe-

Maybe-

Begin to make things right.

And had she? Chris commandeered Hound Wolf Squad as BSAA choppers circled overhead, had searched the village ruins and delved down into the pit, lycan activity at a low thanks to the oncoming day. Ethan's remains would be down there, if they were anywhere, and he searched the crater all day, through the evening, past moonrise, into the beginnings of another night.

Nothing was there.

If Ethan's body had somehow survived the blast, if it had somehow lingered in some extant form, it- and he- was now long gone.

***

Emily tugged a chair over and sank into it, leafing through the thick file in her hands. It was bursting at the seams with documents, smaller folders, photographs and faxes and print-outs. All the compiled evidence from their operatives also on the mission, as well as documents sent from other, smaller BSAA hubs.

"Where shall I start..." Emily's red brows shot skyward. "Aha. Here's a good one. Okay, get this. In the underground alternative and industrial music scene of Berlin, Germany, a woman reports having seen a band play with- and I quote- 'supernatural skill and mesmerizing sexuality'. She goes on to describe the lead singer, bassist, and drummer: a very tall woman, a young blonde, and a man covered in scars who reportedly made the entire sound system levitate, much to the delight of the audience. And here's the kicker: this band's name? Black God Death Cult."

"False lead."

"Huh? Really?"

"Claire's seen them. Multiple times. They're clear."

"Oh. Uh, okay, then, still on the subject of music-" She ruffled some papers. "How about this. A black metal band in Iceland called Gear Torture whose aesthetic revolves around rust, decay, horror imagery-"

"Nah."

"What about Iron Stallion Sixty-"

"Em, I don't think the Four Lords are going undercover as a metal band," Chris interrupted.

"Iron Stallion Sixty-Nine isn't metal, Chris," Tundra said dryly.

"Please move on."

"You sure you don't want to hear about-" Her voice dropped into crime-show-announcer tones. "-the Monster Catfish of Lake Baikal, Captured on Video? Could be the fish-man. There's a YouTube link."

"No."

"Right. So here's an interesting one. An entire convent of nuns in Samokov, Bulgaria described to one of our operatives their strange and entrancing visions of dead relatives that plagued them for hours before dissipating. Their water supply tested clear, as did their food, but a peculiar organic particulate lingering in the air raised questions with the investigation team whether young Lady Beneviento had come to call."

"A convent of nuns."

"That's what this says."

"Had a bunch of visions."

"Correct."

Chris leaned back in his too-small chair, rubbing his hand down his face. God, he was tired, and the green tea wasn't doing shit to change that. Maybe he should swap back to coffee. Maybe he should go have a cigarette. "Maybe they should call an exorcist."

"Boss, are you taking this seriously?"

"Yeah, yeah. Sorry, Em." He let out his breath and straightened up, reaching for his now-lukewarm tea. "Keep going."

She watched him through her lowered lashes, fox-like eyes sharp as ever. "Do you even want to find her?" she asked, quietly.

Chris met her gaze. The silence between them lingered. He could hear the rain beating against the window, the traffic twenty stories below, the hum of the building around them, the conversation in the hall that grew louder and faded as it passed his door. This place, this world. All the people in it, alive and breathing because so many like Emily and the rest of Hound Wolf Squad- like him- like Piers, and Ethan, and all the others who had given their lives- had sacrificed so much to keep the monsters back. To keep them from the door. To decide, sometimes in extremis, where the line must be drawn. How far he had to go to keep the darkness at bay.

And six months ago, whether he liked it or not, he'd crossed that line. Rose had become...he didn't know what. A new Miranda? He hoped not. A new host for the megamycete was his official take, but he knew it was more than that. The megamycete...the Black God...was more than that. Archival memory, spanning thousands of years. Power he could scarcely fathom. Power that organizations like Umbrella, like the Connections, like Ouroboros, for all their dreams of conquest and grandeur, could only scratch the surface of.

Sparrows, thinking because they felt the sunlight on their wings, they knew the true heat of the sun.

Rosemary had made her decision. She had stood with the other mutants, open to his fire. He should have taken her down. He could have. Cult leader or not, she was flesh and blood. But he hadn't. He'd lowered his rifle.

He'd let her go.

And even now, he couldn't be sorry about that. He thought of Heisenberg, of all people, and what must have transpired in the days after the village's original destruction to make him into what he had become. A far cry from the great Lord who'd served Miranda, that was for damn sure. When you can't bend, you break. And he couldn't deny Heisenberg and Rose were survivors.

And, maybe, though it chafed to admit it, though it went against everything he'd fought for all these years-

They were people, too.

Time would tell if they became decent ones.

So he looked at Emily and shrugged. "'Course I do," he told her. "Any more cryptids in that file of yours?"

"Nah. That's it for now. I'll come back when there's more."

"I'll take a look. Make sure Black God Death Cult isn't a front for Karl Heisenberg's newest cyborg army scheme after all."

"Sure thing, boss." She tossed the file onto his desk. It landed with a weighty smack. "Hey. Come to dinner this Friday? My wife's making that one stir fry thing you like."

"If I can get out-"

"Come on, Chris."

He smiled again. "Okay, Em. See you later."

She left with the money tree. The door clicked shut. Chris stared at the file for a couple seconds, then reached out for it.

Something was sticking from the papers within- a corner of stiff cardstock. Chris frowned and tugged it forth. A postcard. A little dented, a little battered. The front showed a generic seaside scene. The back-

He read it once, twice, without comprehension. Then it struck him. A rush of cold and hot, crackling through his nerves. He didn't move from his place at the desk, his fingers locked around the postcard with its single message, written in bubbly letters.

Wish you were here.

His head jerked up as the door to his office opened again and Emily stuck her head through. "Sorry, boss," she said, a little breathless. "You got a visitor."

"...Who is it?"

"You'd...you'd better come and see."

The tension radiating from the waiting room was thick in the air, even before Chris and Emily strode in, Em snapping effortlessly into Tundra-mode, her hand resting lightly on her holstered sidearm. They made it down the stairs and into the waiting room, as modern as the rest of the building, its glass exterior wall cutting out in sharp silhouette the half-dozen plainclothes operatives with pistols pointed at the solitary figure between them. The receptionist had her hand on a panic button; relief filled her eyes when Chris and Emily entered the room and stopped outside the circle of BSAA ops.

"What's going on here?" Chris said.

"Sir." One of the operatives nodded at the stranger, who wore a hooded jacket, a large, heavy-looking duffel bag open and on the floor at their feet. Their hands were raised, their head down. "She just came in. Asked to see you. Then showed what was in the bag."

Chris kept his eyes on the stranger. He couldn't see her face- just a glimpse of chin and a couple strands of gray-brown hair. His hands lifted, palms out, he stepped past the gun barrels. The stranger didn't move as he bent, as he moved aside the open zipper of the bag.

The light gleamed off milky crystal. A collection of broken limbs. And a familiar face.

A smile touched Chris's mouth.

"Thought you were dead, Mia," he said.

Mia Winters pulled back her hood. She looked about as tired as he felt, dark circles stamped under her eyes, her brows furrowed together. But he saw hope in her gaze, and in her voice when she spoke, vivid and undeniable.

"Not yet," she said. "And...I'm hoping...that's two of us." She glanced around at the other operatives, then back to Chris. "I heard you have access to something miraculous. You call it the MARS, right? A mold recombination system?"

She paused, and there was something brittle in the silence, a yearning so strong it seemed to shimmer from her, from every tense movement. Her lips fluttered; she licked them, then took a short breath to speak again.

"A means of resurrection?" she asked.

Chris should have ordered her immediate arrest. Should have ordered Ethan's remains whisked away, stored in containment somewhere until a thousand and a half tests could be run on the calcified biomatter.

Could have, should have, would have.

This time, for the first time in nearly sixteen years, his full smile felt real.

"I think," he told Mia, holding out his hand for hers, "we can talk."

***

Sunlight, fading.

A brush of warmth on her skin, just as fast stolen by the wind.

Another day, ending.

"Eyes on the road, kid."

"I know." Rose opened her eyes, focusing again on the long, curving single-track road ahead of the range rover wheels. The vehicle had once been painted green; now it was more rust than paint, the entire body rattling ominously each time she accelerated, but Heisenberg had souped up the engine to breathtaking levels. Now, it ran like a luxury automobile, albeit with more glowing exhaust ports and clouds of black smoke than most.

Rippling fields of grass spread to either side, golden in the fading, liquid light of afternoon. Cloud-shadows moved over the expanse of moorland like great beasts just beneath the surface of still water, the land itself flowing like the sea until it broke off, suddenly, and plunged to the waves themselves, the world ending in favor of the water.

Here and there, patches of purple heather or jutting rock formations broke the expanse of green-gray and blue-green and peat-brown, but the splendor of this place was in the sky, unbroken by tree or building or mountain, echoing on and on forever.

Rose had never visited the Highlands during her and Heisenberg's brief stint in Glasgow; neither had he, and, glancing sideways at him in the passenger seat, Rose could see the way he drank it in with his eyes, even behind his round shades. Every new place must still seem like a wonder to him; two decades wasn't so long to be out, not in comparison to the long life he'd led before. He did a pretty good job covering up his true feelings with brash remarks and cocky bravado, but in the end, he did have a heart.

Rose knew. She'd literally seen it.

He wasn't driving. He was forbidden to after they'd been pulled over eight times in England and southern Scotland for driving all over the center line and yelling threats at the other drivers that included suggestions he'd remove their limbs and sew them on backwards, a feat which, Rose also knew, Heisenberg was fully capable of. They'd had a drawn-out argument which ended in Rose stealing his glasses and hiding them until he one- bought her a coffee and two- gave her sole driving privileges. Though, Rose reasoned, if he really, really wanted to, nothing was stopping him from taking control of the entire metal body of the car and doing something, uh, uncool.

Now, silence had fallen, save for the sound of the tires on the road, the low, hazy music on the radio, and the wind whistling through the cracked window. A new place. Each hill, each dip in the land, each ancient stone tower standing sentinel against the sky, each meter of road racing beneath them, each was new.

They were out.

They were free.

All of them. Even Moreau. They had retreated from the carnage of the village after Rose's dramatic little declaration to Chris, and Moreau had insisted, with his newfound confidence, the Lords go and check on his followers down by the reservoir.

They were there, all right, the group of robed cultists shivering in the frigid dawn, bare feet blue in the snow. They were used to castle life, after all. But Moppet bounded toward him with a squeal of delight and threw herself into Moreau's arms, raining kisses down on his face and slimy lips while Moreau held her.

"Your holy relic saved us, Lord Moreau!" Moppet said, between kisses. "The phial you gave me so long ago? It spared all of us from the wolves!"

"Thank goodness," Moreau mumbled. "Thank goodness. If...if I had lost you...if I had lost you for good..."

His eyes were squeezed shut, the contentment on his face undeniable. Rose thought of the glimpse she'd seen of him before, the earnest love on his face as he'd spoken to Miranda and Eva. The face might look a little different, but the love was the same. Better, now. Moppet looked at him exactly the same way.

At last, Moppet stood back, flushed and giggling, and Moreau faced Rose and the Lords once more.

"Come with us," Rose urged. "Your followers, too. You're always a part of this family."

Moreau gave her a look of gentle melancholy. "No, Rosemary," he told her. "I...I will never...never be...welcome out there. Beyond. Once, maybe, I..." He paused for a moment, staring hard into the distance. "A long, long time ago, maybe, I would have...wanted. But now...no more. No longer. I have found something...something...better."

He glanced at Moppet. "And where...I belong."

"Okay," Rose said. She swooped forward and gave him a little peck on the cheek. "You know best."

He touched his cheek, then bobbed his head up and down in a firm nod. "I will see you..." he said, then seemed to ponder. "Again," he decided. "Perhaps."

"Good luck, Salvatore," Rose told him. "All of you."

"See ya, fishstick," Heisenberg said gruffly, elbowing Moreau in the side. "Take care of the dame, now, won't you?"

"Forever," Moreau said, taking Moppet's hand, holding it tight between his own.

And, later, Rose stood by as Moreau led his people to a cleft in a rocky cliff, a cave mouth leading down and down into darkness. One by one, they stepped through, Moppet holding aloft a lantern, her back laden with a pack full of supplies, each of the other cultists now outfitted for the journey- to where, Rose had no idea. A better place, perhaps, than Moreau had ever known. A kinder one. A crystal city, far beneath the earth.

A paradise, where they would be safe forever.

It wasn't her place to know. She simply watched as Moreau's followers vanished into the darkness, as Moppet's lantern bobbed, a ball of light, then a point, then a pinprick, then gone altogether.

Dimitrescu, too. Once Moreau and his followers set out, the rest of them, bruised and exhausted and starving, had trooped up to the castle to huddle in the dark, dank, dusty rooms and rest as best they could. The first floor, and the entry wing to the castle, was still crusted with Moreau's slime- pretty wrecked- not to mention the ominous pool of dried gore that covered the cracked floor of the main hall.

Dimitrescu merely smiled at this.

"My dinner," she said, "disagreed with me." and extended a single nail to pick at some invisible scrap between her clean white teeth.

Past the first floor, however, Rose couldn't help but gasp at the splendor. Glossy white walls covered with ornamental gilt, sconces molded in the shapes of flowers, gleaming mahogany and priceless artworks. The layer of dust and grime over it all couldn't disguise that this place totally freaking ruled. Rose decided to not ask to have a look at the basement. Preserve the illusion, and all that.

Dimitrescu vanished somewhere in the maze of corridors, leaving Rose, Donna, Angie, and Heisenberg to pass out on one of the gargantuan four-posters in one of the castle's many bedrooms, to hide from the sound of helicopters outside, to stuff down as much preserved meat and tinned goods and priceless wine as they could scavenge from the kitchens.

Eventually, days later, Dimitrescu re-emerged. Rose had looked up from her book, from which she'd been reading a story to Donna and Angie. Her eyes got big. If Lady Dimitrescu had been intimidating before, fixed up and dressed to the nines she was nothing short of breathtaking. Swathed in shimmering silver silk jersey, in smoke-gray furs soft as snowfall, rope of pearls at her throat, black hat perched on her fresh, gleaming curls, she set a long cigarette holder to her crimson lips and exhaled blue into the gloom.

"Fuck, Alci," Heisenberg said, as a wave of expensive amber-musk perfume rolled across them. "Something die in here?"

"Shut up, you disgusting little rat," she snapped, and took another drag on her cigarette. She seemed to gather herself, then turned with a smile to face Rose.

"Child," she said. "I wish to offer my most...sincere thanks for your involvement in the reclamation of my castle. And I wish to convey how deeply sorry I am that I must, now, say farewell."

"What?" Rose closed her book. "You're leaving, too?"

Heisenberg let out a bark of triumphant laughter.

"Indeed," Dimitrescu said, with a glare toward him and a slight edge to her voice. "I know you and your...caretaker...will be wanting to travel together, and that simply will not do for me. Besides. The events here...our brother's regeneration...my own...and yours," she added, nodding to Donna. "All of it has made me consider...mmm...future paths I thought had been closed to me."

A distant look filled her eyes, her self-satisfied smirk fading. "Future paths I thought were long gone," she went on.

"Your daughters?" Rose asked.

Dimitrescu looked down on her again. "Indeed."

"They...they might not have regenerated, like you did," Rose said, tentatively. "They weren't Lords."

"No," Dimitrescu agreed. "But consider this, child. When your father slaughtered them, and sold them, and smiled at my misfortune, all hope was lost. And I was lost with it. All things, shattered. All loyalties, tested. Now, there is hope again. And though it may end in blood and tears for me...for them- for my darling girls- I will risk it."

She took up an oxblood traveling-case- stamped, Rose noticed, with the House Dimitrescu crest.

"I will return," she said, casting her gaze about the heights of the room, about the castle beyond. "Rest assured. But for now..."

A feral glint entered her eyes.

"...I must have words with the Duke."

***

Donna, meanwhile, was fast asleep in the back of the range rover, impervious to the bumps and jostles in the uneven road. Rose glanced at her in the rearview mirror. She'd shed her usual eyepatch, her hair down around her shoulders, and though she still tended toward gothy shades and heeled lace-up boots, she'd begun to branch out a little from mourning clothes.

Now, for the special occasion, she'd worn a long embroidered skirt, a brooch at her throat she said had belonged to her mother, and a gray woolen coat she'd made herself. Her arms were curled loosely around Angie, and at her side, tucked for safekeeping under the other seat belt, was an intricately-wrapped box tied with a ribbon.

"Heh. Honk the horn," Heisenberg said.

"Oh my god. You are evil."

He made a wild lunge for the horn. Rose cracked her elbow right into his face. Donna slept on. The moors rolled past, and eventually Rose and Heisenberg quieted down again, and the silence came in, and the wind, and they caught their first glimpse of the sea.

It came up fast- one moment the land seemed endless, and then it broke away, and the ocean spread before them. Vast; endless. Heisenberg leaned forward a little, tipping his glasses up on his head. He'd never seen the ocean before leaving the village with her. What an impossible wonder it must have seemed. What sheer emptiness. Rose wondered if that first sight had been exhilarating to him, or terrifying. She didn't ask. She didn't want to break the silence.

She didn't ask, either, about Mia.

She'd vanished from the chaos. She'd never turned up at the castle. Maybe the BSAA had taken her. And maybe- after what Heisenberg had told her during their several days hiding out in the castle- she'd had her eye on a different goal. Even now, thinking of her, a boil of vindictive heat twisted in Rose's guts. After all she'd done, she'd get away without incident? With Ethan's body? Still. Rose couldn't exactly hold her crimes against her, not for long. How could she, when she'd done what she did for the Four Lords?

They were out, now, free in the world. She'd given them all the means to do what they'd done under Miranda, to be monsters anew. And what monsters they'd once been. A village, destroyed. Decades of pain and suffering, nightmares inflicted on the innocent. Nightmares the scope of which she couldn't truly understand, could only witness through the dreams of the dead. And there was no accounting for that. No true forgiveness. Not unless the dead returned. And that wasn't possible, not for everyone.

But it could end. And now, maybe, it had. And that was all she had. She could only hope it would prove enough.

The road ended in a small car park, empty of other vehicles. Rose parked and killed the engine, dropping down to the dusty pavement. Donna stirred as Rose rapped on the window, then followed Heisenberg out past the pavement, wading through the golden, knee-high grass, all the way to the place where the world ended.

Seagulls mewed and tilted, tossed on the high breeze. The waves crashed at the cliff foot, great sprays of freezing spume and swells of deep, dark blue. The color of the ocean wasn't constant; it shifted, one moment a vivid glass-green, the next a deep, pensive gray, fading to mist out at the point where sky met sea.

Even in early August, the chill of the sea wind was sharp, biting through Rose's jean jacket and into her skin. She shivered. Heisenberg shifted closer, knocking his warm shoulder to hers.

"Happy birthday, kid," he told her.

"Don't mention it."

"Why this place?"

"Ah." She lifted an eyebrow. "You are looking at what will soon be the most beautiful sunset in Britain. According to this one article I read online, anyway. I thought...y'know. Not to get mushy, but I thought it'd be a good place to...begin. Again. Formally. You know, since it's my birthday, a big marker, kind of a nice symbolic breaking-off point-"

"Yeah, I get it."

"Okay, okay." She shut up, watching the waves. "Thanks."

"...Yeah?"

"Without you, I wouldn't be here to turn seventeen and stare at the stupid water."

He smirked. "And don't you forget it."

Rose snorted and rolled her eyes, then looked back at Donna by the range rover, struggling with the hamper.

"Guess we should help her or something," Heisenberg muttered.

"Could just stand here and watch her."

"Careful, kid. You're starting to sound like me."

The three of them together set up near the cliff's edge, spreading a blanket over the grass, weighing it down with jars of honey, cheese and bread, Romanian dishes with pronunciations Donna coached her through. A thermos of tea, full of rich spices that melted on the tongue. And, inside the intricate box, jewel-like pastries so delicately-made they could have only come from Donna's hands. Angie tore at one like a starving raccoon, while Rose marveled at the chocolate tarts and honey-and-walnut mucenici, savoring each bite. She opened presents- a handmade blouse, jacket, and trousers from Donna, embroidered with black and gold roses, and from Heisenberg-

"Since you lost your sword, and all," he said as she lifted the knife from the grease-stained paper grocery bag he'd crumpled around it in place of wrappings. Its blade flared deep-blue in the dying sunlight, and when Rose took its hilt, it fit her hand like she'd been born with it there. She ran her thumb over the thorny vines worked into the crossguard.

"I..." she started. She had to cough and start over. "...I didn't know you were capable of making anything this pretty."

"Shut up and say thank you."

The sun began to set. It sank toward the sea; it melted, and set the wind afire, painting a river of gold over the tops of the waves. The bite of the wind sharpened, and Rose and Heisenberg and Donna and Angie ended up huddled together, like they had been in the castle.

Rose rested her chin on the tops of her knees, staring out toward the horizon. Ouroboros was still out there. She'd take it down, it and so many monstrous things like it. The BSAA, too, and Chris, and her mother. But that was all for another day. For now, she could sit and watch the sunset, taste the wind, the scent of endings bitter on her tongue.

The end of another day.

The beginnings of a new one.

She shifted. Heisenberg looped his arm over her shoulders. She tipped her head sideways against his shoulder, her fingers loosely interlaced with Donna's.

"Drat," Donna said, softly.

"What is it?"

"I think I may have left the stove on in that...strange little house we stayed in."

"Broke in," Heisenberg said.

"Hm. Well..." Her expression became sly. "...I hope they don't mind."

Rose snorted. "You're the coolest aunt ever."

Donna turned bright red, hugging Angie. The doll gibbered at her, and Donna turned up her sleeve, made a small nick in the dead-white flesh of her inner arm, and allowed the tendrils of the Cadou within Angie's head latch onto the cut and feed on the blood. Rose watched, fascinated. Coolest aunt ever, indeed.

"Aha," Heisenberg said, suddenly. "Almost forgot." He reached inside his coat and pulled forth a folder, thin and sepia-stained and tied with twine, stamped with the Ouroboros serpent. Rose lifted her eyebrows as he held it up.

"Did-" she started.

"Did Mia send me this via that weird airmail envelope that courier handed me last week? Yeah. Dunno how the fuck she got ahold of it, but, uh..."

A small black and white photograph was paperclipped to the front. A little boy, facing front, dressed in an old-fashioned collared shirt and V-neck sweater. His round face and bowl-cut hair were those of a stranger, but Rose knew his eyes all too well.

"It's your file," she murmured.

"Sure is. The real deal." His whole life. All the lost decades of it, pieced together by Ouroboros researchers in some distant facility. His past, there in his hands.

"Are you gonna open it?" Rose asked.

Heisenberg considered. Then, in one movement, he tossed it. It spun into the air and over the edge of the cliff, gone in an instant.

"Nah," he said.

He settled again by Rose's side. The three of them watched the sun, watched it sink beneath the horizon, watched the shadows creep long over the sea.

Rose felt a stirring of dread at the darkness, so like the depths of the Black God, the depths of Miranda's grief. She still didn't fully understand what she'd inherited, what it meant for the future. She'd probably never understand it, not unless she lived, as Miranda had said, a long, long life.

And as to who she was?

Maybe there were no real answers.

Heisenberg must have sensed her discomfit. He gave her cheek a light poke with his thumb. "You okay, kid?"

"Yeah. Just..." She let out her breath. "You'll always have my back, right?"

"As demonstrated."

"Good."

"Good?"

She looked up at him, and Donna. And yeah, they were terrible. And yeah, they'd done some really, really bad shit. And yeah, they were all mutant monsters.

But so was she.

It filled her, then, with a pang so strong it was close to pain. That she was so she was who she was, in this place, in this body. That they were there with her.

She leaned into Heisenberg, squeezed Donna's hand. "Good that I found you again."

It didn't matter who she was. She'd figure out everything she needed to know herself. And she wouldn't be alone, not even if the night grew dark and the wolves began to howl. They would be with her every step of the path.

"Not gonna get sick of us monsters, kid?" Heisenberg said.

"You're not just monsters," Rose told him. "You're worse. You're family."

[sevensistersofsussex]

Chapter 24 - House of the Rising Sun

Elijah clears his throat and stands to join Klaus behind the couch. “Have you made much headway with your passion project?”

“Passion?” she questions with a mocking tone that both men either miss or choose to ignore.

“It would be foolish of me not to endeavor to find out more about this Wolf Mother given our similarities. She’s clearly a unique wolf as am I.” Klaus turns on her, grips the top of the couch and leans over it like he might leap out at her like the beast he is. “Would you mind leaving us? I’d like to speak with my brother alone. Without distraction.”

Read here or here

[lemon-russ]

More smutless (for now) Leman Russ fic. Whats important is that I'm having fun and subjecting you all to it lol.

(Thanks @squishyowl for the dividers. Idk if getting tagged every fic bothers you, lmk :,) )

Wolf Mother (Ch. 2)

<Prev. | Next>

Ao3

Leman Russ x Fem OC

CW (not necessarily this chapter but overall): Trauma, anxiety, PTSD, General WH40k violence, Sex, probably breeding kink stuff eventually, if there's something I miss and you want labeled let me know!!

Summary: Wren and Guilliman arrive at The Fang and meet The Wolf King.

Word count: 1,637

Wren Vaille walks down the corridors of the Macragge's Honour to the door of Guilliman's office. He smiles a greeting to her when she opens the door, and walks beisdes her down the hall.

“Thank you for giving this a chance, Captain.” He says with a smile.

She gives a small smile back, walking around him so he walked on her right side where she could see him. “Of course, sir. It would not be very honorable of me to not even attempt to help you.”

Guilliman raises a brow, then glances at her blinded left eye, scar running through it, and has a small look of understanding, moving aside to give her room. “Still it is a huge favor. But I wouldn't send you somewhere you're in danger. My brother may be rowdy, but I think he will like you.” He smiles at her. “You have the same indomitable spirit.”

She scrunches her brows together. “Uh-huh. Sometimes I fear you have a very inflated idea of me, my Lord.” She says with a small chuckle.

Guilliman chuckles back. “I think you have a very under-inflated view of yourself, Captain. You'll handle the space wolves well, I think.” He says with a pat on her shoulder.

She stumbles a little under the sudden weight of his ceramite gauntlet, bionic leg whirring a groaning noise as she tripped and caught herself before falling.”um- thank you, sir, I suppose.”

They reach the bay doors to the hangar, peppered with blue armored forms and uniforms scurrying around gunning ships and thunderhawks.

A thunderhawk near them was being loaded with what few material possesions she had, a few boxes and a large bag. She swallows hard, her mouth dry.

Guilliman waved to a serf, who brought over a folded coat. “Here, I had this brought for you.” He says, holding up a warm looking, fur lined coat in ultramarine blue. “Fenris is bitterly cold, especially for baseline humans. I worried you wouldn't have sufficent layers.” He smiles.

“Oh, thank you my Lord.” She says, taking the warm, insulated coat. She swallows back some emotion. This may be the last Ultramarine thing she'll own. The rest of her uniform would be packed away with her old Auxillia fatigues.

She gives him a tight smile, trying to not get sentimental. “I really appreciate this, it was very thoughtful.” She says as she pulls on the thick coat.

He smiles and pats her shoulder again. “It's ok to feel emotional, Captain. It is the human thing to feel sad at goodbyes.” He says in a softer tone.

She bites her lower lip. “This is probably only temporary, anyways, my Lord.” She says, walking with him toward the thunderhawk. “I doubt I'll be able to actually keep up with space wolves.” She says with a forced smile.

He smiles and offers her a hand to help her up the ramp of the ship. “Of course, Captain Vaille. It's hardly permanent.”

He helps her settle and buckle in, then tells the pilot to head off.

“I'll see you off to my Brother. It's been too long since I visited, anyway.” The primarch says, sitting next to her as much as the small seats allow.

The ride to the surface of Fenris is short enough, and soon they are landing on the landing bays of The Fang, the massive mountain fortress that serves as the seat of the Space Wolves.

An icy blast has Wren clutching her new coat tight around her shoulders and shivering as the doors to the ship open. Guilliman chuckles, patting her back.

“That's why I got you a coat. Come, Leman should be around and he is terrible at sitting still, so we should be quick so he doesn't run off on us.” He says as he helps her down the ramp.

Her bionic leg, junky as ever, immediately tries to seize as the cold air plays havoc on the metal gears and hydraulic pistons. She gives it a couple whacks with the side of her fist and hobbles off after Guilliman.

They enter the Valgard, the uppermost structure of the fortress and the only place with ship bays. The rest of the fortress is in underground tunnels through the mountain. Thankfully the interior of the mountain is a bit more hospitable.

They walk through corridors of metal, wood and cave tunnels, with busy lifts moving Space Wolves and serfs around. Guilliman leads her through a massive, ornate room of pure granite, down a concerning lift, and through more halls until he stops at a door and knocks.

“Skítja, Who knocks in the Aett?” Someone curses in a rough voice, stomping to the door and flinging it open.

“What- Oh!” The Primarch goes from annoyance to joy in a flash. “Ah, Roboute, I was wondering who would be so formal, I forgot you were coming today.” He laughs.

Leman Russ is a couple feet taller than his brother, and grins down at him with a fanged smile. “Come, come- I was just rehashing defense nonsense.” He says, waving Guilliman in to the defense overlook. Wren, seemingly forgotten, scurries after their long strides into a smaller room of cluttered papers, books, scrolls, and maps laying across a table.

Russ flops onto a large wooden high back chair, leg over the arm, grinning and motioning for Guilliman to sit in a similar one. “So, you sent word of some sort of paperwork thrall?” He asks.

Guilliman chuckled under his breath as he sat, and Wren awkwardly stood beside his chair. They call Serfs thralls? That isn’t very reassuring, she thought to herself.

“Not quite, but yes. This is my assistant, Wren Vaille.” Guilliman introduces, and she gives a polite salute. “I want to offer her to you to do what she does for me- Paperwork, scheduling, some logistics, communicating on my behalf with other Primarchs…” he says, patting her back. “Clerical type work that you seem to need.” He adds, eyeing the piles of strewn papers with a tight frown.

Leman looks at her for the first time, eyeing her up and down, then quirks his head to the side in a way that can only be compared to a curious dog. “Where’d the other half of you go, girl?” He asks curiously.

Guilliman’s eyes go wide, “Leman, have some tackt-” he snaps softly, but Wren chuckles a bit. No one every even acknowledges her differences, let alone so boldly. It is always your condition and because of, well, you know.

"Long gone, I’m afraid.” She says with a small smile. “But I assure you I can work just fine with one eye and a bionic leg.”

Guilliman looks embarrassed, but Leman grins his sharp toothed smile at her. “Hah, well I’ll get a story out of you yet girl. No one loses and eye and a leg and walks away without a tale to tell.”

He hops up from his chair and walks over to her, standing close enough it forces her to crane her neck up. He looks her over, walking in circles around her and making her purse her lips nervously at the inspection.

“Any more of you missing?” He asks, bending down to look at her closer.

She raises her brow. “Uh- a kidney? On the left side, but otherwise no just the eye and leg…” she replies, stepping back a step as he gets close to her face.

He hmphs, then sniffs her, making her blush a bit.

Guilliman sighs. “Leman, she’s only here on a trial, please pretend to be civil for 5 minutes…?” He says, gently pulling Wren back toward himself by her shoulders.

Russ huffed through his nose. “What? I can’t smell her? You can tell a lot by someone’s smell.” He grumbled. “My sons will sniff her too, she may as well get used to it…”

Guilliman and Wren made a mirrored uncomfortable look, and Russ rolled his eyes. ”Fine fine. Tell me, thrall, can you fight still?” He asks, quirking his head to the side again.

Guilliman frowns. “She is here to help you file paperwork and make meetings, Leman.” He says sternly.

Russ frowns, furrowing his brow. “Well she obviously fought at some point- it is important to me that this secretary thing can follow me in dangerous places.”

Wren purses her lips. “I can fight, if needed. Not so well with shooting anymore, what with the eye, but, I can defend myself with melee and I can flee.” She says nervously.

He seems satisfied with that, smiling and giving a nod. “Good. We will get you back up in proper fighting shape so you do not get killed the second something looks at you.”

Guilliman sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Remember, this is a trial, Leman. If you scare her off I’ll take her home.”

Russ scoffs, “If she is scared off, she would make a poor assistant to me.” He grins and claps her on the shoulder, making her leg whine mechanically as she stumbled a little from it. “You look sturdy, though, even for a female so small. Humans do not get that amount of scars from twiddling their thumbs.” He turns on his heel, heading for the door. “Come, paper-thrall, I have duties to attend.”

Guilliman lets out a tired sigh, then pats her back gently. “Thank you again, Wren. I’m always a messenger away, if anything happens and you want to return early, you need only ask.” He says gently. She smiles nervously, giving him a nod, before Leman calls again.

“Thrall! Come! I shall not wait for your tiny legs!”

She stiffens and scrambles out the door.

[n--n]

Can’t sleep so I’m reading a really good pjo fanfic exploring an older Percy and his trauma in little vignettes and the author sprinkled in some explorations of the implications of Lupa eating the “failed” demigods and in the latest one it’s implied Percy had her kidnapped and is killing her slowly and now I’m like. Hold On Buddy you were doing so good until now.

I initially really liked the execution but having Percy torment/kill her is so so silly to me. Like idk maybe Lupa ate those kids bc 1.She has what, like a hundred others to take care of 2.is it not more merciful to just swiftly kill the demigod instead of letting it die randomly to a monster or of starvation /neglect bc she isn’t caring for it. Yeah the monster will eat the kid too but it’ll just as easily torment them for a long time before finally eating them. I can’t remember how old demigods are when they go to her but it’s really young iirc so she’s probably doing a lottt of work raising them even with magic god powers. I just think it’s a stretch to give her such a brutal fate bc she was doing her gods given job. Like if Zeus/Jupiter wanted to hire more caregivers he fucking could and Percy could have strong armed him into it but no let’s blame the literal animal mother for making an animal decision animals do. Ancient Roman mothers made that decision too in the myths do you know how many myths start with “x was abandoned in the woods/cliff/bears to die by their parents”?!? So if anything Lupa’s demigod kid murdering has more to do with her animal nature and enforcement of antiquated Roman rules in the modern age than it would with her being an evil baby eater.

Like yeah it sucks but I don’t see Percy taking in every single demigod no matter what personally like she has to. (It’s almost as if that’s impractical and a massive burden for one person!). In the fic series he has great mentorship/bonding with some demigods and literally adopted one but that’s //one//. He’s not the one doing all the chores and menial tasks to keep the camp demigods alive he just visits makes sure they’re treated well gives advice and leaves to be depressed in these fics.

And another thing! Like yeah she’s a god and can split her consciousness but how far can she go she only has so much energy as a minor god. Idk idk it just really rubbed me the wrong way, it’s not a deal breaker for me but I guess it just annoys me that the story seems to hate her for making a normal decision for wild animals to make that’s sanctioned by (and thus the blame should go to) Jupiter/Zeus anyways. That’s a law/culture/lack of extra caregiving support problem not a Lupa specific problem. Why is Chiron given a pass for his neglect and endangering of the demigods but Lupa isn’t?

Anyways I’m probably tired enough to sleep now moral of the story is Lupa Did Nothing Wrong

[tteokdoroki]

ᯓ★ ONCE UPON A FUCK ME !? — kinktober 2024 !

mirror mirror on the wall, who’s the filthiest fairytale of them all? your favourite storybook characters, reimagined.

✧ there’s a note from your fairy godmother - hello my angels !! welcome to another kinktober. i hope you guys are as excited as i am. wave your magic wand here ! to join the taglist. rb for a happy ending ₊˚⊹ ᥫ᭡.

✧ read the blurb - each of the following fairytales contain nsfw and dark themes. fem!reader. each fic comes with its own warnings. minors, blank and ageless blogs do not interact.

✐ᝰ.ᐟ CHAPTER ONE RAPUNZEL - satoru gojo.

[OCT 1ST ★ BONDAGE] once upon a time, a girl trapped in a tower with nothing but her extremely lavish, long hair as company decides…fuck it and sleeps with a handsome stranger to get what she wants.

additional kinks. orgasm control, sensory deprivation, edging, thigh riding, spit kink, outer-course, begging, switching.

✐ᝰ.ᐟ CHAPTER EIGHT BEAUTY & THE BEAST - katsuki bakugou.

[OCT 8TH ★ MONSTER FUCKING] once upon a time, a village girl thinks to herself — fuck it! being trapped inside a castle with a monstrous sexy bloody beast isn’t so bad… she might as well make it worth her while.

additional kinks. bath sex, soft sex, blood play, size kink, praise kink, body worship, body modifications.

✐ᝰ.ᐟ CHAPTER FIFTEEN CINDERELLA - tobio kageyama.

[OCT 15TH ★ MUTUAL MASTURBATION] once upon a time, a soon-to-be crowned princess, once down on her luck, says fuck it and settles on consummating her marriage with the crown prince before they’re actually due to be married.

additional kinks. oral sex, clothed sex, cherry chasing, first time, corruption.

✐ᝰ.ᐟ CHAPTER SIXTEEN THE LITTLE MERMAID - eijirou kirishima.

[OCT 16TH ★ FUCK OR DIE] once upon a time, a princess decides — fuck it! fuck the engagement. who cares when a sexy half-man, half -fish…prince? whatever! needs to drown her in an ocean of pleasure in order to survive…

additional kinks. underwater sex, ritualistic sex, voice kink, pain kink, choking, quickie.

✐ᝰ.ᐟ CHAPTER TWENTY TWO SLEEPING BEAUTY - seishiro nagi.

[OCT 22ND ★ SOMNOPHILIA] once upon a time, a brave knight, destined to marry someone she’d never met, says fuck it and plans to reap the rewards of saving the prince from eternal slumber. without realising that he’s already awake…

additional kinks. hold the moan, overstimulation, cockwarming, dacryphilia, outer-course, free use, dub con, cumplay.

✐ᝰ.ᐟ CHAPTER TWENTY NINE LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD - yuuji itadori.

[OCT 29TH ★ KNOTTING] once upon a time, a curious little girl says fuck it and disobeyes her mother’s only wish. stay on the path when you visit your granny, you don’t want to get snatched up by the big bad wolf.

additional kinks. wolf hybrids, mating season, oral fixation, sweat + scent kink, pregnancy kink, lactation, breeding, a/b/o.

✐ᝰ.ᐟ BONUS CHAPTER: GOLDILOCKS & THE THREE BEARS - bachira, isagi 'n nagi.

[OCT 31ST ★ CUCKING] once upon a time, a sweet little bear hybrid on her own in the woods decides... fuck it! she'll teach that pesky thief goldilocks what it really means to share. with the help of friends, of course.

additional kinks. bear hybrids, double penetration, mutual masturbation, deep throating, brat taming, exhibitionism, multiple orgasms, foursome, dub-con, coercion, marking, oral sex.

꒰ end. — all rights reserved © tteokdoroki 2024. do not copy, repost, translate, feed into ai & recommend elsewhere.

[the-dendrophile-bookdragon]

Perfect Size

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x fem!reader

Warnings: reader is described as short, name-calling, swearing, Daemon being a horny menace, soft!dom! Daemon, talk of impregnation, talk of pregnancy, pregnancy, smut

Summary: It was Daemon’s life mission to remind you of your size difference, in every aspect of your shared lives.

A/N: This is part of the wonderful @targaryen-dynasty 3K celebration, congrats by the way!!!! I had so much fun with this prompt. Enjoy everyone and enjoy the other wonderful and talented writers' fics. 3K Celebration Masterlist

My masterlist

The gods make humans in their image. They make them grow until they see them as perfect. Or so your Septa used to say whenever you were frustrated about your small stature. And it was no help that the greatest rake of the realm, Lord Flea Bottom, the Rouge Prince himself, made it his life’s mission to remind you of how small you were.

As children, you had been a bit taller than him. He had a problem with it. The need to be bigger than a stupid girl was great. His growth spurt came and he nearly towered over you, looking down at you with a smirk on his lips. “How is the weather down there?” He would often tease. “Just fine.” You would retort back. “I hope your small brain will get enough air up there. A shame if you lost more of it.” Was your sarcastic comeback.

The older the two of you got, the taller he would get and you would only grow a few inches if you even grew at all. First, he was slightly lanky. His muscles had yet to grow. He would remind you of a newborn horse whenever he would stumble over his two long feet as he trained with his sword. Often giggling to his dismay.

“I will cut your head off, and then you will be smaller!” He would shout in anger when he saw you snickering. Daemon’s temper seemed to grow with every inch he gained. You enjoyed it immensely when it would rise because of you.

As young adults, it was fairly certain that you would grow no more. If you stood behind one of the large dinner chairs you could easily hide behind them. Everything seemed to dwarf you.

Daemon prided himself in the knowledge that he was taller than you. Towering over you like the Hightower in Oldtown. And he never passed down the opportunity to remind you. “Shouldn’t you be with your nurse, little one? I think you got the wrong room. The nursery is that way.” Or other things.

You would glare at him. Often kicked his shin when no one was watching. He would yowl in pain. Jump around and hold his leg. “You little pest.” “Maybe you should get your head out of the clouds.” You teased back.

But there were the times he would call you more affectionate words associated with your small stature.

“Why the sour face, my little love?” He mumbled into your ear as he stepped out of the shadows. He had been hiding from his grandmother and her attempts to put boring and plain noblewoman under his nose.

A huff of annoyance escaped your throat. “Mother forced me to wear this ridiculous gown.” You seethed. Your teeth bared like a wolf snarling.

Daemon found your discomfort rather amusing. You looked like a pretty doll all dressed up. Your hair braided into the style of the land you came from. The gown so unmistakably the colours of your house, shining in the light of the candles.

"Oh, no - you're a lady and you have to wear pretty dresses and jewels and oh no, how horrible!" He teased you lightly. He leaned his head on top of yours. A habit he adopted quite recently. Loving the way you fit under him.

You snorted, very un-ladylike. But he was used to your characteristics. You were not one of those up-tied, boring wenches who tried to turn his head. He would rather gauge his eyes out before he gave them a second of his attention.

His attention was only worthy of one woman. And she was right literally under his nose.

He leaned down, just next to your ear. His hot breath fanned over the sensitive shell. “Do you think it would fit?” You could feel the smirk in his voice. You turned to him with a confused look on your pretty face.  It stayed that way until you felt something. You felt it, him. Hard as a rock, pocking you through the fabric of your wedding gown.

Your face grew hotter than the flames of Caraxes. Your body stiffened as you felt him softly rub against your buttocks. He only laughed lowly. His chest vibrates, sending chills up and down your spine. “You scoundrel!” You lowly scoffed. Your heart beating faster.

Not from his antics. Oh no, you were used to them by now. About the whole banquet finding out about Daemon’s little innuendo. “Oh, little love. I am your scoundrel now. It was ordered by the Queen herself.” He chuckled darkly.

She hit his shoulder lightly. “Stop it!” You tried to reprimand him. But your words fell on deaf ears. “Oh, my little love. How funny you will look with my seed growing inside you.” He began to whisper his lewd words. “You probably won’t be able to walk, so large your belly will grow.”

Your body grew hotter and hotter. It didn’t help that he had you pressed to his chest. His erection pressed against the cheeks of your perfect ass. His hands wander lazily over the front of your dress. Stopping over your belly before wandering further down.

“Oh my little love, will it even fit in your little tight hole? Or will I have to mould your little cunny so only my cock can fit inside?” Your breathing hitched at his dark, lustful words. Daemon’s predatory smile grew at your body's reaction to his scandalous words whispered so softly into your ear.

He often wondered if he was unfair to his wife. She was small, her body had nearly strained from the weight of the beautiful two children she had already given him.

He was right at their wedding feast. Her swollen stomach looked too large for her body. It hadn’t been long before the first signs of pregnancy made themselves known.

From the small bump only three moons after they conceived. He still can remember how his hands could cover it until she was seven moons pregnant. She had been ordered to rest. To not exhaust herself too much.

Daemon, looking at the image of her laying in their bed, their little one nestled in her belly. The sight did things to him. Things where his darkest desires seemed light in comparison. Oh, how he had spent his days behind her, driving himself into her tight cunt instead of sitting in a boring small council meeting. His wife and unborn child needed him, and he needed them.

“Another one?” You looked at him from where you stood. Children’s toys in your arms as you helped your daughters clean the room for the day.

Daemon just shrugged. “Why not? Add another one to our hoard. What about you girls? Do you want another sibling?” He crouched down so he was level with Alyssa and Visenya. Both girls looked away from their task to clean up the solar, screeching with joy as their father spoke to them.

“They are tots, Daemon.” You protested. Picking up more of the girls’ toys. “They will agree to anything if you say it with enough enthusiasm.” Daemon chuckled. “Oh, I think they know what I am saying, elillus (honey).” He smirks softly. His eyes roamed her body without shame.

“It has been so long.” “It has only been a few hours. You had me in the morrow.” You snapped back. Cleaning your daughters’ toys from the floor. Putting it into the chest designated for their toys. “I did not mean our coupling, prūmȳs ñuhus (my heart). I meant another child. The girls are six and four.” He mumbled gently.

She looked up at him sitting in the armchair at the edge of the carpet where the girls were playing moments ago. His violet eyes were dark as he watched her like the hunter his prey. “I don’t know, valzȳrys (husband). You heard the maester's words after Visenya’s birth.”

Daemon saw the change in demeanour. He nearly had you, only a small push. “It is your choice, ābrāzȳrys (wife). I do not want to force you.” He stood up, kissing your forehead before helping you with cleaning the toys up.

You were tossing and turning in bed. Nothing seemed right. Thoughts swirled through your head. So many voices at once.

You wanted to scream. But you would only wake up your family.

“Tell me what is keeping you from sleep, ābrāzȳrys (wife)” Daemon's gravel voice rang through the room. He sounded tired. His back turned to you.

“It’s nothing.” You whispered. “Bullshit!” Daemon groaned. Turning to face you. “It feels like I am sleeping next to a bloody sack of kittens. What is it.” He tiredly glared at her. Knowing full well what was going on.

“You’ve gotten into my head, you menace!” You growled out. Pouting at him. His usual smirk grew on his lips, a soft chuckle escaping. “Apologies for that, ābrāzȳrys (wife).“ „You are not sorry, Daemon.” His grin widened more. “You know me so well.”

A huff escaped your lips. “Why must you torment me so?” Daemon sat up on his forearm, looking down at you. Your hair was splayed out in a messy halo. A bright smile adorned his face as he saw the light, tired glare and the pout on your lips.

“Oh, little love, I vowed to be the bane of your existence since we played with the small dragon figurines our daughters’ play with now. And ever since it was announced you would be my dear lady wife I swore to torture you even more.” He softly nipped at your collarbone, his large hands coming to rest on your rips, just under your breasts.

“Let me help you with your decision-making. Let me enter your little cunny and stay there when I cum. Let my seed fill your womb once more.” His imposing frame loomed over you. Covering you like a blanket.

“What if the maester is right?” “The maesters are cunts who want to see me unhappy and you in doubt. They told you after Alyssa you could not carry another child. Two years later they said the same after Visenya.” He kissed your shoulder gently before his expressive violet eyes stared at you. “What is your body telling you?”

You bit your lip gently, A small rumble going through Daemon’s chest at your gesture. But he restrained himself. “I want another one.” You whispered gently.

A smile broke greater than before out on his lips, his dimples showing. “I will not let anything happen to you. The moment your body is resisting, I will get you moon tea or whatever is necessary.” You nodded gently.

His eyes darkened with lust. “Now before we can even discuss the pregnancy, we must make it happen.”

He lifted himself so his arms were on either side of your head. “Oh my sweet, I longed to fill up your little cunny. Seeing it overflow with my seed. Stuffing it back in.” He laughed gently as you shuddered.

With haste born of his pent-up desire, he ripped all of your clothes off your and his body. You gasped softly, scolding him for literally ripping your nightgown. “I never liked it anyway.” He mumbled against the skin between your breasts. Slowly moving down to your stomach.

He worshipped your body, caressing your thighs and hips. Squeezing the flesh around them, even gently nibbling on it.

He kissed each and every lightning-bold-like scar. Mumbling with every kiss a small thanks. These were the marks of his children. Evidence of your brave sacrifice.

He went further down. His lips ghosted over the soft locks, his eyes watching you heave out breaths of anticipation.

A loud scream ripped from your throat when you felt his tongue plunge deeply into your wet core. The eagerness of his lapping overwhelmed your senses. His nose ever so lightly brushed against your pearl. Teasing it to shoot lightning throughout your body.

You came undone. His tongue, nose and two of his digits working in tandem to torture you. And it worked. Your back arched off the bed. Loud cries of his name and pleas for him to stop accompanied your downward spiral into the abyss of your pleasure.

He stared down at you hungrily. His vibrant eyes were dark with lust. He looked every bit the dragon he ought to be. “Little rabbit.” He growled out. “Sweet, little rabbit. Trapped beneath the large dragon.”

He leaned down again. Like Caraxes would decent upon his pray, Daemon came down upon you. Devouring you once more.

He held your thighs wide open as he ploughed into you. The wet sound of skin slapping against skin rang through the room. His large hand wrapped around your delicate neck, softly pressing against it. Your breathing coming out in small pants.

“You should see yourself, little darling. My large hand is like a necklace on your throat. I can nearly wrap it around.” He chuckled darkly.

His words elicited shivers to run up and down your spine. This action causes your body to tense slightly. Daemon roared as he felt you squeeze his cock. “Seven fucking hells, woman! Do you want to kill me?!” He panted out. Driving his cock deeper inside you. The stretch is a familiar pain. But not too unpleasant. He had prepared you for him. And he would hate for you not to enjoy your coupling.

He leaned down, capturing your lips in a soft, sensual kiss. It was so different from the way his hips moved. So slow and loving. “I am not hurting you, am I, my little darling?” He whispered. You shook your head. “Nothing I am not used to from you.” He grinned, nipping at your lower lip, “That’s my good girl.” He whispered.

He picked up his pace. His hands on your thighs clawing into your skin. His knuckles are white. He groaned and grunted, looking down at you with an intense stare. Your own moans and cries mingle with his. Creating a symphony of pleasure.

He came with a roar of your name, his face buried into your neck. Panting heavily next to your ear. Your own climax is triggered by the feeling of being filled with his potent seed. Both your eyes closed in bliss.

He stayed inside you even as his member softened inside you. The grip on your thigh remains tight. Like he needed to be grounded by you.

Your arms wrapped tighter around his neck, softly caressing his head. He hummed gently, letting you know he loved what you were doing. “Do not dare to stop.” He mumbled gently into your neck. You continued with your caress. Softly petting him like he was a dog.

He fell asleep like this. His spent cock inside you, keeping his precious seed inside you. His body acted like a blanket. Your hand in his hair.

[casually-eat-my-soul]

Can someone please write a fic about that one scene where stiles grabs Derek’s face in magic bullet.

Where although he was out of it Derek could feel stiles fingers trail across his face. He could feel how softly and careful stiles was in that one moment. It had been the first touch from a human, from anyone, that did not cause Derek pain.

And when Derek wakes up he’s just obsessed with being touched by stiles again because he remembered how good it felt, how finally someone touched him and it didn’t hurt. Derek refused to wash his face for like three days after this because stiles had unknowingly scent marked him, and he couldn’t make himself get rid of the scent. How it made Derek feel like he wasn’t alone.

This action makes Derek’s wolf believe that stiles is pack, (stiles is the first pack Member!!) and he just keeps ending up in embarrassing situations trying to get stiles attention and his hands and him.

He probably just ends up blurting it out at stiles one day. Or maybe after killing Peter, he just get handle the weight of being alone, of killing the last member of his family, of being touched by Kate, of being hurt.

So he drags his body to stiles house and just gets on his knees and begs stiles to touch him, to make it stop hurting.

And stiles knows how hard it is to lose a family member so he does. He doesn’t think this will happen again, he just understands that Derek needs comfort. But Derek comes back over and over again and every time begs stiles to touch him. And stiles does, every time.

It becomes a comfort thing for the both of them, stiles running his fingers over the planes of Derek’s face. Derek gets to relax in the one place he’s safe, listening to stiles humming or muttering and the beat of his heart. It becomes a need, but soon stiles touching Derek isn’t enough, Derek wants to touch stiles. He wants to return the favour, he wants to scent mark stiles back. So everyone will know that stiles is claimed, that he is protected by an alpha who would kill for him. And he gets the chance to on the anniversary of stiles mother’s death.

Stiles is just so tired, his dad is working, will be all night. Scott is with Allison, and stiles doesn’t have the energy to beg him to pick him tonight. So he goes to Derek; Stiles isn’t really sure what this arrangement that he and Derek have but tonight he is the one who needs. He drives to the hale house and ends up sobbing by the time he gets there. He’s just sitting in the jeep in front of the hale house and he can’t move. And suddenly Derek is there.

Derek was already worried when he could hear the engine of the jeep pull up but when it turned off and all Derek could hear was stiles crying, he moved without thinking. He yanked the driver side door open and his heart broke. Stiles was sitting there trying to calm himself down, rubbing the tears from his face but nothing was working. So when stiles turned his head to him, eyes pleading and whining, Derek picked him up and carried him bridal style into the house. Derek just holds him for hours, memorizing the way stiles feels under his fingertips.

In the aftermath Stiles makes one joke about being a blushing bride (due to the blush on his face and being carried bridal style) and Derek is just hit with a vision of being married to stiles. Of being about to always be allowed to touch stiles and blue screens. Unfortunately Derek wolf takes this as expressed agreement that stiles is mated and married to them.

Derek buys rings the next day. Sure it takes him a few more years to propose but it’s the thought that counts. (Cocky Derek hale who flirts with stiles by calling him his pretty little wife, just to see stiles blush a pretty pink for him. But one day stiles responds that he doesn’t have a ring, so Derek just gives it to him.)