#a receding chin from the angle his head is tilted at

[meirimerens]

keeping a collection of times i liked how i stylized peter so i can do it again

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Long Snake Moan 7

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Loki

Summary: your boss gives you a task you’re not prepared for.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

Loki’s hands frame your face, his long fingers cradling from chin to temple. You groan and tilt your head back against his touch. You’ve never felt anything so candescent. You are absolutely feral. 

You latch onto the lap of his jacket and push it back on his shoulders. You elicit a noise somewhere between a whine and a growl. His green eyes spark as his smirk deepens. He nuzzles your nose with a snicker. Your scent radiates from him. 

“Oh, wife, can’t you wait until we get home?” He taunts. 

You continue to clutch and claw at his clothing. He doesn’t stop you. He seems to bask in your urgent assault. That both agitates and addles you. 

“Why-- what?” You stutter the questions that can’t weave themselves through your maddened need.  “Mmmmmmmmgh,” you drone as his jacket drops to the floor.

You yank on his tie and the knot tightens as he coughs. He chuckles and helps free the slender strip of silk. 

“My, my, I’d not expect this of you, darling,” he cloys. 

“St-stop!” You tell yourself as much as him. Your hands cup his muscles chest through his shirt as your eyes round at how the fabric clings. You squeeze and snarl as your teeth snag on your lip. 

“Oh, do stop, darling. You are an absolute animal,” he slithers. 

His first button catches and a surge quakes through you. It pops free of the thread and scatters across the office. He stands staunch against your tugging as you make your way down the front of his shirt, uncovering his torso as your voice trickles out in strangled squeaks and squalls. 

You peel the shirt down his arms then trail up the muscles, along to his biceps as your gaze clings to him. No thought passes through your head before you lean in to sink your teeth into the firm flesh of his chest. He winces but doesn’t pull away. You want him so bad. 

Your hands curls around his belt and he reaches down to free his buckle. The clink triggers you and you wrench on his pants desperately. You whimper and look up at him. Your insides hurt. You need the relief of him inside of you. You bite into your lip and growl. 

“You are a delight, aren’t you?” He tickles along your cheek and your snap at his fingers. 

Finally, you get his pants down. Your knuckles brush against his rigid length and you gulp. You pull back to look down at him and gasp. He’s... 

“Yes, yes, your mortal men cannot compare,” he boasts. 

Before you can react, he has you around your hips. He hauls you off your feet and puts you flat on the desk. You cry out as he bends your legs high, until the muscles strain in the back of your thighs. With your knees near your chest, you feel your body lock in place. You turn your hand back and forth as eerie green cords wind around your ankles. 

What the heck?

He swipes his fingers between your folds as his other hand crawls up your blouse. He pushes the fabric above your chest and gropes you through your bra. He snarls and the fabric beneath his touch disappears. The heat of his flesh seeps into you just as quickly as the concern for the missing garment dissipates to the plucking lust in your core. 

You claps onto his wrist and pull his hand up. With his other, he frames your cunt, his fingers slick with your juices. He looks down as he angles to hook his tip between his knuckles and prods at you. You murmur and squeeze his arm. 

He inches into you as you warble out in relief. The ache of emptiness recedes as he gets deeper and deeper. You drag his hand to your mouth and suck on his fingers as he bottoms out. You moan and bite down. He snarls and thrusts his hips so you twitch. 

“Mm,” he closes his eyes and tilts his head as his features strain. 

His pleasure fuels you. You arch your back as his hand trails up from your cunt and he once more kneads your naked chest, your blouse rumbled above. He rocks, long and slow, and your voices mingle in a long wail. Your legs tense in their binds, kept bent and tight as your toes scrunch. 

He curls his fingers down and presses on your tongue. He finds his tempo as he flutters his hand along your stomach and stretches it across your pelvis. He pushes his thumb against your clit, holding it there as the pressure blooms and laces within. You cling to his wrist and reach with your other hand to touch his stomach, feeling the corded muscle beneath his skin as he ruts. 

“Mmm, darling,” he angles your head up and slips his hand free of your mouth, his thumb and index framing your face, “that’s it. I believe...” he snarls as his flesh claps against yours. “Right... there.” 

Your lashes flick as you try to focus on him through the haze. A green tint softens the edges of your vision as he seems to glow. Your eyes loll back as his gaze focuses above you. You lean into his hand as you search along the ceiling. 

The cameras! 

Fear pulses in your chest but cannot curtail the raging flow of lust. You whine but don’t stop him. You can’t. Your body twines around his desperately. He can’t stop, not so close. His fingers roll over your clit as he plunges deeper and deeper, pounding into your guts.  

You flail and press your hand over his as he rubs your clit furiously. Your clutch at your chest at the same time and writhe with him, begging for more. 

“Say it,” her snarls. 

You babble and pout at him with wide eyes. 

“Say my name,” he growls. 

“Loki!” You shriek without pause, “Loki, please!” 

You spasm and sputter as a violent wave batters you. Your walls squeeze him, twitching greedily, and your muscles quake as you cum again. You heave shallowly as your nails sink into the tender flesh of your chest and your hand bounces over his. 

“That’s it, darling, that’s it,” he coos, “as I said, I am a god in all ways.” 

[choso-my-princess]

Haikaveh drabble

They say that a sign of madness is repeating the same things while expecting a different result. Kaveh is not sure whether this description is accurate or apt or even true, but he is sure that what possesses him might be a certain type of madness.

He shifts on his stool, the old Adhigama wood creaking under his weight as he adjusts his position. He tilts his sketchbook very slightly towards the right, angling it towards the window. Pure, bright sunlight streams through the clear panes. He frowns at the few lines on the page, his eyes following them one by one slowly.

While his body goes through the familiar motions, his thoughts return to madness. That heat in his chest, that pulsing in his head, the moisture beading at his hairline, surely they are signs of illness, not madness. He should seek a physician out. Perhaps there’s truly something wrong with him, something that could be explained then cured with a few vile-tasting potions. At this point, he’s ready for any type of concoction, any panacea or poultice that would just fix that mind-numbing yearning that tugs at his heartstrings.

He glances up from his sketchbook, just a quick flick of his eyes towards the other side of the room. There, seated on the couch, reading, is the reason for Kaveh’s malady, his madness: 

Haitham. His roommate. His childhood friend. His junior. His… everything.

As if sensing the shift in Kaveh’s heartbeat, Haitham, too, looks up. His glance is casual, green eyes sweeping over the room before alighting on his roommate. He raises an eyebrow as Kaveh hurriedly returns his attention to his work, face burning. There it goes again, that hammering just below his breastbone. He presses his fingertips over the sore spot, then realises that he’s smudged charcoal dust over his white shirt. He glares at it, thinks it an apt allegory for his life: Haitham is the smudge, ruining everything.

He scowls; changing his clothes right now is useless since he isn’t finished with his sketch. He considered wearing a smock when sketching or painting to protect his clothes, but the vain part of himself always resists the idea. Smocks look good on exactly nobody and he knows Haitham would have a wise-ass comment about it.

“You’re getting coal dust everywhere,” Haitham comments, eyes still on his book.

Kaveh buries his face in his sketchbook, mimicking Haitham’s deep voice under his breath. Instead of answering, he focuses his attention on his sketch. The broad, familiar movements of his hand flying over the page calms his mind a little. The madness recedes back to its dark place. It doesn’t matter that the subject of his sketch is the catalyst for such madness – his heart seems able to differentiate the object from the real, flesh-and-blood person. Haitham, on the page, is nothing more than a series of lines, marks, hatches and crosshatches, and stippling. The sketch is good, real good, it looks like the genuine article. But to Kaveh, it’s not Haitham.

For a while, he is too engrossed in his work to notice the passage of time. He needs to work on Haitham’s face, the most delicate part. A wrong stroke, an angle too sharp or not sharp enough, it can ruin the whole thing. The face is the most important, he thinks. It captures not only the likeness of the object, but its essence. He is therefore extremely careful. 

He goes for short strokes, holding the stick of charcoal loosely between his dirty fingers. The contour lines are already done so he now must focus on the features. He starts with the angle of the jaw, broadening it just a little. Haitham’s greyish hair is about chin-length, so he turns his attention to that part next. Long, airy strokes mimic the appearance of softness in the tresses. (Truly, the only softness Kaveh has ever detected in Haitham comes from his hair.) 

Then, with a supple twist of his wrist, he draws the nose.

His sketchbook is full of such likenesses. Not all of them are of Haitham, of course. Though Kaveh prefers to sketch and design buildings, he finds portraiture to be relaxing. Through it, he has learned to notice tiny details in people’s faces, such as the shape of an eye, the bow of a mouth, the jut of a willful chin. Tighnari has told him he’s good at it, and the praise in the young man's voice had sounded genuine to Kaveh’s ears. He knows he’s good at it, just as he knows he’s a good architect.

It’s just that both pursuits appear as futile as each other.

The souring of his mood reflects in his strokes. In the sketch, Haitham’s eye is misshapen, slightly too large, making him look uncharacteristically boyish. 

It’s as Kaveh glares at this that he remembers Haitham from their younger days, back when what had been between them had been friendship rather than animosity. He can’t quite point a finger at the moment when things had gone south between them. Perhaps when he came back to Sumeru City, or when he moved in. Even back then, they had rarely seen eye to eye. Their life philosophies had been diametrically opposed, yet they had found enough common ground to be on good terms. 

Haitham was a good kid, then, Kaveh reflects as he corrects his mistake, turning the youthful-looking adolescent on the page to a stone-faced adult. He had been, if not more malleable, at least less stiff. And he had been in awe of Kaveh. This, more than anything, is probably what Kaveh misses the most. He remembers when Haitham had had to look up at him, greyish-green eyes bright with intelligence and face shining with earnestness. Haitham had adored him then, calling him senior with respect rather than with sarcasm as he does now.

Groaning at the memory, Kaveh finishes with the eyes. He outdid himself; he got the shape down pat. Even the long eyelashes are perfectly rendered with pale, short strokes of the charcoal. Although the sketch is in black and white, he can imagine in his head the colours of paints he would mix if he ever decided to render the drawing fully. Grey, some blue, a dash of green, a tiny dollop of red. He has the colour memorised.

“If you spend so much time on sketching,” Haitham comments, making Kaveh jump, “why don’t you sell those sketches?”

“What?”

Haitham shrugs one broad shoulder. He shifts on the couch, resting his right ankle over his left knee. He’s halfway through his book already, his hungry brain devouring the thick volume quickly. 

[comfyswitcherblanketfort]

Weighted Blanket

I blame the Bog for enabling me here. This got out of hand. It was just gonna be a cute little drabble I swear yall. But the feels took over? I want a Geralt for myself? Preferably the fanon himbo variety? Idk fam, ya get what ya get today.

Warnings: anxiety/anxiety attack (not panic attack), new established relationship, Jask feels like he has to hide his anxiety from people, Geralt being a soft ass himbo, someone plz find me one? plz?

_______________

Jaskier had spent the night at Geralt’s a few times and he was always incredibly nervous until Geralt opened the door. He adjusted his backpack strap and tapped his foot on the concrete porch and felt a little bit like a child at a playdate. He was a grown ass man. This wasn’t that big of a deal. At least that's what he told himself while he waited for Geralt to scramble out of whatever pretzel yoga pose he was undoubtedly in. Jaskier was all for taking care of himself, he just preferred the ‘extra whip and a pedicure’ style rather than ‘whole foods and regular exercise’ route. He was worried Geralt would try to get him to go to the gym and drink kale but he seemed perfectly content to let Jaskier do what works for him. 

When Geralt opened the door he had a goofy grin and his hair in a sweaty floppy bun, “You’re early,” he said it like it was a treat every time, regardless of how early Jaskier really was. Be it fifteen minutes or an hour and a half, he always looked like an excited puppy and it set Jaskier at ease. 

But today he didn’t feel the tightness in his chest melt away when Geralt smiled at him. Not when he pulled him into a hug before he could utter his greeting. Not even when Geralt kissed the top of his head and rubbed his arms vigorously to warm him up because, “I know you have a sweatshirt in your backpack.”

Jaskier shrugged and leaned into his chest, “I kinda forgot.”

“You weren’t cold?”

“Well now that you mention it....” Jaskier forced a playful tone and got two handfuls of Geralt’s ass, that wonderful, perky ass. And it did absolutely nothing to him. 

Geralt frowned and tilted his head, brushing the damp hair out of jaskier’s eyes, “I was gonna invite you to shower. But you don’t sound excited.”

Jaskier sighed and gave him a weak smile, “I want to be excited.”

Geralt just tilted his head the other direction and tightened his grip on Jaskier’s shoulders and oh wasn’t that nice. That eased the ache a little bit. 

“I’m just a little anxious from work,” Jaskier assured him, patting his hands over Geralt’s perky asscheeks, “Go shower. I’ll be good by the time you’re done.” 

“Are you sure?” Geralt slouched just a bit to draw Jaskier’s eyes to his, “Come with? I’ll wash your hair?” 

Jaskier shook his head with a little smile, “Tempting. But I’ll drink some tea under my blanket then we can enjoy our evening.” 

Geralt kissed his forehead and gave him a quick but firm hug before darting down the hallway to rush through his shower. Jaskier measured his breathing as he made tea, now fairly familiar with Geralt’s kitchen, and settled down on the couch to dig through his backpack for his weighted blanket. 

Only it wasn’t there. His backpack had felt light when he left but it was just such a hectic day and he’d just wanted to see Geralt so bad. 

“Fuck,” he whispered, seeing his hands start to shake as he rezipped his pack, “It’s just a little anxiety Jask. It’s fine. You are fine. It isn’t the end of the world. It will pass. It’s just because that asshole yelled at you, not anything to do with Geralt. You two are fine, good even…” 

He sat back on the couch and pulled his knees into his chest, clutching at the mug of too-hot tea to keep his hands from shaking. Every few seconds he remembered he had to breathe, and do so slowly, if he wanted to get through this feeling and he would gasp a little bit with the realization he hadn’t been. He whispered his logical thoughts he’d prepared for this. The spiral would get a little momentum and he’d count his breaths and repeat his prepared sentences and he’d feel it receding but that was as much momentum as he could get. 

As soon as he started to calm down, he’d think about Geralt coming out of his shower to see him like this and it would start up again. He’d managed to keep his anxiety under control in front of Geralt so well. Geralt was so calm and steady and gentle that Jaskier hadn’t had to try so hard to begin with. But now his crazy was all out on the table and he wasn’t quite mentally prepared to be thrown out of Geralt’s house. 

In the middle of repeating one of his calming thoughts, he heard Geralt pad around the couch and felt more than saw him sit down.

“Jask?” Geralt’s voice didn’t quite sound real, but it was still soft and gentle enough not to spike his anxiety any worse, “You okay?”

He just shook his head and forced himself to exhale slowly. 

“What’s wrong?”

Jaskier swallowed hard and whispered with more effort than he’d like to admit, “Just an anxiety attack. I… I forgot my weighted blanket.” 

Gods did that feel horrible. Admitting to your hot new boyfriend that you have a security blanket at 30 and it sends you into an anxiety attack when you leave it at home wasn’t really on his to do list, but here he fucking was. 

Geralt gripped the tea mug by the rim and took the now lukewarm tea before his shaking hands spilled it all over his knees, “What do you need?”

Jaskier felt tears brimming behind his eyes and squeezed them shut, “Wh- what?”

“What do you need? To help you.”

“Oh,” Jaskier opened his eyes and tears fell down his cheeks, “No one’s ever asked me that before...”

Geralt took a deep breath and held it for a moment before exhaling and offering his hand to Jask, palm up, “Can we try something that helps my brother?”

Jaskier nodded, he didn’t even care what it was, he was too shocked by the realization that Geralt wasn’t scared off or disgusted with him. 

“Your weighted blanket helps, right?”

Jaskier nodded and set a trembling hand in Geralt’s palm, swiping at his face with the other. 

“Can I hold you? See if that helps?” 

Jaskier nodded again and uncurled from his ball a little bit so Geralt could pull his legs over his lap and wrap his arms around Jaskier’s body. He squeezed a little tighter than his usual hugs but the pressure was just barely registered with the way Jaskier’s body was in overdrive. Regardless, he burrowed into Geralt’s shoulder, partly to hide his tears and partly because it felt safe. 

“How’s this? Are you okay?”

Jaskier nodded, “Can you squeeze tighter?”

“How about we lay down?” 

“Lay down?” Jaskier’s voice cracked on his words but he barely even noticed. 

Geralt rested one large hand over his soft brown hair, “I could be your weighted blanket? It works for Skel sometimes.”

“Yeah- yeah, okay,” Jaskier muttered as he forced his creaking knees to straighten as Geralt laid him back onto the couch. Geralt positioned them so he was laying on his side against the back of the couch and Jaskier was on his back in front of them. He laid his head on Jaskier’s shoulder and half draped his body over him, just testing the waters. 

That alone was nice, but the little bit of relief only made Jaskier crave more. He tugged at Geralt’s elbow, not really pulling but guiding him to completely cover him. That was perfect. Jaskier could think a little clearer after a few seconds, then he could feel his limbs again and hummed happily. 

“Good?” Geralt’s hopeful smile beaming up at him from where he was resting his chin on Jaskier’s sternum was bright enough to end wars. 

“Very.”

Geralt closed his eyes and sighed, that soft little smile still on his face. Jaskier took a deep breath and basked in the way Geralt’s torso pinned him to the cushions. His thighs were pressed over his legs and pleasantly heavy and the way he’d cushioned his chin with his hands meant Geralt’s lovely, squishy, heavy arms were keeping his shoulders down. 

After a few minutes Jaskier felt the post-anxiety exhaustion hit that let him know it was really over, but he didn’t want to move. Instead he wrapped his arms around Geralt’s ribs and laced his fingers together over his spine. 

“Thank you,” he whispered, eyes closed with a tired smile, “You’re the best weighted blanket I’ve ever used.” 

“Anytime,” Geralt’s voice reverberated through Jaskier’s body in the most soothing way, deep and strong but gentle as well, “I mean it. You don’t need to hide this from me. I want to help.”

Jaskier giggled, “Oh don’t tell me that.”

One of Geralt’s hands floated up to trace Jaskier’s jaw and the high points of his cheekbones, “Why not?” 

“Well, I might believe you. It's a little overwhelming- believing you. -And my anxiety,” Jaskier clarified, brushing his thumb over Geralt’s back as he spoke.

“That’s okay.”

Jaskier frowned and looked down at his boyfriend. He was staring up at him with ridiculously round eyes and his eyebrows drawn in and together with a not-so-subtle pout to his lips. Regardless of the cute face, his eyes held sincerity. And Jaskier didn’t really know what to do with it. 

“I-” Jask took a deep breath and stared at the ceiling as he spoke, “I’m used to hiding it.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

Geralt tapped Jaskier’s chin to get him to look at him, “Yeah, that’s okay. If it’s hard for you to tell someone, that’s okay. We’ll work with it.” 

If he weren’t pinned underneath Geralt at an uncooperative angle, Jaskier would have kissed him, but he settled for resting his palm on his jaw, “You’re too sweet to me.”

“You deserve it,” Geralt hummed, turning his head to kiss his wrist. 

For once, Jaskier didn’t fight him on it. 

[teklarn]

𝔂𝓸𝓾'𝓻𝓮 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓶𝔂 𝓫𝓸𝔂𝓯𝓻𝓲𝓮𝓷𝓭 - 𝓴. 𝓫𝓪𝓴𝓾𝓰𝓸𝓾 (𝓅𝓉. 𝟥)

character(s): katsuki bakugou x gn!reader (x eijirou kirishima) 

a/n: ok but like ty for all the notes on my last post??? i get so excited whenever there’s a new notification. ALSO, the best time for me to accept requests is from now to sept. 5! i’m currently on summer break, so i will have plenty of time to write from now until then. 

𝕣𝕖𝕓𝕝𝕠𝕘𝕤 𝕒𝕣𝕖 𝕘𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥𝕝𝕪 𝕒𝕡𝕡𝕣𝕖𝕔𝕚𝕒𝕥𝕖𝕕!!

summary: bakugou x gn!reader. they have feelings for one another but have no idea how to express them, however y/n has someone pining for their attention. 

genre: angst

warnings: mutual pining, cursing, aged-up to third years, bit of a love triangle, romantic tension, one-sided pining, i gave the reader a quirk, kirishima gets jealous EHWJEH

word count: 2031

lol wow things are finally beginning to pick up heehee

please excuse any typos! i edit to the best of my abilities, but it’s easy to miss lost of things 

part 1, part 2 , part 4 

- - - 

you dabbed bakugou’s nose. he winced as you tapped it. “sorry,” you breathed out, switching the tissue in your hand for a clean wipe. 

“i’m fine, dumbass.” 

“then why’d you ask for my help?” you teased, wiping at the blood on his upper lip. 

his cheeks dusted with red, eyes averting to the side. you smiled softly, victorious in his silence. 

nighttime was settling in nicely, the sun bleeding orange into the clouds. 

“look back at me,” you said. gently, you took his bruised jaw in your fingers, adjusting his head so he was facing you. you brushed your fingers along his swelling cheekbone. purple blossomed beneath bakugou’s pale skin. “kirishima was pretty rough out there, huh?’ 

“i’m proud of the guy.” 

you smiled, tilting your head. “you? proud of someone? really?” 

he chuckled. “knock it off, dumbass.” a grin spread across his face, however it was gone when the pain hit. he winced, trying to ignore the sting his smile brought with it. 

you let out a laugh. “just relax, bakugou.” you resumed dabbing away at the excess blood on his face. there were flecks of dirt scattered over his forehead. 

he caught your wrist in one of his soft, large hands. 

your smile faded, and you swallowed, pushing down the rising emotions fluttering into your chest. “yes?” you responded to the silent question his eyes were asking. 

his grip on your wrist loosened, and he let go, letting his arm fall back to his side. 

“everything okay?” 

he didn’t break eye contact as he grunted a reply. “mhm.” 

“alright. i’ll be right back, okay?” 

“‘kay,” he said. 

you stood with a groan, knees sore from all the training you’d been doing lately. you gently shut the bathroom door behind you and rinsed the bits of dirt off the towel, scrubbing away any imperfections stuck between the fibers of the fabric. 

your cheeks were boiling with heat as the ghost of his touch on your wrist lingered. what was that? did he mean to tell you something? 

you wrung out the newly washed cloth and returned to your seat across from bakugou. 

bakugou’s eyes flickered as you began scrubbing the dirk from his forehead. 

“ah,” he gasped out. 

“you’ve gotta stop wincing, bakugou,” you teased. “you’re making me think i’m doing something wrong.” 

“you’ve gotta stop being so rough, y/n.” he took your wrists and pried them away from his face. 

you set the towel down on the table, letting it rest on a paper towel so the excess water could drain out. 

“well, i think the issue is that you haven’t let me set your nose properly.” 

bakugou squinted, unsure. “alright.” he spread his legs, leaning forwards to make your job easier. “do as you wish, y/n.” his voice dropped, eyelids lowering seductively. 

the heat returned to your cheeks, flushing out your confidence from before. instead of replying with an equally snarky comment, you took his face in your hands. “this is going to hurt.” 

“not so much if it’s you.” 

you scoffed. “are you flirting with me, katsuki bakugou?” 

his lips quirked up—just a tiny bit. “stop dreaming, y/n.” 

you ignored the comment and traced your fingers over the bridge of his nose. “on three?” 

he nodded. 

“one—” you cracked the bone into place. 

“ah, shit!” bakugou recoiled back, covering his nose with his hands. “damn brat.” 

“it would have hurt more if you knew it was coming.” you shrugged innocently. 

“at least i would have been prepared.” 

“whatever you say.” you gestured for him to come back to his previous position, and bakugou did as instructed, hands dropping from his face as your hands came back around to cup his cheeks. 

being recovery girl’s grandchild had its benefits. for example, an easy way to get into yuuei off of recommendations. while your quirk wasn’t usually one people would associate with fighting, it came with unexpected pros with how it developed. 

you’d earned the ability not only to heal but to ruin as well. using your quirk, honing it properly, you could twist someone inside out with ease, however, healing was something you were more skilled with. 

a green glow was being emitted from your palms, white orbs flowing into the air and landing on bakugou’s skin. you could tell, under his skin, the bone was fixing itself, beginning to reshape into the flat bridge. 

bakugou sniffed. 

“hold still,” you said. 

“does your healing always make your patients itchy?” 

“it’s just your body healing. stop moving.” the green light receded into your palms. 

you met bakugou’s eyes as you pulled your hands away. you were leaning closer than necessary, out of your seat, knees slightly bent. you could tell his hands were shaking just a bit as they trailed down your arms, starting from your fingertips which were still hovering around his face. 

his hands found their way to your waist. bakugou tugged you closer. barely an inch closer, but it felt like the two of you were inseparable at the moment. 

“y/n?” 

you jumped, and bakugou’s hands fell back to the sides of the seat he was in. you swallowed as kirishima popped up at the doorway. 

you wiped your palms on your shirt, nodding for kirishima to enter. “yes?” 

the redhead walked in warily, hands up and pace slow. “i hope i’m not...interrupting anything. am i?” 

you shook your head. “not at all. we were, um. we were just finishing up.” you picked up the cloth intended for wiping bakugou’s face. “do you think you could finish up by yourself?” 

he took the cloth from your hands. “yeah, sure.” he pushed himself up and was out of your room, waving his thanks. “i’ll pay you back so i don’t owe your ass, got it, y/n?” 

“Alright.” 

bakugou shut the door behind him, leaving you and kirishima alone. 

“so, what was that about?” 

your eyes flew wide. “what was what?” 

“don’t act oblivious, y/n. you two looked at each other like you hung the moon in the sky.” 

you bit your lip, hiding the smile that was brought about upon reminiscing about the recent seen. “it wasn’t anything, kirishima. don’t worry about it.”

“i’m worrying. you know bakugou.” 

“that’s something you’d say about someone with dating experience, and a bad reputation regarding it. bakugou is—” 

“just like every other guy out there? it’s the twenty-first century. there are not many decent people left out here. do you really think he’s any different?” 

“well,” you said, shaking your head, “personally, i see he’s changed.” 

“two years isn’t going to erase all the past shit he’s done.” 

“there’s a thing called forgiveness.” you quirked an eyebrow at him, tilting your head down as you began cleaning up. “plus, it wasn’t necessarily his fault. we can both agree that hero society created toxic standards for all aspiring pros.” 

kirishima clenched his fists. “he’s bad for you.” 

you tossed out a few wipes into the garbage. “sorry?” 

“he’s...not good for you.” 

“i appreciate you thinking nobody is good enough for me, but at the end of the day-” 

unknowingly, kirishima was hardening his fingertips. his nails punctured the soft skin of his palms. “i don’t mean he’s not good enough for you, but that’s another truth, too. he’s just not good for you.” 

you turned, smiling brightly. “and since when did you know what was good for me?” you laughed, eyes closed. “why are you trying to dictate my decisions-” 

when you opened your eyes, you found kirishima standing closer, brows furrowed angrily.

your expression lowered into something angry. “what’s the matter?” 

“i just...i can’t.” 

“can’t what?” 

kirishima was one to be slow to anger. he always had been. you can’t recall a time you saw him angry or pissed except for when bakugou had been kidnapped by the league of villains. 

“kirishima,” you scoffed, “are you genuinely pissed over this? what? is this because i got mad at you because i scolded you for breaking bakugou’s nose? if anything, i don’t think i was wrong for-” 

“that’s not it. that...that isn’t it, y/n.” he stepped towards you. kirishima closed the gap between you both, pressing your back against the wall, trapping you there between his arms. “that isn’t it at all, y/n.” 

you swallowed. “then what is it, kirishima?” his eyes met yours, serious and stern. 

your chest tingled. 

he brought his fingers to your chin, angling your face with ease to get a better look at you. “call me eijirou.” 

“what?” 

“just once. please.” 

“why-” 

“once.”

“...what is it, eijirou?” 

the pause felt like an eternity. “it’s you, y/n.” 

“it’s...me? what about me? did i do something wrong?” 

he chuckled softly, but there was no humor in his longing smile as he stared down. “you’re so oblivious.” 

you could hear his heart beating, getting faster with every sentence he pushed out. 

“you’re so clueless, y/n. it’s kind of pissing me off.” 

“what am i doing to piss you off?” you snapped. 

he tongued the inside of his cheek. “like i said.” he flashed you an award-winning grin. “clueless.” kirishima pushed himself off the wall and left the room, the door shutting hard, but not slamming shut. 

you were left breathless, the hint of his cologne still lingering in the space before you. 

you’d avoided kirishima and bakugou for the rest of the night. 

- 

what kirishima had wanted to say was nothing like what he said, but he knew everything would come out all wrong if he’d try to say anything. 

his mind would have jumbled all his words, and he’d look like a crazy, insane lover. 

bakugou wasn’t bad for you. not at all. you two were perfect for each other. you both had thick skin for silly rebuttals towards one another. you brought out the fun side of the blonde, and he worked you to your best. 

kirishima was just your best friend. he hated to be the one who had fallen with nothing to soften the blow that was surely coming soon. 

his ears burned nearly as red as his hair. a shudder passed down his back, the feeling of your jaw pressed between his thumb and index finger still imprinted there. 

“i can’t fucking stand to see you around him.” 

kirishima made his way to the common room, finding bakugou looking for snacks there. kirishima scoffed as his friend emerged with an apple in hand. 

it was not like he hated bakugou. not at all. he didn’t think that pining for the same girl would ruin their friendship. he was just angry that you chose him. 

kirishima respected your decisions. he wouldn’t ever try to get in the way of anything if you and bakugou made that kind of decision. he just wanted to be near you. 

perhaps he should leave the situation alone. leave you alone and just forget about how his feelings were nagging at him every day. 

he should forget how you were the first thing on his mind every morning, and the thing he thought about when he fell asleep. 

you were everywhere. should he forget that too? 

- 

bakugou tossed his apple into the air. he clapped his friend on the back, taking a bite out. “go to sleep, idiot.” 

“don’t call me that.” 

bakugou turned, startled that kirishima wasn’t taking bakugou’s shit today. “you good?” 

“i’m fine, but i’m not an idiot.” 

bakugou’s body tightened. “alright.” 

the pair stood awkwardly for a moment before kirishima sucked in a sudden breath. “what is y/n to you?” he asked. 

bakugou raised an eyebrow. “what?” 

“they’re obviously something to you.” 

“listen, they were just helping me out. didn’t think you’d get offended from them fixing my broken ass nose.” 

“that’s not what i mean. i walked in on you two, and you were about to—” 

“i wasn’t going to do jackshit.” bakugou tossed his apple away, too angry to eat anything anymore. 

“yes. don’t lie to me.” 

“i’m not lying. where is all of this coming from?” 

kirishima huffed out a frustrated breath. he shouldered past bakugou. kirishima uttered words he hated himself for saying. “leave me alone.”

- - -

tag(s): if u want to be tagged in any continued fic of mine, pls let me know! i don’t have a taglist, but please @ me and ask to be on the taglist! thank u <33 

@heizenka 

@insomniac-nerd-posts-things

[missmewts]

tunnel of love//stan uris

"requested" by @ella-loves-handsome-warren // sort of based off a conversation we had.

pairings; stanley uris, gender neutral reader

rating; pg

warnings; a depiction of pennywise, that's it

.

i altered it a bit, sort of near the end of the movie is where this'll take place. also?? i know this isn't stan, or at least the correct one, but there's no gifs?? of him? so. yk. at least it's wyatt!

.

stan had to cover his mouth. it smelled so bad. like death. romping around in a place he wasn't sure he would be able to get out of scared him to nausea, but the smell furthered his feelings. his legs trembled, he could feel his socks soaking through. every few seconds, his eyes cast upwards to check on you. though you walked securely between mike and richie, behind bill and in front of bev, he still got nervous. you had protection at every angle, but he still felt the need to hold you. but he couldn't.

with the soft bickering, and the insects crawling in every corner, he was uncomfortably aware of his surroundings. so, when he saw a figure venturing off alone, he looked back at the group. you weren't there. in a panic, he stalked from the group. followed you.

off into a circular room is where you went. engravings over the walls, top to bottom. the room resembled a "tunnel of love" type of ride. neon pink lights forming a heart around a divet in the floor. inside that verticle hole, roughly four feet wide, was a log-type boat, painted with chipping red paint. and you stood in the center, in front of it. so he looked back at the entrance, and jogged forward.

"hey." he said, watching you place your hands on the thin railing and lean forward. you didn't respond. so, he placed his hand on your shoulder and repeated your name. you glanced at him. the lights illuminated your eyes, turning them a milky red color. his heart quickened. "what's going on?" he asked.

you smiled at him. he felt uneasy. it didn't seem right. he said your name again. "stan," you whispered, your smile altering the tone it came out in. if his eyes were closed, he would be able to hear the smile.

he nodded. "i've been wanting to talk to you for a while. alone." you told him. he froze when your hand grasped his, of which laid on the railing over the water. was that water? it seemed much too dark to be water.

"is.. is this really the best time?" he whispered back. you tilted your head, your smile receding to one of comfort. "stan, either one of us could die at any moment. there isn't a better time than this." stan nodded his understanding, slowly turning his hand over into its back. you intertwined your fingers with his.

"it's been so long, stan. since fourth grade, when you yelled at richie for making a dumb joke about me. do you remember that?" stan swallowed, pressing his hip against the metal, of which was a red color. stan nodded gently, enjoying the way his thin, timid hand for inside yours. "yeah." he said, barely audible over the rushing water.

"stan, i like you. a lot. i always have." you said. your free hand found his chest. his back straightened, and his shoulders tensed as your hands slid down to his tummy. "come with me." you said, glancing back at the love tunnel. when you looked back at him, his green eyes studied yours with an intensity.

it was then that he realized that light doesn't reflect like that. your eyes weren't reflecting; in fact, they were fading to something else.

"you're.." he began, stammering. you let go of the railing, your fingers coming up to grasp the curls atop his head. "come with me, stanley." you whispered, coming uncomfortably close. your chest pressed against his.

he watched your eyes turn blue. one of them turned yellow. both of them unfocused.

he slammed his hands against you, as hard as he possibly could. his hands ached. it felt like he dislocated his shoulder. he cried your name, though it was no use as you seemed to grow an extra three feet, and your skin paled to a paper white. stan stumbled back, running back toward the entrance before the clown had the time to finish their shifting process. dirty water splashed up his shoes. he could hear a machine whirring; then, music began. glancing back, the clown stood well over five feet taller than the ride. they stood hunched, a wide grin spread from cheek to cheek. literally. they kicked their lips, and drool seeped down their chin. the boat began moving.

and inside laid you.

[sxnxsterdrabblings]

A/N: Its been a long time since i posted, right?

Request: Hanzo orders his dancer to dance until she collapses, but then punishes her when she collapes quite quickly (due to her having low stamina?) because he thinks she could have danced longer.

Heavy blankets of cigar smoke roll amongst the ill-lit room as Hanzo sits relaxed against a lush couch with one leg crossed over the other. A thick bulge is straining against his slacks as a hefty cigar lays lazily against his plush lips, supported by resting fingers decorated with fine jewelry. With each increasingly long drag, more smoke flows out from the mouth of the dragon, of danger. The proof being thick poisonous clouds that leave nothing untouched.

Except him. He remains untouched by the filth. His crisp suit hugs his form to no fault and stands to show the perfection that is Hanzo Shimada. He’s filthy rich, enviably- unreasonably beautiful, and he holds a gaze that can strike any man with fear. A predator. Honorable, nonetheless... supposedly.

Hanzo has grown to fancy a bit of pain with his pleasure, and god if it isn’t delicious. His eyes shamelessly trace her figure as she sways her body just for him- shamelessly studying his prey, playing with his food. Honorable indeed, working his beautiful dancer until they’re sweating and buckling under their own weight, body collapsing from exhaustion.

Her right knee crumbles and hits the floor first, hard. Then her right elbow, her hip, and an audible choke follows the next arm. As soon as the thud dissipates, a gasp and an audible swallow replace it. She realizes her failure. His disappointment. The punishment to come.

Yet still, the show must go on. As fear roots in her eyes, she makes work of her collapse by spreading her body across the floor. Steadily breathing the dragons breath deep into her lungs, shaking fingers run along her body to sell it as much as she possibly can.

As much as she’s tried, and as much as Hanzo enjoys toying with his food, he knew that his dancer wouldn't make it. This display was quickly worsening his current predicament of what to do.

Hanzo had previously unabashedly laid out the not-so-pretty picture of what he would do if she was to fail, and made it clear to note that it was not up for debate...

—

His eyes slowly scoured the surface of her body as she hesitantly began the descent into the game. Their dance. Hanzo felt himself swell. His decorated hand reached for a cigar, lighting it a bit too far as he looked her in the eyes and the end flared red hot. He eased off the cigar, and with the movement came the first puff of dragon's breath.

“If you fail-

“I won't hesitate to hurt you. You will not enjoy it. You will cry, scream, and beg. I will make sure of it, and I will only stop when I see fit.”

He takes another long drag without breaking eye contact, followed by an onset of billowing smoke. Hanzo makes sure she sees him tracing her body with his eyes before speaking once more in a harsh, firm tone. The mood in the room shifts dramatically.

“I’d find it in your best interest for you to service me, and take what I give to you. If you may find it within yourself to disagree, then this is over, and you can ensure that I will not hold back when lashing you.”

—

But now that raw meat had become a rare steak at the discovery that it was still trying to please him upon its failure, despite being afraid? Now that tears were leaking from her eyes- so close to her breaking point where Hanzo so desperately wanted his dancer to fall over? He throbbed in his pants again. Hanzo wasn’t so sure anymore. It was going to be so much more fun to act on the possibility of playing now, despite not being able to entertain his original plans. Enticing little thing. Infuriating piece of meat.

“Stop.”

The cigar is put out in a nearby ashtray that is just as unnecessarily lavish as everything else in the room, and Hanzo’s eyes immediately shift to your shaking body on the floor. Your head lifts slowly, still hurting from the tumble, and your eyes are wide with fear. But you obey him- your limbs still in place as you wait patiently.

He’s sure if he could eat you, he would do so. He’s leaking uncontrollably in his pants at the sight of you hanging on to his every word and command despite your limits clearly being abused by him.

“Be still.”

The shimada hums in acceptance of your compliance as your body lies stiff. But this doesn’t last long, because seconds later he’s right in front of you, spotless shoes placed right in your field of view. One of them tilts up under your chin, tilting it upwards at a painful angle. His gaze is daring you to disobey to escape your discomfort as his shoe pushes against your jaw higher and higher. A whimper of sorts comes from your throat, and at that moment he hopes you learned to have kept quiet, because his foot drops immediately and you weren’t expecting it. Your chin busts against the floor and you can neither be still nor quiet. You cry out and gasp as fat tears roll down your cheeks, but your mouth keeps pursing as if to hold it all in. You keep trying to please him though, and that’s what keeps him going.

Quiet whimpers are still coming from your mouth and you’ll twitch occasionally due to the crying, causing your chin to wobble and burn worse than before, but your mouth is mostly closed to the point that you’re trying not to breathe in order to obey. Your body is attempting to still it’s movements as you lock the knees you previously busted on the floor, and he knows that it hurts. But he’s throbbing in his pants all the more, leaking with need.

Hanzo decides that he won’t be denying himself any longer, and begins to palm himself. Once more he puts his shoe in front of your face, and he sees more tears continue to form in your eyes, but you remain silent… mostly.

“Lick.”

You open your mouth immediately and Hanzo watches you shake again, your jaw not nearly ready for the onslaught before the recovery.

I might have to keep you.

Your tongue comes out and licks a long broad stripe up his shoe, breath audibly shaky. You continue to do this a few more times, and he knows that turning back will not be an option for him now. Gripping himself tightly one last time through his slacks, he makes sure you hear him unbuttoning them… unzipping them… and shoving them past his v-cut only enough for him to pull his cock out and begin stroking. The slick sounds erupting from above are not lost on you, and he can tell that if you weren’t afraid before, you are now. Or at the very least, you’re about to be.

His knees fold onto his calves so he can balance on his feet, bending down to you. Hanzo can pinpoint the exact moment you realize that he’s shifted to meet you, because his shoe that you were so urgently servicing has now been propped up and creased to support his weight, and your eyes widen to the size of saucers. It makes him chuckle darkly into the room. The next realization comes to you when his hand is gripping your jaw, pulling your face upwards so he can look into your eyes again, or rather, so you can look at your next task. Your face is cradled in his huge palm, and the other hand is steadily stroking while Hanzo gazes at you.

Without breaking eye contact, he pulls away to place the other palm in front of you as well.

“Spit.”

You don’t have the privilege of opening your jaw at least a bit slowly, because this time the shimada does it for you. He grips your jaw tighter, causing it to fall open out of pain, and there’s no rest for you even then. He makes sure of it. Two thick fingers are forced into your mouth quickly, repeatedly, and you cannot stop gagging. Saliva produces even faster now, and as soon as Hanzo sees enough has pooled in your mouth, he’s digging it out and stroking it into his cock. Not too long after, his fingers will go jab back into your gag reflex repeatedly and the process repeats until his dick is glistening with your spit.

Apparently you have learned- he acknowledges with a hum- because when he abruptly drops your jaw this time, you catch yourself.

You’re breathing heavily and drooling into the floor when you settle again, leaking tears. Hanzo pulls himself away once more. He begins to circle you very slowly, stroking slower as he’s observing now. The clack of one shoe sounds off a few feet from your head, and after a few long seconds pass the next audible step is near your shoulder. This continues agonizingly slowly until you hear him circle around to the other side of your head, letting out a pleased sound once more.

You may have collapsed, but this dance is still ongoing. He’s at the top of the food chain, the most dangerous predator, and you unfortunately have fallen into the place of his prey. He’s circling you like his next meal, and Hanzo decides playing with his food has never felt so good. He tucks his cock back into his pants and barks an order,

“Up, girl.”

Shit. You let out a shaky breath, and mentally prepare yourself for the shock that you know is about to shoot down your knee.

You prop yourself up on your hands first and push up, when your elbows begin to shake. The huffs out of your nose become more violent and your throat chokes up as your knee is now at an awkward angle. You attempt to move it inwards in order to gain more leverage but it erupts in pain and you call out- before closing your mouth immediately in fear. You hear heavy footsteps approaching and remind yourself that staying calm should help you escape a harsher blow in the end- but you find yourself leaking tears and gasping for breath again anyway as Hanzo’s blurry shoes appear in front of your hands on the floor. And the blow never comes. Instead, two fingers are gripping your jaw, slowly raising your view to meet his eye line. He’s blurry too.

“I’m sorry, sir, I-“

“Stop.” He pauses to make sure you’ve heard him and only continues once your harsh breathing recedes. “Let your knee relax. I’m going to lift you.” Then suddenly, he’s not so blurry anymore, your knee relaxes, and you gulp audibly. He bends down to grip you around your waist with his big hands and as he raises you cautiously, your knee scrapes across the floor and he pauses. He hasn’t broken eye contact. He’s…. looking for confirmation? But there’s no indication on his face of leniency nor sympathy. You decide not to search for it. You nod shakily and he lifts you up the rest of the way into his arms. Such compliant prey, he thinks.

And as Hanzo carries you away, you realize you shouldn’t have let him. Hanzo smells divine and his clothes are extremely soft. And it only makes it worse that he’s so fucking warm and huge. Inevitably, you start to drift to sleep. You try to make it known to him by nudging your head into his chin lightly to get his attention, but he takes it as you trying to nuzzle into his neck that he then pushes you further into with a hum. You realize it’s a lost cause as your eyes flutter shut and he speaks, sending a sharp pang of fear striking through you.

“I’ll be keeping you.

You may drift off now, you’ll need your rest for your next performance.”

You need to stay awake. Fight him. For once. Keep you? He wasn’t being sweet, he was taming his prey. Playing with his food. Tenderizing the meat. But as the feeling of your head in his kneck and his huge arms around you remains...this only manages to be a thought. You reluctantly succumb to sleep with tear tracks staining your cheeks along with more bruises littering your body to count, head filling with dreams of dancing in shackles.

[failedintsave]

Help I've contracted terminal one-shot brainrot. I ventured out from my usual writing playlists and suddenly I have 5 WIPS instead of 1. Someone send coffee.

Acts of Service

The door to Twinkletits' office shut behind Toki with a click of finality, leaving him in the empty hallway with only his thoughts, muddled as they were. Normally he left a session with the therapist with at least some sense of clarity as they unwound his tangled emotions and experiences, but lately he'd felt as though he'd been haunting the corridors of Mordhaus in a fog.

Twinkletits called it seasonal affective, said some things about lack of daylight bringing it on, but Toki had his doubts. He'd grown up where winters were much darker and bleaker. He was well acquainted with the weighty oppression of the darkness. This felt different. It wasn't the sun he missed. He felt adrift, disconnected.

Even in his earliest memories Toki had always loved the holiday season. It was one of the rare times of the year that his father's church services had seemed less funerary, the inside of the chapel adorned with candles and pine boughs. When he'd gotten older and left home he'd been further enamored by the commotion and color of the season's celebration. Sparkling lights and brightly colored wrapping papers dazzled him, but his favorite part of it all was the effect the holidays seemed to have on people. They were kinder; gestures of affection and goodwill between friends and strangers alike woke a need within him. He wanted more than anything to share that kind of joyful connection with someone.

The fact that the rest of Dethklok didn't share his passion for the season of giving hadn't mattered. Every year he joyfully showered his bandmates with extravagant purchases and tried to convey his love without outright stating it and being called out on the band's strict "no caring" rule. Even though his efforts were usually received with disinterest or ignored entirely, it hardly fazed him.

But since his captivity Toki had struggled to feel connected to anyone. After the fiasco that was the Murderface/Knubbler Christmas Special last year, everyone was content to let the holiday slip by unnoticed, without even the distraction of a visit from their mothers, off on some booze drenched Christmas cruise. The holidays came and went without fanfare and time continued to slip by unmarked until Toki wasn't sure what day it was. Was it still even January, or had he drifted through an entire month?

He trudged past the doorway leading to the rec room, glancing in to where Pickles and Murderface sat watching tv, Nathan on the far end of the couch with his reading glasses and a newspaper. His movement must have caught the drummer's eye, Pickles turned his head to face the door, tipping his chin up in acknowledgment but saying nothing before returning his gaze to the screen ahead of him. Toki floated away down the hall in silence, an aimless spectre.

For a little while after his recovery the band had made real efforts to welcome him home. Murderface toned down the art of being a dick, instead offering frequent encouragement as Toki reacclimated to normal life. Pickles accompanied him to most of his physical therapy sessions, giving some excuse that he wasn't getting any younger himself and could probably use some mobility coaching. And Nathan, ever conservative with his words, had been a near constant presence, always finding a reason to pat Toki on the back or put a hand on his shoulder. But as time dragged on their day-to-day routines gradually faded back to the casual indifference of yesterday, and Toki felt himself begin to slide.

Twinkletits had made some suggestions today, mostly the usual things, exercise, light therapy, working on a hobby. He hadn't really had any desire to work on his modeling kits in months but maybe it was worth a shot. Toki pushed open the door to his bedroom and was surprised to find it occupied. 

Skwisgaar looked up from where he was seated on Toki's mattress, Flying V cradled in his lap. An opened pack of Dunlop strings and a pair of wire cutters lay next to him.

Stepping into the room, Toki tilted his head to the side. "What ams you doing?"

Skwisgaar's mouth quirked into a wry grin. "I believes you ams at least partially familiars wif dis inskruments." He twisted one of the tuning pegs, down-tuning another string for removal. "I'ms just restringings it, don't worries, nots here to sabotage you."

"But dats my guitar."

"Ja, I dids mine earlier and den I t'oughts yours ams probably dues for a fresh set too so…" he shrugged, turning his attention back to the instrument.

Toki watched as nimble fingers threaded stainless steel filaments through the bridge of his guitar with practiced ease, stepping closer as he struggled to swallow around a lump rising in his throat. He reached out to grasp the neck of the instrument, gently lifting it out of Skwisgaar's hands and setting it aside on the floor.

"I wasn't dones wif dat!" Skwisgaar's eyes tracked the guitar to it's stand, empty hands splayed open.

"It can waits."

Toki climbed onto the bed, arms snaking around the other man's middle. He buried his face between the bony ridges of Skwisgaar's collarbones, practically crawling into his lap to claim the now vacated space. The blonde made a quiet sound of surprise and wrapped slender arms behind Toki's shoulders.

"What's wrong?" Concern laced the murmured question, Skwisgaar's breath warming the crown of Toki's head. "Ams you okej?"

Toki nodded, pressing closer as Skwisgaar angled them to lean back against the pillows, palm rubbing comforting circles on his back.

"You shores?"

"Ja." And he was. Maybe not entirely, but at least for now. The darkness would recede eventually, the sun would return, but for now he could be content in the illumination of the golden heartbeat beneath his cheek.

It was enough.

[jaxsteamblog]

Momtara and Dadko

Click here to read the entire fic on AO3

Content Warning: Suggestive Content

Zuko, as usual, woke up early in the morning. Katara recalled kissing him before he went on his run, but didn’t properly wake up until a few hours later. Normally, Zuko woke her up when he returned, so Katara was confused when her aide came knocking. 

After getting dressed, Katara walked into the dining room where Sokka, Suki, and the children were firmly entrenched in their breakfast. 

“Where’s Zuko?” She asked.

“He’s not with you?” Sokka asked, glancing up briefly before looking back down to continue feeding Lu Ten small pieces of bacon.

“Clearly.” Katara said dryly, taking her seat.

“Mommy, you are being mean to Uncle Sokka. You should say sorry.” Izumi said. 

“It’s okay.” Sokka said quickly.

“It’s not.” Katara said and sighed. “I have been mean. I’m stressed out and taking it out on you, which isn’t fair. I’m sorry Sokka.”

“I understand Kat. I forgive you.” Sokka replied.

“And I’m sorry Mimi. I shouldn’t have yelled at you yesterday.” Katara said, putting her hand on the top of Izumi’s head.

“I forgive you mommy.” Izumi said primly. “Now Kya.”

“I’m sorry Kya. I shouldn’t have yelled at you either.” Katara said, looking at her niece while stroking Izumi’s hair.

“Thank you Auntie.” Kya murmured, looking down at her plate.

“And Lu Ten!” Izumi chirped.

“What did I do to Lu Ten?” Katara asked, tilting her head down to look at Izumi.

“You left him out.” She stated.

“You’re right. I’m sorry Lu Ten.” Katara said.

Sokka picked up Lu Ten, thrusting the toddler over the table. Katara chuckled as she leaned across the corner to kiss Lu Ten. He, with his hands covered in greasy egg, grabbed onto her face as he kissed her back.

“Ew!” Kya and Izumi shrieked together. 

Katara leaned back, wiping her face off as the others started chattering once again.

“What did I miss?” Zuko asked as he walked in. Katara turned and was surprised to see him still in his running clothes. 

Then Hakoda, Malina, and Bato stepped in after him.

“Lu Ten got mommy messy.” Izumi answered.

“He seems especially skilled at that.” Zuko agreed. He walked to Katara and kissed her cheek.

“Good morning beloved.” He murmured.

“Kisses!” Lu Ten yelled. Zuko smiled and made his way down the table and around, going so far as to kiss Suki and Sokka’s cheeks. As he got to Sokka, he took Lu Ten from his lap and walked back to take his seat next to Katara.

“That’s very cute.” Malina remarked.

“Thank you. It was very weird at first; physical affection wasn’t something I was used to as a kid.” Zuko said, speaking easily enough to keep things from growing awkward.

“I can understand that! South Pole custom seems to be very touchy.” Malina said, playfully nudging Hakoda with her shoulder. 

“The first time I hugged Zuko, he thanked me and then shook my hand.” Sokka said. Bato sputtered out a laugh and Hakoda broke a smile. 

“Was he always like that?” Zuko asked, looking side to side for verification from the other South Pole members.

“As children, they were handled a lot. It’s nearly impossible to get toddlers through the snow when left on their own two feet.” Hakoda said. 

“Katara wore one of those wrap things when the kids were babies. Genius. I think I carried both of them all day sometimes.” Zuko said.

Katara snorted and everyone looked at her.

“One time, Zuko had Lu Ten in a sling during a financial meet and, in his sleep, decided to use his diaper.” She explained.

“Nothing is worse than potty training a child during the dark season in the South Pole when your bathroom is outside.” Hakoda interjected as the others were laughing.

“Paw-Paw, what was mommy like when she was my age?” Izumi asked.

The table quieted and Katara stared at her father.

“Well, I wasn’t around when your mother was five. I was fighting in the Earth Kingdom.” Hakoda said.

“You didn’t see her at all?” Izumi questioned with clear shock.

“Not for many years.” Hakoda said with a shake of his head.

“Sometimes I don’t get to see mommy for a few weeks when I live with daddy in the Fire Nation.” Izumi said softly. “It makes me sad.” 

“I was very sad when I couldn’t see my mom or my dad.” Katara said, putting her arms around Izumi and kissing her hair. 

“When I’m queen, I’m going to live here and I’ll be able to see Izumi every day.” Kya announced.

“What about me and mama?” Sokka asked.

“You can live here too if you want.” She conceded and Sokka scoffed in amusement. 

“Oh, why thank you.” He said and smiled over Kya’s head at Suki.

“I had hoped after the war, I’d be able to live with my entire family in one place.” Hakoda grumbled and Malina patted his hand. 

“Tell me about it.” Katara sighed. 

“Excuse me, your majesty?” A woman called from the doorway. Katara turned and waved the aide in.

“The Matriarch is waiting for you. And we just got confirmation that the ambassador has entered the city.” She said, angling a tablet down so Katara could see the verification. 

“Delightful.” Katara muttered. Then, speaking up, she tried to sound more cheerful. “Time to get dressed!”

More voices than she expected groaned in disappointment. 

The first meeting would be a quick, but formal, welcome. In the throne room, Katara had Hakoda and Dong-Lee take their seats first. Then, holding up the thick fabric of her skirt, she stepped up to the platform where her own carved monstrosity awaited her. Kya knelt on a cushion at her side, still on the platform above Hakoda and Dong-Lee. Politics were in everything.

The Ambassador was escorted in and he bowed in greeting.

“Ambassador Yi, welcome to our little oasis in Republic City.” Katara said.

Yi was a stout man, but younger than she expected. He was middle aged with a receding hairline, yet his face was fairly youthful. From his file, Katara knew he was married with three children, all a few years older than Izumi.

“Thank you, Queen Katara.” He said.

“You are here at the pleasure of Chief Hakoda, leader of the Southern Water Tribes, and Matriarch Dong-Lee of the Swamp Tribe.” Katara went on, gesturing with both hands to the other leaders. 

Yi bowed again.

“Thank you, Chief Hakoda and Matriarch Dong-Lee.” He said.

“And I would like to introduce you to my heir, Princess Kya.” Katara finished.

A third bow and Kya shifted uneasily.

“It is a pleasure to meet the princess.” Yi said.

“I know you have meetings with us separately, but did you have anything you would like to bring before the triumvirate?” Katara questioned.

“No, your majesty.” Yi answered.

“Then I give you your leave. I will see you at our appointed time.” Katara said. She stood and Yi bowed again, keeping his gaze lowered. The others stood and left, exiting behind the platform before Yi made his way back the way he entered. 

Such rituals made Katara feel stiff and irritated; she’d be taking her lunch with the man in a few hours while wearing pants. All of the preceding pageantry struck her as unnecessary. 

“He seems agreeable.” Dong-Lee said.

“Well, be careful, he’s from the Upper Ring. There’s been a lot of chatter about pruning the swamp.” Katara said.

Dong-Lee scoffed. “As if the swamp would let anyone do such a thing.” 

“Are all the meetings going to be like that Auntie?” Kya asked, tugging hard at the neckline of her dress.

“Not all of them, no. But enough of them to make you grumpy.” Katara said and Kya groaned loudly. 

“How does Izumi do it?” Kya whined.

“She’s a lot like her father I suppose. They were born into it.” Katara remarked lightly. Kya groaned again and Katara laughed. 

“I wish Thuy was here.” She muttered.

Katara only nodded.

Ambassador Yi met with Hakoda and Dong-Lee prior to lunch, talking about his goals for his appointment and the technical aspects of the placement. The lunch was far more casual, and Yi brought his family. Dong-Lee was attended by her brother and two children, while Malina came along with Hakoda. The rest of Katara’s royal family bustled in and the large table on the veranda was bursting with activity. 

Yi and his family were patient through the introductions, though Katara promptly forgot the names of everyone with him. Zuko had a better mind for names and she would have to ask him about it later. 

“Ambassador, I’d like to introduce my consort, Fire Lord Zuko.” Katara said, gesturing to Zuko. Yi and his family all gave a hasty Fire Nation salute while Zuko only smiled, holding Lu Ten at his hip. 

“Forgive me,” Yi’s wife said, sounding nervous. “But how should we refer to your Highness?” 

“Zuko is fine.” He replied and the blood drained from her face. 

Katara made a tsk sound and swatted his arm lightly. 

“Titles are very loosely held and wielded around here. We both prefer to be on a first name basis, but since we don’t have a family name, I understand it can be awkward.” She explained.

“I do think consort is rather fun.” Zuko said, smiling at Katara, who glowered back at him. 

“I was told the Earth Empire custom was a bit formal compared to the rest of the world.” Yi admitted.

“It was the same in the Fire Nation until very recently.” Zuko said. 

“I’d like us to be friends.” Katara said. “So I’d love it if you’d use our given names.” 

“That would make it easier to know when I’m in trouble.” Yi joked and Katara laughed. His wife looked mortified. 

Lu Ten started to fuss and Zuko started bouncing him.

“I think it’s nap time.” He said.

“Thank you.” Katara replied, offering her cheek as Zuko leaned in to kiss her. 

“Can we go eat mom?” Yi’s eldest son asked, tugging lightly on his mother’s sleeve.

“Please! This was meant to welcome you after all!” Katara said, shooing them away. Yi’s wife and children walked off, heading over to the serving tables.

“You have a lovely family.” Katara said.

“Thank you. Your’s is charming as well.” Yi said and rubbed his chin. “I hadn’t expected the Fire Lord to be so approachable.” 

“He’s a lot like his uncle.” Katara replied.

“Your son looks just like him.” 

“Oh yes.” Katara said with a laugh. “He’s a Firebender too.”

“But how lucky your daughter is just like you!” Yi said.

“Hmm?” Katara turned and faced Yi more purposefully. 

“I was glad you introduced her first, because my packet was incorrect. I thought her name was Izumi.” He said.

“Izumi is my daughter.” Katara said.

“My apologies. Is that her Fire Nation name?” Yi questioned.

“Yes.” Katara said slowly. “You misunderstand, Kya is my niece.” 

Yi’s eyes widened in surprise. 

“Then Izumi is not the Waterbender?” He asked.

“No, Izumi is a…” Katara frowned. “She’s not a Waterbender. Kya is my brother’s daughter. She recently came into her bending and now she’s my heir.” 

“So Izumi is…” Yi sounded panicked and confused.

“Fire Nation. Completely.” Katara said tersely. “She is her father’s heir.”

“I’m sorry. I am completely embarrassed.” Yi said in a hurry, bowing in apology. 

“I can understand the confusion. The inheritance law changed when I was crowned.” Katara said. 

“Thank you for your understanding, your Majesty.” Yi said.

“Of course. You should join your family, they seem to be waiting for you.” Katara said. Yi bowed again and walked to the table. Katara watched him for a moment before turning back toward the palace.

She saw Izumi’s face peeking from behind a wooden beam that supported the pergola. As their eyes met, Izumi darted back inside the palace. Katara sighed, a weight settling on her shoulders. 

Katara’s meeting with the new ambassador was awkward, but she merely questioned him about his goals. The Earth Empire was still gunning for drilling rights in the arctic, which simply wasn’t going to happen. They also wanted to expand their fishing and research waters, which also wasn’t going to happen. Those two points came up time and again, becoming chronic sores in Katara’s life. In the Poles at least, her people had learned how to live in harmony with the seas. They were also intimately aware of what happened when they tried to tip the balance in their favor. Seas could rise, ice could crack, and hungry things could see better than they in the night. 

After the business was concluded, Katara cancelled the debrief with Hakoda and Dong-Lee, pushing it back a day. 

She needed to talk to Zuko.

In their bedroom, Katara sat on the bed as Zuko undid his dress shirt. He never dressed down around politicians, despite his insistence on the given name thing. 

“Am I ashamed of our children?” Katara blurted as Zuko hung the shirt on the valet rack. He paused, his hands still on the hanger and slowly turned his head around to look at her.

“Excuse me?” He asked.

“Yi thought Kya was our daughter and I couldn’t just come out and correct him. It was so awkward!” Katara said.

“I don’t think that means you’re ashamed of her.” Zuko stated firmly. 

“Izumi heard me and she ran off.” Katara said.

“Did you talk to her?” 

“No.”

“We probably shouldn’t let that marinate.”

Katara groaned and bent over, holding her head in her hands.

“I am the worst parent.” She said.

“I think we can both agree that Ozai was the worst parent.” Zuko retorted.

Katara lifted her head, keeping her fingers splayed over her mouth.

“I’m serious.” She moaned and Zuko raised an eyebrow.

He brought both hands sharply up to his face, framing his scar.

“So am I.” He said. 

“I don’t even consider him a parent.” Katara said, falling backward onto the bed. “He’s a monster.”

“Fair point, yet he still is legally my father.” Zuko said.

“I think biologically too.” Katara added.

“Did you know Toph takes Lin and Suyin to her matches?” Zuko asked.

“What?” Katara asked, shooting her confused look up to the ceiling. 

“Lin caught a tooth before she even lost one of her own. It’s nuts.” Zuko said, sitting on the bed beside her.

“And?”

“And she adopted Jae-hwan, seemingly on a whim. No one knows who fathered Lin or Suyin, but Toph doesn’t care because they’d be Beifongs regardless.”

“I repeat, and?”

“And Toph is an amazing mother. Lots of people give her so much crap for simply being blind and having kids, let alone all this other stuff. None of us are perfect, but we’re doing our best. Our kids are great.” 

“I know that Zuko. But I don’t act like it.” Katara muttered, covering her face with her arms. 

“You’ve been really protective of Izumi about this bending stuff, but have you talked to her about it?” Zuko asked.

“No.” Katara said, her voice muffled. 

“I’m telling you, Izumi and Kya love each other. And Izumi is going to be Fire Lord, so it’s not like she’s getting shoved to the side.” Zuko said.

“So what about Lu Ten?” Katara asked.

“Who knows? The Fire Nation hasn’t had a good run with siblings, but Izumi and Lu Ten seem to be fine.” 

“Has there ever been a woman Fire Lord? Or a non-Bender?” 

“Well. No.” Zuko admitted. “But there’s never been a Prime Minister before either.”

“Obviously I don’t need to protect her, so why am I hiding her?”

“When Kya was born, you were so relieved. I thought it was because you were worried about Suki, but you were so anxious before Sokka texted. Then suddenly everything was easier and Izumi popped out two minutes later. I think Izumi was exactly what you wanted her to be.” Zuko explained.

“What do you mean?” Katara lowered her arms and looked up at him.

“She’s not named Kya, so you didn’t have to go through that. She looks like you when you haven’t been in the sun for awhile, and her hair is just like mine. I remember you talking about how much more manageable her hair was when it started to really grow in.

“And she’s not a Waterbender, so you didn’t have to put her through what you’re going through.” Zuko added softly. 

“But Kya’s going to be fine.” Katara said.

“Kya is going to have to live away from her parents more than you think. Sokka has a job in the Fire Nation now, remember? And Suki is still holding onto the flower shop for him.”

“I.” Katara cut off, not knowing what to say. 

“Sokka’s really anxious about this. He’s terrified of being away from Kya, because he hated being away from your parents.” Zuko said.

Tears welled in Katara’s eyes and she threw her arms over her face again.

“So not only am I a terrible mother, but I’m the worst sister and daughter too!” She wailed. 

“Katara, you know it’s not like that.” Zuko said, rubbing one of her arms.

“I hate that this happened. I hate how everyone makes these stupid choices without me and then I end up doing something terrible!”

“So it’s not your fault?”

“How is this my fault?”

“How is it anyone’s?”

Frustrated, Zuko stood up and walked back to their closet. 

“We talked about kids for years because we knew this was going to be hard. And Sokka and Suki could never have expected that their kid was going to be a Bender. And your dad didn’t go off thinking he’d never see his wife again, or that his children would grow up without him.” He said. 

Katara sat up, glaring at his back as Zuko picked out a new outfit. 

“So it’s me then? I’m the one making everything difficult?” She shot back.

“I didn’t say that.” Zuko replied.

“Then what are you saying?”

“I’m saying this sucks!” Zuko turned around sharply, holding tight onto a t-shirt. “I hate being in Caldera without you for so long. And it’s pure misery when you have the children.”

He yanked on the shirt and rubbed his nose furiously.

“Honestly, sometimes I can’t wait for the children to be grown. Because then I can toss Izumi onto the throne and Kya can move in here and then you and I can finally be together, properly.” He laughed darkly and ran a hand through his hair. “But then I feel terrible because these are my children and I’m already missing out on so much.” 

“Maybe we shouldn’t have gotten married.” Katara muttered.

Zuko advanced on her quickly and grabbed her arms, squeezing her hard enough to scare her.

“Don’t you ever say that.” He said, his voice low. “I would rather have died in the Agni Kai than even think you mean that for a second.” 

“Zuko…” Katara protested and he shook her once, softly but with urgency.

“Tell me to step down. Ask me. Order me and I would crawl from the port to your throne to become your proper consort.” Zuko said. “But don’t you ever think things would be better had I not made you mine.” 

“Stop.” Katara said brusquely, using her forearms to break his hold. Zuko grabbed her wrists, holding them up.

“You gave me your bed, you gave me children. And they are forever a part of me. But you are mine. Just as I am yours.” Zuko kissed her, loosening his grip on her wrists. Katara grabbed his shirt, pulling him onto the bed. 

~

“Do you suppose that was a healthy and loving way to handle our fight?” Katara asked, shaking her hands off in the sink. It was easy enough to heal the minor marks and Zuko examined his chest in the mirror.

“I would definitely say it was loving.” He said and then nodded at his reflection. “But we should probably leave out some details if we bring this up at therapy.” 

“What are you so angry about anyway?” Katara asked.

“I am angry, dear wife, that you are in the throes of your righteous fury while I’m also struggling but I feel like I have to hold everything together.” Zuko said. 

He had an easy way of talking that made Katara relax. Had it been anyone else, she would have launched right into a fight.

“I’m sorry I’m not being more supportive.” Katara said and moved behind him, wrapping her arms around his middle and pressing her cheek into his shoulder blade. 

“Like I said last night, I do understand that this is difficult for you. But I think you need to have a little faith and try letting go. Not everything has to be a battle that you win or lose.” Zuko held onto her arms and tilted his head back to bump hers. 

“Fine. So, as a wife first, what can I do?” Katara asked.

“Not much. Summer will be in a few weeks and you get to be Fire Lady again. I’ll be able to breathe once you and the children are in Caldera.” Zuko answered.

“Mom time then?” Katara said meekly.

“Mom and dad time. We’re a team.” Zuko replied.

They dressed and went to Izumi’s bedroom. Apparently, she had run there during lunch and refused to come out.

Zuko knocked on the door and called gently. “Mimi?” 

“Come in.” Izumi said, sounding despondent. 

Opening the door, Zuko and Katara hesitated before entering. Izumi was on the floor, moving her dolls around limply.

“Izumi, it is time. For.” Zuko paused with performative austerity. “The feelings wheel.” 

Izumi heaved a long sigh as she got up and shuffled to her small desk. Pulling open the center drawer, she pulled out a laminated piece of paper and went back to her spot on the floor. Zuko and Katara joined her, shutting the door behind them.

“Okay Mimi, you know the drill. How are you feeling?” Zuko asked as he and Katara sat down.

On the paper was a large circle cut into tiered segments. The wider wedges at the center of the circle were labelled with general emotions like “happy” and “scared.” Things got more specific in the thinner wedges radiating outward. 

Izumi pointed with a heavy finger to “sad.”

Zuko worked with Izumi through the process, getting her to be more specific about how she was feeling. Katara stayed quiet, watching her daughter’s face. She was surprised that Izumi identified “guilty” before ending on “ashamed.”

It wasn’t what Katara expected at all.

But she knew exactly how Izumi was feeling.

“Why do you feel ashamed sweetie?” Katara asked.

“Because I’m not Water Tribe.” Izumi said quietly. 

“Why do you think you’re not?” Zuko asked.

“Because mommy always says that I’m only Fire Nation. That I’m your heir and that’s it.” Izumi explained.

“Okay, that’s a valid reason.” Zuko said and Katara sighed.

“I say that because I know you’re part Tribal. I want everyone to know that you deserve to be your father’s heir regardless.” She said.

“Why would being Tribal be bad?” Izumi asked.

“Well…” Katara drifted, sharing a look with Zuko.

“During the war, the Fire Nation and the Water Tribe were enemies.” Zuko said honestly. “And a lot of people in the Fire Nation still feel angry about that.” 

“So they hate me?” Izumi asked, her voice quivering.

“Oh no sweetie! No one hates you!” Katara said in a rush. “It’s just, they may think being from the Water Tribe will make you a bad Fire Lord.” 

“Do you think I’ll be a bad Fire Lord?” Izumi asked Zuko.

“I think you’ll be the first good one.” He said. Izumi crawled onto Zuko, hugging him.

“You’re good, daddy.” She said.

Zuko hugged her back and kissed her hair. “I’m glad you think so, Mimi.” 

“Your father is a great Fire Lord, and you’ll be even better.” Katara added, patting Izumi’s back.

Izumi still clung to Zuko but looked over at Katara.

“So it’s okay that I don’t look like you or Paw-Paw?” She asked.

“Of course sweetie! And not all Water Tribals look like me. Some of them.” Katara stopped and took in a breath. “Some of them look like your Gran-Gran remember?” 

“And it’s okay that I’m not a Waterbender?” Izumi continued.

“Absolutely. Is it okay that Kya is?” Katara asked.

Izumi thought about it seriously for a moment and then nodded.

“Kya is going to rule the tribes and I’m going to be Fire Lord and then we’re going to take over the world.” She said and Katara sputtered.

“What was that?” She asked.

“Well Lu Ten has to have something and there are Waterbenders and Firebenders in the Earth Empire, so Kya and I are going to take it.” Izumi stated.

“You very much are not, young lady.” Zuko said, holding Izumi up to look at her. 

“But daddy, you said I could do anything.” Izumi replied simply. “And grandfather Ozai took over Omashu, my teacher told me so.” 

“Okay, we’re firing your teacher for one thing.” Zuko said and Katara gently pried their daughter from his hold. 

“Izumi, we’ll have to have a chat about why world domination is not a good thing, but do you feel better now?” She asked.

“Yes mommy. Can I have lunch?” Izumi asked. 

“Let’s go see what’s in the kitchen.” Katara stood up and held Izumi’s hand, pausing while Zuko stared off.

“Coming?” She prompted. Zuko shook himself and stood, looking curiously down at Izumi.

“Maybe we should hold off on introducing her to Azula.” He said.

Izumi lifted her head, her hazel eyes shifting in the overhead light. 

“I already know all about her. Auntie Ty Lee told me about her when we were on Avatar Island.” She said and then looked toward the door. Zuko, bewildered, caught Katara’s eye.

Auntie Ty Lee? He mouthed over Izumi’s head. Katara only shrugged.

She had her own family problems to deal with. 

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[kemendin]

An Offer of Freedom

A short scene between Dhamari, my half-Maormer OC, and Nelaath, an injured Maormer he rescued on the Summerset coast.

Dhamari could feel the Maormer’s marbled eyes on him as he loosened one of the lines to the dinghy’s single sail. He hunched his shoulders against the ongoing scrutiny, focussing on tying off the rope again. Fortunately there were few adjustments to be made; Nelaath had done most of them himself, and seemed confident that the little boat could make the journey to the western islands. Dhamari was privately less certain, but he also was honest enough to admit that his knowledge in this area was limited, and so he kept his doubts to himself.

“There. That should suffice.” Nelaath spoke without approval, and he eyed the boat disdainfully as Dhamari swung himself back onto the sand. “Not much of a specimen, even for a landwalker craft, but I’ll make it work for us.”

Dhamari shook his hair back over his shoulder, and ran a hand across the still unfamiliar plane of skin along the side of his head. It was an almost nervous gesture, and he shifted his weight slightly before looking over at Nelaath. The Maormer still bore the marks of the fish hooks that had gouged into him, but thanks to the crew’s care they were nearly healed now - faint scars that puckered his shoulders and sides, and one that made his mouth a wider line as it stretched from his lips to his cheek.

Nelaath was still watching him, the suffused light of a barely-broken dawn causing his features to look even more colourless. Dhamari’s jaw tightened, and his fingertips made another pass over his stubbled head before he said lowly, “I am not going with you.”

Canting his head, Nelaath considered this for a moment, then appeared to dismiss it just as swiftly. “No? Where are you going, then?” The unmarred side of his mouth curled rather unpleasantly, almost knowingly, and Dhamari felt his hackles rise.

“I am staying with my ship,” he growled.

Nelaath had apparently anticipated this answer, and he barked out a derisive little laugh, almost before Dhamari had finished speaking.

“Your ship,” he repeated. “A motley assortment of ignorant groundcrawlers pretending to know how to traverse the seas.” He straightened. “That is not a ship or a crew. That is a barge waiting to be sunk.”

Dhamari’s lips drew back for a moment, and then he moistened them with his tongue, eyeing the Maormer balefully. “You do not know them,” he said, at the same time wondering why it felt so hollow to say it.

“I do not need to.” Nelaath’s voice dripped with scorn, then hardened abruptly. “And they do not know you. If they did, they would never have brought you aboard.”

Dhamari felt his hands and his chest clench in unison. “What do you mean?” he snapped, with a sharp upward jerk of his chin.

Nelaath leaned sideways, resting one hip against the curved wood of the boat. “What are you, to them? A token? Someone to chase away a few clouds when the weather turns?” Somehow his milky eyes were boring into Dhamari. “Do they let you fight, and bring the storm upon your enemies? Do they understand what it is to crest the highest waves and feel your pride rise with the wind? Or do they temper you, and restrain you, and hold you back from the freedom that is yours by right?”

The last word came out thick and harsh. Dhamari stared at the other Maormer, rigid except where the sea wind tugged and looped through the long fronds of his hair. He said nothing.

Nelaath straightened again and strode closer, honing in on Dhamari’s conflicted expression.

“You know that everything I’ve said is true,” he hissed. “I can feel the storm inside you, writhing to be unleashed. What you did to those Altmer on the beach? You can do it again, and more, many times over. There is another offensive planned, and soon. Come back with me. You would be a welcome asset to the King’s forces. Appreciated. Valued. And free to use your abilities as you wish.”

The Maormer was too close now. Dhamari took one step back, trying to brace himself in the soft sand as sparks flared, unsummoned, around his tightened fists. He couldn’t deny that he was tempted. But he was also wary, unable to suppress the instincts telling him that this was more than it appeared. Too enticing. Too right.

Just another promise waiting to be shattered.

“No,” he growled. “You speak an adder’s words. You think I would be welcome, halfblood that I am?” He made a sharp gesture at his tilted brows, at the black, black void of his eyes. No Maormer had eyes like that.

“You have no freedom to offer to someone like me. All I am - all I have ever been - is a weapon, to be used by others.” His teeth ground together. “I will not be that again.”

Nelaath’s serpentine features shifted, flattening into a hard look made more sinister by the scar slashing across his jaw. “Then you will be nothing,” he spat. His voice had suddenly lost its sibilant allure. “Go. Go back to your ship, to your so-called crew, and pretend that you belong there. Such treacherous waters will reveal your folly soon enough.”

He pivoted in the wet sand and strode the short distance to the water’s edge. Dhamari watched with lowered ears, his expression stricken as Nelaath shoved the little boat from its berth on the beach and vaulted gracefully into it. The Maormer expertly angled the sail to the dawn breeze, and within moments, it seemed, the dinghy was receding towards the western horizon, an ivory silhouette against the deep cobalt of the waves.

Taken aback by Nelaath’s abrupt departure, Dhamari watched until the boat had vanished into a distant haze. He could feel the first breath of sunlight rising along the back of his neck. Slowly he sank into a crouch on the beach, where coral shadows hid him from the gleam of dawn. His fingernails scraped briefly against the scaled skin of his arm, and then he wrapped both arms around his knees as he sat there, a solitary figure rocking back and forth in uncertainty.

[omgkalyppso]

i request kiss prompt 37 for m!byleth and yuri :D (is anyone surprised lol)

I AM! lol. I’ve never yet written Byleth. So. I hope this turns out alright. But thank you so much for the ask. <3 (＠＾◡＾)

37. Write a Kiss ... without a motive.

Yuri was no stranger to distribution of labor, but he did feel there was something inherently ridiculous about Byleth preparing food for their numbers. Here stood the church’s highest authority while Rhea was missing, in so far as Seteth was concerned, and they had him cubing beef for stew; not to mention Byleth was their greatest hope against the empire, and a recent amnesiac to boot, or ... whatever had happened to him. If he’d been in Byleth’s position he’d have used any number of these excuses to pursue more pressing work, or his own aims, perhaps even recovery. Their company needed to eat, but there was no shortage of hands when it came to menial chores.

“Not too thin now,” Byleth requested, unjudgmental and focused, and apparently attentive enough to watch Yuri’s meal prep, despite finding all the right angles for his knife to kiss through to a cutting board with soft, satisfying tocks.

Yuri hissed, looking down at his potatoes. He was being a little enthusiastic. He put down his knife and took a breath, taking in the sight of an old friend, returned from the dead. A name in his book to be crossed out. A miracle. A horror. A friend.

“Why are you doing this?”

The question came out sharper than he’d envisioned. Yuri was so accustomed to dancing around the issues, to interpreting half-meanings and the intentions of others, but there was something painful about the past few months since Byleth’s return. They’d shared laughs, or, as close as Byleth came to laughing, secrets, victories, and now this, this quiet kitchen two days before they would depart for more uncertainty and death.

Byleth looked at him, flat, for just a moment, before tilting his head back to his precise work. “I am afraid.”

Yuri felt his brow twist in confusion, and realized he may have been too harsh, especially since Byleth neither feigned ignorance, nor asked for clarification. There was too much honesty in his answer. He collected his knife and three new potatoes, and to his surprise, Byleth continued.

“Everything’s changed. Everything’s... I feel like everything’s lost. I feel as though I was a mercenary under my father ... so recently. And now they want me to lead. Which is very different than working for the Academy, though so many seem to act as though it is the same. Cooking... This is the same.”

That Byleth felt so out of his element should have been alarming, with so much faith put in one person, so much pressure on one man, but Yuri found himself ... elated. To him it signaled that Byleth was paying attention, to the meetings and battlegrounds, as well as their personal conversations and their noncombatants.

With a click of his tongue, Yuri conceded, “It’s good that you see that. The changes.” He smiled, feeling Byleth’s eyes drift over him again. “And you know, you being back, well, that’s a very positive change for us.”

Their eyes met, and the attention of Byleth’s glassy, green gaze almost distracted Yuri entirely from the pink on his cheeks.

“I hope so,” Byleth said quickly, as he returned to task.

The meal was made with little conversation, and enjoyed with less still between them, what with Byleth sitting with the more public players of the war and the Monastery, but afterwards, when the night was dark and warm, Yuri found Byleth again. He was in the library, pouring over maps and missives, both recent and historical, and at first Yuri didn’t bother to greet him, simply sitting by his side, leaned back upon the table, letting Byleth learn, and work, and catch up. He knew that if he waited, Byleth would not simply ignore him.

When Byleth opened his mouth to speak, Yuri sat up straight and extended a finger towards him with a wink.

“Ah-ah! Don’t speak. You’ll ruin the serenity.”

Byleth closed his mouth, but otherwise seemed unfazed and Yuri couldn’t help the way his lips curled in amusement.

“This could be familiar, couldn’t it?” he suggested. “You always did like the library.” He gestured with one hand with his opposite fist below his chin, to dissuade Byleth from contributing. “Not like dinner tonight,” he smiled at him, taunting, “you never made anything so good years ago.”

“I understand you saved many of the books,” Byleth said, tapping on the one in front of him with the flat of his hand.

“Yes, well, can’t have all that time go to waste. A book like that is worth more than the hours put into it, it’s its years used in reference.”

“You didn’t have to bring them back,” Byleth observed, and Yuri tossed his head aside with a roll of his eyes.

“Well, of course I kept the best ones in the Abyss. Never know what could happen up here. Things do change so fast...”

Byleth’s lips pouted and receded as he took a deep breath through his nose, and the action sent an interesting tingle down Yuri’s spine.

“If things are changing,” Byleth said, and the way he spoke was as if he were holding his breath, but if anything he was doing the opposite, breathing deep, nervous, though his expression was the same.

“Yes?” Yuri prompted, very aware of the movement of his own lips.

“If things have changed,” Byleth said, and Yuri couldn’t tell if it was an amendment on his previous statement, but encouraged him anyway.

“Yes?”

The bench creaked beneath them, and Yuri let his eyes dart around to confirm their seclusion as Byleth leaned towards him. “Then can I...?”

“Yes.”

They were very close now, and Yuri could feel the heat off Byleth’s face, or count the shadows in his eyes. He wondered, distantly, if this were why he’d been so upset earlier, as guilty, desperate, unfair affection set his heart to beating as though this could mean something.

“Can I kiss y—?”

Yuri closed the distance, unable to handle his companion’s suspense.

Byleth melted, his shoulders falling and his lips going soft and pliant in hopeful little movements as his left hand found the front of Yuri’s right shoulder, pulling him closer in a silent plea. He was vulnerable, but still Byleth, and Yuri took pleasure in scaring a soft squeak out of him with a bite upon his lower lip.

Slowly, Yuri removed his gloves, chuckling deep in his throat as Byleth bumped against him. He pressed the back of his left hand upon his cheek, and cradled his neck with his right palm, absorbing a little more of their connection, before allowing Byleth to slip away.

“Not bad,” Yuri teased. “Although we may both be out of practice.”

“Hm,” Byleth huffed, swallowing as he straightened his coat.

“Would you want that?” Yuri asked, spinning his left hand around, fitting some hair behind Byleth’s ear and deciding he didn’t like that and setting it back. “What do you want?”

“I hadn’t thought ahead that far,” Byleth confessed, curling his hands over Yuri’s wrists, and Yuri scoffed.

“Then think about it. And if I like what you decide, maybe I’ll let you know what’s on my mind. How does that sound, friend?”

“Only fair,” Byleth agreed, catching Yuri’s left hand to leave a kiss on his wrist as his hands retreated.

Yuri stood with a bounce, dizzy with affection. He thwapped his gloves against his thigh, straightening them for no reason except to take a breath before excusing himself. “Then I’ll leave you to it. Goodnight, Byleth. Don’t sleep too long.”

“Goodnight.”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Fully Complete 6

Warnings: non-consent sex and rape (series), violence, mutual irritation, harassment, general hatred, allusions to death, toyplay, binding/restraint, whipping.

This is dark!Loki x reader and explicit. 18+ only.  Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Series Synopsis: There’s a new face in Birch and he’s come to haunt your door.

Sister series to Smalltown Bringdown, When the Weight Comes Down, and Little Bones

Note: Think we got one chapter left after this one but don’t worry, we will eventually have more Birch beyond that.

Thanks to everyone for their patience and feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

Chapter 6: Wait and you'll see

💀💀💀

Your ankle bent for the fifth time as you entered the small county hospital. Loki kept his hand covertly on your elbow after you jabbed him several times in the ribs on the drive over and noticed the way your eyes searched around. You couldn’t help it. Even if Jerome’s life was in the balance, you wanted nothing more than to be away from this man; if you could call him one.

The halls were sterile and the bright lights added to the sting in your eyes as you were shown to your brother’s room. A motorcycle accident, the nurse said, but Jerome’s bike was destroyed with everything else in your shop. You knew what happened was far from an accident.

His eyes were closed and tubes ran down his arms and across his face. It was a sobering sight. It reminded you of your father’s last months. You dreaded seeing anyone like that ever again. Even if Jerome was a cowardly weasel, even if he let those men trade you like livestock, he was still your kin and he was all you had left of your father.

You wiggled away from Loki and he let you as he pinched you in warning. You went to Jerome’s bedside and glanced over at your escorts. Korg actually showed an ounce of empathy as he stared at the bed.

“Can I have some privacy?” you snarled.

“We’ll be right outside. Don’t think of trying anything,” Loki reproached.

“I just want to be alone with my brother,” you curled your lip, “not everything is about you.”

You waited until you stepped out and you leaned on the bed rail. He looked so frail just laying there with machines pumping life into him. The nurse said he might wake up but they were still waiting. The only good news she had was that the surgery on his spine was successful.

“I don’t forgive you,” you whispered, “I never will but I love you.”

Your eyes pricked and you rolled them to force away the tears. The machines beeped and fanned. You shook your head and gave a grim smile.

“I want to ask how we got here but we know. We knew life would be like this. Daddy said it would. He knew you were gonna be a club man like him and he told you to hold onto your soul. He’d be so disappointed.” You sighed, “Do you know what that man is doing to me? What he’s gonna do?”

You looked away and huffed. You were angry, hurt, but not broken. Not yet.

“I can’t stop him, I know that,” you confessed quietly as you reached for his hand, “I was stupid to think I was different from those other girls. To think I’m above them. No, these men are all the same and we just gotta deal with it.”

You swallowed and pushed yourself up.

“Yeah, yeah, we know what happened to mama. Same thing’ll happen to me now,” you said, “and you’re gonna go see daddy. I hope he’s at peace, I hope you find that too.”

You turned and wiped your wet eyes. You wouldn’t let Loki see you cry. He wouldn’t have that pleasure. You would play along until you could act. You would pretend that you believed Jerome would live. You would fake, you would take, you would survive.

💀

The car ride was silent as you stared out the window. You were quiet, still. Even as Loki’s fingers wandered to your skirt and played with the fabric, you did nothing. You were tired and fighting wasn’t doing nothing but draining your energy. You leaned back and played with the button of the jacket. The clothes were entirely impractical against the winter.

The main road of Birch passed outside your window and Korg drove by the sidestreet where the Victorian house stood. You saw the moniker with Cleopatra and you didn’t need to ask where you were going. You didn’t even wonder why. You knew.

“You think you can behave?” Loki asked, “for your brother’s sake?”

You turned to him and resisted a snarl. You nodded and tensed as he squeezed your leg.

“Darling, I mean it. You go in there and you show the boys how tame you can be,” he smirked, “show off your new clothes.”

“I got it,” you said through gritted teeth, “but you touch my brother again and I will never stop. I won’t stop until you kill me too.”

He raised his head in triumph and flicked your chin with his finger, “we have an understanding, don’t we, darling?”

You turned and reached for the handle. He let you and followed you out smoothly. He was quick to hook his arm around your waist as Korg led the way to the bar and opened the door ahead of you. You entered and focused on keeping one foot in front of the other as your instinct told you to throttle the man at your side.

Your breath caught in your throat as your vision cleared. Steve sat with his girl and Bucky with that waitress he was fucking. You saw in her eye a feeling you knew well. Her and the mousy one shared that brittle complacency. Your sights narrowed at Bucky as you got closer and time seemed to slow.

When you reached the table, Bucky looked over and stood. He smiled between you and Loki, the amusement plain on his face. You felt the flicker inside of you. You couldn’t hold back as you slipped quickly from Loki’s grasp and around the side of the table. You latched onto the front of his jacket. You hit him across the jaw with your fist and were ready to lay another as someone caught your fist.

The voices rose around you as you kicked out and caught him in the stomach as you were wrenched away. You looked up as you growled a slew of curses and found Steve and Loki both clinging to your arms. You continued to flail.

“You fucking piece of shit,” you grunted, “I swear to fucking God, I’m going to end you!”

“What did I say?” Loki hissed as they tried to rein you in.

Bucky was just as fast as he approached you and drew his gun. You didn’t still even as he aimed the muzzle at you and stared down the barrel. 

“She’s fucking rabid,” Steve uttered, “Christ.”

“Do it, you fucking bastard!” You spat.

There were no thoughts, no fears, only pure rage as you stomped your feet and tried to wriggle free. You glared back at Bucky as the gun hung before him. He exhaled loudly and put it away.

“You gotta put a leash on that bitch,” Bucky said, “I told you it wasn’t going to be easy.”

“Darling,” Loki said as you yanked against his hold, “that’s enough. Surely you didn’t forget so quickly that yours is not the only life in the balance.”

You looked over at him and blinked. You unballed your hands and stilled. You were stiff as the anger tensed your entire body but you tamped it down with effort. The men slowly released you. You peered around as you seethed, the two women at the table watched you in shock but beneath, you saw intrigue.

You raised your hands in surrender and looked at Bucky. Your jaw locked but you forced the words out. “I’m sorry.”

“Huh?” he raised his brows as his own anger receded, “what was that?”

“I’m sorry,” you enunciated, “alright?”

He laughed and looked you up and down dramatically, “didn’t think you’d get this far,” he said to Loki, “she looks like a woman.”

It took everything you had not to try again. You backed away as Loki removed his jacket and you mirrored him. He pulled out a chair and pointed you down with sneer. He sat beside you and rolled his shoulders as he fixed his blazer.

“Apologies for our lateness, we did have to make a detour,” he said, “I promise, I will keep her in line for the rest of the night.”

Bucky poked his cheek with his tongue and sucked his teeth, “you better,” he grinned.

You looked to your lap and unbent your fingers as your nails dug into your palm. You peeked around and caught the eye of Bucky’s girl and for a moment you just stared back. She was pensive and tilted her head before she looked away. You might not be entirely alone.

💀

“I am unimpressed with that scene,” Loki hissed as Korg clung to your arm and angled you up the stairs ahead of them, “but I will give you a choice. Do I punish you or your brother?”

You reached the top and turned down the hallway. You entered the bedroom without resistance as the burly toady kept his grasp on you. You turned with him and watched Loki enter.

“I’m sorry, really. I deserve… punishment. Not him,” you said stiffly as you swallowed. The words were like bile in your throat.

“Oh, darling, that is the smartest thing I’ve heard you say,” he slithered, “Korg, get her clothes off.”

You blinked and looked up at Korg. He returned your gaze doubtfully and glanced back at Loki.

“Sir?” he asked.

“You heard me,” Loki said as he went over the chest of drawers and pulled the top one out, “get her naked and put her on the bed.”

“I can do it myself--”

“No, Korg, do as I say and hold her down,” he turned as he held some leather straps and you scrunched your nose as you tried to decipher all the crisscrossing.

“Sir, I--”

“You know I don’t like to repeat myself and I’ve already done so once,” he snapped, “so do it.”

Korg let you go and you bent quickly to undo your boots. He watched you take them off and you put your back to him, “the zipper,” you said quietly. He pushed it down and you held your arms straight as he tugged the sleeves past your wrists. He jerked you unintentionally as the dress gather at your waist and apologized.

You steeled yourself and stepped out of the fabric as it fell to your ankles. It felt like giving up but it was the only way. It was a means to an end. You bit down as Korg fumbled with your bra and stuttered. You reached back to help him and the cleared his throat.

“Hurry up, you fool,” Loki growled.

Korg hesitated as he pushed down your stockings one at a time and then slipped your panties off your hips. He stood and gripped your arm, lighter than before. You let him move you to the bed and Loki stopped him.

“Raise your foot, darling,” he bent and opened the leather straps. 

You obeyed and he nodded to the other. You lifted your other foot and put it back down. He pulled it up your legs and zipped the harness up to your waist. The leather straps wounded around your pelvis and thighs but offered no cover, just a strap along your cunt. 

“Put her arms back,” Loki demanded as he rose and came around you. He pointed behind you and your wrists were buckled into the cuffs attached to the thickest strap on the harness, your arms bound behind you. “Very good, now on the bed… face down.”

Korg gently guided you down and you wiggled onto the mattress. Loki dismissed him curtly and the door closed, marking a stolid silence. You kept your face away from Loki and tested the resistance of the harness. Even if you could get free, you wouldn’t get far.

“What is the matter, darling?” he taunted as you heard the rustle of fabric.

“You know, trying not to wretch at the thought of you touching me,” you snipped.

“Oh, is that what you think your punishment is?” he mused and the air was cut with the bite of leather before it lashed across your ass, “you’ll be begging for my touch when I’m through.”

You held your breath as he laid another strike and another and your body jostled on the bed with each. You knotted your fingers and every muscle in your body was rigid. You felt the welts rising on your skin but you focused on the pain. It kept you from crying, from thinking. It kept the humiliation from drowning you.

Was it worth it? Could you live with the shame when it was over?”

He stopped as you panted shallowly. He snickered and you heard him moving around again. He tutted and the mattress dipped as he pushed your legs apart. He pulled on the strap along your cunt and slid a smooth, slightly curved object between it and your skin. He tightened the buckle at the back of the harness so that the silicon was snug to your clit.

He poked his finger along it and it began to vibrate. You sucked in your breath as your body responded to the pulsing. He retreated off the bed and you pushed your legs together. That only made the sensation more intense and you tugged desperately at the cuffs as you rolled onto your side.

“It said about twelve hours battery if kept on low,” he said, “just enough to keep you awake but not enough to do much else.”

You bared your teeth as your eyes threatened to roll back and growled. Your feet arched as you bent your legs slightly and tied to shift the vibrator. You crushed your hands as you wiggled onto your back and dug your heels into the mattress.

“I am patient, darling, you’ve helped in that,” he taunted, “but oh, it is worth the wait to see you squirm.”

“Oh, you prick, why don’t you just… get it… over with?” your breaths caught as the toy buzzed against you.

“Where is the fun in that?” he ran his hand down your thigh and you flinched, “and you kept me waiting long enough. You will know the same pain.”

“I fucking hate you,” you sneered as you rocked back and forth and pushed your head back into the bed.

“I know,” he said gleefully, “it makes it all the better.”

[arkt-nehrim-archive]

                            A Story in Spring: Renewal {2/3}

A chill, gentle breeze rustled pleasant ambience out of the surrounding evergreens, peace nestling the hearts of those who occupied one of many small glens hiding away between the rough, rocky terrain of the Northrealm's Darlan County. 

Arkt remained still, relaxed with his eyes veiled as he peered across the surface of a still frozen lake- only a stubborn, thin layer of ice where the cold winds could touch the surface. He released a tiny ball of golden light to float over the little lake, joining many others to dance with twinned reflections on the ice, all to satisfy his idleness.

While watching them bob and sway of their own accord, his thoughts could not help but meander to his own twinned shadow; the woman settled behind him in a manner most of Nehrim would consider rather intimate, her legs tucked under his arms so her form was near flush to his back, granting close and easy access. She of course, remained well occupied with what had commanded her attention for some weeks now, the fruits of her labors showing clear as what was once scorched bone was now a beautiful set of feathered wings painted in clashing tones of iridescent black and silver; yet small, not serviceable for flight, but she had steady growth well in hand.

Wisps of gold and silver intertwined between pulsing circles of light as Lithirill remained focused, but her strain clearly showed. Much as she had been vigilant in knowing the signs of Arkt reaching his limits when this arduous process had begun, he too had grown wise to her tells. While fully revitalizing bone, and reconstructing flesh had been far more taxing than the simple act of regrowing feathers, she had still been weaving her magics for a pair of hours. She hid it quite well, but she needed a break.

He'd turn his head to watch her, a small unbidden smile crossing his features as he admired all he could see; the intensity of her focus, the fascination that never faded, the relief that she had made it well past the riskiest parts. His eyes fell to her fingers stroking the soft plumage at his shoulder, speaking gently.

"Hanging in there?" 

Peridot hues shifted slower than usual to meet circles of warm gold. Cradling a wing in her hand, she tilted her head, letting her gaze drift back to the figurative sea of silver she'd not expected when she first saw them emerge from otherwise dark feathers. "Well enough."  she replied, sounding more out of breath than she would've liked, "A little sore, given our arrangement, but I'll manage. I've only another row before-" He watched her sway a bit in place, the effort to speak and cast clearly a bit too much. He'd only shake his head, supposing he should be flattered she continued to be willing to push her limits- but he'd not let her do it when bereft of sound reason. A singular act of will fettered her spells, the myriad pulses of light fading. Before she could say anything in retort, he squeezed her calf, seeing the entirety of her leg shift up as she drew in a breath. "Too much longer of that and we would be trading places on who was tending who.~" he continued, the expression of entertainment growing on his face.

Overcoming the sensation of her spellwork coming to a halt so quickly, she settled his wing upon the grass and fumbled with her flask, taking a swig of ambrosia, eye twitching in brief disgust at a taste she'd never fully get used to no matter how hard she pretended to stomach it. To save Arkt the misfortune of smelling her breath, she rummaged into a pocket pouch and plucked free a bit of candied sugarmint, pressing one to her tongue and offering another to him. He only raised a brow, seeing her hum with a chuckle as she rolled the candy over her tongue a few times.

"And here I thought I was the mender, well within my scope of knowing precisely when to halt my machinations." she answered, loose fingers idly playing with feathers now mingling with the short, early growths of a Spring clawing its way from Winter.

Ignoring her overstaying gestures and teasing, Arkt decided to insist. Test a different sort of limit, more his own than her's.

"One of many things you've proven to be, yet all you'll be if these scales do not balance out between us is spent and miserable. -That- won't do. Come, take your deserved respite...Perhaps by the water's edge? Wandering deeper into the forest?" he carried on, pondering as he idly plucked at the laces of her boots before raising a finger in the air, adopting a playful expression. "-Ah-. I could carry you all the way back to the castle, where I'm sure a warm fire is waiting."

The entire offer was beginning to sound too good to be true. Arkt was a cordial creature, generous and open with her since the first, in his own mysterious way. Even so, there had been a boundary anyone with sense could read- and that was before considering all the legends implied, pushing Arkt closer to the threshold of a nameless entity than a man of flesh and blood.

Of course...He would not, and did not push that expectation upon her. Even standing before the very champion of Fate itself, did he only refer to himself as "a free man".  

Swallowing, Lith wetted her tongue, wavering curiosity in her eyes.

"If you think the notion of -any- of that will do anything beneficial for me..." she hovered over the words, off put that he wasn't only engaging with a warmer flavor of conversation, but -instigating- it rather fervently; so unlike him, "...you'd be right to a degree, but the tone of the evening would shift rather drastically."

"Yes, that was something of the point in saying all I did~." he returned, tilting his head just so, wavy raven locks shifting to dangle over his face, breaking off the subtle glow around his irises.

The fingers at his shoulder faltered a touch as Lithirill leaned back a little, so obviously flabbergasted and growing stymied by thoughts of what could follow that Arkt could -barely- contain the laughter.

"...You -are- flirting." she stated the obvious in baffled amazement, daring to dance as she tucked her ankle closer to his thigh, curling fingers round his arm as she leaned precariously close to resting her chin on his shoulder, "...I'll risk the embarrassment in asking you to pinch me. Whatever brought this on?"

"You're quite lucid, I assure you." he returned, shrugging gently as he abided her closeness,  resting his arm over her knee,  "Gratitude? Inspiration? Perhaps it's even -delirium-. Much as you puzzle over me, my mind still balks at knowing without a shadow of a doubt that my -wings- are resting between you and I. That evokes much..."

Lithirill's lips were caught between that confident smirk and the rarer nervous simper as he trailed off, cheeks growing warmer. She looked akin to a hare about to get pounced on by a hawk.

These games of idle coyness had become commonplace from his companion, at least since the conclusion of events that had named her Tel'lmaltath, but she knew them to be just that, a simple expression of her nature that receded the moment it ever hinted at offending him.

They had grown closer over the weeks of her tending, but never once had it played out like this when they did dance their short little twists and turns around one another.

She had strode atop the corpses of "Gods". Clutching the forces of Life and Death in her hands as if she alone were the scale to balance them.  Yet in humbler times, she had also been the withdrawn scholar, who took solace in pining over tales of fallen champions turned embodiment of untamable wrath. Twas a nostalgic feeling to be more the latter, quite too stricken to speak as she stared at the individual who had been such an entrenched inspiration to her. It would take another gentle pat atop her knee to pull her back to reality as Arkt actually half-barked a laugh.

"I expected some manner of stuttering your step Lithirill, yet as ever you exceed my expectations.~"  he admitted, eyeing her up and down as best he could at their odd angle,  "Are you quite all right? I feel as if your legs might give if you tried to stand at the moment." The flare of embarrassment had finally caught up with her as she blinked, scoffing out a laugh at her own expense. Reaching up to rub at her eyes, she showed teeth in an lopsided half-grin, the fatigue of the evening's work settling in.

"I won't pretend as if your accusation isn't dead on." she sighed in plain defeat,  "To one such as you, I'm sure I'm -quite- predictable, toying with you as I have been. You'll forgive me if I continue to be confounded by you in the meantime?"

"Hmmn. I like the predictability. Knowing all you've achieved that I could do no more than gamble on or hope for, the certainty of moments such as these are a comfort." he confessed, "Though, I can do nothing for your rattled humors~."

"Ahah...Don't be so sure..."  she hums  along, continuing to play gently with his feathers, very much tempted to pull herself flush to his back as she droned on in a playful tone, "Well then, I suppose I should find some courage, lest I bore you with my -quite- uncharacteristic, girlish stammering? It's unbecoming, truly, I can all be feel the whole of Qyra groaning in disappointment."

"I happen to be thoroughly enjoying myself, if it's any comfort. Though, you could stand to get under a wing at this point, you're starting to shiver." he murmured, leaning that little bit closer as to let his hair tickle her nose, "Or is that the nerves?"    

She scoffed, her eyes veiled as she turned her head up, resting brow to brow with him, "...Well now you're just -teasing-."

The seraph could only chuckle gently, nodding along, not missing the look in her eye.

"Oh absolutely." he near whispered, a lurching chill settling in his chest.

"...and what do you intend to -do- about that?"

He barely heard her, though the shift in her tone was still perfectly clear, a certain expectation slipping past her jitters. Finding the edge of how far he could dare to wander, he hovered over her lips a moment before swallowing, sighing through his nose and resolving to press a kiss to her hair instead of anything more tempting.

An apologetic smile met her fluttering lashes and tilted head as the air of their saccharine courtship turned to numbing concern.

"Nothing. Yet." he admitted gently, "In the similar vein that I am not ready to fly, I can guess neither of us are -truly- ready to do anything about this in a way we might not later regret. Curiosity plays us as one might a lute, to be sure, but..." 

Just like that, Arkt was at a loss for words.

Understanding what he likely meant, Lithirill's thoughts drifted momentarily to how the seraph regarded the grave site of the woman who had changed his life for all time. That estranging familiarity washed over her yet again, Zelara's image overwhelming her mind's eye for just a moment before she exhaled away the sensation.

As much for his comfort as her own, she brushed the back of her fingers along the spot where his feathers were there smallest, near transluscent plumes decorating the edges of his shoulder blades. She willed the roused appetite in her to settle, offering an understanding smile, lopsided though it was in the touch of disappointment she let slip.

"No need to explain, Arkt. As you told me when we set off on this little task of our's, we've nothing but time; that goes for more than just your wings." she spoke, turning her gaze north toward the off-the-beat path they'd meandered onto to find their surroundings, "For the moment, we may as well return to the castle. It is a touch chilly, and I won't lie. I'll need a bath after -that- particular bout of testing the waters."

An empty spot of last-minute insinuations and the signal their dance was over, placing them confidently back where they had begun;  Lithirill testing his boundaries and Arkt waiting patiently behind them, watchful. He'd join her again when he was ready.  If she knew one thing now, -she- certainly wasn't going to be when he did. 

                                                       ~Fin~

[jinxytwinxydoo]

Plot/Prompt: Peter snaps instead of Tony.

[1/?]

Reposts are appreciated ^^

—

“I am… inevitable.”

Nothing.

He watched silently as confusion slowly melted across Thanos’ face, his eyes narrowing and imaginary eyebrows furrowing. He slowly looked around until his eyes land on the figure. On the small boy that stands hunched over, one arm hanging limply while the other is held tightly to his chest. Slowly, he straightens up. His limp arm swings backwards as he shakily shoves the one held against his chest forward. Slowly, the mask around his head recedes to reveal a boy no older than seventeen. His eyes are narrowed and glazed over with pain, but there is so much determination in them. He clenched his jaw, gasping as lines of white crept beneath his skin. He panted, slowly oustretching his fingers as pain blossomed throughout his arm. Each knuckle gleamed a furiously bright color, shining as he slowly looked at the Titan.

“And I…am…Spider-Man.”

His fingers brush against each other and then it all turns white. His arm bursts into agony. He knows he's screaming, but it is muffled by the deafening burst of energy that erupts from him. He squeezes his eyes shut as everything slowly fades back. His legs tremble unsteadily beneath him as he gazes up with unfocused and vacant eyes. He can see figures slowly dissolving into ash and dust, floating away in the wind. He trembles, watching as it happens.

Suddenly, his legs feel too weak to hold him up. He staggers to the left, his body tilting. There's a soft thump as his body hits something soft, and then there’s a voice in his ears. “Easy, Queens…” it’s muffled and distant, and he’s vaguely aware of the fact that it’s Captain America. He feels himself being eased to the ground slowly as his legs buckle and fold, unable to hold him upright anymore. His chest heaves as he wheezes, rasping whispers dying on his tongue.

“Kid!”

His head, which is leaned against Captain America’s knees, lolls bonelessly to the left at the cry. A gleaming red figure sprints over, shoving aside Thor in the process. He spins to avoid a blue lady, stumbling and falling. His legs churn and there’s a whine as thrusters power to life, boosting him forward just a little. He slides to a stop besides him, his hand patting him down gently. “Hey, hey… hey there, underoos.”

“Hey T’ny…”

It's a choked, strained rasp that comes clawing up his throat painfully slow. He shifts his left arm, slowly sliding it across the ground so his knuckles brush against Tony’s knees. He can’t feel his right arm. It’s just pins and needles all over his body, but it stops at his right shoulder. Oddly enough, he’s glad that he can’t feel his right arm. He’s sure something is wrong, though, judging by the horrified expression slowly dawning on Tony’s face.

“We need medical! Now!”

Captain America’s voice was shrill and made him grimace, but he did his best to hide it. He blinked sluggishly at the figure, then back at Tony when he felt hands on his shoulders. His back ached icily as he was slowly priced away from Captain America’s knees and instead pulled towards Tony. He found himself suddenly reeling upright, rolling over onto his side and moving a hand towards the ground desperately.

“May.. ‘otta tell… okay…”

He rasped. Tony shook his head, his hands resting shakily on his shoulders. Without any more strength, he slumped against the man in iron. His chest met Tony’s with a dull thump. He let the side of his face rest against the surprisingly warm metal as his arms dangled uselessly at Tony’s sides. Hands gently patted his back as he lay there, his chest heaving. He could see other figures standing by and watching, painfully silent as they watched the two figures sit there.

“You’re gonna be okay, Peter. You’re gonna be fine… you’re gonna be tip-top shape…”

Peter. That was his name.

Peter slowly craned his head backwards, leaving his Adam Apple exposed. He stared up at wide, terrified eyes as words slowly formed on his lips. “Did I do good?” He whispered, trying vainly to rotate his body so that he didn’t have to lean his head so far back at such an awkward angle. However, his limbs remained heavy and uncooperative. So instead, his head fell back to lay against the iron as he let out a trembling breath.

“You did good, kid… you did amazing.

He did good. He blinked, letting that sentence be processed in his head. A humorless, satisfied huff of laughter left him as he let his head slowly droop downwards so that his chin met his shoulder. There was no more energy left in his bones, but he felt the urge to keep his eyes open. His eye-lids fluttered as he fought the darkness rising from the back of his vision, but it was a losing battle.

“You’re alright, kid. You can rest. You did good.”

Nothing.

Waking up the first time was hard.

His eyes felt dry and heavy when his eyes-lids slowly peeled upward. He was immediately blasted with a heavy smell of antiseptics, Clorox, and… axe spray? He blinked slowly, grimacing against the light that battered his eyes relentlessly. His head felt heavy and his body felt like it was floating.

Where am I?

What happened?

Did we win?

Where’s mister Stark?

Am I dead?

“You with me?”

His head lolled to the left and he blinked slowly at a man sitting in a chair. His arms were folded and he was leaning forward, his eyes bright with interest. His shoulders rose and his breath hitched as he tilted his head, grunting. “Kid? You there?”

Happy.

“Yeah… ‘m here…” his mouth didn’t move the way he wanted it to. His jaw felt heavy and lax. He inhaled and exhaled, letting his gaze slowly drift upwards towards a tiled ceiling. Tiled ceiling with the perfect squares. The sides are even and balanced and perfect. Symmetrical. A perfect design that danced across the ceiling in a satisfying way.

He felt the warm tug of sleep beckoning to him once more. He glanced over at Happy, who was staring down at his phone. His fingers flew across the screen, a… a smile tugging at his lips. “Can you stay with me here, kid? Just a few more minutes?” He glanced up and he frowned a little at the half-lidded look he was receiving. After a moment, a gentle smile formed back on his lips and he reached a hand forward tentatively. He squeezed his hand, nodding. “You can rest if you want to, Pete.”

Peter. That was his name.

“‘id I do good?” He whispered breathlessly, his voice coming out broken and slurred. Happy’s eyes widened a little, taken aback by the sudden question. After a moment, with half-lidded eyes dancing with fondness, the man gave a little nod. “You did good, bud.”

Nothing.

His eyes opened much easier, but his chest felt tight. His entire body ached as he slowly opened his eyes. It was much less bright than the last time he opened his eyes, and there were considerably more people. One more person, that was. He blinked slowly, his head slowly rotating from left to right as he eyed the two people up and down. One was on each side of his bed. He recognized the one of his left right away as Captain America, but the one on the right wasn’t as familiar to him. He recognized him because of his metal arm from the airport, but his identity was something he did not know. They didn’t seem to notice he was awake until he tried to force a few words up his throat, only to wheeze pitifully.

Both faces snapped upright. Captain America tilted his head, putting on a little smile. “Peter, right?” He murmured softly. Peter. That was his name. He nodded slowly, blinking at the idol owlishly. He gave a little laugh and nodded. “I’m assuming you know who I am. But please, call me Steve.” At that, the man with an arm snorted. “Yes sir Captain Rogers.”

Steve looked over at the man, then back at Peter. He motioned towards the man, likely a friend. “This is my friend, Bucky.” He explained. The man—Bucky, Peter’s mind supplied—folded his arms and raised an eyebrow at Steve. Peter nodded silently, trying to wait for his sore throat to stop throbbing so that he could speak. Before he could even try, Steve spoke up once again. “Are you in any pain?”

Peter shrugged. He wasn’t in terrible agony. It was more so a numb aching. He was sore all over, like the first day after practice for a sport. The type of aching from your limbs when you’re sore. Steve nodded silently at the response, glancing over at Bucky for a second before back at Peter. He opened his mouth to speak once again, but Peter cut him off right away.

“Do good?”

Those two words were the only ones he found himself able to summon. He grimaced as his voice cracked, smiling a sheepish, lopsided grin at the two who both blinked. Steve seemed to take a moment to process the question, but he was quickly nodding his head vigorously a moment later. “You did amazing, Queens.”

Nothing.

[radiosandrecordings]

:DDDD im thinking either jm or daisira "if this is my last chance to say it...."

 No proof reading we publish 1000 words of train of thought writing at 1am and we take our inconsistencies like a MAN

The safehouse was cold, actually. 

‘Bloody freezin,’ if you’d asked Jon’s grandmother. But no one had, because she’d been dead five years now, and if the End was dredging up spirits any time soon, Jon doubted she’d make top of the list, even for him.

To combat the frigidness of the air, he was currently wrapped under a duvet and two comforters, and additionally, Martin’s arm. It was heavy, weighing him down with a pleasant comfort, languidly thrown over him from where the man next to him lay, asleep on his front, which Jon found inconceivable for comfort reasons. Though Martin seemed to find it relaxing enough, neck turned so his face pressed gently into the pillow, tilted in Jon’s direction. He could count every freckle from this angle. He got up to five in his sleep dazed stupor before he caught himself. 

It was probably after twenty minutes of lying there, eyes half-lidded in the peace of the early morning, that Jon felt the arm recede from around his middle. He caught the hand attached before it could snake away. 

‘Hm? Jon?’ It was mumbled behind a curtain of haziness, eyes still blinking away bleariness to meet his own. 

‘Is that okay?’ Jon asked, blunt as always.

‘Hn? What? Uh- Yeah. Yeah of course. Did I- Sorry did I grab you in the night or somethi-’

‘Yes,’ Jon cut him off, ‘But I don’t... Mind. It was- Well it was that I wanted to talk about. Kind of. Sort of.’ 

Martin’s hand had gone limp in his, no longer trying to pull away, but not wrapping his fingers tight around Jon’s, interlocking in that perfect way, like it had when they’d trailed out of the Lonely. 

‘Oh?’ Was all Martin replied, blush beginning to settle itself behind the freckles, like the kids at hide and seek with the absolute worst spots.   

‘How- How much longer? Do you think we have left here, that is.’ And the words were out of his mouth before he could process how atrociously they brought down the mood. Not the tone he was going for, but it’d do. 

‘Oh- Uhm. I dunno. Couple of weeks? Two, maybe? I don’t know how long it’d take to track us down. Or if anything even cares to right now. I wasn’t exactly important to anyone but Peter, and Jonah doesn’t really seem like the ‘March into the highlands guns a blazin’ type.’ 

‘Yes, but.. Surely there’ll be something. This... It can’t last, can it?’ Martin had rolled over onto his side to meet Jon’s gaze, and Jon pulled up their hands so they were pressed between them. He could feel the subtle movements run through them, the vibrations of their chests, rising, falling, rising, falling, in, out, in-

‘I’m sorry,’ and Jon clutched the hand tighter because he’d be damned if he heard an echo at the trailing end of that, ‘I’m sorry that you’re stuck here. With me. In some... Shitty, damp, no-bloody-insulation single-glazing-window draught-under-every-door safehouse in the highlands. I didn’t even ask if you wanted to be here. I just followed what Basira said now we’re gona be hunted down in the middle of nowhere because I-’

Several seconds before Martin had cut himself off, Jon had began to mutter ‘No.’ He continued to rattle the word off, gradually rising in volume until Martin eventually tapered off. ‘No. Hush. Untrue, the lot of it. I’m here because I want to be. I’ve been kidnapped a lot, I know what it feels like, and this? Not one of those times.’ 

Martin, almost imperceptibly, mumbled ‘Don’t joke about that...’, which Jon promptly ignored. 

‘I’m here because for however much time we have left- this frankly horrid old cottage is home. The doors may have bloodstains, and there’s never enough hot water, but that’s not home. Home is... We bought those god-ugly mugs down at that little handmade craft store in town. And I’ve gota say, those? Contain the best tea I’ve ever had. And home is... The stacks of books in the living room, piling up in the corner because of course Daisy never needed a bookshelf, but we do. Because we’re- We’re nerds Martin, who spent last night wine drunk and having the ‘Is Keats Really That Bad’ debate, round three. And home is that conversation. And home is waking up with Martin Blackwood’s arm around me, because he rolled over in his sleep and his instinct was to hold me.And I think... I think, if it’s my last chance to say it, before the Hunters come barging in, or Jonah, or Annabelle, or whoever decided I can’t have a bit of peace for five fucking minutes- I think you, Martin Blackwood, need to know that I wouldn’t have it any other way. That given a thousand different things to be doing, right now, the best possible option is to be lying here with you. Because, all that being said, I think I love you quite a lot.’

He ran his thumb down the side of their entwined hands, the companion of which had given up on being limp and was now carefully gripping his in return. 

Quieter, he repeated it, head nodding gently as he fully parsed the words. ‘I think I love you quite a lot. Is- Is that okay?’

His chin hooked over a shoulder as a beloved surged forward, free arm coiling around his back, the other remaining tangled with his own. 

He couldn’t see his face, but his voice was somewhat tearful. ‘Yeah. That’s- That’s very, very okay. I think- I think maybe... I think maybe we might both be okay.’ 

[duoplicitous]

❣

Kissu meme [accepting]

9. a bleeding / bloody kiss. 

A building is burning, little fireballs going off as the roof collapses and the windows crack under the pressure of heat. Dabi comes up alongside Jin, soot on his cheek and shadows casting the angles of his face in sharp relief. He stands there for awhile, observing his work, then ducks his head, parted lips hovering in the air beside the blonde's ear. Whispers to him, barely audible above the creak and groan of protesting wood. Whispers dirty things in dialect as he tells him his darkest promises.

Like most of the block, Twice is gawking at the destruction illuminating the span of the street. He can feel the dry, cloying heat roiling off the steadily deteriorating complex as it’s eaten away by the inside, reduced to a charred, glowing skeleton. He barely notices Dabi’s there at all until his breath ghosts across his jawline and the curve of his ear, hissing slightly from shock and the slow creep of a fierce blush blossoming it’s way up his neck.

"You’re such a romantic," he laughs, trying to pull the old witty repartee he usually shoots the younger man, but the warmth burning up his face refuses to recede. He hopes the light is diffusing it somehow.

“You’re fuckin’ cute when you blush,” the pyrokinetic chuckles. "Come on, there's nothing else to watch here."

A shudder runs up the length of Jin's spine just as the top floor windows of the buildings suddenly explode into curling tendrils of flames, the shockwave rustling his clothes and hair with a sweltering blast of wind. A bead of sweat snakes down the column of his neck as he turns his head and Twice is eerily cognizant of his comrade’s crazy-calm. The dark, grainy smudges sitting high on his cheekbone and the light casting faded, contrasting lines against the darker colors of his clothing. The chaos of the ongoing fire reflected in his eyes.

The crowd scatters in a screaming, lemming-like rush of bodies as firefighters storm the perimeter to extinguish the growing blaze licking angrily at the skyline, brackish streams of ugly smoke bleeding into a haze of orange-red.

They remain in the middle of the street for a time, where shards of melting glass shine against the pavement like diamonds and ash begins to fall around them like dirty snow.

With all the the moisture sucked out of the air, he can feel a thick trail of blood slipping down the side of his chin, oozing from a jagged cut on the corner of his upper lip from where a shard of glass had nicked him. His vision is obscured when Dabi tilts his head at an angle, the tip of his tongue worming into the wound as though savoring the taste before deciding to share it with the blonde.

They exchange a brief look- No words necessary as slim, scarred digits lace their way between the tips of his fingers.

Where Dabi begins to lead him in darkness, he follows.