#all bared teeth and raised hackles

[keirametzbrassknuckles]

Living with someone who subsists on a diet of cigarettes and nothing else if left to their own devices means you occasionally must wear the hat of beast tamer in your own house

[ceilidho]

take me home, country road

[ao3]

prompt: 1800s price/reader…. reader flees to his town where Price is the sheriff after a murder in her previous town only to be mistaken for the mail order bride that Price just sent for ….and he’s not interested in hearing any of her excuses when she tells him that he’s got the wrong girl (part 3) part 1, part 2

-

“Neglecting your husband already?” he asks when you pull away from the arm curling around your waist. It’d migrated there from your back during the walk away from the courthouse. 

“You know I’m not—I’m not some horse that you can just…break in,” you seethe, glaring up at Price. Your arms are crossed tight over your chest, putting the slightest boundary between you and him. It’s more of a mental boundary than anything, a self-soothing gesture; you know it hardly even registers to him because the man still looks down at you with that unimpressed expression, like dealing with a particularly vexing child. 

“I hadn’t noticed,” he says dryly, looking you up and down. It’s a scorching, hungry look and it makes you shift from foot to foot. 

The two of you stand outside the front door of his house, the front door still shut tight. You put up a fuss on the walk from town as the reality of your situation finally sunk in, squirming in his hold until he threatened to just load you over his shoulder and carry you off. His tone leaves little for you to doubt. Nothing about him brooks skepticism; until the end of time, you’ll look at John Price and think, this is a man of action. This is a man that will move heaven and earth. 

You clam up after that, lips pursed shut though turned down at the corners. 

It’s a bigger house than you might’ve expected for a single man, but perhaps it was built with a wife and children in mind. The thought makes you swallow. A wooden two-story thing with a porch out front and an adjacent stable for his two horses with a pen around back. Speckled Appaloosas that look up at the sound of his boots and keys, attentive for all of a few seconds before losing interest. 

You know without asking that Price must have built this house with his own two hands. It’s not shoddy by any means, but his house has that indefinable quality that some places have. Organic. Homegrown, almost. It’s hard to put up against the houses of your youth, but then again, you grew up in the cramped quarters of the city, apartments thick with the scent of sewage on bad days and dust on the good. The two are hardly comparable. It’s even harder to put up against the estates that you’ve spent the better part of the last few years cleaning and learning inside out, but at least his house doesn’t make your stomach turn at the sight. 

There’s a moment when you first turn to him where you wonder if he’ll look for approval in your face, some sign to set him at ease, but when you meet his gaze, it’s steady and impenetrable. Quietly self-assured. It’s incongruent with the machismo you were raised around, the constant need to impress or transcend. It puts you on edge. It makes you almost feel like baring your teeth.

Your comment had come from seeing the horses and the house and the porch with the two rocking chairs, your hackles raising every step closer. Price built his house big enough for children because he anticipated a baby in his future. Children he’d have with his wife, which, though a fuzzy memory as far as memories go, you quietly stepped into the role of not half an hour ago. 

You’ve thought about it before. Motherhood; marriage, domestic living, settling down with a man to start a family. The reality of your life has always made it seem like a problem for the future. Years chipping away like flakes of faded paint off the walls of your bedroom, still living with your aunt and uncle well into adulthood, trying desperately to scrimp and save and stay afloat. Disappointing but not surprising that you’d never been considered the marriable sort, not with scrubbing other people's toilets for a living. 

And now look at you, ring on your finger and whisked home to be bedded. A shiver roles down your spine at the thought and you scowl at Price instead of sinking into the strange thrill. 

When he wraps a hand around your wrist to pull you towards him (his fingers easily overlapping; another thrill), you snap.

“That is quite enough with all the touching!” 

His eyes narrow. “I’ll have more than my hands on you by the end of the night.”

A more proper woman would gasp. You barely hold yours back. 

You know in the back of your mind that you’ve already lost any semblance of an upper hand in this situation. It has long spiraled out of your control. His ring sits on your finger all nice and pretty, and though you signed your marriage license under a different name—your own rather than the name of his actual intended—that Price hadn’t even bothered confirming, you are, for all intents and purposes, his to touch as he pleases. 

“I’m—” your eyes dart around, the urge to bolt a sharp and sudden compulsion lodged in your chest, “—I know I said yes, but I—there’s always the possibility of an a-annulment if we don’t…if…”

You flinch, startled, when he pulls you into his chest only to cup your face again. He has big hands with callused fingers, rough against your skin. Up close, you can see the way his beard is cropped closer than his mustache and mutton chops. It gives him a grim air, almost somber until you catch his eyes staring down at you with an affection that feels unearned, meant for someone else. 

“Deep breaths, darling, there’s nothing to fret about just yet. You’ll work yourself into a state like this,” he murmurs, dropping his head to sip a kiss from your lips again. 

You’ve been in a state since the moment you walked into the sheriff’s office and laid eyes on this man. Turned around and knocked sideways, like you’ve walked into a storybook without noticing. If only it hadn’t all been so sudden, you might’ve been able to approach the situation with a clearer head. You might’ve been able to think up some other way out of it beyond giving Price a fake name and waiting anxiously for your true identity to be painstakingly drawn out over the course of a week. 

“Don’t know why you keep working yourself up,” Price says softly, then slots your lips together for another tender kiss. “Figured you might be a little skittish, but…’m gonna be such a good husband for you, honey. Not gonna want for nothing.”

His slow kisses drag out longer than back in the courthouse, languorous and decadent. As if he has all the time in the world now. In a way, he does, now that he’s helped collect your belongings from the inn and brought you home. When you think of pulling away, the hand wrapped around your wrist lets go and slides to your back, pulling you flush against his chest. Your breasts flatten against his chest, pulse skittering like mad when you feel the hardest of his chest against yours and the muscle holding you in place. 

You can’t help the whimper that escapes your lips when the hand on your cheek slides to the nape of your neck and grips, holding you in place. The kiss deepens, the heat on your cheeks feeling palpably hot, vision swimming until your eyes have no choice but to flutter shut. Your suitcase sits forgotten somewhere in the dirt, toppled over onto its side. You pant low, hot breaths into his mouth when he breaks the kiss, letting his lips just hover over yours.

“There we go, darlin’,” Price mumbles against your mouth, sliding the hand on your low back down to grip the plump flesh of your ass through your dress, lips twitching when you make a broken, affronted sound. “Isn’ that better? Not thinkin’ so hard?”

You can’t think at all, in truth. When he kisses you again, your thoughts evaporate up into the clouds, the tongue licking into your mouth dispelling any ideas or notions you might’ve had. It disappears into the heat and lust and the fingers digging into your backside, groping at the flesh there without shame or compunction. You go with him when he clutches you closer, gasping again into his mouth when you feel something hard press against your low belly. He grunts when you twitch against it. 

“John—John—” you gasp, pulling your mouth away and whimpering when he chases after you, letting him steal another wet, slick kiss before your trembling hands clutch at the fabric of his shirt. “Enough—it’s not—it’s not proper—”

“No prying eyes around here,” he grunts. “‘Sides, who’s going to tell a man he can’t kiss his own wife?”

Trembling all the harder at his words, you dig your nails into his shirt sleeves and hope you pinch the skin underneath. All twisted up inside. The ring on your finger glimmers when it catches the light, brighter even than the sun this close to your face. When Price feels your nails dig into his arms, he groans, fingers pressing harder into your bottom and making you squeak. All the pent up lust finally trickling out of him and into you. 

“C’mon, honey, let’s get you inside.” He finally lets you go after giving your bottom lip one last wet suck, pulling it into his mouth while his half-lidded eyes stare into yours. It’s somehow more intimate than kissing. 

You’re still reeling when he turns around to pick your suitcase off the ground, certain that your knees will give way and send you tumbling as well. Every point of contact on your body sizzles, aches. You watch from outside of yourself as he turns back to you, suitcase in his hand now, eyes still dark and fixed on you. Hungry. Your eyes widen when they flit down to find a thick bulge at the crotch of his pants. 

Like a cold bucket of water has been dumped over your head, you hiss and back up three steps when he takes a step towards you. “Oh no, you don’t take one step closer! I won’t have anything to do with—with that!”

You must look like some feral barn cat, back all puffed up, teeth bared to the man trying to coax you towards him. Price must see it too because he grins, amused. “Still spittin’ mad, huh? Felt those claws in me before, darlin’…gonna love feeling them with nothing between us.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

Price doesn’t bother clearing anything up, but you intuit it the second he takes another step in your direction, whirling around and sprinting towards the house. It feels counterproductive to seek shelter in the man’s house, but dusty plains stretch out in every direction apart from back into town, where you know not a soul will lift a finger to help you. His house is the only shelter you’re going to get.

You hurry up the porch stairs, tearing open the door before glancing over your shoulder to find Price not far behind. He advances on you at a walking pace, but each stride of his long legs matches two of yours, making you shriek and scurry up the staircase. You dart for the first open door you see, slamming it shut behind you and leaning your whole weight against it. Glancing down, you perk up at the sight of a lock on the door before flipping it.

It’s not long before the sound of boots clomping up the staircase meets your ears, headed straight in your direction. You shake when you hear him pause right outside the door, then startle when he tries the knob. 

“You gonna let me in, darling?” Price asks, grin in his voice. Even raps his knuckle against the door for good measure.

“No,” you snap. 

“Not even for your things? Got your suitcase right here.” You hear him set it down, a little clunk against the wood floor. 

“I can manage like this. I’ve slept in my dress before.”

He pauses. “Have you?”

You tilt your chin up proudly despite the door blocking his view. “Yes, and I don’t mind doing it again. You can just stay on the other side of that door until you…until you put that thing away.”

“Can’t do much about that thing, darling; it’s sort of grown on me over the years anyway,” Price chuckles. “Well, not much I can do with it behind this door. I’ll go tend the horses ‘till suppertime comes ‘round and then come back to tend to you.”

“Licentious…reprobate,” you hiss through the door. 

He laughs, the sound deep in his throat. Your stomach flips. 

The stairs creak under the weight of his boots as he descends back downstairs. You wait until you hear the front door open and shut behind him, until the house is completely quiet save for the blood pumping in your ears before you hastily unlock the door and dart a hand out just to pull your suitcase in. You shut and lock the door as soon as it passes the threshold. 

It takes a while to settle your nerves and for the trembling to subside. In the meantime, you sit on your bottom at the foot of the door, with your back still pressed firmly to the wood, and take stock. There’s a bed in the room, one you hadn’t noticed in your mad scramble to lock yourself in. A bigger bed than the one you’d slept on back at the inn, but just as sparse, with gray flannel sheets and a blue quilt folded and draped over the end of the bed. 

The rest of the furniture in the room—two end tables, a chest of drawers, a desk, and two chairs situated in the corner of the room—appears so consistent in its design that you have to wonder if Price made them by hand as well. Hardly a reason to question it. You think to yourself that you’ll have to ask him how he finds the time only to quickly shake that thought away. Can’t be getting too chummy, certainly not if you don’t expect to be around in a month’s time. Hopefully less than that. 

You chew on your lip at the thought of fleeing in the night.

It trickles into your thoughts while you open your suitcase on the bed and riffle around for your nightwear. Price will likely keep you under lock and key for at least the first week of your marriage, giving you little opportunity to take off any time soon. If only you’d held your tongue and played the demure bride, he might’ve had some cause to trust you. Certainly not now, after your most recent display. 

Your own stupid fault, as usual. It’s not the first time your temper has gotten the better of you. You’ve faced worse consequences for it. 

Outside the window on the far end of the room, a horse whinnies. You pause, remembering that Price hadn’t gone very far. When you glance out curiously, you see him letting the horses into the pen, giving one a good rub down the bridge of its nose. The horses seem to melt under his touch. 

It’s strange watching him from far away. From a distance, it’s hard to reconcile him with the man that bent you over his desk not an hour ago and tanned your bottom. You cringe at the memory. It’s not that Price doesn’t seem like a man that would take his wife over his knee if he saw fit to do so, but you still can’t imagine yourself as that woman. When you think about it, it feels like a play, something you saw happen to someone else. Not you wailing and squirming like a cat in heat. 

As if feeling your stare, he glances up at the window and winks when he catches your eye. With a squeak, you leap away from the window, scurrying back over to the bed. 

A couple hours pass in restless contemplation, practically biting your nails to the quick. Eyeing the windowsill like you still might go over there just to check on what Price is up to outside. You hear him come back into the house once or twice, tensing up at the sound of his boots, only to be left vaguely disappointed when you hear him leave and the screen door slam shut behind him. 

You spend so long holed up in the bedroom that you miss lunch entirely. Below you, you hear Price puttering around downstairs in the kitchen—the sound of a knife chopping vegetables and then the sizzle of meat on a pan. The hunger pangs nearly make you break, but you’ve gone without food before. 

Your heart skips a beat when you hear him ascend the staircase again and place something just outside of your door. He doesn’t try coaxing you out this time, just heads back down the stairs and out the front door. Again, you ignore the pang of disappointment; ignore the urge to open the door and holler down the stairs for him to stay gone. 

He leaves anyway. 

Curiosity needles at you though, so you open the door up a crack when you’re sure you’re alone. There’s a plate at the foot of the door with vegetables and meat, slightly cooled but still fresh, the plate still warm. He must’ve known you wouldn’t try coming downstairs and fixed you up a plate. 

You eat in silence at the desk, bad mood ripening. Angry at yourself and everyone else. Even John. Especially John. The audacity of fixing you up a plate, of thinking of you in the first place. Irritated enough to stand boldly by the window this time, hand clutched in the curtain, tracking the movement of his shoulders and hips when he moves with the horses and fetches water from the well. You lose sight of him a couple times as he finishes up the day’s chores around the house, but the flutter in your belly always settles when he comes back into view. 

It’s easy to let yourself admire him from afar, somehow less humiliating without his eyes on you. He’s a solid man, body carved into its shape from the rough labor that’s part and parcel of living out on the frontier. A wide back tapering down to lean, narrow hips and thick, muscled thighs hewn from lifting and pulling and all manner of physical work. You bite your lip when you remember what it felt like to cling to that back and dig your nails into his arms. 

You give your head a shake. It’s dangerous to let a thought like that latch on. 

In the few hours between lunch and sunset, you occupy yourself by reading one of the books stowed away in your suitcase. Then get bored and refold your clothes. The horses bray when they’re taken into the stables for the evening. The crickets out in the bushes in the yard chirp as the sun sets pink in the far distance. It’s quieter out here in the plains than back in the city, you think, something you haven’t yet had the time to appreciate. 

When Price comes in for the night, you’re firm in your resolve to keep the door shut. If lunch at the door was just an attempt to butter you up, he has another thing coming. In a house this big, there’s likely a guest room or somewhere else to sleep—a sofa or a sleeping bag tucked away under the stairs. He’ll just have to make do while you take the bedroom. There’ll be no sharing a bed with the man that grabbed your backside like a piece of meat. 

He doesn’t come up the stairs right away. Like before, you hear him rustle up supper, spatula scraping against a pan and knife coming down on a chopping block again and again. Not enough time has passed since lunch for you to feel more than peckish. You’re thankful for that when you hear him sit down to eat. 

The knock at the door startles you. You hadn’t heard him come up the stairs. “Ready to talk now?”

You stare balefully at the door. “No.”

“We have to figure this out sometime, darling.”

“No, we don’t.”

“I’m sorry if I gave you a fright earlier, but, honey, that’s how husbands kiss their wives. Nothing improper about it.”

“I’m not frightened, I’m just not—we don’t need to do any of that,” you huff, embarrassed all over again. “You’ve hardly given me any time to even think. I didn’t know you from Adam this morning and now we’re married.”

Price sighs, the sound muffled through the door. “What am I going to do with you, honey?” It’s said to himself, a fond exasperation that puts you on edge all over again. He has no right to be amused with you, no right to be delighted and charmed by your ire. 

“Well, you can sleep somewhere else for the time being. I’d prefer the bed to myself.”

He lets out a low, dark laugh. “There’s not a chance in hell that I’m sleeping anywhere but with my wife from this point on. You oughta come to terms with that quick.”

“Well then, you can sleep out there because I’m not unlocking the door!”

He lets out a mean sound, almost mocking. “Yeah, ‘bout time I addressed that, huh?”

His words make you frown until you hear a floorboard creak as Price does something on the other side of the door. Then the doorknob jiggles. Horrified, you watch as the door unlocks and the knob turns, your husband’s body filling out the door frame. You’d forgotten how well he could fill one out. He almost has to duck to come inside, mused hair from working outside all day brushing against the top of the frame. 

“Always put a key on the top of the door, just in case,” he explains, pinching the little silver key between his thumb and forefinger before shutting the door. Your heart jumps when he locks it behind him. “Ready to talk now, honey?”

[alnilaem]

so the neighborhood with butcher!simon is dangerous 🤔🤔

how would he react to reader’s apartment getting broken into while they’re both at home?

i think he would make good use of the meat grinder at the butcher shop if you uhhhh catch my drift

anon your mind!!

it would start as three soft rasps next door, which already stirs Simon’s intrigue. he hears a man’s voice sifting through the corridor, in front of your flat, and poises himself like a dog that’s about to attack.

it’s something about coming to fix leak, and fleetingly, a stint of envy lays hold of Simon. why didn’t you ask him? hasn’t he already made it clear it’s his duty to help you? you’re a woman alone in neglected Manchester. he doesn’t want you asking others for help.

your voice cuts a way through the wall. “I didn’t call for a plumber?” and if Simon’s hackles weren’t raised, if he wasn’t acutely aware, he would have cooed at the confusion distorting your voice.

the plumber presses, insisting you open the door. I’ve already driven all the way here, you called me a week ago—you just don’t remember.

a whisper of fear seizes you. and on the other side of the wall, Simon bares his teeth. he’s had his fair-share of shady shit. worked in dodgy places for dodgy people, so it clicks in his brain like violet light when the aforementioned plumber quietens, presentiment hanging in the air.

then, a crack. resounding, but not unbecoming for this area of town. the plumber is hurling his body against the fickle wood of your door, making a depression within the timber.

bang, bang, bang, and the splitting of wood is all you hear. your brain is too high-strung to recognise Simon’s door opening, or the sound of battering on your door ripening into the hollow sound of flesh against flesh. knuckles splitting against bone, a soft, snuffed-out holler that seems to get smothered under the bubbling of blood and fists.

your mind is reeling. your brain is delayed. belatedly, you catch up. you set your cheek to your door, your tears sticking to the wood. sniffling. “hello?”

“’m here, love, it’s me,” Simon replies. his voice is heavier than usual, caught on the angry chatter of his teeth. “don’t come out, okay? stay there.”

Simon stands in the middle of the corridor, huffing like a bull. there’s blood and salt crusted in the margins of his hands—more than he’s ever had at the butcher shop.

[babygorewhore]

10 things I hate about you series.

Part two

You and Logan locate the rumored dangerous mutant at a night club. And everything goes to hell when he finally sees your powers.

Read part one here.

Warnings! Violence! Blood! Mild angst! No smut yet! Age gap! Reader is late 20s and Logan is late 40s. Slow burn and enemies (?) to lovers. Barely proofread.

“Don’t fucking embarrass me. This is meant to be quick and efficient. In and out.” Logan grunted as you both stepped into the club. Your fingers clutched the inside of his elbow, his dark brown leather jacket crinkling from the pressure as you both walked.

The neon lights, smell of smoke and loud music thumped as you winced from the crowd. Logan bared his teeth at someone who stepped too close and you reached up and smacked him upside the head.

“Stop snarling at people. We’re trying to blend in.” You hissed at him before forcing a charming smile at the server who guided you both to a nearby booth.

“It’s not my fault people don’t know how fucking walk.” He rolled his eyes and plopped down. You sat close with him and he raised an eyebrow.

“Can I get you two started on water along with your drinks?” The waitress asked and you opened your mouth but Logan cut you off.

“Whiskey and apple juice for her.” You stomp his foot with your heeled shoe and clear your throat.

“I’ll have a Long Island iced tea. Thank you.” She walks away and Logan scoffs.

“Figures. You like those pussy little mixed drinks.” You pinch his forearm and he growls, jerking his arm away.

“Stop being a brat!”

“Then stop being an asshole! We’re supposed to be madly in love and married for thirty five years with four sweet beautiful hairy children.”

“In your wildest dreams, girl.” He dug into his pocket to look for a cigar and apparently gave up after a few seconds.

“So, is anyone setting off alarm bells?” You asked him and folded your arms. Your curve hugging red dress was above the knee and you had black heels on. Jewelry gifted by your grandmother years ago hung above your heart and dangled around your wrist.

“Everyone sets off my alarm bells. I don’t trust anyone.”

“Me either. And we don’t even know if this mutant can shape-shift.” You added with a huff. You tilt your head in curiosity when you notice a man lingering in the corner. He seemed…off.

“Yeah, I’ve been eyeing him the whole time.” Logan seemed to read your mind without looking in his direction and you glanced at him. You blink mascara lashes at him. “Then why are we sitting here?”

“Because I don’t want to give away anything yet. You’re free to go sit in the car.” Logan sighed and leaned back against the booth. The waitress came and set both drinks down.

“Thank you,” You both told her as she walked away. You took a sip of your drink as Logan chugged his whiskey in one gulp.

“You ever been on one of these before?” He grunted and you toy with the rings on your fingers.

“Once. With Bobby.” Your hackles raise when he grumbles.

“Mmm yeah. With your little boyfriend. Figures.” You grip your glass harder.

“He’s not my boyfriend.” Logan gives you a smirk. Facial hair smoothed over and he adjusts his button down shirt.

“Yeah? Fucker looks at you like a meal when you’re together.”

“And you’re paying attention to how someone looks at me, why?” You counteract and Logan stiffens.

“Forget it. Now, it makes sense why you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Why are you such a fucking dick, Logan? I’ve done nothing to you.” You gritted your teeth, the lingering crush in the background for him as he pushed your buttons.

“I don’t like inexperienced mutants going on missions. Peoples lives are at stake and I don’t want to be responsible for some kid.” He glared, green eyes burning and you leaned in close.

“First of all, I’m not a kid. Second of all, I had a whole life before I showed up at the school. And third, if Professor X didn’t believe I could do this, he wouldn’t have sent me with you.” Logan meets your venom and his nostrils flare.

“Maybe he made a mistake. You haven’t even noticed our guy over there, he’s walking this way. He’s been eye fucking you this whole time. And I don’t like the looks of him.” Instead of raking him across the coals, you plaster on a seductive look when the stranger approaches you.

His entire demeanor is dangerous. You see a long thick knife buried in his pocket. His sharp jaw was clenched and his thin mouth reminded you of a birds beak. It was a complete trap and you felt Logan brace for any sort of battle.

“How about you walk me to the stage?” Logan jerks his head at you with wide eyes as you decide to drink the rest of your alcohol and take the other man’s hand.

“The fuck are you doing?” He whispered and you gave him a look that expressed, ‘Trust me’

“Anything for you, Angel. Doesn’t look like he’s showing you a good time.” You accept his hand and follow him to the middle of the building where people surround the empty stage.

There was a pole but no one was using it. The DJ removed his headset as you climbed up the stairs.

“Hey, looks like we got ourselves a performer tonight! Pick a song, gorgeous! Get everyone started!”

Logan was staring at you with a horrified expression as you curtsied and waved to the people. The man stood by closely, no doubt looking for the exits but he was falling in line perfectly with your last minute plan.

You pick out the song and the intro begins to play. Porn Star Dancing begins to echo and you slowly begin to dance along after making up your own choreography. Your past of gymnastics played a role in your flexibility as you roll your hips before kicking your leg up around the pole and spin.

The party goers soon start chanting the chorus to cheer you on as you climb the pole to the top, your knees locking around the metal and you hold yourself up. You briefly catch Logan pinching his nose in the corner before you slide down and fall to the ground in the splits.

You even surprised yourself with that one considering you hadn’t done it in a decade. You grinned, smiled and waved. The stranger was clapping slowly before he cracked his neck.

“Oh shit.” You felt the impact before you heard it.

The stranger flicked his hand and flames came out in a fury. A fucking pyro. Screaming started as he blasted a tunnel of fire towards the bar and Logan charged towards him with a roar.

The fire mixing with the alcohol, people were screaming and chaos erupted as small explosions brightened the entire building. Your nose burned from the smell of smoke and blood but your focus became razor sharp. Your mind seized the bodies, your hand extending and fingers curling in a fist.

Everyone stopped and hovered. It was painful, the weight burning your muscles and your head throbbed from using so much force but you made yourself remain still.

But Logan was too strong or too adaptable due to his regeneration ability as he broke free of your hold and sunk his claws deep into the belly of the pyro.

The flames were too intense for most people to see the brutality as Logan retracted the claws. Blood soaked the shining material as the other mutants fell to the ground in a heap.

You released the grip you had on everyone, your ability to also read mind came into play as you guided a female to go dial the police.

Logan’s fierce expression locked on you as he panted and kicked the body to the side. “Get everyone the fuck out of here!” He bellowed at the bouncers who weren’t fast enough to react.

You both were silent as you walked to the car hours later. The club was burned but not beyond repair. Ambulances took the injured and removed the body of the mutant. You didn’t dare speak before Logan as you carried your heels and tried to keep up with him.

You opened the passenger door and climbed in. Logan came into the driver side, slamming it so hard you flinched and feared it would crumble.

“You are a fucking telekinetic telepath.” His voice was so low you almost didn’t hear him.

The unspoken part was that it was the same ability as Jean.

“And you didn’t tell me that plan. You just decided to act on your own. And got people hurt.”

Shame ate away at you as you kept quiet.

“You should have just gone back here and let me handle it.” Logan’s temper was flaring.

“So it’s fine for you to do things your way, alone, but I can’t? Got it.”

“You have no fucking idea what you’re doing!” He yelled but you spun around in the passenger seat.

“Yes I fucking do! He would have killed someone if he got them alone! I got him in front of everyone and then he just randomly got brave!”

“Why didn’t you just use your powers in the first place?” Logan’s volume lowered but you couldn’t answer him honestly.

You couldn’t tell him that you kept your ability from him because you knew it would only remind him of the woman he loved. You couldn’t tell him that deep down, you didn’t want to hurt him but he was right.

You fucked up.

“I’m sorry.” You answered quietly and he sniffed.

“We’re going the fuck back and you better have a hell of a better explanation than that.” He went to start the car.

And it didn’t.

Logan rested his forehead on the wheel, trembling with rage and you reached forward. You could try to fix it but he shook his head. “Don’t bother. You’re too drained. Looks like we’re walking or finding a bus or whatever the fuck is around in this god forsaken place. And hopefully your fucking ADHD doesn’t kick in tonight.” Your jaw dropped as he exited the car.

You flew out of the car and trailed after him with bare feet. “First of all, I didn’t have time to grab my medication before we left and how did you even know I had it?” Logan rolled his eyes as his quick pace led you both down the empty road.

“You don’t have to. Be quiet so I can think about finding a ride or staying somewhere. Jesus Christ, where the hell are your shoes?” He stopped short and you scoffed.

“I left my bag at the motel.”

He rubbed his face with both hands. Logan set his hands on his waist briefly before he suddenly hauled you over his shoulder. You squealed and kicked as he started walking again.

“What the hell? I don’t even need shoes!”

“Diseases are real and you have to be alive in order to explain yourself to Charles.” He drawled dryly. His hard muscle dug into your stomach.

“You cannot possibly carry me for long.”

“I have fucking super strength, girl. And besides, I’m tired of slowing down for you.”

You both soon found a bus stop as Logan effortlessly carried you. He put you down as you both settled into the seats of the empty ride. Sleepiness was overtaking you and your eyes shut slowly. What you didn’t realize was that you had started to fall asleep on Logan’s arm.

And he didn’t move you off.

Dividers by @cafekitsune

I couldn’t remember who all to tag but I’m tagging @xxbimbobunnyxx @marchsfreakshow @starkeysprincess @taintandviolent @nemesyaaa

[sant-riley]

[Task force 141 × Gen Z! Reader/ General headcanons] [p4]

A/N; I thought the hyperfixation was over but surprise it is not LMAO, sorry for the long wait, mentally I was fucked and just tired/burnt out

Ghost is the one who usually trains the recruits, which means he needs to demonstrate moves on. That's where you come in. You can see the recruits tension filled bodies stare at your own bc what the fuck you do mean this 6'4 man is gonna use a finishing move on you.

You crack jokes that Ghost would never hurt a fly before you're flipped on your ass and Ghost is leaning his entire weight on you.

They use you as weights, mainly Soap. It is not an odd occurrence for recruits on base to see you sit on Soaps back while he does push-ups. You usually will be scrolling on your phone on tiktok and Laswell just sighs and takes a picture of yall to show to her wife.

Ghost uses you as a barbell basically and you enjoy being manhandled so you're just happy to be there.

Soap likes to play fight, he will playfully hit your sides and will tickle you while you run around desperately trying to evade his grasps. The only time he stops really is when either Price steps in or when Ghost fucking clothe lines him and he falls on his face. Soap sees you giggling behind Ghosts body and rolls his eyes.

All the guys have you on social media, even Ghost though he notably has no pfp, a generic user, only follows you. He is the first one to like any of your posts and makes appearances on your account and no one knows it's him for sure.

Soap takes your phone and scrolls thru your folder of memes, sending whichever ones he particular enjoys to himself. He really likes reaction images and uses them with everyone and people just ignore it and continue on texting like he didn't just send a picture of a woman crying.

You like to send ghost references you're sure he will not understand and he feels his blood pressure rise every day.

When they learn if you can't, you know, drive for the first time is also a real good time. Ghost is in the back, a bullet in his forearm, Price shouting at you to floor it and by God you fucking floor it so hard Ghost slams his head into the wall of the car and passes out. Price screams that you should've been fucking taught this in training but you shrug your shoulders, knuckles whitened as you shakily haul ass to evac.

It's a running joke that Alejandro and Rudy want you on their team, they playfully try and make negotiations

"Come on, she would be happier with us, no?"

Alejandro has a hand placed on the small of your back, inching you closer to his side in the booth of some random bar yall were dragged too. You're blushing and sputtering bc oh wow two more very attractive men are asking to take you an-

"I agree with Colonel, we can work something out." Then Rudy goes and kisses your hand and Ghost feels his eye twitch and Soap is stanced the fuck up immediately, leaning over and almost pulling across the table.

"Yea no, you two can fuck off with that shit." He grumbles, squeezing his arms around your waist. If he was a dog his hackles would be raised and his teeth bared.

Rudy can't help but lean in and whisper to Alejandro:

"Realmente deberías dejar de bromear con ellos así" (you should really stop joking with them like that)

Alejandro turns and looks dead into Rudy's eyes and hits him with

"¿Quién dijo que estaba bromeando?" (Who said I was joking?)

"Colonel, with all due respect stop fucking with my men, they're gonna pop a bloody blood vessel."

Gaz and you go to cat cafes fairly often!! He finds it extremely relaxing and he often goes whenever he goes on leave with you. No he doesn't correct the batista who thinks yall are married. He says it's because of a discount (there is none).

Price simply loves when you come visit and spend time with him in the city, walking arm and arm while he hums and listens to you ramble. Whether it be about your hyperfixations, you venting or ranting, he's there listening while watching you intently.

Price walks with you inwards of the sidewalk, do not try and move bc he will glare at you.

Valeria, oh she likes you, one bc you're a cute little thing. But mostly because she knows it'll get under everyone's skin if she even makes a mention of taking you. It especially pisses Alejandro off so she makes sure she calls you princess and blows you a kiss when they close the container door on her.

Ghost likes to come up behind you and pulls on the elastics of your holsters really far and let's them slap against your skin to see you whine and whimper. It never fails to make him laugh.

Ghost will not hesitate to beat the shit out of someone who tries to do it to you though, esp a random recruit.

Soap likes to carry you around on his back, it isn't a strange thing but he just genuinely loves the feeling of you against him. He doesn't care if you think you're 'too big', he's gonna pick you up so be quiet and let him hold you.

You've stolen multiple things of their items, not even on purpose but they left it in your room and now it's yours.

You have a skull balaclava, Ghost once came in and said it was too small for him and threw it on your bed and left. He will feel his heart tighten in his chest if you wear it outside of base.

You have a shit ton of Soap's muscle shirts, he is not upset but he will smile so soft when he sees you walk around in it in the early morning, your hair a mess and still a bit of drool on your lips.

Gaz buys you your own hats in attempt for you to stop taking his. It doesn't help. He flicks the brim and always has some cheeky remark about it but he doesn't mind.

You have one of Prices' lighters that you stim with on or off mission. He doesn't even realize until one day you have a lighter with the England flag on it and you're playing with it bc you're anxious. He doesn't say anything though.

Taglist:

@devilsfoodcake22 @simon-rileys-princess

@stupid-ninja @milkmily

@lune-la-chanson @tamayakii

@teacupcollector @sweet-as-an-angel

@perilous-pasta @ihatethisappsomuchitpains

@marsbar127xx @baddump

@xncasi @king-cookiex

@palomaxaxaxa @amatchasky @wolfyland07 @diejager

@hailstrum18 @pretty-little-bunny382728 @mzfandom @solarslushee @areislol

[If you want to be tagged, comment under my pinned post]

[saintshigaraki]

please, if you have the time and/or are feeling generous, please expand on that horror soulmate ran idea where he likes flexing his influence and power over you while you’re on shift….what kind of restaurant does reader work at? is the high-end kind where customers who look as rich and charming as ran come often…..or is it some regular diner/local favorite and ran likes coming over to call you sweetheart and darling and he likes tipping you $50-$100 bills………………………..he tips bigger and orders so much when he brings some work associates over during their lunch break or something 0_0

dior im so glad you ask bc I've been ruminating over these very questions for like a month....

yandere tw, ran is harassing the shit out of you at work rip, soulmate au, she/her pronouns for reader

i think you work at a really small rundown sort of place open 24 hours. pulling 12-hour shifts 12 days in a row just to pay the bills. it's pure and total chance that ran and his...associates waltz into your establishment. it's late and you're so so exhausted. you absolutely do not like the look of them. they're dressed nicely, too nicely for a place like this and they don't even bother trying to hide the guns peaking out from their waistbands. and beyond that you can smell it on them. you know their type. the type that get too handsy, that hold their tips over your head. make you do a song and dance and for what? the two dollars they'll so generously leave you when all is said and done? it's a fucking joke and you hate them all before they've even said a word to you.

your feet hurt so badly that you're limping a bit when you go to greet them and the smile you put on feels carved into your cheeks, throbbing like a wound. all their faces look the same to you. a big blur of dangerous man after man after man. you write down their orders without really listening. you want this over as fast as possible. you were set to be off in an hour, but with a group this big, you know that's now nothing but a pipe dream. god you're so so tired--

"and what is it you'd recommend, darling?"

something about the voice makes your eyes shoot up. airy, smooth, and nonchalant in a way that makes you grind your teeth and reluctantly pulls your attention. there's a nauseating sort of authority in it that has your hackles raised.

you're a bit shocked when you see who has spoken. he's pretty. long hair, obviously well kept, a tattoo on the side of his neck that makes you rather nervous, but it's his eyes that makes you step back. you feel the shift in the air when your gaze meets his, a crackling energy, two halves being made whole and all the other sappy shit people say when describing their first meeting with their soulmate.

no one mentions how scary it is, though. it's like you've lost a limb. or gained a parasite. you swear you can feel him in the back of your skull, already eating away at you. you don't want this. you don't want this. take it back you almost say aloud. please please take it back.

the man (your soulmate?) doesn't say a word. there's a slight quirk on his lips, but that could be anything. could mean anything.

you take a breath. you're tired—very tired—and now you're imagining things—delusional. your heartbeat slows. everything's fine. it's fine.

"ah ran, you've left the poor thing starstruck," a man to his right says, jostling him a bit.

the man—ran—tilts his head, still waiting, rather patiently, for a reply from his apparently airheaded waitress, struck down by his pretty face.

it's rather scary, being the sole focus of his attention. it's as though he's flaying your skin from your flesh, leaving you defenseless. like you're nothing but a young girl again, alone and cold and hopeless beneath his eyes.

it takes you too long to gather your wits. "the omelets are okay, good for a cold night." you just barely manage to keep the trembling from your voice, a shrillness that would in any way reveal your fear.

he smiles now, a real one. and it scares you. so amused by you, his little shaking waitress. "just okay?" he asks, taking pleasure in teasing you no doubt.

"this isn't a place you come to if you're looking for something gourmet." better to be honest than to get their hopes up. you can smell the money on them.

he laughs and you have to bite back your tears, you really dont like him. there's terror worming it's way beneath your skin. "it was a last resort, i'll go with the omelet, darling."

+

when you bring out their food you assume that will be it, at least for a little while. you'll refill their drinks again and again and again and pray they'll be gone by 2, but the worst of it is done. you'll hide in the back for the most part until they're gone. it'll be fine.

your hopes are quite quickly dashed once you set ran's food in front of him, avoiding eye contact but unable to keep the tremor from your fingers. before you can dart away his hand lashes out, forming a shackle around your wrist. tugging you far closer to him than you'd ever want to be. 

"why don't you join us for a bit. you seem tired. perhaps you're a bit hungry too?" he asks it like a question, but you know it's not. he has that sort of authority about him that lets you know he's used to be listened to. used to giving out orders and having them followed. you don't like it, and you make excuses even though you know it'll bode badly for you.

"i can't sir, i'm so sorry, but im still working and my boss will be--"

he cuts you off quickly and uncaring. "he won't mind."

he most definitely would, you think. your boss reminds you of ran a bit, in the way that he likes to exert power over others. quick to insult you, quick to admonish and threaten. he most definitely would care if he saw you sitting with some customers, even if the rest of the place was deserted.

"sir," you start again, "i could be fired please--"

"what's his name?"

you're taken aback. a bit confused, too. "your boss, darling. what's his name?"

there's a long pause before you say anything at all.

"hikaru," you tell him at last.

he smiles at you, tugs you in even closer. "thank you."

he smells good, you think absently. expensive. 

"hikaru!" he yells suddenly, causing you to practically jump out of your skin. your boss is quick to appear, looking like a beat dog. he seems to recognize ran, and he seems to be scared of him and you really, really don't like that.

"is there something i can help you with, sir?" he asks, timid as a mouse. your heart stops. there's something wrong here, you think. there's something very wrong and it's too late. its too late.

you're sitting beside ran now, his arm wrapped around you and his hand rubbing your shaking shoulder soothingly. "you wouldn't mind if she joined us, would you? we could use the company."

your boss' eyes flit over to you, just barely, before he bows his head again. "of course not, sir. it's no problem at all."

ran turns to you at that. "you hear that, darling. no problem at all." you look down and can't help but notice drops of red marring the pristine white of his dress shirt. it's right on the cuff. it's dried now, more brown than anything else but you recognize it for what it is.

you can't help but think you've stepped into a bear trap of sorts, and now your foot has been cut clean off. you’re screaming and screaming, trying to staunch the bleeding and ran won’t stop smiling. 

[zer0point5ive]

dog coded adam. waiting waiting waiting. waiting for lawrence to come back, to get him, to tell him he can go. doing johns bidding after the trap because he has to but ultimately it’s lawrence who’s holding the leash. snapping and snarling at anyone who looks at either of them wrong. all bark. that’s what people think. what they say. but adam remembers the feeling of bone crunching beneath porcelain and the warmth of blood on his face, he remembers watching the life drain from zepp’s eyes as he slammed the lid down again and again. lawrence remembers how adam had to be stopped. how he had to stop adam with a hand around his wrist, a hand cupping his jaw, to bring him back down to earth. they both know his bite is just as bad. when pushed. and they both know that it’s lawrence who has him wrapped tight around his fist. mark staring disdainfully as adam shows his teeth. keep your bitch on a leash, gordon. hackles raised when someone down the street starts hurling insults at them, these two men walking so close they’re practically one, only to be subdued with a few words from lawrence. sometimes even just a look. down boy. good boy. tell him he did good, tell him he’s good. adam listening to lawrence’s voice in his ear. wrapped around him from behind as he guides the scalpel down, hand covering adam’s, to cut through tissue. muscle. good boy, adam. a shudder as they watch blood bubble to the surface. tilting his head and baring his neck for lawrence to press a kiss to vulnerable skin. trusting. always trusting. lawrence’s hand cupping his jaw once more, pressing a thumb against adam’s teeth, feeling the restraint and knowing adam won’t bite down. pressing hard enough that adam tastes copper and laps it up with heavy eyes. loyal. like a dog. loyal to a fault.

[paenling]

i headcanon that like, 90% of the time, Phantom is The Town Hero™️, nice smooth edges, very consistently human-like and teenager-shaped with a bright voice and five-star smile (e.g. mostly-canon appearance). you can barely tell he’s even a ghost, really! and he absolutely does it on purpose, even if he doesn’t realize it at first. but his PR is finally good, he's got to be as nonthreatening as possible if he wants to keep it that way. hence the dress code.

but when his emotions run high and things get serious, i think Danny loses a little control over the shape of his ghost form; his teeth get longer and sharper, and were his fingers always claws? and the temperature drops and static electricity makes all your hair stand on end and you know you're in Danger. Phantom doesn’t have actual hackles to raise, but there’s green lightning crackling down the ridge of his spine and it can’t be anything but a threat.

whenever he gets like that it's always temporary, and people assume that "the stress made that sweet Phantom get a little scary but he'll be back to normal soon" as opposed to "the stress made Phantom stop pretending that he isn't always that scary"

[throneofsmut]

Bound In Flames - Part 10

Eris Vanserra × Archeron-Sister-Reader || WC: 7.9k || Warnings: Smut, violence, injury, mentions of trauma and death.

Summary: Feyre and her younger sister go hunting in the forest behind their family's cottage and go through life changing experiences.

A/N: There is some high valyrian in this part that is going to be used in future parts of this series as a dialect of the old fae language that is used by illyrians but also understood by high fae that understand the old fae language and i also wrote the translations.

****

“Why are you looking at me like that, Eris?” He doesn’t respond, his eyes just keep darting from you to Raihn and from Raihn to you. Your own eyes darted from Eris to Raihn and back to Eris.

From the corner of your eye you see Raihn tilt his head at Eris—confused. I think he thinks he’s seeing things. His deep gruff voice was clear in your head.

Your brows furrow at Raihn’s admission, shaking your head slightly, Did I grow a second head or something?

Not that I can see.

Looking over your shoulder, narrowing your eyes at him, I didn’t mean literally!

He grumbled something you chose to ignore.

Sighing, you took a step closer to Eris, stopping until you were a step away from him, “Eris what’s wrong?”

“What. The. Fuck.”

“What?” As soon as that one word left your mouth it set Eris off.

“What do you mean, WHAT!?” Eris shouted at you immediately. Angrily. Making you flinch.

He hadn’t raised his voice at you in the hours you were together. Hell when you first met he had a knife pressed against your throat and he didn’t scare you. You didn’t flinch, if anything you leaned into it, as if it was a caress—a lover's soft touch.

But this—him shouting at you angrily had you flinching. Only because it caught you off guard. He caught you off guard. It was so subtle, almost imperceptible, but you know you did. Those gold eyes remained on yours and your body subtly settled into a fighting stance unconsciously. Your hands twitching, wanting to clench into a fist.

Eris took a single step forward, making you tense, falter.

And Raihn saw it.

The white wolf prowled forward, moving around you and advancing towards Eris. Each step powerful. Menacing. Lethal. His lips curled back in a snarl, baring his teeth—each as long as your fingers—as he growled so low it shook the cabin. A reminder of what stood in front of him. Of what he was.

A true predator.

Eris moved, so fast you would’ve missed it had it not been for your fae senses, now standing in front of you. Shielding you with his body from Raihn, his hand gripping his dagger and the other firmly gripping your hip.

Raihn tracked the hand Eris placed on you—the silent claim he made on you—and growled. Possessively. Snapping his jaws at him before stalking forward again.

Eris widened his stance, bracing for a fight, baring his teeth at the white wolf. Stay close to me, his voice a desperate plea in your head, speaking to you through the mating bond.

Raihn snapped his jaws again as if he heard Eris and when he growled in your head as if in answer, you realized that he did.

Readjusting his hold on his dagger, your mate growled one word at Raihn, “Mine.”

And Raihn growled back, hackles raised before leaning back, getting ready to lunge at Eris. Raihn, don’t! You said to him mind to mind. Please. He only growled back in response.

Then he lunged.

And it was all Eris could do to push you out of the way as Raihn pinned him to the ground with a massive clawed paw on his chest. You didn’t have a chance to react before you slammed against the wood paneled wall of the bedroom.

Your vision was blurry and when you touched the back of your head it was wet. You didn’t have to look at it know it would be red with your blood. The bits of broken wood from the cabin wall around you was confirmation enough.

Blinking a couple times until your vision cleared and once it did you saw Eris’s dagger was mere inches from Raihn’s fur before the wolf knocked it out of his hand with a massive paw.

Eris cursed as his arms shook, straining with effort from gripping Raihn’s fur on the sides of his neck, struggling to keep him from shredding him apart with his teeth. You groaned, pushing yourself up on unsteady legs and took a breath before running to tackle Raihn off of him.

You held on as you both rolled off of Eris and then let go, muscle memory kicking in making you land on your feet. Raihn’s rage was flooding the bond he and you shared in waves and he was getting ready to lunge again. To get to Eris. “Rybās,” you commanded him in high valyrian—the language of illyria. (Listen. Obey.) The massive white wolf still shook with rage but he stilled, awaiting another command.

Being that you were a High Lord's heir, you could command anyone with only your voice if you needed. Wanted. And they would bow to such dominance and power. Except for other High Lords and their heirs—if their wills were strong enough. “Dohaerās, Raihn,” through your bond you willed him to meet your gaze. (Serve, Raihn.)

His blue eyes were still alit with rage as they bore into yours, snarling softly. “Umbās.” (Wait.) It didn’t matter that he would never hurt you—intentionally—since you were bonded. Above all else he was still a wolf. Still a predator in his own right. Still wild.

Eris moved behind you and Raihn’s eyes immediately tracked the movement, but before he could do anything, “Dokimarvose! Laehossa ynot, Raihn.” (Focus! Pay attention, Raihn.) You prowled closer to Raihn until you stood right in front of him and he had to lower his head to meet your gaze. “Lykirī.” (Be calm.) He shook his head as if clearing the rage he felt and then pressed his forehead to yours.

Your hands instinctively went to pet his head, his face, “Lykirī, Raihn. Lykirī.” (Be calm, Raihn. Be calm.) Physically feeling him relax under your touch as the seconds went by. Then he moved his head to rest on your shoulder like he was hugging you.

You don’t know how long you stood there, in comfortable silence, until you heard him. Sunshine? He called softly. Cautiously.

You smiled softly at the nickname even though he couldn’t see you. Yes, Raihn.

I’m sorry. . . I didn’t mean to lose control.

You sighed. Why did you?

I was worried. . . You hadn’t checked in or come back yet and then when I found you I saw you were fine. But, then everything happened and when that male yelled at you, I saw you flinch, barely but you did. I saw you tense. Falter. And the last time I saw you do that was the day I lost you. The day I lost him, the day I lost my mother and my fathers. The day I lost the only family I ever knew. Then I saw him holding you—keeping you from me and I just. . . I just snapped.

He moved, so you were looking at each other again and his nose twitched. Once, twice, then he nudged your hand for you to lift it. You did. He shuddered when he saw your blood on it. Not even a second later you felt his disgust at himself through the bond you shared.

I am so sorry, sunshine. I never meant to hurt you, but I won’t lose you again. Yell at me if you want—

You shook your head.

Sunshine—

You put a hand up stopping him, Raihn, I understand. Trust me. It’s all right, but now I want you to meet someone. Someone very important to me.

You turned around to look at Eris, only to find that he wouldn’t look at you. “Eris?” You called softly, “what’s wrong?” He shook his head. Walking up to him, slowly, giving him the chance to stop you if he wanted. He didn’t. You held his face in your hands, tilting his head up to meet your gaze and he shut his eyes. “Eris?”

He shook his head again, “I’m so sorry, little flame,” he whispered.

“What for?”

“Hurting you.”

This time you shook your head, “You didn’t hurt me. I’m fi—“

“—Your head.” He said it so quietly, that if you weren’t in front of him you wouldn’t have heard it.

Your hand immediately went to your head, gently touching the gash that you had felt earlier and nothing. It was already healed. No doubt Raihn’s doing, but your hair was still sticky with blood. “I’m fine. I swear.”

His eyes opened, “I yelled at you, when I shouldn't have and you got scared.” His jaw clenched and unclenched. “I scared you and you got hurt. As your mate I'm supposed to protect you and I can’t even save you from myself.” He squeezed his eyes shut and a single tear fell from his left eye. You wiped it away.

“Eris.” His throat bobbed. “Eris, look at me.” He did. Those gold eyes bore into yours, full of unshed tears and a second later you felt all his feelings flood the mating bond. All of his love, but also his regret, his shame, pain and all of his self-loathing for scaring you. Hurting you. You didn’t know what to say—what to do to comfort him except to kiss him. So you did. All while sending him all the love, all the comfort you could through the bond. You didn’t pull away until he did.

“I’m so sorry, little flame,” he breathed.

“It’s all right. I’m all right. We’re all right,” you swore. You took a step back, holding your hand out towards him, “I want you to meet someone.” He glanced behind you and then looked back at you unsure. “Do you trust me?” Your hand still outstretched towards him.

His eyes blazed with something you couldn’t name. Something so intense that it gave you goosebumps as he swore, “With my life.” Then his hand took yours and you walked back towards Raihn. Together.

Once you were in front of Raihn, you gave them each a smile only reserved for them. “Eris, this is Raihn, my ceangailte (bonded). And Raihn, this is Eris, my mate.”

Both of their eyes widened as they realized what you said about the other.

Eris turned to you, his eyes narrowed and his face flushed a bright shade of red. “Why didn’t you tell me, he was bonded to you?” There was an obvious shift in his demeanor as he crossed his arms defensively. He was offended—upset—that you didn't tell him about Raihn.

And at the same time Raihn asked, Why didn’t you tell me he was your mate?

You narrowed your eyes at them, “You didn’t give me a chance too!” you answered them both.

Eris scoffed. “Don’t you know who he is—what he is?” He said pointing at Raihn.

“No, Eris. I don’t,” you muttered, your voice dripping with sarcasm.

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Y/n. I’m being serious.”

You huffed, “All right, then.” You cross your arms over your chest. “Tell me who he is. Tell me who I’m bonded to.”

“He’s infamous all throughout Prythian''—he tried suppressing a shudder and failed—“probably in Hybern, the mortal lands and the other Faerie Realms too. He’s known for killing fae—here and in Hybern. He’s ruthless.” His eyes slid to Raihn for a moment before turning back to you. “We call him “Ghost” and everyone knows Amarantha has been hunting him for the past decade. Yet, every time she sends the Hybern soldiers under her command, they don’t come back. Ever.”

You didn’t bother hiding your grin as you looked at Raihn, but he wasn’t looking at you, lost in his own thoughts before his glowing blue eyes finally landed on you. So that’s why I could hear him, when he spoke to you mind to mind. It was through the mating bond, Raihn said more to himself than to you.

One side of your mouth quirks up in a smirk, Well, you’ve been busy, Raihn or should I say “Ghost.”

His deep chuckle fills your head. I’ve been hunting them all down, one by one. Making them pay for what they did. He didn’t have to explain who “they” were for you to know he was talking about the soldiers that killed your family.

You nod at him once. Good.

Raihn’s eyes settle on Eris, So he’s your mate.

Not a question but you still answer, “Yes. He is.” Your own eyes settle on your mate.

Eris looked at you with an arched brow, “Yes, what? What’d he say about me?”

“Well, go on. Tell him.” You jut your chin at Raihn, grinning, waiting for Eris’s reaction.

The first time Raihn spoke to someone else mind to mind was your mother, she screamed so loud and you laughed until you cried from laughing so hard. It was the first time you used your daemati powers to allow Raihn to speak to others. You annoyed him until he gave in because he had said that bonded wolves have a special telepathic connection with their chosen Illyrian companions. This connection allows them to communicate directly with their bonded, sharing thoughts, emotions, and intentions without the need for spoken words. And since it’s special not everyone has the privilege to hear him speak but he did it for you. And then when he spoke to your fathers—the two Illyrians who helped raise and train you—you nearly died of laughter.

Raihn huffed looking at Eris. I said, That’s why I could hear you, when you spoke to her mind to mind. It was through the mating bond.

Eris flinched, his breath hitching as an unfamiliar deep voice echoed within the caverns of his mind, clear and commanding, yet undeniably non-human.

You can hear me, can't you? Raihn asked him, his voice dripping with wicked amusement.

Eris’s eyes were almost bugging out his head and his jaw was slack. The wolf's presence in his thoughts was as startling as a splash of icy water, leaving ripples of shock. Yes.

Hearing your own laugh echo in Eris’s head and then he whirled on you, crossing his arms, “What’s so funny?” Your lips were pressed tight but it wasn’t enough to stop your laugh from bursting out. Which quickly turned to tears when you remembered your mother’s face and both of your fathers faces after Raihn spoke to them for the first time.

You tried taking in a deep breath to stop crying but it just made it worse and before you knew it you were sobbing. Then Eris was wiping your tears away, “what’s wrong, little flame?”

“You—Your—Face”. You said in between sobs. Your whole body was shaking now and when you looked at him again, he was frowning.

But his eyes held a teasing glint in them, “I’m hurt.” He placed a hand on his chest like you physically wounded him, “I thought you said I was beautiful.”

You know he’s trying to cheer you up and you tried to laugh but it came out sounding like a choked sob. “You know that’s not what I mean.”

“Then, what?” He asked as he wrapped his arms around you, rubbing soothing circles on your back. You sniffled a couple of times before taking in a few deep breaths to calm yourself. Letting his scent wash over you, relax you, even though your hands were fisted at his back as you hugged him back.

Taking in one last deep breath. Exhaling sharply, “The face you made when you heard, Raihn, reminded me of the face my mom and dads made when they heard him for the first time.”

“Dads?”

You let out a sad laugh, “Yes, dads.”

“But I thought your father doesn’t know about you?”

“My biological father doesn’t.”

“So, how many dads are we talking about?” Eris asked with an arched brow.

“Two.” Your voice coming out rougher than you mean it too.

“What’s their names?”

“Declan and Callum.”

“Are they— Did they—“

“They died the same day my mom did.”

“Were they”—his voice comes out as a whisper—“mated?”

“No. But they loved each other so much. . . I don’t think they could have loved each other any more if they had been.” A genuine smile graces your lips as you remember them together.

“And they loved you too?”

“So much,” you answer without hesitation. “Sometimes when I was little I used to cry because I thought they would leave since I wasn’t their real daughter. And they used to promise me saying they wouldn’t, that I was their daughter in every way that counted. That it didn’t matter if we were blood or not, they loved me and they would never leave me. And they kept their promise.” You let out a bitter laugh. “Until they were taken from me.”

Eris just hugs you tighter, “I’ll never leave you and no one is going to take me from you.”

You don’t say anything. You don’t call him out for lying, you know he’s trying to comfort you, but you both know he’s going back Under the Mountain in less than two hours.

Amarantha is taking someone from you yet again.

Eris unwraps his arms from around you and cups your face in his large hands, “You don’t believe me.” He says and even though it’s not a question, you nod your head anyway. His eyes never leave yours as he speaks. “Raihn, I have to leave at dawn which is in less than two hours. So go for a walk and we’ll let you know when to come back. Be on your guard.” Raihn grumbles something that you both chose to ignore as he goes to leave, and a moment after he walks out of the front door, Eris restores the cabin to how it was with a snap of his fingers. You wouldn’t have known anything happened at all if you hadn’t seen it with your own eyes.

His eyes drop to your lips and it’s the only warning you get before his mouth slams into yours and you deepen it, earning the sweetest groan from him. Everything about your kiss is desperate. Feral. Then he moves on to kissing your neck and it’s the type of kiss that promises more before he’s pulling away.

He smiles at you softly, “Let me show you how no matter what, I’ll always be yours.” He places your hand on his bare chest, over his heart, “This is yours.” Then he grabs your other hand and places it over his clothed cock, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, “And this is yours too.”

Your cheeks heat at his words and you just know he’s smirking right now because he knows how undone he makes you. So you do the only reasonable thing you can think of and grip him harder through his pants and he hisses. “You’re mine,” you breathe.

“I’m yours,” he echoes.

Moving the hand that was placed on his chest to his hair and tugging on it. Titling his head back before rising on the tips of your toes, licking a broad stripe up his throat, before grabbing his face and crashing your lips into his. You know you’re running out of time which only spurs you both on as you ravage each other’s lips.

Only pulling away as you tear each other’s clothes off and get back on the bed.

Eris pulls you to lay on top of him so you’re straddling him. Then his lips find yours again. Desperately. His hands are roaming all over your body as if he’s committing it to memory. Finally settling on the swell of your ass and gripping it. His tongue sweeping into your mouth as your lips part in a moan. Your tongues fight for dominance until you give in to the only person you will ever give in to—your mate.

He groans as he pulls away and flips you so you’re lying on the bed. Biting his bottom lip before letting go to let him stand upright.

Leaning back on your elbows, panting, as his eyes devour you.

And your mouth waters as you see just how hard he is. Your tongue darts out wetting your lips as you see the bead of precum on his tip. You let out a groan as he fists his cock and pumps it a couple times.

He chuckles darkly, “Like what yours?”

You bit your lip as you hum a yes. Not capable of words right now.

He lets go of his cock and grabs your ankles, pulling you towards the edge of the bed so that your ass is almost hanging off the bed. Then kneels on the hardwood floor in front of you and spreads your legs apart.

He nudges your thighs apart wider to accommodate his broad shoulders as he settles himself between them. Your breath hitching as he alternates between licking where your inner thighs meet your cunt and sucking. Earning a few whines from you as you try and fail to move under his hold to get his tongue where you want. Which only makes him huff out a laugh.

His warm breath fans over your wet cunt—glistening with arousal—making you squirm under him, “Eris, please!” You beg.

“Please, what?” He taunts.

“Please touch me—“ the words die in your throat as he licks a single broad stripe from your entrance up to your clit. Just like you did to his throat.

He pulls back only for a second to sit up and brace his forearms on the backs of your thighs. Baring you to him while also keeping you in place. Then he’s diving right back in and lapping and sucking at your clit like a man starved. “Oh, f-f-fuck, Eris!” You cry out as your hands desperately fist the sheets that will surely be ruined later.

Another scream rips free from your throat as he continues his assault on your clit, sucking harshly on the swollen bundle of nerves, back arching off the bed while your thighs shake as you writhe under his tongue but he keeps you in place.

Then he’s licking broad stripes from your entrance up to your clit and every time he gets to your clit he flicks his tongue against it with precision. Heat begins to build in your tummy and you both know you’re not going to last much longer. He licks another broad stripe but he leaves your clit alone this time in favor of fucking you with his tongue.

Your cunt clenches around his warm tongue as he continues to fuck you with it. He relents only to lap at you again with a flat tongue. Then he goes back to your clit, swirling and flicking his tongue on it as you continue to moan and cry out for him. “Eris! Eris! Eris!”

He groans low in his throat every time you say his name, the vibrations of it going straight to your clit, making the heat spread under your skin as he pushes you closer and closer to the edge. “Mhmm, Eris,” your chest rising and falling as he continues pulling moans and whimpers from your lips.

His tongue doesn’t give your clit any reprieve as he buries one long, thick, finger inside you. Then two. Fucking you with them, curling them so they hit that sweet spot he knows will send you over the edge.

“Eris! Eri—“ His name a shattered cry on your lips as you fall apart under his touch. Your body trembling, hips bucking as he continues to swirl his tongue around your clit and fucks you with his fingers, working you through your orgasm.

Panting as you come down from your high, Eris stands up and looks down at you with a feral grin on his lips. His lips and chin covered in his spit and your release. Even his chest is covered in your release.

He follows your gaze and looks down at his chest then looks back up at you again. “Good girl.” He praises before sucking the two fingers that he’d fucked you with into his mouth. Cleaning them off.

With that same hand he pumps his painfully hard cock, once and then twice, placing his other hand on the back of your thigh, keeping you spread before he slaps your cunt with his cock. Whimpering as your hips jerk in response to the overstimulation.

“Aww, is it too much? It is too much, little flame?” Eris teases.

You shake your head no.

His heavy cock presses against your cunt as he leans down inches from your face, “Is it too much. Tell me.” A command not a question.

“No,” you breathe.

His pupils flare, then his lips crash into yours and without breaking the kiss in one quick thrust he buries himself all the way in, to the hilt. Your lips parting in a scream as he splits you open which he swallows greedily as he stays still letting you adjust to his size. His tongue exploring your mouth, allowing you to taste yourself as your tongues fight for dominance.

You win before he pulls away and moves onto kissing your jaw and neck. “Eris, I-I need—“ Your words get cut off by a moan as he sucks one of your nipples into his mouth. Fingers burying themselves in his red hair as he swirls his tongue over the hardened peak.

He smirks as he moves onto your other breast, giving it the same attention, What does my little mate need? He asks mind to mind—through the mating bond. His deep voice is full of mirth.

You. . . I need you to fuck me. Even your voice sounds out of breath and full of lust in your head.

His chuckle is your only warning as pushes you farther up the bed so he can kneel on it. He places one of your legs on each of his shoulders, his hands wrapping around your wrist—holding them down on the bed. Pulling almost all the way out to the tip before pushing right back in.

Fucking you mercilessly without abandon.

The head of his cock hits your sweet spot, walls fluttering around him as your pleasure builds. “Gods. . . Oh gods!” you cry out above the sound of his hips slapping against your skin.

“That’s it, take it, take all me.” His eyes flicker between watching his cock disappearing into your body and tits bouncing wildly. The sight of you making him let out a lewd groan, “Fuck, you’re beautiful.” You whine in response.

“P-please, Eris,” you beg. “Let me touch you.”

“So needy.” He teases.

“Please!”

He kisses your swollen lips, then you feel his lips brush against your ear, “Anything for you,” he murmurs, letting your hands go.

And they immediately find him.

Dragging your hands down his powerful, muscled back, over scars from battles and terrors long since past.

And as his thrusts turn deeper, you dig your fingers in, dragging your nails across his back, claiming him, marking him. His hips slamming home at the blood you draw. “Such a good little slut,” he praises. “Marking me. Claiming me. I’m yours, little flame.”

“Mine,” you echo, “and I'm yours.”

Eris growled his approval. “Mine.”

That one word was your undoing, your release blasting through you like wildfire. You couldn’t even remember your own name, you remembered Eris’s as you cried it while he kept moving, wringing every last ounce of pleasure from you.

Eris’s own release barreled through him at the sight of it, and he groaned your name so that you remembered it at last, the mating bond set ablaze with your pleasure.

You held him through it, on and on, as he spilled himself in you.

The mating bond continued to glow, silent and lovely, even after he stilled. The sounds of the world came pouring back in, his breathing was ragged as yours was while he brushed lazy kisses to your temple, your nose, your mouth.

You were trembling—and so was Eris as he remained in you. He buried his face in the crook of your neck and shoulder, his uneven breath warming your skin. “I don’t. . .” he tried, voice hoarse. “I don’t want to go back. . .”

You ran your fingers down his scarred back, over and over. “I know,” you breathed. “I know, me either.” Already, you wanted more, already you were calculating how long you’d have to wait.

He pulled back, a sad smile gracing his kiss-swollen lips, “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“It’s safer if we don’t tell anyone about us being mates, but I still want to claim you.”

“Eris, we don’t have enough time—for the mating ceremony or frenzy.”

“I know,” he runs a hand through his hair, “I know. Gods, I wish we had more time. But I can still claim you another way.”

“You want to mark me.” Your lips curve up into a knowing smirk, ���You want to bite me.” Not a question but an answer to an unspoken question.

He nodded his head. “Only if you let me.”

“Can I claim you?” He began to harden again inside you as the question lingered.

Eris rasped, “Do you want to bite me?”

You eyed his throat, his glorious body, and you wondered if it were possible to love someone enough to die from it. If it were possible to love someone enough that time and distance and death were of no concern. “Am I limited to your neck?”

Eris’s eyes flared, and his answering thrust was answer enough. You moved together, in an almost hypnotic rhythm like the flames in both of your veins, and when you reached your peak again, he bit you—where your neck and shoulder met.

Then when Eris roared your name as his release barreled through him and you bit him—where his neck and shoulder met, you hoped that Amarantha herself heard it and knew her days were now numbered.

You fucked three times—twice in the bed, then a third in the bathtub. You’d gone in to wash off, but you had wrapped your legs around his waist, kissed his neck, then licked his ear the way he liked, and he was buried in you again. You knew why he needed the contact, why he’d needed to taste you on his tongue, and then with the rest of his body. You’d needed the same.

Still needed it. You’d never had anything like him.

And when you had bit him during that second time in the bed. . . His magic—his fire had set the entire bedroom, the entire cabin, on fire as he came hard enough that he thought his body would shatter.

But once you were finished, he pulled back the flames and still panting he explained how the cabin and everything was warded not to burn. And it was true nothing was burnt, charred or ash.

Then he’d gone into the small kitchen and mixed some salt and water in a cup before pouring it where you’d bitten and scratched him, to make sure the marks—the claim would remain.

And then he’d poured the salt-water mix on you—where he’d claimed you, ensuring the mark would remain.

Eris Pov:

I marked her deep and true, and there was no undoing it, no washing it away. She’d claimed me, and I claimed her, and I know she’s well aware of what this claiming meant—just as I knew. . . I knew it had been a choice on her part. A final decision regarding the matter of if she actually wanted to be mated to me.

And she did.

I would try to live up to that honor—try to find some way to get back to her.

To prove that I deserved it. Deserved her. My Y/n. My mate. That she hadn’t bet on the wrong horse. Somehow. I’d earn it. Even with so little to offer beyond my own magic and heart. For now.

She is the reason I made a deal with Rhysand. A deal to kill Beron; my father and High Lord of Autumn. So she’d be safe and happy.

And after I’d be High Lord and she’d be High Lady.

****

The sun is rising, it’s not safe out here in the open with so many fae around, Raihn warned in both of your minds.

Eris flinched, “Gods, I don’t think I'm ever going to get used to that.”

Raihn only huffed, his eyes scanning the forest surrounding you.

You chuckled against Eris’s chest, “You’re gonna have to. There’s no me without him.”

“Anything for you.” Is his only response before tightening his arms that were wrapped around you and kissing the top of your head.

Without taking his eyes away from the forest, Raihn backed up towards you, lying down next to you. Sunshine, we have to go now. The sun rises in 5 minutes and it’s going to take me 10 to get you back to the manor.

All right.

It took everything in you to pull yourself out of Eris’s arms, but before you even took a step back toward Raihn, he grabbed one of your hands, “Wait, I want you to have something.” He turned your hand and placed a gold signet ring set with an emerald cut ruby, with a gold chain threaded through it.

You stare at it for a couple seconds longer before closing your fist around it and holding it to your chest and see that one of his fingers is now bare. “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me, little flame. Remember, what’s mine is yours.” Then he opened his mouth again to speak but closed it. His cheeks now tinged pink.

Your brows furrowed, one side of your mouth quirking up in a smile, “What?”

He cleared his throat, “I-uh, warded the ring and necklace so that only you, Raihn or. . . I could touch it. If someone else does, it’ll burn them.”

“Good.” You said, giving him a smile that’s only reserved for him and Raihn.

Yes, yes, very nice but we need to go. Now. Raihn grumbled as his tail swatted your legs.

“All right, all right, we’re going,” you mumbled. Rolling your eyes as you swung your leg over his body and as soon as you did he stood up. “Raihn!” you chided.

What? He snapped.

“I almost fell,” you muttered as you fisted his fur to keep yourself from falling from his back.

Then don’t fall.

Eris walked, standing in front of Raihn, getting his attention, “Get her back safe. Protect her.”

Raihn dipped his head, With my life.

Then Eris walked to his side and titled his head up, and you leaned down, meeting him halfway for your last kiss, for now.

You both pulled away at the same time, pressing your foreheads together, “Be safe,” he breathed.

“Be safe.” You echoed.

And then he winnowed.

And you closed off your side of mating bond. Telling yourself it’s better this way.

****

You awoke hours later, around noon, judging by how bright the sun was.

The servants were sleeping in after their night of celebrating. Your body was pleasantly sore from the long night Eris and you had, so you made yourself a bath and took a good, long soak. Washing up but also leaving just a bit of his scent on you, just enough so that others would really have to look for it to detect it.

After bathing, you dressed and sat at the vanity to braid your hair. Once you were finished, you opened the collar of your tunic, pulling the chain out with the ring he’d given you, letting it rest on your chest.

Raihn and you strode downstairs and went your separate ways. He went out to hunt for his food while you followed your nose to the dining room, where you knew lunch was usually served for Tamlin and Lucien.

When you flung open the doors, you found them both in their usual spots. Except Feyre was sitting directly across from Lucien and Feyre and Tamlin were currently arguing. Lucien propped an arm on the table and covered his mouth with his hand, his russet eye bright. Clearly amused but as soon as his eyes locked on you—he glared.

And you frowned, “What?”

Even Feyre and Tamlin stopped arguing their attention now on the both of you.

“Where were you?” Lucien spat.

“In my room.” You took a step forward and his nostrils flared, his eyes narrowed into slits.

He snarled, “Liar.”

Fuck it. You titled your head to the side, smirking, “I mean I was in my room this morning but last night. . . well you know where I was last night.”

Lucien growled as he winnowed right in front of you, before pinning you to the ground, “You fucked him?!”

“Lucien!” Tamlin’s shout rattled the glasses on the table.

“Did I?”

“His scent is all over you”—his eyes fell to your chest, to the ring around your neck—“you have his fucking ring around your neck!” He grabbed it. No doubt trying to rip it off you but hissed as soon as it made contact with his skin. It burned him.

You only grinned at him. Turning your head to look at Feyre and Tamlin who were both gaping at you, “Want to know what I learned last night?” You asked both of them. They didn’t say anything and just kept staring so you took that as your cue to continue. “Autumn court males have fire in their blood. . . and they fuck like it too.”

“Y/n!” Feyre gasped.

Tamlin’s jaw was practically on the floor, then he was shaking his head, sputtering, “Wait-wait, you and Lucien?”

Lucien answered for both of you, “Eris.” As soon as his brother’s name left his mouth he punched you.

You laughed and when he reared his hand back again, you took your opening, fisting the collar of his tunic and head-butting his nose. Rewarding you with a loud crunch.

His hand flew up to his nose and you took the chance to flip you both over so you were on top and with your left hand you pried his hands away from his face. The second his face was open you punched him in his mouth like he punched you.

“Enough!” Tamlin bellowed.

Lucien tried punching you again but you were too fast and moved out the way, then you landed another blow.

You were gonna punch him again, your fist inches from his face when you heard Feyre, “Y/n, stop!” she yelled.

So you did, you got off of Lucien and stood to the side of him. Your chest was still heaving as you offered him a hand, “We good?”

He eyed your hand before sighing, “We’re good.” His hand closed around yours before you pulled him up.

Feyre cleared the space between you in a couple steps—“Y/n what’s wrong with you?”— she cradled your face in her hands, looking you over.

You pulled away, “I think it’d be easier to tell you what isn’t wrong with me.”

“That’s not funny.”

“Trust me, I know.” You walked around all of them back to the table and sat down and began filling a glass with wine and piling your plate with food. You didn’t turn back to look at them as you said, “So. . . are you all not gonna eat?”

They all sighed before muttering their agreement as they found their seats and began eating.

No one said anything for a while, until Lucien cleared his throat, his eyes on you, “Why?”

Such a simple question with a complicated answer.

You took a sip of wine before answering, “Can’t say. But, I can say that Raihn is gonna kill you when he comes back.” You said sweetly.

Lucien, Tamlin and Feyre all blanched making you howl with laughter.

It was Feyre who spoke first, “You shouldn’t trust that-that wolf as much as you do. He’s still wild—still a beast.”

You stared at her, for so long that she shifted in her seat uncomfortably and Lucien and Tamlin stilled. They way only fae could go still. You titled your head to the side—a predator looking at prey. “He’s not a beast to me. . . No matter what he looks like or how terrifying he is to everyone.” You got up to leave and Feyre grabbed your arm and you ripped it free from her grasp, “Don’t,” You warned.

She grabbed you again and you whirled. Tamlin and Lucien lunged for you, knocking back their chairs hard enough to flip it over, but Feyre threw out a hand. The High Lord and Emissary stood down.

That easily, she leashed them.

You laughed, the sound brittle and cold, and smiled at all of them in a way that usually made others throw the first punch.

But they just set their chairs upright, sat down, and leaned back, as if they already knew where they'd strike your death blow.

Feyre was their salvation and they wouldn’t let anything happen to her.

But she’s your sister—the closest thing you ever had to one—you would never hurt her. Never.

Feyre pointed at the door. "Get the hell out. I don't know what’s going on with you but I don’t want to see you again for a good while."

The feeling was mutual.

****

Without even realizing it you’d walked back to your family’s cottage. Your real family’s cottage.

It looks the same as it did the last time you saw it. No doubt because of the wards your mother had placed on it.

You don’t know how long you stood there on the porch, just staring at the door, until Raihn nudged your shoulder with his snout.

Why aren’t you at the manor?

You shrugged not answering his question. “Did you stay here while I was on the other side of the wall?”

Most of the time. Unless I was hunting them. Them; Amarantha’s soldiers. Do you want to go inside?

“No.” You shook your head, sniffling, “I’m not ready yet.”

All right… I was waiting to bring you here—to show you something.

Finally turning to look at him, “To show me, what ?”

It’s better if I show you first.

Sucking in a deep breath, you willed yourself to move, “All right, show me.” You followed him as he walked towards the back of the cottage. You walked for about five minutes before you realized where you were going. “No, Raihn. No. I-I can’t.” You pleaded.

Please. . .

“No. I’m not strong enough to go to her grave.” You had told yourself you would come see her but every time you tried you found an excuse not to. It hurt too much.

Please, Sunshine. You shut your eyes at the nickname. The nickname your mother and fathers called you. I need to show you something.

You were trembling now as hot tears streaked your cheeks, “I’m not strong enough,” you admitted.

Raihn nuzzled his head against yours, You don’t always have to be strong. I'm here now. Let me be strong for the both of us. . . please.

You didn’t trust yourself to speak so you simply nodded your head and you began walking again. Raihn a constant and steady presence beside you.

Your legs felt like they were going to give out from under you as you saw what he wanted to show you.

Not one but three graves.

It was then that you fell to your knees, sobbing, they were finally together again. Your mom and dads.

You couldn’t stop crying long enough to ask how but you didn’t need to, Raihn’s always knows what you need.

I found their bodies in “The Middle” a few yards away from The Sacred Mountain. They were barely alive when I brought them back. Amarantha had the wings cut off.

You let out a scream, as you pressed your forehead to the grass beneath you, sobs racking your entire body. Their wings. She took their wings. Their wings.

After I killed the soldiers who hurt me, I tried feeling where you were through the bond but I couldn’t feel you. I was so weak from what they did to me and still I tried tracking all of you. But their scents were the strongest yet it was only because I was in The Middle too. When I found them I thought they were dead. There was so much blood. So much.

Raihn let out a pained, sorrowful whine, he loves them just as much as you do.

But I focused my hearing and I could still hear their hearts beating—barely but they were. So I got them onto my back and came back home but I tracked your scent here. It was so faint, practically nonexistent but it was here. And then I saw her grave. Your mother’s grave. I remember she told you that she always wanted to be buried beneath a yew tree and how your father’s always said they didn’t care as long as they were all together. It was as if the mother was playing a cruel joke because you buried her beneath one that had two more yew trees that were flanking it. So I buried them here. At her sides, flanking her, as they did in life.

You don’t know how long you had been crying but you finally stopped. “Thank you,” you whispered so low you weren’t sure he’d heard you.

But then he laid his massive head on your lap, I love them too.

“I know. I know you do.” Without thinking, you started petting his head. You both needed the comfort.

I miss them.

“Me too.” You lifted your head up to the sky and closed your eyes as you imagined the three of them together, happy and flying. A small smile still graced your lips as you opened your eyes again. Finally taking in the area.

The grass was trimmed, flowers placed on each grave and three simple but beautiful headstones. “Raihn, how’d you get the headstones?”

Do you remember, Adair?

You nodded your head even though he couldn’t see, “Yeah, their friend from summer, right?”

Yes. Well he heard about what happened and found me on the porch of the cottage covered in dirt and blood. So he cleaned me up, got me food and water, because I was still weak. And after I got some strength back, I walked him here and pawed at the graves where a headstone belonged and he understood.

They were simple headstones—all three—but still beautiful. You couldn’t stop rereading them.

From left to right they read:

Declan Hawthorne

Beloved Husband and Father

Rhaenyra Galathynius

Beloved Wife and Mother

Callum Rivers

Beloved Husband and Father

There’s something else I need to tell you, Raihn said.

“What?”

Wesley—one of Amarantha’s lieutenants is in Summer. Him and a few Hybern soldiers under his command, they’ve been going court to court.

Your brows pinched together, “For what?”

Not, what. Who. Raihn corrected.

“Me,” You sighed.

Yes. They’re looking for the “Sun of the Night Court.” After they ensnared one of the Suriel and they told them the prophecy. That the “Sun of the Night Court” is the heir of the Spring Court. The heir that is promised to free Prythian—to kill her. So she killed the Suriel, sent out her lieutenants, making them go court to court searching for a boy that doesn’t exist.

“Because, it’s me. I’m Tamlin’s heir.” You finally said the words that have been haunting you for more than 10 years, out loud. “I’m the “Sun of the Night Court.”

Yes.

“And when Amarantha assumed that the Suriel said son instead of sun, they didn’t bother correcting her, if it wasn’t a direct question.”

Yes.

“Because no High Lord has ever had a female heir. Until me.”

Yes.

For other parts: Bound In Flames Series Masterlist

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6 part 7 part 8 part 9 part 11 part 12

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[green-eyedfirework]

His baby was perfect.  His pup—his daughter, his perfect little daughter with her tiny little nose and her tiny little fingers and her adorable sleepy scowl as she finally decided to drift off, full and sated.

"Mari," Dick whispered, and his daughter waved her tiny little fist.

Dick was full of so much love he felt like he could burst.  He hadn't made a single huff of irritation at Bruce's hovering, or Jason's alpha protectiveness, or Damian asking him if he was okay every five seconds.  He was floating on bliss with the sight of his daughter's adorable little face.  That, and a whole lot of painkillers.

He was effused with so much joy, in fact, that he felt like being magnanimous to that long-present niggling annoyance that was constantly drifting at the edge of his senses.  Dick waved at the nearest person in the room—Damian, eyeing baby Mari with the same expression he wore for his wildlife rescues.  "You can go and call the idiot in."

Damian blinked at him.  "Which idiot?" he asked, which was a sound clarifying question, several people had made fools of themselves during Dick's pregnancy.

"Slade."

Damian's hackles instantly rose and the baby alpha bared his teeth.  "Wilson is here?" he growled, and Tim blearily rose his head from where he was taking a nap on the armchair.  "Where is he?  When did he get here?"

Dick blinked at him.  "Slade hasn't been more than a mile from me for the last month."  Dick had done his best to ignore the flickers of the alpha that he caught out of the corner of his eye, which was made all the easier by Slade not actually approaching him.  Their last argument had gotten quite heated.

But Dick was in mellow enough a mood and bursting with enough happiness that he wanted to share it.  He wanted Slade to see his daughter, wanted the alpha to hold the pup, his pup, their pup.

"How do I even find him?" Damian asked, clipped, his expression mired with distaste.

Dick waved him off, "Just stand on the roof or something, he shouldn't be that hard to spot."  Damian's distaste grew more pronounced but he stomped off nonetheless.

Dick turned his attention back to Mari and caught a little fist in one hand, pressing a feather-light kiss to the tiny fingers.  "I love you more than there are stars in the sky," he whispered to her in his mother tongue, "my little one."

His baby.  His pup.  His daughter.

There was a shift of motion, a prickle down Dick's neck, and he raised his gaze to the window right as it slid open.  The world's deadliest mercenary slipped inside.

Dick narrowed his eyes.  "Armor off," he demanded.  "You're not holding her with all of that on."

Slade immediately began stripping.  Tim shot them both a wary glance before heading for the door and taking Damian with him, soon it was only the two of them left inside.  Slade was down to the undersuit in seconds, and he approached the bed like he was waiting for Dick to throw him out.

He finally got close enough to see her.  "What's her name?" Slade asked, voice slightly hoarse.

"Mari," Dick replied softly.

Slade studied her a little while longer.  Dick found himself holding his breath, waiting for Slade to say something.  Do something.  Some part of him still cried out alpha-mate-need-him but Dick had suppressed that part of him long ago.

"Can I?" Slade asked, and Dick leaned forward to hand over their daughter.

There was a warning on the tip of his tongue—support her head, be careful, be gentle—but Slade took Mari from him with practiced motions, and Dick swallowed his words as he remembered anew that this wasn't Slade's first child.  Mari stirred at the change in position but Slade rocked her easily and she quieted down.

In a slow, deliberate movement—as though he was waiting for Dick's protest, Slade scented her.  Claiming her as his own.

Dick didn't say a word.

[artficlly]

smog & spirits: the premonition (mini-series)

Marvel 1920s Gangster/Peaky Blinders Inspired Fantasy AU

gangsterboss!bucky x witch!reader

Bucky Barnes, the leader of Sootstone's Smog Boys, needs a favour. A nasty curse has been cast on him, and he needs a witch to help him break it.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, fem reader, angst no comfort, graphic wound description, blood/gore, graphic descriptions of stitching, religious punishment (lashings), cults, criminals & crime, 1920s street gangs, witchcraft, visions, horror, bucky barnes has issues, bucky barnes is a dick, vaguely british setting??, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 5.7k

A/N: this was supposed to be longer but i've decided to spilt it into two parts, so sorry you just get angst but the next part will have more comfort/fluff. i'm not super happy with this chapter but i didn't intend for it to be a stand alone part, so it's a lot of doing and not much feeling/reflection lol. i just wanted to get this out because i'm going back to studying full time (as if the first degree wasn't bad enough lol) so the next few weeks might be a bit quiet. sorry for any typos - not proof read and edited while half asleep lol.

taglist: @nash-dara @sebastians-love

main masterlist | series masterlist

There was a large, white wolf in your kitchen. 

You didn’t remember descending the stairs of your small flat or your bare feet leading you into the cramped kitchen. The wooden panels felt cool against your soles, and dust glittered in the air. A short candle flickered on the dining table, illuminating the beast.

It was huge, towering over your benchtops and oven. Its shoulder would have easily reached your waist. Its stark, white fur was matted and stained, covered in ash and filth. In the dim light, you could see deep gashes beneath the pale strands of hair, dripping fresh crimson blood. The blood pooled on the floor, creeping into the cracks of the wood.

The wolf panted, taking hard, shallow breaths that rattled its considerable mass. Its pink tongue dripped pink, a mix of blood and saliva smeared along its yellowing teeth. You could’ve sworn it smiled as its lips pulled back, revealing large, pointed canines. It let out a deep, thunderous growl that vibrated through your chest and rattled your small, latticed windows. 

You found yourself unable to question the absurdity of it. A wolf. In your home. 

Your home had been heavily warded for weeks, if not months. After what had happened… it was the only way to keep out prying eyes and scum. Bucky’s boys would walk up the stairs, quivering as they reached for their hands to post a letter, knock on the door, or pick the lock. They would try with all their might, only to be filled with an overwhelming sense of dread. They would run, tails tucked between their legs. Not even Natasha Romanoff could make it past the threshold. The redhead who dripped with malice, who could make men sweat with fear with just a single look… too afraid to even leave the pavement. 

Your feet don't touch the floorboards as you float forward, ignoring the canine's raised hackles. You look into its big, blue eyes and understand it is in pain, in danger. Your fingers spread, splaying out across its forehead as you run a hand through its matted fur. Ash catches under your nails, and blood stains your skin.

Another reason it was absurd to find such an animal in your home was because wolves were extinct. You had heard tales of these beasts in old folklore—frightening stories to tell children at night, fairytales, and such. Some speculated that these creatures might have roamed the land before the forests were cut down to make way for cities and civilization. Perhaps, out in the wilderness, deep in the forests away from Sootstone and the city of Blackstone, such animals could still exist. Maybe even across the seas, in far-off lands still being explored.

“I fear I’m in a dream, friend.” You murmur to the wolf, touch sweeping to cradle its large, bleeding head. “It’s probably best for us both to wake up.”

The wolf blinks its large, blue eyes at you. Its panting is still ragged, blood sticky across your floors. Deep in your soul, you knew it was a warning. A calling. 

Someone was in danger. 

It is a loud clattering downstairs that startles you awake. 

The sharp clanging and dinging of pots and pans ring through your small abode, as if someone had knocked them from your dining table. In your bleariness, still tangled under your sheets, you blindly search for a candle and match. 

The ruckus below continues, with chairs scraping across the floors, cabinets rattling, and a distinctly male voice muttering all types of obscenities. Your intruder seems to have impulsively walked into your home, knocking over all of your possessions. 

The dream, the premonition—it must have distracted your mind. You could feel your wards were down, the peaceful bubble that had once safely cocooned your home was shattered. The remnants of its invisible wall crunched beneath your bare feet as you thundered down the stairs in your nightgown. 

It must be one of Bucky’s messenger boys. The poor lad must have gotten lucky when he pried open your door and stumbled in just after the ward had fallen. You’d noticed how Bucky’s dogs worked like clockwork; at least three times a day, his boys would try to deliver you a message. You had never intended to find out what that message was. You highly doubted it was an apology, likely just another summons as if you were his pet to call and dismiss as he pleased—

As you rounded the corner into your kitchen, you were met with a sight that made your blood run cold. 

Bucky Barnes, in the flesh, was bleeding and dishevelled in your kitchen.

His face was swollen and mottled with deep purple-black bruising. Dried blood crusted along his temple and brow. His hair, usually neatly slicked back, was now a tangled mess, laden with ash and filth, sticking out in all directions. Gone was his usual suit jacket; instead, he wore a simple white button-down shirt, now barely recognisable beneath the grime. It looked as though he had been dragged through a sewer, with mud and filth clinging to his skin and clothes.

Amidst the caked-on mess, fresh blood seeped from multiple wounds on his back, staining the already dirty fabric with a deep, alarming crimson. Each breath he took seemed laboured, his chest rising and falling with visible effort. He lifted his head to look at you, offering you a haunting grin. One of his eyes was nearly swollen shut, a puffy, dark mound overshadowing his battered face. His bottom lip was split wide open—a deep, jagged tear. Despite his condition, there was an unsettling glint in his one good eye, a spark of something unbroken within the wreckage of his body.

“Your wards were down. Didn’t think you were home.” The gangster wheezes, and his legs give out. 

One of his hands reaches out to brace against your dining table, but his skin, slick with mud and grime, causes his hand to slip, and he plummets forward. In an instant, you rush to his side, grasping the man just before he crashes face-first into your hardwood floors. His weight is staggering—almost too much to bear—as you wrap your arm around his middle, muscles straining as you let out a grunt of exertion. With effort, you manage to push him back into a sitting position. Exhaustion radiates from him as he leans against you, barely able to hold himself up. Your candle has been knocked to the floor, wax dripping onto the floors. 

The flame snuffs itself out, and the two of you are cast into darkness.

“What’re you doin’ here, Barnes?” You mutter demandingly. He responds with a weak chuckle, the sound rough and hollow. His head lolls to the side as he struggles to lift his chin, trying to meet your gaze. In close proximity, the stench on him becomes unbearable—an acrid mix of raw sewage, mud, and the metallic tang of blood. 

“Trust me, I don’t wanna be here either, doll.” Blood gurgles in his mouth as he laughs. You scowl at him, shoving him away so he leans up against the leg of your table. You get to your feet, glancing down at your now filthy nightgown in disgust. 

“You’re really that disgusted by me?” You say under your breath. Your words catch the attention of the gangster, whose amused expression falters. 

“What gave you that impression?” He asks. You frown hard, wavering near his feet as you assess the best way to get the hulking man off your floor. His stocky frame, well filled out with muscle, is almost twice your size. It would be a task to lift him yourself

“Last we spoke. You called me a whore.” You remind him. You don’t meet his eye as you crouch down, wrapping one of his arms around your shoulders. Wrapping one of his heavy arms around your shoulders, you place your hand on his back, feeling the heat of his blood seeping through his shirt. His weight is staggering, and you can feel every ounce of it pressing down on you.

He doesn’t reply to your claim. You can tell he is somewhat floored by your confession, surprised that you are still upset. Gritting your teeth, you start to push upwards, immediately feeling the strain in your thighs, calves, and back. His body is like dead weight, almost completely limp except for the occasional twitch of pain. Every muscle in your body protests, but you dig your heels into the floor. The gangster grunts beside you, and when you look over, you see his jaw ticking. You’re unsure if it’s from the pain or your words.

With one final, desperate push, you feel his weight start to lift. He lets out a pained groan, and the muscles in your legs quiver. Using every ounce of strength you have left, you manage to get him onto one of the dining chairs. He flops backward with a sigh, the chair creaking under his weight, and he winces in pain as his gashed back meets the hardwood. You step back, panting heavily, and take a moment to catch your breath. His emotions are hard to read under all the swelling, bruising, and blood that mar his face. 

“So much for an apology.” You dare to say, words dripping with bitterness. The gangster finally peeks at you through his swollen eye with a disapproving look, his gaze hard.

“Apologisin’ is bad for business,” he says, his voice rough but earnest. “But I can admit when I am wrong. And I was wrong for sayin’ that.”

His words catch you off guard—a rare moment of humility from the hardened criminal. But the walls he’s built around himself are quick to rise again, and you can see the familiar defiance creeping back into his gaze. You don’t linger on it.

You suck in a sharp breath, angling your head as you try to process the situation. “Is one of your boys wanderin’ about nearby? I can get a message to Steve—”

“No.” He interrupts, his voice rough and strained.

“No?” You echo. 

“I had a… let's say a run-in.” He replies, his tone clipped. “The street’ll be crawlin’ with ‘em, lookin’ for me. Best my boys lay low.”

“A run-in with who?” You press.

“Does it matter?”

“You’re gonna bleed to death if you stay here.” You retort, your eyes narrowing as you assess the severity of his wounds.

“You’re a witch.”

“And?” You snap back, folding your arms defensively.

“Heal me.”

You pause, head tilting in disbelief as you look down at him. “Heal—? Gods, you know I’m not a healer—”

“I never said it had to be good. Just stop the bleeding.” He presses.

“I’m not your pet witch, Barnes. You can’t summon me at your leisure.” You snip. Magic was broad in its uses, of course, but your speciality was never any type of healing magic, and Bucky knew that. You had always been one foot between the living and the dead. Your skills lay almost entirely in the territories of spirits and chaos magic. You knew how to look—how to feel—through the veil and channel it’s energy. What you did not know were healing charms, herbs, and potions.

Bucky leans forward, wincing in pain, and looks at you with a seriousness that catches you off guard. “You must know how it’ll look if my men find out that I bled to death in your home?”

“Are you threatenin’ me?” You ask, brow quirking. The gangster has a scowl across his face.

“No. I’m askin’ you.” His dark eyes peer up at you through bloodied lashes. Thick clumps of copper have hardened around the strands. “What do you want? Double your rate? Triple?”

“I’m no healer.” You repeat and let out an irritated sigh, biting the inside of your cheek as you waver in place. Hesitantly, you approach the filthy man, taking his face in your hands as you delicately analyse the damage. You can feel his throat bob as he swallows hard. “Just… don’t get your hopes up.”

You withdraw your touch, the skirts of your nightgown swirling around your ankles. You blindly fumble around your kitchen, locating a match for the candle that was still discarded on the floor. “You would’ve been better off going a few streets over to Isolde Briarwood. I’ve heard her potions are the best in the lower districts.”

The gangster contemplates your words. “I needed discretion.”

Smoke fills your nostrils as you strike the match, lighting the candle once more. You frown as you look over at Bucky. He looks even worse in the dim lighting. The cold, wet filth must have been sinking into his bones. You notice how he shivers. “I suppose you’re right. Isolde has never been known for keepin’ her gob shut.”

Bucky snorts.

Your gaze sweeps over to your narrow stairs, a pang of worry in your gut. “Do you think you’ll have enough strength to climb the stairs? I have a fire goin’ up there, and I’ll need to boil some water to clean those wounds before they start to fester. I should ‘ave enough coal to last us a couple hours—”

“I’ll be fine.”

Bucky hauls himself to his feet. You gape at him as his strength seems to momentarily return. A part of you wonders if the fall had all been for show, a reason to get you to touch him, but you notice his movements are slow and laboured. Every step seems to take a monumental effort as he pulls himself up the first stair. His hand grips the bannister tightly, knuckles white. 

You follow closely behind him, holding a candle in one hand, its flickering flame casting a soft, warm glow on the dimly lit staircase. Your free hand hovers near his back, ready to catch him if he stumbles. The light dances across the walls, illuminating the stains on his shirt and the sweat glistening on his brow.

"Easy now," you murmur, your voice soft yet steady. 

Bucky nods, his jaw set in determination, but you can see the exhaustion in his eyes. His breath comes in short, ragged gasps, and each exhale sounds like a painful rasp. You can tell he's using every ounce of his willpower to keep moving forward.

As he reaches the fourth step, his leg buckles slightly. You immediately step closer, your hand pressing gently against his back to steady him. The contact is brief, but you can feel the heat radiating from his feverish skin. You knew your hand would be bloodied when you withdrew it.

He grunts in response, a sound that might have been a chuckle under different circumstances. His hand slips on the bannister, and for a moment, he teeters dangerously. You instinctively move to support him, your arm wrapping around his waist.

"Why is your house so damn cold?" Bucky grumbles, his voice strained.

"Coal boy didn't come," you reply, a hint of frustration in your voice. “And we both know the Warrens aren’t particularly known for holding warmth.”

"Shit, doll," he mutters, his voice thick with weariness. "If I survive this, I'll buy you a new flat."

You try not to think about the possibility of him dying in this situation or the implications of such an offer, focusing instead on the task at hand.

You can see the effort it takes for him to lift his leg and place his foot on the next step. As you reach the halfway point, he falters once more. This time, his leg gives out completely, and he collapses against you. The sudden weight nearly knocks the candle from your hand, but you manage to keep hold of it, the flame sputtering wildly.

"Whoa, easy," you say, your voice gentle but firm. "Lean on me. We’ll make it."

He nods, his head hanging low. You can feel the tremors running through his body, the sheer exhaustion that threatens to overwhelm him. With a deep breath, you adjust your grip, taking more of his weight onto yourself.

"Okay, Barnes, here we go," you say, steeling yourself for the final push.

Together, you take the last few steps, the candlelight guiding your way. Each movement is slow and measured, the stairs creaking under your combined weight. You can feel Bucky’s breath against your shoulder, hot and laboured.

Finally, you reach the top of the stairs. Bucky sags against the bannister, his body wobbling from the effort. You keep a firm grip on him, not willing to let him fall after all this. 

“Here, next to the fire.” You murmur as you usher him into your room. The fireplace crackles lazily, casting a welcoming glow. Bucky lowers himself with some effort onto the rug in front of the fire, his movements slow and deliberate. The warmth of the fire seems to offer him some small comfort, and he leans back slightly, letting the heat seep into his battered body.

“Stay here, I’ll be right back,” you say, your voice soothing despite the urgency in your movements. You watch him for a moment, making sure he’s stable, before turning and rushing downstairs. Your heart races as you grab a pot, filling it with water. The stream from the tap seems to echo loudly in the silent flat. You try to steady your breath, but your fingers won’t stop trembling.

“Get it together,” you whisper to yourself, gripping the counter for support. You can’t afford to hesitate now. Taking a deep breath, you lift the pot, returning to Bucky’s side as quickly as you can.

When you reenter the room, Bucky’s eyes are closed, but his breathing is still laboured. He opens his eyes as you approach, watching you with a mix of pain and curiosity. Setting the pot on a metal stand over the fire. The flames eagerly lick at the bottom of the pot, and you watch as the water begins to heat up.

You kneel beside him, your hands still trembling slightly. “We need to get you clean first. And dry,” you explain, meeting his gaze. He nods, a grim determination in his eyes.

As you move to peel away Bucky's clothing, the reality of his injuries hits you with full force. In the brighter light of the fire, the mud, sewage, and dried blood caked onto his clothing are worse than you remember. The fabric sticks to his skin in a second, grimy layer, with the fibres melded and mashed into the lashes, which are partially visible through the torn sections. The smell is overwhelming—a nauseating mix of sweat, blood, and decay that catches in the back of your throat. 

“Who did this?” You press the gangster. “I didn’t think there were many high up enough to touch you, Barnes.”

Bucky grunts, his breath hitching as you begin to peel the shirt from his back. “I have plenty of enemies, doll.”

“Like who?” 

“You really want to talk business right now?” He snips. The shirt clings stubbornly, the dried blood acting as glue. Each inch you lift reveals more of his battered skin. The gashes on his back are deep, angry wounds, raw and inflamed. You have to work slowly, carefully prying the shirt away from his flesh to avoid tearing the wounds open further. Bucky’s muscles tense and twitch under your hands, his jaw clenched tight.

“I just don’t understand. How did this happen? Why were you alone… do you really have enemies powerful enough to jump you in your own streets?” You babble, the words distracting you from the nerves that were quickly climbing your throat.

“Arcana Castigatio ring a bell?” Bucky says gruffly. 

“You mean The Penance Boys?” You baulk. The lashes suddenly made sense. The Penance Family were a crime family that had founded a cult based on the religion of Arcana Castigatio. They believed in purification through suffering, administering lashings to themselves and others as acts of penance. They view lashings as a necessary act to purge sin and achieve spiritual purity. “I didn’t think they had business dealings in these parts.”

“They don’t. They’ve been pushin’ their luck, pushin’ their beliefs on workers in the Smokestacks, tryna recruit them for the factories over the river.”

“Gods, Bucky,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him. When you finally pull the shirt free, you see the full extent of the damage. His back is a mess of deep lashes, some oozing fresh blood, others scabbed over and encrusted with grime.

“So you went to deal with them alone?” You turn your attention to his pants, which are equally soaked through with mud, sewage, and blood. Your cheeks flush with awkwardness, but you know the filthy clothing needs to come off or the cold will never leave his bones.

“No. I took some boys with me.”

"Lift your hips a bit," you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper. Bucky complies. You work quickly, trying to remain clinical as you peel the wet fabric away from his skin. The pants slide down his legs, revealing more bruises and scars. He’s left in just his undershorts, and you both pointedly avoid acknowledging it. “Didn’t go well, I take it?”

“Let's say I’ll have a few mothers to visit in the mornin’.”

You frown hard, swallowing dryly. “I don’t think you’ll be quite on your feet in the mornin’. You already feel like you’re developin’ a fever.”

Bucky grunts, clearly in agreement but unwilling to admit it outright. With the worst of the clothing removed, you turn your attention to the task of cleaning his wounds. You take a clean cloth and dip it into a bowl of hot water from the pot, wringing it until damp but not dripping. The heat from the water stings your fingers.

You press the cloth to his back, starting with the worst of the gashes. Bucky hisses through his teeth, his body jerking involuntarily at the touch. You work as gently as you can, but each swipe of the cloth brings fresh agony. The warm water loosens the dried blood and muck, the cloth coming away dark and filthy with each pass. The more you lift, the more you notice that the skin untouched by wounds is equally scarred, as if this lashing had not been the first occurrence. 

His eyes close as you work, and his face contorts. You move methodically from one gash to the next. The wounds are deep and numerous, crisscrossing his back in a chaotic pattern. Some are long and jagged, others short but vicious. 

Finally, you finish cleaning the last of his back wounds. The cloth in your hand is filthy, the water in the basin turned a murky red-brown. 

“There,” you say softly, your voice laced with weariness. “That’s the worst of it.”

You stand up, stretching your aching muscles, and grab a clean bowl from the nearby shelf. You fill it with fresh water from the pot that is already over the fire. Kneeling beside him, you gently tilt his chin up to get a better look at the damage.

“I’m assumin’ the Peance Boys won’t be gettin’ away with this?” You ask, starting with his forehead, carefully dabbing at the cuts and bruises. The cloth quickly darkens with the mix of blood and dirt, but you continue, your movements precise and gentle. As you wipe away the grime, the extent of his injuries becomes more apparent. His face is a mosaic of bruises, some fresh and angry, others older and fading to a sickly yellow. His left eye is swollen nearly shut, and a deep cut runs along his cheekbone.

“You’re not wrong,” he replies, his tone rough and weary.

Bucky’s eyes open and meet yours, and for a moment, the room feels even smaller, the air between you charged with unspoken tension. His gaze is intense, a mix of pain, exhaustion, and something else you can’t quite place. You hold his gaze, your heart pounding in your chest. Your cheeks flush, but you don’t look away.

“Hold still,” you whisper, trying to cover for yourself. He complies, though his muscles tense with every touch of the cloth.

“What’ll you do to them?” You ask, moving to his jawline, the cloth gliding over the rough stubble and the bruised skin beneath. His jaw clenches, a low growl escaping his throat as you clean a particularly painful cut. You hum soothingly, trying to ease his discomfort.

“They’ll pay. With time. I need’ta think on it first,” he responds, his voice a low rumble. His eyes flicker dangerously.

“That would be wise. I don’t think you’re in the condition to start a war.”

When you finally reach his lips, you hesitate. His lower lip is split, swollen, and red. You dab at it gently, your hand trembling slightly. Bucky’s breath hitches, his eyes darkening. “I don’t think it’ll be a war… more like… a massacre.”

His lips twist into a bitter smile despite the pain, and you pause, absorbing his words. Unease settles in your gut as you consider the weight of his intentions. You have always known Bucky to be analytical and sadistic in his methods, his revenge was cold and calculated. The word massacre echoes in your mind, and you can't help but wonder what horrors he will unleash. His wrath won't be a simple act of retaliation; it will be a meticulously planned and bloody spectacle. 

“You’re doin’ great,” you murmur, your voice barely more than a whisper, masking the unease that nearly slips through. Bucky’s eyes soften slightly, a hint of gratitude breaking through.

You finish cleaning his face, the cloth now completely stained. You sit back, taking a moment to breathe. Bucky’s face, though still battered, looks a little better, the dirt and blood no longer obscuring his features.

Dumping the cloth on the ground nearby, you rise to your feet. You’d have to do another cleaning pass later with some soap. His hair was still slick with filth, the unmarked sections of his skin stained. 

Your head tilts as you observe him.

You needed to get those wounds shut as soon as possible.

“The best I can do is stitch up your back and use magic to seal it.” You explain as you wring out your fingers, wavering near the fire. “It’ll hurt. Badly. And the scars won’t be pretty.”

The gangster waves a hand at you half-heartedly, wincing as the movement pulls the torn flesh on his shoulders taut. “I’ll live.”

With hesitant steps, you dip behind him deeper into your room. You only needed two things—some strands of your hair and a needle strong enough to pierce skin. Later, you could make up a poultice or salve for his back, the wounds would be hot and inflamed once you sealed them, a paste could soothe them. You would also need to make up a remedy for his pain—a tonic of some kind. A tea would be best to shake off the cold.

You return to Bucky with your hairbrush and needle in tow. He gives you a quizzical look as you settle beside him. 

“Do you want me to talk while I work, or remain silent?” You ask.

“Talk. I have a feeling that I’ll need a distraction.”

You nod and pick up the brush. A clump of your strands are woven between the bristles. With deft fingers, you isolate a single strand and pull it from the mass. “I will use my hair as thread,” you explain.

“I can channel my magic through parts of myself.” You take the strand and briefly pull the fibre through your lips, wetting the end. “I’ll stitch your wounds and use my magic to seal the skin back together.”

You thread the needle with ease, pulling your hair through the eye in one gentle tug. “The magic will flush out any infection, but the scars will be painful for some time.”

“Will it break the fever?” The gangster asks. You frown, head cocking to the side as you pull your eyes from the needle to his skin. His face is rosy and flushed with heat. A thin layer of sweat glistens in the firelight.

“No.” You sigh, twisting the needle in your grip. The curved metal glints. “I fear your fever is from the cold, not your wounds.”

“It’s partly good news, though, it will be easier to break than a fever brought on by infection.” You shift so you are positioned behind him, staring directly at the criss-crossed lashes. Blood and fluid ooze from the tender flesh.

“This’ll hurt.” You remind him.

You start with the worst of the gashes, threading your hair through the jagged edges of his torn flesh. The needle punctures his skin with a sickening pop. Bucky’s body tenses, his muscles bunching as a low growl of agony rumbles in his chest. A slew of curses leaves his lips, incoherent through his grit teeth.

The smell of blood and sweat fills the air, mingling with the faint scent of smoke from the fire. Each push of the needle is nauseating. The skin resists each stroke of the sharp metal. With each pass, you can feel how your hair grows taut, and you are careful not to allow it to snap as you drag it through the skin. The raw edges come together with an uneven, painful precision.

“I did warn you, I’m no healer.” You murmur. The gangster does not reply. His hand grips the edge of the rug, knuckles white. 

You push through the process, your hands steady despite the horror of it. The strands of hair weave through his wounds, stitches wonky as they barely cinch the skin shut. Your lack of experience shows, but you decide it is not the time to comment on it.

Bucky’s low growl turns into a pained moan as you work on a particularly deep wound. His muscles twitch, and he nearly pulls away from you, but he forces himself to stay still. You coo at him soothingly, your fingers stroking across an untouched patch of skin in a silent gesture of comfort.

“Just a little more,” you whisper, your voice gentle yet strained. The tension in the room is thick, every sound is amplified by the silence between you.

You quicken your pace, your own heart pounding in your chest. The last few stitches are the hardest, Bucky’s body is writhing in agony beneath your touch. His growls turn into cries, raw and guttural. The smell of fresh blood is overpowering, and you fight the urge to gag as you finish the last stitch.

Finally, you tie off the thread, your hands shaking from the effort. The wounds are closed, but you still need to fuse them shut.

You take a deep breath, gathering your resolve for the next part of the process. The stitching is done, but now you need to seal the wounds with your magic. Holding your hands over Bucky’s back, you focus on the strands of hair threaded through his flesh. Slowly, you begin to channel your magic, feeling it surge from within you and through your fingertips.

The feeling of chaos sweeps over your skull, your scalp prickling as the electrifying feeling cascades down your spine. The strands of hair start to glow, a soft, eerie light emanating from them. Bucky tenses immediately, his muscles bunching and his back arching as the heat begins to build. The glow intensifies, with the strands heating up and melding with his skin. The smell of singed flesh fills the room, acrid and nauseating.

Bucky’s reaction is immediate and visceral. He lets out a guttural scream, the sound ripping through the quiet. His body convulses, his hands clawing at the rug beneath him. He cries out, but any words he is attempting to speak are incoherent through his agony. You grit your teeth, fingers curling as you hesitate, but you know this is the only way.

"Hold on," you murmur, your voice trembling. "Just a little longer."

The glow from the hair brightens further, the heat reaching its peak. Bucky’s screams turn into a hoarse, ragged howl, his body writhing in uncontrollable pain. It’s as if molten metal is being poured into his wounds, searing the flesh and fusing it together. The skin bubbles and sizzles, the magic knitting the torn edges with brutal efficiency.

You can feel his pain as if it were your own, each scream and shudder resonating through you. Tears blur your vision, but you force yourself to stay focused. Your hands hover just above his back, fingers trembling as you pour every ounce of your will into the spell. The glow begins to fade, the heat dissipating as the wounds finally seal shut.

This magic, your magic, was not meant for healing. It was not life magic or kind magic. Your magic had never been empathetic, never gracious or soft. Your magic was death, violence, and destruction. If you pushed the blinding white heat any further, it would tear him apart entirely.

You held onto something otherworldly—a power too wicked and cruel for a mere mortal. It lay between worlds, a focus of chaos invisible to the naked eye. 

It was not right to bend and force chaos to your will. 

Yet you could.

Bucky collapses onto the floor, his body shivering uncontrollably. His breath comes in frantic gasps, his voice hoarse from screaming.

"It's over," you whisper, your own voice barely more than a breath. "It’s done."

Without thinking, you rush to his side, dropping to your knees. You grasp his face in your hands, feeling the heat of his fevered skin against your palms. His eyes are half-lidded and glazed with pain, but they lock onto yours. For a moment, everything else fades away—the wounds, the blood, the horror of the past hour.

Your thumb strokes gently across his jaw, then his cheek, tracing the rough stubble and the bruised skin beneath. His breath hitches at the contact, his eyes softening just a fraction. "Bucky," you murmur, his name a fragile whisper on your lips. "It’s over now."

His gaze holds yours, a fleeting tenderness passing between you, but the tenderness is short-lived. You steel yourself, pulling your hands away and standing up. The scent of burnt flesh seems to linger in the air.

“Stay still. I will make up a poultice, it should stop the burning.” You explain to the gangster. 

But he does not reply. 

His eyes seem to have rolled back into his head.

PART FOUR

[alnilaem]

you lose your way on the pastures of a hidden farmstead. however, upon meeting the husky owner, being lost quickly becomes the least of your problems.

cw for noncon/dubcon, forced lifestyle puppy play, kidnapping

read on ao3

-

John sees you coming from over the horizon.

He heard the sputter of your van before seeing it. The plume of smoke that follows in your wake, orange and ashy, as you drive down the pebbled road.

He was rounding the house after letting the cattle out when he noticed you. He tips the brim of his hat back and watches, grinding his teeth into the wad of tobacco folded into his cheek, his hackles raised because you’ve decided to ignore the splintery No Trespassing sign in big, black letters pounded into the front of his farmstead.

He wraps a hand around his belt, watching as your camper van slows to a stop in front of him.

The hinges in John’s jaw lock. He’s ready to throw out an expletive, threaten you with the bare metal of his pistol, browned with age, and throw you into the back of his rust-bridled truck. He’d drive you into town and toss you onto the porch of the sheriff’s office, maybe teach you a thing or two about trespassing.

But your engine cuts, and your door swings open, and John’s tobacco turns heavy in his mouth.

He sees your shoes first, pressing tracks into the dirty road as you step out. Frilly socks that end below your knees. You’re wearing tight little denim shorts and a gauzy top that sticks to your chest, knotting your nipples in the summer heat.

You smile.

It’s a little sweet, dewy-eyed. It makes John’s cock chub up, makes him swallow his tobacco on accident, sticking to the spine of his throat.

“Hi mister,” you say. Light and wispy like the breeze that whorls through your ropes of hair. “Sorry to be a bother.”

John perks up. He crosses his arms over his heavily built chest, the hair on his forearms bristling with his newfound flush.

“Just trying to find my way here–“ you unfurl a map and point towards a little dot. “Mind helping a girl out?”

You giggle. It’s coy, John tells himself, just like the flutter of your eyelashes as you hoist your neck up at him, preening.

“Um… sure,” John takes off his cowboy hat and runs a hand through his sweat-matted hair. “Four hours. East. You jus’ follow the road.”

Gooseflesh creeps down John’s skin as you turn around and toss your map into the van, your ass spilling from the bottom of your shorts.

You turn back around and John coughs, averts his eyes to the cattle in the distance. He tightens the reel of his lasso around his knuckles, squirming.

“Thanks, mister,” you grin. “Know anywhere I can top up on gas?”

He gives you another look.

His eyes sweep a trail of flames over your body, making your blood churn. He keens at your nipples and the grain of your denim shorts digging into your cute pussy. He can see the barest outline of it winking back at him. Making his cock pulse.

He decides not to tell you about the gas station a kilometre west of here. Decides that would be too much trouble for a pretty lady like you.

“I’ve got plenty,” John says. Gruff, grizzled, like a bear that’s been in torpor too long. “Follow me.”

All John has to do is snap his tongue against the roof of his mouth to get you to follow him. He takes you into his rustic farmhouse, the place sparse in a red-blooded way, and leads you to the kitchen.

You don’t expect the dog, large with mud-felted paws, that pounces and almost knocks you to the floor.

Its tongue is rough and wet and gnarled against your cheek. You squeal, trying to push it away. It probably thinks you’re playing because it wags its tail, nipping at the divot in your shoulder.

“Aye,” John barks. “Off of ‘er, Dog. Git! Git on out of here.”

John shepherds the dog—aptly named Dog—into his crate by tossing a threadbare toy into it. The golden-haired mutt chases after it, following the toy into his cage.

“No way to treat a damn lady…” John mumbles under his breath. He smiles apologetically at you, his soft wrinkles puckering. He puts his hands on his hips, digging his fingers into his moth-eaten jeans and his sun-bleached flannel. He cocks his head to the side, squints.

“So, sweetheart, how about that gas?”

-

John brings you to a barn out back.

He leads you with a hand split on your lower back, past the stables and the paddocks and the roaming cattle beneath the blaring sun.

He pulls open the large barn doors, his arms flexing with the exertion, and puts his hands on his belt.

It’s an abandoned building. There’s no chicken, no stallions. It’s clear that the barn has been delegated to a storage space of sorts, going by the hay-bales strewn around and the miscellaneous staples of ranch equipment.

John smiles. It offsets his rugged look, makes you disarm a bit.

“Apologies for the mess,” he says, starting to tear through the supplies. “Just wasn’t expectin’ a pretty lady on my doorstep today.”

You stifle a giggle just to be nice, but John, in his time-honoured ways, reads it as coy again. It makes his cock stir against the metal teeth of his jeans, makes his mustache turn hot and wiry against the damp skin above his lip.

John rummages some more. Pretends to nick his finger on a metal steeple. Expels a heavy breath. His stomach paunchy and his chest strong, the hairs pressing against the gauze of his flannel as he rises to his feet and shrugs, hands set on his belt.

“Sorry sweetie,” John grumbles. “No gas here. How do you feel about dinner though?”

The change happens so quick you almost get hit with whiplash.

Your lips pop around stutters, and John’s balls turn heavy. He can imagine your lips parting around his cockhead, all the way down to his pubic bone which is stale with sweat and musky, steel-wooled. It makes him grip his belt tighter, white-knuckled, and undo the first few buttons of his flannel.

“Sir… I really should be getting out of your hair.”

“Nonsense,” John chuckles. “It’s the least I can do for havin’ no gas. I can go into town tomorrow and get some.”

You’re already impaired by the burning, penetrative summer heat. It doesn’t help the way John is looking at you, like a stray predator that made its way onto his ranch and forces him to lock up his animals for safety.

John senses the rumination written into your pretty features. He tacks on, “An old man like me never gets any visitors. None as sweet as you, surely.”

You have to nod, still a little hesitant. You say yes only because there’s a bulky rancher here keen on filling your belly and the sun is beginning to set.

John chuckles and claps his large hands together. He leads you back to the main house and ends up feeding you shepherd’s pie and a cold can of Cola. He pours himself a glass of whiskey and that makes you indignant, as if he sees you as a kid.

Dog stirs at your feet while you eat. Nosing at your ankles and nudging your legs for some food. John flares. He snaps his fingers and snarls, and Dog, moulded by his Pavlovian response, ambles into his crate.

“That’s where naughty dogs go,” John tells him. “You’ll stay there ‘til we’re done.”

You finish not long after that. John gives Dog the plates to lick before soaking them in soap water and shows you your room for the night. His room, actually, but he says he’ll sleep on the couch because he’s a gentleman.

That makes you smile.

But when you wake up the next morning, you’re choking.

Your throat is cinched with nylon webbing. The collar cuts into your windpipe, hindering your sprinting breaths, causing panic to lick up your spine. You sweat and the collar soaks it all up. Makes your skin itchy, flaring, as you chisel at your flesh to try peeling it off you.

You stumble out of John’s bed and hurry outside. He’s herding the cattle when you run towards him for help. Your mind is too scattered to realize he’s the only other person on this farmstead. He’s the one who did this.

“Mister, mister–“ your words come out stifled, cramped against the tight ruck of your throat. “Mister, I dunno what’s happened. Help-“

John puts a hand up and tuts like you’re nothing but a strident, misbehaving mutt.

“Easy,” he grunts around a cigar. “Jus’ calm down, will you? You’re hootin’ and hollerin’ and scarin’ the cattle.”

You choke around your tears. You hang your head, still trying to wrestle the collar off you, your fear ripening into panoramic horror when you look down and see golden fur embroiled into the collar. A bone-shaped tag engraved with a word that makes your blood run cold.

Dog.

It’s John’s name for his pet, but on you, it’s derogatory. Degrades you to a four-legged pup that laps water out of a basin and squats to piss, that needs a handler as rough as John to keep you in check.

He cups your cheek, passes his thumb over your fat tears.

“You don’t like it?” He asks, his voice distorted with a hint of disappointment that, despite you, makes you feel bad. “I took it off Dog. Now he’s runnin’ around the ranch with no collar. I thought you’d appreciate it.”

He curls his fingers under the collar and tugs you close. Your face puckers as he expels a plume of cigar smoke over your face, softly squeezing your bum.

“Good dogs say thank you though. Are you a good dog?” John asks. His eyes darken, eclipsed by something dusky. “Or are y’naughty?”

John forestalls your begging reply, squashing it against your throat as he grips your collar and drags you behind him. Taking his puppy on a walk.

You bridle at the deep-seated embarrassment. John’s other animals seem to have more freedom than you, watching from their pens and pastures as you kick and scream behind him. He pulls you into the main house and takes you to the kitchen. Bullies you to your knees in front of the crate.

He grips the scruff of your neck and forces your head inside. It smells stuffy, stale. The dog bed is moth-eaten and covered in fur.

John pats your ass. He rubs your pussy through your shorts, slowly pulls them off. Kisses your slick clit which is outlined by the dewy gusset of your panties.

“Y’gonna keep cryin’?”

A long cry quivers past your lips.

John’s fingers, although jaded, a testament to working with his hands, make you feel delirious. Makes you curl your pert ass into him, your cunt begging for more.

“Go on, girl,” he grunts. “Go on in. Git.”

He takes you by the collar and shoves you inside the dog cage, since–

“You wanna keep cryin’. I’ll give you somethin’ to cry about.”

There’s barely enough space inside to move around. Dog is a big dog, so you’re able to spin around and face John, but that’s all. You tuck yourself into a fetus position, resting on your knees, the metal grating pressing tracks into your hot skin.

“I don’t reward bad behaviour,” John says. “So for that you’ll spend the night here.”

John clicks his teeth each time you misbehave—clawing at the door, begging him to let you out—his kissing teeth bully the sound of your pleas, until eventually, you quieten, responsive to his clicking tongue.

“That’s it,” John says. There’s a thread of praise in his voice that makes you squirm. “You stay there an’ think about what you’ve done.”

He stands up and prepares his lunch. Eggs on bread and a beer to wash it down. John eats slowly, as if he’s teasing you. Disciplining you further. You don’t think he’s going to feed you, another component of his punishment, until he’s rising from his chair and squatting in front of you, his empty plate in his hands.

Well, almost empty.

Veins of leftover egg yolk are smeared around the ceramic. You look at it, and then at John. He passes his fingers over the yolk and sticks his arm in your crate because the gaps are big enough, waggling his coated fingers.

“Eat.”

You’re shaking. Hesitantly unfurling your tongue, working it around John’s thick fingers, swallowing whatever dregs of food he’ll let you. You become more eager as it goes on—lapping at his yolk-covered fingers as well as the mud and mire crusted into his nails. Sucking at his swollen knuckles, nibbling on his finger hair.

He belly laughs before pulling his fingers out of your cage. John stands up and soaks his plate in sudsy water, turning to look at you.

“Busy day today,” he says. “I’ll see you tonight, pup.”

You find yourself whimpering—not talking—as he turns to leave.

-

That night, you’re woken with a scuffle and John clicking his tongue.

It rouses you immediately. That, and the thin sound of his belt unbuckling.

Sweat sticks to your skin, dewy, when John prods through the crate and gropes you. You can’t see him but you can feel him. Rubbing your puffy cunt, thumbing your clit. Flattening his tongue against your pussy and pulling your lips into his mouth.

“So fuckin’ sweet,” he mumbles against your clit. “Knew you were a sweet girl.”

John’s tongue travels up and wets your asshole. It makes you jerk against the metal, makes the cage rattle.

He pulls away and you moan, thinking it’s another punishment. You push your ass against the gratings, presenting yourself, the metal gridwall rubbing against your swollen clit and making you shiver.

John mumbles something about patience. It seems that he doesn’t have any patience either, soft-soaped by your pussy, because he’s pressing his tip against your opening and feeding you his cock.

John fucks you through the holes of your cage.

Your lungs barely have space to stretch. Your knees are folded into your chest and your collar is still biting into your neck. You’re being split open on John’s cock, your arousal turning your thighs sticky. Drool trickling from your mouth and sticking to your cheek.

You don’t know when it ends. When you come, thighs trembling, or when John paints your walls. You also don’t know when it starts again.

All you know is that it becomes a daily thing, lapsing into a weekly thing. You go to bed in your cage but, sometimes, when you behave, John will let you sleep on the foot of his bed. He’ll clip your nails for you and keep you well-groomed. Brushing your hair, cutting it for you. Bathing you in a galvanized tub out back.

Unlike with Dog, John will even let you eat while he eats dinner. He’ll unzip his jeans and let you slobber at his fat cock while he sips away at his blended whiskey and polishes off his meal with his full belly and his soon-to-be empty balls, mumbling all the while about how much of a perfect pet you are, how he’ll never let you go.

Not that he was planning to, anyhow.

[ohraicodoll]

Teeth

Joel Miller x f!Reader (Feral Reader as you’ve all lovingly called her) The Last of Us (show/game) 4.5K Words (3rd POV) Part II to Monsters Summary:  “Only Joel could make offering to get her off sound like a business transaction. But the intention was clear. This wasn’t intimacy, wasn’t passion boiling over, wasn’t romance. It was bodies and tactfulness and practicality.“ Warning: 18 + Minors DNI. Smut, pwp, mentions of violence, enemies to fwb, can be read standalone Part I | Part II

The house was too quiet.

So often on the road, they’d taken to sleeping in whatever buildings they could secure, alcoves in the woods, even an old run down vehicle on the side of the road occasionally. But this time they all got their own rooms, beds, to sleep in and instead of being comforting it made her anxious. She was used to the sounds of nature going on at night, the steady breathing of her companions, the slight vibrations of the world around her. There was nothing in the cabin but silence. They’d strategically picked rooms, Ellie taking the master bedroom as that was the farthest away from the entrance with hers and Joel’s closest to the front door. If someone went through the effort of getting through all the defenses and fences and managed to get inside, they’d have to get past their rooms first. Except not even that because she was awake and laying on the floor in the living room. The bed had been too soft, the walls pressing into her too much. Caged. So she had grabbed the blankets and pillows and thrown them on the floor on top of the couch cushions she’d yanked down. All where she could have a good vantage point of the front door, pistol resting beside her head and knife under the pillow. It was better, but still not the same.

All the clothes in the house were too big, no matter how tight she knotted the drawstrings, so she’d forgone pants and had thrown on an oversized shirt while her pants dried in what the previous owners had deemed the “laundry room.” The blankets were warm but a little itchy against her bare skin and she sighed. It was hard to relax, to take advantage of the amenities. The need to constantly be prepared for anything a humming nerve under her skin. She tried to calm herself, to focus, to slow the constant stream of thoughts going over the previous day. Finding the group, the bullet graze on her shoulder, the look of pure uninhibited rage as Joel caved the man’s skull in with his bare fist. And then the feel of that same hand in hers, rough skin against her own, and the warmth of Joel’s thighs against her body. “Except you’re wrong if you don’t think I like seeing you on your knees for me.” She wasn’t an idiot. The man was attractive and had been since the day she met him, no matter how much he set her teeth on edge and made her want to wring his neck. They were the same, hackles raised and maws snapping at every turn. She didn’t feel the need to play nice and hide who she was. He never batted an eye at her lack of hesitation towards violence, never looked at her fearfully or disapprovingly for shooting or stabbing first. She’d been around others before, had seen the way they skittered away in fear as if in a blood haze she’d go after them as well. Joel Miller was a survivor and knew that the world was ugly. And sometimes you had to match that ugliness to see the next day. He would have been the type of man that had intimidated her when she was younger. Too gruff, hardened, assured with his cocky attitude and rare smiles. Nothing like Harry. She’d been bashful before, wanting to break out of her shell but unable to take that leap. Not a leader, not a go-getter. Not quite the best at social interaction, at interacting with men specifically, words never coming easily. She would have blushed from one look from the Texan. The world wasn’t made for blushing anymore though and that was twenty years ago. That girl was dead. She was just wearing her skin. A skinwalker. A monster wearing a human form. The Outbreak had changed them all. 

Now it was hard to feel anything. She felt tiny sparks of amusement from Ellie when she tried out new jokes to get a reaction, concern as she took note of the weight that seemed to be on the young girl’s shoulders, affection watching her take in every new surrounding, irritation when Joel bossed them both around. Rage and anger were the easiest to feel, so she took aim at the older man. Like poking a bear if only to feel the exhilaration of being chased. She felt most alive in the middle of a fight and when Joel’s eyes were glaring into her, teeth snapping at her. Staring up at the ceiling, the slight creak of a hinge caught her ear from down the hall followed by almost silent footsteps. Too heavy to be Ellie, too quiet for the girl that blew through life like a tornado. No, she watched and waited as Joel came around the corner, the lantern she had left lit in the corner of the room illuminating the frown tilting his lips down. The sweatpants that hadn’t fit her fit him perfectly, settling loose and comfy on his hips while the faded shirt stretched snuggly across his broad chest. She could see the telltale signs that he’d been running his hands through his head, the slight curls in disarray and silver catching the light. If he had been asleep, she couldn’t tell. Maybe he’d heard her leave her own room. He always did seem to know when she was moving around. “What’re you doin’ out here?” he grumbled quietly, the sound rough and low. The darkness hid his eyes from her but she knew he was probably glaring. Still annoyed over their exchange earlier most likely. She blinked at him then went back to staring at the ceiling, “Bed’s too soft.” My mind won’t shut off, the room is too quiet, the walls are too close, I don’t like sleeping alone anymore. The words were there, buried underneath layers of skin. Joel grunted, scratching at his chin and the patchy beard there before placing his hands on his hips and taking her in. He could tell when she was bullshitting, she knew that, but he wasn’t about to call her out on it. They didn’t do feelings, didn’t confess their fears in the dark. It was practical and that’s how they both liked it. So she reasoned it was in the name of practicality that he sighed and walked over. Because they had shit to get done the next day and he’d gripe at her if she was tired and couldn’t pull her weight. He nudged her side with his foot, the silent command to scoot over, and rather than be a brat and stare him down she did so. The cushions were wide and worn down, big enough for both of them and weren’t entirely uncomfortable. Better than what they were used to sleeping on. Odd sleeping arrangements weren’t new, the three of them pressed tight together like sardines trying to fit in whatever small safe space they could find. So it wasn’t exactly odd for him to be pressed close to her. There’d been many nights she’d fallen asleep to her cheek against his shoulder blades and Ellie wrapped around her back. Maybe he had come out to the living room for the same reasons she had. She wasn’t sure but wasn’t about to ask. Joel placed his own gun on the ground next to his side of the cushions, carefully kneeling down and lifting the blanket up to get underneath. She could feel his pause more than she could see it, could hear the slight curse under his breath, “You wearin’ any pants?” “Does it look like it?” He shook his head, jaw clenching but continued climbing in beside her. The apocalypse did away with a lot of things like modesty and politeness. She didn’t care, had gone and helped him in only a towel earlier because she was already there and wasn’t going to take the time to change just to tend to his hand. Practical. He shifted beside her, getting comfortable under the shared blanket and laying on his side facing away from her where he could still hear from his good side. There was a moment where his arm went under the pillow and he paused, pulling out the blade while giving her a look before moving it beside him. Never surprised, always annoyed. The heat from his body made up for having to share the blanket, warmth radiating from him and seeping into her. She hadn’t moved, eyes still glued to the ceiling though now her concentration was mostly on the slight sound of Joel’s breathing next to her, the way his back muscles shifted against her arms, the anxiety lessening now that she wasn’t alone. “You’re thinking too loud,” his voice growled next to her, bare feet brushing hers as he adjusted. “That’s not a thing,” she replied, very much still awake. Joel sighed and looked at her over his shoulder, “You gonna go to sleep anytime soon or should I go back to my room?” Rolling her eyes, she met his gaze in the dim lantern light, his irises practically black, “You act like I’m not trying to sleep. Brain’s too wired. Feel free to go back if all you’re gonna do is complain, I didn’t ask you to sleep in here.” He huffed, facing away from her and let the silence take back over. 

This time the silence felt weighted, a heavy tension as they both acknowledged that neither of them were sleeping. Using his own words, she could hear him thinking loudly and it kicked up her nerves. She was extra aware of his heat, the press of his back against her arm, the slow and steady way his breath filled the air. It made her sensitive, made the world around her seem to vibrate. Joel was the one to break the silence again, the words deep and rough with his accent, “I can help, if you want…Distract you so you get to sleep.” Her heart sped up, the sound like a raging river in her mind. Her skin was tingling. “How so?” she could hear her own voice get huskier as she whispered back, the barest sound slipping out. He turned to look at her again over his shoulder, gaze heated, “You know how.” She did. Had more than once imagined his mouth on her, fingers slick with arousal and touching her- “Didn’t seem that into the idea earlier when you damn near bit my head off,” she scoffed and tried to ignore how every nerve was on fire. How he had been the one to bring it up and what he was offering. Joel didn’t say anything for a long minute, the memory of her on her knees and his fingers digging into his own thigh fresh. It’d been to rile him up, be a dick to him as he was being to her, but it wasn’t exactly not an invitation. She’d fucked worse to alleviate the tension, to say thanks, to satisfy a need. “Then maybe you weren’t listening correctly,” he grunted, “You want help or not? The window’s closing fast.” Only Joel could make offering to get her off sound like a business transaction. But the intention was clear. This wasn’t intimacy, wasn’t passion boiling over, wasn’t romance. It was bodies and tactfulness and practicality. She nodded, eyes on the ceiling. “Gonna need it out loud, darlin’,” he muttered lowly. Darlin. Not Starshine or Red or Hey You. It was a new one. “Okay,” she whispered and chewed on the inside of her cheek. She didn’t look at him, didn’t try and gauge his reaction or the look on his face. As unaffected as she was trying to come across, her heart was in her throat. It’d been a while, a good long while since someone else had touched her and it was Joel of all people breaking that dry spell. He turned over on his other side to face her and she could feel his eyes, the way they burned into her skin, “Turn over.” She didn’t argue, didn’t bristle at being ordered, simply faced away. It was better this way. It was too intimate to let him see her face, to watch his, and that wasn’t what this was. His chest was flush against her back and she could feel his breath against her neck, hands finding her waist as one of his knees pushed between hers. She expected him to be rougher, quicker, more methodical but he was soft and slow, taking his time. His fingers skimmed over her sides and down to her thighs, finding the hem of the worn shirt then the large expanse of bare skin. His palm was rough against the smooth skin and she bit down on her lip at the contrast in texture, finding she liked the feeling. Then the tips of his fingers were playing with the band of her underwear as his nose dragged along her neck, hot breath almost causing her to shiver. He slid his fingers along the thin straps, hand brushing against her heated skin and she could feel the edge of the bandage on the back of it. The bandage covering the split knuckles and sliced skin from him beating a man to death.

That kind of rage wasn’t supposed to be a turn on, but it had been. The old her would have been terrified, traumatized, backing away from him out of fear but not the person she was now. He had her back, had watched out for her and been there in the second she had been blinded by her overwhelming need to protect Ellie. 

Joel had her. She pressed herself back into him and could hear his swallowed groan as her ass rubbed against his groin, at his obvious arousal pressing against her. He didn’t speak and neither did she. Only the sounds of their quickening breaths filled the silence of the living room and then a barely audible gasp as his fingers finally slipped underneath the cloth and found her center already hot and wet. He trailed along her slit, gathering the arousal soaking there, and spread it around, encircling her clit. He took his time, going slow, getting to know her and the sounds she desperately tried to keep locked inside her. She’d been quiet back in the day. Never been one for dirty talk or loud moans. Maybe because she’d been bashful and inexperienced and easily embarrassed. Soft, breathless, throaty. Now it was more out of instinct, survival, control. There wasn’t much she could control in the world but herself and any noises she made were for her to decide if she wanted them to be heard. So she swallowed the moan that strained to leave her lips as Joel circled her clit even more urgently, lightning shooting through her. His hand was large, so much bigger than hers. His whole body could probably wrap around her completely, cover her up and shield her from everything around them. Joel was a solid wall behind her and as his finger finally dipped inside, she gripped the pillow tightly in a clawed hand while the other dug into the bicep stretched across her. He curled inside her, thumb pressing down on her clit, and she clenched her teeth against another moan, throwing her head back. Salt and pepper curls tickled her chin and then his mouth was on her neck, hot and wet with teeth and tongue. She could smell him, gunpowder and musk and pine. Distinctly Joel and she bit down on her tongue hard, welcoming the slight tinge of copper in her attempt to keep from drowning in him. Another finger entered her and she almost sobbed at the stretch. The coil inside of her was winding tighter and tighter with each stroke, each slow pump, as he managed to tease a part of her that had her delirious with pleasure. He was methodical, precise, bringing her to the edge then pulling back to bring her back down to the shallows before building her up again. It was the perfect kind of torture that had her pushing into hand, searching for more. Her nails were making indents in his skin from how hard she was digging in, struggling to keep herself in control. 

At last a gasp slipped through her lips unbidden. A crack forming. The small sound seemed to almost snap something in Joel. He cursed, pressing his forehead to her shoulder, before yanking her until she was on her back with his hand still down her panties. Before she could question him, his mouth was latched onto her neck and he was pressing deeper into her all the way to his knuckles, no longer going slow, no longer keeping her turned away from him. Their legs were tangled, thigh between his and hips pulled wider, and she could feel the hard length of his own arousal rubbing against her. She didn’t stop to wonder if this was about practicality anymore. If this had been part of the unspoken arrangement. Not when his mouth had inched down the collar of her shirt and he was pressing teeth into the small stars along her collarbone, worshiping the slip of skin. No, her hand reached out and pressed against his sweatpants, feeling him and taking in the way he hissed against her skin and jerked into her hand. Her back arched off the pillows as pleasure grew and their heated pants filled the room. Joel’s beard was scratchy against her skin and she knew there would be red marks all over her neck and across her chest but she didn’t care. His teeth nipped sharp spots of pain into her skin and then he would soothe the spot with his tongue. All while his fingers pumped in and out of her, the slick sound dampened by the underwear he’d shoved aside. Her own hand gripped him through his sweatpants, feeling his weight and length, mouth almost going dry at the size. He didn’t protest, didn’t say anything when she slipped her hand under the band of pants and past his underwear, feeling the hot velvet skin of his erection and passing a thumb over the tip to collect the moisture there. Instead he bit down harder and jutted into her hand, rocking and thrusting faster into her. Fuck, he was big and onehanded she stroked him the best she could, blind in the dark and moving in time with him. She was close, could feel the coil going taut and her breath coming out faster and faster. Her own face pressed into his shoulder, feeling the tight muscles in the arm holding himself over her. He almost seemed to shiver as she dragged her mouth along his skin then bit down, groaning open mouthed onto him as her orgasm crashed hard and unyielding. She didn’t slow down, didn’t release him, even as her body felt loose and HER breath came out in shaky pants. No, she had him and wasn’t going to miss the opportunity to take control over the smuggler. She stroked from tip to base, massaging him and drawing out his grunts with each movement. His fingers pulled out of her and gripped her thigh, smearing her own arousal all over the skin and digging in tight enough to bruise. “Fuck,” Joel hissed into her neck and she let go of the pillow she had been gripping with her free hand, combing through his hair and running nails along his scalp. She wanted to tear him open with her claws, rip away the hardened shell he’d built around himself and climb into him. Force some vulnerability to the surface in the same way he had with her. Revenge maybe, but the word didn’t feel right. He pushed himself up and finally met her gaze, their breath mingling as their eyes found each other in the dark. She wasn’t sure what he was looking for, felt almost more exposed than when his fingers were deep inside her. But she didn’t break her stride, didn’t blink or look away. She met him head on and it reminded her of that first day they had met. Saving Ellie, killing that man with a baseball bat, equal amounts of fury and brokenness meeting the other. A mirror. Joel grit his teeth and she watched the words “fuck it” shape on his lips but never forming sound before his lips were on hers. She hadn’t been expecting it. Kissing was for intimacy and this wasn’t that. But the kiss wasn’t gentle or soft or tentative, instead a clash that shook their bones. He was trying to devour her and she was trying to dominate him, his weight pressing down into her fully. She moaned into his mouth and hooked a leg around his waist, trying to draw him in as close as possible with her hand still tangled in his hair. She couldn’t define his taste. It was…Joel. Earthy and sweet and intoxicating. His tongue discovered every crevice of her mouth, sliding along hers, and she tugged at his hair until a hiss danced along their lips. Kissing Joel Miller was dangerous in its addiction. Her lungs burned and she thought she could taste copper, blood, but she couldn’t get enough, wanting to swallow every innocuous sound that left his throat because they were the only pieces of himself he let go of freely. She palmed his member, massaging it and feeling how desperate he was for release, before finally pulling away enough to whisper against him, “You can either fuck my hand or you can fuck me, Miller. What’s it gonna be?” He groaned as she squeezed him harder, hips jerking, “Jesus Christ…” Then his hands were tugging her underwear down in answer and he was on top of her fully between her thighs, lips bruising while she released him and helped yank his sweatpants down. It was frantic, hands clawing, teeth biting. A desperation she hadn’t felt in a while, only akin to when things were life or death and she was fighting for her life. 

Practicality had gone out the window and she wasn’t sure when it had happened. She felt alive, sharp and bright, and that had her fully pulling him to her, feeling him slide along her wet core heavy and pulsing and so fucking good. Joel braced himself with an elbow beside her head, muscles straining, hand gripping her hair tightly to keep her lips against his. His other fist pumped himself, sliding against her clit and drawing breathless moans into his mouth. There was no discussion about going slow, about making sure she was ready or stretched enough for him. That required a level of care, affection. No, that wasn’t them. Inside he hitched her leg higher around his waist and pushed into her fast and rough. Both of them groaned at the stretch, at the way he filled her completely, teeth swallowing the sounds. It never left their mouths, wasn’t for the world to hear, simply passed from one to the other like a secret. Her arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him flush against her as he started to move. The proximity had him grinding against her, the rough hairs at his base adding friction and sending sparks through her. It was fast and bordered on painful, but it only heightened the feeling for her. She didn’t want him to be gentle with her, didn’t want to be handled like a doll.

She needed to feel something even if it was pain and god, if the man didn’t cause every single inch of her to alight with fire. “Fucking hell,” he whispered against her, the words a growl as he broke from her mouth and pressed his forehead to her shoulder, “Feel so fucking good.” His thrusts were beginning to lose their rhythm, going faster and harder as if he was aiming to tear her in half. She only wrapped both legs around his waist, hooking them at the ankle, the silent promise that she was fully along for the ride until the end. “This better than me on my knees, Miller,” she hissed, fingers tightening on his curls. He gripped the back of her head and drove deeper into her almost in answer, “Shut the fuck up, darlin’.” There was a reply on her lips but it never managed to escape, his lips crushing hers as they both began to hit the edge. She pulsed and tightened around him as her orgasm hit her like a freight train, lightning searing every nerve and dragging Joel down with her. He came hard with her, his warm release filling her and coating both of them as he fucked her through the last waves and aftershocks of their climax. Their breathless pants wrapped around them and painted their lips, a few centimeters apart but not fully pulled away from the other. She could feel him twitching inside of, was drowning in his scent and that familiar whiff of sex that clung to them. Even with his weight bearing down onto her, she felt good, filled to the brim, awake. Joel groaned, forehead against hers, sweat trickling down his neck and into the collar of his shirt, “Fuck.” “Ditto,” she mumbled, trying to catch her breath, releasing her tight grip on his hair and sliding it along his bag. He almost shivered at the slight caress. “I should have pulled out,” he frowned, brow furrowed as reality started to sink in. “It’s fine,” she answered heavily and fell back fully against the pillow, neck stretched beneath him, “Can’t get pregnant. Plumbing don’t work.” Her sentences were stuttered, short and to the point as a clear indication that it wasn’t a topic she wanted to elaborate on. It was the smallest admittance of something personal, a rarity between them, and he filed it away in the back of his mind.

He nodded and lifted himself up, only giving her a small warning before sliding himself from her. They both groaned at the sensation and loss of warmth, laying on their backs side by side under the blanket. The air was much cooler on their sweat slicked skin and in the back of her mind she was thankful that at least she’d get to take a shower in the morning. A second later though, her thoughts were cut off when Joel grabbed her and tugged her closer into his side, her arm across his chest. She froze, not quite expecting him to even acknowledge her after the deed was done, much less want to touch her. His ankle was still wrapped around hers and the threadbare shirt was soft under her cheek, his hand resting on her shoulder. “Didn’t take you for a cuddler,” the words lacked their usual mocking tone or bite, bordered on unsurety. This was out of her comfort zone and she was stiff, in unfamiliar territory with the smuggler. Sex and rage she knew, but not…whatever this was. “Shut up and go to sleep, Red,” Joel’s eyes were already closed, breathing relaxed and even. He wasn’t rising to take the bait, all the fight gone out of him. Biting her lip, she sighed. And true to his word, she followed him into slumber quickly after, leaving the new aspect of their relationship to ponder in the daylight. 

[fortheloveofexy]

Believe me there is more than one person enjoying omegadrew and will read as much as you‘re willing to write❗️

omg y'all are STARVING lmao here you go lovelies, an extra long snippet to feast upon.

"What the hell, what is-?" Aaron halts in the kitchen entrance, covering his nose. "Ugh," he snarls, "You fucking reek." Neil offers him a bored glance before returning his attention towards assembling the tray of food, "Likewise." "Hold on," Aaron says, sniffing the air, his nose wrinkling in disgust, "Are you going into rut-?" Neil ignores him, carefully picking up the tray and moving back towards the stairs. Aaron steps in front of him, blocking his path with a furious snarl. Neil's hackles raise automatically, his instincts howling at him to return to Andrew. He fights to remain calm, though he's sure Aaron can still read the threat of aggression in his scent. "Move," he says simply. Aaron sneers at him, baring his teeth. "No way," he growls, "I'm not letting a rutting alpha anywhere near him, especially not while he's in heat." "I'm not a threat," Neil snaps, "To him or to you. Now step aside." "Like hell you're not!" Aaron shouts, "Stay the fuck away from him, or I'll-" "Abram?" Neil rips his glare away from Aaron, zeroing in instinctively on the familiar voice coming from upstairs. Andrew is standing on the landing, his blanket wrapped around him like a cape, blonde hair sticking up wildly. He teeters dangerously on wobbly legs, gripping the stair banister tightly.  Aaron turns back towards his brother, his eyebrows raising in surprise. Neil takes advantage of his distraction to shove past him, hurrying up the stairs to Andrew's side. "You're supposed to be in bed," he says. Andrew frowns, his nose wrinkling. "You were taking too long." "Sorry," Neil says, "I was a little held up." Andrew looks past him then, peering down the stairs at his brother's enraged face. "So I noticed." "Andrew," Aaron starts, "Listen, he-" "Aaron," Andrew cuts in sharply, "Stay out of it." Without another word, he turns on his heel and totters back into his bedroom.   Neil snorts, amused, and follows close behind him. He shuts the door and locks it before taking the tray of food over to the bedside table and setting it down. "I wasn't sure what you'd be hungry for," he says, "So I made some toast, and oatmeal, and sliced up some fruit-" "Abram," Andrew interrupts, "Come here."

Neil looks over at him curiously. Andrew is sitting on the edge of the bed, his blanket cape nearly engulfing his entire body. He pats the mattress beside him, huffing impatiently until Neil finally sits down. "What is it?" he asks, "Are you feeling sick, still?" Andrew shakes his head, the tips of his ears flushed pink. "When I woke up" he begins, unusually hesitant, "I didn't know where you were, and I couldn't smell you anymore." Neil frowns, thinking back. He hadn't been gone for more than an hour or two, though perhaps leaving for the store hadn't been the best idea after all. "I'm sorry," he replies softly, "I didn't mean to worry you." "It's fine," Andrew says, "I think, maybe… maybe if you had scent marked me, I wouldn't have been so… unsettled." Neil leans closer, close enough that their faces are mere inches away. "Do you want me to?" Andrew looks away, tilting his head and baring his neck in submission. Neil frowns, guiding Andrew's gaze back to his with a finger to his chin. "Don't hide from me, Drew," he admonishes gently, "I need to hear you say it. Yes or no?" Andrew meets his eyes steadily. He takes Neil's wrist in his hand and presses it to his nose, rubbing his cheek lightly against the scent gland there. "Yes," he mumbles, turning his head and exposing his neck once more. "Tell me if you need me to stop," Neil murmurs. He scoots closer, tangling his fingers in Andrew's hair. From this close, Andrew's scent is nearly overwhelming, tinged heavily with arousal and heat.  There's an undercurrent of anxiety there too, a quiet tension in his shoulders as he allows Neil into his space. Neil takes a deep breath, channeling as much calm reassurance into his own scent as he can. "Breathe, Drew," he whispers, his lips brushing against the shell of Andrew's ear, "I'm not going to hurt you." Andrew exhales; a long, drawn out sigh as the tension leeches from his body. "I know," he replies quietly, "I trust you, Abram. Just… just don't bite me." "I won't," Neil replies softly, kneading gently at Andrew's scalp, "I'd never do that to you. Not unless you asked me to."  Andrew makes a soft noise, dropping his head onto Neil's shoulder. Neil leans down, pressing his nose flat against Andrew's scent gland, a low rumbling building in the back of his throat. Andrew shivers, clutching tightly at Neil's clothes, his breath hitching.  Neil kisses his pulse point in reply, feeling Andrew's heartbeat jump under his mouth. "S'alright, Drew," he mumbles, his protective instincts flaring once more, "I've got you."  Andrew shudders, clinging to Neil's shirt for dear life. Neil hums soothingly, steadying himself with one hand on the mattress as he rubs his cheek against Andrew's scent gland. It's intoxicating, the way it fills his nose and blurs his vision; the heady, sweet scent enticing him closer, luring him in.  Neil growls softly, nuzzling greedily against Andrew's neck, spreading the scent around his skin as much as he can. It's difficult, but he's careful not to crowd Andrew too much, keeping his hold on Andrew's hair light and preserving a few inches of space between their bodies.  Finally, he pulls back. "Other side now," he says drowsily, feeling slightly punch-drunk, "Come on."  He nudges at Andrew gently until he finally looks up. The omega's cheeks are tinted pink, his eyes glazed over and his lips parted and wet. "You okay?" Neil prods "Want to keep going?" Andrew nods, panting slightly as he tilts his head and offers up the other side of his neck. His breathing stutters again when Neil scent marks him here too, his barely-stifled gasps loud in Neil's ear. Neil hides a smile under the jut of Andrew's jaw, secretly pleased at the reaction. 

When he's finished, he presses a kiss to Andrew's Adam's apple and pulls away. Andrew sways slightly as he goes, looking as dazed as Neil feels. "That…" he starts, looking vaguely confused, "That was-" "Yeah," Neil agrees. Scenting Andrew had been nothing short of addicting. Already, he wants to do it again.  Instead he bares his neck, offering himself up to Andrew. "Your turn," he says, "If you want." Instead of replying, Andrew shoves off his blanket and crawls over to him. He doesn't even hesitate, immediately burying his face into the crook of Neil's neck, his breath hot against Neil's scent gland. Neil fights a shiver, a pleased sigh catching in his throat. It feels so good, having Andrew close like this.  Andrew mouths at the gland messily, spreading Neil's scent over his cheeks and nosing against his skin. Neil cups the back of his head carefully, wanting to keep Andrew close. He smiles, pressing his lips to Andrew's temple and petting his hair. Andrew's chest starts to rumble in response; an odd, content little sound, not loud or deep enough to be a growl. It takes Neil several seconds to realize that Andrew is purring.  He growls lowly, and it's all he can do not to wrap his arms around Andrew and squeeze. Andrew doesn't seem to notice; or perhaps he doesn't care, too wrapped up with snuffling against Neil's scent gland. Neil gasps sharply when something warm and wet slides against his neck, and he realizes a second later that it must have been Andrew's tongue. Andrew pulls back suddenly, immediately tensing up. "Sorry," he says, "Was that-?" "It's okay," Neil says quickly, "I liked it. You just surprised me." Andrew stares at him for a moment before coming closer again. He pushes Neil flat onto his back and follows him down, straddling his waist and giving Neil a questioning look.  Huffing in amusement, Neil tilts his head again, offering up the other side of his neck. "Come here, Drew," he says, "It's still yes." Andrew leans down again, the last of his hesitation finally gone. He presses his nose squarely against Neil's scent gland, the tension in his shoulders melting away. Neil cups the back of his head again, feeling floaty and warm. "You can lay on top of me, if you want," he murmurs into Andrew's ear, "I don't mind." Andrew grunts softly in reply. He shifts a moment later, tentatively lowering himself until he's spread out on top of Neil from chest to hip. He trembles only for a moment before settling, tucking his face back into the crook of Neil's neck with a pleased sigh.  Neil kisses his cheek fondly, tucking an errant strand of blonde hair behind his ear. He listens quietly as Andrew's breathing deepens, relishing the low hum in Andrew's chest when he resumes his purring. "Sleep now," he whispers, "I'll keep watch."

[002yb]

Ahhh ABO au where Jason is the only omega in the batfam and Bruce is having a hard time arranging his marriage/blocking off bad suitors.

and dick is like "Hey B look at meeee" and Bruce thinks hes joking every time until Dick brutalizes a potential match for Jason because the marriage talks were getting serious and Jason seemed like he was considering the guy.

What’s annoying is that it’s a good match. This alpha would be good for Jason, to Jason. Despite that, Dick’s hackles are raised at the perceived threat. Teeth bared and growl so low Jason sits upright to stare at him, wide eyed and alert, albeit confused - concerned.

Even Bruce is startled, gaze darting between Dick and the prospective alpha across from them. The older alpha’s brows furrow as he tries to figure if Dick picked up on something Bruce missed, a danger or threat.

To say Bruce has missed a lot would be an understatement. Even now, Bruce mistakes Dick’s warning for something it isn’t. That’s been the problem for months though, hasn’t it? Soft protests against an archaic tradition overlooked. Shows of intent brushed off with a fond clap to Dick’s shoulder. An open and honest declaration to court Jason, to pursue him - chuckled over like some paltry joke that stung like a slap across the face because Bruce must see Dick as an undesirable - unworthy - alpha for his cherished omega.

And maybe Bruce isn’t wrong about that, but he is wrong about this.

The only danger in the room is Dick.

“Would you fight for him?” Dick asks. The growl that tore from him before is a barely bitten back thing now, but Dick doesn’t need the threat of it to make another alpha cower or show them their place. There’s steel in Dick’s gaze, a biting chill and crushing pressure in the low timber of his voice when he taunts, “Could you?”

It's a loaded question, purposefully asked to manipulate a choice answer. This is an alpha that would be good for Jason, to Jason. There's nothing else for them to say but an expected, "Of course."

It makes Dick smile, all bared teeth with a promise to bite. The threat in it has Jason shuddering beside him, cheeks flushing softly at the shameless throwing down of a metaphorical glove.

“Prove it.”

[slowd1ving]

[FANTASMAS] SNIPPET ゜・BLADE NSFW

bro this man drives me INSANEEE

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

Tongue leaden, he makes his way to the living room: sinking into the couch while his rubine eyes fix themselves on the door. He loosens the buttons of his shirt, running his tired hands through his inky spills of hair. He’s good at the waiting game; the minutes may drag out infinitely, but he wills himself to sit in silence. 

It’s far past two when you finally stumble in—a long coat bundled over casual clothes that make the tension in his shoulders dissipate slightly. There’s a bag clutched in your hands but no signs of a guitar case. 

Why does he feel so relieved?

You finally notice him: locking eyes, yet not saying anything. His lips press together, then part suddenly.

“Where were you?” It sounds accusatory, and he supposes it is. Don’t tell me what I’m thinking is true. 

“Out,” you reply shortly. His fingers clench around one of the pillows next to him. 

You won’t answer. There’s no point in asking anymore; with gritted teeth, he knows the taste of futility. It seeps bitter in his mouth as he lights the small amber lamp on the coffee table—attempting to numb his mind through the tried-and-true method of reading upon the principles of cement and composites. 

As he hears the steady stream of the shower, his plans go awry. Those same words he’s memorised blur in his vision when his mind conjures you. 

Don’t. 

Where were you?

He’s sliding his book back onto the shelf as your soft footsteps pad out of the bathroom. When his head turns, you’re wearing only a towel: steam still rising from your warm body as you don’t spare him a glance. 

Perhaps it’s fate. 

Perhaps it’s his own fault for getting his hopes up. 

You pass by him—too close, he thinks, you’re much too close—and your bare torso is right there. 

As is the bite-mark that caught his eye earlier. 

When those chromatic eyes trace the expanse of your trapezius muscles, each and every bruise matches the practical constellation he saw littering the guitarist’s body. The dips in your arms, the specific shade of tinted lips you’d sported, each valley and plane of the guitarist’s body—all pointed to the two being one and the same. 

His chest is impossibly taut; only when you clear your throat does he realise he’s standing in the doorway. A fitting Cerebus to this household—if he could, he’d keep you here forever and not let anyone else in. 

“Do you have a problem?” you ask, and it’s the perfect, tired pitch that just about stirs his inky spills of hair and makes his eyes heavy with lust. 

“Maybe,” he accedes in his own low voice, too busy wondering how your songs would taste to notice you getting slightly closer. 

No, that’s a lie. He notices—feeling and seeing the small wisps of vapour still cling to you from your shower  (and now him). He inhales, slowly savouring the unique flavour of you: burnt sugar curling honey-sweet from your lips, the shower gel he knows you just randomly grabbed—it’s the one he uses too, the faint tendrils of sweat and steam and lotion that each have their own distinct tang. 

His nose is level with yours: he can feel the faint fan of particles that brush across him. It’s not that which causes his nails to dig into his palms, but rather the quirk of your brow as you ever-so-slightly raise it. 

“What—no girls to warm up your bed and cure your boredom?” 

It’s a question that could insinuate two meanings. First, that you’re simply mocking him and his previous activities. The second implies that he’s desperate enough to seek you out. 

“No fellow Trailblazer to warm yours?” he bites out. Question for a question—and perhaps he’s slightly sick for enjoying how your eyes widen in abrupt shock. 

“Does that matter?” It’s almost like a game at this point—defences and hackles raised, inching to total annihilation by inquiry. Maybe you’ve realised it’s futile to deny it; a frown settles on your face with a matching glare. After all, for the average student, coming across a member of the bands—Knights of Beauty, Galaxy Rangers, the Family (to name a few)—isn’t a big deal. 

But he’s not the average student. 

“Yeah,” he breathes. “It really does.”