#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

[ellecdc]

Hi, I don't actually know if your requests are open but I was just wondering if you could do a fic about poly!Mauraders x reader, but it's a full moon and when James and Sirius are out with moony, they run into another wolf (reader) and moony just instantly takes a liking to her. Imagine moony trying to follow her around, and reader keeps snapping her jaw at him. I could also imagine reader is maybe a Slytherin?

Sorry if this isn't good, I just popped into my head, and I went with it. Take your time, and don't rush yourself 💓

"sorry if this isn't good - don't rush" uhm, it was fantastic and I wrote it IMMEDIATELY thank youuuuu!!!! <3

poly!marauders x werewolf!reader who's unwittingly integrated into their pack [2.3k words]

CW: fem!reader, werewolf behaviour, some aggression/fighting, canine aggression and submission, Padfoot's had it up to fucking here with them all thank you very much

Padfoot wondered for a moment if maybe he was just some glorified herding dog at this point whilst he struggled to keep Moony on their usual routine when the werewolf seemed thoroughly hellbent on breaking it.

Moony - a blood hound tonight, apparently - insisted on following his nose, Padfoot’s incessant demands to stick to plan be damned. 

And unfortunately for Padfoot, it didn’t seem like Prongs or Wormtail had any clue how to deal with Moony either.

Great.

So instead of their usual routine of transforming in the shack, letting Moony out, following their trail where they run (and roll, in Moony & Padfoot’s case) down a large hill before chasing each other along the river bank, grabbing a drink from the edge of the Black Lake and slowly making their way back to the shack…Moony no sooner got to the bottom of their hill before he picked up some scent and followed it down dark, wandering paths through the Forbidden Forest.

Padfoot had tried encouraging a mouth wrestle and romp - no dice. Prongs tried taking off in a sprint, hoping to elicit Moony’s instinct to chase - no dice. Wormtail bit Moony’s foot which only saw him nearly stomped on as the werewolf continued on his journey. Prongs tried bodily shoving Moony back in the direction of the shack to no avail. 

Padfoot was just about ready to pick a bloody fight with the beast when he heard snuffling followed by a low growl.

Unfortunately for Padfoot, Moony didn’t miss it either, and before he knew which way was up, Moony took off in a sprint towards the sound. 

Padfoot hoped to come back in his next life as a border collie - maybe he’d have better luck with the likes of sheep.

And that decision was only solidified when he turned the corner to find Moony staring down another werewolf who had her hackles raised and teeth bared at the bastard who seemed either ignorant to canine body language or was actively choosing to ignore it.

At least sheep will have the bloody wherewithal to avoid danger. 

Padfoot made a quiet whimpering sound, hoping to encourage Moony to get the hells out of here, but it only served to have Moony’s ear flick in his general direction before returning to his new wolf friend. 

Prongs huffed a breath and stomped his hoof into the earth, and Padfoot noticed then that Wormtail was nowhere to be found - the bloody coward. 

Moony tried to crane his neck forward to sniff at the wolf's paws, only for the wolf to snarl and snap at him before smacking him with said paw like a sodding cat. 

Moony at least had the grace to lower himself to the ground in submission for but a moment before he bounced back up to try doing much the same. 

This time, the wolf charged at Moony, pinning him to the earth by his throat as she growled at him; the sound muffled by the fact that Moony’s sodding neck was in her mouth.

Prongs grunted and made to charge in Moony’s defence, causing the wolf to release Moony and look at him sceptically, and Moony to growl at Prongs warningly - he did not want their help. 

Fine by Padfoot. He wasn’t much interested in helping a werewolf with a death wish anyway. 

But when the wolf decided this was all perhaps a bit too much for her, turning away from the strange pack to continue on its path - of which the marauders should be on their own, thank you very much - Moony went to follow, and dammit, this was Padfoot’s pack.

And if it wasn’t his pack, it was his herd, and what kind of border collie would Padfoot be if he let his pack sheep out of his sight?

Not a very good one, is what.

So, with a huff of resignation, Padfoot trailed behind the wolves - one that kept turning to nip, snap, and snarl at pesky Moony, and pesky Moony who kept trying to get a sniff or even, more disturbingly, incite play with a gentle nip - Prongs (and Wormtail, by means of Prongs’ antlers) trailed behind him. 

The wolf seemed resigned to her fate in having company for the rest of the evening, though that didn’t mean she was pleased about it. Every time Padfoot thought the wolf’s hackles were going down, Moony playbowed in front of her like an overgrown lanky puppy, and they rose right back up. 

The new wolf, for her part, spent the evening snuffling through the dried leaves and moss on the floor, stretching against tree trunks and using the bark to sharpen her claws (still not unlike a cat), and chewing on a stick. 

Padfoot thought that actually all seemed like a really nice way to spend the evening.

Or, you know, it would have been, had he not been in charge of this ridiculous rag-tag group of misfits he unwittingly found himself responsible for. 

But eventually, the evening had to come to an end, and that end was signalled by the twitching of Moony’s muscles underneath his fur as the moon started pulling at his bones, and it appeared to be doing the same for you.

But the night couldn’t end, it seemed, if you weren’t coming with Moony. And for as annoyed as Padfoot had been all evening, he was growing increasingly anxious. 

You abandoned your stick and stood, beginning to limp away from them when Moony grunted and hurried after you, causing Padfoot and Prongs to bark and bleat respectively. 

Any levity that the wolf had found for the marauders quickly vanished in the face of her oncoming transformation and the pain radiating through her when she turned on Moony and lunged at him. Padfoot whimpered and felt his heart try to escape through his throat as earth flew up in the air due to paws digging into the ground for traction and scrambling for purchase. 

The wolf's growls were different now, though; they weren’t bored, they weren’t dismissive, and they weren’t even all that threatening. The wolf was scared - panicked, even. Padfoot could see it in the speed of her breathing and the whites of her eyes that she was quickly descending into terror. 

They were close, so close, to the shack; Padfoot was certain he could get Moony back before the transformation if he would just get a sodding move on.

But it appeared Moony was wholly unwilling to leave without this wolf, and he wasn’t taking no for an answer. 

The wolf seemed to come to the same conclusion as Padfoot, stepping away from Moony before submitting for the first time all evening, and wincing as Padfoot heard one of her joints shift. 

Moony let out a sigh, moving over to the wolf who seemed so small now that she was cowering at the base of the tree with Moony standing above her, nudging her face and neck with his nose before licking over her face. 

The wolf whimpered, and Padfoot watched as Moony’s right hind foot came out from underneath him for a moment - as if he tripped - telling him that the transformation was starting. 

Padfoot whined, and he swore Moony actually nodded his head in understanding before he gently grabbed the wolf by the scruff of the neck and encouraged her to stand. 

Resigned to her fate, the wolf followed the pack towards the shack, barely making it into the room before the transformation took over.

The first thing you noticed when you came to wasn’t the pain, though that was there. It was always there. 

No, the first thing you noticed when you came to was the feeling of linen on top of you and something soft below you. 

That wasn’t right; that couldn’t be right, could it? You were supposed to be in the cave. 

But when you shifted your arm and felt the linen - a blanket? - fall from your shoulder, you knew it was true. You were not in the cave. You were not in the cave, and someone had found you. 

“I think she’s awake.” 

Someones had found you.

You were not in the cave, people had found you, and you were not alone.

You sat up suddenly, holding the blanket to your chest as you shuffled away from the sounds before your back met something solid. Your head felt heavy and off-kilter, like you were standing on a boat swaying on rolling waves.

You had a wicked migraine coming on.

“Whoa, whoa. Easy there doll.” Another voice sounded.

“What-” You tried, cutting yourself off to clear your throat when your voice came out gravely and painful, threatening to bring up whatever you still had in your stomach from dinner two nights ago; the last time you could manage food. “Why are you- why am I here? Where am I? What-”

“Open your eyes, L/N.” The second voice offered, though you could tell the inflection was softer than it naturally was; you wondered if that took him a lot of effort. “You’re okay.”

Your breaths began to quicken because you didn’t feel okay, this didn’t feel okay. Someone knew, they knew; they had found you, you were found out.

The sun was still low, so the light in the….room? shack? hut? was dim, though it still made your eyes water with the impending migraine lined up in your temples as if just waiting for a good excuse to wreak havoc on your brain. 

You were accosted with the sight of Sirius Black crouching in front of you, elbows on his knees as his eyebrows hooked in the middle; James Potter standing behind him with his arms crossed over his chest as he looked at you much the same. 

“You’re okay.” James repeated, nodding his head encouragingly as your vision began to swim.

“Try to relax, doll; you’re not going to feel very well if you work yourself up.”

You let out a hysterical breath that bordered between a laugh and a sob as a few tears spilled out. “Relax? I- what… How could you- why are you here?”

James grimaced. “Sorry, that would be Moony’s fault.” 

“Moony? I-” But your question was cut off  when you heard the shuffling off bedding from across the room, and both James and Sirius turned towards the sound, exposing Remus Lupin sitting up on an old mattress, rubbing at his eyes as a blanket fell and pooled at his hips, exposing his bare torso that was….covered in claw marks.

“Oh gods.” You let out with a sob. “What did I- Did I do that?” 

“What?” Remus let out groggily as both Sirius and James quickly denied it. 

“No, no. Listen, angel, please relax-”

“Stop telling me to relax.” You nearly shrilled. “And stop calling me nice names!”

Too tired, too freaked out, and too confused to have chosen your wording carefully, you appeared to have said something wrong when Sirius’ mouth turned up in a salacious smirk. 

“You like our nice names?”

“No!” 

“I think you do.” James continued.

“Leave the poor girl alone.” Remus grumbled before he fell back onto his bed, rubbing harshly at his eyes.

“Where are we?” You asked simply, swallowing around your gag reflex.

“The shrieking shack.” James answered just as simply.

“Okay.” You acknowledged. “Why?”

“Well, Moony wouldn’t leave without you, so we sort of had to bring you with us.” Sirius answered.

“Moony…?”

“That’s me.” You heard Remus mutter, voice muffled from behind his hands. 

“And…I didn’t hurt anyone last night?” You asked slowly. 

James’ face softened as he started to shake his head no, but Sirius scoffed.

“Define hurt, gorgeous. I was pissed, for one. Two, you had that wanker by the throat for most of the night.” He said, gesturing behind him to Remus with a careless thumb. 

“Why?”

“He wouldn’t bloody leave you alone! I was exhausted just watching.” Sirius continued.

“Would you stop bloody shouting?” Remus grumbled, and you couldn’t help but agree as you rubbed at your head. 

“Anyway,” James continued at a more appropriate volume, “he wouldn’t leave without you, so we brought you back here for the transformation. Where…where were you going to go for the transformation?” 

You flushed as you wrapped the blanket tighter around your person. “There's…a cave I usually go to.” You admitted in a whisper.

“Well, I bet this is an upgrade then, no?” Sirius offered somewhat haughtily, but his face fell quickly when you began speaking again.

“You can’t tell anyone…please.” 

“Tell anyone?” James repeated.

“I…no one knows, no one can know.”

“Whoa, babe, hang on. Who’re we gonna tell?” Sirius asked then, a disbelieving look painting his features. 

“I-” you started, swallowing again “I don’t know but, I just, you can’t-”

“We weren’t gonna tell anyone.” James assured you. “We aren’t going to tell anyone; there’s nothing to tell.” 

You must have looked sceptical, because Sirius quickly intervened.

“Alright look, we promise not to tell anyone about your lycanthropy, as long as you promise not to tell anyone about Remus’, or about James and I being illegal, unregistered animagi.” 

Your mouth actually fell open as you looked between the three of them; James as he turned to grab some vials of pain potions and healing balms, Sirius who was smirking at you salaciously, and Remus who was carding his hand through his hair and smiling (try grimacing) at you apologetically. 

“Welcome to the pack, L/N.” Remus said wryly before he downed the potion James handed to him in one, effortless swig and laid back down. 

“We’re called the marauders.” James explained as he handed you a matching potion. “We’ll have to find you a nickname. Don’t worry though, we have a whole month to come up with one.” 

What the fuck?

[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.

[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?”

[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. 

[ameliathornromance]

The house you had been living in had seriously dilapidated after your parents had died.

Since you had little to no help, living far out and away from the nearest village – which was just under five miles walk – there wasn’t a lot you could do in the first place.

So you’d let the broken tiles on your roof, be broken and when rain came, let the water leak into your room and drip, drip with the tone of a metronome. You’d let the walls foundations crack and climb up to the ceilings of your house and let the doors hinges to each room in the house rust and stiffen open so that you could no longer close nor open them.

While you had tried to fix the problems yourself initially, they proved a lot more difficult than you would have thought.

The door hinges would not budge from the wooden thresholds, no matter how hard you tried to unscrew them, when you tried to re-plaster the walls, the thick cement smelling sludge would either become watery and the cracks reappear, or the mixture was just too thick and would take whole chunks of the wall with it, as it crashed onto your now rotting wooden floorboards.

Needless to say, you were not in the best spot. The only room that didn’t seem to be effected by the house falling apart, was the kitchen. All the cabinets worked, the sink still delivered clean water and the fire pit for cooking hadn’t failed you once.

One day, a hankering for blueberry pie got the better of you. You hadn’t made one since your parents had died and figured it would do you some good to get out of the house and then come back to make a deliciously sweet treat.

And so you’d set out into the forest, wicker basket hanging off the crook of your arm and waiting to be filled.

Once you had found the blueberry bushes deep within the forest, you began to pick and completely forgot about your surroundings. You don’t know how long you must have been there, for all you knew it could have been hours.

It wasn’t until the trees became still and the birds twittering and chittering had been silenced that you were brought out of your meditative state. Living in the woods for a long time, you get used to the sound of wildlife.

It isn’t until that wildlife goes silent that you realize when you’re in danger.

Confirming your suspicions, a low grumbled reverberated in your chest, the hairs on your neck standing on end.

You turned from your spot by the blueberry bushes and watched as a pack of wolves surrounded you, their teeth bared, hackles raised, their backs dipped as they readied their attack.

Eyes darting around, you searched for an escape route. It’s not like you could dart between them, they’d rip you apart like a chew toy.

Jumping over the bushes was a no go as well, the moment you’re in the air, they would strike and then you’d really be in trouble.

With the wicker basket still squeezed between your elbow, you instinctively gripped it as you realised that this situation was as helpless as it looked.

This was it. You were going to die here.

Just as your thought had finished, the wolf central to your vision let out a bark and lunged, spring boarding off it’s back paws, jaws open and aiming straight for your neck.

You squeezed your eyes tightly closed, threw your arms up to protect yourself, braced yourself for the feeling of teeth ripping at your flesh, the feeling of your warm blood spilling down your front.

But instead, the wolf gave a yelp, followed by a whimper.

You squinted open your eyes, ready to shut them again at the first sign of danger.

A wall of green, thick muscle stood in front of you, the pack leader clasped in this monster’s hands.

“Back!” He snarled. And as if he were throwing a baseball, he threw the creature to the ground.

As soon as the wolf had hit the ground, it had scrambled up, still whimpering. It scuttled away, pack following after it with their tails between their legs.

Heart in your throat, chest thumping like a drum, you looked up at your saviour.

It was an Orc.

Exactly as described by your parents as a child: Tall, walls of muscle with green skin that pulled taught over the strong flesh of their body.

Long, yellow tusks that jutted out from its bottom jaws as it turned to face you. It’s long dark hair had been tied into a low pony tail that swayed with his massive figure as he grunted at you, “are you alright?”

Still reeling from the wolf encounter, you nodded, words escaping you.

“Do you live nearby?” He asked.

You nodded again. His steel cold eyes examined you for a moment, completely enrapturing you.

“Come, let me walk you home.” He placed a hand between your shoulder blades and began to guide you away from the scene of the battle from the wolves.

“Oh?” You said, surprised. “O-Okay.”

The pair of you walked back in silence as you processed what had just happened; Where had this Orc come from?

You hadn’t heard him when you were sat there picking the berries – which were surprisingly intact, despite your reaction to block the wolf.

Without even realising it, you had led him back to your house. Absently, you said, “thank you. For saving me from the wolves.”

The Orc whose steely scowl had not faded during your walk, gave a curt nod and then looked over his shoulder. “I should be getting back to the camp now.” He said. “The others will wonder where I have gone.”

He went to turn and walk away, but you grabbed his hand, “w-wait!”

The Orc looked over his shoulder at you, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“I can’t just let you go without thanking you properly.” You said. “I was going to make blueberry pie, if you’d like some.”

The Orc seemed sceptical for a moment, looking at you as if you might have been mad for asking him to come in.

“Are you certain?” He asked. “What of your family?”

Biting your lip, you shook your head. “Don’t worry about them. They won’t mind.”

After another sceptical look from you, the Orc shrugged. “Alright. Just a slice.”

Relief washed over you, before your face went scarlet.

Your hand shot away from the Orc’s hand, “s-sorry.”

The Orc gave another shrug and the pair of you made your way inside your home.

Upon stepping back into the place, your heart sank as you remembered the disrepair it was in. “I’m sorry about the mess.” You said, holding the front door open for him. “It’s not very easy for me to do all the repairs on my own and I don’t think anyone will come out to help me fix it. The kitchen is fine though!” You gave a nervous smile.

The Orc paid no mind to your hurried explanations as he looked around your front room, at the unlit fireplace, your sofa and lack of other decorations. “You live here?” He asked.

“Yeah…” you trailed off. Not wanting to make this anymore awkward than it already was, you rushed to the kitchen. “Do Orcs drink coffee? Or tea?”

The rest of the afternoon was spent in the kitchen, your rescuer sat at your comparably tiny table, with a smaller mug of coffee in hand, watching you as you went through the motions of making a pie.

A part of you couldn’t quite believe what you were doing. Making a pie for an Orc? A blood thirsty brute who would happily eat you whole?

When the pie was finally done, you placed a slice in front of the Orc who had taken to admiring some embroidery your mother had done while she was still alive.

Upon seeing the slice in front of him, he picked up your plate and scrutinised it from all angles, as if he was a star chef looking for mistakes in an amateurs work.

You watched with baited breath as the Orc picked up a fork and shovelled a portion of the pie into his mouth.

After a moment, he hmphed and downed the rest of the slice in a flash. “This is good!” He said, flashing you a wide grin. “Another slice!”

Taken aback – but nevertheless glad – you cut out another slice and gave it to the Orc. After five or six more slices, the Orc rested an elbow on the table and pointed at you, “how are you not working somewhere like a bakery, hm? You’d make a killing!”

You chuckled abashedly. “I don’t know… I’ve just had to keep an eye on this place, make sure it doesn’t fall apart.”

The Orc took one last glance around the kitchen and then back at you. “I’ll tell you what, blueberry lady.” He said, his thick calloused finger still pointed at you. “You keep making this kind of food and I will help fix up your awful house.”

Your eyes widened. Was this Orc really offering to help?

“But, what about your camp?” You asked, concerned. “Won’t they get worried about you?”

“Bah!” He waved you away, “they’ll be fine without me for a while.” And with that same, toothy grin, he stood and rubbed his hands together. “Now, show me the main problem first and we will tackle that tomorrow morning!”

And true to his word, he had. After sleeping on the sofa, you had shown him the problem on your roof, with the water dripping into your room and he had simply waved it off once again. “Easy problem.” He said, stepping outside into the front garden.

“I didn’t realise Orcs were so handy,” you told him as he walked around the back of your house.

“We are good problem solvers.” He said, smiling. “We have to be, as we are constantly on the road and being chased around by Humans. We think quick on our feet.”

After finding a ladder and some spare tiles hidden away in the back of your shed, the pair of you set to work. By the end of the day, the tile had been fixed and by the end of the next, the cracks in your walls had been properly plastered over.

You weren’t going to lie, you were growing fond of this Orc. His initial cold demeanour seemed to have fallen away and was replaced by this jovial energy that was just infectious.

Everyday, instead of waking up and dreading the day to come, you felt excited to see him and greet him with a cheerful smile, before the pair of you started working on your next DIY project for the day.

It was nice to have someone to talk to again, to eat the food you cooked and to laugh with.

You hadn’t realised how much you’d missed talking to someone.

Unfortunately, the day finally came where everything had been fixed and the house looked as if it had never been damaged in the first place.

It was then that you realised, that this would be the day you two would part. For the past couple of weeks, your new friend had been talking about returning to his camp, which he was sure had now moved far ahead of him now.

“It’s normal for them to leave some Orcs behind,” he had explained when you expressed concern for him, “they always leave signs that only other Orcs can see so we can catch up. They are not so heartless.”

The night before his departure, he had told you, “to thank you for the great food, let me take you to a Tavern I go to sometimes on this route. They do a good beer there.”

When you had tried to tell him that there was no need for something like that, that he had done more than enough, he had dismissed your words, “this will be the last night we see each other! Let it be a fun one!”

When he’d said that you had completely ceased all objections.

The next evening, the pair of you set off on the trek to the village. As you both laughed and chatted, you realised that when he left, there would be no one else to do this with.

After all, it’s not like you were friends with anyone in the village and most people would give you strange looks if you just decided to insert yourself into their conversations.

When you both reached the Tavern, your Orc friend ordered two pints of beer and set one in front of you with a massive thunk.

“I’m really going to miss you.” You said, as you watched your Orc down his whole pint in one go.

You decided to sit at a booth in the corner of the Tavern, hidden away from prying eyes.

“And I will miss you too,” the Orc replied, sad smile spreading across his lips. He ran an arm across his face, wiping away the foam and signalled the barman to get him another drink. “It’s rare that I get to enjoy the company of a woman like you. Normally, they run away from me rather than invite me into their home.”

“Well, you did save me from a pack of wolves. I had to do something to thank you.”

Soon, that second pint of beer was gone too, while you were still on your first. You sipped at your beer apprehensively as the Orc beside you finally got his hands on what was now his fifth pint.

“Um…” you pursed your lips nervously. The Orc’s face had began to turn slightly pink. “I think you’re going a bit over board there.”

“Nonsense!” The Orc next to you slurred, jousting his glass pint at you with a wobble. “Orcs can handle a hell of a lot more beer than any human can! I mean,” he pointed at the pint in your hands. “Look at you, you’re not even finished with your first one.”

Your Orc friend hiccupped and held a fist up to his mouth, as if he was going to belch. After a moment, he placed his forehead on the edge of the table in front of him and heaved a sigh.

“Maybe you’ve had one too many?” You asked. Carefully, you removed the Orcs thick calloused fingers from his pint glass and slid it across to the other side of the table. “You wouldn’t want to get a hangover tomorrow would you? You won’t be able to go back to your camp otherwise.”

The Orc grumbled something next to you, forehead still firmly planted on the table.

“Sorry?” You asked.

The Orc looked up, resting his chin on the table edge and repeated, “I don’t want to go,” his cheeks had gone from a slight pink to a dusting of red, “I like staying with you.”

Your heart caught in your throat as he continued, “you’re kind and sweet and pretty,” he smiled at you as a free hand reached out to your face and caught a lock of hair hanging from beside your face.

He twirled it around his finger, before replacing his forehead down on the wooden ledge. “And I don’t want to leave you alone, no woman should live alone in a world where wolves will attack you.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “I don’t want you to go either.” You said, quickly.

The Orc beside you looked up at you, eyes wide in surprise. “R-Really?”

“Yes! I don’t want to be alone again! Spending time with you has been the first time in a very long time that I’ve been happy!” You admitted. Tears welled up in your eyes as you continued, “I don’t want you to go because...” you swallowed the lump in your throat, “I really like you!”

The Orc stared at you for a moment, stunned by your words. “Y-You mean it?” He sat up straight, apparently completely sober since the fifth pint.

You wiped your tears and nodded.

The Orc fell silent for a moment as if in contemplation before he clapped his hands together. “I’ve got the perfect idea. You should come with me.”

“Go with you? But what about the house?” You asked.

“It was falling apart anyway!” He said, “And we did our best to repair it, so it’s not like it’s going to collapse any time soon. We can go back to it any time, it could be like a holiday home. My camp comes through here and when we need a pit stop, we can just put up in there for a little while!”

Hope soared in your chest, “you mean it? I can really go with you?”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” The Orc stood up from his seat, swaying slightly. “Come! We should head back home and pack your things! We will have a long journey tomorrow.”

And with that, the two of you made your way out of the Tavern and back to the house.

“I’m so glad you’re coming with me, I don’t know if I could bare being away from you, blueberry lady.”

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Taglist <3

@sunndust @greenie-c

[tragedy-of-commons]

HI GWEN POOKIE CONGRATS ON 200 IM SO PROUD OF U !!! U DESERVE IT SM <33

can i req “who did this to you” + xiao + romantic

teehee 🫶

"Who did this to you?"

Xiao trembles with an energy he knows all too well. It's wispy and dark and miasmic, keening at the idea of tearing whoever or whatever roughed you up like this to shreds.

Despite your swollen eye and bruised knuckles, you only smile at him in response, not an iota of dejection swaying your form. It's one of the things about you that intrigues him, loathe as he is to admit it - you're never seen without a performance of bared teeth or stretched lips.

But even if you're unaffected, that doesn't change that you're hurt, that you've been threatened by some unknown force, and Xiao wasn't there to protect you--

"Well, hello to you too," you swallow, sensing his unease and repressed rage. "Um, nothing like that happened, promise! One of my friends is visiting in the area, and we decided to spar. Like old times."

Adeptus Xiao knows what sparring is, and he knows what injuries (maybe not mortal...) sustained from those lessons look like. He's fairly certain, despite you being his only human companion, that you're not supposed to be limping.

He can't touch you right now, as much as his impure heart flooded with sin yearns for it. Before he ever trusts himself to comfort you, he'll sit on his hands and remain still for centuries.

"This friend," he almost chews the syllables, "I require a name."

You purse your lips, looking out towards the melting skyline. "That's not how this works. He isn't a threat, okay? These are superficial wounds. Sometimes it just gets intense... if he'd gone easy on me, it'd ruin the whole point of the fight."

His eye twitches, and the voices recede, if only for a moment.

You are never without merit, despite how others may dismiss you. Xiao does know what it's like to be caught up in the throes of combat. Plus, you've tried to reason with him about 'how he gets'. Normally, being told off by a mortal would earn them his silent ire, but even he can't deny he feels like a scolded dog.

...but you are important to him, so he'll let it slide like he always does.

"If he truly wounds you," Xiao starts, considerate, "I need to know."

Blessed with your grin once more, you take a step closer. He's not scared of you, per se, but the Adeptus' hackles start to raise instinctually. What if he hasn't calmed down enough yet? Should he play it safe and go about his duties, if only to make sure none of his penance unjustly latches itself onto you?

Should he run the tip of his spear through every menace to Liyue, soaked in viscera, wracked with the phantoms of your injuries?

"Xiao," you whisper. "Listen to me."

No. He won't do that, because you're right here, and you are alive.

"I'll make sure to call you if that ever happens. I'm safe," he hears a bird cawing somewhere as you take ahold of his ring finger. Of course, it's devoid of any wedding band - customs such as that are below and of no use to him - but the gentle grip of your hand is close enough.

It's a silent promise; one that Xiao needn't repeat, but he will anyway.

You're fine - you're not to be taken from him. In order for you to trust him with your mundane secrets and joyous laughter, he needs to trust you to fight your own battles.

He only nods solemnly, recovering at his own pace. "Did you... achieve victory?"

Letting go of him, in a headache-inducing, booming voice, you boast, "Did you think I could show my face around here if I didn't?! These marks are nothing! You should've seen what he looked like after I wiped the floor with him! Honestly, all of my old pals have gone soft--"

Xiao is once again swept up in the whirlwind that is you. Curbing his overprotective instincts, your relationship is something he holds sacred. For as long as he's able, he wishes to relish in the dynamic, even if he's undeserving of it.

(...and perhaps also because he's a little concerned you may 'wipe the floor with him' too.)

🏷️: @akutasoda, @aviiarie, @lowkeyren

a/n: i hope you enjoy where i took this, ray! i know it's a bit shorter than average ^^" but i did enjoy writing xiao in this setting. your support means everything to me! silly yaksha. barely proofed since i'm sleepy...

event post here

[rip-cod-brainrot]

You know what would be funny? A little childish maybe, but funny?

A Lilo and Stitch kind of situation but instead of aliens… it’s shifters

Like, just imagine… I can’t decide between Makarov, Graves, and Valeria, so I’m gonna throw in all fucking three. Makarov is a wolf shifter, Graves is a hunting dog shifter, and Valeria is a cat shifter.

They’re running from the task force in animal forms, and as they’re trying to escape, they suddenly crash right into Reader, taking a walk in the middle of the night.

Of course Makarov and Graves end up bowling her over, they’re huge. Makarov and Valeria aren’t too inclined to give a shit, but Graves hangs back for just a second to check on Reader… and that gives the task force enough time to catch up.

They burst out onto the path, and immediately Graves and Makarov’s hackles raise, they’re baring their teeth… and the task force sees Reader having fallen on her bum, bewildered at the sight of four military men and two huge growling dogs.

Graves, however, instinctively steps between Reader and the task force. A guard dog is a guard dog, after all. Which gives Valeria an idea.

The growling is interrupted by a quiet meow, and a soft, warm weight pressing into Reader’s back. She turns around and…. Oh. Oh, a kitty! And she looks so scared….

Without even thinking, Reader scoops the kitty up onto her lap, trying to shush her. The movement grabs everyone’s attention.

Graves catches on quickly. The task force wouldn’t put a civilian at unnecessary risk…. And had to keep the existence of shifters secret. The task force couldn’t apprehend the trio if they were with Reader without revealing the truth…

So with a smug narrowing of his eyes, he steps back towards Reader, growling fiercely to ‘protect’ Reader from these strange military men….

And now the task force looks like the bad guys.

Adding a readmore cause it’s getting long and kind of a fic

The four soldiers are staring in shock as Valeria curls up into Reader’s lap, mewling for comfort like an infant. That little snake. If only Reader knew she was a cartel leader….

Gaz and Ghost start to raise their guns; they have the shot, they can take out Makarov at the very least…

But Price holds a hand out. “Hold your fire,” he insists as he lowers his weapon. His eyes are on Makarov… who is glaring back with cold, heartless eyes, his fangs inches from Reader’s neck as he stood right behind her….

They were at a standstill. Even taking Makarov out now was too dangerous; not only would his damned human corpse reveal the existence of shifters to Reader, but Makarov’s followers would be left with his image as a martyr. They would be left unchecked and wild, yet still as fervent in their belief of the cause.

No, they couldn’t shoot.

“Miss,” Price says as he steps forward, trying to ignore Graves’ growl. “Are you hurt?”

Reader looks up, her eyebrows tented. “I’m- n-no,” she stammers out. “What’s going on?…. Why do you have guns?”

Price only shakes his head. “I’m afraid that’s classified information, lass,” he says simply.

“It’s a military thing,” Soap jumps in, giving Reader a firm nod. “We can’t tell you.”

Reader blinked in surprise. “…. Does that mean it’s… dangerous here?” she asked slowly. “Should I go?”

The other three members of the task force lion to Price. He’s been in the game the longest, he’ll know what to do… right?

They see their captain hesitate, staring down Makarov over Reader’s shoulder. “…. You should,” he says eventually. “Are these your dogs?”

The question has Reader glancing between Makarov and Graves. “… well… no…”

Almost on instinct - panic, more like, he needed this to work out - Graves steps back to press against Reader’s side, shielding her as any guard dog would. Soap immediately raises his gun at the movement… which has Reader gasping.

“What are you doing!?”

“Lass, you need to get away from that dog-“

“He’s not doing anything!” Reader gets to her knees, putting a hand on Graves’ back. She uses the other arm to hold Valeria, who’s purring against her chest. “He’s not trying to attack me, he just thinks you guys are dangerous!”

That’s when it clicks for Makarov, the idea that Graves and Valeria are trying to pull off.

Honestly? He doesn’t want to do it, but… well.

Reader could make a good hostage, and it would give the trio enough time to plan a real escape, wouldn’t it?

So Makarov follows suite. He presses his shoulder against Reader’s back, his head over her arm as he glared coolly at the task force.

‘Your move.’

“Cap,” Gaz warns as he raises his gun, aiming at Makarov.

“I see it,” Price says, not even looking at Gaz. “Stand down.”

Soap’s eyes snapped to him. “Sir-“

“Stand down, Soap,” Price repeats. “… this is a misunderstanding.”

Ghost’s eyes narrow, but similar to Makarov, he realizes what Price is trying to pull off.

He relaxes his stance, pointing his gun down. “These three have been causing trouble all night,” Ghost said, his low, gruff accent taking Reader by surprise.

“They have,” Price nodded. “Do you know if they belong to anybody in the area, miss?”

Reader glanced between the three animals now surrounding her, shaking her head. “… no….?”

She suddenly squinted at them. “Wait- you guys were chasing two dogs and a cat with guns? What’s wrong with you?”

Soap and Gaz opened their mouths to protest, but Ghost held up his hand this time. “They distracted us from what we’re actually working on,” he said. “We had to chase them out of the area.”

“And on that note, you should also head home,” Price added. “It’s not safe out here. We’ll escort you back.”

Gaz and Soap relax at that, finally letting their weapons point down. They glare at the three shifters surrounding Reader, but they somewhat understand what’s going on now.

“We’ll make sure you get home safe,” Gaz says.

Reader looked between the four men before shrugging, starting to stand up. “Well… okay, if you say it’s that serious….”

But she doesn’t drop Valeria. She holds Valeria close, even wrapping the cat slightly in her jacket.

“What are you doing with the cat?” Ghost asks quietly, his eyes on Valeria.

“Oh, um….”

Reader looks between the cat and the two dogs - why was that black dog so big, - and pouts slightly.

“… Well, um…. If they’re causing you trouble…” she says quietly, “I can keep them at my place for the night. So they aren’t interfering with your… military business.”

She looks up to see the stern, concerned gazes of the task force. Her eyes widen, and she shakes her head, holding a hand out.

“I-I’ll look for their owners, yeah?” she said quickly. “Maybe they’re just… lost. But I can’t leave them running around all alone out here, and… and you have work to do! I can take care of them. Really!”

Price and Ghost give each other a quiet glance, a silent conversation between them. Valeria purrs in Reader’s arms with a smug smile on her face. Makarov casts a judgmental glare at Graves before turning his eyes back to the task force.

Oh, this was stupid… really stupid.

But for the task force, this meant that their three main enemies were now able to be monitored in one location. They wouldn’t let Reader get hurt.

And for the trio, this meant that they suddenly had a place where the task force couldn’t bother them… giving them enough time to plan a real escape.

The game is on.

[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"

[charliemwrites]

You're such a muse to me right now so I'll just put this out here so I can sleep without the loud buzzing in my head:

First situation: The sound of air continuously cut by the large rotors and engine lulled her out of the present.

Taka-taka taka-taka taka-taka taka-taka taka-taka taka-taka taka-ta-

There was blood, so so much blood around her that it painted her teammates and the world around her in a sanguine hue. By her feet were her newfound friends, her teammates, or perhaps something more than that, whose blood seemed to seep out of every pore and orifice that the damnable liquid could find. She had used one, two, three, four, five... uncountable amounts of gauze that she brought in her pack in her attempts to stem the bleeding. But she can't find the source. There has to be another source! But where?! She can't treat or suture an injury if she can't find it. She likely missed big ones, or small significant ones. On their backs? On their sides? The angry red sun above her hid them all from her. She needs something, someone, anyone. This is too much for one person, and there's too much blood coming out between them all.

It's too much it's toomuch it's toomuchit'stoomuch

This was meant to be an easy mission, a little intel gathering. There wasn't even supposed to be any significant resistance. So why is there so much-

A sound. Something that is beyond normal hearing. Something that was enough to forcibly pull her attention off their bodies. Just long enough to-

She takes a shuddering intake of breath as her eyes, now wild, dart around the dimmed interior of the helicopter. There was no red sun to be seen but there was just enough light to paint the room with dimmed colors. She will happily take anything but red right now.

The sound continues to reverberate in her head. It was familiar, soothing.

-ka taka-taka taka-taka taka-taka taka-taka taka-taka tak-

The helicopter's rhythm returns to her. The familiar itch of her uniform and pressure of her worn gear reminded her of her form. The warmth and scent of the living breathing bodies around her assured her of signs of life. Ahead of her was a large figure whose eyes were trained towards her. For a moment, she found it unfamiliar and strange.

Normally she would consider it a challenge. That little-man from the back of her head would often spring up, make her bare her teeth, and raise her hackles whenever someone, except an omega, had the audacity to pin her with a gaze. But it was not the sharp look of a challenge, it was one of warmth and worry.

It was nice, but it was uncomfortable. So she averts her gaze. The subharmonics continue to vibrate within her bones until her shoulders finally sag down. More tired than anything.

"Thank you," she mutters. The heli's sounds drown her out so she ends it with a little grumble, then a short but equal return towards Saint's subharmonics.

It's fine. She's fine. She's in the here and now.

Her eyes return to the forms of her companions to count the breaths that they take. First Soap, then Ghost, then Gaz, Price... Saint.

She counts.

She keeps on counting.

She'll keep on counting.

-a taka-taka taka-taka taka-taka taka-taka taka-taka taka-taka t-

=====================

Second situation: Soap howls when she beats him for what is likely the third time that night. She triumphantly takes his scowls and accusations of misdemeanor with pride as she takes another swig of her drink.

"I WAN' A REMATCH" screamed Johnny as he tries to reclaim the controller he had tossed out of rage. Curls was just fast enough to put down her drink and snag the thing up and off his reach before he could try again.

"No more for you, Johnny! Someone else needs to challenge the champ!"

Ignoring his grumbling, her eyes lock at Saint's large but unimposing figure seated at the back of the large couch.

"You! I challenge you to fight my Lili" she exclaimed while pointing at the large alpha behind the group. Saint seemed to have avoided most of the initial challenges but there's no one else left to beat so all eyes now turn to them.

Saint, as their callsign had stated, looked at her cooly. Head tilting up as they fix her with the look of lukewarm interest. It had always been difficult to read their expression thanks to their muzzle but the fact that they stood up made the whole room whoop and holler in excitement. Curls herself beamed at the idea of beating another alpha, especially one as strong and large as Saint, thanks to that ingrained need to dominate.

She saw their hand reach out towards her, so she started handing out the other controller.

Then she freezes out of instinct.

They had gently scruffed her, as they always did, whenever she was being too much. There wasn't enough time for her to even think when they gave her a slight shake and playfully chided her with the clicking of their teeth.

"Manners," said Saint.

She felt herself deflate a bit. Mostly out of shame when she realized that she may have overstepped a line once again.

Saint takes this opportunity to take the player 1 controller off her hold to close the fighting game and change it into something less PvP oriented. After all, nothing else spells more chaos and screaming, while also (somewhat) encouraging team coordination, than a few rounds of Overcooked.

-- 📖

Oh I love love LOVE this, thank you for sending it (and holy shit your muse?!?!?! I’m swooning)

And Saint is absolutely smitten, believe me. Spicy little Alpha like Curls puffing up at them? It takes a lot of that will power not to coo at her. She’s lucky they wear neutralizers or she’d be getting scented regularly.

They’re such an absolute sucker for that high energy mischievousness, what a trio Curls, Soap, and Gaz make. Absolutely NO ONE is fucking with her ever for any reason.

[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.

[green-eyedfirework]

It was a slow day, and Dick was finally getting around to reorganizing his herbs after Tim and Cass had gone through them.  He loved his little siblings, he really did, but Tim’s organizational system could only be comprehended by him, and Cass had a bad habit of not cleaning up after herself.  His last client had hobbled home to finish resting her once-broken ankle, the house call to the new mother and baby was over in early morning, and he had all the time to rearrange his cupboard.

The door creaked, and a shift of fresh air tugged at his hair, accompanied by heavy, bold footsteps.

Well.  Dick stared at the array of herbs spread around him and sighed.  Maybe he should invite Jason over, his little brother wouldn’t be able to help himself from organizing Dick’s stuff.  “I’m coming,” Dick called out, levering himself off the floor and clearing a path to the front with a snap of his fingers.

Three sets of footsteps and no greeting, so Dick wasn’t expecting anyone from the village.  He lived a little further into the woods—closer to the plants he needed and the wild call of nature he used to replenish his magic—but most of his clients came from the village.  They were familiar and friendly.

He sensed the spark of wild magic a second before he saw the scowls on their faces.  Werewolves.

“Hello,” he said pleasantly.  “What can I do for you today?”

The one in the lead, silver hair bound tightly in a braid, bared her teeth at him.  It would’ve been a lot more intimidating if she wasn’t a teenager.  “You can come with us, mage,” she sneered, “We require your services.”

There was a chill down his spine, easily brushed off.  Everyone and their pet wanted a collared mage—the trouble was putting the collar on them in the first place.  Someone like Dick, who’d honed their magic for years?  It would be easier to put a leash on a werewolf.

Healing and killing were two sides of the same coin, after all.

“Are you injured?  Is someone in your pack injured?” Dick asked, still pleasant as he sent out a testing probe.  Three werewolves here, three more skulking at his back window, two outside the front door.  No more in the immediate vicinity, but their pack had be close by for a show of force this large.

The posturing werewolf snapped her teeth.  “We have enough wolves to take you down,” she threatened, “Either you come with us quietly, or we’ll drag you behind us.”

Dick let his smile drop.  “Well,” he said in the tone of voice he used whenever he found Tim and Damian fighting, “That’s rude.”

On his little brothers, it could barely quiet a vehement argument.  On the wolves, it sent them skittering a step back, hackles raised.

“You’re coming with us,” the wolf said, but her voice wavered, her gaze locked on his hands as he rested them on the table.

The door behind them swung open.  In the distance, they could hear growls and curses.  “You should probably not threaten a mage in their own home,” Dick chided lightly, and flicked his fingers.

The wolf’s eyes widened to pale blue saucers, but she couldn’t get out more than a half-strangled, “Wait—” before they were spun out and the door slammed shut behind them.

Dick exhaled slowly, and let the sparks of magic recede back under his skin.  Then he stepped back, over the piles of unsorted jars, and picked up his satchel.

~#~

The curse is a nasty, sunken, barbed thing.  Half of it is hidden, which means that Dick spends more of his magic than is wise before he realizes the scope of the thing, realizes he can’t just yank the thing out.

Under his hands, the wolf is screaming.  He does his best to tune it out.

The surge of magic battling magic is enough to keep any interference away, so Dick settles into the slower, longer, more meticulous path of prying the curse out, tendril by tendril.  It fights his attempts to destroy it as he goes, so he has to expend even more magic on containing it until he can get the whole thing out.

It’s tedious, draining work.  It’s gone firmly dark by the time he finishes sliding the last piece out, and the twist it takes to compress the curse into a tiny speck and shred it to whispers nearly makes him stagger.  His magic reserves have gone distressingly low.

Dick abruptly remembers where he is.  The camp around him is full of wolf growling, loud and agitated.  His patient is passed out, skin gray and clammy and looking ten times worse than when Dick started.  The cuts—the cuts are bleeding freely, red and thick.

He needs to leave.  He has just enough magic to put on a show of force if needed, and he needs every last sliver to bluff his way out.  He cannot be caught here.  Not by a pack that’s already expressed interest in putting a collar around his neck.

The boy is bleeding.  He will die, werewolf healing or not.  Dick can sense the corruption the curse wrecked, magic gone but its effects lingering.  If he heals this, it’ll take every scrap of magic he has left.

It’s a choice that’s not a choice.  Dick’s a healer.  He can’t go against his nature.

Dick breathes in and breathes out, and lets his magic pour out.

Heart and lungs and kidney and liver, a thousand tears in muscle where the wolf tried to fight the curse, blood loss and weakened bone and a hundred small damages.  The cuts, large and bloody, slowly knitted together under his trembling fingers.  Too slowly.

His vision is going black.  Dick fights it, fights it with every breath.  As long as he can remain upright when it’s done, as long as he can walk out—he’s proved his fighting capabilities, as long as he gives them no reason to doubt him—

Dick’s head swims.  When he forces himself back to consciousness, he’s half-collapsed against the bed.  He uses the movement to examine the wounds, as though that was his intention all along, his heart pounding loud and sluggish.  They’re almost closed.

Something pops in his ears and the growling disappears to a low buzzing.

He does one last check for any lingering damage as pink, waxy skin unfurls across the wounds.  There are some minor injuries left, but the werewolf can heal those on his own as soon as he’s gotten some food.

It’s time for him to go.

Dick curls shaking hands on the edge of the bed and allows himself one breath before he lets go.  Everything is curiously muffled, muffled and ringing, and when he drags his head up, he can see the alpha on the other side of the bed.

Mouth moving.  He’s saying something.  Dick can’t hear him.

He takes a step back, away from the bed, away from the alpha—he needs to get out, needs to watch for a path, needs to avoid being cornered because all he has is dregs and it’s not enough to scare off a bear.

His head aches, like someone took a hammer to it.

Dick needs to leave.  Now.  Only he’s not sure he can turn without everything spinning.  The ground feels like it’s roiling under his feet.

He blinks, and the alpha is suddenly much closer.  Dick stumbles back another step in surprise.  His stomach turns over, but there’s nothing in it.  He worked too long and without food.

Dick has to get out.  He has to—everything inside him is screaming danger—he can’t stay, they want to keep him, he needs to leave—

Something wet touches his lips.  Dick raises a hand, feeling like he’s moving underwater, and wipes it across his mouth.

It comes away red.

It’s the last thing he remembers seeing.

~#~

No one can get to Grant, no one can even touch him with all the magic swirling around the mage, and Slade is forced to stand there, a few steps away, and watch his firstborn scream under the onslaught.

Nothing works to stop it.  Not words, not weapons, not every magic-dampening sigil they’ve ever collected.  Slade can do nothing but wait.

Grant stops screaming.  His wounds run red and red and red.  Slade’s claws are fully extended—he will tear the mage from limb to limb if it’s the last thing he does.  He just needs an opening.

Slade doesn’t know how long before the magic falters.  It’s just a second, but the second is enough to register how much worse Grant looks, like the mage is draining his life away.  By the gods and the moon, they should’ve left it alone.  At least Slade would’ve been able to hold his son while he died.  At least he wouldn’t be in so much pain.

The magic swirls back before anyone can attack, and the pack paces restlessly along the perimeter.  Everyone’s expressions are twisted in grief and fury.

The mage will not leave here alive.  That much Slade swears.

The magic is…quieting almost.  Like it’s slowly winding down.  Still impenetrable—Rose tries and fails to get past it, but the shimmer is receding.  Slade stares at Grant, half-dreading that his son is already dead.

But Grant’s chest still rises and falls.  The amount of blood loss is…shrinking.  The wounds seem to be closing over.  In fact, when Slade darts a glance at his son’s face, Grant appears to be getting better.

His skin is no longer ashen, his breaths are fuller, and as the magic recedes, Slade steps forward, stuck in an incredulous daze.  Grant looks better.  Grant looks like he’s healing.

Slade pays no attention to the mage’s movements, his gaze fixed on the miracle in front of him.

The magic dies down to nothing but flickers, and Slade can finally touch his son again.  Grant is warm and alive and healthy under his fingers, and Slade lets out a shuddering gasp.

“Thank you,” he says hoarsely, lifting his gaze to the mage.  He doesn’t know what the man did, but Grant is alive, Grant is healed, Grant is safe.  “I don’t know how I can ever repay you—”

The mage looks terrible.  His skin is waxy and gray, his eyes sunken, his frame curled in on himself.  He’s trembling, and his breaths keep breaking.  As Slade watches, the mage takes a step back and nearly trips on flat ground.

“Hello?” Slade calls out slowly, tension creeping back in.  “Hello, can you hear me?”

The mage looks at him blankly.

Slade rounds the bed, casting one last glance at Grant—alive, healthy, alive—before inching closer to the mage, who looks as worse as Grant had at the start.  Slade doesn’t know a whole lot about mages and magic, but he doesn’t think this is a good thing.

“Can you hear me?” Slade repeats, before he notices the red creeping down from the mage’s ears.  The mage’s expression has gone unfocused.  There’s red creeping out of his nose too, blood smearing across his lips, and the mage raises a hand to wipe it off.

He blinks down at the blood on his hand.  And then he crumples.

Slade is close enough to lunge and catch him before he cracks his head open on the ground, and the mage is alarmingly light.  “What’s the matter with him?” Slade growls as the pack presses in, all concerned murmurs.

Villain manages to fight his way to the front.  “Magic overuse,” he diagnoses after taking in the mage’s—too weak—pulse and examining his face.  “He’s drained himself nearly dry.”

Slade looks back at Grant, sleeping peacefully on the cot, and down at the mage, who appears to be two and a half steps from death’s door.

“Will he recover?” he can hear himself ask.  Slade was willing to do near anything for his son’s health, but to use a life to restore life?  That kind of sacrifice, from someone not pack—

“He should.  Time, and rest, and enough food.  Come, he’s too cold, he needs to be kept warm.”

[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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[ameliathornromance]

Blueberry Lady - Orc x Reader

he house you had been living in had seriously dilapidated after your parents had died.

Since you had little to no help, living far out and away from the nearest village – which was just under five miles walk – there wasn’t a lot you could do in the first place.

So you’d let the broken tiles on your roof, be broken and when rain came, let the water leak into your room and drip, drip with the tone of a metronome. You’d let the walls foundations crack and climb up to the ceilings of your house and let the doors hinges to each room in the house rust and stiffen open so that you could no longer close nor open them.

While you had tried to fix the problems yourself initially, they proved a lot more difficult than you would have thought.

The door hinges would not budge from the wooden thresholds, no matter how hard you tried to unscrew them, when you tried to re-plaster the walls, the thick cement smelling sludge would either become watery and the cracks reappear, or the mixture was just too thick and would take whole chunks of the wall with it, as it crashed onto your now rotting wooden floorboards.

Needless to say, you were not in the best spot. The only room that didn’t seem to be effected by the house falling apart, was the kitchen. All the cabinets worked, the sink still delivered clean water and the fire pit for cooking hadn’t failed you once.

One day, a hankering for blueberry pie got the better of you. You hadn’t made one since your parents had died and figured it would do you some good to get out of the house and then come back to make a deliciously sweet treat.

And so you’d set out into the forest, wicker basket hanging off the crook of your arm and waiting to be filled.

Once you had found the blueberry bushes deep within the forest, you began to pick and completely forgot about your surroundings. You don’t know how long you must have been there, for all you knew it could have been hours.

It wasn’t until the trees became still and the birds twittering and chittering had been silenced that you were brought out of your meditative state. Living in the woods for a long time, you get used to the sound of wildlife.

It isn’t until that wildlife goes silent that you realize when you’re in danger.

Confirming your suspicions, a low grumbled reverberated in your chest, the hairs on your neck standing on end.

You turned from your spot by the blueberry bushes and watched as a pack of wolves surrounded you, their teeth bared, hackles raised, their backs dipped as they readied their attack.

Eyes darting around, you searched for an escape route. It’s not like you could dart between them, they’d rip you apart like a chew toy.

Jumping over the bushes was a no go as well, the moment you’re in the air, they would strike and then you’d really be in trouble.

With the wicker basket still squeezed between your elbow, you instinctively gripped it as you realised that this situation was as helpless as it looked.

This was it. You were going to die here.

Just as your thought had finished, the wolf central to your vision let out a bark and lunged, spring boarding off it’s back paws, jaws open and aiming straight for your neck.

You squeezed your eyes tightly closed, threw your arms up to protect yourself, braced yourself for the feeling of teeth ripping at your flesh, the feeling of your warm blood spilling down your front.

But instead, the wolf gave a yelp, followed by a whimper.

You squinted open your eyes, ready to shut them again at the first sign of danger.

A wall of green, thick muscle stood in front of you, the pack leader clasped in this monster’s hands.

“Back!” He snarled. And as if he were throwing a baseball, he threw the creature to the ground.

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[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