#and their clothes tent up as these blades keep coming out

[silbeni]

I need to think about INKSPOTS GRAHHHHH

[thatfreshi]

Hi! Can I request a story about Tav having trouble fighting cause Astarion just fed on her and so he gets worried and protective ofc. Maybe they were ambushed at camp or something? Thank you so much for your work! I really like how you write Astarion

Tw - animal attack, lots of gore, themes of death

Recommended Song: Seek and Destroy - SZA

Against better judgment, you let Astarion feed on you almost every night. It's just one of those things, a sacrifice you make, an act of love. After decades of disrespect, scavenging for next to nothing, you thought it'd be nice for him to have something better than animals. While he always insists it isn't necessary, he never passes you up on the offer. A ritual before bed every night, like a lover's embrace, you've come to adore the feeling of his teeth.

This evening in particular, he took quite a bit. You don't mind, considering you go to bed almost right after. Light-headed, woozy, you're wrapped up in his arms.

"Thank you darling."

His embrace almost feels warm when you're this drained. You almost drift off, but he keeps you awake.

"Tav, you need to eat something first."

You groan, absolutely exhausted, trying to keep him in the bedroll.

"Nooo, I'll just do it tomorrow."

He smiles, moving your hair out of your eyes.

"That's not how it works my sweet. Now, let me get up so I can-"

Goblin war drums. The sound of the percussive rhythms bouncing off all the trees, they're not far off, and Astarion knows they're on the way. Karlach starts making her way to every tent, telling your companions to get their asses in gear.

"Tav, Astarion, let's go!"

"Shit."

Astarion whispers to himself. You're still not fully there, in and out of sleep.

"What's going on?"

Double vision, you see two of your vampire lover get up and start rummaging around for his daggers.

"Just- just stay here Tav. It's alright."

You try to rub at your eyes, desperately wanting to figure out what's going on. Before you can ask again, he's gone, and you hear more war drums outside. You quickly realize it's goblins. They must've found where you've been hiding, but your head is still spinning. Trying to get up and grab your blade, you almost fall back to the ground. Steadying yourself for a moment, you try your best to listen to what's going on outside. It sounds deadly, metal, screams. You hear Shadowheart casting left and right.

When you manage to stumble out of the tent, you're tackled by one of their dogs, or whatever wretched things they are. A scream rips out of your throat, trying to hold the thing off. It bites rabidly at your arm, leaving numerous gashes, until it's thrown off of you and stabbed to death, relentlessly.

"Gods damnit, I told you to stay in the tent Tav!"

You're too worried about your arm throbbing in pain to care about the validity of his argument. He's angry, and perhaps both of you aren't entirely certain why. It's your dominant arm, you can barely move it. Astarion goes to wrap your arm, but is quickly overpowered by the numbers again. They must've sent a large party after the lot of you. Halsin and Shadowheart are running out of magic, already drained. It's bad, but it'll end soon. With a couple more fights and a thunderwave from Gale, the rest of the goblins scurry off, knowing they're fighting a losing battle. Astarion doesn't even stop to loot their corpses, running to your side.

"You're a fucking idiot Tav, you know that?"

Gods, he could sound so mean when he wanted to. You know he says those things out of fear, but they still hurt. Despite how angry he is, he starts ripping pieces of cloth from his shirt, wrapping your arm, which is bleeding far too fast. Shadowheart and Halsin come over to supervise, both out of arcana until they get some rest.

"Yes, the two of you standing over my shoulder is quite helpful. Might as well cheer me on while you're at it!"

His movements are ragged, furious, only making your arm hurt more than it does. He's lost though, somewhere in his head, unable to hear the cries of pain as he's wrapping your arm. You're even more lost than before, your blood leaving rapidly.

"Aster, I-"

"Hush."

He then realizes you were going to tell him you were about to pass out, because you almost immediately fall over.

"Damnit!"

He holds you in his arms, your limb still not fully wrapped.

"If the two of you want to be helpful, get me some actual bandages instead of gawking at me!"

Sure, Astarion hates doing things that require hard work, but he knows how. How many times did he have to do something like this to himself, when no one was there to help wrap his wounds? Shadowheart quickly returns with all of the bandage wraps she has.

"We have to clean it or it'll get infected."

"Well, Shadowheart, I don't know how you think you're going to clean it if Tav bleeds to death."

The two healers decide it's best if he handles this himself. While he obsessively wraps your arm, the rest of the camp watches on, knowing he's too possessive to let them help. He doesn't trust them like he trusts you.

And I trusted you to stay put.

There's no way to give you more blood, not in a way that would work for you. For a moment, he simply thinks that he'll feed you some of his blood, and then he remembers. All he can do is hope you retained enough, that he didn't preemptively kill you by feeding on you tonight. Your pulse is still going, but it's slow, and you're paler than usual.

Astarion begins to think to himself, asking why he ever fell in love, why he ever let himself think twice about you. It's easy to play the game when you have nothing to lose. Second thoughts, always, he's always thinking for two people now. It's been his survival, for as long as he can remember, and now you're lodged in his brain.

"Damn you Tav, I can't do this. I can't lose you like this."

He begins to sob as he holds you, still unconscious. This beckons Gale to come over, often a voice of reason for the vampire.

"You've done all you can. Perhaps we should get Tav back inside? Away from the elements?"

Astarion is too distraught to argue, helping Gale carry you back into the tent.

"The second Shadowheart is awake, she'll be back to check on Tav."

"Yeah, if they don't die from blood loss in the middle of the night."

Gale simply sighs, knowing there's no point in fighting with him. He leaves your pale lover to wallow in his misery. Hours pass, you're still clinging on, and Astarion watches over you, panicking every time he can't see your chest rise and fall, constantly checking your pulse. You're cold, your heartbeat dangerously slow, and he keeps wracking his brain about what else he could possibly do. But there's nothing, only fate, only the gods. He sadly chuckles to himself at the thought of even trying to pray, knowing there's no higher power out there, at least one that cares about him.

"W... what are you... laughing at?"

You ask weakly, oblivious to the horrific stress he's been through. Astarion whips around quickly, wondering if perhaps he's imagining your voice. When he sees your eyes fluttering, lost somewhere between dreams and reality, he rushes to your side.

"Oh gods Tav... you- you really scared me there."

He tries to hold back tears, failing miserably. You try to speak again, but groan in pain as the feeling in your arm starts to come back.

"I know, I know it hurts. It's okay my darling, you'll be alright."

He begins fully sobbing, and you have no idea why, without being awake enough to comprehend the situation. Astarion always tries to be strong when you're weak, but watching you teeter on the line between life and death, it was simply too much to bear.

"You can't pull that shit, ever again my love, I'm so serious. I know I'm normally quite serious, but ever more so right now."

Then, a joyful, tiny laugh. Happiness. Happy that you're alive. The memories of the fight slowly start coming back, the beast that ripped up your arm, Astarion yelling.

"Aster...?"

"Yes my dear?"

You start to tear up a little, still a tad delirious.

"I'm sorry."

And then remembers as well, the things he said, the tone he spoke to you in.

"No, no my love I'm sorry. You weren't yourself, I was being entirely unreasonable. I just..."

He almost can't finish his sentence.

"I'm just happy you're okay. That's enough for me."

Your lover slowly and carefully lays down beside you, pulling you into him, being sure not to let your wounded arm drag on the ground. He holds you for a long time, until Shadowheart wakes at dawn, fully rested and ready to fix your wounds. Astarion vows silently that he'll never let it come that close, ever again.

[the-modern-typewriter]

Hello! I love your writing so much! It always gives me such a good chill and I absolutely adore the way the words all flow together! May I request a hero trying to escape from a villain and when the villain finally catches them there's a bit where they lift the hero's chin with a sword?

"Ah, good," the villain drawled. "You managed to apprehend our little runaway."

The hero grunted in pain, as the guards threw them down onto their knees. Their gaze darted around the room - a war room of maps and schemes too high up on the table for them to see properly, the dulled silver of the guards uniforms, and the perfectly polished leather boots standing not far ahead of them.

"Though not," the villain said, "without a little bloodshed, I see? Take yourself to the infirmary tent. I can handle him from here."

The hero's jaw clenched. They kept their head bowed, doing their best to keep their face obscured.

"My lord," the guard said.

As the room emptied, the hero tested the tightness of the ropes binding their wrists and ankles. They strained for the knots. No good. Before they could even start to rise, the villain had drawn their sword with a soft shick and pressed it to the hero's throat in one swift move.

"Suddenly shy?" the villain asked. "I was expecting spitted defiance and glares. Maybe some elegant spiel at what a monster I am and how I will never get away with this."

The hero said nothing.

The villain hummed, using the tip of the blade to tilt the hero's head up.

The hero braced themselves as their gazes met.

The villain froze.

The hero's lip curled; a smile most mocking.

"Guards!" the villain yelled.

The guards returned immediately from outside, even as the villain's attention stayed locked on the hero's face.

"Would you like to tell me," the villain's voice was silken, dangerous, "why you've captured the wrong person?"

"I - my lord?"

"This is not the prince. Do you not know your own prince?" the villain asked.

"But they - they wielded the royal blade, my lord - they -"

Power, dark and ominous, ripped through the room like a thousand shadowy swords appearing in the air.

The guards fell silent.

"Fooled ya," the hero rasped. "Sucker."

"Go to where you found them," the villain ordered. "The prince can't have got far-"

The guards stayed silent. They didn't move. The smile on the hero's lips grew a little more.

"What?" the villain snapped.

"They put up - that is - the fight and the chase went on for some time, my lord." The head guard sounded strained. "Any of their tracks would have been destroyed by our own. The prince is long gone, my lord."

The power struck in an instant.

The lead guard dropped, dripping blood from a thousand blade cuts. The hero managed not to flinch. Somehow.

"Would somebody like to try that again?" the villain asked.

"We'll find him, my lord," another guard said, pasty with sweat. "We'll go and look now."

Most of the guards left, on that hopeless errand. Someone dragged the head guard's body out. His blood was already beginning to turn inky.

The hero felt light-headed with a mixture of triumph and terror, as they eyed the villain over the hilt of their sword. The villain studied them in turn.

The running, after all, had been genuine. Escape had always been the plan. Still. They supposed the ruse had fulfilled its purpose either way, just so long as no one was stupid enough to come back for them.

"Who are you?" the villain demanded.

The hero shrugged.

The villain pressed the blade in a little harder. "Who. Are. you."

"I'm your tailor's assistant."

"...excuse me?"

"I help mend your clothes and the clothes of your soldiers," the hero said. "Thrilling, isn't it?"

The villain stared at the hero like they thought they might be joking. They weren't.

"You were skilled enough with a blade to fool my highest ranking officers."

The hero shrugged again.

The villain used the blade to tilt the hero's head the other way. "You really do look remarkably similar to the prince, on first glance."

"Bet you regret killing your own men in a strop now."

The villain draw the blade down again, opening the smallest wound. Blood pooled in the hero's collar bone, shimmering a faint, barely there silver.

"You're one of the king's bastards," the villain said.

The hero resisted the urge to swallow.

The villain's eyes narrowed, liquid shadow, as they seemed to consider their options, before a truly terrible smile flashed across their face. Charming. Beguiling.

They looked up at their guards.

"Take our little runaway to my quarters. Do make sure that they're secure this time, won't you?"

They definitely should have ran faster.

[captain-tch]

Anchor (Logan Howlett x GN!PlatonicReader)

Logan finds you when the memories of the past threaten to swallow you whole Warning: mentions of self harm, implied suicidal thoughts below the cut

There was so much blood. Tents where you once huddled with your friends, laughing, talking, bonding were in ribbons, the poles keeping them upright having been ripped from the ground. One of the poles was skewered inside a body, the face hidden by the red spray masking their features. Fire pits where you once warmed your hands and toasted marshmallows had been destroyed, the thick smell of ash consuming all of your senses. A charred hand reached towards another, mere inches from touching each other. The makeshift laundry lines had been broken, leaving clothes strewn across the ground, muddied footprints and blood stains marrying the materials. And then there were the bodies.

So many bodies. 

You knelt in the middle of it all, unable to move a single muscle. Your friends, your family, all dead. You were the lone survivor. 

It didn’t feel fair - what made you different from the others? What made you worthy of being alive, whilst your knees sank into their pools of blood and their skin grew cold around you? 

You didn’t even move, or speak, as you heard footfalls behind you. You didn’t look up as people descended upon the crime scene, where you most likely looked like the perpetrator. You just prayed that those who caused this harm had returned to finish the job. However, the horror was only beginning. 

“Hey, we missed one!” 

You stared at your reflection with venom in your eyes. Your gaze honed onto the jagged scar running from the corner of your mouth all the way down to your collarbone. Similar wounds ghosted down your body, but this was the one you could never hide from. The feelings rushed you like a wave - rough hands shoving your shoulders into the ground, their hands leaving bruises, a menacing grin leering down at you, the coolness of the blade as it was first caressed against your skin. The fiery hot pain that lit up your entire being when the knife was plunged into your skin. The feeling of hot liquid rushing out the wound, the overwhelming taste of iron hijacking your senses. 

A bubble of anger and hatred began to boil in your veins. The memories kept flooding you, until you couldn’t remember where you were or what was happening or when you were. All you knew was the pain and the terror and the hate.  

A scream ripped out of you. You grabbed the nearest thing your fingers landed on, a small metal bin, and hurled it with all of your might to the mirror. The crash was like music to your ears, the shards flying around you in slow motion. You didn’t feel them slice at your skin. You didn’t feel the blood well or the liquid slip down your skin. You felt absolutely nothing at all.  

It wasn’t enough. You could still see their faces, frozen in death. You could still smell the fire and ash and burning flesh and you couldn’t stop feeling like you were standing back at your campsite all over again and - 

Your fist flew at the shattered fragments. A delicious fire consumed your knuckles. The images fizzled slightly, then overpowered you. You became starved for that feeling of relief, craving the sweet moment of ecstasy where all your brain could focus on was the agony rippling through your hand. 

Again and again you sent your fist flying into the glass, the hits becoming less coordinated as blood coated every surface you could see.

Bodies burned to a crisp. 

Hit. 

A singular shoe discarded in the mud. 

Hit. 

A knife glinting in the light, glowing brighter as it got closer to your face. 

Hit. 

You were so absorbed in seeking relief you didn’t hear how the thud of your fist matched the one coming from behind, until yours was the only thuds once again. You didn’t hear the tirade of swear words leaving their lips, or your name being repeated over and over again. You weren’t in this reality anymore, too deep into your nightmare of memories to escape. 

A pair of muscular arms wrapped around your chest, dragging you from the mirror. A sob wracked through you - now the images were hitting you ten fold, and no matter how much you struggled in your captor's grasp you couldn’t escape. In the jagged remains of the reflection on the wall, you saw Logan behind you, concern painted over his face. 

“Ssh.” A voice soothed in your ear. You thrashed against them even harder - you didn’t deserve comfort, you deserved to be with your family. 

“Let me do it.” You begged, unsure what exactly you were asking for, only knowing you wanted the leaden guilt and torment to be erased from your being. “I just want it to stop.”

“This is not how it’s done.” Logan held you tighter, gently leading you away from the bathroom. You tried to fight back; god, you were so tired. You were tired of fighting back the memories, or pretending to be okay. You were exhausted. 

You crumpled in his arms, leaning heavily into him. His body didn’t falter, only grasped you tighter. You turned to bury your face in their shoulder, trying and failing to stop the images of terror and agony from flashing across your retinas. 

“What can you see?” His gruff voice asked. 

You froze, the words sinking in. Your brows furrowed, struggling to comprehend what he was asking. “What?” 

“Name five things you can see.” 

Your breathing quickened. “Broken tents -” 

“No,” Logan grabbed your shoulders, firmly pulling you away from his neck. He held you at arms length, staring deep into your eyes. “Here, now. What can you see?” 

“Um,” you sniffled, gently pulling your attention from him to the rest of the room. “Glass. A toilet. Shower. Tap. You.” 

“What can you touch?” 

You sought your senses, reaching out to all of your nerves. “Your flannel, the floor, my clothes, my blood.” 

“What can you hear?” 

Forcing your eyes to close, you tried to turn off your other senses, focusing on your hearing. The distant dripping of the tap snatched your attention. Logan’s steady breathing. Faintly, you could hear shouts and playful screams of children from the hall. 

“What can you smell?” 

The answer flew out of your mouth without even needing to think - it was the smell of safety, the first thing you smelt after you escaped from death's clutches. It was what you smelt as you were carried away from the cemetery that was once your home. “Cigar smoke.” 

“What can you taste?” 

Your lips turned slightly at the corners. “Scott’s shitty bolognese.”

Logan kept you at arm's length, taking you in. Your breathing was laboured, but it was evening out. Your eyes appeared more focused and he felt you could actually seem him now.  

“You good now?” 

You contemplated it. The guilt still lay heavy on your shoulders, and the memories were always playing in your brain, except now it was muted enough that you felt like you could cope. Your heart rate had resumed its usual pace and you didn’t have the urge to smash glass.

“That’s a stretch,” you sniffled, wiping at your nose. “But I’m better. Thank you.” 

“Let’s get you to the infirmary.” 

“No!” Your hand shot out, snatching at his shirt, smearing blood on it. “Please, no.” 

His brow quipped. 

“I don’t want them to see me like this.” 

Logan sighed, assessing your injuries and thinking for a beat. “Fine, but you can’t complain about my bedside manner.”

He wanted to go get a first aid kit; he didn’t want to leave you alone. He used his best judgement, hoping the cuts he could see were as minor as they appeared, grabbing a rag and running it over a faucet, being careful to avoid the glass. He came back to your bed, where you sat on the edge staring after him. He knelt in front of you, opening his palm flat to you. You moved your hand into his, wincing at the sight. Your knuckles looked like they’d been massacred, red coating so much of your skin you couldn’t even see the cuts. Without warning, he dragged the fabric across your wounded skin, a flame of pain following in its wake. You tensed up, squeezing your jaw tight to keep the hiss quiet. 

“You know, this isn’t the best way to deal with your feelings.” Logan’s eyes darted up to connect with yours. 

You scoffed. The hypocrisy wasn’t lost on you - many times you had walked into the gym to see him destroying the boxing bag, blood being flung in every direction. “Coming from the expert, clearly.” 

“I can heal.” 

“That’s so not the point.” 

He grunted, dismissing your argument. He carried on his work, his grip on you tight but gentle as the blood disappeared wipe by wipe, revealing the skin beneath. Your skin was littered with cuts; thankfully they seemed minor, them having already stopped oozing blood. 

“Look, kid, you ever speak to anyone about what happened?” 

“Did you?” Logan huffed, frowning at you. You ignored his reaction, watching as he finished cleaning one hand and started on the other. “There’s nothing to talk about.” 

Logan stared pointedly at you. “I’ve lived over a century and survived a war - you can’t fool me.” 

“Honestly, I’m fine.” 

“The mirror says otherwise.” 

A bubble of anger exploded in your gut. Your words were flung like knives, their edge sharp. “Why does everyone have to keep asking me about how I feel? Is it really that important to have feelings? Why can’t I just bury it deep down til it disappears?” 

“I wish that was how it worked. Stuff like this doesn’t go away overnight. You shove it down, it gets ugly, infected. It’ll turn you into a different person.” 

“Is that what happened to you?” 

A few beats passed, then some more. You worried you had crossed a boundary - this man saved you, and was saving you again, and here you were opening up his wounds whilst he helped clean yours. 

He surprised you by breaking the silence, his voice so low you had to strain to listen. “...Something like that.” 

“No offence, but why should I take advice from someone who clearly doesn’t take it themselves?” 

“Take it or leave it, that’s your call. It changes nothing for me.” He shrugged, wiping away the last bit of the blood. He evaluated his work, carefully turning your hand left and right, assessing for any further wounds he couldn’t see.  

“Either way, it’s going to destroy me, isn’t it?” 

He paused, eyes flitting to yours. He surprised you yet again, sending you a small smile. “Great thing about destruction - it leaves room for something new.”

“Hm.” You pondered it for a minute. “That was very wise of you, you’re starting to show your age.” 

Logan brushed off your attempt at humour, his face turning serious. “Let’s just get one thing clear - this,” he gestured to the bathroom, where the glass still lay shattered on the floor. “Is not going to be a habit.” 

“Why do you care?” 

“Because I only have a few shirts and you’ve already stained two of them.” 

You looked at his white top, cringing. It had smears of red, marrying the immaculate white. “Sorry.” 

Logan waved it off. He threw the rag to the floor, bringing himself up to his full height. He towered over you, yet you felt no fear at his size. You felt at ease, enjoying how his shadow fell over you. 

“What do you suggest instead?” 

“Find me. We can spend some time working on your god awful fighting form.” 

“It’s not that bad!” 

“Whatever you say.” He smirked. A warmth blossomed in your chest. 

Maybe you wouldn’t feel like this forever. Maybe the memories would overwhelm you less and less with time, but they would never disappear. They would always haunt you, lingering in the back of your consciousness. But the man in front of you, your friend, would help keep you grounded. He would be your anchor. And he’d never admit it, but you’d do the same for him too.  

marvel masterlist

[decayical]

tags: sub!blade x dom!reader (i think idk much about sex roles ermmm), humping (pillows, air), a single drop of angst if you squint, im in a battle between blade vagina agenda and blade penis agenda

thinking about bottom!blade :(

bottom!blade who's unbearably horny but doesn't have you around to help him, so he has to figure out how to pleasure himself. he has many things he can start with, like his hands, the toy you love to use on him… hell, he could even grind on his pillow if he was that desperate but—

oh god, bottom!blade just can't stop thinking about you… he's obsessed with you, even if he doesn't want to admit it. he forgets entirely about the hot pain between his thighs and spaces out on his bed, thinking about how well you eat him out, how your skilled fingers pump in and out of his hole and how you let him rut in and out of you, desperately trying to reach his peak as your walls clamp around his thick cock, little breaths and whimpers leaving his mouth that he so stubbornly tries to keep to himself.

bottom!blade barely even notices that, while trying to hide his flushed face (from no one in particular, considering he's alone in his room), he's started humping the air with his still-clothed dick in search of any semblance of friction. eventually he gives up, going to triple check that his door is locked before he takes his pants off and plants a pillow in front of his hips. he starts off by thrusting onto it tentatively, letting out a soft but guttural groan as he feels the cool pillow brush against the underside of his dick.

bottom!blade who grips the sheets below him, shuddering as pitiful moans and whimpers escape his mouth. once he starts, he can't stop, and he's whining out your name as he thrusts into the silk pillowcase, clamping a scarred hand to his body to keep quiet, nuzzling his bicep because god, you may not be here but what if you were? what if you saw him in such a pitiful state like this?

“fuck, wish you were here, need you, wanna be—fuck—wanna be fucked so bad, god…”

his eyes are teary and somehow hurt from the pleasure at the same time, bottom!blade has to thrust onto his soft pillow only once before he's spilling out his seed onto the sheets below him. he wishes you were there, wishes you could lick it all up and tell him how much of a whore he is, call him a good boy, tell him he did a good job. a single tear falls from his red eyes.

bottom!blade who has the audacity to send you a picture of the mess he made. “miss you so much. come back soon, yeah?”

[tomblythismyhusband]

Hellooo!! I got a request for billy

Its where he finds out the reader has been hurt in some way intentionally and he freaks out and treats her like glass for a little while and js takes care of her, being rlly protective from then on

wounded [billy the kid x fem!reader]

[summary]: billy the kid x fem!reader | After having a run in with some bandits, you escape wounded, leaving Billy to tend and and take care of it for you.

[warnings]: blood, violence, fluff, kissing, light teasing

[wc]: 1.2k

[note]: tysm anon for the request!! i couldn’t tell if the request meant like- reader harms herself and Billy takes care of her or not. IDK- message me if that’s what u meant bc I would be happy to write it :)

Pain bloomed in your side as you stumbled back to camp. When out riding, you came across bandits that not only slashed your side when you tried to escape, but also stole your horse.

Luckily you had also wounded one of the men in retaliation. You had shot him in the leg, leaving him at the mercy of whether or not his partner would help him walk. You had got out easy. The bandits would’ve done more to you if it wasn’t for the threat you had laid out.

“I go along with Billy the Kid’s gang so if I were you I would start runnin’.” You had yelled, aiming your gun at the men. The men’s eyes had both widened behind their bandanas. Billy was notoriously known as a ruthless killer. Of course you knew the real him, sweet, caring, soft. They whispered to each other, and then fled quickly, one man supporting the other. Leaving you standing in the desert, bleeding from your side, gun shaking in your fingers.

As you had trudged back to camp, each step felt like a knife was sinking into your flesh again. Warm blood had soaked your shirt as you tried to keep pressure on it.

Now you finally made it back to camp. Your legs were shaking, begging to collapse underneath the weight of your weary body.

“Billy-“ You choked out as you entered camp. All the other boys in the gang had left and it was evident by the empty food boxes, and quiet fields where the horses had been.

You glanced around. “Billy?” You called again, voice shaky.

You heard rustling in one of the tents and Billy poked his head out, a smile on his face. “Hey-“ His face immediately dropped, fear replacing his previous expression. Billy swiftly stood next to you, just in time as you slumped and had him support you.

“I’m sorry-“ You choked out as your head started to feel heavy. Surely you had lost a lot of blood, your vision was now fuzzy around the edges. Not a good side.

“Why are you apologizing? Don’t apologize. Come on, we need to tend to this.” Billy said urgently, starting to help you hobble over to his tent. Halfway there he scooped you up in his arms because walking wasn’t exactly the easiest at the moment.

He carried you with ease into the tent and laid you down on his cot, immediately rummaging for medical supplies. His eyes flicked to you. He kneeled down next to your lying body.

“Care to unbutton your shirt Y/n? I can’t reach the wound with it on.” Usually, you would have made a witty joke in response but you were in too much pain and could only comply with his words. You’re shaky fingers unbuttoned the buttons of the bloody shirt as Billy gently helped you sit up right to pull it off.

Your body felt cool once you were just in your bra. You could feel the wet sticky feeling of blood on your torso, and didn’t dare to look down to see the gash.

Billy laid you gently back down, sucking air through his teeth as he examined your wound.

“Is it bad?” You asked anxiously. “I couldn’t tell how far the blade went.” You felt Billy’s calloused hands on your side.

“It could be worse. It’s doable. Luckily, you won’t need stitches.” He nodded. He turned to grab a canteen of water from somewhere in the tent, popped open the lid, and poured it onto a cloth. Once the damp cloth met your skin, you tensed and squeezed your eyes shut.

“Shh… I know darlin’ I know.” Billy murmured softly as he cleaned the area of the wound. Your hands gripped the sides of the cot as he worked.

Once it was clean, Billy helped you sit up slowly as he took a roll of gauze from the medical kit. “Put your arms away from your side.” He instructed. You complied, sticking them out so they weren’t touching your body.

Billy carefully started to wrap gauze around your waist tightly. You hated the feeling of confinement but you also knew it was the only thing that could stop the bleeding.

As Billy worked you examined him. Your blood on his clothes, the worried expression pinching his brows, and the carefulness of his movements made your heart pump faster. His eyes met yours for a moment, sensing your staring and he gave you a quick smile before focusing on wrapping your wound again.

Finally, Billy had finished. He ran his hand over the now wrapped areas gingerly, causing a shiver to shoot up your spine.

“Thank you.” You finally whispered. Billy’s hand trailed down to rest on your knee as you looked down at him.

“I’m going to kill whoever did this to you.” He murmured. You let out a soft chuckle, reaching out your hand to run it over his forehead, pushing the curls that laid there away from his pretty blue eyes.

“Im sorry I should’ve been more careful-“ You started to say before Billy shook his head and took your hands in his own.

“Don’t say that. I know you're a strong, careful woman. Whatever happened, I bet you gave them worse.” You bit your lip. Billy studied your face. “How about you lie down and rest?” You gave him a pained smile.

“I don’t really feel like sleepin’... I’ll sleep only if your beside me.” Billy let out a chuckle at your stubbornness as he got out of a kneel. Thankfully the cot was big enough for two. Billy laid down carefully next to you as you situated your own body to lie down.

You felt Billy’s arm snake under your back before you fully lied down. He pulled you close, placing a soft kiss on your forehead.

“I’m just glad you didn’t get more seriously hurt.” He whispered close to your ear. “I don’t know what I would do if I wasn’ able to help you.”

You gave him a reassuring nod and cupped his face with one of your hands. “I’m glad to have you, Billy.”

“Just so you know, I ain’t never lettin’ you out of my sighs again.” He joked, squeezing you close again playfully.

You couldn’t help it but to let out a giggle, moving your hand away from his face in the process. Billy’s head dipped down to kiss the tops of your breasts softly. The warm feeling of his lips on your body melted away any feeling of pain. “Now that’s just mean.. you teasin’ me like that.” You chuckled.

Billy flashed a devilish grin up at you. “Sorry, I can't help it.” He moved his head back up towards your lips, kissing them lightly. You both pulled away, noses close as your eyes studied each other. You loved how you could see the freckles that peppered his face more clearly up close.

“All right enough lovin’ you should be sleepin’.” Billy drawled. You felt his breath tickle your nose making you smile softly.

You both adjusted your lying positions to get comfy and for you, out of pain. “I love you.” You whispered. Billy smiled as he ran a hand on your face.

“Love you.”

With that you both napped away the day in each other’s arms.

[lilywastaken]

⇝ chica linda .

Alejandro Vargas x Fem!Reader.

SUMMARY: You give Alejandro a massage.

WARNINGS: AFAB!Fem!Reader (no use of Y/N!), NSFW !

A/N: blaming this all on @lucyisdoingfine because I have been thinking about Alejandro and Rudy for hours thanks to our conversations 😔 enjoy the actual word vomit that is fucking Alejandro on the couch <33

WORD COUNT: 1.5k

MASTERLIST.

Also on ao3!

save a horse ride a cowboy-

"Ay, mi amor."

The sounds that were leaving your husband were nothing short of graphic, his built body trembling beneath you as you worked on his muscles, trying your best to keep him from falling off the sofa every time his mind went numb.

"That good?"

"Si, Dios- yes." You watched him shove his head into the pillow, a shiver running down his spine as you put pressure on a specific point in his back. "Hng…"

"You're so fucking tense, Ale. It's ridiculous. Why're you so stressed?" You cooed, stopping momentarily to lean down and press a soft kiss to his name, smiling at the muffled moan that left his lips.

"You…"

"Me?" You replied, adjusting yourself on the seat you'd taken at the small of his back, resuming your work. "Do I stress you out?"

Alejandro screwed his eyes shut as he felt your hands continue to roam his sculpted back, the feeling of your plush thighs pressed against his waist enough to push him over the edge.

"You're sitting half naked on my back, nena… Of course you're stressing me out." He grumbled, a moan interrupting him as you pressed onto a knot between his shoulders.

"Oh?"

"Stressing me out that I can't just take you right now." You giggled at the desperation that filled his voice, finishing with the stress in his back and running your hands over the countless scars that littered his tan skin, letting yourself collapse on his back.

"You need to relax. I can take care of you." Your arms sneaked around his upper body, smuggling your face between his shoulder blades, peppering kisses over the rough skin. "Can't I, Ale?"

"Pero, mi vida-"

"Shh. You're always the one taking care of me, shouldn't I get to return the favour?" Your hands burrowed their way out from under him and started running down the sides of his torso, taking your time in feeling the toned muscles beneath your fingertips. "C'mon, turn around."

You lifted yourself off him so he could move underneath you, grunting until he was lying on his back, flushed face and darkened eyes meeting yours.

"Hi." You greeted with a coo, hand coming up to cup his face and run your thumb over the apple of his cheeks. "So handsome."

A sleazy grin pulled at Alejandro's lips, his ego getting stroked every time you gave him a compliment, especially during moments like these. "Ven pa'ca."

His hands gripped at your thighs as you sat yourself back down on his lap, leaning down to press your lips to his, your own hands grabbing at his shoulders and slowly making their way up to grab at his hair.

"Mi chica linda…" he murmured against your lips, grinding his crotch up onto your clothed cunt. "Thank you."

"Thank you?" You repeated softly as you pulled back, arching your back so you could mimic his movements and slowly rub yourself on the tent in his boxers, lying your head on one of his wide shoulders and gazing up at him, growing warm as he moved his head to stare at you through half lidded eyes.

"Mm, for taking care of me." He purred, hands landing on your ass and tugging at your underwear, snickering as he pulled at the elastic and let it snap back against your skin, slowly starting to pull them down as he ceased both your movements.

"You're my husband, Ale. Gotta make sure you're well taken care of." You raised your hips to make it easier for him to get rid of your panties, returning the favour by pulling his boxers down enough to let his cock spring out, mouth watering at the sight of it slapping against his tummy. "God, I always forget how big you are."

He chuckled, letting out a hiss as you took it in your hand, running it up and down and rubbing your thumb over the head as his thick pre started leaking out. "Need a reminder, nena?"

You rolled your eyes at his never ending cockiness, letting go of him and moving yourself to hover over him, both of you letting out a moan and groan respectively at the feeling of the head of his cock prodding at your entrance.

"Dios, come on." His fingers dug into your thighs as he tried to press you down, but a swift slap to his chest got him to snap out of it.

"Calm down…" you murmured, running your fingers through the coarse hair that littered his upper body. "Taking it slow, okay?"

You saw the frustration fill his face at the thought of having to wait even longer to have you sat on his cock, so you slowly started to push yourself down on him, a soft moan leaving your lips as you felt every last inch of him pressing against your walls.

"Fuck, Ale!"

"Mírate, amor…" He breathed out with a groan, hand hitting the top of the sofa and gripping the fabric, keeping himself from just moving you both and absolutely wrecking you from behind like he always did.

"G-give me a second, Ale…" You whimpered, rolling your hips in order to adjust yourself to his size, your wetness dripping out and soaking his pubes and balls. "God, you feel so so good…"

"Con calma…" He whispered, hands caressing your thighs as he urged you to take it slowly, pressing himself up a bit to both help you take him and create some friction.

"I can do it…" You doubled over and arched your back so you could bounce up and down on his cock slowly, unlike all the past times Alejandro had gotten you to ride him as fast as you could, wrecking your insides and rendering you dumb.

"Yeah, there you go." He growled, hands helping you move along his cock, his hands gripping your love handles in hopes that that would ground him enough to keep himself from losing it. "Good girl, esa es."

God, you loved how perfect this angle felt, it let you feel every vein and ridge of his cock pressing against your walls, the head of his cock easily battering against your cervix every time you were pulled down.

"Hng! Got- Fuck, faster-" You whined to yourself as you started to feel that familiar knot forming in your tummy, legs shaking as you tried your best to go a bit faster, screwing your eyes shut in concentration.

"Need me to take over, amor?" Alejandro let out a breathless chuckle, slapping at your thigh to watch you tremble as you tried lifting yourself up.

You wanted to shake your head, to continue until you were both sweaty and cum-lax, but you knew that you didn't have as much stamina as he did to continue, lying yourself on his chest and nodding your head, mewling against his sweaty skin.

"Yes, please…"

You cried out as his open palm hit your ass this time, both of them grabbing at your cheeks and spreading them, using them as leverage to slam up into you the way he knew both of you liked, laughing out heartily as he watched your eyes roll into the back of your head.

"Así? You like it?"

"Mhm, yes, god, yes! I love it, Ale!"

The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the living room, the sounds that were leaving both of you nothing less than pornographic.

The feeling of your husband's cock wrecking your insides was amazing, tears filling your eyes as you felt the knot inside of you get ready to snap, the pleasure filling your body immeasurable to the point where your brain shut off.

"C'mon, mi amor. You can do it. Ya sabes, I'm not finishing before you." He cooed into your ear, peppering kisses over your sweaty face as drool pooled down onto his chest. "Ay, my dumb girl."

Your mouth opened in a silent scream as you finally got pushed over the edge along with his dirty talk spoken in that beautiful voice of his, your cunt clenching around his cock and soaking it in your juices, most of them running pooling down onto the sofa and covering his balls.

"Carajo, you've soaked me, mi vida." He laughed, pressing your ass down onto him with one hand while the other tangled itself in your hair, moving your head up so you could slot your lips together, drool and spit being shared in a desperate kiss as you rode out your high and Alejandro continued slamming into you chasing his own.

"Where do you want it?" He moaned out as he let you go, holding your head in place so he could continue covering your face in sloppy messy kisses, your lipstick that had rubbed onto his lips staining your own face. "Dentro?"

"Inside!" You spluttered out, tears running down your cheeks as he groaned out, spilling into you with one final powerful thrust.

The feeling of his spend gushing into you was enough to make another orgasm run through your body, both of you clinging to each other as you enjoyed the warmth and pleasure you were sharing.

"Como te amo…" Alejandro sighed out as he pulled you closer to him, wrapping your arms around your waist and letting you cockwarm him until he deemed it enough. "Mi chica linda…"

[vixensp1ce]

(consensual) somnophilia with hsr characters (ver. they dream of you)

fem!reader, rest under the cut

the line between dreams and reality are already blurry, particularly for blade. when he wakes, he’s clutching you to his chest the exact same way he was just a heartbeat ago, except now you’re just beginning to stir and your clothes are still on. he presses a kiss into your hair, rolling you onto your back so he can get rid of those pesky fabrics in the way - not out of affection, but an apology for what he’s about to do to you.

one moment he’s chasing a dark, elusive shape through a shadowy city, the next having a soft, warm hand squeeze his length ever so gently. blade’s hips jerk towards you involuntarily, and he growls, pulling you under him so he can teach you who’s in charge. you’re wearing his favourite set of underwear, the one he tore accidentally but secretly kept because he’d made you finish inside it. he endeavours to be more careful this time as he tugs it off, freeing your hardened nipples and exposed your damp mound to the rough pad of his finger.

you give him a watery, pleading look, whining that you can’t wait, and blade obliges, ridding his clothes in record time. he slams balls deep into you immediately, and you scream his name, hips coming up to meet him as he pins you down and wastes no time in fucking you.

“blade-!” you beg, or moan, or cry, and it sounds like heaven to him, knowing that he’s the one making you feel so good, your pussy weeping cum just for him, your gummy walls squeezing around him so tight he just wants to mark you as his. “oh- ah- so good, so good, faster, please-”

and faster he goes, making sure he strikes that little bundle of nerves within you, one hand simulating the bundle of nerves outside of you, until he doesn’t know where your orgasm ends and his begins.

then your voice melts away, leaving his own ragged breaths as he opens his eyes on reality. he doesn’t need to look down to know that there’s a wet stain on the front of his pants, still tented uncomfortably.

this is your fault, he wants to say to you, watching your sleeping face as he flips you onto your back. your fault for being so fuckable. but he’ll forgive you, because you’ll let him use you to solve his problem, right?

jing yuan rises early for work, but sometimes, other parts of him rise before he does. he doesn’t like waking you up just for this; after all, you have your own business to get up to during the rest of the day. oh, but thinking of you doing all those things, struggling to plug your cute little hole up with your underwear and keep it all in - it’s a win-win situation if he indulges in this once in a while, isn’t it?

every time he sees that mess dripping out of you, jing yuan regains enough energy to take you for another round. he’s not messy by nature, but the challenge of stuffing you to the brim has blood rushing to his cock.

“one more time,” he pants, slinging one of your legs over his shoulder. your expression is the sweetest he's ever seen, face flushed, eyes glassy, but you still give him a small nod. he smiles, reaching down to twine his fingers with yours. "good girl."

you moan a long, broken moan as he scoops up whatever overflowing cum he can and pushes his tip into you. your legs jerk against his hold, your pussy sucking him in, and jing yuan tips his head back, allowing himself a moan. he’s sensitive too, flushed red from your gummy walls simulating him for all he’s worth…

…and when he looks back down, he finds himself lying on his side, staring into your bleary eyes as the feeling of you dissipates into a wet, uncomfortable tightness.

“had a good dream?” you whisper, voice still hoarse from sleep.

his fingers hook onto the band of your underwear, tugging swiftly downwards. “definitely. but i think i prefer being awake.”

[atleastpleasetelephone]

Kinktober Day 10 - Knifeplay

Pairing: Charlie Rogers x reader

Word count: 1.2K

TWs: Knifeplay (obviously, but there's no blood), crying (unrelated to Charlie), p in v sex, teasing.

Kinktober masterlist

Charlie has been fascinated by your knife-throwing act for a while now. It’s got something to do with the skill involved, something to do with the element of danger and something to do with how pretty you are. But he knows he can’t get too close. After all, your husband is built like a brick shit house and he throws knives for a living. So he just flirts here and there and tries to learn a little of your act. 

He’s got kind of good, and he’s just starting to wonder whether he should go to some other circus and offer his skills there when the news reaches him that they’re actually in need of a new act where he is. You and your husband have split up. He found some other attractive little thing and has gone off with her to work at Carver’s, the carnival’s main competition. He finds you alone and crying in one of the big tents. 

“Hey…”

It’s not long before his arms are around you and you’re sobbing on his shoulder instead. 

“What am I going to do now?” You wail. “No-one wants half a knife-throwing act! I’m not even the good half!”

Charlie can’t let such a good opportunity pass him by, so he offers to take your husband’s place. You’re not convinced, but you’re also not sure what other choice you have. So you say yes, and that you’ll practise for the show later that day, when you’ve had a chance to calm down. 

***

“Come on baby, you have to get on the board. I can’t just keep throwing knives without any jeopardy. I have to practise!” 

Charlie is getting frustrated. His aim is just about perfect, but you still won’t let him throw knives at you. You keep trying to get on the board, and then you freak out and get back off again. 

“I just don’t know how to trust someone else,” you sigh, sitting down on the floor. 

“Let’s take a break,” he suggests. “Why don’tcha come back to my trailer, we’ll have a drink and talk about it.”

You nod. Anything to get out of this vicious circle. Plus, you’d be lying if you said you didn’t find Charlie attractive and want an excuse to see inside his trailer. He doesn’t have the greatest reputation but he’s only ever been sweet to you. 

One drink turns into a few and before you know it Charlie is kissing you. His lips are soft and he smells of leather. He pulls you tightly against him and you can hear your heartbeat in your ears. Somewhere in the middle of the kiss he has an idea. 

“You don’t trust me?” He asks, softly. 

Your head is spinning. “Um… well… I wouldn’t say that I just… I’m not sure about you throwing knives at me.”

He gets up and starts searching around in the piles of things in his trailer. You frown, wondering what is suddenly so important. Sitting up on the bed you try to smooth your hair down and rearrange your mussed up clothes. Suddenly he finds whatever it is and climbs back onto the bed beside you. To your complete and utter surprise he holds up a pocket knife and flicks it open. 

“How about, to start with, I don't throw them?”

You blink, uncomprehending. He picks up one of your hands and then presses the blade of the knife against your outstretched arm. You flinch at the cold metal against your skin. 

“See? Nothing to be afraid of.” Sliding the flat of the blade up and down your forearm. 

The hairs on your arms stand on end and you very quickly sober up. 

“Charlie, what are you doing?”

“Trying to prove that you can trust me.”

Your chest heaves and your heart beats wildly as he slowly unbuttons your blouse, exposing your bra. His lips press against yours and then you feel that cold metal against your skin again. Slipping over a breast, sliding down your stomach. 

“Ch-Charlie,” you stutter, as his lips leave yours and he carries on undressing you. 

“You can trust me, baby.”

He pulls his clothes off too, until you’re both naked, and then runs the blade up each of your legs in turn. You tremble, afraid but desperately turned on too. What if he’s secretly some kind of psycho? He could just stab you to death in here and no-one would know. Your babbling brain is suddenly silenced by his tongue against your clit. Licking firmly and quickly, he brings you to a surprisingly fast climax, watching you as you squirm and moan beneath him on the bed. 

“Charlie,” you breathe. 

He smiles, sitting with his back against the headboard and manhandling you onto his lap, your back against his chest. You can feel his erection pressing into the small of your back. 

He puts his mouth to your ear. “Can you sit on it, honey?”

“Oh God, yes.”

You get up onto your knees and reach for his dick, carefully positioning it so that it slides easily inside. Once you’ve settled down onto it completely he moans and kisses your neck again. Then he grabs the knife from where he’d left it on the bed when he’d been licking you out, and flicks it back open. You gasp as you feel him run the point of the blade down your throat and down across your breast. He changes the angle, rolling the flat around your nipple, feeling your pussy clench as he does it. 

“You like that, baby?” He asks, breath tickling your ear. 

“Yes. Fuck.”

“How about this?”

The blade slips over your belly and comes to a halt on your clit. Your head tips back as you breathe hard, your whole body shaking. 

“Yes.” Your voice wobbles. 

“You gonna move for me baby? Bounce on this cock?”

“Ch-Charlie…”

“Mmmm.” He buries his face in your neck, kissing and biting you. “C’mon baby. I know what I’m doing.”

“You promise me?” Your voice a hoarse whisper. 

“I promise you.”

You start to move on him, slowly at first, anxious that he might lose control of the knife that’s still pressed against your most sensitive area. The pleasure is incredible, but Charlie isn’t about to lose control. He keeps the knife where it is, enjoying watching your reaction, seeing your confidence build as you start to move more and more, faster and faster. Your breasts bouncing as you ride him properly, forgetting completely about the danger of the knife. He grins, throwing the knife quickly across the room and replacing it with his thumb, starting to move his hips now, fucking you from underneath. 

“Ohhhh…” you moan, getting close to your second orgasm. 

“Let go for me, baby.”

You do, feeling pleasure rush through you again. He fucks you through it and comes not long after, deep inside you. Groaning sexily into your ear. You flop back against him, exhausted from the orgasms and the adrenaline. 

“You think I could try throwing knives at you now?” He asks as his dick softens inside you. 

You smile. “Yeah. I think I could trust you to do that.”

***

Taglist:

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[greetingfromthedead]

8. Death's Mercy

Series: Apple Blossoms

Pairing: Knives x GN!Reader

Word count: 3k

← Previous Chapter | Next Chapter →

The tent is filled with heavy breaths as the canvas doesn't keep out the scorching air, making the people, who are already in bad shape, gasp for breath. Sweat drips from their brows, fevers ravaging their meek bodies. It is hard to watch and even harder to ignore, but you turn your back anyway. The guilt gnaws at you as you set up the gas burner on a rickety old table and fill a pot with water you brought with you. Knives lingers next to you, watching as you go through some of the bags with your own supplies, pulling out vials and packets that you will need to prepare the venom. Carefully you start measuring powders and liquids into the simmering pot, the clear water turning cloudy as you add the ingredients. The man beside you steps back, but you don't look, instead just listening to the footsteps as they leave.

Knives chooses to walk to the other side of the tent. The lamps from last night are put out, and the dim light filling the space creeps in through the cracks of the canvas, turning the sunshine a dull orange. He watches the people lay on the mats with their faces red and swollen, yet their bodies appear starved and thin. Bandages peek out from under their tattered clothing, hinting at wounds that will never heal. He wonders if he looked as helpless and miserable as these people do. After all, from what you've said, it sounds like they are in a very similar condition than what he was in.

He doesn't even realize that he has squatted down next to an elderly man to get a closer look. The wrinkled face is filled with silent suffering, the bushy eyebrows in a deep frown as his whole face crunches in due to something he must be dreaming of. The man's eyes are closed tightly, lost in his own world. He is still tall, but age and famine have left just a skeleton behind. Suddenly his eyes shoot open, his gaze scanning quickly left and right before stopping on Knives's face. The old man grabs hold of his hand with surprising strength, the bony fingers clutching tightly.

"My son! You've come for me? Is it finally time?" The old man takes a deep and ragged breath before continuing with the same hopeful tone of voice: "How I have waited for you, night and day! Please take me with you to see the good Lord! Relieve me from this suffering and pain."

Knives is taken aback, surprised by both the request of the old man and being called someone's son. It feels like a blade twisting somewhere in his gut. He doesn't know what to say or what to do. His voice catches in his throat as he searches for words to respond, but you already kneel down beside him, shifting the old man's gaze from him to yourself.

"Doc?" the man mumbles weakly, clearly confused. "Help me."

"I will," you promise solemnly, putting a cup into his shaking hand that releases Knives's. "Drink this. It'll help with the pain."

Knives stands up again, taking a long step backward to watch as you take his place without looking at him. You seem so sure of yourself. Confident in your decision, calm in the face of someone who is clearly dying a slow and painful death. Your hands don't shake, unlike his, as you help the man drink from the cup, lifting his head just like you had done with Knives when he was too weak to do anything at all.

"Go clean your hands," you instruct him firmly, barely turning your head to speak to him.

Knives doesn't know what to do anyway, so he takes your advice and slowly walks away towards the table where he pours some of the distilled alcohol over his hands, watching as the liquid drips off onto the ground as he rubs it over his skin, his fingers still trembling from something he himself doesn't quite understand. He hides his hands in the hoodie's pockets, not wanting you to see them and not wanting to think about the reason they won't stop shaking. He still feels the way the man's fingers squeezed his, the desperate plea they conveyed. It reminds him of the way you had grabbed his hand earlier; you too felt desperate, but for very different reasons. The concern he recognized in your voice and eyes was the same you displayed while taking care of him. The same kind of determination to keep him alive.

It bothers him that you're taking over his thoughts again. You always worm your way into his mind. Everything you do threatens to drive him crazy. Every time he gets even the slightest feeling that he understands you, you do the opposite of what he expects. He watches from a far corner of the tent as you walk between the pot and the patients to administer each one some of the liquid that he knows has worm venom in it. Your expression is serious, yet every time you speak to one of the people here, he sees softness and kindness in your eyes. Your voice is comforting and reassuring, even if it is answering a plea for death.

After seeing the last patient, you return to the pot to add more venom to it, turning it slowly with the metal ladle until Knives comes back to your side.

"Would you stir this until it starts boiling and then bottling it?" you ask and point at some empty vodka bottles.

"Alright" Knives answers and takes the ladle from your hand.

"Thanks," you shift away to gather the supplies you will need from the different crates.

"What are you going to do?" Knives wonders aloud.

"Going to get them all cleaned up."

"What for?"

"Because their families will want to say their goodbyes before they go, and the people here deserve to go out with as much dignity as I can give them, and it helps keep safe those who aren't infected yet." you speak as you continue to pick up bandages and cloth.

"Isn't that a waste of resources?" Knives asks.

"Perhaps. But it's important to me."

"So you currently gave them just enough poison to help them sleep and not feel pain?"

"Yes. I don't want them to suffer anymore. They will get the chance to say farewell with as much comfort as I can provide, and then... I will give them the medicine you are stirring up. That way they get to pass peacefully and painlessly."

"Why not continue giving them what you just did?" Knives doesn't understand.

"Mercy." You sigh heavily. "If I continue with the same dose, it will kill them anyway. It will cause organ failure and damage their mind. Not to mention, we will need the venom to treat others. If you think I take any pleasure or satisfaction from this, I don't. I do what I can and what I am asked to do. You're welcome to think I am cruel."

"I don't," Knives says quietly, turning his eyes to the simmering liquid in the pot to avoid meeting your gaze.

The look Knives saw in your eyes for the rest of the night made a pit form in his stomach. He saw the helplessness and pain in them as you watched people come and go from the tent to say their final goodbyes. It was heartfelt and touching, but all he could focus on was your silent suffering. The weight of their grief and loss was almost suffocating in the space, yet you kept comforting both the dying and the ones left behind. Together with Jenny's help, you guided everyone through the difficult decisions and the burdens that come with them. No complaint left your lips, not even a heavy sigh as you carried the weight of their pain with grace and compassion.

It was a long night. You tried to send him away to go to sleep, but Knives refused with an indifferent scoff. He couldn't rip himself from this agonizing display: the suffering of humanity and their fragile bodies. One by one, he watched the weak flames die out, accompanied by the cries of those who are left to suffer despite what you call mercy. And if that wasn't enough, the same people came to thank you, tears still streaming down their faces as they expressed their gratitude for killing the people closest to them. Humans are strange. Perhaps they do take satisfaction in death and suffering. But your eyes will continue to haunt him. There was nothing but sorrow in them.

You returned to the inn together. You spoke no words, and neither did he. A heavy silence sticks to both of you. As soon as you enter the guesthouse, the receptionist stands up from her seat and addresses you, but as she gets no answer, she falls silent. Knives notices the tray of food in front of the innkeeper, clearly meant for two, untouched. You don't hear anything but the ringing in your ears. Your limbs and eyes feel heavy; your only goal is to go to bed and put this day behind you. While you continue up the stairs, Knives stops, first watching you leave and then turning to the woman behind the table.

"I heard… about the people," the woman says softly, hesitant with every word. "I got some food for the both of you. It's the least I can do. If you don't mind… would you take it with you?"

She grabs the platter and offers it to Knives. He looks at the tray and the woman, not suspiciously, but with curiosity. She offered breakfast too in a similar manner, free of charge. It seems strange to Knives; the usually greedy and selfish people in his head would never offer something for free.

"I will take it," he finally says, not with any particular emotion, before taking the tray and heading to the stairs. He stops on the landing without looking back. "Thank you."

By the time he makes it to the top of the stairs, the hallway is empty, and the doors to the different rooms are all closed. He walks over to the one that belongs to your room and is about to push it open when he hears sobs coming from inside. His hand hovers over the doorknob, unsure of what to do next, but he decides to pull away. With the tray still in hand, he turns around and leans his back against the metal that separates you from him. Knives feels like it is hard to breathe, almost like something heavy is sitting on his chest and closing their fingers around his neck. He still wears the mask, and he blames it for the lack of air, but he knows you wouldn't want him to walk around without it, so he makes do. He stands by the door, unable to shut out the way you cry.

"Excuse me," a small voice speaks up. Knives didn't even hear anyone approach. As he looks down, he sees an elderly woman. "This is the doctor's room, isn't it? I was hoping to get the chance to say thanks."

"Doc's not taking any walk-ins at the moment," Knives speaks calmly, still standing by the door like a sentry for the second time in one day.

"It will only take a moment," the granny insists.

"No. Not tonight. Anything you want to say now, you can say tomorrow," he stands firm, putting more gravity into each word. He isn't even quite sure why, but he refuses to have anyone walk in on you like this.

"Very well," the old woman says with a sigh, clearly disappointed, and heads back towards the stairs, where she stops and turns back. "You know, your eyes, my boy, they remind me so much of my long gone son's. They are the same pale blue of the early morning sky. The same as my husband's, whom I lost today. Thank you for reminding me of them."

Knives is shocked by her words and focused on the echoing footsteps on the metal stairs, the distinct click of a cane hitting the steps with each slow and deliberate movement. He doesn't even notice that your room has fallen silent. As you push down the handle, it sends a jolt through the rest of the door, alerting Knives that you're about to open it. He steps away and turns around to see your puffy face appear in the crack. He notices the wet stains on your sleeve where you wiped away your tears. You look around the hallway.

"Who were you talking to?" you ask him.

"Nobody," he replies, his gaze lingering on your face.

"Why didn't you come in?"

"I didn't want to interrupt." Knives shrugs one shoulder slightly, committed to looking as careless as he can.

"Sure, but you can interrupt me all you want; after all, it's your room too." You step more into the chamber, opening the door wider for him. "Come on in."

Knives steps inside, his eyes moving over the dimly lit space. He notices the cloth you had around your face earlier. It lays on the carpet as if thrown aside. The space in front of the bed is littered with the contents of one of your first aid kits.

"I was going to take your stitches out, but…" you sigh, looking at the mess. "I'll clean it up."

"No." Knives says resolutely, capturing your gaze as the door closes behind him, leaving the room in darkness, except for the shaft of moonlight intruding through the window. He steps closer, the pale light creeping up over his body. He reaches out the tray of food.

"I don't…" you begin to protest.

"You need to eat," he interrupts you. "Do you need me to get creative with feeding you?"

He remembers how you kept pushing him to eat even when he didn't want to. You kept insisting, even threatening him. So he echoes your own sentiment, as it is the only thing he can think to do. You look up at his stern eyes and then back at the outstretched tray before wiping your face again and taking the food. With Knives's hands finally free, he pulls the mask off, taking a deep breath, but his chest still feels restricted. Uncertainty lingers on his mind; he shouldn't care about any of this. Not about the people, not about what you did, and certainly not about you. He should not take it on himself to cater to what you need, especially when you don't even want any of it. Yet he can't resist the itch.

While you go to sit by the small table, Knives walks over to the bed and squats down to pick up the plasters, bandages, and tools that lay about. He places each of them on the edge of the bed until he picks up the bag that used to hold them. He sees the ripped seam by the zipper, threads hanging out from the fabric. He carefully examines the bag, realizing that you must have used quite a lot of force while pulling at the stuck zipper, clearly frustrated by the events of the day. Knives adjusts so he sits on the floor, back resting against the frame of the bed. He doesn't know how to repair the bag, so he simply stuffs it with the supplies that escaped earlier.

You finish your share, only now realizing the ravaging hunger within you that was awakened by the delicious food in front of you. The rest is Knives's, but you can't help eyeing what's his.

"Go on, eat as much as you want," he says, looking up at you from the floor. He sits in the shadow, away from the puddle of moonlight on the floor, yet you see the reflection of his eyes shining back at you.

"I can't. It's yours," you protest.

"All you've done for as long as I have been stuck with you is make sacrifices. For once, be selfish; eat the food." You reluctantly pick up his food and take a small bite, feeling guilty for indulging in something you don't believe to be yours, but the heavy sorrow of the day quickly overwhelm those feelings.

"I don't understand," Knives finally admits. "Why did you waste so many resources to save me? I wasn't doing much better than the people from today, was I? Yet you pulled every trick you could for a sliver of hope. Why didn't you do to me what you did for them?"

"I don't know," you say, but Knives realizes the lie in those words. He chooses not to dwell on the matter for tonight. Silence falls over the small room again until you finish most of the food that's left, handing Knives the leftover apple, his fingers brushing yours as he takes it.

"About the sleeping arrangement," you begin, but Knives shakes his head.

"You get the bed. I'll take one of the mats we used on the way here," he insists, leaning his head back to look at the ceiling while taking a bite from the apple.

"No, I mean that it is a wide bed. There's plenty of room for both of us. I don't mind. I would feel bad if you gave up the bed just for me, unless you disagree with my proposal."

"Alright," he says almost dryly while chewing.

"Alright," you echo lightly, "I'll get ready for bed."

Knives doesn't look away from the ceiling as you pick up some clothes and head for the door to go to the shared bathroom at the end of the hallway.

"Also. Nothing about saving you was a waste," you say quietly before pulling the door shut after yourself.

Knives sighs deeply, unsettled by the mix of feelings bubbling inside him.

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[mistkisbiggestfan]

Heyya! Can I request Marcy wu x gn!reader, where after being transported to amphibia Marcy finds them while out on a mission with the newts

Marcy Wu x Reader

A/n: Sorry for the late response (but I'm back on that fanfic grind so it's okay, so sorry) Requests are open!!

Summary: While on mission Marcy finds a person she thought was gone forever. Words: 884 Request: Hell yeah!!

Leaves crumbled under the pressure of several people walking by, cutting through the hedges and bushes, trying to get the thick sticks of theirs to let go of the tree’s trunk. Sighing, one of the Newts cursed under their breath, the Chief Ranger, Marcy, looked back at them, noticing her doing so, they apologized profusely, and with that they retired to the back of the squad. The Chief Ranger looked puzzled but shook it off, looking at the second leader of the mission; Newtopian Army General – General Yunnan.

The tall, pinkish Newt was talking about something related to their current mission and its goal, but Marcy seemed slightly out of it, before focusing on the conversation again. The sun was setting, leaving a shiny marking on Yunnan’s Newtopian-issued armor, her military insignia beamed with a golden flicker. – Our objective is quite easy, compared to the things I’ve done before; secure a shady place in these woods, featuring some kind of camp full of suspected rebels. That’ll be easy enough. – Yunnan said, proudly thinking about the Sand Wars, lost in the memories of her victories and glory. 

The Chief Ranger smiled, since Yunnan is so confident it surely will be the easiest mission they were tasked with yet. Soon, the Newtopian force came to a halt, General looked at her second commander of the mission; Marcy Wu. Looking forward she spoke up. – You, go scout ahead, come back and tell us the situation. – The slender Newt told the girl as she nodded, grinning. 

– You got it General. – She gave Yunnan a thumbs up and headed towards the camp, she had about twenty minutes to get there, at one point deciding to climb up, trying to see if there’s anything before her she should be aware of, seeing nothing she decided to get down. The raven haired girl took out her journal, keeping the track of all things new before her, finally, she got to the camp just to discover it ghostly empty, not a single soul in sight, strolling around, she sketched the small tent and things around it, noting to its very human-like architecture. 

She saw that the tent’s roof was made of clothing with the passionate colors of ivory paired with platinum, almost gold. Marcy, lost in reverie, wondered deeply about the origin of such august, almost regal piece of material in a rugged campsite in the seclusion of this part of wilderness. Her fascination made her quite oblivious to the surroundings around her, otherwise she would’ve noticed a match of two eyes, mirroring the luster of the setting sun. Slowly, the person emerged, waiting for the opportunity to strike. Only if Marcy had her hood off, you would’ve recognized your childhood friend before attacking. 

The blade of your weapon, a small dagger, neatly fit to your palm, dazzled. Showcasing your pupils on its edge. Slowly, step by step, you crept towards the Chief Ranger. Unluckily, you stepped on a branch, the crunch alerting Marcy, she quickly turned around, but to her demise, fell tripping on her cape, and as she looked up to her opponent, a blade made its way to her neck, making her stop in place. Gazing up she saw something she couldn’t believe – her dear friend, one of three lost in Amphibia, you. 

A shocked expression made its way on her face, you were different than she remembered you to be. Scars coating your face, once oh so delicate, now vigorous and rugged. She quickly took notice of your now more athletic, muscular build as you towered above. 

All she could muster out was a one worded question. –  Y/N..? – You looked at her as your face softened, the edge of your blade slightly lowering before you dropped it. – Is it really you? – She said, as she took off her hood leaving you without a doubt. 

You tackled her into a hug as she fell back, both of you laughing and crying tears of joy. You slightly moved, to look down at her and get a full glimpse of your lost flame, both of your faces heated up as you smiled. – Marcy!

Sitting up you gazed at her, she propped herself up on her elbows before going in for another hug, her hands resting on your neck, yours followed soon, missing the contact with her you rested them on her waist, snuggly holding onto her, hiding them under her cape. – I thought I would never see you again.. – You said, breaking the hug and looking at her, your faces just inches away. – Me too… 

Everything felt silent, just for a second, as she stared softly at your lips, as you felt her get more and more tense, you decided to take the initiative. Your face burned as you closed the space between you two, closing it with a kiss. Marcy, shocked, soon melted into the kiss, closing her eyes. The two lovers breaking the kiss only when they finally needed to catch their breath, Marcy looked at you in amazement and shock, you assumed she never really kissed before, which was a fair assumption. 

– I really missed you.. – She said before, hiding her burning face in your shoulder, as you held her close to you, hoping this moment will never end.

[grappel-writes]

Fuck it: How BG3 Companions give massages Wyll: He may not be a professional when it comes to the martial arts, or the damages they can cause, but he knows how to ease an ache. Days and hours of posture practice, head up, shoulders back, yes that far - he had to learn or else his back would be as stiff as a board. Your armor allows for little variance in your posture, and taking it off at the end of the day has you feeling like you've been carrying the whole camp. He clears off the rug in front of his tent and guides you to sit, legs folded, knees out, and to lean forward. When you do, gently, he presses down on your shoulders to deepen the stretch. "Good." Then again, now with only one leg under you "Just like that. It doesn't hurt, does it?", then the other, then twist like this... Every time, his guiding touch is there to press you just a little further, to let go of just that little bit more that you can't seem to get on your own. Your back pops, your tensions loose, and your shoulders drop. He's conscious of your limits, never pushes you to pain, and when you're through and boneless on the ground, both hands find your back and rub slow, thoughtful circles all over. Up either side of your spine, under your shoulder blades, around to your sides. Not a single stretched muscle is going to go unattended. He just asks that you return the favor one day. Shadowheart: It's the end of a shorter, restful day. A glorious one, even, where you had a full bath and changed into clean clothes, and you're losing yourself to the hypnosis of the fire. Your eyes drift shut, and you jerk your head back up when you drift off. Shadowheart laughs at you, "come here." She's keeping watch tonight, and refuses to let you try and stay up with her. If she can't usse cleric magic to get you to sleep, she'll just have to try something else. She pulls your head into her lap and cards her fingers through your hair. Slow, trance like, over and over she pulls it up and away from you, letting it fall back where it will. The sound of your hair being combed, the crackling fire, her slight breathing all lull you to submission, and your eyes finally close. Slight, gentle fingerpads press between your brow, working away the crease you so often wore there, and over your brows to smooth them. They work down the side of your jaw with the lightest pressure, and then back up into your hair again. You don't know how many times she repeats this routine before you've drifted off to sleep. When you wake, your hair is a disaster, and she pretends she has no idea how it could have gotten that way. Astarion: You're holding one of your hands in the other, unconsciously, as you look down at the armor you're trying to mend. The tools set aside while you stretch out the small cramping muscles in your palm. Wordlessly, Astarion puts his book aside and holds his hand out to you as if asking for something. You're confused, looking around you for what he could want, before he just scoffs and takes your hand himself. You have to move closer so you're not bent forward awkwardly, knee pressed against his, as he flips your hand palm side up. He spreads it flat like he's opening a book, then gently even further so your knuckles curve back. Your shoulders drop at the sensation, and he continues, sparing no detail. His own soothingly cool thumbs work the heel of your palm, the muscles on each side, and dig into the very middle. He curls and opens your hand experimentally after he's finished each area to see the effect. Moving on to your fingers, each joint is given a full work over, even your fingerpads gently pinched and rolled in his own. His expression is gentle, nearly intrigued as if you're just another embroidery project. When your dominant hand is left feeling brand new, he lowers it gently to his knee and takes the other one, repeating the process. Once he's done, he takes them both in his hold and offers them back as if they're not attached to you. "There, and leave the armor alone. I don't want you wasting all my hard work."

Part: 1/2

[shroudandsands]

Prompt #26: Zip

“Heartlight.” She didn't respond, her blind eyes averted to the floor as candlelight flickered warmly against her skin. “…You did this on purpose.”

It wasn’t a question. Sawyer’s short knife cut through the leather and binding that adorned her back, her old uniform clinging to her with sweat and grime. She’d donned it that morning in something of a ritualistic habit. Something of a second skin that was made for this particular purpose. That purpose? A large hand clapped on her shoulder, another on her arm. Soemrnahct and Autgar both. The undead they’d encountered before, the large sigils that flickered with older magicks- Her Hawk had spoken names of civilizations as curses. She hadn’t cared much to parse which they had been- had begun a larger call to others to come in. To assist. Especially given she was so particularly and uncomfortably incapable against this sort of threat. Instead she would do as the woman she was would never have. Or, at the least, would never have thought to do.

“Here!” Her voice echoed through the clearing they’d made, tents set and raised, as her wings opened wide to feel all within its boundaries. A base camp to help the delve, to provide support to those hauled back up from wounds or wear, to provide supplies and succor for anyone else who needed it. Something that was, she supposed, commonplace to create. Commonplace insomuch as it was due course. But rare, instead, to have it staffed and capably maintained by a proper number of chirurgeons and healers. Luckily for all of them she was rather practiced. Turns spent in the Crystarium at the worst of it had refined much of her capabilities. And her love’s wings given unto her had given her something of a reach that any doctor would be jealous of- That is to say. It was a camp entirely staffed by her. Her wings dipped by makeshift beds, her hands collated tinctures and passed them to those who would need them, her voice barked out to direct the directionless to exactly where she needed them. It was something that would have been unmanageable to most, unmanageable to her, but she had found something rather pleasing in the chaotic orchestra. To slip her wings between each soul to where they were needed most whilst still keeping her feet moving and her mind sharp for all the places where her senses felt. This, of course, had some problems. The quarantine force lasted a week. By the time three suns had come and gone, some had noticed that she had yet to stop- The eagle-eyed among them, or hawk-eyed in one particular case, had noticed she had all but ceased to sleep as well. A switch flipped, her uniform on, her wings and feet and hands unending in the succor given as undead were cleared and magicks disrupted.

Thus. The final day. And she was being cut out of her clothes with a knife.

The zipper on the old robes had broken at some point amidst the orchestrated chaos. That was not counting the fact that once all of the excitement was at its end, once there was not someone in immediate need of her attention, once there was no longer the threat of a wound or injury… Amesha was found approximately a bell before sunset. Facedown in the dirt with her wings scattered about the base camp. She was lucky enough to be found by one of the few who’d chosen to assist her directly- Fast enough to get her to a bed with help, fast enough to get her out of the eyes of anybody that might get overly concerned by a raen woman collapsed and unresponsive after she’d been nothing but a whirlwind for a week straight.

“You know I wouldn’t have agreed to any of this had I known you weren’t sleeping at night,” Came the Hawk’s exasperated voice, each syllable punctuated with a pause as she carefully slipped the blade down the back of her robes. “Or eating properly. Or drinking properly. In fact I highly doubt you spared yourself much of a moment’s thought the entire time…” Amesha remained silent as the knife was quietly set aside. As Sawyer’s hands reached around her to clasp at her middle and pull her in close. She couldn’t turn her head, she couldn’t speak up- “I know you’re not speaking on purpose. I should call you a hypocrite, my heartlight, the way you admonish me for my focus upon things that drives me late into the night and until the sun comes the next morn. I should properly tell you that I’m disappointed in this. That I wished you would care for yourself better. It reminded me all too much of…” She turned her head as both of them dwelled on memories best left forgotten. As they kissed quietly, gently, until neither of them could bear to let the silence continue. “…The bough spread wide,” Amesha finally spoke up. “To help so many. So many memories returned. Could not bear, then, to allow even one to be left out of the oasis’ healing touch…” Sawyer sighed once more as she took up her knife. As she fiddled with the busted zipper. One more cut left Amesha free of them once again. And she fell backwards into her lover’s arms.

[hms-tardimpala]

Ficbinding: Broken Road by @thegeminisage

The fic: SPN, Castiel/Dean Winchester, M, 109k

A 14.13 Lebanon rewrite. When Dean uses a wish-granting pearl to try and kill the archangel Michael before he can escape the cage in Dean's head, they instead wind up with a newly-resurrected John Winchester. It's been more than a decade since John died, and a lot has changed: Mary is alive, Sam and Dean have what passes for a proper home in the Men of Letters Bunker, and they're living with angels. John doesn't know angels are real, he doesn't know about the fragile new relationship between Dean and Castiel, and most of all, he doesn't know that Dean said yes to Michael, or that Dean's plan to defeat Michael would send him to a fate worse than death. Now Dean must contend with both his father asking questions he can't answer, and his loved ones learning about the darker truths of his childhood, all while constantly battling the archangel trapped inside him. But Dean coming to terms with his history may be the difference between this being the beginning of a journey—or the end.

This fic has been in my to-read list for more than a year because big wordcounts are daunting to me, but boy am I glad I finally read it! It's a treasure of character writing for all protagonists (and it is so hard to find a well-written John and Mary Winchester) and the canon divergence is brilliant. If you know me, you know how attached I am to canon-compliant stories, so finding a way to resolve the big threat of season 14 (a season I really like) in a way that's satisfying to me is no small feat. What I want from fics is to be able to think "wow, I could have watched this story happen in the actual show" and this fic succeeds at that. I also loved the attention paid to Michael's possession of Dean (that the show shoved aside when it was convenient) because I'm a whump lover and possession whump is amazing. Also, as a Deanguy, it's good to read a Dean fic with a great Sam.

So yeah, I loved it! Now let's talk shop.

The bind: This is the third blue book in a row (guess my favorite color). I chose a light blue because that's the color of the angels' grace, white for the wings, and silver because it's a color associated with angels a lot in the show (the blades, the walls and furniture in Heaven, the clothes angel vessels tend to wear). I used this palette because Michael is omnipresent in the story, so I wanted to show it through the binding, and also it's pretty. The white lines can represent a broken road, but I was having fun trying a new kind of superposition, mainly.

This is the biggest book I've made in a while, with 394 pages. It's 17,2x12,3cm and 2,9cm thick. I had a trimming accident and had to reprint it all and try again. That's my reminder not to do maths when tired.

I didn't use many decorations this time, I wanted to keep it sober. The text dividers for the first six chapters are angel wings and an impala for the last one (when Dean gets to drive it again). Wings and a car are both modes of transportation, that's neat. What's new this time is that I didn't do a chapter heading, but integrated the chapter number to the text. I thought about using drop caps, but it was too much. I did however use color, which I've been tentatively adding to my books. I figured what the hell, I pay for the color ink too.

Now, here's the main new thing I tried with this one: putting a title on the cover. I often say "no titles on my books" because I don't think they're necessary since I recognize the books by color and size, and I don't want to buy a cricut. But I didn't want to die stupid, so I tried transfer paper. Which worked, the title came out good, but naturally the transfer substance came with it, around the words, and it's very visible on cloth. I want to be clear: it worked as intended, I just didn't like the result. I think it'd work best with an image than with letters. With letters, trimming all the extra transfer paper would be impossible to do cleanly.

So I'm happy I tried, but still, no titles on my books.

Fonts: DK Plague Master (title and author name), Moonrising (chapter titles), Gontserrat (text). All free on Dafont.

Materials: Blue and white cloth from Schmedt, 2mm grey board, 70g/m² white copy paper, synthetic bookmark and headbands. Silver endpaper bought in a brick and mortar craft store.

Feel free to ask me more about materials and fonts (or whatever), it won’t bother me at all to tell you what I used, I just can't think of anything else right now.

[christian-oc-tournament]

Please vote based on the picture AND the description!

Kurtis [Myth @kazeharuhime]

Kurtis is a panther Myth, a scientifically-modified superhuman who lives as one of the infamous Myth Doctor's subjects. He has various cat-like abilities—night vision, acrobatic abilities, and heightened sense of smell and hearing. This also comes at a cost—heightened bloodlust, reduced sense of taste, need for extra protein, daytime sleepiness and insomnia, though these tend to get worse as he progresses, along with the loss of his mind. While he has his wits though, he uses them to invent wolverine-esque claw extensions and master many sorts of weapons. He's one of the two powerhouses of the Doc-loyal Myths, and acts as an older brother to the frog Myth Dart.

Kyra Stone [Persona 5 OC @sugarandice3]

Physical Description: Kyra has thick, black hair that falls to the middle of her back. She normally keeps in a braid or high ponytail in order to keep it out of the way while she plays for her school’s soccer team or a pickup game of basketball with some friends. This rather feminine trait helps offset the rather strong, more masculine features she has, like hooded, deep-set brown eyes, sharp jawline, and high cheekbones If she were taller and smiled less, these features would give her a very commanding presence, but as it is, her eyes crinkle up when she laughs and she’s 5’ 5” with shoes on. Metaverse Appearance: Her disguise is based off of ancient Hebrew military dress, but made slightly more modern and feminine. She wears a short-sleeved purple toga with a white cross-body sash. The sash is tucked into a red cummerbund embroidered with crossed tent pegs in matching red thread. On her wrists she has black leather bracers, with winged lions engraved on them. She wears black tights underneath the toga and a light, combat-style boot to finish everything off. Her weapon of choice is a curved Hebrew sword with a gold-colored hilt with wings engraved on the blade. From the pommel hangs a green tassel and a pewter tent peg charm. Her mask is a red cloth that covers the upper half of her face. Personality: Her defining trait is passion. She is an all or nothing type of person so everything she does, she carries out with lively energy. While her attention is divided across anything and everything, her energy is most often directed at people. She loves people in general, but especially her friends. Kyra does everything she can to support and protect the people she loves, but her passion makes her overprotective. She has an almost draconic possessiveness over the people she considers “hers”, which can be both endearing and smothering. She is very self-reliant and almost hyper-independent due to taking care of and protecting others for years. Now it doesn’t happen often, but her passion can be turned on its head. Though Kyra would readily give milk and honey to anyone who asks, she would just as readily hammer a tent peg through a skull. She can and will square up with a man like she’s ten feet tall (she’s half that) and will not hold back. She doesn’t have an anger problem due to her kind-hearted nature, but does possess potential for great violence should the need arise.

[winterweary]

Skating with Satan

Little SFW drabble because I'm anxious and also super worried I'm going to miss out on wild ice skating this season!! I'm hoping it will still be good conditions when I can go out Wednesday...

I like when Satan gets to try new things.

GN Reader

“Surely you jest.”

The look on Satan’s face made you laugh, the sound a little breathless from the work of tightening your skates onto your feet around the bulk of your winter clothing. Carefully you heaved yourself into a squatting position, slowly standing on shaking legs before you answered.

“Of course not. Come on! It’s fun once you get the hang of it,” you promised, feeling out your balance and steadying. You held out a hand to where he’s standing on the shore of the frozen pond, looking from you to the skates in his hands dubiously.

“I’ve never read anything about strapping knives to your feet for fun,” he grumbled, but he edged onto the ice and sat to put on his pair as you cheered.

While you waited, you pushed off and skated in a few small circles, getting your ‘sea legs’ back so to speak.

“It always takes a minute to get reacquainted when the season starts,” you tell him cheerily, sliding back over to his side as he finished. You offered him two hands, Satan taking them and clutching tight. Carefully you helped him stand, biting back a grin when he hissed out a startled noise as his legs wobbled.

“This is madness,” he mumbled, and you gave his hands a reassuring squeeze.

“I know you’ll be a natural,” you tell him soothingly, which makes him jut out his chin in that determined way he had and straighten up a bit.

“Okay, let’s start slow. I’ll just pull you,” you instruct, gently tugging to pull him over the ice. At first, he’s wobbly as a baby fawn, cheeks reddening as he tried to keep standing. Once he’s steady, you drop one of his hands, skating to his side from in front of him.

“Now you try!”

As Satan held your hand, he made a few tentative strides, mimicking your movements carefully.

“See! I knew you’d get the hang of it,” you praised, watching him almost visibly puff up at the attention.

“I suppose it’s not too difficult…It’s just balance,” he replied, pleased. For a few long moments you skate in silence together, the soft shushing sound of your blades on the ice the only noise in the cool winter air. Suddenly Satan stops, making you halt as well. You watch as he lifts his gaze to rake over the landscape, a breeze chasing flurries over the frozen pond, dark pines cradling the shore and the Devildom moon glowing almost as bright as sunlight.

With a tug, Satan pulls you to him, catching your hips and tilting his head to give you a sudden, hard kiss. It startles you, the heat of his mouth a shock against your chilled skin, the passion behind it equally warming.

“Thank you,” he says when he pulls back and you’re still stunned into silence, “For sharing these things with me.”

“Thank you for trying it,” you reply softly, leaning into his hold and giving him a squeeze around the waist in return. His cheeks flush and his gaze casts down as he quietly flusters, moment of boldness retreating. You beam happily, pressing a kiss to his cheek before releasing him to skate a short distance away.

“Come on! Catch me if you can!”

Satan grins and moves after you. Soon he’s gotten the hang of it and is almost as graceful as you on the ice. Still, he doesn’t mind letting you escape his hold every so often. It makes the kisses he wins when he catches you even more sweet.