#back from brink of ruin au

[magicandheart]

Another scene from chapter 20 of my BFBR AU but from Moon's perspective rather than Y/N's :D

Its hard not to care for someone when you're a programmed caregiver... Especially when that someone is really nice and really bad at taking care of themselves.

[kneelingshadowsalome]

FATUM NOS IUNGEBIT 1/4

(König x F!Reader)

Summary: You have seen him in your dreams. The seer has divined his coming. But nothing has prepared you for witnessing him in the flesh. (Historical AU where König fights for the Roman Empire in an auxiliary unit, finds a cute barbarian woman and decides to keep her as his own.) Word count: 5.3 k Tags/warnings: 18+ ONLY. Spoils of war/enemies to lovers trope, graphic depictions of violence, historical gruesomeness, pining, odd banter, mixed feelings, romantic fluff, dubcon cuddling, eventual smut. Captor/captive dynamic. König is a brutal warrior... and a gentle giant. A/N: Lol what now? König dual wields 2 swords, goes Mike Tyson on his enemies, teaches his captive girl constellations in German, cuddles her and feeds her grapes, buuut mainly just tries to get into her pants (which historically did not exist at the time) A bit of a slow burn, but don't worry, they'll bang eventually ^^

AD 90, somewhere in the untamed frontiers of the Roman Empire…

The end of the world is here.

Not only have the crops failed for two years in a row, making chieftains beggars and beggars food for the fish, but now there are rumours that the god of war has arrived to destroy the land. The accursed Romans had turned their eagle gaze back to your land after years of sending their troops elsewhere, making it seem like they were not interested in your distant land after all. Untamed, they called it, harsh and barren and therefore inferior – your lush, abundant, beautiful land. No doubt they spat on it in their war councils because your roads were not paved, because your crops and villages were modest, and the women sometimes fought alongside men. Their storytellers immortalized false tales about you, calling you barbarians, but the only barbarians you could think of were the Romans themselves – crude, filthy and boorish creatures, drowning in wine and shit in their cities.

Rumours started to get fat and distressed when the troops approached your village. They said there was a giant at the head of the army, that the Romans followed a Titan's son who loved to eat men, torture women and impale children. They said he didn't accept proper food but preferred to eat his fallen enemies, washed his weapons with the blood of children, and split captured women apart with his cock, as long and sharp as his sword. They told that the Titan ordered his soldiers to poison the wells and destroy the growing crops with salt and vinegar. The rumours said that his tent was bigger than any chieftain's house and that he still struggled to stand at full height inside it. 

Even the land itself seemed to bow before him. Good weather followed his conquest wherever he went; ambushes failed, scouts got caught and tortured, exposing more villages to pillage and ruin. Your brother told you to flee the village, but how could you survive without your clansmen? You didn't know how to hunt; you barely knew how to fish. Your task in the village was to gather clams from the shore, dye wool and help the old Seer. How long could you survive on sorrels and clams alone?  

. . .

The old woman calls you to see her on the brink of war, and tells you to prepare for a ceremonial offering. Two horses, black as night if possible, brown at the very least, to appease the Great Mother of the Earth and quench her thirst for blood. If the Mother is satisfied with your offering, She will perhaps stop the approaching army or convince the Titan to leave your village alone.

She does a small rite before you, and you need to stay with her through her visions. You hate the smell of the leaves she burns, and try to cover your nose with your tunic to prevent breathing in the bitter fumes. The seer looks like she’s just lying herself down to sleep, but it’s always a burden when the spirits arrive and she starts to talk. You turn your back on her to coax them to rise: a mortal stare annoys the chthonic ones. You nearly fall asleep too as you wait, wanting nothing more than to go back to your own hut and have a good night’s sleep. Perhaps because you’re lousy tonight, and less vigilant as you should be, the spirits arrive sooner than either of you thought.

“He’s strong,” the seer croaks from the earthen bed, and you fight the urge to turn around and peek at the old woman, currently in the clutches of spirits. 

“Invincible… Hungry... The horses…won’t suffice…”

She drifts someplace else, and you try to memorize every word, every intonation, as cryptic or as simple as they are, for later interpretation.

“I see you,” she says in a slightly more cheerful tone, which is odd because the old woman is never happy or satisfied, no matter how bright the sun shines or how much food there is in the storages and pits.

“Me?” You dare to speak even though you’re not allowed to disturb the spirits. You could slap yourself for blurting out a single word, but luckily, the hungry ones don’t attack you for your insolence.

“You.. will be his downfall,” she speaks as if you are having a conversation here. “Be there. When he arrives.”

“...Be there? Why?” You dare to utter again, more concerned about what the Mother implies than the potential fury of some lowly earthen spirits. You haven’t got the faintest clue about what She might be suggesting. Why do you have to participate in the battle? How can you be there without getting killed? You’re not a warrior… The Mother has it all wrong. 

Suddenly, you curse the night, you curse the whole day, knowing your brother’s late proposal was perhaps a warning, a hint from the gods to leave, and leave quickly.

The old woman laughs dryly on the ground - the throaty, outright sick cackle makes you flinch. 

You don’t like this... You don’t like this at all.

“Mother. What must I do?” You demand to know, thinking about how all the gods, spirits, old women, and Titans should go to hell.

“Become a tree,” the old woman offers as if it’s the easiest thing to do. “A flower. Me...”

. . .

You become a marten first, then a bird. Then perhaps a tree.

You climb a spruce and wait there. You wait until the sunrise; you wait until noon. You wait until you see the glint of the Roman spearheads and hear the sound of their march.

You’ve dreamed of the Titan ever since you left the seer’s hut. You’ve dreamed of him slaying everyone in the village; you’ve dreamed of him driving a thick spear into the ground and grabbing you with an intent to raise you into the air and impale you on it. You’ve dreamed of him behind you, above you, inside you. You wake up one morning only to see that half of the people have left. You don’t know where they have gone, and you can’t follow them even if you did because the old woman waits for you in front of her hut and gives you a nod the instant you walk into another beautiful, sunny day.

That’s why you’ve turned into a branch in a tree, but for what purpose, you have no idea. You can’t understand why you must be here to witness the world’s end.

Your men scream and shout and roar as they crash into the thick forest of spears. The enemy is silent: it’s eerie, how the world burns and falls into ruin around you, people are screaming; everyone who has a soul and a heart is screaming for Mother as they die, but the men behind the Roman shields refuse to emit a sound. They don’t curse or shout or summon their gods; they simply stand their ground and pant mist into the air as wave after wave of men break on their shields and die before their feet. Somebody loses his spear because it gets stuck between your clansman’s ribs, but the Roman simply draws his sword in its stead: it’s the only sound among the pitched wails that cut through the forest – the cold, clear ring of a gladius being pulled from its sheath.

That is why you flinch at the sound of the first shout, a brutish command that sends all the shields to the side, only to present more shields: the Romans switch positions in their formation as if they’re not even human beings like the rest of you, just a single enormous creature made of iron and leather and bone, operating it's flat forest of weapons.

And then you see him: the giant of your dreams, the hungry titan everyone has told you about. He rises from the tide of helmets like a summoned god, concealed as one of the soldiers and only now revealing his true nature. He stands at least two heads taller than the rest, pushes his own soldiers to the side and breaks out of the formation these vicious Romans love so much. You knew he would be strong and big, but you didn't know he refused to show his face… You wonder what kind of a monster hides behind the black cloth with nothing but two eye holes ripped on it. As if this man needed the additional effort to stand out from other soldiers...

He's like a God of War, just like the survivors said: his armour is of Roman design, but the amount of metal that had to be scraped together to cover this man's shoulders and chest must've demanded a fortune in gold. He doesn't seem to care about the Roman ways, however: he throws his shield away as soon as he's out of the cumbersome formation as if he has carried it only as a decoration up until this point. He draws another sword in its stead – if any other man did such a stupid thing, traded his shield for a weapon, you would snort. But not now.

Standing between the Romans and your clansmen like a challenge, a threat, a deity, even the men possessed by the seer's blood spells hesitate to approach him. But when they do, the god unleashes carnage: the first warrior gets his stomach slashed open, and the two thick swords look like toothpicks when wielded by this man. A stomach wound is a gruesome, slow way to die - but just before the warrior's entrails spill to dangle between his feet, the brute grants him mercy by sweeping his head off with a single blow of his gladius. 

A roar finally rises from your enemy: they cheer Death on as the head of your neighbour meets the mud next. The soil is already soaked in blood, but the Mother is hungry still. The forest booms with Her bloodlust as the god moves around like a slow tempest of muscle, metal and darkness: he breaks every Roman rule by fighting as his own man instead of demeaning himself as one of them, a lowly part of this odd metal beast before you. He sends a limb flying in the air with a swing of a sword; he uses the same weapon as a bludgeon to bash in someone's skull. He crushes a man's chest simply by sinking down onto one knee, breaking bone, tendon and flesh to splinters as a whole ribcage gets crushed under his massive weight. 

Warriors flee before him, they fall under the combined wrath of the Mother and the Titan's sword. The dead seem to fall eternally, along with your heart, before meeting the ground with a hollow thud. 

Your chieftain is among the last men standing, meeting this unstoppable foe with admirable courage. Not having succumbed to the spells of bloodlust in years, he meets his death as a seasoned but old warrior. With his fighting years behind him, your chief doesn't have a chance against this man, but you have to grant the beast a feather's worth of honour, because he recognizes your chieftain as the veteran he is and salutes him with his sword. Then he proceeds with the bloodbath: flinging your leader's sword and axe easily to the side, he walks straight into his arms like he would into a hug, grabs him by the waist, and raises him into the air like he's nothing but a child. 

Your scream never leaves your lungs as you watch how the Titan raises the draping cloth from his face, just enough to sink his teeth into your beloved chieftain’s neck. The noise that erupts from your elder is not that of a man but a tortured animal. It’s not from this world, what you witness next: the giant tears a hunk of flesh from your chief like he’s a piece of roasted meat. Blood streams forth, his screams fade away all too slowly, and you hear your own weak wail in the air as the Titan lets go of the heap that used to be a strong male and a wise leader. 

Your chieftain is dead; his essence spills to the earth in spurts to appease the God of War, who spits blood and flesh to the ground, making you gag into the cold spring air. 

Then he raises his swords towards the sun, and the forest erupts into a roar with him: the thundering, ear-splitting cheer from his warriors makes the very earth quake beneath your tree. It seems to shake the branches of the forest, and before you know it, the giant’s howl of triumph breaks the one you’re curled around, and you fall, fall, fall into the mud beneath you. 

You're not a tree anymore. No: you’re very much a human woman there in the dirt as the sound of shouting ceases like a distant dream. 

And he turns. 

Death turns.

Mother always said you were a curious creature, which is perhaps why you search for his eyes, even though you should be running. She also said you were a smart one, which is why you know that running is futile. Your limbs wouldn’t carry you far anyway. It is a cruel joke from the gods to have what little strength you have left pour out of you into the ground and up to the feet of the enemy who is already strong, both in body and in will.

The Titan looks at you with genuine wonder, a curiosity that surpasses your own. To your odd thrill, you find that his eyes are blue: the same blue of the sea which you used to collect delicious clams from. 

The soldiers behind him shift with lust – their gear clinks as they devour you with unbridled hunger. The Titan is the only one who looks at you like you’re simply a cute little squirrel who happened to fall from a tree right there at his feet. Then his eyes drop to your breasts, and the familiar hunger that lives in men gives the ocean of his eyes a clouded look. When his stare finds yours again, he's a different man: the treacherous beast of your dreams.

You had hoped for a swift death… Violent but quick. But it’s clear that it’s not death he has in store for you as he takes a step towards you. It’s not a quick nor a slow death; it’s not death at all, because–

No.

No.

You’d rather have your arms torn off and fed to the Romans rather than have him thrust the sword between his legs, his third weapon, inside you. If you’re going to die screaming, it will not happen on your back; you will not amuse this beast with your womanhood and tears.

You scramble forward to pick up something, anything: a bronze dirk from a fallen warrior. The giant’s eyes fall on the sad excuse of a weapon, then on the sorry excuse of you. He thinks you’re planning to fight him with that thing, and the corners of his eyes crease a little from the prospect of having to subdue you. You’re proving to be quite the entertainment, and you curse those eyes, looking so kind and lively when just moments ago, the same eyes were inhuman and possessed. His are the eyes of a wayfarer, a wanderer, not a soldier: you catch a hint of sadness in them and curse again.

He’s not human, you remind yourself and show him what actual humans are made of. What women are made of. You give him another name, Giant, because you’ve always feared giants and hated the stories about them. Dumb and reckless creatures they are, stupid destroyers who always place their trust in their size. You never meant to fight him, and he only catches up on it as you turn the dagger towards yourself and guide it to point straight at your heart. 

You will be his downfall, just like the seer said.

“Nein–Warte,” the Giant speaks his first words, surprisingly soft to belong to a man like him. 

The sorrow in his stare consumes you in full now. It gushes forth like a tide, causing your breath and hands to shake when they need to be stern. You straighten your spine, jut your chin forward, and call for Mother: you don’t even know if you’re yelling for your bearer, or the Great Mother, or the earth that gives life to all. Perhaps you call them all to gather around and witness your sacrifice, higher in price than any of the Titan’s offerings combined. The blood you’re about to spill onto the soil will surely appease the land and raise it to arms to finally fight against this beast. 

He says something else just before you pull the blade back to strike it into your chest, and you curse for the third time in your mind: giants aren’t supposed to move that fast; they aren’t supposed to interfere in your last ritual. 

But the worst of it is that even when he finally subdues you, even as he wrestles the blade away from you, he ends up drawing a large gash on his forearm… As if he is trying his best to protect you from accidentally cutting yourself.

. . . 

You are brought to his tent, screaming. 

It’s not as big as a chieftain’s house; it’s barely the size of yours. But it is larger than the tents you saw when you got carried there: as a spitting, screeching, hissing package of what these brutes would no doubt consider a true barbarian woman with uncivilized manners and a fuckable cunt. They will talk about you around their campfires tonight: about you getting broken in by their true commander. It’s enough to satisfy them for now: to imagine their champion to fuck you bloody and sore. And who knows: perhaps they’ll receive the scraps if the Titan gets tired of you.

The precious dagger is somewhere in the mud, probably trampled there like it’s nothing but a piece of worthless metal. Your own trampling is only about to begin as the Giant marches into his abode and sends the men away, giving you uneasy looks in the process, perhaps checking if any of them had enough time to have a go at you. Luckily for him, you’re in the same condition as he left you: legs together, safe and pretty, because he bound them with a rope along with your hands. You are nothing but a delivery, thrown on the floor of dirt and a few animal skins. He just nods at you, happy to acknowledge that you are untouched by the others, as if it would somehow be worse for you to be raped by ten of those petite men than be raped by him: a cruel, bloodthirsty Giant with a giant cock. 

Your ankles and wrists get sore as you watch him doff his armour. He takes off the helmet, the belted straps, the segmented plates of his shoulder guards and the heavy Roman cuirass. The gods have truly favoured this man, not only gifting him tremendous height but insurmountable strength too. His muscles are large and lean and quiver with latent power as he moves; his back is so broad it almost competes with the wide mouth of the tent. He doesn’t seem to suffer from the cold either, but he keeps his mask on for whatever ghastly reason. Even if there is a monster under that mask, his body speaks of virility: he’s a man in his prime, a giant at his strongest, making you feel like an elf, a tiny little creature in the feet of this man who must be descended from titans indeed.

You continue to watch as he washes his hands in a small basin, cleans his mouth and neck, too. You reckon the water in that bowl is blood red and dark when he finally dries himself with a white cloth. He stands before you in nothing but his mask and the dark red tunic he had under the armour. He ties it from the waist with a simple leather belt, and it only now makes sense to you why Roman soldiers dye their clothes red: you’re pretty sure you can still see the darker spots on the hem of that tunic, the ones that used to be the lifeblood of your clansmen and kin.

He has the audacity to ask you - wordlessly - to clean his wound, the one you caused him. He sets you free from your bounds, and you are given fresh water and another cloth. He even opens a smallish wooden box of salve that has a familiar smell to it: pine tar and honey, used by your people to treat minor wounds and prevent bad spirits from getting into the wound. You wonder how he even knows about such a balm: is this warrior a Roman at all, or is he some odd creature hauled from the edges of the world to fight for them? You wonder if he has made the salve himself, extracted the tar from the pine and foraged the wax and honey himself, then cursed with his coarse language when he got stung by multiple bees…

You drive away the thoughts that threaten to make this brute human by snorting at his injury. The damage he gave to himself when he tried to guide the blade away from you at the price of his own blood. 

It still troubles you that he did it. Even a tiny wound like this can bring any man down if it starts to fester. The cold winds and rains of spring can easily get into the gash and make it rot. 

The idea of this giant being forced to his knees because of some filthy dagger wielded by a squirrel of a woman makes you smile inside. It would be a fitting fate for this man. But the vision also makes your heart sting. The thought of him dying of a simple flesh wound, alone and far away from his home, makes your heart grow kinder than it should. 

You decide there is nothing you can do but treat his arm, strong and scarred from previous battles. He sits down while you get to stay on the ground, and you try to ignore it that your face is now level with his groin. He sits with a wide spread in those powerful thighs, and you wonder if it's because the rumours about his cock are true. You keep your eyes everywhere else except the hem of that tunic and what's going on under there. He purrs at your touch, making it clear that it doesn't need much more than your soft fingertips to get him hard after a triumphant day on the field of battle. 

The wound is not deep, but you clean it carefully, trying to ignore the way his eyes seem to bore into you as you take care of him. Your hand is somewhat steady as you treat the damage with the nice-smelling salve, but you flinch as his hand suddenly meets your cheek. You look up at him, heart plummeting, thighs instinctively pressing together from the gentle way with which he cups your face.

“Schön,” he says, again with a tender voice and an adoring, almost worshipful stare. You don’t have a clue what he’s saying, but you know now for sure that it's not the tongue of the Romans he speaks. The scent of pines and bees lingers between you as he brushes a thumb over your lower lip. You are weak enough to give him a breath, a helpless, hot little exhale that meets his hand like a gift.

“Schön wie eine Fee,” he rumbles, sounding intoxicated or like he's under a spell of sleep.

“What the hell are you saying,” you whisper in your own tongue: just a meek little sputter, a tiny, horrified breath, but the giant’s eyes narrow with a smile.

“Sie redet,” he says happily, and your shoulders sink – you are on the verge of screaming from frustration alone. Whatever you do seems to only amuse this man, and you snap your mouth shut. Your cheeks heat up with recurring waves of odd fever. The ground beneath your shins is all but warm, and yet you feel warm all over: a dangerous sign, you know, and oddly tied to the peculiar bodings you have seen all week.

Because there have been many omens in the air lately. 

It’s just that none of them were portents of war. 

The cranes started to mate early this year, and you have found a lot of clams from the shore every day. Even your brother encountered a boar with nine piglets; everyone celebrated him as some holy man who had seen the Great Mother when he returned to the village that day. The wind started to blow from south soon after, and the moon has grown along with your womb: this morning, on the brink of war, you woke up wet and restless. 

All the omens speak of fertility, of growth, of a new cycle and of birth: of spring and life. There’s nothing about death and decay, nothing except what the people have told you about… him. The death himself. The war god.

“König,” he says as if he can hear your thoughts and wishes to correct them. You look up and see he’s pointing to himself, or rather, holding his hand over his heart. You fight the urge to scoff at the gesture. As if this beast had a heart…

“König,” he repeats the word and pats his chest, and you realize he’s trying to tell you his name. You wrinkle your nose in distaste, and he smiles. It’s easy to tell when he does, even with the cloth that covers his face: you can see the joy clearly from his eyes, the boyish grin that must be occurring under that mask.

“Du?” He points at you next, inquisitive. He has an odd way of pointing: with two fingers, slightly crooked, and you understand very well what he’s asking of you. You refuse to tell him your name, however, settling for pouting a lip at him next. The smile in his eyes only deepens.

“Fee,” he pokes you gently on the shoulder and leans back in his odd Roman chair, seemingly content with having now named you. 

And Mother was right: you are curious, so incredibly curious to know what this beast has chosen to call you and why. Are you a rat to him…? Some bird? Perhaps simply a girl?

He is so pleased with your conversation that he pours himself some wine and drinks the whole cup with one gulp. Great, you sigh inside your head, a beast and a drunkard. He pours another cup and tries to offer it to you, and when you don’t make a move to grab the clay mug, he brings it to your lips. You entertain him with a tiny sip: you’ve heard of wine and know that Romans are fond of it, but you have never tasted it yourself. 

The tart, bitter flavour almost makes you cough. You thought wine was supposed to be sweet: everyone always describes it as something like milk or honey or juice from an overripe apple. It very much is not, and you almost choke on it and then make a wry face at your captor. He - König - only laughs. It’s another thing that catches you off guard: first those boyish, sad eyes and now this hearty, grown man’s laugh. You have proved to be such an amusement to him that he doesn’t force you to drink any more wine and enjoys the rest of it himself. 

Then he rises and makes you shrink from him again, towers above you for a moment, and looks at you with that warm curiosity that makes your heart race.

“Müde?” 

He tilts his head, the bag of darkness shifts, the blue eyes behold you fondly, and for some reason, you whimper an answer to yet another question you can’t even understand. He takes your little squeak as a yes and falls to crouch before you, then raises a massive hand to the leather strings that keep your demure little dress up. 

To your horror, he pulls the knotted tangle open before you can stop him. Your dress falls from your shoulders and drops to pool around you, and you simply and verily stop breathing.

His eyes wash over you, he examines every little part of exposed skin like an entire treasure chest has suddenly opened before him. You pray to all the gods that he would find it in his heart to be gentle tonight. Your nipples perk up – from the cold or from his stare, you don’t know. 

The rough callous of his palm meets your breast and encloses it in warm support. He cups you, weighs you like he would a fruit, and then he squeezes you, rather hard, too: a deliberate attempt to make you squeal again. He replies to your pathetic mewl with an approving rumble, and you look up at him with all the helpless tenderness of the Mother, hoping that Her gentle pleas might persuade this man not to hurt you.

“Please don’t,” you whisper, and his eyes dart to your mouth, to your eyes, then back to your lips again. He immediately softens his touch. Then he lifts you from inside your poor dress, picks you up like you weigh nothing at all, and carries you to his broad bed, the sturdiest you have ever seen. 

This man feels like the strangest of fates, like a hopeless destiny, as he sets you on the skins and straw mattress, right next to your fluttering heart. Your insides ache as he undresses before you, entirely without shame. He’s hard under the tunic he rips off and tosses on the cold ground. Your eyes are glued to the legendary cock you’ve heard so much about, the cock that splits women apart: and it’s true that it's huge. It resembles the ones you’ve seen on horses, not on men, and your thighs are glued together as he comes next to you while that pale, monstrous cock sways long and heavy between his thighs. He moves you around a little, and you squeal from how weak you feel: weak as a mouse as he covers you with one of those rich furs he has in plenty on the bed. Then crawls under it too, right next to you.

Your heart almost wrenches itself out of your chest as a strong arm pulls you against him: the swell of your ass meets his thighs, solid and broad like treetrunks, and your lower back meets the hot, almost too hot horse cock. It starts to leak and throb against your skin the instant your flesh is pressed against his. You try not to whimper and moan as the Giant, König, curls around you like you two have always done this.

He takes a long, earnest inhale from your neck and hair, rumbles deeply and contently, and tightens his grip. Apparently, you smell and feel good… 

You wait and wait to be plundered and raped, but König only settles for holding you tightly, like you’re a children’s toy made of the softest straw and purest undyed wool. You relax slowly, and he purrs against your back, starts to fondle your breasts, ardently, until your body betrays you and you find yourself wet again; he squeezes and squishes your teats slowly, approvingly, then pinches your nipple once before finally falling into a heavy, deep sleep.

…

Please forgive your author for any historical inaccuracies and other silly things you find facepalmable <3 During this time König would've probably spoken some form of Old Saxon but since I'm not a TOLKIEN we have to settle for modern-day German here. I don't have a taglist for this fic so please check my pinned masterlist for future updates.

Translations

Nein, warte - No, wait

Schön - Beautiful 

Schön wie eine Fee - Beautiful as a fairy

Sie redet - She talks

Du? - You?

Müde? - Tired?

[lieutenantfloyd]

My Red Thread - Gambit x Reader

Word Count: 1.9k

Summary: After being sent to the Void alongside your chaotic companions Deadpool and Logan, the very last thing on your mind is the rarity of a soulmate bond. That is, until yours snaps into place. (Soulmate! AU)

Warnings: Fluff, mutant! Reader (undefined powers), a bit of romantic tension, attempts at humor, Wade Wilson ruining The Moment™️

Authors Note: For some reason editing this took way longer than actually writing it did. I’m still getting a feel for the characters, so I apologize if anything is kinda ooc! :)

Read on AO3

Laying with your back against a mostly broken couch, you have a view of the full room, including a set of stairs that allow streams of sunlight to cascade in. Your eyes shift lazily between Logan—who's taking the opportunity to drink himself into oblivion— and Deadpool—who's closing out his second straight hour of snooping through drawers and cabinets.

When the three of you awoke in this new location hours ago, you almost instantly flew into a fit of arguing. First about how and why you were here, then about who would be the first to go up the stairs. After a much heated debate, the consensus became that an unknown person—agreed to be either the ghost of Johnny coming back to avenge himself or the vengeful, forgotten sister from earlier—brought you here for reasons that probably didn't end with any of you walking out of here alive.

Whoever it was most likely got the drop on you first, seeing as how you decided to try your luck at hitchhiking through the void instead of sitting around and watching your two companions tear each other, along with your only ride, to shreds. As for the situation with the stairs, a rare moment of agreement was shared when you decided to stand and fight whatever possible threat was lurking. Once that was decided you all assumed the positions you currently found yourselves in.

With each tick of the dusty clock on the wall, you were growing more and more impatient, You'd been fighting for your life, quite literally, from the moment Wade got you sent to the void. Now your adrenaline had all but crashed, leaving your body to scream in agony over being brought to the brink of death more times over the last twenty four hours than you’d ever care to count. It was at the point now that you honestly began to wish that whoever had brought you here would muster up the cajones and come finish you off for good.

As if on cue, you and Logan sat upright as you sensed movement outside. You rolled off the couch and joined Wade in the middle of the room, taking up fighting stances while Logan simply sat back in his chair and continued nursing the bottle of whiskey he found without a care in the world.

Prepping for yet another fight, you were left feeling as dumbfounded as Deadpool looked when Elektra descended into the room. Your hands stayed raised but your mind began to run with possibilities. Wade began a refreshed round of incessant rambling, not missing a beat as Blade followed Elektra into the room only seconds later.

Your eyes shoot over to Logan in an effort to ensure that someone a bit less prone to hallucinations than you and Deadpool were seeing this too. His eyes flash confirmingly to yours. You swallow hard, having a brief internal battle with the childhood version of you who apparently thinks that now is the best time to start fangirling.

Tuning out Wade's awkward banter, you try and piece together the situation unfolding in front of you together. You were well aware of how people got sent to the void, but you realized then that you never thought any deeper about who exactly you could run into during your stay.

With fatigue setting deeper into your bones, you lean your hip onto the dusty wood table beside you. You fall halfway out of your defensive stance and let Wade command the room as usual, tuning back into the conversation just in time to hear him make an oddly pointed quip about some man named Ben Affleck.

Picking up on more movement from above, your attention shifts across the room. Your eyes lock on the stairs as if glued there. You to watch on silently as a shimmery purple card floats into the room and a man follows closely behind. You barely have enough time to register the flashes of purple dancing away from his hands before a force you have never felt before—and have absolutely no interest in feeling again—slams so solidly into your chest that it sends you flying over the table you were leaning against.

"Fuck!" "Merde!"

You yell out in unison. Instinct has you pulling yourself up off the floor as soon as you hit it, albeit slowly, as you try to call the air back into your lungs. Using the table for support, you manage to raise up on shaking feet. The once busy room has now fallen deadly silent. Quiet in a way you hadn't experienced since joining up with Deadpool several months ago. You suck in a few intentional breaths before letting your head rise up from its hanging position.

"What the hell was tha-" you start, only to fall silent as you take notice of everyone's eyes flashing between you and a man who looks just as confused and winded as you do.

Time seems to slow as your eyes lock with his. A smaller blow hits you somewhere deep beneath your ribs, though this time you only stumble.

"Ho-ly shit!" Wade gasps, bringing his gloved hands up to his face and flicking his head back and forth dramatically between the both of you, no doubt starting to pick up on what's happening.

A second thrumming blooms in your chest then. It's equal parts similar and different from your own. Your mind nearly starts to panic, but it's silenced by something buried in your chemical makeup coming alive.

Wade drops his hands from his face, only to end up pointing at you like an old Spiderman meme.

"You two are-"

"Soulmates," you breathe out.

Absentmindedly, your hand rises to your chest. The feel of your soulmates' heart beating in time with yours is oddly comforting, in a way not unlike finally coming home after a long, difficult mission.

Soulmates were a rare but well documented phenomenon back in your reality. Most people would go their entire lives without meeting someone who was lucky enough to bond, let alone experience it themselves. You silently cursed all of those articles and accounts you read as a hopeful tween for failing to mention just how sudden and violently the bond snapped into place.

"Say something! Suck each other's faces off! Maybe even-"

"That's enough," Logan hisses, slapping a large hand down onto Deadpool's shoulder.

You laugh awkwardly at the absurdity of this entire situation. Unsure of what to say or how to go about any of this. Bonded or not, you and the upsettingly handsome man in front of you were still strangers.

"I've been lookin' for you a long time, mon amour." He drawls. And fuck if his sultry cajun drawl isn't something you'd be happy to hear for the rest of your lifetime.

'Well, It's good to finally meet you, um..." you stammer out, only to remember that you hadn't even learned his name yet.

"Remy!" Elektra whispers to you excitedly.

You repeat his name under your breath, somehow feeling like you miss it as the syllables roll off of your tongue.

"It's lovely to finally meet you, Remy," you try again.

Logan takes the opportunity to introduce you like Elektra did for Remy. He sends you a soft smile as he learns your name, though it shines so bright and warm that you can't decide if you want to fall back against the table or leap into his arms.

You step towards him, happy to feel both of your heartbeats pumping in your chest as you both move to close the distance between you. When you're only a mere inches away from each other, his hand rises into view, silently asking permission to caress your cheek. You wait with bated breath to feel his touch, only for it to fall short when a certain red and black clad anti-hero steps between you—acting as if your entire world wasn't just flipped on its axis.

"Sorry to interrupt this precious little love session you two have going on, but I feel that I must remind you of the very pressing matters still at hand," Wade says with a look that is anything but sorry.

You look to Remy, whose face says only that he's ready to explode Deadpool with his mind and reach around Wade to place a gentle hand on his shoulder. You smile up at Remy, and watch as an unmistakable look of complete adoration flashes across his eyes.

You use your powers to send the mercenary flying backward through the air, leaving him screaming as you finally close the gap between you and Remy.

He brings you into his arms without hesitation. A stray tear slips from your eye as you realize just how right his touch feels against your skin. His nimble fingers wipe away the tear that fell onto your cheek, already coming into tune with the thousands of different emotions flowing through you.

"Don't cry chéri, Gambit's gotcha."

His words bring a fresh new crop of tears to your eyes. You savor the contact for several long moments before reluctantly pulling away. You waste no time in reaching over to interlock your hands, pulling him back a few steps.

A chorus of stifled laughter sounds throughout the room as you spot Wade stumbling back onto his feet. You squeeze Remy's hand when you hear him mutter "couyon," disapprovingly, something that earns another round of poorly dampened laughter from the group.

"Wade,” You call over to him, "Are you done being an asshole for the time being?"

"Never!”

"Can you idiots focus for five seconds?" Logan asks from the corner while taking a swig of whiskey. The rebuttal you’d prepared for Wade does in your throat, but you still give him a disapproving eye roll. Deadpool, unable to have someone speak up before him, pushes his way past Logan.

"Yeah, like I know the writer needs to hit their word count and all, but we've still got a baldheaded bitch to kill."

Getting out of the void has always been your top priority, but with your newfound bond, it felt all the more pressing.

Stepping aside to let Wade through, he begins to command the room as always. Ideas intertwine with his usual self deprecating jokes. You and Remy stand next to each other on the sidelines, as tensions begin to lower.

As the night drug on, the conversation began to buzz with urgent anticipation. Everyone takes a shot at pitching an idea or strategy that plays to some of their strengths. Logan had retreated outside while Blade, Electra, and Wade stood and paced around the room, focused on the task at hand.

With guards lowered and tensions gone, you and Remy retreated to a nearby couch. You both gave out the occasional opinion or bit of intel, but your minds never strayed far from each other.

The conversation slows, and you felt Gambit's hand brush against yours. You reach out and intertwine your fingers with his before he can back away. His fingers tighten against yours gently before letting up. You mirror his squeeze instantly, a thousand words passing in the silence hanging between you. You lift your eyes and meet his gaze, giving him a soft, barely perceptible nod. You can the low kinetic current coursing through his touch. It serves as yet another reminder of how strong your bond already feels.

Your head drops onto his shoulder, earning a low hum. Just above a whisper, and with a smile playing on your lips, you both promise that no matter what lies ahead, you are ready to face it—simply because you now have each other.

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

i was swimming in undomesticated waters the other day and mer soap and gaz came to mind while i was out there but i imagined they'd tease me for how inefficient i was compared to them😭

undomesticated waters omg. this is so cute

you're right, though, they'd be incorrigible just like before. all over you!! teasing you, condescending to you about how you have all that leg and you're still such absolute shite at kicking. so mean to you. you half-assedly standing up for yourself, but not really, and they take it as an excuse to push you around in the water. since they have no trouble swimming all around you.

it's just not safe for you at the beach anymore :( 

you make the mistake of floating out on the waves in an inner tube and find it suddenly shrinking? like the air is escaping??

before you can figure out what went wrong, you feel a sharp, mean pinch on your butt.

cue Gaz surfacing next to you, looking skeptical at this... contraption you're using to stay afloat. you need this, really? leave it to a human to put air in a tube so you can laze around in the water without actually swimming.

obviously that's right out. before you even see Soap, he's pulling the sad, deflating inner tube out from under you--claws shredding the plastic until it's well and truly ruined--and tossing it away without a second thought.

and before you can protest too much, while Soap handles that, Gaz is the one dragging you into the water and telling you you're gonna be swimming now. unless you'd rather hold on to him. it's your choice.

you are actually okay at swimming. downright average at it. you can tread water, and kick yourself wherever you need, and in a pinch, you just inflate your lungs and hold your breath to keep yourself abreast of the waves.

okay, yeah, if the waves get choppy you struggle. who doesn't.

not that Gaz and Soap understand most humans are the same way. nor do they listen when you tell them your toes aren't brushing the sand anymore.

you try to swim back to shore, but Soap's sharky teeth nip at you from under the water. you squeak and shove his head away from your body, but then Gaz seizes you. hauls you back. and he only releases you once you're back in deeper waters.

so that's your situation. Soap swims up and down the beach, hunting you down if you try to swim past him. if you do skirt around him, Gaz gets you instead and drags you backward.

you're made to swim this way until you're panting and seriously wondering if they're just waiting for you to go under for good. seriously, you're not an inept swimmer, but how long do they expect you to keep this up??

your limbs are on the brink of giving out, and finally, you give up your pride and cling to Gaz to stay afloat.

you realize your mistake when Soap surfaces way too close to you with a puckish grin on his face.

this was their endgame the whole time, wasn't it?

of course now that you're tired, you have no choice but to let them take you out a little further into the waves.

you can trust them to hold you up in the tides... but you're gonna get merman hands on and under your swimsuit. <3

more mer au / more Gaz / more Soap / masterlist

[ba9go]

i don't care if you're contagious

bakugou katsuki x gn!reader (zombie apocalypse au)

in which katsuki promises to never leave your side.

katsuki trudged through the wreckage strewn about the street, the chaos of the apocalypse swirling around him. he had seen countless horrors, but none compared to this.

he sees a young boy sprinting away from a twisted, zombified woman. his mother. the child is sobbing, and katsuki's first instinct is to rush in and protect, but one of the other pro-heroes beat him to it.

'fuckin' hell,' katsuki thinks as he continues down the ruined street, steps heavy with disgust and frustration. his stomach twists and katsuki feels sickened at the cruelty of it all.

his eyes darted from one horror to another — crumbling buildings, abandoned cars, the unsettling sight of undead creatures stumbling, crawling, lying amongst the wreckage.

after days of this god-damned apocalypse, katsuki's gotten somewhat used to it. the stench of decay. the incessant groaning ringing in his ears. it was sickening.

and worst of all? you were missing.

it's been roughly 72 hours since katsuki's seen you (yes, he's keeping track), and katsuki's frantic.

katsuki knows you're strong, knows how capable you are. but even so, the situation has only gone from bad to worse, and anything could happen.

katsuki doesn't know what he'd do if he lost you.

katsuki knows he can't afford to dwell on things like that. each time he feels himself worrying about you, he shoves it all aside, because he knows — if he lets himself think about it, his mind would simply spiral, until it drove him completely crazy and to the brink of breaking down.

and only god knows how bad katsuki wanted to break down every passing moment without you, without knowing that you were okay.

katsuki doesn't think too much about what could happen. the thought of you lost in this madness, possibly hurt (or worse), was simply too unbearable.

instead, katsuki thinks about your sweet voice, telling him to stay strong, reassuring him that things will all be okay.

sometimes, in the quiet moments between the chaos, katsuki would close his eyes and let his mind drift back to the last time he saw you.

"katsuki," you murmured, reaching up to hold his face. your touch is always so gentle, and yet katsuki swears that it's the only thing keeping him grounded in this fucked-up situation.

"y/n'," katsuki exhales with a shaky breath. he leans down and presses his forehead against yours. his hands tighten their grip on your waist as he pulls you in as close as he can get. "i don't know if i have it in me to let you go, darlin'."

"i know, katsuki," you sighed, caressing his cheeks with your thumbs, and katsuki's chest tightens as your eyes start to water. "i'll be back later, alright?"

"i'll be waiting," katsuki thinks you already know this, but he tells you anyway. "i swear to god, i ain't lettin' go of ya when ya come back to me."

"sure took your sweet time comin' back to me, didn't ya?" katsuki chuckles as he approaches the familiar figure staggering through the debris.

it was you.

the infection had twisted you into one of them, with deathly pale skin and jerky, unnatural movements. yet even in your zombified state, katsuki knew it was you.

slowly, you turned around to look at katsuki impassively. katsuki's heart clenches at your empty stare, but he can't bring himself to walk away from you.

"been lookin' for ya, ya know?" katsuki laughs, even though it's strained. "had me lookin' like the clingy one, sweets."

you stumble towards him with outstretched hands, and all katsuki can think is that you're reaching out to him, and he's rushing to you in an instant.

before he reaches you, you sway on your feet and fall to the ground on your knees. katsuki curses under his breath and he kneels in front of you, holding you by your shoulders to steady you.

"are you okay?" is what katsuki wants to ask, but he realises with a shudder that it would be futile. instead, he closes the distance, his hand gently cupping your face.

"damn it, y/n," katsuki voice breaks. "i've been looking for you. i looked everywhere." katsuki searches desperately in your eyes for any trace of emotion, of recognition.

you let out a weak, garbled noise, but you don't lean into his touch, and katsuki thinks for the first time since this shitty apocalypse that his world might finally be crashing down around him.

'no,' katsuki thinks. he finally found you. this was no time for him to break down. he had to be strong, for you.

"i'm sorry i took so long," katsuki forces a small smile. "m'here now, yeah?"

katsuki wraps his arms around you and pulls you in towards him like he's done countless times in the past.

katsuki closed the gap between them, his lips pressing against yours in a kiss.

katsuki doesn't pull away until your hands are on his shoulders, pushing him away as if in protest. it was so like you, and katsuki couldn't help the small chuckle that escaped him.

"i told ya i wouldn't let go of ya, didn't i?" katsuki smiles, even as he feels himself growing faint. "a promise's a promise, darlin'."

bbbbrrrrrraaaaiiiinnnnnnsssssssssss...

taglist (thank you for your support!!): @anicaaa67 @maddietries @valeriyaaak @v3n7s @deimosjay @zaiban2989 @girls-overflower @notmeduhh @dreamcastgirl99 @busdriver-move-that-ass @atashiboba @kathsuhki @armeenix @channnee @sukunasbottomlefteyeball @kenqki @vikizzy @thesimpybitch @eempxth @hanta-seros-wifey @itztaki @thekidscallmebosss @crimsonrubie @babylambdietcoke @suki0

[antigonenikk]

What it would actually be like to date various HBOWAR men (modern au):

by me and @guarnerepdf

Speirs:

-is a cokehead finance bro

-you wake up in the middle of the night to him watching you sleep with no explanation given, just an eery smile

-is gaslighting you for purposes unknown (moving your furniture one inch to the left etc)

-buys you the fucking tackiest expensive jewelry and designer clothes as random gifts but half of it is fake

-you justify staying because he takes you to NOBU but you’re afraid to google him

-malarkey keeps telling you he's a serial killer but he has such beautiful hair

-lipton keeps handing you domestic violence brochures when he thinks no one is looking. you throw them away because you want that fucking ugly gucci belt! and the staring is sort of charming after a while

-possibly has a secret child that he is hiding from you. you're not sure.

-the first time you have sex he chokes you without asking and is confused when you get mad at him over it.

-does coke while eating dry fruit loops cereal in the morning. somehow looks hot while doing it.

Liebgott and Webster:

-challengers level toxic throuple, these two come as a pair!

-liebgott is xanned out so badly on the regular that he does not remember the last time he washed his hands.

-lieb met bill and toye in rehab and now all his friends are undergrads even though he's going on thirty.

-lieb won't kiss you in the morning "goddamn it woman, brush your teeth" but will kiss webster no problem!

-lieb likes webster more, but web likes you more because you don't call him slurs and you let him rant to you about sharks.

-you and web unionize at some point to get liebgott back into rehab. when he's gone you realize your relationship is 200 million times healthier but also extremely boring. you take him back the minute he releases himself AMA.

-lieb cannot figure out how to work tiktok, meanwhile webster has 100k subscribers on youtube and does grwm story time videos.

-you once had to be driven home by babe from the gas station after lieb kicked you out of the car. the fight was because he didn't believe you when you said you were allergic to gluten. babe lets you play cinnamon girl by lana del rey on the way home.

-lieb keeps trying to weaponize therapy language against you, 'baby you're fucking gaslighting me!' webster just makes it worse when he tries to explain what the terms actually mean.

Bill:

-you start dating Bill after he steals you away from Babe. Babe was nice, but you got the ick immediately after realizing he's not the leader of the friend group.

-bill sends you disgusting dick pics with extremely poor lighting. you can see his bottle of lotion in the background.

-you think it's sweet that he brings flowers when you go out until you realize they're stolen from the neighbor's flowerbed.

-you have an extremely lavish jersey shore wedding that culminates in a horrible fight when he shoves cake in your face ruining your 400 dollar makeup (that you paid for) and your 2000 dollar dress (that you paid for). during your vows babe has to hold himself back from saying something when the priest asks if there are any objections.

-DIRTY fingernails! does not wash his hands. gives you a UTI but doesn't understand that it's his fault.

-Doesn't cheat but is always on the brink of it.

-Follows multiple swimsuit models on Insta, claims it's okay because 'sweetheart, listen, it's all on the screen!'

-Is so cheap he refuses to pay for extra sugar for your coffee, 'you've had it bitter before, babe.' you are ready to murder him. takes you to chili's and acts like it's a michelin star restaurant.

Talbert:

-cheats on you immediately. within the first week.

-sends you anonymous texts to get STD tested, too scared to actually go to the clinic but is certain he's dying of syphilis.

-cries to lip for an hour when you leave him for speirs.

Gale Cleven:

-'sweetheart. are you really gonna wear that out to dinner? it's a bit...well... risque.'

-accuses you of being an alchoholic every time you drink, but Bucky has done four Jeagerbombs tonight and isn't getting any lectures. Also. Why is Bucky with you two on your date night?

-is straight but keeps stringing Bucky along because he reminds him of his father and for narcissism reasons.

-marge messages you on facebook to warn you about him, and also to sell you on her new MLM scheme.

-bucky keeps giving you mean little grins as he hangs off your man....you are very close to murdering him.

-you finally leave him after he calls you daddy in bed. not mommy. but daddy.

Bucky:

-gives you chlamidya three weeks into dating. gaslights you into thinking you got it from sitting on a public toilet seat.

-drives drunk while you're in the passenger seat, goes above 90 and almost kills the both of you.

-is in love with gale and you both know it but refuses to talk about it.

-laughs when you start crying over your new STD diagnosis.

-is the worst boyfriend in the entire world. do not date this man!

Leckie:

-cheats on you with vera, but has a jealous meltdown everytime you talk to hoosier at house parties. you were literally just asking the man for a lighter.

-hoosier is stirring shit up for shits and giggles. he keeps liking your thirst trap insta photos, commenting 'photo cred'

-cries when you confront him about cheating. writes a poem to you about how badly hurt he was by the whole situation. says he only did it because that's how he was raised! no one taught him how to love properly!!

-exploits his family trauma at any given opportunity, shameless about it

-writes you sweet yet cringy love poems

-chuckler keeps trying to warn you but is so awkward about it that you just end up super confused

-blows up the minute you try and critique his writing

-tells you you're acting 'just like you're mother!' during arguments

-eventually you break up because you cheat on him with hoosier and he cheats on you again with vera

Hoosier:

-completely emotionally unavailable

-laughs at you in the middle of a fight, then when you storm out he stares at the wall for four hours straight. no blinking. no moving.

-goes to chuckler thinking he's dying because he has a 'weird feeling in his stomach.' the feeling is literally just a crush.

-catches leckie flirting with you. doesn't cause a scene but DOES immediately cheat on you as a retaliatory action. has no idea why you're mad about it.

-determined to hurt you before you hurt him.

-somehow makes you think you're in the wrong due to the sheer FORCE of his conviction that it was okay for him to cheat on you.

-you two break up but get back together after having a baby. the baby is possibly not hoosier's but he's a genuinely good father. (the baby very obviously has leckie's face. no one is fooled.)

-during your wedding ceremony leckie has to be thrown out after making the worst best man speech of all time.

-parent teacher conferences are a nightmare because your child is biting the other kids and is failing all her classes. hoosier blames you for not helping her with her homework. you all go out to souplantation afterwards and he keeps dropping barbs about you being a dumbass.

-the two of you stay married for 40 beautiful years before dying of old age. within those 40 years you separate and get back together a total of 5 times. leckie somehow outlives you both.

Luz:

-is sweet and lovely and handsome and makes you laugh a lot but

-you're banned from six movie theatres, three bars, the pier, disneyland, and a froyo shop

-you don't even LIKE froyo but the fact that you can't fucking go there anymore is driving you up the wall

-you got kicked out of disneyland because he got into a fistfight with donald duck

-his mother HATES you. she is the ultimate boy mom. they are constantly talking about you in Portuguese behind your back. she wears white to your wedding.

-cannot go grocery shopping because he's stopped every five feet by some old acquaintance. you have no idea how he knows any of these people!

Eugene:

-you're his beard but he doesn't know it

-is the ideal gay boyfriend/husband

-buys you flowers and takes you out on beautiful dates. cringes when you try to kiss him

-everything would be PERFECT except snafu keeps creating dummy accounts to harass you, drives by your house at all hours of the night, and you're pretty sure he's planning to SWAT you.

-eugene has no idea why you hate snafu? he's such a sweet guy!

Babe:

-you're a bit embarrassed to tell your friends you're dating him....he's sweet but just so dorky

-almost puked on you after taking a dab at bill's house. you had to comfort him for ten minutes

-long suffering angel who you cheat on because you know he's just too good for you.... better to hurt him before he leaves you first!

-is popular on tiktok somehow. you have no idea how this happened but it did

[tiddygame]

Ghoap god type Au part 2!

Ao3 /// part 1 /// part 2 /// part 3 /// part 4 /// part 5 /// part 6 /// part 7 /// part 8 /// part 9

i didn’t expect so many people to like this so this is a little addition written stream of consciousness style :)

Weeks have passed and the troops have marched on. Ghost is not very liked amongst his fellow soldiers, most viewing him as something less than human. If they notice the drastic uptick in him sneaking away, they say nothing. Whether it is out of respect, fear, or apathy does not matter.

When they stop somewhere, even if for just a night or two, he always searches the area for overgrown shrines belonging to the god. Now that he is actively seeking them out, he realizes that they’re everywhere.

Damn near every notable landscape was a ruin of what was once a commemoration for the god. Clearings in trees with stone circles on the ground, shallow caves with a pedestal holding forgotten gifts, eye-catching rocks that turned into statues when you paid attention — all for a deity that was now on the brink of death.

On the rare occasion he is unable to find one, he creates one. It was never really anything more than a pile of rocks, but the offerings were still accepted so he took it as a sign of approval. Before, he always ate his meals on the edge of camp, as far away from everyone as he could get while still being in camp. But then he remembered that he didn’t give a shit and would wander further into the woods before sitting down to eat.

Now, it was the same routine but a little less alone. To call some old ass god a friend was a stretch, especially since half of the time it felt more like trying to feed a skittish stray dog, but he enjoyed the time spent “together”. He decided not to think about whether that was an exploitable weakness or if he was going soft and instead tried to enjoy his newfound respite.

Of course, nothing stays happy forever.

When the battle they had been marched towards finally came, Ghost was put on the frontlines, as per usual. This time he felt Different but chalked it up to nerves with feeling like he might have something to lose now.

That morning, he hadn’t received breakfast so the only offering he had been able to provide was a few flowers that were in the area. He felt beyond stupid while picking them, but when they were laid down, the god hadn’t even waited for him to turn away to be able to dramatically accept the offering. They were accepted immediately, with a strong breeze rustling the branches and such an intense feeling flooding through him he’d had to take a step back.

The forgotten god of death likes flowers, apparently.

Within a few hours, he went from wondering if he would now be upgrading his food offerings to include a garnish of whatever flowers he found in the area, to wondering if that would be the last offering the god would ever receive.

The arrow had nestled between plates of his armor, striking him in the lower ribs. He was dying far too slowly for it to have hit anything vital, but he was still dying. He was an okay field medic, but it was that very knowledge that meant he knew he was doomed.

Being nothing more than a weapon, he was not allowed to see the healers the same way everyone else was. As the battle finished with their side unfortunately victorious, he wondered if the general even realized he could be fatally wounded.

The smoke cleared, the injured men were hurried to the medical tents, the general began planning their next attack, and Ghost lay there, dying and forgotten in an open field. He had been looking forward to this moment for so long, but now that he was here, he wondered who would give his god offerings tomorrow. Realizing that in dying, he would be taking the god with him made him feel almost remorseful.

But the darkness was creeping in on his vision and his woes seemed to fall away as did the rest of the world. Perhaps he would be seeing the god soon.

————

He did not expect to wake up, and yet he was staring at the canopy of leaves above him and wondering why Hell looked so nice. When the pounding in his head went away, he sat up slowly, first rolling onto his side and reeling from the pain. When he was able to push himself up into a seated position, he realized that Hell not only looked lovely, but incredibly familiar as well.

Once his vision stopped swirling, he saw that he wasn’t in the afterlife at all, but instead had been lying on the offering table he had just left flowers on that morning. Still barely comprehending what was going on, he scrambled off the shrine. Just because he’d challenge a god to a fistfight doesn’t mean he’s entirely stupid. He still remembers stories that the elders would use to scare him and the other kids — about how anything on the offering table was an offering that could be taken.

He wasn’t interested in becoming a human sacrifice just yet so he fell to the grass and tried to remember what happened. The pain made everything muddied, but he knew for certain he was supposed to be dead. The shrine he had woken on gave some indication of what must’ve happened, though the why of it all was still a mystery.

Would the god of death betray his own domain just for the sake of keeping him alive?

Lifting his shirt and finding a golden scar on what should have been a fatal injury, he found out that yes, yes they would. The pain made it take a good few minutes to stand and he distantly wondered how much power the god had. He’d heard of deities saving their favorite (and in this case, only) follower from the brink of death, but never heard mention of the pain.

He deduced that the god must still be too weak to have done such magic fuckery without repercussions and that the full-body agony must be at least one of those repercussions. As he sat pondering the power level of the being, he went to run his hand through his hair but stopped, feeling something that wasn’t there before.

A flower, tucked behind his ear. One he picked that morning.

The god of death saved him and put a dandelion behind his ear.

————

It wasn't until the next night that he was able to visit the shrine. As expected, he was yelled at for disappearing for several hours but he was too out of it to really hear any of what was being said. The pain would come and go at seemingly random and each spike that made his steps stutter was another reminder of just how close he had been to death.

Waylaid by his duties and own requirements of rest, he finally snuck out with the little dinner he had been given. Part of him was a lot more scared than he’d like to admit, having no idea what the god would want in return for the miracle they’d performed. He really did not want to be indebted to yet another person, much less a god.

It took him much longer than usual to make it to the shrine, slowed by pain and exhaustion. It was pitch black by the time he got there but the area around the pedestal had a slight glow.

He set down his offerings and really hoped it was enough to not incur the wrath of an angry god that felt like they were owed more than they received. His dinner — consisting of a bread roll and salted meat, a true feast — along with some jewelry he was able to pilfer and more flowers was far from what any god would expect in return for such a miracle, but it was all he had to offer.

He took a stuttering step back and bowed his head. He may be a prideful bastard but he’d consider the day a victory if he lived long enough to feel embarrassed. His fingers tingled, the leaves rustled, and he opened his eyes to find— Oh. Hmmm.

The flowers and jewelry were gone, but the plate had more food on it.

Well, that’s… something. He looked up at the sky, wondering if the god was watching him. After some hesitation, he verbalized his question, asking if this meant the offering was rejected.

There was no answer. When he looked back down, the plate had been moved closer towards him. Okay, what the fuck? The food looked kind of shitty, honestly, but looking closer he realized that’s because it was his offerings that he had given.

Still not quite grasping the situation, he slowly grabbed the plate, waiting to see if he’d be struck by lightning. However, no murderous rain clouds spontaneously appeared as it left the altar. He examined the plate. The food was stacked rather precariously; there wasn’t much of it but the randomness of the items ensured it was on the brink of falling.

Was this meant to be a gift? For him? Why would a god continue to give more and more while receiving almost nothing in return?

He took a moment to sit down, definitely out of caution and not pain, trying to figure out if this was what the deity wanted him to do. Tentatively, he grabbed a piece of bread and slowly began eating. He was slowed by the shake in his hands and for once was right in saying it wasn’t from nerves. The shakiness had been persisting ever since he woke up but had gotten better over time. Before, he hadn’t been able to even pick up small items without struggle. It all seemed a small price to pay considering he should’ve died in that field.

As he ate, he stared up at the altar and wondered how a god whose favorite offerings were flowers had gotten such an awful reputation. Lost in thought, he was pulled back to the present as the apple almost rolled off the plate. He caught it, moving to set it in his lap instead, but noticed something that made him freeze.

Someone was there.

He felt it, both the eyes watching him and the domineering presence that had taken up the area. He carefully continued his movements while looking around, alarmed to see nothing there. He took stock of his surroundings, trying to discern what he was sensing. It seemed the god was no longer simply watching him from the heavens.

Not expecting an answer, he asked aloud if the god wanted some of the food, resolutely staring at his plate. He was unused to feeling a divine being near him. It was unsettling.

No.

The answer seemed to materialize from nothing. He hadn’t heard it, hadn’t read it, it didn’t even feel like it had been some kind of psychic fuckery. It just was. Man, gods were weird.

Pushing the limit, he asked if they had a favorite flower.

Whichever you give me.

And then the presence was gone. He was back to eating alone in a clearing. What the fuck does that mean? The weird godly way of talking didn’t provide much in the way of tone. Was it happy? Flirty? Apathetic? Annoyed?

He shook his head and resumed eating. It didn’t matter. Tomorrow would be an even longer day as they pack up and march on.

He needs to get his god more flowers.

[jeonginsleftcheek]

R for Rimming

sub!felix x gn!dom!reader

genre: smut, fluff

word count: 2.5k

warning/s: felix gets spanked twice, degradation for one sec

a/n: friends with benefits, college au, reader is a tease, i wanted it to be more smutty but it ended up more fluffy

Sunday afternoons became Felix's favorite part of the week. After all the long hard days filled with obligations like lectures, studying and work, Sunday can't come soon enough. It's the day that's dedicated to spending time with you, just you and him, and that excites him. His excitement shows in the way he can't sleep on Saturday night, tossing and turning in his bed and thinking about your smile and your lips. It shows in the way his heart skips a beat when he hears you knocking on his door.

He's quick to get up on his feet and almost run to the door, but he calms himself down, not wanting to look too eager but you know him better than he thinks you do.

You have this arrangment, no strings attached, you're just friends who help each other relieve stress that inevitably builds up during the week. But, Felix thinks, well he knows he doesn't see you as just a friend anymore, it runs deeper than that. It doesn't help that you're always so sweet to him, always there to talk to him about anything no matter how insignificant it may be, so happy to tease him and bring him to the brink of passing out from pleasure, so gentle when you hold him and praise him for doing so well for you.

When he opens the door, you beam at him and it's already hard for him not to cling onto you and kiss you breathless.

"I brought food." - you chuckle at his starstruck face. You noticed, you're not stupid. You know he likes you a lot, you can see it in the way his eyes shine and soften when he looks at you, how his smile is slightly wider when smiling at you, how he uses any excuse to touch you, even in public.

But, in this game of pleasure, you have the upper hand and you're having so much fun edging him before giving him exactly what he wants.

Before anything else, you and Felix share food and gossip, sitting on the floor in front of the sofa, filling each other in on the latest 'drama' happening at your college and in your friend group. You complain about your assigments and professors together, you laugh at stupid memes and tiktoks.

When you finish with your gossip sesh, you play videogames together and it always starts out with you convicing Felix to play some horror game with you. And every time he almost starts crying, saying that 'how can you find this relaxing, I'm scared for my life and stressed!', but you just laugh and ruffle his hair. Ofcourse you end up playing whatever he wants to, because you don't wanna make him feel bad and you love the way he gets excited, his eyes lighting up when he plays his favorite games or talks about them. You also think it's so funny how he almost pulls his hair out and starts cussing whenever he gets frustrated and loses (which is often, but you don't comment on it).

In the middle of the game, your hand ends up on the back of Felix's neck as you massage him lightly. His fingers tremble, his concentration broken for a moment, his body responding to you right away. You ghost on his skin with your fingertips before playing with the ends of his hair.

"You smell good." - you say, bringing your face closer to his hair and inhaling his sweet, intoxicating scent.

"T-thank you." - Felix whispers as you drag your lips on his jaw slowly, continuing down to his neck. "You smell good too." - he adds.

"Mhm." - you mutter against his hot skin, pressing your lips into it and watching as he keeps getting more and more flustered, the redness of his cheeks spreading down to his neck. No matter how many times you kissed and fucked, he would still get shy and flustered and this drove you kind of insane, made you want to ruin him just to keep getting reactions out of him. You sink your teeth into his skin and suck lightly, listening to his breathing getting faster.

"Y/N..."- he whines a little. "Don't leave a mark there, please. Everyone will see."- he adds, since no one knows you're hooking up but you're pretty sure your friends sensed it.

"So what?"- you smirk against his skin. You're mine, you think, but you don't say it out loud.

He gives into you anyways, his head leaning back, giving you more access to his neck.

"Lixie. I wanna suggest something." - you say, leaning back a little and pressing your hand into his thigh. He finally pauses the game and turns to you, pupils blown and cheeks red, his adam's apple bobbing up and down as he swallows.

"Yeah?"- he tilts his head curiously.

"I want to rim you."- you smirk and his brain short-circuits, big innocent eyes staring at yours.

"Ugh. Like... With your tongue?"- he says nervously, playing with the hem of his shirt and you roll your eyes playfully.

"Ofcourse Lix, what else?"- you chuckle.

"Well I don't know. What if... what if I don't taste good?"- he asks, butterflies flying around in his navel as you look at him intensely.

"I've had your cock in my mouth and I can confirm that you taste very sweet."- you smirk again and Felix sputters.

"Don't say that."- he says, looking away from you in embarassment. "This is different anyways."

"Getting shy on me, Lixie?"- you purr into his ear, your hand inching closer to his crotch.

He opens his mouth to answer, but you cut him off by grabbing him through his sweatpants and he whimpers before looking at you.

"If you're not comfortable with it I won't make you."- you say as you palm him lightly, feeling him growing under your hand. Felix spreads his legs ever so slightly and bucks up into your hand, chasing your touch.

"I want to. I'm just scared."- he admits.

"Of what, baby?"- you ask and he shivers. You should know what nicknames like that do to him by now.

"That it will taste bad and you will be disgusted by me."- he whimpers, his bottom lip trembling as you squeeze him gently.

"That's impossible."- you shake your head, leaning in closer to him.

His eyes fall to your lips, and you close the gap, taking his upper lip between yours, sucking on it gently. Felix melts into you, leaning back on the couch behind him slightly as you keep kissing him and palming him. Your hand slides into his sweatpants as you suck on his tongue, you grab his hard leaking cock and Felix whimpers, feeling like he's already about to unravel.

His hand comes up to grab at your arm, just to have something to hold on to as you start pumping him, spreading the pre-cum all over his length.

"Lixie."- you whisper as you part your lips from his, a thin string of saliva connecting you.

"Y/N."- he whispers back and you squeeze him a little.

"How about you take off your clothes?"- you say retracting your hand from his pants and he pouts a little at the lack of your touch.

"Okay."- Felix complies and swiftly takes his shirt off, throwing it somewhere on the couch behind him. He hooks his fingers into his pants and pulls them down together with his boxers, also throwing them somewhere behind him carelessly.

Something about you being completely dressed, while he sat there completely naked, his legs spread open, made him feel flustered and vunerable. Your eyes scanned his body, everything right there on display for you, except what you wanted to see the most today.

"Touch me, please."- Felix whimpers when you just stare at him. You snap out of your daze and grab his face gently.

"You wanna try what I suggested before?"- you ask again, wanting his consent before you do anything else.

"I'm not sure. I mean, I'm curious about it."- he says, his cock twitching a little.

"Do you trust me, baby?"- you ask, caressing his freckled cheeks.

"I do."- he nods fast, biting on his lower lip.

"Then get on all fours for me."- you order and the way you say it makes Felix's head spin and his heart beat fast. He obeys, his palms pressed into the carpet underneath him, legs spread and ass up in the air. The arch in his back and the plushness of his ass and thighs are delicious and you feel yourself throbbing at the sight.

"If you feel like you wanna stop at any time, just say the word, okay?"- you hover over him, your hand resting on his hip. He nods and you shake your head at him.

"Use your words, baby."- you say, squeezing his hip a little.

"Okay, I will."- he rasps, his voice breaking a little.

He was anticipating your touches so much that he was practically vibrating on the floor, waiting for your next move eagerly.

You decide to ease him into it as you hold his hips and lean down, pressing slow kisses on his shoulders, down his back, your lips touching his freckles, worshipping them. Felix's breathing is shaky and he leans his cheek on the carpet, his eyes fluttering closed for a few seconds. He almost forgets what you were planning to do, so when you plant a kiss on his plush ass cheek, he goes rigid.

"Relax baby."- you say, caressing the back of his thigh as you keep kissing him. Felix breathes in, his nails digging into the carpet, his cock still hard, aching to be touched, but he stays still and tries to relax. His heart beats hard against his chest as you leave wet kisses and little bites on his cheek, and he can't control the needy whimpers coming out of his mouth.

You bite into his flesh, close to his fluttering hole, your hand grabbing him, pulling him more open for you. Felix whines loudly as you suck his skin, the pain of your teeth biting into him hard making his cock leak onto the carpet. He is so close to just touching himself to get some kind of relief but he knows better than to do anything without your permission.

You keep leaving love bites on his skin, grabbing at him roughly just how you know he likes it. He would never say it out loud but he loves when you get rough with him, you know it by the high pitch in his moans and the way he cums faster whenever you manhandle him. When you're satisfied with the marks you left, you lean back and spread him apart.

"Y/N..."- Felix whines and you smirk leaning over him. His face is red, a thin sheen of sweat covering his forehead. His eyes are so hazy and filled with lust and it spurs you on.

You hover your lips over his hole, gathering spit before you let it drip down. Felix shivers and moans, leaning his ass towards you, he's already desperate for you.

You put your thumb on him and play with your spit, smearing it all over his entrance and Felix swears his brain seeps out of his skull at that moment.

"Oh my- Y/N!"- he whimpers when you press your finger into him, just teasing him a little, rubbing it in circles.

"Just stay still for me, baby."- you smirk and lean down closer to him. Your breath hits his pulsating hole and you watch it clench around nothing. You've had enough of teasing him and you're getting impatient, wanting to taste him already so you keep him open for you as you lean in and lick a few experimental stripes.

"Oh god."- Felix whines loudly, twitching for a second as he grips the carpet for dear life.

You take that as a good sign and start moving your tongue up and down slowly. His moans flow beautifully and steadily as he pushes back into you. You smirk as you grip his ass and start moving your tongue faster.

"I knew you'd enjoy this Lixie."- you lean back for a second. "Cause you're just a dirty little slut, aren't you?"- you spank him, making his body jerk forwards as he moans loudly.

"Yes, yes, Y/N! Please, more, please."- Felix whines and begs, pushing back into you but you grip his hip harder and spank him again.

"Patience sweetheart."- you say and lean back in, your breath ghosting against his skin again, you enjoy seeing him desperate for you. You kiss his fluttering hole and then stick your tongue out and start moving it fast left and right, and Felix whimpers loudly.

You keep playing with your tongue in different directions for some time and when he got used to the motions you push your tongue into him and start fucking his hole with it. Felix completely loses his mind as you hold him roughly and keep fucking into him faster and faster. You know he's close and even though you love teasing him, you still wanna let him come. Besides, this was just the beginning of your night together, you'd play with him more later.

You snake your arm around him and grab his cock, as you messily lick and fuck his hole, your other hand grabbing at his thigh. His cock twitches in your hand and you don't remember him ever being this hard.

"Y/N please let me come for you!"- Felix begs, legs shaking.

"Come for me, baby."- you say and dive back in, jerking him off at the same speed. Felix moans your name followed by something unintelligible that sounds like curse words as he explodes onto the carpet, his body tensing and twitching.

"Wow."- he says as he drops down, breathless.

"You did so well for me, Lixie."- you smile at him, caressing his hair. His eyes flutter as he looks at you, hand reaching out for yours.

"I'll clean you up first, okay?"- you say, squeezing his hand for a second and he nods as you get up and leave to the bathroom.

You come back a few moments later with a warm wet cloth and clean him up gently, all the while he looks at you with hearts in his eyes and your own heart starts beating fast against your chest.

You hold Felix in your arms, as he comes down from his high and clings onto you, burying his face in your neck and inhaling your comforting scent.

"See, that was better than you thought it'd be, right?"- you ask, caressing his hair.

"Mhm."- he mutters. "Next time I could try it on you, if you want."- he adds, looking up at you sweetly.

"Sure. I have something else to suggest now though."- you smirk suddenly, twirling his hair around your finger.

"Already?"- Felix's eyes widden.

"Not like that."- you chuckle. "Let me take you out on a date."- you add, smiling at him as you hold his cheek.

"A-a real date? Like an official one?"- he asks, his eyes wide and sparkly.

"Yeah."- you nod, chuckling at his cute reaction.

"I would love that."- he smiles at you so brightly that your heart skips a few beats.

"I know you would."- you smirk a little, trying to act cool even though Felix can see the redness on your face and feel the erratic beating of your heart, he smirks back at you.

Guess the game's over.

[daechwitatamic]

Of Ruin: Chapter 13 | KTH

(banner by @itaeewon)

Of Ruin (Masterpost)

Rating: NSFW - minors dni Genre: vampire!au magic!au royalty!au, s2l, slow burn, eventual smut, angst and fluff

Summary: Taehyung of House Rune, Prince of Infracticus has been cursed. You’re the human world’s leading curse-breaker. It should be simple. But unraveling the curse becomes the least of your problems in the face of a world on the brink of civil war… and the love you start to feel for the prince.

A/N: Thank you endlessly to @sailoryooons for betaing!!! 💕

//

Section Warnings: language, kissing, we are jumping straight into smut lol, nip stim, clit stim, dry humping, fingering, oral (f. receiving), uhhhh fang play? lolol pls do not perceive me, penetrative sex, love confessions during sex oops lol, biting/feeding during sex but its consensual on all parts, kind of sort of subspacey at the end with help from vampire venom, taehyung pov for a minute, drinking and drunkenness, hurt feelings wc: 6k

“You must have been terrified.”

“No. Not once I knew it was you.”

To emphasize this, you loop one arm around the back of his neck, drawing him closer, kissing him harder. Everything you’ve been holding back seems to burst from you - his faith in you, your trust in him, the love you’ve been tucking away, all of it. You kiss him feverishly, trying to translate every bit of it into the way you press against him, open for him.

He licks into your mouth and you groan quietly, wanting more, more of him, more of his mouth, more of his hands, just more. He responds to your sound with a pleased grunt of his own, and he slides one large hand around your waist, pressing against your lower back, pressing your hips harder against his own.

You slide your tongue against his and he brings his hand up your back and wrap his hand firmly around the back of your neck to keep you close. You let out a tiny whine, letting your hands wander up his chest over the thin cloth of the shirt he wears. You pass your hands over his shoulders, down his back, holding tight as your head spins - from the kiss, or from the events (and blood loss) of last night, you aren’t sure.

You murmur his name when the kiss breaks, and he responds by capturing your lips again, sweetly, then pulling back to look down at you.

“What is it?” he murmurs, voice as deep as the ocean.

You strain upwards, trying to find his mouth again, your right hand gathering the material of his shirt’s hem and bunching it in your fist. You slide your other hand into the gap you’ve made, practically gasping with delight as your palm slides along his cool, bare skin for the first time. He shivers beneath your touch, then reaches between his shoulder blades to grab the neck of his shirt. You let go of the hem, allowing him to tug it off and over his head before he bends to kiss you more.

Pleased, you press your mouth to his gladly, letting your hands explore up and down his ribs, over his pecs, down his stomach, around to his back, feeling him move and respond beneath each touch. You can feel him beneath you, responding to each kiss and every caress, and you tighten the grip of your thighs on either side of his own, as if holding on tighter can urge him even closer.

“So warm,” he murmurs against your mouth, letting out a quick sigh as one of your hands works to memorize the slope of his jaw.

You still want more. You use both hands and card your fingers through his hair, curling them to hold his roots, and pull lightly. He moans into your open mouth, the sound so pretty it makes your toes curl. You do it again, pressing your hips against his as you do, trying to egg him on.

He’s behaving too much, keeping his hands on your waist, your hair, not daring to toe the line even as you leap over it. You don’t want him to behave.

“I want to feel you,” you breathe, pressing your forehead to his as you both take a second to catch your breath. “Please.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice; he finds the hem of your shirt and pulls. You lift your arms so he can slide it over your head. His eyes follow the path of newly bared skin - up over your stomach, your chest, your face, up to your arms.

You reach back to unclasp your bra, tossing it away, but Taehyung isn’t watching. His eyes have instead caught on the scabby marks on your upper arm, and then on the inside of each wrist. He reaches for your right arm, pulls it closer, examining the place where his very first bite had pierced you.

“Did it hurt?” he asks sorrowfully, brushing a thumb lightly over the reddened skin around the bite.

“No,” you say, but it isn’t quite true, so you try again. “I mean, yes, but after a few seconds it was…”

“What?” he whispers, even as he pulls your wrist towards his mouth, brushes the healing bite with his lips. Your breath stills in your throat, but he only kisses the spot, waiting for your answer.

“Once the venom hit,” you admit, a little embarrassed, “it felt… kind of good, actually. Like being a little drunk.”

He lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “That’s how it feels when we drink,” he tells you. “The want, the thirst, it’s lessened… but it also gives a sort of high. It’s addicting - you’re addicting.”

He punctuates this thought by pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the fang-marks on your wrist, as you think that he must be mistaken - between the two of you, it’s him that’s addicting: powerful and beautiful, thrilling and dangerous.

He moves to kiss you again, licking against your lips until you open for him again, hands skimming along your now-bare sides, thumbs coming dangerously close to your chest before sliding back down. You shiver, grinding down into him, making an encouraging sound low in your throat.

He finally slides a hand where you want it, caressing and gently kneading your breast, letting his thumb circle the sensitive nipple before flicking over the top of it as it hardens beneath his touch. You keen, the sensations tingling and magical, pressing harder into his touch.

He abandons your chest and slides his hand down your arm, still kissing you languidly, deeply. His fingers rest against your wrist, and the wound starts to tingle. You recognize the sensation and realize he’s healing you as he kisses you, fixing each broken spot he finds, undoing the damage he’d wreaked on your body the night before.

He does the same to the wounds on your upper arm and the opposite wrist, then goes back to exploring what sounds he can pull from you as he lowers his mouth to your breast. He hums happily as he kisses, licks, and nips his way around the full bottom of one before making his way back up to your nipple, taking it between his lips and flicking his tongue against it repeatedly. You feel your eyes roll back, your core clenching in response to the feeling of him.

“God, Taehyung, please,” you beg. You don’t even know what you’re begging for - more, just more.

At your plea, he pulls himself back up and kisses you so hard that your head spins. He slides a hand, behaving no more, down your stomach and around your waist, gripping you tightly as he pulls you tight against his trapped cock, which is solid beneath you, begging for attention. You gasp, hips jerking with the sudden friction, breaking the kiss.

He releases your waist and his hands travel around to grab full handfuls of your ass, fingers tightening there as his lips work their way down your jaw and towards your throat. You groan in pleasure and excitement, feeling yourself getting wetter at an alarming rate.

“Smell fucking amazing,” he murmurs, lips against your throat, and you feel your whole body heat at the words. He holds you, mouth pressed to the flushed skin of your throat, pressing closed-mouth kisses to it as his fingers slip beneath your waistband, sliding down the bare skin of your ass and seeking the heat and wetness between your legs.

He toys with you, teasing your hole from behind, sliding easily through the slickness waiting for him. He doesn’t enter you, as you’re still pressed too tightly against him, rocking against his clothed length. Even still, you whine at the sensation of his fingers exploring what parts of you they can.

He growls, and you shiver. He lifts you in one easy motion, pulling his hand from inside your leggings to settle you down onto your back. He presses his long body alongside yours and slips his hand beneath your waistband - properly, from the front this time. He runs his fingers through the arousal he finds only once before plunging two fingers into you just as his mouth finds the tender place his fangs had pierced into your neck the night before. You moan so loudly it echoes through the room, the sound long and tortured as your body adjusts to the stretch of his digits and as the tender wound on your neck tingles at the pressure of his lips and tongue as he kisses and licks over the healing punctures.

“God,” you breathe, rocking against his fingers, trying to work them deeper. You can hear them squelching, and that should be embarrassing, but you can’t care. Not when he’s pulling his sticky fingers out of your leggings and rolling back over top of you, pressing his still-clothed length against your mound, his mouth firmly attached to the marks on your neck, tongue caressing the spots as if he could convince just a bit more blood out of them.

He ruts against you mindlessly, like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it, seeming to be fully focused on your neck, like he’s forgotten about relieving his aching cock when faced with the promise of your fresh blood. His hands are splayed and pressing into the mattress on either side of you, holding himself up just above you.

He slides his mouth from the wound to the unblemished skin just slightly to the left, sucking deeply, no doubt pulling more blood to gather below the surface of your skin. A growl reverberates through him, but you feel no fear; he’s not the beast now, he’s yours - yours. You know he won’t hurt you.

He brings up a hand to caress your jaw. “Tell me what you want,” he murmurs, barely removing his lips from your neck enough to enunciate.

You close your eyes, sighing, letting every sensation wash over you. I want to be yours, you think, just the same as you are mine.

“You,” you say, only part of the truth.

His mouth finds yours again, his taste slightly coppery, and then he’s pulling at your waistband. You hurry to assist, lifting your hips up and using both hands to push the material over your ass and down your legs, kicking both leggings and underwear to the side as quickly as you can.

“You, too,” you say petulantly, and he smiles against your lips.

He lifts up to untie his own trousers. When he’s free of them, you expect him to settle himself back as he was, but he surprises you by scooting down the bed and gripping your thighs firmly, pressing them apart, opening you reverently. You shiver as the room’s cool air, and his hungry gaze, find your exposed core.

“Taehyung,” you keen, not sure if you’re urging him on or questioning him away.

He tears his eyes away from your glistening pussy, gaze rising to find yours, hungry. His pupils are so blown out that for a second you jolt with alarm, thinking you’re seeing the black Infracti eyes of the beast.

“Can I?” he asks, and you’re reminded of last night, the way he asked before each bite, the way that despite instinct and thirst driving him to bring his mouth to each spot, he still waited for permission.

“Yes,” you breathe, head falling back against the mattress, as if you’re physically incapable of watching as he grips your thighs again and pulls himself closer, burying his face in your heat and licking his first stripe from bottom to top.

You let your breath out between gritted teeth as he does this again and again, tongue dipping in, stretching your entrance for only a second before sliding up to pass firmly over your clit before retracting altogether. It’s a slow, dizzying torture, and you find yourself shaking slightly each time he repeats the series of motions.

Eyes screwed shut, fingers digging into the blankets beneath you, you suck in a breath and try to relax, try to open your legs wider for him, even as the tremors roll through your lower body gently, building up to something fiery and explosive.

He stops his repetitive torture, flattening his tongue and rubbing firmly over and around your clit, the onslaught so intense that your hips jerk and twitch away until he reaches up and holds them still with firm fingertips. You whine and moan as he works you, powerless to shift away from the onslaught of his tongue and lips. He groans when you do, his dulcet voice weaving with your own wordless pleas, his hips undulating slowly against the bed beneath him as he feasts.

You breathe his name, needing reprieve, needing more, needing to unclench and inhale, the sound morphing into a low moan. He seems to hear your unarticulated request, pulling off and moving to press kisses to the insides of your thighs, the juncture, your spasming entrance as you gasp for breath.

Then, his mouth moves, tongue slipping along your outer lips. The sensation changes, alarm bells sounding in your head several beats before your buzzy brain can process why. It’s sharp, and your breath rattles to a stop, muscles tensing in anticipation, as Taehyung slides the tip of his left fang up one side of you, pressing it just hard enough against you that you can feel the sting even when he’s moved on to a higher place.

“T-Tae,” you gulp, pulse thudding even harder than it was before, desperately aware of how close he is to biting you. He growls again, then licks over where his fang had trailed, soothing, before moving to the other side. Gently, slowly, he lets the tip of his sharp tooth press against you, and weaves a line from bottom to top with it. Your breaths come shallow - you’re afraid to move, lest you accidentally pierce yourself on him.

“You’re so, so good,” he groans, and you don’t know if he means for staying still, for letting him play, or if he’s talking about your taste, not your behavior. You whimper, still nervous - but the fear is exciting. He centers his mouth and places a chaste kiss over your clit, causing you to jerk under his hands again.

“Taehyung,” you whine, a plea and a complaint all at once. “Please.”

He heeds your tone, releasing you after one more kiss to the spot he’d been torturing. “Please what?” he asks, teasing, starting to climb back up your body, mouth working its way up the plane of your stomach, past your ribs, over your breasts, up your throat, and then kissing you again, heady and impassioned.

You’re shaky from the adrenaline released by his toying with you; you pull him close, his chest flush against yours, trying to find comfort in his solidness, hands clinging to his biceps as they flex above you. You can feel his cock, hard and heavy, brushing your inner thigh, and you shift, trying to get it closer to where you want it.

He growls when he feels himself slide easily up your slit, grinding frantically against you until he’s slicked up, too, then letting his head snag on your entrance.

His eyes find yours, asking the question that he doesn’t vocalize.

You answer wordlessly, too, lifting up to take the first inch of him, letting out a strangled sound as he follows your lead and pushes through your heat until his hips are flush with yours again.

You stay locked like this for just a moment, and you look up at him with adoration as your body adjusts, stretching to accommodate him.

“God,” he breathes above you, starting to move minutely, just barely shifting. “You’re so -.”

He doesn’t finish the thought, dipping his head down to kiss you again. He shelters you between his arms, his black hair swinging above you, casting his face in shadow, and he begins fucking into you in earnest.

You move with him, hands roaming his arms and back, hooking one leg around the backs of his thighs to draw him even closer. He feels amazing dragging away from your walls and slamming back in, feels amazing kissing you so deeply you could drown in it, feels amazing stroking your face with gentle hands that promise to honor you.

As you move together, each delicious slide causing your core to tighten and grip at him, it builds - fuller and more powerful until it’s crashing over you: the need to tell him.

“I love you,” you breathe. “I should have said it before.”

He rolls you easily in response to this, one arm tight around your back as he maneuvers you so you sit astride him, his cock managing to sink even deeper into you from this angle. You moan, eyes slipping closed, missing it as he reaches for your upper body, trying to pull you down into some semblance of an embrace, even as he fucks you steadily, not faltering for a second.

He kisses you sloppily, arms locking you against his chest, cock sliding in and out of you at a steady pace. One of his hands slides up your back and rests across your throat; you shiver at the contact, and then you feel the familiar tingling. He’s healing your neck, where he drank from you last night.

When he releases you, hands settling on your hips and helping to lift you up and pull you down, you sit back up, looking down at him. He looks so good spread out beneath you that it makes your core clench, which makes his hands on your hips tighten and a low grumble reverberate from his chest.

He squirms and sits upright, capturing your mouth in another searing kiss as soon as he’s close enough, huffing against your mouth happily when he gets what he wants. He tugs you down on his cock and you keen, whining deep in your throat as his tip kisses your cervix until he lets up.

“Fuck,” you manage, gasping for a new breath as the pain-pleasure ebbs. You’re close, you realize, as he kisses his way down the column of your throat, teeth grazing in places and then tongue soothing the scrapes. You rock against him, your hard nipples brushing his chest, your hands finding his hair again, and you know exactly what you want to push you over the edge.

“Taehyung,” you say, lips so close to his ear that you can see him shudder from the tickle, “I want…”

He spears you particularly hard, grunting, and you lose the thought for a second, letting your forehead drop to his shoulder.

“Want what?” he asks, breathless, fingers splayed over your waist. He watches the place where your bodies meet, distracted by the sight of his cock emerging from within you, shiny and sticky.

“Drink from me,” you beg, not lifting your head, not wanting to see his reaction.

“No,” he says, not looking up, not stopping his fluid strokes into your tight heat. “It’s too dangerous, especially like this - I might not be able to stop.”

“If you can control yourself through the curse, you can control yourself now,” you argue, swiveling against him a little, relishing the feel of how deeply he’s touching you. “Please. It wasn’t you last night - I want it to be you.”

It’s not quite the whole of what you mean; if you weren’t split open by his cock right now maybe you could explain better than it felt like you’d been intimate with him without his presence, that you wanted a chance to share that intimacy with him, now, now that you’d told him how you feel about him.

But he seems to understand. His strokes slow but don’t stop as he tips your head up with the knuckle of his pointer finger, looking deep into your eyes as if looking for the right answer within them.

“Please,” you say, and you watch him break.

He pushes himself deep within you, then presses his face to the side of your neck he hadn’t touched yet. You rock against him, feeling his hard length push against each sensitive spot, colors exploding behind your eyelids as you move.

“Please,” you whimper again, because the anticipation is worse than the pain will be, and you want him.

He can’t resist, not with you begging, and he presses his fangs to your sweaty skin, then pierces you swiftly. The pain overtakes you, worse than you remember from the night before. You cry out loudly, eyes squeezing shut, fingernails raking down his shoulder blades, your whole body squirming and fighting instinctually to get away. He holds you tightly, and all your squirming does is push him deeper inside you, all those spots lighting up behind your eyelids again, causing your cry of pain to trail into a loud moan.

The venom hits you as Taehyung starts pounding into you faster than he has this whole time, his arms tight around your back, fangs still lodged in your throat, a growl ripping through him as your blood hits his tongue and your body tightens and twitches around his length.

The floating high hits you as your body reacts to his new, breakneck pace and you let out a mindless wail as you pulse and squeeze around him in rhythmic waves. It lasts and lasts, and you think you might trip straight into a second orgasm as he holds you even tighter, removes his mouth from your neck long enough to gasp your name as he pumps his release deep inside you.

After, he holds you still, hands petting your hair, smoothing down your back, until your heartbeat calms under his hands. Then, he lowers you to lay down side by side.

You float, aware of only snippets of sensation - the pulsing between your legs taking ages to settle, aftershocks causing the muscles in your legs to tense and release. Your heartbeat slows. The well of blood to the wound in your neck, Taehyung’s gentle tongue still pressed to the spot, taking what your body willingly gives but not pulling from it.

Slowly, you come back to yourself.

“How do you feel?” he asks, perhaps a bit apprehensively.

“I need to eat, shower, and sleep, in that order,” you murmur, eyelids heavy. “But otherwise… I can’t complain.”

In the end, his guards keep the corridors clear as he carries you back to his rooms. It’s a bit embarrassing, you think, but you’re way too weak to walk there, so there’s no arguing the point. He orders a full breakfast spread from the kitchens, sends Satuel to your rooms to get you something comfortable to wear, and runs a hot bath in a tub so deep you’d honestly call it a small swimming pool.

When your stomach is full and your body clean, you burrow under the blankets in his ridiculously opulent bed, body thrumming with happiness and oxytocin and all those other happy chemicals that come after good sex and good food.

“I suppose I should thank you,” Taehyung murmurs as his fingers trace patterns over your shoulder. He lays beside you, on top of the blankets, waiting for you to be claimed by sleep. “I got a whole night of sleep last night. My first in months.”

You hum, stretching, halfway to sleep already. “I think you have other things to thank me for,” you tease, the words falling heavily from your lips as you’re pulled under.

You feel his hand, gentle on your throat, drawing near the bite mark he’d made this morning, the one he’d made as himself, at your request.

“No,” you say strongly, suddenly awake. “Don’t heal that one.”

He balks. “People will know.”

“Good,” you say firmly. “Let them know I’m yours.”

Let them know you’re mine, you think, and then you only know sleep.

—

Taehyung watches you sleep for longer than he’d admit to anyone. He watches your face, calm and smooth in sleep. He thinks of how he has to bite back smiles when you get fired up about something, your eyes narrowing and mouth tightening.

He thinks of the look of quiet determination you get when you’re casting, when you’re working with the magic that naturally lives within you.

For all of history, Infracti and venefici have lived together, helped each other. Long ago, the heir to Infracticus’s throne would be purposely matched with the venefici’s strongest magician - the Highest. Venefici would leave their homes, live and practice with the other magic-wielders, train and compete to be the best, to be given the honored title. It’s been hundreds of thousands of years since the days of those arranged unions, but Taehyung’s had that custom in his head for weeks now.

It makes him feel fated, like you were brought to him on purpose, his natural other half. The Highest to his hunter. The Priestess to his Blood-letter. His venefici, his witch, his bringer of humanity, his to protect.

Like in another lifetime, it would have always been you and him. 

Loathe as he is to admit his father could be right about anything… he was right about you. You’re powerful, beautiful. You’re brave, surprisingly funny. Taehyung sees a lot of himself in you - in your bravado, in the way your words don’t always seem to match what you want to say, in the way you only find peace when you’re faced with the sea.

He loves you. He loves you, and he thinks you could be amazing here - thinks you’d be an amazing queen, thinks you could be happy in his palace by the ocean’s side.

But you had a whole life before, that you’d left on hold to come here and fix him. If he loves you, he thinks, then the right thing to do is to let you go back to that life. It isn’t right to keep you here, away from your family, away from your studies and your job, just because he wants you to. It isn’t fair to ask you to give up what you worked so hard for.

It is with these thoughts in mind that he presses a feather light kiss to your unfurrowed brow and makes his way out of his bedchamber into his main rooms, closing the door quietly behind him to let you sleep.

—

When you wake, you’re alone. You worry for a split second, then you hear his voice floating from further in his wing, and you relax.

You rouse yourself slowly, savoring the chance to take your time, to be alone with your thoughts in the comfiest bed you’ve ever experienced. A quick look around the room alights your attention on a bundle at the end of the bed; someone left clothes for you.

You do your best to make yourself presentable, and then follow the sound of voices and laughter into Taehyung’s main rooms.

You’re greeted with a sight you’ve never seen before: the group of young Infracti men seem to be having fun, just hanging out. Taehyung is lounging on one of the couches, ankles crossed and arms folded behind his head. Jimin is perched on the arm of the couch, currently doubled over in laughter so strong that he wheezes and clutches at Taehyung’s shin desperately. You also recognize the round-eyed Infracti who had attended the strategy meeting in the pub not that long ago - Jungkook. The other two you’ve never seen before, but they appraise you with interest as you step into the room.

Taehyung lights up like a Christmas tree when he spots you, sitting up so abruptly that he almost knocks Jimin from the couch.

He crows your name, and then calls to you, “Come! Make merry with me!”

You step forward with trepidation, looking around at the others for an explanation.

“His Majesty has been imbibing,” Jimin explains, straightening himself up. “But, yes, you should join us. Your time here has been very serious, and we’re determined to have a pleasant night now that the business is handled.”

“Business?” you echo, still making your way into the room by degrees. It does not escape you that if these Infracti are drunk, it may put you in a bit more danger than normal.

“You just missed Seokjin,” Taehyung explains, the words a bit loose. He waves a hand towards the door as if to indicate which way Seokjin left. “We were discussing matters of state.”

“While drunk?” you can’t help but ask.

Taehyung lets out one cold laugh, and then holds up an arm, making a space for your body to fill. As you make your way over, he muses, “Yes, it makes it less painful to stare the cold, hard future in the face that way.”

“That’s a bit grim,” Jimin remarks from behind you as you settle next to Taehyung’s torso, seated on the edge of the couch’s cushion.

“Justice is grim,” Taehyung declares dramatically, and you press your lips together, trying not to giggle. Then, he adds, “Especially when it’s coming for your own family. Or yourself.”

He flops back against the arm of the couch, reaches around you for his goblet. You can smell the wine as it passes by you.

“Do you want some?” Jimin has the presence of mind to ask, but you shake your head.

“Better not,” you say. “Is it even safe for me to be here right now, while he’s…?”

Taehyung sputters loudly in indignation. “What,” he demands, “you think I can control myself while I’m cursed but not when I’m inebra - ineba - ineeny - drunk?”

Your eyes widen in mirth, and you hiss at Jimin, “What did you do to him?”

Jimin laughs, shaking his head. “His Majesty did this to himself, I’m afraid. I think he’s been stressed.”

“Come on, little witch,” Jungkook says, playfully taunting, black eyes glinting. “Are you afraid? I thought you put people through walls.”

You eye him flatly. “I don’t want to mess up Maiesti’s pretty face,” you deadpan.

This gets a smile out of the others in the room. Beside you, Taehyung pats at his face thoughtfully but says nothing.

“You should all go,” he finally says, the words slow and lazy, head lolling back on the arm of the couch. “Come, now, begone.” He literally waves a hand at them as if they’re nothing but gnats.

“He’s brattier when you’re around,” Jimin tells you petulantly, as he rises. You start to follow, but Taehyung’s inhuman grip finds your wrist and tugs you back.

“Not you,” he murmurs, and there’s a hint of growl to it. A shudder rolls through you.

The others make their way past you, saying their goodbyes, and Taehyung tugs you by the wrist so that you fall over top of him, chest to chest. You think he’s going to pick up where you’d left off this morning, but instead he wraps his arms around your back and buries his face somewhere near your clavicle, eyes closed.

“You’re warm,” he murmurs.

You smile, feeling a rush of affection. “You’re cute,” you counter.

You feel his lips pout against your skin. “I’m not cute. ’M scary.”

“Sometimes you’re scary,” you agree lightly. “But not right now.”

He lets out an unhappy hum. “You’re scary sometimes,” he muses. He unburies himself, lets his head flop back to the arm of the couch. His eyes are still closed. “You’d be the best queen because everyone would be scared shitless of you.”

He’s let slip similar thoughts before, but never in a setting where you could sit with the words, consider the weight of them.

“I can’t tell if you mean that,” you admit, “or if you’re just…” Getting ahead of yourself, you finish the thought silently.

“Why wouldn’t I mean it?” he argues. He lets his arm drop over his face, his eyes hiding in the crook of his elbow. “I agreed when my father told me to court you, didn’t I? Wouldn’t have done that if I didn’t think…”

He mumbles the rest of this sentence into his arm, and you don’t try to catch it. You’re stunned, knocked breathless.

“Wait,” you say, the word dropping from you like a stone. “What?”

“Mm,” he says, like this is an answer, nodding his head minutely. “My parents were intrigued by your magical quotient. I, on the other hand, was intrigued by your-”

You’re barely hearing him. “Wait,” you interrupt, the word the only one you can grasp. “You… they asked you to court me because of my magic? And you… you… agreed?”

“Well, yes,” Taehyung huffs, frustrated. “I had to, or he wouldn’t have -”

“So,” you interrupt again, head spinning, “how much of it was… for his sake?”

Taehyung removes his arm from his face and looks at you in confusion, brows furrowing, lips pouting.

“Were you faking it?” you demand, feeling yourself spiraling but unable to stop it. “Was I just… a means to an end? An asset for the bloodline?”

He winces, which is enough of an answer for you. You push away from him, and he’s too slow in his drunken state to catch you in time. You stand, backing away.

“I have to go,” you say hollowly, already looking at the door.

“No,” he says, desperately, sitting up and reaching a hand towards you. Your heart breaks another degree; part of you wants to go back to his embrace and tell him never mind, you aren’t fighting, everything is okay. You force yourself to back away, making your way around the couch.

He watches you go, mouth turned down and a hand following your path. “My love,” he breathes, “please don’t.”

“No,” you say, shaking your head, half to yourself, half to remind yourself not to give in. “No, I need to. I need to think. You should… drink some water and get some sleep… or whatever it is your people do to avoid a hangover.”

You open the door and slip through, but you’re weak. You’re weak, and you look back over your shoulder, and so as the door closes you get one last view of Prince Taehyung, watching you go, his eyes now a deep, fathomless black.

—

You move in a daze. Namjoon is closed in his own room when you reach your rooms, so there’s no one to stop you as you toss a few essentials into a small bag, no one to witness it when you tell Satuel that if she doesn’t take you to the Ostium then you’ll walk there yourself.

“His Majesty will be very displeased,” she points out as you walk.

“His Majesty has a long, long life ahead of him during which he can get over it,” you bite back.

The Infracti working the Ostiums - both the one in Infracticus and the one above, in your city - nod politely at you as you pass through, checking your identification, but don’t say much.

In fact, no one speaks to you again until after you’ve climbed a familiar, worn set of stairs, pushed open a squeaky office door.

Dr. Kim stares at you like you’re a ghost, an apparition drifting up through his carpeting.

“You,” he says, eyes wide with disbelief, “are not supposed to be here.”

<- Prev | Next ->

LA LA LA BYEEEE!!!!!!!!!

[ask-swansea]

Mouthwash.

Mouthwash. All of this for a few hundred thousand bottles of mouthwash.Shelves after shelves of the neon blue hued liquid, packed neatly away in brown cardboard boxes, waiting to be shipped to a dock they'de never arrive to. Swansea didn’t even want to open cargo; it felt like some elusive Pandora’s Box, like the moment they opened it, some plague would spread around the ship like rodents in a sewer. But, he was outvoted.

“If could have something we need.”

“It’s worth a shot.”

“What if it has medical supplies?”

His crew members voices all aired the same exact emotions: Desperation, and Hope. Both of which he’d given up on long ago. The moment the ship crashed, he knew it was over. That damned company wasn’t going to notice them gone, the nearest ship likely thousands of AU’s away, too far to notice the wreckage as their ship floated helplessly through space. Sure, he could try and fix the ship if they found supplies (hell, maybe he’d even let Daisuke try his hand at helping), but he doubted it. The chances of them shipping the exact materials they needed, this exact trip, were next to none. Swansea knew that much. The others? Hopeful.

Hoping that they'd throw open the cargo doors, and be met with a smidge, a glimpse of sanctuary. An empty hope that, if left unquenched, would only spell a quicker fate for the whole ship.

And as they opened the cargo door, and were met with neatly stacked boxes, single file from the floor to the ceiling on shelves and tile likewise, that’s *exactly* what happened. The first box they opened; mouthwash. Bright blue, reflecting the light from the bulbs up above. The next box, mouthwash.

Mouthwash,

mouthwash,

mouthwash. Quarts on gallons on barrels on hogsheads of the stuff. Anya was the first to point out just how USELESS it was. Too much sugar to disinfect; The sugar would only feed whatever bacteria risked an injury. But Swansea was the one to notice the singular, bittersweet positive. That beautiful marking of 14% ethanol. About as much as the average liqueur, a little more than the average craft beer. In AA, they had to avoid mouthwash; “you’d be surprised”, they tell you, “How many people get sick relapsing on mouthwash”. Sad saps with no hope left in the world, who turn to the smallest bit of alcohol to try and hydrate that deep seated thirst for the weightless euphoria of being drunk. Where nothing in the world matters but another bottle and some chips to go with.

And now, Swansea was one of those saps. This realization, them entering here and seeing how utterly hopeless their situation, had truly woken him up to the truth: They were completely and utterly screwed. He would never feel the grass on earth again. He would never feel a chilly spring night, or a warm fall morning. The sun would never reflect off of his age-wrinkled face again, the sting of a sunburn after a day out only a long lost memory. He’d never see his old friends again, nor the home he’d worked so hard to buy and settle. He’d never watch his son's turn 18, get married, never meet his grandkids assuming they had any. He’d never get the chance to tell his kids JUST how proud he was; That they didn’t, WOULDN’T, end up like him.

He’d never hold his wife again. He’d never see her, kiss her, comfort her, or get that final true “goodbye”. He’d never get to thank her one last time for putting up with his shit; Every grumpy morning, and tired night. For putting up with his occasional brink of relapse, and for reeling him back every time his feet were on the edge. He’d never see her radiant face again; One that even age couldn’t ruin. Beautiful cocoa eyes, chubby freckled cheeks with dimples that dotted each whenever she gave that toothy, lopsided smile he fell in love with. Tilting his head back, the warm burn of the alcoholic mouthwash washed over his mouth. It stung, tasting sickly sweet, like a childrens blue-raspberry juice mixed with vodka or something similar. In one long, continual gulp, 15 years of long nights and slow days came to an end. A long battle closing as he waved his white flag, submitting himself back to the influence of drink. Pulling the bottle from his lips Swansea took a deep breath.

He was going to die on this ship. And, likely, all of them were too. At least, in his final weeks, maybe months, he could go back to a time in life he felt no worry. Hell. Maybe it could help Daisuke, the innocent intern who deserved NONE of this, too. He chuckled before piping up. “y’hear that? That's the sound of 15 years of sobriety, popping like a cyst. A red hot, glorious..magnificent cyst. Good riddance- cheers! To captain curly..” ..The one who had crashed this ship, and had doomed them all to this oblivion, “Hear, Hear. Now we can go out in *style*.” Truly, like the good old days.

Turning towards his Intern, Swansea waved them over, offering the bottle. “Daisuke, C'mere. Anyone ever teach you how to drink like a man?”

[sevs-corner]

Cont Idea on this👇

Unofficial-official-temporary title for this-

✨Tf 141: On the Hunt✨

Tw: 18+ !!! For the nsfw-ish scenes, nothing entirely explicit— its all implied but the intentions are there nonetheless. Bodily harm! No consent! Dark themes ahead!

You had to move quickly.

Now…

Now.

NOW.

Even more so than before- more than you had ever done in your life.

If there was a time where you had to push yourself to the brink, it would be— NOW!

You know that- even if you slack off for a second- they would be on your heels at a moments notice, in a blink really.

Just like now.

Stumbling across the tree roots made your body ache, but not more than the weight that attached to your back from nowhere.

As you ran to the tree line, escape within the wilderness right at your grasp- just as quick as you had seen it, you had lose it.

“Got,” you hear a ragged breath by your ear, “you~.”

The growl made you cinch in fear, recoiling away from both the nasty stench that came from his breath and the drool that seemed to flow endless from his open mouth.

“What a quick lil’ human,” he leans in closer, sniffing a scent you didn’t quite know existed until now. “and so so sweet too, aren’t ya?”

You couldn’t hold back the whimper that came from your throat as he licks it, slowly and so rough in texture that it felt like sandpaper scrapping against your skin.

You could feel an itch, red blotches instantly blooming across your neck, and he takes so much delight from seeing it.

“Aww,” he coos, “a sensitive one too…”

The disgust made you shiver cross your spine, the hair on your skin standing on it ends, sweat continuing so profusely— and you wanted all of it to stop.

Stop and shut down.

To stop feeling.

To stop reacting.

To just…

“Stop…” You whisper a plea.

You feel him perk up.

“So you aren’t mute, eh?”

You shook your head.

“Please…” You continue, hoping he would get the message.

But alas… that was a far cry from what you wanted to happen.

If only you could ignore the feeling of something prodding your behind, his deep inhale— groans of uncontrollable desire coursing through him.

“What are begging for pretty, hm?”

He shoves you even closer to him, to feel all of him.

“C’mon,” he urges you with a tilt of his hips- making you gasp in response. “Let it out for me, hm? Use those pretty lips yours.”

His ministrations continue and you could only give one noises of complaints, quiet one-words begs that he seems to suck it all up.

“It’s getting quite hard for me to do that, y’know?”

He was getting more aggressive as time went on, and you try-

You try to speak-.

But that hand around your throat proves it difficult until it gets loosened, making you cough— hoping to inhale as much as you could and exhale anything he gave you at the moment.

As if that would work.

But in the moment, you hope it would.

“Please,” your begged even with voice hoarse, “let me go…”

He instantly cackles, now tugging you upwards until you land yourself in his arms, hands secured behind you and legs still roped in vines— you were trapped.

“Let you go?” He tuts, “no can do lassie.”

He moves in closer and now faced with the beast that was following you—

You wished he had just taken you instead right then and there than see him.

And you can see his eyes widen, whether in shock or recognition- you didn’t really care when that smirk stayed on his face.

“You.” He laughs, “No can do when its you of all people, sweets.”

In a matter of seconds, he closes in your neck, mouth open and ready.

You were ready.

You accepted your fate once everything started to fall into ruin.

And this was no different.

“But.. ah.”

He pauses and you could feel a little pressure at the base of your neck, making you wince.

“Gotta savor you.”

With a small nick to your neck, he laps it up with a moan- saving every bit that came out.

You could barely breath from how tights his arms wrapped around you, your neck sore from the strained position it was in and the pain—

The pain.

It was too much.

Feeling you go limp in his hold made the werewolf pause and detach himself from your neck, remnants of red color the edges of his teeth and mouth, making him lick it.

“Oh sweets,” he groans, “of all people…” He leans his forehead to you and whispers,

“Steamin’ bloody jesus- why did it have to be you?”

Early day drabble thoughts for this AU hehe Its too scrumptious to not do and experiment with (in terms of writing ‘cause i like writing more light hearted, comedy, and fluffy stuff)

Well, (you could) mark this as the first time you meet Soap and how, through him, you’d meet the others~

[magicandheart]

I practiced Sunny so it's only fair I practiced the other best boi :D Moon post reboot in my fanfic is just as anxious as Sun but manifests it in a different way. He's worried the virus isn't truly gone so he tries to keep his distance but it's hard when Y/N is the only human around and the key to getting his Daycare back.

[thelastofhyde]

ii. santorini.

pairing. tourguide!joel miller x fem!reader. series synopsis. on the brink of undergoing a life-altering change, you runaway from your problems in the only way any sane person can: embarking on a mediterranean cruise. there you meet joel miller, a grumpy, private tour-guide, who just so happens to be tasked with touring you through each stop on your cruise. from greek goddesses to roman ruins, you have ten days to avoid your fate. maybe a frowning, southern, sex-on-legs of a man is just what the doctor ordered. chapter summary. tensions are high as you and joel spend your first day together exploring the popular island of santorini. back on the boat, joel gets a glimpse at more than he bargained for. series warnings. no use of y/n, set in 2015, no apocalypse au, cruise!au, rom-com, enemies-ish to lovers, tour-guide!joel, unspecified age gap, depictions/discussions of grief, angst, fluff, a whole load of smut, a lot of cheesy stereotypical romance tropes bc i just wanna see joel not suffer ( too much ) <3 chapter warnings. mild smut ( female masturbation, mentions of oral sex + piv sex ), bickering, alcohol, mild angst, so much cheese it'll turn you lactose intolerant!! btw joel hates santorini and he makes that known, but none of his opinions reflect my own ( please don't be mean to me over things characters say <33 ) word count. 7.9k hyde’s input. the majority of this chapter was written with a mixture of medicine flowing through my veins, it's a miracle it's even intelligible. apologies for the wait, the holidays and health issues got in the way <3 as always, i hope you enjoy, comments an dreblogs are always appreciated !! previous chapter - next chapter - series masterlist

It is a known fact that your name and late rarely exist within the same sentence.

The mere thought of being late fills you with a sickness you cannot cure. The extremes you’ll go to avoid it know no bounds. From arriving four hours before a flight, to waiting in your car a whole hour before entering a lecture hall, adulthood is a phase in which you’d sworn to repair the damage of a childhood worth of not arriving late.

Late to school, late to birthday parties, late to dentist appointments.

It wasn’t that you were a particularly difficult child, running rampant around the house as your mother tried to dress you, or your father tried to feed you. Quite the contrary, really. Often, it was little-you who chased around after them, and who waited by the door, school bag in hand, tapping your foot with every second that ticked by on the clock. You were too young and hadn’t the ability nor the empathy to understand that your parents were held up with sorting through things directly influenced by your existence, like cleaning up the messes you left at the breakfast table, or fixing the doorknob you and your sister broke in an intense game of hide and seek.

Nowadays, you can count on one hand the times you’ve been late.

First, you were late to your own surprise birthday party, but that was down to you getting stuck an extra hour at work. It was out of your control.

Then, there’d been your graduation ceremony. Your father missed an exit and ended up taking you on a mystery tour of the city, trying to find the next turn that led to your campus. Again, out of your control.

The third time is the one you remember panicking over the most, knee bouncing uncontrollably with nerves as you sat squeezed between two strangers on a plane. Your sister, barely halfway through her third trimester, had gone into labour, and where were you? Stumbling around drunk on a private beach in Cancún, mumbling along to the lyrics of some early 2000s classic you forget the name of. Your niece, all 4 and a half pounds of her, had decided now was her time to shine and there was nothing, not even the 4 weeks she had yet to grow in utero, that was going to stop her. By the time you arrived, mascara smudged eyes and with the stench of tequila still on your skin, she was laying peacefully in her incubator, the tiniest little fingers clenched into fists and a name tag around her wrist. This too was out of your control.

But the fourth time you’re late, as you stride urgently across the wooden decking of the ship, weaving in and out of lounge chairs and polo-neck wearing crew members, it’s completely within your control.

Yet, it’s not entirely your fault.

An alarm that never went off. A game of hide-and-seek with your purse. An unfortunate slip on bathroom tiles adding another bruise to your knees. An elevator that refused to travel faster than the speed of a snail. It’s as though Lady Luck had set out in favour of being against you, doing her utmost to ensure you arrive exactly seven minutes past your deadline. His deadline.

Best be on the deck by 7 am, darlin’, or I’m dockin’ without ya.

Your head whips from one side to another, eyes finding a familiar figure amongst the few passengers meeting their own private guides. It’s the same man from yesterday, out on the balcony, the memory of him cheering his champagne and shooting a tipsy smile your way replaying. Only now he’s clad in plaid, with a frown etched into his forehead as he stares at his watch. There’s another man, hanging off his arm, fusing with the collar of his shirt.

“She’s late,” you overhear him say, voice firm and leaking with annoyance.

“Maybe she just slept in!” The man next to him is cheerier, tired eyes full of optimism, even as he turns his head and stifles a yawn. “Give her a few minutes.”

“What kind of shitty tour guide sleeps in?” Balcony-Man huffs, and you can’t help but think of your niece and her pouty face whenever she fails to get her own way. “Does she think I’d not rather be asleep too? Lazy c-”

“See? This is why I told you to eat that damn croissant before we left.” The taller of them seems to snap, rolling his eyes. “Brighten up, Bill, or so help me God you’ll be leaving this boat a divorcee.”

Trying to tune their voices out, as the guilt of prying crawls its way into your bones, your gaze points down at your feet. The very same heels you’d worn last night, pretty as they may leave you, have you cursing at the Sun and the Moon. If you’d have just worn your sneakers, maybe you could have ran up the stairs instead of taking the snail-evator.

Joel, tour guide, Signore Miller’s voice- though your imagination can’t quite reach his level of arrogance- rears its irritating head through your mind, recalling his words from last night. Wear somethin’ a little more… practical. That had been enough to awaken that stubborn mule inside of you, hell-bent on proving him wrong.

But now, late, and with him nowhere in sight, your heels seem to have had the opposite effect. They’ve proved him right.

Which leaves you here, moping so pathetically you’re incapable of appreciating the shine of a rising sun over the horizon of aqua blue water.

Five minutes, you decide. That’s how long you’ll allow yourself to dwell in self-pity. Then, you’ll trek your way over to the Excelsior lounge, hit up the breakfast buffet, and await the general disembarking time.

Who knows, maybe you’ll get a call to say there’s a miraculous spot opened up on one of the tour groups.

If not, you’ll be fine! You’ve travelled alone before, you’ve got an all-inclusive data plan on your phone and you’re pretty well-acquainted with the less-than-accommodating features of Google Maps. You don’t need help, or a tour guide, much less one as blood-boiling, skin-prickling, irritating as Joel Mil-

“Wasn’t sure how ya like your coffee, but you look like a milk, two sugars kind of girl to me.”

Speak of the Devil and he shall appear. Or, in this case, think of him.

Turning a little too fast, you stumble a step or two back, and, sure enough, there he is. A tight fitting, dark grey t-shirt stretched over the swell of his biceps, a pair of washed-out denims, and two well-worn running shoes, one on each foot. Trailing up the swell of his tanned neck, you count the freckles up to his eyes, and find there’s bags under them. The growth of hair on his face is just as unkempt as yesterday, yet already it seems to have grown longer, making the litter of greys stand out more. The hair that sits atop his head is damp, and the strands that have managed to dry are being messed around by the morning air. He’s still got that ever-present frown stamped into his forehead, yet his mouth doesn’t seem to curl into a snarl as he calls your name.

You must stare a moment or two past his comfort level, for he clears his throat and nods down at his hand. Two to-go cups, the smallest streams of steam floating out the hole in each lid.

He’s extending one out- the one in his right hand- towards you. “If you’d rather black, you can take min-”

“No!” You snap back into your own body, all too quickly and all too volatile. Clear your throat, and then try again, this time with a little less of that im being held at gunpoint shake in your voice. “No… Thank you. It’s fine- Milk is fine.”

It’s more than fine.

In fact, he’s gotten it spot on. Down to the number of sugars you take.

But, still stubborn, you yearn to not give him the satisfaction of being right so early in the day, and instead settle for accepting the coffee out his hand. You welcome the golden warmth eagerly, eyes unable to resist slipping shut as you take your first sip. When they reopen, you find Joel watching you, intently. Purposefully, as though you’re something to be studied.

Clearing your throat, you glance to the side and spot Balcony-Man and his partner greeting an apologetic woman.

“Thanks for the, uh,” his stare is intimidating your nerves, setting you on edge of something you’re all to eager to jump off. “Coffee. Yeah. You didn’t have to… I mean, I actually thought you’d, you know, uh-”

“You thought I left without ya.” He states. All you can do is nod. “I could’ve. I did warn you not to be late.”

“You did.”

“I also told you to wear somethin’ other than them heels.”

“I know.”

“Yet here you are, late and in heels. You’re not very good at following orders.” He exhales something akin to a chuckle, as devoid of humour as it may be, and you swear he’s suddenly closer than you remember, knuckles brushing against your own as he bumps his paper cup against yours. “Just what am I gonna do with ya, huh?”

For a moment, you swear your heart has leaped from your chest and up to your throat, threatening to choke you with the beat of it. There’s no sense you can make of it, this reaction he rouses, a heat you can’t control creeping down your loins as you drag in a whiff of some manly cologne, the kind you’d usually turn your nose up at for being too overbearing. Yet, on him, it’s not. On him it’s just right, like he was born with pine soaked skin, and a tobacco stained kiss, and-

Before you can think of pulling in another breath, Joel’s stepped back, allowing a cool breeze to pass between you and get a hold of your senses.

“C’mon, we’re slotted in for the first tender that leaves for shore.”

“Oh my God.”

You’re half certain Joel’s growing sick of hearing those three words roll off your tongue. He’s likely felt this way since it first left your mouth, feet struggling to safely step out onto the dock as your mind became enchanted by the picturesque view in front of you. Only the burn of his hand meeting your lower back, nudging you ahead to make space for himself and the other passengers to step off the tender boat, was capable of dragging you back into your own body, the wanderlust that had gripped your soul yearning to be free to explore every building that sits carved into rock, every water-taxi that flows idly on cristaline water, every step that winds up and up and up the island’s cliff where, at the top, civilisation seems to lie.

The port you’ve docked on is rather small, with naught more than two docking strips and a walkway of shops and confection stands, with boats that find no space along the docking strips tying themselves to any safety they may find over the expanse of the walkway. It is no wonder the cruise floats safely out in deeper waters, alongside several other cruise lines, with no space for such large vessels. And, yet, the port is alive with something. The ground seems to pulse, like a beat of a heart, and the air, as fresh as the grass after heavy rainfall, almost dances its way down your lungs. Voices swim all around you, tourists scrambling past each other, fighting in a race towards something you’ve yet to identify.

“So this is Gialos, also known as the Old Port of Fira.” Somewhere, behind you perhaps, Joel’s voice pipes up, a speech so rehearsed and robotic, a part of your wonders how many times he’s recited it, how many people he’s recited it to. The other part of you, however, is much too fixated on the stairs ahead to pay him true attention, eyes following as two men and several donkeys descend. “That, up there, is Fira, the capital of Santorini. We’re going to need to take a cable- Are you even listening to me?”

“Yes!” You’re quick to react, a defensive rise in your voice. He meets it with a deadpan look and the crossing of his arms over his chest, which quickly becomes something you wish he wouldn’t do as you watch the tight fabric of his shirt stretch itself thin over the bulge of his arms. “No. Sorry, I’m just… Wow.”

You hope he appreciates the restraint you show towards repeating those three dreaded words again.

“You have all day to stare,” his words trip over his own irritated scoff, and you bite back a question of why he’s a guide if he seems to hate it so much, fearful he’s too honest to not tell you a truth that may hurt your fragile feelings. A truth where it is not so much his job he dislikes, but rather, your presence and all that it brings. “Right now, we need to move. Don’t wanna spend all day waitin’ in line now, do ya?”

This need for speed that hooks the other tourists seems to filter over into your guide, who’s forcing you forward, that heat of his palm now hovering inches away from your lower back. It’s enough to lead you where he pleases. As a pair, you weave in and out small clusters of people, till the space between you both and the large gathering crowd slowly diminishes. It is there where his once telepathic leading fails, with Joel turning left towards it as you stray right, over to the ascending pathway of stairs.

“Where are you going?” His tone is offended, almost, as he comes to a halt and watches you fail to do the same, to notice the space between you both and correct it like some puppy who’s been called to heel by its master.

“Where am I going?” The question, at first, is one you mistake as rhetorical. Staring back at him with an equaled confusion, you gesture to the stairway, as though it is the most obvious answer. Because, well, where else could you have been heading? He said so himself, that up there is Fira, the capital of Santorini, and you’ll be damned if you don’t get to see it. “Where are you going?”

“To the cable cars, that’ll take us up the island.”

Above the crowd of people, hanging over doors of small businesses, lay several signs. CABLE CARS - 6€ ! stands out, impossible to miss. Symbols you scarcely recognise sit beneath it, in smaller text, and you assume it’s Greek. In the distance, you spy the movement of the mobile boxes, people being carted up the length of the cliff at a speed that promises them a journey of mere minutes.

“Oh.” So, perhaps his option makes more sense than your own far longer, more tiring one. Still, stubborn as a mule, you double down on your decision to take the scenic route, inching closer towards the first step. Your guide, still in the face, refuses to move, daring eyes willing you to continue. “You want us to take the lazy man’s route? You go ahead, I’ll take the stairs and meet you at the top.”

You press one foot up onto the first step, weary of where you rest the point of your heel.

Glancing a few steps further up, there’s the unmistakable sight of a mound of brown substance, no doubt excreted out of one of the donkeys that walk ahead, tourists mounted on their poor backs.

“I don’t think you understand,” he finally inches closer, if only slightly, hands clenched at his side. “There’s five hundred and eighty-eight steps until you reach the top.”

The number is more daunting than you expect, and you pray he can’t read this on your face. “Only? I’ll be up in no time then!”

You feel more than see the way Joel’s eyes travel down the expanse of you, stuttering almost over the curvature of your chest, the dips at your hips, till they rest at your feet. The question hangs loose between you, unspoken yet evident.

In those heels?

“Listen, Joel,” taking a second, third, and fourth step, you aim for a literal higher ground, staring down below as he continues to drift closer and closer towards the stairway. “If you’re not fit for the task, or the climb’s no good for your knees, you can just say it, there’s no shame. Like I said, I’ll meet you at the top. Promise I won’t even report the fact my private guide abandoned me in favour of his own comfort.”

Defeat has never come easy.

Well, to phrase it better towards the truth, acceptance of defeat has never come easy.

There was always something more to be said, another excuse to be given for any of your shortcomings. When you’d been turned away from the school’s soccer team, you’d told yourself it was because you were a girl- ignoring the fact three girls in your year made the cut. When you’d lost an arduous game of Monopoly, you’d sworn you’d caught your sister sneaking notes out of the banker’s pile into her own. When you’d been beaten, round after round, by your own niece at Mario Kart, you’d stuck your tongue out at her and told her you let her win out of pity.

All that had been before, of course, back when you still roamed school hallways, when your sister sat across from you at the dining table, when your niece still laughed freely, wildly, celebrating her own victories with an over-the-top, uncoordinated dance around the living room.

As changed as things may be, defeat is still your foe.

It is that reason alone that you bite back a complaint.

You’d enjoyed the initial moments of your trek. Maybe it was the salty air in your lungs, or the beautiful views of your surroundings, or the idle grumbling coming from Joel, a few paces behind you, kicking up dirt under his feet with every step he travelled up. Whatever the reason, adrenaline had been flowing, into your heart and through your veins, covering every square inch of your body, a tingling of nerves from the tip of your toes to the top of your spine.

But, by the 10 minute mark, a dull ache forms in your feet. Each step of your heel feels more life threatening than the last, as the stairs grow slippier, dustier, and well-worn the further up you advanced. By stair who-knows-how-may, you take a near fatal tumble backwards, the crunch of crumbling rock threatening to be the last thing you hear. Till he appears behind you, fast as light, huffing out a breath as you smack down against his solid chest.

“Mind your step.” From anyone else, you would mistake it as a sign of care. From Joel, you know better than to think it’s anything beyond a humourless taunt.

You try to keep count of the steps, from then on, an effort to motivate yourself to move faster with each ten-pace you count. By 50, you lose your place and begin counting all over again.

The journey is difficult in other ways, too, with the constant passing of donkeys who obligate you to stand aside and make way for them. And the distant movement of cable cars, firing up and sliding down more times than you can keep track of.

When a particular step proves itself too steep, you can no longer hold back and, finally, a hiss slips out between your clenched teeth as pain shoots up your ankle, the leather of your shoe rubbing even harder into your brittle skin, threatening the promise of a blister yet to fully swell. Pushing the pain down, alongside a complaint, you take another step. Hiss. Then another, hiss. You can fight it no longer, bending at the waist to slip off your heel and examine the irritated skin.

Sure enough, it’s been rubbed raw, broken and spilling a small pool of blood.

Behind you comes an exasperated groan and, before you can straighten yourself to even register what’s happening, Joel barges past you and the figure of him up ahead slowly diminishes the faster he climbs up hill.

“Hey!” You call after him, hobbling to slip your shoe back on, but it’s to no avail.

He’s long gone, growing further and further out of your reach with each passing minute.

Cursing him under your breath, you decide to hell with the no complaints of his preferred regard for his own comfort. He’s abandoned you, injured and hobbling up the steps, all because he has the patience of a toddler who’s been waiting far too long to go potty.

“Wear somethin’ a little more sensible…” You’re bound to seem deranged to any passers by, half hopping up the steps, mumbling to yourself in a mockery of his deep voice “Yeah, right, how bout I shove somethin’ a little more sensible up your ass. Oh, what’s that? There’s no room up there with the massive stick you’re already carryin-”

“A local man warned me bout ya, on my way back down. Said there was some no-good girl casting out bad juju.” You freeze, foot stopped in mid-air. Shifting your gaze up ahead, you find Joel there, skipping a step every so often as he grows closer and closer. At his side, dangling from two fingers, sits a plastic bag. “Told him it ain’t no juju or curses you’re casting, just throwin’ a little tantrum.”

Like a fish out of water, all you can do is stare at him, wide eyes and mouth agape.

Joel pays your silence no mind, almost delighting in it. With a pop and a crack from his knees, he crouches down before you, holding out the palm of his hand.

“C’mon,” he mutters, pointing towards your injured foot. “Lemme see.”

You’re hesitant, at first, but ultimately lift it and let him curl his grip around it, holding you in place as the shoe slips off you. A tut meets your ears as his eyes meet the bloodied mess, and you watch how he contemplates, for a moment or two, before wetting his thumb with his tongue and swiping it over your broken skin.

It stings, like salt in a wound or a bee’s stinger through skin, and you try to flinch back, retract yourself from his hold. But Joel’s strong, resilient, nails biting at the flesh of your ankle to keep you in place. His free hand digs into the plastic bag he’d discarded at his side and pulls out a white box. Fiddling with it for a short period, he manages to open it at last and slips out a bandaid. He rips that open a lot quicker, using his teeth, and slips it over your open wound perfectly, thumb and pointer finger smoothing it around the curve of your heel.

“D’ya see now why I told you to not wear those things?” You feel like a child at his words, reprimanded like you once were for touching your mother’s curling iron. “And why I said we should take the cable car?”

Biting the inside of your cheek, you refuse to meet his eyes. But he just won’t let you be, craning his own neck to infiltrate the space you stare off into. There’s a pleased look on his face, smugness pulling at the right corner of his mouth. Alarmingly, you think of how it’s the closest you’ve gotten to seeing him smile.

You continue your pursuit of silence, repeating a mantra of how you don’t care that he’d tried to look out for your comfort, or how he’d then tried to save you the effort of an uphill battle, or how his hand, big and warm and rough at the fingertips, is still holding your foot in place, absentmindedly rubbing your ankle in a circular motion.

“Look at ya, gone all quiet on me,” that corner of his lip curls higher. You register the rustling of the bag, his hand digging back inside it. “Ain’t one for bein’ put in your place, are you?”

Out comes his hand once more, though this time it’s not a box of bandaids. Now, resting firm in his grasp, sits a mixture of navy blue dyed cotton, stitched atop a flat, thick layer of a straw-like material. A slip-on canvas shoe. Joel doesn’t await permission, nor does he even ask for it. He simply takes charge, slipping it onto your foot, mindful as he straightens out the back to lay against your heel.

“Other foot, up.”

Switching feet, you stumble as your weight completely shifts onto your injured side. Your hands, reaching out to stabilise your swaying body, are quickly directed by his own to rest atop his head, curls of brown threading between your fingers. You contemplate asking what products he uses to achieve locks so smooth and shiny, then rethink it as soon as you imagine his reply of a disinterested grunt and a snarky ain’t use anythin’ but dirt water and a splash o’ whiskey.

“How’s it feel?”

Soft, you almost reply, then realise he’s asking about the shoe.

With a wiggle of your toes, you tell him it’s fine, and leave it at that. He doesn’t need to know they’re surprisingly comfortable.

Joel rises with a bit of a struggle, yet refuses the help you offer. Rough hands scoop up your discarded heels, tossing them into the bag, and then he straightens his back, lets out a noise of discomfort, before nodding up ahead.

“C’mon, only got a hundred or so to go. We’ll be up in no time.”

The sun sits high in the sky when you reach the city of Fira.

Crossing over that last step, 588 painted in white across it, you huff out a sigh, exhaustion aching you out of any enjoyment of your victory over the stairway from hell. Before you can even utter a word of your thirst, Joel is already reaching into his bag of wonders, unscrewing the lid off a bottle of water and passing it to you. Grateful, you take a sip, and lament the few drops that spill down your chin.

At least they don’t go to complete waste, cooling your skin ever so slightly.

It’s a shame to see Joel start moving again, moments before you’re even ready to gain back your breath, but you follow after him, nonetheless, mindful to not press your foot too hard down. Through streets he winds, past shopkeepers he walks. Eventually, after a few minutes, you ask him where you’re both heading.

“To catch a coach,” his hand moves quickly, tugging you closer as a bicycle shoots past behind you. Your own find themselves against his chest, and realise it is nothing like his hair. Solid, warm, wide. It’s almost a shame to lower them back down to your side. “Less you think you can walk from here to Oia, too.”

Truth be told, you don’t know where Oia is.

But you do know your walking for the day is over, happy to follow Joel onto the coach. You take the aisle seat, he’s by the window. Across from you both sits a couple, young and giggling into one another’s ears, as though the sounds of their joy is sacred to none but them. A pang of envy thumps your soul, and you quickly turn your face.

Only to find that Joel’s is grey.

Not the hair that lines it but, rather, his whole face, paled and blood-drained. It’s a sickly image, and one that’s quick to get your heart racing.

“Are you okay?” Any thought of keeping your composure becomes mute as you hear your own voice, a treacherous shake to it that gives your panic away. “You look…” There is no word kind enough for you to use to relay the image of him, so you lock your lips.

It takes a few seconds for you to get a reply, as your hand moves up to feel his forehead. It’s sweaty, warm, and you move to pull your hand back when he’s holding it firm in place, eyes slipping shut. “‘S cold. You’re cold,” seems to be his explanation. “I’m fine, it’s just- Carsick.”

“You get carsick, yet you work on a cruise.”

“Not the same. Ship’s big, somethin’ bout the size and my own visibility, ‘s what stops me getting seasick.”

You sit like that the rest of the coach, your hand pressed to his forehead, his eyes slipped shut.

“What’s your favourite stop on the cruise?”

As it turns out, Oia is exactly what you’d pictured Santorini to be.

White washed houses, deep blue domes for rooftops, turquoise waters, all for as far as the eye can see. Joel complains, more than tells you, of the rise in tourism over the years, of how it’s turned the beautiful village into a party-town for idiots abroad, disregarding the clean environment, shamelessly blocking paths to snap a frame-worthy shot, raising prices to the ceiling. When you ask him if he thinks he’s in part to blame, if people like him are to blame- running tours, bringing guests onto the island, earning a wage off the visiting of such a place- he grumbles out something about missing breakfast, needing lunch.

So you find a cafe. Or, more, Joel leads you to one. He greets the doorman, with a wave and a pat on the back, before sauntering his way through to a back terrace, overlooking the whole village, the water perfectly framing it. Stepping out and sitting down, the view robs the very breath out of your lungs.

It’s like sitting inside a postcard.

Joel asks if you like Greek food.

You tell him you’ve never had it.

He orders for you both, a mixture of different plates, and swears he’ll find something you’ll like.

It turns out you’re rather fond of baklava.

“Florence.” Joel’s taken his time to answer, staring at you like a deer caught in headlights. Disbelief more than fear in his eyes, you have to wonder if it’s the first time someone’s thought to ask him, in all his years as a guide. Naturally, this leads you to wondering how many years that is. “It’s a real site. Full of history, a real story to be told.” He tilts a ceramic dish your way, eyes glancing down in an offering. You follow them, and spot olives. Shake your head, no, then smile, thanks. He shrugs, more for me, and pops two into his mouth. “There’s this…” he pauses to chew. “This library.”

“A library?”

“‘S not just a library.” He slips out the olive’s pip and raises another into his mouth. You try not to think about how thick his fingers look, rolling the remaining briny green pebbles around in the pot. “There’s a cinema built inside it. Plays some classic films. I always- or, I try to go whenever we dock.”

It’s hard to picture Joel inside a cinema, something about the setting too busy, too loud to place his scowling face in. Would he be the kind to have a favourite seat, perfectly picked to optimise the sound quality? Does he speak animatedly, excited any time he recognises an actor? Or is he a shusher, the kind to roll his eyes when someone dares to even clear their throat?

A part of you wants to ask him if your tour involves a trip to this library.

Something tells you it’s not a place he likes to share, though. It’s his own little corner, safe to sneak a moment of selfish indulgence amidst a week of catering to another’s needs.

“A cinema inside a library?” A waiter interrupts you, asks if everything’s alright. Joel orders another serving of baklava. “Isn’t that a bit of an oxymoron?”

“Yeah.” For a moment, you think you see a smile creep across his lips. “Suppose it is.”

Another interruption comes in the form of your ringtone, rippling the water in your glass as your phone vibrates upon the table. You’re well aware of how Joel spots the word Mum displayed across your screen. Just like you’re aware he sees how you swipe down on your screen and switch on aeroplane mode.

Before he can ask any questions, or the sudden silence can become too deafening, you throw out another question. “And your least favourite?”

“Least favourite stop?” You nod, affirmative, and he needs no time to reply. “Here.”

“Here?! How come?”

The baklava arrives, as if on cue, and you point down at it, as though it is reason enough to be enamoured with the island. It seems to do little to convince him, his hand reaching out to push the plate closer to you, inviting you to indulge yourself.

“Compared to the other stops, Santorini’s bland.” He says it when your mouth is too occupied to protest, stuffed full with layer after layer of pastry. “Kind of like a diamond, y’know? Real pretty to look at, empties your wallet, and, at the end of the day, ain’t much you can do with it.”

“People propose with diamonds.” You point out, and cough as a flake of pastry hits the back of your throat.

Joel’s already passing you your glass of water before you even think to reach for it.

“People propose with rings. Diamonds are just custom, not a guarantee.”

Sunset arrives with no warning, a hue of fiery orange melting down into the calm waters on the horizon. It’s Joel who makes the call to head back, one glance at his watch enough to tell you the last chance to catch a coach is nigh. It’s only as you go to call for the bill that he tells you it’s covered and you realise his earlier trip to the bathroom had been a ruse to go pay.

The trip back is calmer, quieter, with the coach full of sunkissed and heat exhausted tourists.

Again, you take the aisle seat, and Joel, the window.

Keeping an eye on him is easy, switching your gaze towards the approaching darkness of the night sky calling upon the street lights anytime he meets your eyes. When you notice the increase in breaths and the paling of his skin, you wordlessly unscrew the cap off a bottle and slot it into his hand, inviting him to finish off the last sips of your water.

Skipping out on a trip down memory stairway, you quietly follow him into the cable car and, when you reach the Old Port, you try your best to block out his smug remark of how easy and fast the ride was. A feat which becomes easier as you stumble halfway up the dock and turn back.

Like hours before, as you first stepped off the tender, your mouth falls agape. Only, this time, wider. The view of the island lit up in all its glory is enough to leave you breathless, hands scrambling to fish out your phone, open the camera and-

“You gettin’ on or what?” Joel calls out from behind, and you find him waiting on board one of the tenders, hand held out towards you.

It’s a demand, more than it is an offer, to hurry up. The collective of other passengers are watching the interaction, and a feeling you’ve come to know all too well crawls its way into your veins.

A burden, holding them all up, that’s what you are.

The feeling follows you back, as you slip into a damp seat and watch as the boat carries you further and further from the island, it’s lights twinkling in a way that chokes you up, drains you out, eyes stinging from more than just the salty air. You’ll love it, I swear! The memory plays out in your head, those words gushed at you. Hands squeezing your cheeks, a smile blinding you under its brightness. Just wait till you see it at night, the lights shine over it like stars!

You blink.

A tear pools at the corner of your eye.

“Here, look,” something nudges you. It’s Joel, inching his phone into your view. Through blurred sight, you glance at it. And find yourself, centre frame, lit only by the moon. In the back lies the whole skyline of Santorini, lights reflecting down onto the waters below. “Best view you can get, the whole island in one shot.”

Afraid to hear your own voice, you smile.

He answers by pointing his phone back at you, snapping another photo.

Back on the cruise, the two of you part ways, with Joel telling you to meet him in the same bar, same time as the night before.

Dinner had been part of your plans. With a glance over the listed restaurants on board, the ache in your tired bones asks you to stay in bed and make use of the room service. You listen, order something light, easy. It arrives in under 10 minutes and your hunger is satisfied sitting out on the balcony, watching the dark waves roll past.

Phoning your mother is the next port o'call.

Unlike with your food, that takes longer than 10 minutes. Much longer, and involves you countlessly reassuring her that yes, you’re okay, and no, you don’t need her to fly out and meet you in Naples.

“I’m a big girl,” you even throw in a laugh, hoping it’ll ease the worry lines you can picture splayed over your mother’s face. “I think I can climb up a mountain without my mum’s help.”

“Honey, you know that’s not what why I’m worri-”

“Did you know you can get carsick but, at the same time, not seasick?”

You hang up shortly after, with a promise to try your best to answer when she calls tomorrow, instead of hours later, when she should be fast asleep.

The time on your phone tells you there’s still forty minutes until you need to meet Joel. The image of that grandiose bathtub flashes before your eyes and, in record timing, you’re sinking into scalding waters, a complimentary bath bomb dumped in and granting you the childish gift of bubbles.

You try to relax, at first.

There’s no need to wet your hair, so you indulge yourself. Lay your head back, close your eyes. Feel your muscles loosen with the warmth, ignore the sting of soap in your blistering heel. Your hands struggle to find a resting place, until they meet your thighs. They sit still, for a moment or two, before one slips down, inching into the crease of where your legs meet.

Something stirs in your core, comes alive as you think of how long it’s been since you last felt someone. A few months, it has to be. A fellow graduate, if you remember correctly, that stupid robe still on his shoulders as he let his mouth come down on you.

Your hand is soon on your core, before you really notice, mind on a mission to recall the hazy encounter. When you think of his tongue, messy yet eager, your finger’s already on your clit, pressing against it with a tease of pleasure. When you think of his cock, uncut and thicker than your ex, splitting you open on his bedroom floor, your hips cant up against yourself, chasing friction. When you rewind how soft Joel’s hair had been between your fingers, your free hand grips one of your breasts, fingers pinching at your nipple.

Your eyes snap open.

Joel’s hair.

Joel.

Something you should not be thinking of right now, hand buried between your thighs.

You wait a few seconds, remind yourself of the graduate’s face.

His blue eyes, your fingers roll over your nipple.

His blonde hair, your legs spread wider.

Joel’s solid chest, your fingers dip inside your cunt.

Your breath is shaky, Joel’s annoyed groan echoes.

The shame of it, of thinking of him, is almost as tantalising as touching yourself, fucking your own hole full with as much of your fingers the angle will allow. It’s a one time thing, you justify. You just need to get it out your system. One and done, cum and done. No more of Joel Miller between your thighs, this is the closest he’ll get.

Someone knocks at your door.

You nearly miss it over the sound of your breathing, the pounding of your heart.

“Who is it?” You don’t like how weak you sound, but it’s too late to take it back now.

Another knock.

“Can I come in?”

A hand still between your thighs, orgasm titering on the edge, body fully submerged in lukewarm water. “No!”

“Ain’t safe to leave your door unlocked. Anybody could walk in- Jesus!”

You’ve never screamed louder.

Joel takes up most of the bathroom doorway, same clothes save for the shirt that’s got two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled halfway up his arms. You’re pressed right back into the bathtub, as physically far from him as you can get, knees pressed up to your chest, ankles crossed over.

In Joel’s defence, he’s quick to turn away, presenting you with a view of his back. A hand runs through his hair.

“Why are you in my room?!” You inch even further back, the water suddenly dropping several degrees.

“I asked to come in!”

“And I told you not to!”

“Well obviously I didn’t hear that!”

“Why are you in my room?” You’re back to your first question, eyeing up your towel.

It’s across the room, on the bathroom sink. No way for you to reach it without the risk of him seeing you reflected on something.

“You were late. Came to check if ya tripped on them heels and broke your neck.”

“I,” you’re not sure what time it is with your phone sitting by the bed, charging. That's now five times you've been late in adulthood. “Didn’t realise the time. I can meet you at the bar in ten minutes.”

He nods, and you watch him take a step, then immediately pause. “You know, I’ve heard a few things from passengers…” You may not see his face, but you swear there’s that half-smirk, smug look upon it. It’s practically dripping off his words. “The shower head, fourth setting. Seems to get the job done for most ladies on board.”

Grabbing the closest thing in reach- a bar of soap- you launch it and watch it bounce off his irritatingly wide shoulders. “Get OUT!”

You make it to the Tipsy Byson in 15 minutes.

Dressed more appropriately than the night before, your flared jeans and crop top garner less stares. It’s just as busy, if not busier, yet it’s not hard to spot Joel on a barstool, nursing a glass of something syrupy looking. Behind the bar is Luke, head thrown back at something Joel says.

They’re an interesting pair to observe, you realise as you make your way over. With Luke, so tall, so lanky, so bright-face, his energy warm and inviting, and Joel so- well, Joel.

“There she is,” Luke cheers, a little too loudly, calling attention to you as you slip into the stool next to Joel. “My new favourite customer.”

“Thought I was your favourite,” Joel’s yet to look at you, and it’s a relief. He’s looked at you enough for one day, one week, one lifetime.

“Sorry but she smells better than you, Joel,” the barman winks at you, a cheeky grin on his face. “ Plus, she’s a hell of a lot nicer to look at.”

Joel scoffs, you giggle.

“Not sure about the whole smelling better thing,” your response comes minutes later, after Luke’s already served you a glass of wine and turned away your cash, telling you he’ll put it on Joel’s tab. “But thanks!”

Unprompted and uninvited, Luke bends over the bar and takes an exaggerated sniff. “I don’t know, smell alright to me.”

“Really? I’m not even wearing perfume, I forgot to pack any-.”

“Yeah! Go on Joel, give her a whiff, tell her she smells fine!” There’s resistance on his end, but Luke’s adamant, hand clamped on the back of Joel’s head, shoving him face first into your neck. Joel’s nose brushes against you. You hear him inhale. Exhale. Inhale again, then the urge to cross your thighs begins to nag at you. “Well?”

“Yeah, smells nice- Fine. Ya smell fine.”

“Be still my beating heart! Someone alert the press that Texas said something other than-”

Joel interrupts Luke’s dramatics, scowl on his face. “Don’t you have a job to be doin’?”

Only once the bartender is down the other end of the bar, engrossed in a heated discussion over what beer pulls a better head, does Joel speak again, sipping on his drink. Whiskey.

“So I noticed somethin’, when I was checking your bookin’ info.” You nod, urge him to continue, and take a sip of your own drink. Some country song plays over the speakers and you notice a sudden shake in Joel’s knee, his foot tapping to the beat. “Says there should be two of you in my guide team.”

“Oh,” the lump forming in your throat falls safely back into the pit of your stomach as you take another drink of wine. “Must be a printing error. You know how technology can be, always complicating things.”

“Hmm,” it’s easy to write off the awkward energy between you with the excuse of earlier events, and it’s the first bright-side you find to him walking in on your intimate bath. “Well, you know the drill for tomorrow. 7 am on that deck or I’m-”

“Docking without me, I know.”

You finish your drink first. When Joel orders himself another glass, you smile politely and turn it down. Yawn, then tell him you best head to bed.

Before you can slip out the entry, someone calls your last name. Loud enough to turn more than just your own head.

It’s Joel, approaching you, effortlessly parting crowds through the lively bar as though he is knife and, the people, butter. The loud music seems to ring louder in your ear, impeding you from hearing the words that leave his moving lips.

“What?” You call out, hands clasped over your mouth in an attempt to amplify the volume of your voice.

His response is to step closer, hands holding you in place by the waist as he leans down. A hot breath on your neck, the smell of whiskey on his breath, the soft brush of lips against your ear.

“It’s your turn to bring the coffees.”

series taglist. @auteurdelabre

[hacash]

Terror AUs where some or all of the crew survive are a lot of fun, but I think we need to lean more into the comedy of the fact that – no matter where in the story the men get rescued, no matter from which particular brink of danger they’re snatched, no matter the context - that would have to have been an incredibly awkward journey home. As in, awkward enough that the crew of the random whaler that picked the boys up petitions their captain never to rescue any survivors from a maritime wreck ever again because honestly, captain, the vibes are just too toxic right now.

-

Little: You embarrassed me in front of all the men! And then, yeah, the whole mutiny thing, but that thing at the armoury was so fucking mean.

-

Jopson: I was right there, dying, and you bastards just left me!

-

Gibson: Were you about to fucking eat me?!

-

Fitzjames: Whoa, hold up George, you were happy to eat our dog?!

-

The entire crew: YOU TRIED TO SET US ON FIRE.

-

Crozier: Hey, anyone from Erebus remember how I said this was an act of hubris none of us would survive, and then none of you bastards backed me up? And then we almost didn’t survive it? Remember that, huh? Huh?

-

Hartnell: Look, Captain, I appreciate you saving our lives and all but the next time you fire off a rocket would you mind not doing so straight at my face, please? Thanks for understanding. Also Hickey and Tozer you fucked us all over and nearly killed us all, you absolute colossal pricks.

-

Goodsir: First girlfriend in my entire life and you wankers ruined EVERYTHING. And also that whole cannibalism thing.

-

Blanky: Remember when I lost my leg because you were having a hissy fit, Francis?

-

The Marines: Listen to Hickey, you said…he’s got a plan, you said…get out of here all in one piece, you said…

-

Tozer: You KNOCKED ME OUT and tried to use me as TUUNBAQ BAIT.

-

Irving: HEY HICKEY, THE BOOK OF PROVERBS SAYS ‘THE WRINGING OF THE NOSE BRINGETH FORTH BLOOD’ AND ONCE LITTLE AND HODGSON STOP SITTING ON ME I’M GONNA PROVE IT TO YOU, ARSEHOLE.

-

Sir John: …Ok, ok, my bad.

[juyeonszn]

DREAMS COME TRUE

PAIRING kim younghoon x f!reader

WORD COUNT 1.36k

GENRES fluff,,, just fluff

WARNINGS mature language but are we surprised, the tamest thing i’ve written in what feels like years, uni!au, best friends to lovers, mutual pining but younghoon is kinda dumb and very dramatic, one (1) kiss scene but thats about it

SUMMARY younghoon has been in love with you since what feels like the dawn of time. he’s watched you fall for the wrong guys over and over again, too much of a coward to do anything about it. but you’re on the brink of graduation and he’s finally ready to let you know. he just hopes you feel the same.

MORE hi…. how yall doin…. LOL the juyeonszn comeback no one was expecting 🥳 i’ve been in a bit of a younghoon phase lately and i realized i was not showing him enough love so i present to u this lovely piece of younghoonery <3 this is also my submission for the @deoboyznet love letter collective event! huge thank u to @sungbeam for beta’ing i owe u my life beam </3

PERM TAGLIST @winterchimez @maessseongs @itsbeeble @zzoguri @/deoboyznet @cloverdaisies @vernyangel @ericlvr

Maybe he should’ve told you how he felt about you during your dinner before prom senior year. The words sat on the tip of his tongue, waiting to be spoken into existence. It was the perfect moment. You were each other’s dates anyway. 

But then he chickened out—he didn’t think he deserved you. And perhaps that was only slightly true: for letting you slip through his fingers numerous times? Absolutely. But for everything else? The universe couldn’t help but pity him, too. 

There was also the time that your ex boyfriend cheated on you and you came crying to him in the middle of the night. He woke up and stayed awake until early hours of the morning just to comfort you. It wasn’t because he felt bad, but because he would do any and everything for you. While you curled in on yourself, cuddled into the safety of his arms, he debated telling you then, too. 

Time and time again, Younghoon has sat there and watched as you dated different guys. He sucks it up and deals with it because he’s afraid of rejection, but he also doesn’t want to ruin your friendship. You’ve been best friends since middle school, and that made him afraid that you’d always only see him as that. There was that saying that girls and guys could never just be friends. Unfortunately, that was the case for him, but maybe not for you.

Now here you are, the day before your college graduation, and Younghoon is once again torn between mustering up the courage to confess and putting this puppy love to rest. 

He told himself during your first year of university if he didn’t tell you at all during these four years, he would give up. You were both preparing for true adulthood and if he couldn’t lay himself bare for the person closest to him, he didn’t think it was meant to be. And well, time is running out for him. He had to speak now, or forever hold his peace.

Younghoon watches as you scamper around your apartment, gathering your things for graduation tomorrow. It was a hectic enough day without you worrying if you were going to lose something, or run late. You hang your cap and gown on the coat hook near your front door before dashing back into your room to make sure your outfit is put together. 

Even in the chaos of your zooming around, Younghoon still finds you absolutely breathtaking. You’re slightly sweating from all of your movement and from the heat of the rapidly approaching summer, but nevertheless, you look so beautiful to him. The decision that seemed so hard to make over the years feels pointless. The answer has been clear from the beginning.

“Y/N.”

You pause what you’re doing to look over at him, wiping your forehead with the back of your hand. Your cute, caught-off-guard expression has him nearly melting into the couch. He doesn’t understand why it took him so long to get it together. 

Your eyebrows furrow in confusion when he starts walking towards you. “Wha— Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine,” he says, his frame towering over you in a way that is never intimidating, only comforting. “I have something I need to tell you, though.”

“Can it wait? I’m a little busy here.” Your hands come to rest on your hips and it takes all of the strength inside of Younghoon to not pull you into his embrace and kiss you. He thinks he would die, and he has to survive the duration of this confession if he wants to see the other side. (The side where, hopefully, you finally become his, in the way he’s wanted for years.)

“It can’t, actually,” he breathes, a newfound, unwavering confidence taking over. “I think I’ve waited for too long.”

“You’re kinda scaring me,” you laugh, scratching the back of your neck. “What is it, Hoon?”

Speak now or forever hold your damn peace, Kim Younghoon.

“Y/N, I love you,” he starts, and when you open your mouth to say you already know that, he continues. “And not in the way I’ve told you since we were eleven. I love you in the way that I can’t go to sleep at night without wondering if you’re sleeping comfortably, too. I can’t wake up in the morning without wondering if you did that cute, little whine that you do when your alarm goes off. I think about my future constantly, even though it’s fucking terrifying, and you’re always in it. Not just as my best friend or my partner in crime, but as my forever partner, too. I’ve felt this way about for god knows how long now, but I’ve always just been too afraid of what it would do to our friendship if you didn’t see me the same way. I don’t want to sit back and watch you date these other guys who end up hurting you anymore. I want to be the one you go to for everything.”

When he finishes, his chest is heaving a little, practically spieling without taking a moment for air. Despite the strength he collected to say all of that out loud, he was still nervous and looked away from you as he did it. He’s making eye contact now though, and he’s freaking the fuck out because he can’t read you one bit.

You aren’t saying anything, just staring at him with your lips parted, and he thinks that's tenfold more frightening than if you were to yell and slap him in the face. Each second that passes in complete silence has his hands clamming up and his heart racing faster. He realizes how close he’s standing to you and takes a step back, and then another, then another, until he’s grabbing his things and scrambling to get out of your apartment. 

You hate him. That has to be it. You see him as a brother more than anything else and he just ruined it all. 

But the moment he steps foot into the hallway, you’re calling after him desperately. 

“Younghoon, wait!”

Your voice, laced with emotion, has him halting in place. He turns around to see you standing in the threshold of your door, eyes welled with tears. He’s only ever seen you cry when you're sad, when you’re heartbroken, and he prays to whatever higher being exists that he didn’t do just that to you. (He tries to ignore how gorgeous you look even when crying.)

“I— You can’t just say all of that and run away!” You’re full on bawling now and it has his eyes widening. “You’re so stupid, you know that? I’ve been in love with you since we were thirteen and you lent me your hoodie inside of the movie theater when I said I was cold. You’ve always cared so deeply for me, so unconditionally. How could I not fall for you? You made it so hard not to.”

Younghoon is stunned. He had no idea you felt the same because you’ve been so good at hiding your feelings from him unless you chose to show him something. “Why did you date all those guys then?”

“To make you jealous, you idiot,” you sniffle, laughing at his obliviousness. “You’re such a guy; it’s endearing.”

He pouts at your low-key insult, but it doesn’t really upset him. In fact, he feels like he’s soaring right now. Your feelings are mutual and it’s as if all is well in the world. He closes the space between you once again, lifting his arm to swipe away your tears. You nuzzle into his palm instinctively and he’s sure he’s a puddle on the ground.

“Can— Can I kiss you?” He braves himself to ask, searching your features for any indication that you didn’t want this. You nod, your own hand covering his. The sparkle in your eyes is more than enough confirmation for him and so he leans in.

When your lips meet, Younghoon wonders if he did something heroic in a past life. He feels a pleasant buzz all the way to the tips of his fingers. It’s everything he’s dreamed of. 

You’re everything he’s dreamed of.

© juyeonszn. do not steal, claim, or repost. 

[dalliansss]

Hunger

Requested by @nobunsonpesach Collab AU with @skaelds Context: Set in the overarching AU of [Blood in the Mouth], somewhere between A Ruined Thing and Where The Wind Whispers Foe

Death throes are fascinating. 

Especially when one is in such close proximity to it; for example, fangs stuck in the prey’s neck, arms wrapped around said prey in a death-hold, to prevent further struggle. One could almost hear the tell-tale weakening of the heartbeat, the strained flutter, the drum beats and the drummer losing the last legs of its strength. And then the Great Shudder, as Finrod liked to call it – the Great Shudder where everything seems to hang on the brink for a few seconds, and then the Stillness. For ordinary elves, of course, it meant respite at last, the fëa escaping the ruined hröa so the spirit may flee to Mandos and there await and recover. For orcs and men, there is nothing beyond the Stillness. They are gone. Just like that.

Finrod drops the dead prey on the floor. It is an orc, with blackish skin pockmarked with scars from battle or the common pox they have here in the pits of Angband – yet scars are sometimes indistinguishable on the orcs. Round, star-burst, gashes that could very well be from weapons and also the teeth of the werewolves and wargs. Distinction is sometimes not needed in a place called Angband. 

The orcs give him a wide berth. Shrieking and howling and hissing, Finrod, Agarogol, had descended on this orc pit with no warning. Some days prior he had been unseen anywhere in Angband, and of course the truth of the matter is that Mairon had decided to play one of his cruel games on him again. The maia had baited him with some newly-made bracelets, taunting him, asking him to beg to have the pieces of jewelry given. When Finrod flatly refused to play the game, Mairon beat him to an inch of his life, locked him in a dungeon and left him there without blood for as long as he could be left.

By now, Finrod understood a few useful things about his new hröa. He could slow his own metabolism by withdrawing his mind inward, withdrawing far enough that the body runs on the littlest energy possible. It makes him resemble a true corpse; no pulse, no heartbeat, but his consciousness is withdrawn as little as possible, ready to spring back in optimum circumstances. But the thing is, when there is an injury to be healed, he cannot manage this simple trick so easily. His body has a mind of its own, and it is preservation and healing whenever it has been damaged. And this time, Mairon damaged him quite extensively. Broke his wings, broke a leg. Even pulled out a fang, which, to a vampire, was greater than the hurt from a silver alloy weapon or even outright silver poisoning in the blood. 

He has no choice but to make do. Withdraw as little as possible, stalling the frenetic healing of his own body, just so he doesn’t lose his mind to the mounting blood lust. For some stretches of days this serves him well, until it is about a week and Mairon lets him out, unleashes him toward the hordes of Angband that simply had the bad luck to be in his way.

And today, orc pit number 43 is the unlucky pot.

Finrod attacks, and attacks, and attacks, slaughtering the orcs and making no distinction. He goes for the biggest, menacing orc-bulls first, because they have the most blood and the most flesh, and he breaks their necks or tears their throats out, black blood and guts spraying all over him in his frenzy. Next he goes for the middling warriors, then the orc-dams, and finally the small and insignificant wetlings that offer little flesh and hurt his ears with their shrieking.

There were about two hundred orcs in pit 43.

When Finrod is done, none are left.

Again he discovers something about his modified hröa. It swells. Like a grotesque balloon, his skin, his flesh, stretches and stretches, until he falls onto his back in the midst of the bloody pit, for now unrecognizable and burdened, his flesh and skin distended to its limits, making him look like a gray-fleshed leech. 

If someone took a needle on him, he might very well have popped.

Finrod lays there, mind lost in the blissed-out high of post-feeding, for now incapable of coherent thinking. He is a glutton, a creature of Melkor, Gorthaur, Mairon– he is no elf, this is for certain. The elf perished in Tol-in-Gaurhoth, going against that werewolf. The elf…

He has no idea how he remains there, laying on his back in the midst of the pit, surrounded by carnage. Coherency returns slowly, sluggishly, like old blood creeping in the vein. He struggles to get up, hindered by his own sudden girth. The dried blood is sticky on his skin, and his claws are caked with flesh and marrow underneath. He manages to sit up, weight down flabbed-down arms. His belly is distended, a great, dark-veined thing. As if a monster got him with child. Even his legs are swollen. Even his face feels full, swollen even upon the cheeks. His skin stretched tight, emphasizing the dark veins. 

A monster.

Wasn’t he the ‘fairest and most loved of the House of Finwë’?

Where were the Valar who pronounced such great and beautiful things about him when he was born?

Where was Ulmo?

Why did Ulmo allow him to become this, when he did as asked, obeyed as well as he could, despite his flaws?

Where was the help for him?

Swear an oath of abiding friendship and aid, and then this is what he gets in return? Served unto the Enemy on a silver platter?

Or maybe there was no help in the first place. He was a pawn. Pawns merely obeyed without question, did as they were told. First told to be kind, then obey these Dooms, stick to this way of life, and then…

He hears the tink of jewelry. He can’t get up, his body too burdened by its sudden, great weight. His mind refuses to understand things more than two’s or three’s. The temperature around the pit increases, and Finrod squirms feebly against his Maker’s approach. Even as Sauron – Gorthaur – comes to a stop before him, he stays where he is, sitting, weight down his arms, his great stomach wobbling with every unneeded breath he takes.

“Look at you,” Mairon croons. “You’re a great leech, swollen with blood and flesh. Mine creature who cannot even best his own instincts.”

Finrod lets the words pass from one ear to another, ignored. Thinking is painful. The blood high is slow to recede, and once it does, he knows it will leave him bereft.

Mairon tsks with disapproval. He walks around him, jewelry tinking against each other. Then he grabs Finrod by the jaw, and he delights how his fingers sink into the fat flesh. He grips him tighter, and Finrod spits out a wad of blood toward the úmaia’s face.

Mairon pulls back and back-hands his fledgling across the face in return. Finrod falls back, flesh jiggling. Mairon harrumphs cruelly and sneers down at him.

“Let’s see how many hours you stay like this, my great swollen leech. I will give you twelve hours. If in twelve hours you do not return to your beauteous form, then, there will be quite some price to pay.”

Likely another round of starvation, and another round of gluttonous frenzy, until his hröa learns to dwindle itself faster, the trauma triggering the metabolic response. 

Finrod says naught. He curls in on himself, and Mairon laughs and laughs.