#based on a blue ground dove

[lightningwaters]

[moondirti]

𝐂𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐍 𝐅𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑, 𝐈𝐈 [18+]

familiar! ghost × witch! reader

you are a witch trapped at home by a devastating blizzard. ghost is the demon that answers your call. ( 2 of 3 /PREV )

DEAD DOVE. RATED E. HORROR EROTICA. 9K. – AO3 heed the warnings below and proceed at your own discretion.

warnings: NONCON. graphic depictions of gore. injury. cannibalism. blood licking. slaughtering + ingesting animals. violence. degradation. body horror. hypothermia. isolation. manipulation. corruption kink. religious imagery. dark!ghost. female reader. i know i said 2 parts total but now it's a 3er.

additional tags: groping. tit fondling. rough oral (male receiving). face-fucking. cum guzzling + eating. it’s all a little disgusting and not in the good way i fear.

𝐈𝐈.𝐈

The cottage is halfway buried under snow when you run out of firewood. 

It should come as no surprise, though you stare down your emptied closet like the ground opened up and swallowed your remaining reserve. Out of body, you fail to confront the cold reality that has already seeped into your walls, freezing the splintered wood of your floors, instead standing stock-still as your mind sharpens its critical edge. 

Only there is no one to direct your reproach to but yourself. Weeks ago, your rune casts had predicted a crippling whiteout, thus you set out to collect enough fuel to last you the season. Yet as night waxed on the third day of your efforts, and your hands started tearing bloody from splitting hardwood all on your own, that resolve debilitated rather quickly. Like sugar steeped in tea; your will to live was already in a decrepit state, and indeed, eagerly unravelled at the first sign of adversity. Suicidal, with hindsight. A passive play at death of which you were too fearful to try and seek for yourself. 

It did not seem like that at the time, of course. Rather, you justified the fatuous decision to stop (after cutting down a mere three trees) by concocting an estimate of how long it would be before you could venture out for more. Based on absolutely nothing but a desperation to curl back on your couch, sore but sheltered, you gave it one month. One month until the storm would abate. Of restlessness, fermenting in a prison you call home. To your distorted sense, four-hundred pieces of firewood seemed plenty enough to get you through it, despite admittedly lacking even a basic working knowledge of wood arithmetic.

Counting the days now, you’re almost tempted to laugh. Almost. The shroud of horror that newly accompanies death since Ghost’s lesson triumphs, after all. You are more terrified than you would have been a week ago. Still, you were not wrong – the firewood had lasted a month – only the weather does not seem to be looking up, and you’re trapped inside a quickly cooling cottage with no source of heat to get you to the thaw. The possibility of fatal hypothermia looms closer, more dangerous. Eerily relevant–

(Just a year ago, you watched a man die from the warmth of your ancestral home, face down in fresh snow outside the parlour room window. Your ageing mother had invited the pastor’s son over to help repair the stairs left unattended since your father’s death, and the man had called your fascination with the corpse morbid, nail between two teeth as he hammered down a wooden plank. 

No use starin’ at a dead man, lass. Not for a bonnie thin’ like you.

But you could not tear your eyes away from his mottled skin, the blue-black ends of his fingers. Even at his burial several days later, his face displayed the same, blank expression, perpetually cast by that winter’s frigid storm.) 

You imagine yourself passing in a similar vein. It will take longer, you think. You’ll be dying for weeks as your blood courses slower through you, iced by the winds that howl down your chimney. Protected, but not enough, by these walls you have been banished to live within. Unable to get even a glimpse of sunlight before shutting your eyes for the last time, the snow packed up to your windows effectively burying you without ceremony. A forgotten tomb. 

You wonder if Ghost would intervene, yet your speculation is brief. His words echo like he uttered them only moments ago. Fight or die. He has long established the volitional aspects of your relationship – he owes you nothing unless you ask, and if you do, then you would rather wish you were dead in lieu of what he asks for in return. No. He will merely watch as you take your last breath, satisfied that he was right, then scavenge your carcass for his next meal. Fated to wet his mouth like the picked off crow. A long-awaited feast.

Curling in on yourself, it is all you can do to bury yourself in clothes. Your vulnerability is often a fickle thing, you find, ebbing and flowing like seawater tides gradually gorging on their shore. There are periods you feel invincible; a being made of eternal magic, unmoved by the shifts in nature bid by time. Some sequoia, whose roots pierce deep into the earth and drink from freshwater wells unacquainted with human touch. A thing truly deserving of the title witch. 

Other times – these times being of increasing occurrence since the arrival of your familiar – you cannot help but to shrink back into a girl again. Raw and tender and emotionally volatile. Naked, sore lungs, as you’re pulled from your mother’s womb and forced to embrace the harsh cut of air. Ghost watches from his usual corner, a spectre practically pulsing with this voyeuristic game he likes to play. You know he’s figured out the predicament you’ve put yourself in, can feel yourself quailing at the discredit his judgement affords. The layers serve a dual purpose, then – for warmth, and to grant brief reprieve from his gaze on your shivering form. 

Three pairs of socks. A tunic, a fleece, a cardigan, and a coat. Skirts over your trousers. Gloves and a woollen hat. 

By the end, you have a hard time moving at all. Certainly not enough to cook, or to try tunnelling a way out of the window. No point in reading if you can’t practise your magic, either; so you mutter a quiet ignition spell over the charred firewood from last night, hoping it lasts even half as long, before collapsing on the couch and willing yourself to sleep. 

Only sleep does not come. 

Or, it might. Yet your mind is so occupied with your condition that it does not allow you to fully lose consciousness. You’re attuned to every particle around you, overstimulated in the worst sense, still subjected to an unsettling sequence of half-dreams. Brain flickering through pale mirages of dead crows, ice floes, of capsized rafts in arctic waters, their hulls resembling slabs of marbled meat. As you drown, you shout for help and pique at the sound of it echoing in real life, tangible enough that it shakes you awake. You nearly strangle yourself trying to wind your quilt tighter around your shoulders afterward, burying your nose in a pillow and cupping your cheeks with frigid hands. 

Eventually, time joins the distortion, and you have a hard time discerning whether it’s been hours or meagre minutes. The only indication is the way in which your body starts to ache with a pain so profound, it is as though you’ve been beaten. If you weren’t frustratingly cognizant of your surroundings the whole night, your first bet would have been to blame Ghost, or at least the threadbare couch you’ve been using as a bed erring too long now. Unfortunately, the true cause of your affliction is hard to misdiagnose; a violent, merciless shivering, your muscles made to tremble as if compelled to by electric shock. The teeth chattering kind – and it is exactly the rattle of ivory against ivory that serves as a makeshift timekeeper. 

Click. Click. Clickclick. Click. 

It must be two hours later when you bite your tongue and jolt completely awake from the pain, swathed in your quilt like the nesting doll that sat on your windowsill back home. Though the appendage bleeds, spreading metallic bitterness onto your teeth, you wonder for a brief moment whether you are alive at all. Foggy vision. Taut skin drawing lines down your cheeks from either corner of your eyes. When you squint, it tugs tighter, and you realise at one point you had started crying. It’s hard to tell without your nose hot and runny, or your lips swollen like overripe berries. Instead, you’re rendered to a shrivelled reflection of yourself, dried tear tracks setting the image in stone. The shadow looming above you seems to agree. 

“Not dead yet. But only just.”

You wish you could say his voice is any softer than standard. That the stars aligned, or that this is an ideal world where the antediluvian creature occupying your home has tapped into his small pool of pity. But he nudges your knee with all the detached amusement he prescribes to most things, like he can’t understand why you’re so easily affected by the cold. 

“Ghost?” 

“Almost exclusively.” He mocks.

The couch dips near your feet. You do not register why until he scoops an arm into your quilt, pulling you from warm refuge and onto his lap instead. It isn’t in you to fight, merely mewling like a feverish cat as you reach a hand out to the cushion where you once lay. Wiggling your fingers, kicking your heels. 

He swats your arm until it flops back to your side. 

“If only y’could see yourself like this. Bloody pathetic, pet.” 

“I’m c-cold.” 

“Not doin’ yourself any favours, then. This,” He tugs at the coat barely hugging your shoulders, stretched taut over your bulky layers. “off.” 

When you fail to listen, he takes the initiative for you, pulling it down your arms and towards some distant corner. You don’t miss it, necessarily – it hardly did anything to keep you warm – but you protest the loss as you would have done anything else; noisily, sniffing to suppress the fresh bout of tears spooling over your vision. 

“Think you exhausted every option, hm? All you can do is curl over and cry?” With his hands now at your cardigan, thumbs hooked under the lapel, you search his eyes for indication of what he intends to do. Ghost is difficult to appreciate even on the best of days, but now, without the handy glow of fire or direct stream of sunlight, he’s practically impossible. Like two mountains stood tall with no valley in between them, no line of logic exists that can explain his actuality. 

(And you’ve never been the logical type – there is no precise science to why goat fat and cumin work together to lure someone into love, or why you knew to stay away from the pastor who kept your mother company. Some things exist solely in magical proportions; limiting yourself to rational thought would be doing a great disservice to what they have to offer.

But confronting Ghost on a plane where he has the upper hand is a daunting task, so you stick to what rationale can place.) 

“What are you–you doing?” 

“Shut it.” He folds the cardigan around your hips, clasping a colossal palm onto the back of your neck. Though you’re used to being scruffed when he’s less than pleased with you, the purpose of this is far from dissatisfaction. You know it immediately. His skin, flesh, is warmer than anything you’ve felt in a long time. A quality of comfortable, penetrating heat that sinks into your nape and slowly works to defrost your marrow, your limbs, the icy film clinging to your brain. Your eyes roll shut almost instantaneously, body slumping forward to sink into his chest. Somewhere in the recesses of your mind, where the relief of warmth has not yet reached, you worry that he’ll push you off. 

He does not. 

Instead, his other hand slips under your fleece and tunic, smoothing over the knots of your spine to reach between your shoulder blades. There, his heat sinks to swathe your chest, and the weakly heart somehow managing to do its job, pumping blood that tickles your toes and fingertips. It drips down to your tummy too, where it weighs heavy like a tangible mass, and brings your pulse to the bud between your legs.

His touch there doesn’t last long; he pulls away only moments later, a tightness newly lifted off your sternum. One hand still kneads your nape, effectively keeping your face against his broad shoulder, but the other moves to collect your slack wrists together. It strikes you as unusual, sure, yet you’ve since surrendered your inhibitions for sake of survival. A cavewoman tradeoff. Your body purrs at the satisfaction of your baser instincts, happy to resort to this primitive state of impartiality, if only it means you’ll stay snug throughout the winter. 

Yes. If anyone were to ask you right then, you would have seen it as not only plausible but entirely necessary to stay like this for the months to come. Sated and secure and just a hint impassioned, content to doze off on the lap of your tormentor. Already halfway there, lashes fluttering as you battle complete oblivion. 

Only that isn’t what Ghost has in store, and he seems eager to break the illusion you hold in such high regard. 

He releases your neck, guiding you to sit upright upon his tree-trunk thighs. When you object by reaching for his hands again, you find that your own are securely fixed behind your back. Completely immobilised. 

Sensation slowly trickles back to you. Once numb, your skin now comes alive with frayed nerve endings, crackling, hair standing on its ends. What you find, alarmingly, is your place within a twisted example of the lesson Ghost has been attempting to teach. The lightness on your sternum not as metaphorical as you had assumed – rather, the bandages binding your breasts have been unwrapped to treacherously hitch your wrists together. The rough fabric excoriates the surface of your forearms. 

Your breathing accelerates. If you’d been freezing before, you’re thoroughly iced now. Shock races through your system and persecutes everything that lulled you into this position. Stupid, stupid, stu–

“Ghost.” You hiss. “Ghost. This is-isn’t funny.”

He doesn’t respond, rolling your top to reveal the soft stretch of your navel. It involuntarily retracts when he flits over your belly button, dodging the unwelcome spread of his fingers. Your body's way of protesting, for all you lean into his touch. Too tempting not to, really. Something in him burns; perhaps a furnace in place of his heart, or a piece of hell he takes with him wherever he goes. 

That primitive voice grows louder, whispering deceptively in your ear that it’s fine, let him touch you. So long as you stay warm. 

You shake your head as if to jerk the instinct off your crown. Lips pursed tight now, the hand on your belly slowly climbing up. Up. 

“Stop it. Stop this, I d-don’t want it.” 

“I know.” He says, pressing his thumb into your waist. It digs until it hits a rib, tenderising muscle. You’re a lamb on a spit, spun slowly, roasted over an open flame. How silly of you to lean into the burn. Short-sighted to decide that it’s better than the cruel press of winter. You’ll be eaten like this. 

“Then g-get the fuck off me!” You yelp, swaying on your haunches in a bid to knock yourself off his lap. Your arms are useless, but that does not mean you cannot fight. “I order you!”

That pulls a laugh from him. Or, what sounds like a laugh. As with everything, it’s his estimate of a human one, like the cicada mimics the bird; not as melodic, rather striking you with disgust so potent you feel your nausea reawakening. You might just hurl.

“And wha’ will I be granted in return? Nothin’ you have that’ll convince me to unhand you, pet.” Ghost rucks your tunic to your shoulders at last, exposing your bare breasts to bitter air. Though he gives them no time to pebble up, large paws enveloping both mounds and squeezing until your breath syphons from your lungs. “Haven’ seen a pair of tits in decades. Suppose you humans do have somethin’ going for you.” 

Your words startle in your throat. Nothing about it is pleasurable, nor does he intend for it to be. His fingers take your nipples; rolling, tugging, pinching. Nails dig crescent cuts into the darkened skin there, perhaps searching for blood. He certainly treats it as though blood is the aim, and you wonder whether you’re to be hung from your bust to drain onto his waiting tongue. Just as one might press olives, no care for their pulpy bodies but only the rich oil they produce. Grease to slick their pans, to moisten their mouths. 

You’ll be eaten like this.

“Stop, please.” 

“Wonder what y’would look like plump with milk. Nursing my litter, rounded out with another dozen.” He sucks his teeth, contemplative. “Body wouldn’t handle it, f’you ask me. Stronger women than you ‘ave tried.”

Have. It hurts to think about. Hurts more when the insult of his words truly resonates. Stronger women. That is to say you have been exiled for nothing. That with a year of solitude and occult practice, you are just as feeble as before. Is this why he ate your crow? To prove to you that he could? 

The tide pushes back out. In a great swell of loam and brine, your hatred crashes vengefully onshore. You muster all of it, dipping pails into the water and letting it weigh heavy on your shoulders. It is almost negligible, you find. You scarcely feel its burden when fuelled by a focused point to your antipathy. Your teeth stop chattering. You glare daggers. 

“Let me go.” 

Your final plea rolls over him like all the ones before it. “But you’re a witch, aren’t ya? Brew up a little elixir to pull yourself through the whelping. Maybe then you’ll realise how much you long to stay alive.” 

Your neck snaps back. Before you can think it through, you thrust your head towards his face. There’s a crunch, a dizzying moment of choked silence, then a hot burst of moisture down your face. For a naive moment, you think you must have struck gold. You imagine drawing back to find his mask sticky with blood, or tar, or whatever demons have thrumming through their veins. A raw testament to your resolve, if he should ever underestimate it again. 

But the mirage is as naive as your mother. Eventually the pain catches up to you. You realise the iron-tang at the back of your throat is not the dreg of satisfaction. The tears slipping past your lashes no longer wrought from misery. Everything, rather, an immediate response to the sore condition of your nose. Misshapen and swelling already.

Ghost hums. You hoped to see him grovelling in pain by now. The battered expectation somehow makes his condescension worse. 

“Good to see y’find your spirit,” His head tilts, bullying yours into remaining still, fingers knitted firmly in your hair. “but it’s misplaced.” 

Given his derision, you know not to rejoice when his other hand leaves your chest. Your shirt slumps lamely back over your figure as he lifts the edges of his mask, folding it over his mouth. In the dark, it’s difficult to map the nuances of his exposed jowls. There’s a pale curve there, a disfigured line here. Your sinuses twinge when your stare narrows, cutting through murk to place the shape of his lips. 

It’s futile. You have no way to jam the gaps; no way of knowing whether he’s all man, all demon, or a foul mix of the two. 

The one thing that glimmers with definition is the string of spit when he unlatches his jaw, long tongue striking like a wound-tight cobra. You would flinch if you could, eyes pruning shut, but his grip keeps you steady in place as he laves a forceful path up your chin. Tasting the metallic leak of blood, all the way up to its source. 

You see it coming. Still, you can’t help but scream when he works his tongue around your nose. Loosed bones shift under your skin, steadiness fractured, cartilage support dipping inwards against the assault. He groans, and in spite of your impaired sense of smell, you get a whiff of rot-hot breath. It must all be a terrible dream, you think. The hardened muscle pressing against your inner thighs, the viscous web of saliva stretched across your face. It’s cold and you’re sweaty, and everything about the past month – the past year – seems like it has been especially curated to torment you. You would wake from this any second.

He gathers the salty drips off your eyes, the blood, every grief coating your skin. Agony blinds you – so profound it takes shape, colour. You squirm in your binds, ragged shrieks ripping from your throat. 

It echoes even after he breaks away. If it weren’t for the sudden coolness of spit drying within your cupid’s bow, you would think he was still making a feast of you. 

“Tha’ got you to settle, hm?” 

You shake your head, exhausted. “You said–” 

“I said fight, or die.” He huffs. You let silence swathe your lips, pursing them as thin as you can manage without exacerbating your injury. “Yer fighting to die, pet.”

“I just want to be left alone.” 

“‘N’ what d’you think will come of that?” 

“It shouldn’t m-matter.” Your conviction sound hollow when spoken aloud. If he hears it, he uses it as an incentive to strip your top back over your chest. Like a hot wire pushed through your ribcage, his warm hands toast you from the outside in. It is in your best interest not to shiver in delight; though you are still dreadfully cold, and your injury makes it difficult to pigeonhole any alleviation to your pain. “You can’t-t-t defile me on the grounds of greater good.” 

Ghost laughs again. “Ain’ pretending this is for the greater good, pet. The world will thank me if one more witch freezes to ‘er death.” You’re yanked further up his lap. “I let you go, you’ve got four, five hours tops ‘till your heart fails. You wan’ to live?”

You shake your head, fervent tremors batting your pout. A nonanswer seems the only manner of resistance, now. “Not like this.” 

“Clever. Tha’ still tells me you do.” He pinches the knotted peaks of your breasts, twisting until you buck wretchedly onto his pelvis. “And I wan’ to spend my evenin’ playing with your tits. A fair compromise, then.” 

What sort of familiar makes the demands? You contemplate berating him out loud, lunging for the dirty insult to beat at his status like he did yours. With no room for taking the high ground, you will do anything so long as you can later say you bared your claws. So you do not wonder, for countless sleepless nights, if there was something more you should have done. You will be mean. You will go low. You will condemn him to a fate of eternal dissatisfaction, so that no matter how much he eats or kills or takes, he will always feel his stomach a gnawing pit. 

Though something tells you he will not succumb to scrutiny against his honour. There is no code for creatures like him, who floss their teeth with crow meat and pluck the nipples of girls who grant them shelter. Nothing to hold them to expect the conditions of their summons.

Perhaps that’s just it.

You stir. It feels much like magic, when an incantation rolls off the tongue just right and the air shifts to accommodate it. Your heart vibrates behind your sternum, power bloating your veins, ricocheting within your skin. If Ghost feels it, he doesn’t falter.

“Be sure, demon.” You rasp, drawing your intent taut in your chest like a bowstring. He hums but does not stop, kneading your flesh to conform to the creases and calluses of his hands. “Be sure that’s what you want. I could give in without further fuss and be like a docile rabbit on your lap. That way, you will have taken two things from me tonight.” 

The liquid of his eyes shifts quick. You catch its gleam in the little light, and it pleases you enough to deliver the rest of your covenant.  

“By the spell that brought you here, you are bound to do what I sacrifice for.” You pause a moment. “In exchange for the blood you have ingested off my face, you will dig this house out of the snow. And for my virtue, this one evening allowance of which you have already taken upon yourself, you will collect my firewood until the season clears.” 

Ghost makes an indiscernible noise from underneath. You can not tell if he is peeved or pleased, and the ambiguity shakes you. You expected some sort of acknowledgment or counter to your trick. Instead, he does not speak on it. No pitch or complaint, protest or taunt. 

He just sits there, pawing at your chest like a satiated dog. 

(And come morning, when your breasts are raw and tender to the touch, he tunnels the snow around your cottage and returns hours later with a hundred cedar logs for the kindling.)

𝐈𝐈.𝐈𝐈

She prefers him in the daylight

Sun floods her little home when it rises and keeps it bright until it sets. Whereas the dark plays tricks on mortal eyes, oil lamps flickering, casting shadows that always resemble something else. She likes training an eye on what he does in his usual corner; but come night, she can’t trust what she sees. Thus, her confidence strains. She flinches at every sound. Any movement will have her tucking deeper under her quilt. His empty-eyed stare glows more sinister, if anything is to be assumed by the way she will crack her grimoire open and mouth protective spells like prayers.

Perhaps she’s afraid she caused offence, that he mulls over a punishment to teach her not to make a fool of him again. Perhaps it plagues her that she cannot stop him if that is the case. He does not tell her that, already, the worst possible thing that can confront her has. Though of course she isn’t privy to it, it’s been a month since he decided against making a meal of her. Everything he does now is moderate in comparison. He’s being good. 

Good, yes. In the evenings, he will venture out to do her bidding. The timing grants her a few hours rest, then, and him an opportunity to hunt for his dinner. 

Good, because he waits until he’s a mile out to transform to his truer self. It is easier to strip trees of their branches and snap their spines when he stands over two metres tall. Not so easy to mend the fragile tolerance she’s gained for him, which is sure to shatter if she catches sight of his monstrosity. He eludes the possibility entirely, then. 

Good, because Ghost refrains from agitating her more than he already has. And his intention in doing so does not change that decency. 

That is to say, he hasn’t grown a heart. He does not care for the girl. But the passivity that necessitated his savagery has since come to pass. She’s grown claws. She fights for her say and punches through life with guile. Any more and he would be faulting her for it, like burning the meat he tumbled through mud to slaughter. It is down to him to take it off the roast, now, to revel in the succulent bite. He’s got her right where he wants her.  

With some brief tampering on his part – laying out the temptation like a breadcrumb trail into the woods – she broke her invisible vow not to ask him for anything. Has it not made her life that much simpler? Her hearth burns bright and warm everyday; she does not have to worry about keeping it lit for the remnants of winter. He picks cedar for its aroma, it's even char, and she would not have access to that if it weren’t for his ability to tackle the sturdy tree. All it took was her debauchment, the vitiating of character to match his. 

(And really, how debauched was it if she only endured his groping for one night?)

It isn’t too much to want, he thinks. 

She thinks so too. Or otherwise decides it's worth the risk. 

It is late into the evening and his dinner sits fresh in his belly, fire chewing away at the split logs he emptied into the pit earlier. The air is thick with cloying cedar and the mephitic scent of potion-brewing, his pet crouched over a bubbling pot. She has been at it for hours, the same nightly routine since she broke her nose. Tadpoles and feverfew and sage, chanterelle and wishbone and sand. Stirred, brought to a boil, thickened with spit. Then scooped out and smothered over her sore face. A modest poultice, turned cast, to help her mend correctly over weeks.

He wonders if she considered bothering him to heal her. He certainly can. But it appears as though she enjoys keeping her hands busy. Toiling through time, grinding away like water does the earth. In the aeons he’s been around, he’s seen mountains chipped away, rocks change shape, rivers bend over time – and it is always the same eternal petulance. Stubborn mediocrity built into something larger. Endurance over brute force. He doesn’t pretend to understand it, but he can recognise a reflection of it in her craft. 

But she is not eternal. Every mortal has their limits. 

Ghost sees the iron grow filigree in her eyes, calculations imprinting onto her resolve. When she stands and turns to him, he almost expects it. The past quarter hour has built up to this ambitious ask, whatever it may be, and he’s mapped every battle she’s held within herself over the course of it. She does not want like he does. It is only extraneous circumstance that would lead her to his service. 

“I started it later than I usually do.” She mumbles, lips twisting like maggots. The hollows under her eyes are prominent, both exhaustion and hunger trimming her down to a sorry state. “I need sleep, but this can’t be heated beyond a boil.”

His cock chubs up in his trousers, aching as an array of possibilities occur to him in that second. Would he split her cunt on his fingers? Would he make her set it down atop his tongue? Her skirt leaves much to the imagination, but he imagines it bright and faithful in his head. Darker on the outside than in, glazed with pellucid slick, and shrouded in a matting of hair. The thought alone funnels salivate to the underside of his tongue. 

He meets her eye, shoulders curving inward, poised to pounce. 

Then, her brow spasms, and the wolfish instinct unravels as fast as it materialises. 

No. He cannot push it too far, not when she asks for something so little. It took all her energy to come to him now. She will never consider it again if he exploits that beyond equal measure. 

So, Ghost stands, stalking over to the cauldron and his pet. He often forgets how small she is until she cranes her neck to look up at him, all owlish blinks and delicate fingers latticed together, anxious for his response. 

“I’ll wake you.” He says. The tension in her forehead ebbs immediately, eyelids sagging now that he confirmed her ingredients will not waste. Though she doesn’t move, and he makes her stand there until he determines on an appropriate return. 

Moments later, he wraps an arm around her. His hand finds the jut in her skirt, where it protrudes to lap over her arse, and squeezes around the fat of one cheek. Even with the layers separating them, she is supple like softened butter. She makes a sound like a trapped mouse, jumping to the balls of her feet. The noise doesn’t deter him; he holds it there until he’s satisfied his grip will bruise. 

“There we are.” When he releases her, she stumbles backwards to find her bearings against the cool press of the wall. Puts a safe distance between them. Yet her stunned silence is intoxicating, and he has to actively suppress the gluttonous urge for more. Nothing is sacred when he gets like this. “That’s us even, then.” 

She nods. It is a wonder she manages to sleep at all.

(Unfortunate that the potion to heal her broken nose steals stock from her kitchen shelves. Day by day, he’s watched her sacrifice her fungi and herbs to the cauldron, prioritising recovery over sustenance. Unfortunate that she is still unable to go out for more. The winter whips cruel and merciless winds for anyone who dares step out into its storm.

Unfortunate. But not moving enough. 

It is intentional silence on his part, then. For the day will come where she opens her cupboards to eat and finds them lined with dust.

And on that day, he will be there.) 

𝐈𝐈.𝐈𝐈𝐈

Ghost takes his meals outside. 

That is, when he comes back lugging a dead beast and a tree behind him. You’ll watch from the window as he places the latter to the side, sinking to his knees to feast on whatever he caught that day. It always varies: hares, owls, rodents. An elk if he’s lucky. Today, it is a fox. 

Your heart knots with pity, mourning for the mammal who cannot grieve itself. Eyes blank and jaw swung open. Its fur, which typically strikes as a vivid red, can only look dull when set by the blood it leaves in its trail, tangled in the entrails bursting from its belly. The demon never minds the hair, nor the carnage. He balances on his haunches and pulls his mask up, sinking his teeth into the softest parts of his spoils. 

Though no one holds you to the frosted glass – chanting look, you have to look – you insist on bearing witness. The gore never grows easier to behold; everytime, it is the same revulsion that stews nausea at the sight. But you sit and suffer it anyway. If anyone were to ask you why, you would be hard-pressed to find an answer. 

Perhaps it is to build a tolerance for nature’s brutality. Ghost’s lesson with your crow has carved an irreplicable torment within you, revealing the jeopardy you face should you continue down your meek path. Exposure therapy is good justification, then, when your personal improvement thus far has only wrought merit. Your magic begets greater effect. You feel your self-possession flourish your spirit. Even your familiar has staved off the trouble, and you can not ask for a greater success.  

But that does not capture the core of the matter. Perhaps that is to be found in him, instead.

Because when Ghost eats, his visage will fluctuate. You do not think it is something he’s mindful of. None of it looks intentional – he does not bid whetted talons or teeth, features that would aid him in gutting the fox. Rather, they appear like fish beneath a rippling brook. Swift, transient flashes of another form. 

He sucks down an intestine, and his burly legs stretch so the joints are equidistant. They snap backwards, digitigrade heels extending, before you blink and they’re human once more.

He laps at a puddle of blood, and his mask parts to reveal two ivory prongs that steadily grow from his head. They curl, winding around his temples as ram horns do, only to disappear as your arid eyes burn. 

He tears into cartilage, and his exposed skin flakes like charred wood. The liver; his torso extends and thins. The brain; his breath condenses to black ash, as yours would ghostly vapour in cold air. None of it permanent. All of it haunting. 

The first time you saw it, you chalked it up to phantasm. Lack of sleep, insufficient nutrition. Searching for monstrosity that would better connect to the horror unfurling before you. So you set out to observe. Incessantly. Again and again and again – validating what you saw, though you received confirmation upon the second instance long ago. Sure enough, each day he reveals different parts to a whole. Excrescent spines and lofty feet. Things that have been urging for a spot in the sun, pressing under his skin. 

It’s the nesting doll all over again. Little matryoshka faces, each opening to reveal a smaller version of itself within. If you are the innermost one, then Ghost is the sisyphean effort to close them over each other in descending order. Unfeasible. Too large to comfortably remain within his confines. The wood will eventually snap in your struggle, and all the painted pieces will scatter across the floor. 

(You remember him just then. Craggy charm and blue eyes. Crafty hand – the same to restore your mother’s staircase – whittling the doll when you suggested he couldn’t. He wore a cross no matter the day, a habit of his father’s doing, and the silver pendant would sway with the paring motion of his hands. Lustrous against tanned skin. No doubt forged by him, too.

He used to call you macabre. Though it was footling fun at the time, you can’t help but grasp at what he meant as you track the steaming slaughter outside.)

“Do you like it?”

Water rushes into a tin basin, its metallic clang a forceful, echoing percussion. The noise is insufferable, grating on your ears, but you would rather it than have Ghost tow the pungent smell of death into your home. With his back turned to you, he washes his hands and mouth of dinner’s remnants, faucet spitting frigid reserves into the kitchen sink. 

His head twists a fraction, pupils coasting to assess you in his peripheral. Small talk is not commonplace. In the weeks you have coexisted, you can count your conversations on both hands. They always seem to prefer the path of internal dissection instead, judgments flung at one another through glares and body language and not much else. 

“Be more specific.” He grunts, facing his task again. From your place on the couch, you can see the way he picks his nails for stubborn shreds of fat. 

“Fox.”

A sliver of pale skin, bared where his mask ends at his nape, twitches. “No.” 

“Why not?” 

“Ammonic. Greasy. Tough all ‘round. Slippery little fucks, too.” His voice is softer when he isn’t being caustic. Skipping over enunciations, the typical rumble in his chest quieted to a hum. “There are easier, more rewardin’ meals.” 

You imagine what he may be referring to. Of every creature on this earth, only one does not have the benefit of evasion. Predators are sheltered by hierarchical canopies, demons like Ghost so powerful that they do not have to watch their backs. Birds of prey have their wings, fish their slippery scales. Even deer – slender and pregnable – are granted fleet-footed instincts rivalled only by the Pantheon’s messenger himself. It is only you, human, that is condemned to spindling, slow inelegance. Perhaps it is why so many are intellectuals, worshipers, terrors – why you yourself are a witch, sapping nature for her wares of which you do not come by naturally. That is the way things turn. Assuming the offensive to offset one’s shortcomings.

And turn back again; your effort has only imperilled you further. There is a cannibal, a monster, a man inside of your home. And you beckoned him here. 

Even as the revelation occurs to you, you can’t stave your ambition. Of course you do not parley with Ghost for the sake of it. There is nothing this new knowledge grants. But since he left to do his day’s errands, your stomach has made its presence known. Opening up like an early grave, emptiness gnarled beneath a soil bed as with roots of a tombstone tree. Every moment, every word, you are reminded of its cavity. Too long, it says, you’ve ignored the pangs of hunger that seized this trench in an iron fist. Priorities, you would reply, as you surrendered food to brew your poultice. And so your nose is healed, great, but your shelves are empty and your head is faint. Hunger surplants the cold as your imminent killer.

“My mum taught me how to fix a good stew.” You begin, rolling your sticky tongue and tucking both hands beneath your bottom, cautious not to set this mousetrap off yourself. The pressure is grounding, at least; you match your breathing to the pulse you feel in your fingertips. “I trust it would be better than raw meat.”

A pause. Ghost’s spine straightens. Then, a panic. You’re thrown off your conviction when your chest flutters and you feel it in your brain. Where is that wily being? The woman who cheated her familiar into a season’s worth of labour? You feel as though you have regressed; screeching infant, lungs flaring with a rush of new air. You cannot face this, you think, but you’re already halfway out into the world. The sink squeaks off. 

You just pray your stomach doesn’t make noise in the new silence. 

“Is tha’ so?” He says, though does not turn to look at you just yet. 

“I could try.” The words bubble like bile in your throat. It is in your best interest to stay quiet. Say no more. He’s being ambiguous so you will reveal too much in turn. The game is transparent. You can see the water-worn rocks on the river bed, so clear it’s like they’re clasped between your hands instead. Yet– “If I had the ingredients for it, ‘course.” 

There. The lip of the cliff. How odd of you to see it only as you plummet towards a frothy scree. Ghost snaps, live lightning in heated air, or otherwise like the rocks that impale you on landing. In two strides, you’re cornered by a creature with scorn harrowing the space between its brows. You were stupid not to plan an escape route, stupid to arm yourself with nothing but flimsy subtlety. There was always the risk of it coming to this, you knew that. 

“You think y’can rummage for loopholes, hm?” He leers, eyes searing holes into yours. “A trick is only charmin’ on the first go, pet. More than once and y’start to stink of stale piss.” 

“I don’t–” 

He snatches your jaw, thumb and ring fingers digging an aching grip onto either side. Your protest warbles pathetically, dies, chokes you with its rot. It’s difficult, no– impossible to decipher what he's mad at. A small, fresh part of you actually hoped he’d see your cunning as artful. But it seems your station has come back to haunt you; another mortal whose brain cannot keep up with her heart. Even if one is in the right place, you will go about chasing it in the wrong direction. Artful is too shiny of a laurel, then. Trick, too, is being charitable 

“Do not play coy with me, girl. I do not take kindly to underhand deals.” Snarled right above you, spit spattering across your face. Your mandible squeaks, bone-deep pain flaring where he tightens the pressure around your face. Fox blood flavours his breath. There is a ringing in your head – shrill, like water in the tin sink. “If you need something from me, you will admit it and cope with the terms I have in turn.”

“I-I’m sorr-eeeee.” Your apology wheezes thin when he thrashes your head in place. It is either that or the relentless force on your jaw that tears a new world of pain down your neck. The tears are reactionary, then. Hot and foggy and not at all a sign of fear. “Ah- I’m sorry! I won’t– I didn’t mean to offend y-you.” 

“S’too fuckin’ late for that. You’ll follow through, before I take wha’ I want anyway.” He shakes his head. “Ask nicely for what y’need then, pet. Go on.” 

“Nothing! Nothing anymore, please. Jus’ let me go, Ghost.” Perhaps the universe disdains your insincerity, because in a hand dealt by its inexorable irony, your stomach buckles and purls a foul sound. Like it heard your words and protests the withdrawal, gurgling out loud to whoever will address it instead. 

And he does. He does. 

“You’re hungry, hm? That it?” He shoves your limp body onto the floor, dismissive of the pleas you now regulate to your feet, thrashed wildly to strike at his shin. Everything he does is callous, mean, agitated like the sulphur and magma that run thick beneath the earth’s crust. And though it is not your first encounter with a creature of that ilk – you have had your run-ins with over-excited men – the intentionality behind it has never been more flagrant. Ghost does it to hurt you. “Yeah, been neglecting you, haven’ I? Forgot pets couldn’ feed themselves.”  

“I’w scrounge somefing up mysef.” You struggle, speech impeded as he crushes your cheeks inwards. Pearl dust flakes your gums. 

“Should ‘ave thought of tha’ before. Even if I end up breakin’ every bone in that fine skull of yours, I won’t let up. Say it, then, you daft thing.” 

The scaling of your options is instantaneous. Even as your immediate conscious lags behind, activity lights the back of your head and cracks its way out of your mouth before you can catch it. It took weeks for your nose to heal, much less your skull. You’re consuming fuel quicker than you can replenish, running on a backlog of quick-burning fat. And all of it can be taken care of if you just give in, to what will likely only be a few hours of degradation. 

(Cavewoman. Primordial. Primitive impartiality, or survival of the fittest. The world has only come so far since then, and even within its concentrated civilizations, there is no aegis but for those who come up on top. You cannot expect your liberties to be met anywhere. That, you know too well.

But here, in this feral forest, at least you can use the violation to your benefit. At the very least, you will not be exiled, cast as witch for taboo of saying the greater word. 

You are already macerated on rock bottom. And at the barren abyss of all leasts, Ghost will not hang a cross pendant above you as he stomps it in.)

He must see the surrender wet your eyes, for the grip on your jaw lessens. 

“I am hungry.” You cry, finally, lashes fluttering shut so as to guard your tears. “I am hungry. This winter has dashed my garden and I do not know how to hunt. The cushions jab into my ribs when I sleep. I feel as though my stomach will consume me from the inside out, and I’m desperate. I am desperate, and I am so, so hungry. And I am asking for your help. Please.” 

If there was any part of you that still believed he would choose pity, it is muffled and killed. You hear the scratch of fabric as he undoes his pants. Final, failing. Rustled hand behind confines, stench of musk stiffening the air. For a few seconds, you opt to remain blissfully ignorant – keep your eyes closed and imagine that the presence before your face is something different. A purifying flame, tender cut of meat, a smiling face before things fell downhill. It all sounds too good to be true, and they are. Sooner or later, you tell yourself, you have to face the misery. 

So, you force yourself to behold it before he takes that upon himself. 

His cock is heavy. Fat and oversized, length not having suffered for its breadth. Ruddy where the head peaks from an uncut tip, hard already, but bowed under the weight of itself. If you had anything to expel, you would’ve done so by now. A thicket of hair fledges his groyne – a shade of dark that pales his scarred skin in comparison – and it reeks of sweat and miasma. 

He taps it on your cheek, prespend sticky and warm. You flinch as though you have been beaten. 

“Just one thing af’er the other with you, pet. Think this’ll give y’something to fix yourself on.” 

“I don’t– I’ve never–” His thumb hooks over your bottom teeth, prying your trap as wide as it can go. Drool slicks the cracked hinges of your lips. “Don’ know how.”

“Not what I’m lookin’ for.” He purrs, cruel humour gracing his tone. Somehow, it is not a reassurance as much as it is a snub. “Jus’ keep your teeth out of the way.” Humiliation washes your neck and ears, rush of blood like white river rapids behind your ears. It is the final swatch, trumpet to armageddon, before your ruin. You suck in a breath and bring your mouth to him.

Ghost meets you halfway, treating the crown of your head as an anchor to thrust forward. Immediately, you let slip his only rule, teeth snapping reflexively at the intrusion. You expect to be backhanded, have your hair ripped from your scalp in relation, or worse. It is a relief, then, when the only force you receive is a knock against your jaw. The rapping shakes your cotton-lined skull, snaps you out of your stupefaction, and you slack all muscles to accommodate his demand.

The mass feeding down your throat vibrates, an appreciative hum coursing through his body. “There you are, little jezebel. Look a’ you takin’ my cock so well.” 

You make no effort to glide your tongue along his veins. To make this pleasurable for him beyond what he takes for himself. True to his word, your familiar does not punish you for it. He knots his hands around your head and fucks your face, careless, cock rearranging the anatomy of your neck as it bludgeons a straight path down. You sway, ragdoll with the motions, knees rubbing abrasively across the floor as he slides you back and forth over it. 

Hypoxia spots your vision, lungs clenching furiously at the obstructed flow of oxygen. You would fasten it all shut, close yourself off from the world, but your eyes bulge a little at the edges, stagnant blood keeping them arid and open. It’s hard to dissociate. Hard to pretend that the steel-wool friction at the tip of your nose, the pendulum-consistent slaps on your chin, are not his pubic hair and balls searing unmistakable marks on your skin. And your series of gags are sloppy, lewd out in the confined air of your home. How could they be anything but damnation? There is no deluding the Maker. 

(No matter how fervently he tried. Marry me, proposed down on both knees. It’ll set this whole fankle right. We’ll hold hands an’ seek penance at the kirk before th’ceremony. My pa will officiate. Yer ma will be thrilled.)

Snot bubbles from your nose, cheeks slick with tears and wayward spit. When he batters forward, it amalgamates in the soft palate beneath your spasming tongue. When he draws out, he takes it with him, viscous strings of saliva bridging the gap. It streams down to your neck, glosses your lips, webs your lashes together. You feel buried beneath its stifling coat, set down into your grave at last. Maggots worm their way into the soft matter of your brain, eat away at the tissue until there’s nothing left but suffocation. Death. Throttling void. 

Your hands flail out, seeking an end to it, but all you find is Ghost.

He slows down once he nears his end. 

The bruising pace he set stutters, balls tightening against your submental. It catches you off guard because, for the past ten minutes, you accustomed yourself to the patterns of his push and pull. For every plunge, there is a retreat, where you will greedily feast on fresh air before being choked back down on his cock. It is a break of tide, an opportunity to paddle your way above water to clear sea-salt from your hollows. A bay to hold onto so you do not drown.

Until now; his forearms twitch and you’re kept in place, forehead squashed onto his mons. You panic, hold on your breath breaking. The heady scent of sweat sweeps over you, laced with the tart products of your mouth – saliva and blood from where your canine pierced your cheek. Prespend, too. The undiluted stink of him. Hair tickles your lips. Your cunt flares, sudden, slickening the chafe of your thighs, but the unwelcome arousal does nothing for you. 

He holds your head down and spurts his load into your gullet. 

There is no room to swallow. It goes in the wrong direction, then – upward – and out your nose. You squeeze your eyes shut, disgusted scream gargling around his throbbing appendage. Distress bloats your head, temples feverish and sweating, nails digging deep impressions into your palms. It’s futile. Useless. Nothing thwarts him but the last dregs of semen spitting out onto your tonsils, pumping himself dry until finally, finally–

Ghost pulls out. You collapse onto the carpet and hack up cum until your throat bleeds. 

The silence afterwards is mortifying, tension palpable enough to writhe up against. Drained, you’ve since pressed your cheek into the puddle of filth, urging pearlescent spend to seep into the fibres below. It'll be a nightmare to clean later, you process slowly. Perhaps you’ll use the bleach, and take the same sponge to your lips.

The monster above you tuts at the display, crouching to your level when you exhibit no interest in rising to his.  

“C’mon, sweet. Wouldn’t want to waste your dinner now.” 

But you’re too weak to lift your head. So Ghost gathers your hair, puppeteering – in a manner rather gentle for your assailant – until you can lap his essence off the floor. 

It tastes like raw venison. You snivel your thanks, and imagine it is exactly that.

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[cryptidcasanova]

The Depths You’ll Go

Namor x Reader

This is a big ol’ fever dream. It’s been a while since I felt this way about a Marvel character.

Summary: The price of protecting a an advanced civilization from the rest of the world is high, but the rewards? Priceless.

Warnings: 18+ Content. Angst, cannon level violence, mutual pining. Namor is overwhelmingly protective. I’m a sucker for a happy ending.

Words: 2.5k

Dividers by the stunning @firefly-graphics​.

You had to keep moving.

You were close to the water; you could feel it deep in your bones.

The little boy in your arms must have felt the saltwater lingering in the air. He was frantic, twisting in your hold as you rushed through the corridor. 

His blue skin was pale, and he was trying to breathe in the air you knew wouldn't sustain him.

"Just a little longer," You cradled him close, whispering reassurances in his hair. "I'm getting you out of here."

But you were biting back tears.

You never expected to be followed home by the young Talokan boy. He was so little and curious and full of love. He had hardly left your side while you watched Namor teach a sparring session. How he trained, moved, and spoke with his people made your heart swell.

And you didn't expect the raid on your home soon after you returned to the beach. You didn't stand a chance against the swat team busting down your door. The boy was the most important thing. You weren't going to let anything happen to him.

Shuri warned you to be careful. The agencies have kept an eye on you since you left Wakanda.

It was everything Namor feared. All he wanted to do was protect his people; you were the reason they were in danger.

Oh, Namor.

Your stomach ached. You wanted to scream and call out for help, but the best thing you could do was sneak around the guards and get the boy back to the water. The boy. The adored one.

Taavi.

You treasured him more than you thought possible. He was strong and curious in the water but bashful and wide-eyed above ground.

Dark hair fell against his cheeks, and his eyes drooped as you turned a corner. You cradled him close.

But you were running out of time.

And then, when you finally kicked open the metal door at the end of the hall, you cried out with joy.

You were close to the water. Closer than you thought. 

It was a sheer drop from the cliffside base into the Atlantic, and it was only then you heard the clinking of footsteps not far behind you. The guards found you.

The boy pushed out of your arms just in time and dove into the brink as the guards pulled you back. You should have jumped. And then you watched the little boy poking his head out of the water and staring up at you with a fearful expression. He didn't know what was happening. 

You cried out when the guards pointed their guns at the top of the water.

"Taavi, go. Get out of here!"

You were wrestled back into the base, frantically throwing your body toward the water. You weren't even sure if you could make the dive. But before you could slip out of their grip, something hit you hard in the back of your head.

And everything went dark.

Your cell turned into an interrogation room. 

The soldiers wanted to know about the little blue boy, that thing. They didn’t even treat him like a child, but an experiment. They wanted to know what was in the water. About the vibranium. 

Interrogation turned from fear tactics to torture. And you were no soldier.

You were trained in the sciences, to know biology, to understand life and nature. That's why Banner recommended you go to Wakanda in the first place.

And with Talokan? You still had so much to learn. Their livelihoods and families were on the line. Hundreds of years of culture were preserved. 

And you cared about them.

You weren't going to betray their trust. That is, if Namor didn't think you already had.

His fatalist streak made you fear the worst. He was fiercely protective of his people, and the way he was around the children? Patient and compassionate. Taavi's disappearance must have caused an uproar.

You hoped he would be merciful.

Time passed. Days passed.

You thought you would rot in that jail cell, battered and bruised, until you just drifted away one day. That they'd forget about you until it was too late. Until you were lost to the wind.

And one day, the guards were given new orders.

They all knew something was in the water. But didn't know what to look for, and they never did catch that little boy. 

If he could make his way out of their surveyed waters, the people in power were convinced something could find its way back in.

All they needed was some new bait. 

There must have been a reason why the boy was with you. You were their best bet for finding out why.

The soldiers changed. At first, it was the Americans, then the French, and the Germans, and then you couldn't tell after a while. 

The thought of all the surface countries working together made your head spin.

They waited until the tide was at its lowest. That's when they drug you out of the cell by your arms, until you were too tired to fight back. 

You were too tired to think. It felt hopeless. You were taken to a different side of the base, where paths of rocks were cut out down to the water.

And then you saw the chains. 

The guards attached arm restraints to the rocky walls, where the water kissed the land. One look at the guards was all it took, and then you knew. They wanted their intel. 

They wanted to know about Talokan, and they weren't above drowning a scientist to get it.

"Last chance, sweetheart," One of the men said, all dressed up to fight off the chill in the air. He was different from the others; you'd never seen him before. He must have been the man in charge.

Your stomach roiled in frustration.

He sauntered up to you, pulling your chin up with a firm grip. You hated his clever expression and bad breath.

"We just want to know about your little blue friend," He tormented, looking out to the water. "It's a little cold for a swim, don't you think?"

Your chest ached. But you had come so far; you couldn't hand them over. Namor would never give up like this.

You choked on a cry before taking a breath of sea air.

"He's in New York.”

The man turned around. You caught his attention.

"Come again?" He smirked, urging you to continue. The others were looking now, waiting for an answer.

"New York," You repeated tiredly. "But he turns green once in a while, not blue. Maybe you should get your eyes checked-"

You were kicked down to your knees without compunction.

"You think you're real funny, eh?” He scoffed. “String her up."

Your fate was sealed. You were gagged and bound like a worm on a hook and couldn't go crying out for help. 

And then they dragged you into the water.

The cold plunge made your teeth chatter, but there was no time to consider it. Your arms were strung against the rocky walls on either side of your shoulders. Your legs were bound and weighed down. The saltwater only came up to your waist, but you knew it wouldn't last. 

You rested your head against the wall in defeat.

And at last, you understood Namor's resentment. It pierced through years of you trying to help people and fight for the right causes. 

At the end of the day, people in power wanted to keep their knowledge, power, and strengths. They wanted it all for themselves.

The water spray against the rocks gave you an excuse to cry, to mourn the life you couldn't live. 

You should have told Namor the truth. You stayed in Talokan to learn, but it was more than that. As time went on, your trips into the sea lost focus. You were enamored by the Talokan people and how their lives were completely untouched by the outside world. 

They were considerate and humble. They cared for one another.

Namor cared for them, for all of them. His icy demeanor was an act. He could talk strategy with his advisors and turn around to celebrate a new baby in their city. He could help by collecting food and scouting the perimeter of their sanctuary. It was no wonder why people worshipped him. 

And his animosity towards outsiders didn't touch you. As much as he resented the world above, it was as though he wanted to show just how far they had come. They were a prosperous and independent nation. Completely indigenous. It was breathtaking.

It was hard not to swoon over him. You should have told Namor how you felt sooner.

Shuri could see it. M'Baku could see it. Hell, you were sure Namora could tell how you felt for their leader. But you could keep them safe. 

They were the best warriors you had ever seen, and now it was your turn to protect them.

When the water cupped around your shoulders, you were pulled away from your thoughts. It was much colder than you thought. Your arms were shaking, and your fingers were numb. 

The water was ruthless against the scrapes and cuts along your body. The weight was doing its job. It was keeping you from being buoyant. You swore you could feel something against your legs and panicked, pulling yourself up as best you could.

But the next wave came at you fast, making you choke on the gag in your mouth. You were running out of time.

The soldiers were looking out over the water with their guns ready, waiting for the call. 

They were waiting to find something in the water. But the night was quiet.

In the last attempt to rectify yourself, you begged for his forgiveness. Namor let you into his home and world, and you almost ruined it. Your heart was hammering as the wave receded, and your pleas were lost behind your water-soaked gag.

You'd never see him again. You'd never hear the low timber of his words or see the passion in his eyes. Your eyes were squeezed shut.

Your heart was breaking and you couldn't stop it. 

K’uk’ulkan

The water was rising, but all you could see was his profile. You could remember the curve of his nose and how his eyebrows moved when he told a story.

K’uk’ulkan

Another wave hit hard, and you choked on the icy water. But you could still see Namor guiding you through his sanctuary, pointing to the paintings on the walls.

K’uk’ulkan

The next wave didn't recede as far as you hoped. Another wave struck you, but you could still see him. You could smell the salt on his skin and hear how his necklaces moved when he walked. You could almost hear his voice. 

He was - the bubble burst.

You couldn't breathe. 

Your body was on auto pilot, thrashing and kicking wildly. Your body was fighting off the water that burned in your chest. It surrounded you in a coccon, murky and frothing against the rocks. 

But you weren't as alone as you thought.

You couldn't feel the little grouping of octopuses at your feet trying to find a way to undo your chains.

You couldn't hear the soft singing above the water, urging soldiers into the brine.

And Namor - you couldn't see the carnage. 

You couldn't see the rage and anguish on his face as he barreled through the base. Their water explosives shook the ground. You couldn't have known he was scouring the ocean for you.

Taavi made it home because of you. 

You protected the little boy like he was your own, no matter the cost, and Namor couldn't see past it. You put your life on the line for them. It was his turn to serve you. 

His chest ached with some long-lost realization, something he never dared to put into words but was forced to face. His heart beat a little faster when you were around. His focus swayed. He cared about you most ardently.

You were his to protect.

After all the time he had to dance around it, humbly flaunting his world to an outsider, Namor finally understood. The moment he let you see his world, he knew; he would protect you. 

The way he flew into the water and pulled the chains away from the rock was terrifying. 

His blood boiled as your hands fell limp into the water. He tugged the gag away from your face and cradled you above the water’s surface. 

But you weren't breathing. 

There was too much water in your lungs. Your heartbeat was faint, straining against your ribcage. 

In a moment of hesitation, Namor pulled you from the water and up the rocky shore. The singing stopped. The chaos stopped. 

And all eyes were on K'uk'ulkan. 

The sea was claiming you for itself, but Namor wasn't going to give you up so easily. His expression welled with power, even when his jaw locked with uncertainty. 

He needed to get the water out of your lungs. You needed air. 

His hand spread over your heart before pressing down, the ridges of his palm digging into your skin. A command left his lips that was sharper than any blade. 

"You cannot have her."

He began chanting in his native tongue, commanding the seas. 

"Her heart beats for my people. It beats for me," He realized. "You cannot have her."

A rush of wind swept through the sky. And the sea, fearful of his wrath, receded from the shore. 

His other hand cupped your face, leaning in with intention. He had never been so close, but it made perfect sense now. It felt important, felt right.

There was another way. 

His eyes lit up. And when he leaned in to kiss you, it was met with lifetimes of bottled-up affection. Slow and intentional, he poured out his power. It was his breath, a kiss from a god. 

The unspoken command broke the spell. 

When Namor pulled back, your body lurched up with a frightful cough. 

The sting of saltwater burned in your throat. Your hands were clammy, reaching out to hold on tight. Your chest ached, and your eyes burned as you tried to move. It was disorienting. 

And then you heard it; the lull of your voice being called out, followed by a string of native words you couldn't understand.

Then you felt it; a strong hand covering yours, warmer and firmer than your own. He wasn't going to let you go.

And you saw it, saw him. Namor looked down at you like you could have hung all the stars in the sky. He was careful, like you could break under his stare. 

But he brushed the tears out of your eyes. You didn't even realize you were crying.

Namor. 

He had more love in his heart than anyone gave him credit for. He deserved the world. 

And when he pulled you up into his arms, you held on tight. 

Namor wanted to burn the world down. He wanted to fight, but for a moment it was stolen by the way you called his name. It was the sweetest sound he ever heard.

He wasn't going to let anything else happen to you. Because while your heart beat for his people, his heart was beating for you.

[franabz]

★ Post-mission comfort

The day after missions was always the hardest, especially for you. Sore and achey muscles, constant migraines, hypersensitivity, though after having been on the Task Force for a few years now, you grew used to the early morning splintering ear rings from the unsuppressed guns, fellow soldiers shouting commands into your earpiece, and grenades falling way too close for comfort.

Today was no different, an off day in the base was the perfect grounds for hiding away from COs and curling up in your barracks while being spooned by blankets and pillows, letting a Tylenol's sink through your system to numb the aches and pains of post-deployment.

You close your eyes and let your weary muscles relax against your bedsheets, practically melting into the mattress beneath you and tuning out any distant noises or voices from behind the security of the walls of your barracks. Nothing could ruin this-

Knock knock knock

Your eyes open slowly at the sudden sound of knuckles rattling against your door, a heavy sigh escaping your lips and a small pang of irritation crossing your features. "Who is it?" You called out in a hoarse voice, the sound of your exhaustion even surprising you.

"Its J-"

"Come in." You replied before the voice could even finish their sentence, knowing exactly who it was just from their accent alone. The one man that was practically at your hip after missions, Soap.

Like you, he was just as pissy and whiney after missions as you were. Only difference was that he was much more verbal about it than you.

He pushed the door open the second he got the OK, wearing a baggy blue t-shirt and a pair of grey sweatpants, hands shoved lazily in his pockets. He practically kicked the door closed behind him and immediately made a bee-line for your bed, flopping down beside you on his belly, face buried in your pillow with a leg dangling off the edge.

You sighed and shifted over slightly to face his face-down figure, forcing back a small fond scoff. "You too?" You spoke quietly, tucking a hand under your pillow and lying on your side, facing him.

"M' fuckin' tired..." He complained per usual, causing you to fight back a smile. "Me too." You hummed languidly, feeling your eyelids growing a bit heavier in the stillness of the room.

Soap faintly tilted his head just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes just as heavy as yours were as his soft blue stare met yours. There was a small period of comfortable silence between you two, simply staring at one another, wordlessly expressing your combined exhaustion in the warm room.

Without a word, he closed his eyes and wrapped an arm around your neck, pulling you closer to him and burying his head in the crook of your neck, his forehead resting against your shoulder and his arm tucked comfortably under your arm.

You were a bit surprised at first at his sudden advance, but quickly adjusted and let out a small warm huff, your own body shuffling closer to his and wrapping your arms around his neck and carding your fingers through his mohawk with one hand.

You two have been through a lot together, that was a known fact. You two have been through life or death situations and would take a bullet for one another in a heartbeat if needed. You both grew to deeply appreciate the comfort you two would bring one another, knowing the high stakes of the job and relishing in the moments when you two could just... relax.

"M' tired, dove..." Soap croaked, his voice a bit muffled against your shoulder.

"Then go to sleep, dummy." You smiled slightly, subconsciously holding him a bit closer. He muttered something inaudible that you didn't quite pick up, though you assumed it was probably something dumb and sappy.

You two simply relaxed again one another, enjoying the cozy moment as if it was the last.

[cumikering]

Werewolf Keegan x reader

2k | fluff Keegan had the stiffest neck known to man (part 2)

It all started with a recon duty.

Alone, Keegan lay prone, seamless in the bushes in his dark attire. The full moon perched high, softened by the thick fog. The gentle rain tricked down the back of his neck under his mask.

He aimed down his sight, following the guard on patrol as he waited, waited for him to separate from the other. He took his time rounding the corner, puffing on his cigarette, rifle slung against his body.

As Keegan positioned his finger on the trigger, a branch snapped behind him.

His head whipped over his shoulder to see a shadow a few feet away, crouching. He jumped to his feet, heart pulsing in his ears. He yanked out his sidearm as the large beast pounced and pinned him down with a thump. The force knocked the gun out of his hand.

He freed his right arm with a grunt. He ripped his blade out its sheath, ramming it into the creature’s side repeatedly. It howled in pain and leapt away.

He staggered up, panting. In a swift move, he reverse gripped his bloodied knife. The beast growled, its brilliant yellow eyes glinting. Head lowered in caution, it stepped sideways, blood pouring out of the stabs.

“Come at me, bitch,” he spat out, mirroring its movement.

It snarled, the sound piercing, baring its pointy teeth before retreating into the woods.

He dropped to his hands and knees, heart beating out of his chest as sharp pain ran up his thigh. His pant leg had been shredded, the cuts under gushing blood. He let out an uneven breath. The bastard got him after all.

“Six-Two, how copy? What was that?”

He tried reaching for his comms, but fell to his side as he heaved, eyelids growing heavy.

“Keegan, do you copy?” The urgency in Merrick’s voice grew.

The crackle of his radio was the last thing he heard before everything went silent.

When Keegan woke with a grunt, the sun had just peeked over the horizon, casting a blue hue upon the woods. Leaves and twigs crunched in the distance.

His eyes fluttered open as he sat up, his head spinning. He reached for his holster before he realised he was all skin.

“What the fuck,” he muttered, wincing as he turned his neck. His clothes and gear strewn not too far from his camping spot the night before.

“Keegan,” a hushed voice called out, growing closer by the second.

He dove to his clothes, slipping them on frantically despite the dried mud on his body. Had it been that cold that he was delirious, like hypothermia victims who’d paradoxically shed their clothes? But if he’d got to that point, he wouldn’t have been alive then.

“Ajax! I’m here.”

His head whipped to Keegan. He breathed a sigh of relief as he jogged over. “We thought we lost you!” His eyes scanned over his body. “Oh shit, what happened?”

He followed his line of sight down to his mangled pants. He’d forgotten about his thigh. It didn’t hurt anymore.

“Oh. I- Fuck, there was a wolf. Huge.”

“Holy shit,” he muttered, reaching for his comms. “Scarecrow, he’s secure. Need medical. We’re heading to LZ.”

Ajax’s brows furrowed at how he made his way back with the state of his thigh, but Keegan was just relieved the mission had been a success despite the setback from his side.

On the ride back to base as he recounted the night before to his peers, his pants were cut to reveal his wound which had mostly dried up. He could have sworn the cuts were deep – look at the blood soaked cargos, but maybe his team was right, he just couldn’t see well in the dark.

Back on base as he cleaned his blade, the only evidence that the beast even existed, the bits of his dream came back to him. He tore through the woods on black paws to his heart’s content, each step light, unbothered by the nightfall.

It had felt impossibly real, the ground wet under him, the cold rain on his skin despite the thick fur. The smell of earth was comforting to the point of intoxicating, calling him back home.

Keegan chalked the night up as a fluke, a once in a lifetime occurrence he’d recall and brag about to the recruits. He got the scars to prove it after all.

But he had that dream again the month after.

Often when adjusting back to life after missions, his senses would overload the first few days. This time though, it was even more so. The hair on the back of his neck stood and the sweat only trickled more as the sky darkened.

This time as he lied on his couch, he remembered the warmth instantly rising to his skin, the tingling at his fingertips, the ringing in his ears. He couldn’t control his limbs when he stood and ripped his clothes off, before white hot pain seared his body for a split second.

Despite the light head and what felt like the worst case of sleeping wrong, he was surprisingly stable as he got off the floor and made his way back to the couch. But instead of turning to sit, he swiftly climbed onto it and lied down on his belly.

Wait, that’s not right…

He looked down. Two black paws on the upholstery. He let out a scream, but it didn’t sound right either.

He jumped off and barged through the bathroom door to meet a large black dog. Keegan jumped, making it bark. He froze in place as its growling resonated within the walls.

With the delay in his thoughts and movements, it took him way too long to realise he was dreaming. You never look right in mirrors.

He boofed, paws up on the counter. He tilted his head, tongue lolling as he revelled in his long snout and sharp teeth. His pointy ears and jet black floof made him feel far more like an oversized dog despite the yellow eyes – the only tell that he was a wolf. He chuckled to himself, or whatever the canine equivalent was.

It was dark outside, but he’d always wondered what it felt like to roll around on the grass. He pranced out, standing on his hind legs to open the door to no avail. His front paws slid right off the shiny, round door knob.

After a few attempts, he let out a sigh as he turned back to his apartment. What else would a dog do? Drink from the toilet bowl? Chew on shoes? Rummage through trash? None of those sounded particularly interesting.

Oh, he had a soft rug! He’d take what he could get.

He rolled on it as he panted for what felt like hours before his movements slowed and things went fuzzy again.

As vivid as the dream was, Keegan couldn’t write it off as another glitch because once more, he woke up bare with the stiffest neck known to man. The evidence stared back at him in the form of black fur all over the couch and rug.

“What. The. Fuck.” He sat up, reaching for the fur around him. He rubbed it between his fingers.

If not for the snarl over the comms, his team mates didn’t even believe him about the wolf with how shallow the cuts were that morning. They would certainly laugh at him if he told anyone about what just happened. He knew he’d lose his marbles if Ajax told him something similar.

He had to get to the bottom of this on his own. But first, he had to quench the odd craving for dry cereal.

Legend had it, you turned into a werewolf if you got scratched or bitten by one. Every night of the full moon, you’d get the urge to-

He scrolled down further, shoving more cereal into his mouth in his boxers.

A werewolf experiences his rut 2-3 times a year… His body would feel like it’s on fire… The wolf will then begin his journey to find his fated mate…

The mating bond is to be made within 7 full moons… Rejection would cause the werewolf to stay in his wolf form permanently…

He snickered. What a load of bullshit.

If this whole thing was real, he’d hear it on the news. But he never did, because this was insanity.

Yes, yes, he couldn’t explain the very-much-physical floof all over his apartment. But if for whatever reason he could chill as a wolf once a month, he wasn’t going to complain. As far as he knew there were no drawbacks to it if he could time it with his days off.

Maybe next time he could finally turn the door knob.

With every full moon, Keegan grew more and more comfortable in his new body. Every weekend he was home, he rented a humble cabin off the hiking site, thoroughly enjoying running through the woods and the solitude at the top of the mountain.

See, the lore was nonsense. He didn’t get sick anymore during the full moon (or ever). He could even shift on demand now - his deployments didn’t deter the doggo lifestyle. This was actually fun!

Until he burnt up during a mission. He could barely stand with his spinning head, and so he was sent to the safehouse to recover. He popped each and every pill he was prescribed, but his fever only worsened. He felt so hot… and bothered.

Was he given the wrong meds on accident? Who the fuck would prescribe medications with such side effect, during a mission at that?

He waited. An hour. Two hours.

With a sigh, he did what every man would to get the situation over with, yet the problem remained. Now sweating even more, he collapsed onto the floor with a pathetic grunt; his body like it was on fire.

On fire… On fire…

With the remaining energy he had, he grabbed his phone and navigated back to the lore from months before.

A werewolf experiences his rut 2-3 times a year. For days, his body would feel like it’s on fire with the desire to mate, marking his entrance into adulthood. The wolf will then begin his journey to find his fated mate…

His eyes narrowed.

Some say fated mates share scars and/or birthmarks, but one would ‘know’ he has found his mate when he can single out their scent and becomes possessive of them.

His face scrunched.

After meeting his mate, the mating bond is to be made within 7 full moons.  Failure or rejection would cause the werewolf to stay in his wolf form permanently by the 8th full moon, often turning feral from the heartache.

He dry retched. He never doubted the fact that he liked women, of the human variety.

To make the bond, the werewolf draws the blood of his mate from between their neck and shoulder under the full moon. The bond is only sealed if the pair loves each other and shares a dream that night. The mate can then choose to remain human or be turned into a werewolf by getting bitten in the same spot.

Wait. Human, you say?

As ridiculous as the lore seemed, he had nothing to worry about. There were no soulmates for him. The timer would never start because he knew he was meant to be alone.

So yeah, that was Keegan P. Russ.

He served his country as a Sergeant, kissed his mum on the cheek when he came home. He recycled, paid his bills on time, and gave up his seat to pregnant women and the elderly. He abided to traffic rules and had no road rage (at least that’s what he told himself).

Oh, and thanks to one recon duty, he was now a werewolf.

Heh. Good luck trying to ruin my life.

But as we all know, fate has a funny way of catching up to you.

More Keegan: second chance, fake dating

Special thanks to @tiredmetalenthusiast and @shadofireshinobi who helped me with this!

@glitterypirateduck @sofasoap @keegansshark @two-gh0sts @rowanyaboats

[luna0713hunter]

saw u were gna write for reno and i was so happy bcs i NEED reno fics bcs there js not enough😭

if u could write something like y/n has an inferiority complex towards kikoru bcs she’s always second to her and reno notices this, but on a mission y/n gets heavily injured and he comes in to help… and rest is up to you! obviously u can ignore this as well, have a good day🫶

A/n : omgs hi!!!so happy to see you requesting my dear!! And i just love your idea????? I'm honestly such a sucker for hurt/comfort trope!!!thank you for request darling~ hope you enjoy it!

Take this lonely heart

Reno Ichikawa x reader

sweet and soft,hurt/comfort,injuries and blood

Kikoru is amazing.

That's not as shocking as the first time you've seen her; she's long proven to be most talented person there is in fighting kaiju. She's a pretty girl,with her blond hair and sparkling eyes. And the way she walks like she own every room she steps inside.

She's simply amazing. And that's a well known fact by now.

Skies are blue, the night is dark and Kikoru Shinomiya is a perfect human being.

And as you watch her slice down yet another Yoju with such grace all the while you're holding your bleeding side, you cant help but to envy her. You dont hate Kikoru,no. Far from that actually. But its just frustrating; seeing her fight so effortlessly while you're struggling to keep your eyes open. She rushes around, slicing Kaiju after Kaiju down, all the while keeping her grin plastered on her face.

She looks so happy, so beautifully graceful and strong, that has your throat burning with anger towards yourself.

Why cant you be that strong?

You jump out of the way just as one of the Wyverns dives down, just in time for someone too shoot the freeze rounds. And when the rifle goes off,you know immediately who it belongs to.

You look up from where you're crouched behind a giant boulder to see Kikoru landing the finishing blow on the kaiju.

When she lands on the ground again, she gives Reno a half smile.

Jealousy burns behind your eyes as you watch Reno compliment Kikoru on her performance. You blink rapidly, trying to clear your vision ; this is a battlefield, with people trying to survive all around you. You dont have time to feel sorry for yourself. You have to fight as well; make sure every one of the Wyverns are death before they get the chance to attack any of the civilians outside the base.

You suck in a harsh breath and hold your rifle tightly as you march forward all by yourself. You know its stupid; to rush head first without any support. But the image of Kikoru and Reno has been burned in your mind, and you cant shake it off.

You need to prove yourself; to your teammates, to your captains.

To Reno above all.

Your rifle is ready to shoot when a Wyvern bursts through a building. You arms are steady, and your breath is shakey. But your aim is perfect.

Or at least, it would've been if another Wyvern hadn't dove down and knocked you off of your feet.

Your head makes contact with the concrete with a loud 'bang' that knocks the air out of your lungs. You can hear the blood rush in your ears along with a deafening ringing as you try to blink away the stars from dancing in your vision. You hear the distance sound of one of the Kaiju's screech, and you reach blindly for your rifle. When your fingers wrap around the familiar metal, you push yourself up despite your head pounding and and your whole body shaking.

You wont give up, no.

Your aim isnt as perfect as before, but when you shoot the second Wyvern in the back with your remaining release power that's probably not much, the Kaiju let's out a loud screech before exploding; sending it's blood and guts flying everywhere.

And although you probably have a concussion, you cant stop the small feeling of joy and victory that spreads across your chest.

But unfortunately, your joy is short lived ; just as you're about to limp your way back to your team, the first Wyvern comes back.

And gods above does it look angry.

The kaiju lets out a loud scream, and raises a claw and before you can even react, you feel the sharp pain explode in your side. And when you open your eyes again, you're laying on your back on the ground as blood pours out of your wounds.

You watch the Wyvern open its mouth, ready to fire, and you think its amazing how the concussion makes everything seem in slow motion. But you think it also sucks; to die in your second battle while your friends still need your help.

The blood coming from your head has made its way to your eyes, and you try to blink it away. You're so tired and dizzy from the blood lost, that you think you're hallucinating when suddenly the kaiju freezes over. Your so busy to keep your eyes open, that you dont even notice Kikoru arriving and taking down the last Wyvern in the area. Every sound seems to come from under the water and you feel awfully cold even in your special suit, but when warm hands hold your cheeks and you hear distant yelling, you know you've closed your eyes without even realizing.

"Y/n!!" The voice is panicked, worried and awfully familiar, "Y/n!open your eyes!!! don't fall asleep!!"

It takes a lot of effort, but when you finally do open your eyes, you're met with a pair of silver-violet eyes.

"Reno...?" Your voice is barely audible, but Reno hears it. He holds your hand tightly as he shifts you in his embrace, squeezing your hand with reassurance.

"Yeah its me..." He croaks, voice cracking, " I'm here... I should've been here sooner, I'm so sorry."

" 's not your fault." Your eyes flutter shut momentarily but opening once more when Reno calls your name with a small shake to your aching body, " I should've been more careful... its my fault for being so weak..."

"What are you talking about?" His hold around your shoulder tightens. You feel him getting up with you still in his embrace; he's probably taking you to the nearest medic around, "you did great. You defeated that Wyvern all by yourself. Without any backup or help."

"But I'm not..." You swallow around the lump in your throat and squeeze your eyes shut when you feel the tears starting to burn them, "I'm not as good as Kikoru. I'll never be as good as her."

Reno gives you a confused look as he rushes forward; eyes searching for the medic Haruichi had mentioned.

"Why are you comparing yourself to her?"

"Because," your sob has Reno stopping in his track; eyes wildly searching for the source of your discomfort, "because...you always keep looking at her...i know she's perfect,in everything, but no matter how hard i try, i cant...." You hide your face in his chest, " be like her for you..."

The man holding you is dead silence. You think you can hear the distant sound of explosion and your captains fighting, but no sound comes from Reno. You've lost enough blood that makes you want to just close your eyes and sleep this horrible day off, but when you feel Reno move again, it has your eyes fluttering open once more.

"Y/n," Reno's voice is stern, a tone you've ever heard when he's begging Hibino-san to not transform to his kaiju form, "look at me... please."

When you comply, he gives you a soft smile; the ones only reserved for you that has butterflies flying in your stomach.

"I dont need you to be like her for me." He pauses and shakes his head with a hint of a laugh, "hell,i dont want you to ever be like her."

You can hear the medics' shouts near by, and judging by the way Reno's face relaxes slightly, you're probably in a safe zone for now.

"I want you to be you. I want the y/n who cried when Senpai got accepted as an official officer. I want the y/n who stayed by my bedside whenever i get injured and doesn't leave until i eat something." His smile grows, softer than you've seen, "i want 'you' who's always there for me. I want 'you', who's strong, independence, and stubborn as hell and sometimes gives me heart attack." When a small giggle escapes from your bloody lips, Reno also lets out a laughter of his own.

He nods to the medic who walks by and motions for him to put you down on the nearest makeshift med. Reno gently puts you down, mindful of your injuries but as soon as you're settled, he takes hold of your hand with both of his own. He smiles, and a suddenly pink dusts his pale cheeks.

"I want the y/n... who I've fell in love with. I want you, no one else. And definitely not Kikoru." Your cheeks feel like they're on fire, but the tired smile you give him is genuine, "i mean, have you seen her? She drives me crazy!"

Your laughter is a small thing but the sound is enough to relax Reno more. The silver haired boy bends down and kisses your forehead gently; making your eyes flutter shut.

"Get some rest. I'll be back before you know it."

You watch as Reno gets up and talks with other teammates. But before he can leave, his name falls from your lips. He immediately turns around and waits for you to say whatever's on your mind with enough patients that has your heart melt in your chest.

"I love you too, Reno," you smile as his ears suddenly turn red, "be safe."

And he only turns his back to Iharu's harsh teasing and trips over his own feet.

"See you soon, babe."

[aoyum]

Omg I loved your Aonung fics! Could I request a Aonung x reader fic please! I was thinking a fic where it’s angst to fluff and Aonung has said something hurtful to the reader and the reader starts avoiding him. You can decide what he does for forgiveness! Thank you!

bye this took so long i’m so sorry, tysm for sending smth in

Sorrows

ao’nung x gn!omaticaya reader

angst, fluff

ao’nung leaves your brother stranded in the sea and tries to get your forgiveness

1.0k words

i kinda based the beginning off of the scene where jake tells the people the truth abt why he came, watch here

“You… what?” you asked, trying to understand if you had heard him correctly. Ao’nungs lips flattened into a thin line, inhaling sharply before continuing. “I left Lo’ak stranded in the ocean.”

At first you laughed, thinking it was a prank, but then you clocked the way he would bow his head, avoiding your eyes. You realized it was not a joking matter.

Your heart sunk, snatching your hand away from him as if he burned you. “I thought you were done with this. I trusted you…”

Ao’nung could hardly bear the feeling of how much your words stung, he moved closer to try and console you. “Stop it!” you shouted in your native language, glaring at him with nothing but unadulterated anger. You shoved him, moving towards the entrance of the marui. “He could be dead by now— I will never forgive you!”

Parting with those words, you ripped your gaze from his and ran to tell your family of the news.

—

Weeks were spent ignoring Ao’nung after the incident. Lo’ak had luckily been found safe, and had forgiven Ao’nung, but you just couldn’t find it in you to do the same.

You figured that you should be more like Lo’ak, that you should be more easygoing and forgiving, given that he was found without a scratch, but you were one to hold grudges, and this was one you were willing to take with you to the grave.

More than several times Ao’nung or his friends would approach you, trying to get you to let up, but you just wouldn’t.

Everyone was well aware of the feelings you harbored for each other, furthermore it wasn’t awkward for just the two of you.

You were busy tending to the ilus, too busy to notice the approaching Na’vi. It was too late to run when you had already felt his tap on your thigh, when you locked eyes and acknowledged his presence.

You looked away and continued your activity as if he wasn’t there. Huffing, Ao’nung instructed for the ilu to move away and it did so. At this you ground your teeth and spun to look at him, crossing your arms in annoyance.

“I’ve said it hundreds of times now, so let’s just skip past this part.”

“Can we skip all of the parts?” you hissed.

Ao’nung creased his brows, tilting his head.

“What don’t you get, Ao’nung? Take a hint already.”

He shook his head, stepping closer. “Come with me,” he pleaded, “just this once. If you don’t like it you can ignore me forever.” he bargained, already calling for his ilu before you could protest. It didn’t stop you, though.

“No,” you whispered as the blue creature approached, “and I was already planning on doing that.”

He hopped onto the ilu and made tsaheylu, expectantly looking at you. You only looked back and stood firmly.

A smile pulled at his lips as a hand wrapped around your thigh and tugged, leaving you no choice but to give in to the force of it. Yelping, you climbed onto the ilu before you fell under, forcibly shoving Ao’nung in anger.

“You might want to hold on for this.”

You were going to make a snarky retort, but you shut your mouth instantly when you felt yourself completely submerge under the water. Your hands instinctively grappled onto Ao’nung for dear life.

At first, it was just blurry bubbles, but as your vision cleared and you dove deeper into the water, you realized the beautiful glow of the reef.

Neon and bold colors contrasted to the light and not-so-bold ones, the beautiful reef animals, the spirituality of it, it was a sight you would never tire of. Ao’nung knew you and your weaknesses well.

After a few more seconds of it, you were pulled to the surface. Ao’nungs soft laughter sounded out and you snapped your head to him, your tranquility dissipating fast.

“What’s so funny?” you flicked him with your fingers, basking in the satisfaction of his small ‘ow’.

The ilu swam to the shore and Ao’nung was first to get off, offering you his hand. You mockingly smiled at him and acted as if it wasn’t there, standing up yourself.

You began to walk onto the shore.

Walking away from him, he soon realized.

He hurriedly ran to you and swiftly put himself between you and the line of trees, your exit.

Rolling your eyes, you avoided his gaze. “Did you think that showing me the fish and reef was going to make me forgive you? You could’ve gotten my brother killed.”

Ao’nung shook his head, eyes never daring to leave your form. “I wanted to give you something. A token of just how sorry I am.” he pleaded.

Hesitantly, you met his eyes and he took it as approval, making his way behind you. You heard the familiar clinking of beads and looked down, eyes zeroing in on the object in his hands.

It was a necklace. Braided in unique ways and decorated with some of the most beautiful beads and seashells you’d ever seen. Your heart fluttered as he brought it closer to your neck.

You felt your hair being moved to the side and the coolness of the accessories on your neck. Unconsciously, your hand moved up to touch it, admiring how it looked on you as you looked down.

“I made it for you.” you heard from behind. Ao’nung moved in front of you, stepping closer. His arms wrapped around you and enclosed you.

“Your beauty is like the reef,” he began to say, “You glow when you smile, just like the stars. You stun me, just by watching you doing anything.”

By his words alone, you were left falling apart.

“You may hate me as long as you want, you may ignore me—” he tried to say, but you shut him up. You lifted up and pressed your lips to his, pulling him impossibly closer to you.

He released a muffled groan, lowering himself to the ground as you followed. His hands found their way to your waist and he lifted you, deepening the kiss.

When you pulled away, he pushed forward again, trying to memorize the way you felt. Eventually he pulled away, both of your chests rising and falling quicker than usual.

“Am I forgiven?” he asked.

The both of you knew it was a rhetorical question.

©olangi 2023

tl: @philiasoul

[queercoshon]

So this next story I'll be posting in 2 parts. The second part will definitely be racier. Based very loosely on a prompt given by @bigtobiggest Sorry if it's not exactly what you were looking for! The story ran away from me lol.

Without further ado, I present

A Kept Play Thing Pt. 1

CW: teasing/name calling, intox

Life has been a blur since you moved in with your girlfriend. It had been at least a few months, but less than a year of living with Olivia. However, you aren't exactly sure how much time has passed.

You remember moving in. You remember feeling exhausted hauling all those boxes in, and your girlfriend telling you to sit and rest. You remember Olivia giggling, but still concerned, as you huffed and puffed, trying to help lift the new couch up the few front steps. You remember feeling like your little pot belly was getting in the way. You remember finally collapsing on the couch and the celebration that followed.

Everything was moved in, but not unboxed and certainly not organized. Olivia had lived in the house for a few years already, so there were kitchen utensils, but she claimed exhaustion as well and put in an order to your favourite pizza place.

While waiting for it to arrive, she grabbed a box of craft ciders from the fridge and plopped them on the floor between you. She handed you a cherry one, which you chugged back gratefully. God, you were thirsty after all that exercise. You let out a belch, and she smirked and patted your belly, shaking loose a few more burps. She handed you another can while she went and got your housewarming present; a brand new gorgeous bong. It was different shades of blue and looked almost like stained glass. By the time she had ground the flower and held it to your mouth, the second cider was gone.

A few bong rips and you were soaring, and so hungry. By the time the pizza arrived, you'd consumed half a bag of oreos and another 2 ciders to deal with your cottonmouth.

Olivia handed you your large pizza and kissed your forehead, making you blink your eyes and smile dumbly.

"Eat up, baby. You're starving."

And you were. So you dove in, swallowing so fast and chewing so little Oliva was afraid you would choke. She kept interrupting your hoovering with the bong and endless cider sips, which you accepted every time.

She finished her personal sized pizza as you got lost in a haze, freely hiccupping, burping, and letting out little moans. Her hands fondled your belly, now sticking out of your shirt entirely.

You both knew the other person was very into this. Part of moving in together was influenced by your desire to let go, and your girlfriend's desire to blow someone up into an obese play thing. She already loved the contrast of your plush, curvy body, now just a little too big for size L clothing, up against her lithe and visibly muscular physique. She held the last piece of your pizza to your mouth, desperately eager to make you so much bigger.

You don't remember anything else from that night. You don't remember much of anything since then, really. Day blends into night and back into day for you. You wake at random times. Sometimes Olivia is home, sometimes she's not. There is always food for you, and always paired with booze and weed.

If Olivia's home, she helps you gorge by feeding you when you lose momentum, holding your chin up to take another swig when your head starts to lull, lighting your bong and countless joints, and rubbing your expanding gut to make some room and ease the ache. She makes sure your mouth is never idle. Often, you'll pass out in a drunken food coma mid-chew.

If she's out, either at work, the gym, out with friends, or shopping, she's set the expectation that everything she set out better be gone when she gets back.

You'll often crack open your eyes, and belch as you try to roll over, still drunk and/or high. But that won't stop you from reaching over to the night table and popping the tab on a beer or chugging back whatever mixed drink Olivia left for you. Your head spins as you light a joint, and even though you're still stuffed from when you previously passed out, you salivate as you look at the push cart beside you.

You're not sure, but you think the amount of food on it is growing. When you started this, she would leave enough food for 2 people plus leftovers, like an extra large pizza or stack of pancakes with bacon and sausage on the side. You would of course do as you were told and devour everything, rendering you speechless and breathless, temporarily beached in your bed or on the couch.

As the amount on the tray grew, so did you, though you were barely aware of it. You knew you were gaining weight, but you didn't register just how much and how quickly it happened. Your pot belly grew into a rounded gut, always taking up real estate on your thickened thighs. Your arms fattened up and stretched all your sleeves. Your chin quickly grew into three that shook and jiggled with every bite. Your chest sat on top of your belly, little mounds of sensitive flesh Olivia loved to play with to get you riled up. You wore just your underwear, or constantly new sweatpants and t-shirts. Olivia never sized up any of your jeans or nicer clothes. You never left the house so there was no point.

[hazzyking]

Take two. I'm getting writers block so I wanna try something fresh. Enjoy a Mihwak x Reader

Either anime or LA is perfect ((like my Buggy~)) but this fic is based off LA Mihwak

If you like this and want a smutty part 2 let me know, and I promise. I will write a part 2.

Just a Guy in a Bar

The sun sunk below the horizon giving the Barite a nice orange glow and that same firey glow to the water. You walked in and took your seat at the bar that wrapped around the mouth of the fish ship. The Barite was a perfect venue to you, a nice bar with plenty of space for dancing and a live band, and it was neutral ground for you and your crew to wind down after a long seven months on the grand line.

Once the sun had been replaced by the moon, the Barite was lit with candle light inside and outside, giving the ship a golden aura to shine off the navy blue water. You sat at the bar twirling your drink in your hand, you felt a slight tickle on your cheek of a feather, confused you turned and realized the back of someone's hat was completely invading your space "uh- scuse me" you said tapping the strangers thick leather jacket. The stranger turned around, revealing his piercing yellow eyes that were focused like a hawk - or, like a really wine-drunk hawk from the looks of it. "Mihwak?" You said surprised."What are you doing here?"

"A warlord isn't allowed to go out for a drink?" He said sitting next to you. "I should be asking you, what are you doing here" Mihwak chuckled holding a wine glass in his hand as he leaned against the bar.

"Okay your clearly drunk and super out of character right now" you chuckled putting your hand up as if to catch him if he toppled over.

"I am not drunk" Mihwak said like a white girl who had too many tequila shots.

"Alright" you said in defeat.

"(Y/N) right? How is your life of pillaging and plundering?" Mihwak said smirking darkly.

"You gave up that life remember Mihwak" you chuckled looking the warlord up and down. "You payed a visit to Shanks didn't you?" You smirked and then realized the warlord become defensive.

"A child has a 30 million bounty" Mihwak said "a child Shanks knows well"

"Yeah. I know that child" you chuckled. "Why are you here getting Wine-Drunk, because Luffy is worth a whopping 30 mil?" You asked curiously.

"Were getting old" Mihwak admitted, which caused your face to soften. "It's only a matter of time till the Luffy's and the Zoro's of the world become better than us old dogs and faze us out. Some day everyone will be a warlord and everyone will be an emperor and none of these silly titles will matter" Mihwak simply put- slurring his words a little. This was a surprise considering he was normally, such a well spoken man.

"I don't think warlords will matter in the future Mihwak- the world government-"

"I know, is the enemy. Shanks told me all about how I betrayed the pirates by giving up my bounty to serve a greater purpose" Mihwak said almost falling into you, you put your hand out to catch him, touching his fair, hot skin.

"Mihwak, let's go somewhere more quite, maybe you could sober up a bit" you chuckled taking his arm and leading him to the back dock of the Barite. The area was quiet but you could still hear the band faintly. You looked over at the water, how the moon made the navy blue ocean twinkle, it was almost magic to you. The magic was slowly interrupted when Mihwak attempted a graceful seat next to you which ended up with him stumbling and spilling wine on himself.

"Fuck" he muttered. You laughed, realizing you've never herd him swear before. "What's so funny Dove?" He said in his proper voice again.

"Shockingly- you" you giggled. "A great and powerful warlord is sitting next to me, soaked in wine... and wine drunk like a middle aged house wife" you laughed looking at his serious face which slowly erupted into laughter as well, you watched as his eyes crinkled and his yellow orbs were just barley visible his laugh was beautiful, and it almost took your breath away.

"I told you- I'm getting old" Mihwak sighed. "Sometimes I wish I was just- some guy in a bar. And not- rewnoned swords man" he sighed looking out at the ocean, your features softened as you leaned back to be on the same level as him, your hand was placed on his leather jacket. Your fingers tapping on his chest.

"Your not old." You simply said. "Your still the same old Charming Mihwak. The only difference is- your not trying to overthrow the government" you giggled watching his lips curl up into a beautiful smile.

"You think I'm charming?" He said his eyes darting between your eyes and lips as he began to lean forward a bit.

"Mihwak-" you put your hand up to his lips "as much as I really want to kiss you right now- I can't take advantage of you" you said, regretting the fact that deep down you cared for the swordsman.

"I'm not drunk" Mihwak said smiling. "It was an act" he chuckled looking at you. You looked at him too stunned for words. "I just wanted to get close to you" Mihwak admitted. You felt heat creep up your neck and onto your face, you knew you were bright red by now. "(Y/N)? You really wanna kiss me?" Mihwak said with a smile.

"Well, when I thought you were drunk and you weren't gonna remember what I said. Uh yeah" you laughed awkwardly.

"Hey- I'm just a guy in a bar" Mihwak said as he gently brushed your hair back with his fingers and cupped your face, his gentle touches sent shivers down your spine as he pulled you into a delicate, passionate kiss.

[shirecorn]

did you design Starcatcher with bleeding-heart doves in mind? the heart on her chest reminds me of them

Yes indeed! I base all my Pegasus and alicorns off birds that are thematically relevant. For starcatcher, I couldn't figure out something that matched with her color off the top of my head, so i asked local bird enthusiast @silksinging for help. We went back and forth suggesting things that either matched thematically (indigo bunting > flycatcher) or colorwise (budgie > victoria crown dove) we agreed dove was a good choice, but Soli wanted a tropical species since starcatcher lives on a tropical island. Blue ground dove was too plain, pink headed fruit dove was too green. But then soli was like Bleeding heart ludor. and it was PERFECT because the colors could reinterpreted in Starcatcher colors, and the bleeding heart is so good for this hopeless romantic who keeps granting her crush's wishes to the sky

her wings are also based on the gradient of peach to gray, with the bright blue chosen based on starcatcher's toy.

So yes, and it's thanks to @solilakoi (art blog) expertise in all things avian (and MLP)

[visceravalentines]

threw this little blurb together based on a conversation with @curlytemple about the possibility that Benson meant to kill everyone at Burgersx3 including himself and uh......read at your own fucking risk, man.

tw graphic depiction of homicide, suicide, and animal death. reference to past child abuse. dead dove, do not eat.

in his dreams, they all die.

it plays out pretty much the same at first. he hits Chris in the gut, again, on purpose, again. he can still hear his old man saying "a gut shot's a helluva way to go, kid." sometimes, in the dream, he pulls the trigger again for the mercy kill. sometimes he doesn't.

Hardy's faster in his mind. makes it a little closer to the phone every time, but he gets him. he always gets him, and he always takes half the office down with him, papers and cups and pens and shit all over the floor.

it's funny, when it happened for real, he didn't hear Jess screaming until he was looking right at her, and then it was all he could fucking hear, all he could fucking think about, and she wouldn't fucking stop, and he tried to get her to stop, but what're you gonna do? what's he supposed to do? it's the same in the dream. she isn't screaming until he turns around and then she is and she always was.

he never sees it hit her. the camera of his mind always shifts angles. there's probably something to that but he can't think what and he doesn't really care. all he knows is, the sound her body makes when it hits the ground makes him think of when Ma would sit up late at the table and he'd know it meant the fucker was back in town, and he'd excuse himself to his room and out the window for the evening. easier for everyone that way.

that's all pretty much standard. it's the next part that's weird.

he feels the gun in his hand, hears the break and the hollow plastic clatter of spent shells on the linoleum. he just fucking mopped. he reaches in his pocket for the last two rounds.

once, he looked down and saw something written on one of them in permanent marker or some shit. a B or an R or something. but everybody knows you can't read in dreams, and it only happened the once as far as he can remember.

he walks slow, real slow, dream slow, around the tables until he's facing him head-on. and he's high-def every time. wet cheeks, trembling lips, and those fucking eyes, blue in a way that can't be real. lashes long like a girl's. looking at him with the blind fear of a baby animal too fresh-born to understand but with enough sense to know it's fucking over. enough instinct screaming in the blood to stay still, stay still, don't breathe, stay still.

stay still and let it happen.

stay still until it's over.

don't breathe or you'll never get the fucking smell out of your nostrils.

he tastes bile in his mouth when he pulls the trigger.

he never runs. never even tries. he hits him in the chest, dead center, every time. and he crumples like a beer can under a boot. goes to the ground with this soft, feathery gasp that echoes in his brain. it makes him sick.

he steps forward, stands over him. it takes him way too long to die, way too fucking long. the mess of his chest is seven shades of red. sometimes he can see his heartbeat in the swell and collapse of gore, and that's how he knows he's dreaming. because no man on earth takes a blast of buckshot to the ticker and keeps ticking.

it reminds of the time he hit a rabbit doing 95 on the canal road, vision so blurred he could barely see past the hood of the car. how he slammed on the brakes, skidded to the shoulder, and through the cloud of dust he watched the thing heave and die in the scarlet of his taillights, and he gripped the wheel so hard his fingers hurt the next day and sobbed until his voice went hoarse.

he never cries, in the dreams. never feels regret. never feels much of anything.

he stands and waits. watches the blood bubble helplessly on his lips, the tears coming down in sheets from those eyes. those fucking eyes. looking back at him glazed-over and heavy with an apology. more remorse in those eyes than he's ever felt for anything in his life. and it hollows him out. cleans him right out like a carcass strung up in the yard. empty in the ribs. blood all over the ground.

some of it oughta be his, right?

so he flips the gun, and from the floor he watches him do it, and the funny thing about dreams is that he sees it from both angles at the same time, from his own perspective and from the ground looking up with the light growing cold and faint around the edges.

he nestles the muzzle snug under his chin, back against his throat. you gotta aim it right or you'll miss the brain, blow off your face, and then you'll really wish you were dead. good thing he can see it from both angles. make sure he gets it right the first time.

he's not scared, before he pulls the trigger. for one goddamn glorious moment, he's not scared of anything.

it all goes red when the gun goes off, the red of taillights in the dark, and he never wakes up with the bang. no, he wakes up one...two...three seconds after with every muscle clenched and his tongue clamped between his teeth. and he stares up into the black and waits for it to come back to him. how it really happened. where he is. who he is.

what he's done and what he hasn't.

it's only once he's sure of things that he seeks him out, sends a hand roving through the sheets until it meets the angle of a hip or an elbow. sometimes that's enough. sometimes he won't allow himself more.

sometimes he will. sometimes he needs to. sometimes he rolls to the side and pulls him in under his arm like a teddy bear, shoves his face into the bone of his shoulder and pretends to sleep until the sun comes up.

either way, he spends the rest of the night trying to forget. trying to forget the sound, the screams of a girl or a boy or a rabbit. the smell of blood and gunpowder. the heat of steel against his throat.

the feeling of feeling nothing, nothing at all, when he looks into those eyes, blue in a way that can't be real.

[voraciousvore]

Giganterra (Chapter 43)

Prologue/ TOC | Previous (42) | Next (44)

Content Warning: Injury/ blood

Word Count: 2.9k

------ Chapter 43: Race to Escape ------

When Millie saw Ajax’s boots shift from under the door, she knew Candy was done for. A squeal of terror flying up into the air, which was quickly muffled, confirmed her worst fears. The doorknob squeaked as it rotated, and Millie only had a second to react before the gigantic door creaked open and the monstrous behemoth clomped inside. 

She resisted the urge to flee in the opposite direction and instead dove forward, concealing herself under the base of the door as it opened. She kept pace with it as it moved above her, her heart hammering hard against the cold, rough stone floor. The giant’s footsteps caused earthquakes that thudded through her flesh. When the footsteps faded, she clambered out so she was no longer in the king’s chambers and careened towards the staircase. 

She halted at the top step, her guts clenching with a disorganized flurry of violent emotions. She was loath to leave poor Candy behind, but she feared there was nothing she could do to help her, with her diminutive stature. No subterfuge would work, and physical force was of course impossible. Candy’s words echoed in her mind, urging her forward: If I get caught, I want you to promise me that you’ll keep going, and strive with every fiber of your being to escape unscathed. She had promised Candy to continue; she couldn’t allow her selfless sacrifice to be in vain. 

Moving forward, however, seemed just as difficult. The stairs descended from a dizzying height in an infinite spiral that seemed to twist miles down. Each individual stair exceeded her height several times over: If her predicament had required climbing up stairs, she’d be doomed—doomed like Candy. Millie grimaced at the painful reminder. To stop now would spit on her promise and disrespect the bravery of her confidant. She had to go on. 

She didn’t know when the giant would come searching for her, so she needed to act swiftly. Millie lowered herself down the first ledge, as far down as she could, before releasing her hold in a controlled fall to the next step. The distance was more than she was comfortable with, and she could feel the impact in her legs, but she remained unharmed. Encouraged by her initial success, she dashed over to the next step. 

The giant stairs seemed to stretch on forever as Millie hopped from step to step. She expected, at any moment, for the ground to start rumbling from giant footfalls, or for King Richard’s sleazy voice to chase her down the stairwell in a chilling echo. Her hands grew slick with sweat from the tension and the exertion. However, to her surprise, nobody came looking for her. No massive shifts in the ground or air disrupted the serenity of the evening, with the quiet stillness of the pale moonlight filtering through the windows high above her head. 

She couldn’t allow herself a moment of rest, though, with the dangers she faced and the catastrophic consequences of failure. She was racing against the clock. She thought about Candy obsessively, worrying over her undecided fate. Would the king slaughter her in cold blood? Torture her? Take out his anger on her, or the other humans in captivity? She forced down her nausea at the horrific imagery that flashed through her head and focused on the task at hand. One step at a time. 

She felt like she’d never reach the end. After a while, she lost count of how many stairs she’d conquered. Her legs began to hurt with the constant shock absorption, particularly her knees and ankles. Landing on hard stone over and over pounded her legs into mush. Her hands turned raw from scraping on the gritty rock. She was increasingly unsteady as she walked. 

The end of the stairs was finally in sight. Millie was heartened, yet anxious as she observed the velvety black of the night sky lighten with tints of blue and gray heralding an impending sunrise. Her arms and legs rattled from exhaustion, yet she persevered. Just a few more stairs to go… she only had to endure so many more falls… 

One final stair. She dragged herself over to the edge, the ache in her legs sharpening to an acute pain. With fatigue shaking her limbs, she got on her knees, gripped the edge, and eased herself over the side. Her tired muscles failed her and she clumsily toppled over, cutting her knee on the unforgiving rock. Her arms jerked hard and she lost her hold on the top of the stair, collapsing to the ground.   

Crack. 

Pure agony rocketed up her leg as she crumbled to the floor, unable to sustain her footing. She cried out as she kneeled in a smear of blood from her sliced knee. With a laborious effort, she gingerly rolled over on her back, not placing any weight on her injured leg, and sat up to examine the wounds. 

Her stomach dropped in horror. Her knee would be okay, despite being all banged up, bruised, and bloody. But her ankle... it was livid and swollen, and twisted at an unnatural angle. Broken, without a doubt. Tears welled up in her eyes. There was no way she’d be able to escape the castle now, much less survive on her own once she was outside. She wouldn’t be able to even put her weight on her ankle or walk properly. Her situation had been grim before, but now it was completely hopeless. She’d failed Candy and failed herself.  

With the reminder of Candy, Millie realized she had to try, even if her senseless striving was futile. She hauled herself up on her good leg, with the mangled knee, and hopped forward, hugging the wall for support. A drop of blood trickled down her leg to her foot. Her anxiety spiked as the light from the windows waxed brighter, muted by a veil of gloomy clouds, and the morning approached. Soon, the king would be brought his breakfast, along with Chester. There was no way for her to hide her scent from him, if she was in his path of travel. 

Yet, she crawled forward at a snail’s pace, unable to move any faster with her broken ankle. The corridor, built for giants, was as boundless and infinite as the stairs. Millie started to panic. She struggled to move faster, muscling through the biting pain. Whenever she tripped or collapsed, she strained to get back to her feet and keep moving. The pain she was experiencing now was trivial compared to the tortures that awaited her at the hands of King Richard if she was caught. He loomed over her in her imagination, leering down at her with perverse hunger. She couldn’t go back, at any cost. She’d rather die. 

Millie had a vague idea of the castle’s layout, but she was accustomed to riding inside the king’s shirt where she couldn’t see much, so she wasn’t sure where she was going. Everything looked warped and distorted from the ground, when the walls rose miles above her and the floor stretched out like an endless desert of stone bricks and rugs. She hastened forward blindly, seeking to get as far away from the king’s quarters as possible. 

The quiet castle began to awaken as morning arrived, echoing with the sounds of the servants preparing for another day. Millie’s fear reached a fever pitch as she wandered, lost, in the endless halls. She was more helpless than ever, unable to run and hide if a giant spotted her. She couldn’t go on much longer, as her whole body convulsed from suffering and exhaustion. She knew her leg would fail beneath her at any moment. 

She experienced a jolt when she saw a maid clomping towards her at the end of a long hall. She ducked into the nearest room and hid as the giantess passed. She recognized her surroundings as the classroom where Ronny and Bianca received instruction from Milton. Her heart felt like it would burst out of her chest as her leg spasmed and she slid down the wall, unable to stand any longer. She was done. 

Millie didn’t know what to do. Her body, despite her petite stature, felt like it weighed a million pounds. Her head was spinning; her weakness was inhibiting her faculties to the point where she might pass out. She recognized the horrible danger, of course. She needed to conceal herself and pray for a miracle. As she surveyed the giant room around her, her eyes landed on the tutor’s satchel, propped up against his desk on the floor.   

She stared at it. She wasn’t getting out of the castle on her own. An opportunity had just presented itself, but the risk was incalculable. She could stash herself inside the bag. If everything worked in her favor, the giant teacher would carry her out of the castle unaware, before Chester could track her down. She could sneak out when he wasn‘t looking and escape. On the other hand, if Milton found her in his bag, she had no way of knowing how he would respond. He might return her to the king, or keep her for himself and torture her in even worse ways. Or, he might just exterminate her like a pest. Millie didn’t trust any giants to have her best interests at heart. 

However, as bad as the option appeared, Millie couldn’t see any other way out. She couldn’t stay and hide in the castle, because Chester would sniff her out. Even if she was caught by Milton, any fate was preferable to being returned to Hardon, even death. With the determination of a survivor with nothing left to lose, she crawled across the long distance from the wall to the desk, puffing hard for breath. She climbed up, wincing at the gruesome agony, until she finally slipped into the darkness of the satchel’s interior. She tumbled down the hard cover of a giant book until she settled into the bottom of the bag. Despite her discomfort, and her all-consuming fear, exhaustion overcame her. She promptly passed out, unable to stay conscious any longer. 

She lost awareness of the outer world for several hours. Milton returned to the classroom to tutor the royal siblings. He’d stayed in the library overnight to do research, losing track of time as he became absorbed in all the fascinating lore. He dug into the historical documents to learn more about Minimaterra. He read all about magic, about the lineages of giants capable of practicing magic, disappointed that he would never be able to cast spells himself. He knew he was playing with fire, after Leon warned him to tread carefully, but he couldn’t resist the allure of secret knowledge. He thirsted for more. 

Once the daily lesson was done, Milton picked up his bag to collect his stuff and leave, since he was tired after his unintentional all-nighter. Millie was jostled back into lucidity as the fabric container around her shifted and flew into the air. She didn’t have any time to think or prepare herself before the bag was opened, exposing her to the bright light. She froze, eyes wide, unable to process anything as her field of vision was filled with the giant tutor’s face. 

Milton opened his bag to stick in a book and stopped. At first, he thought he was gazing upon a toy, or a doll, a thing that certainly didn’t belong among his possessions. As he stared at the mysterious object, confused, he saw the blue marble eyes blink, and he realized the perfectly proportioned person was a human—a live human! And not just any human: the king’s favorite! He recalled seeing her chained around Hardon’s neck like a trinket, kissed and fawned over and threatened by his malevolent streak. Milton dropped his book to the side, spellbound by the unearthing of a priceless treasure. 

His jaw slackened with amazement as he drank in all the intricate details of her delicate form. He couldn’t fathom how she somehow made it into his bag. He frowned, though, when he noticed how pale and frightened she looked. Her leg was smothered in blood and something was wrong with her foot, although with how diminutive she was Milton had difficulty telling exactly what. Either way, she wasn’t in good shape. She must be desperate—desperate to escape. 

Milton started to sweat as the full implications of his discovery sank in. She wasn’t merely the property of the king: She was one of his prized possessions. He would be furious if he found her missing, and caught Milton with her. As the compassionate giant contemplated his options, however, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he must help her. He couldn’t cast her back into the hands of that monster of a man, who inspired fear even in giants his own size. He couldn’t imagine the horrors she had been subjected to, and he couldn’t in good conscience abandon her. He must save her. 

He didn’t dawdle any longer. Without speaking to her, so as not to draw any unwanted attention, he closed his bag and hurried out. He didn’t want to raise any suspicions by walking too fast, so he marched at a brisk pace, making a beeline for the exit. The ominous rumble of distant thunder indicated a storm was approaching. As was his regular habit when he became nervous, Milton fiddled with the wedding ring on his finger, trying not to be too conspicuous. He just had to act casual, despite his racing heart; nobody would know. 

The door to the courtyard materialized in front of him, beckoning him forward with a halo of glorious light like a beacon to heaven. Milton nearly teared up with how relieved he was—that is, until a big hand slammed down on his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks. Hot breath hit the back of his neck, accompanied by loud, heavy respiration in his ear. He snapped his head around to behold Chester, who was fixated on his bag and snuffling excitedly. 

“Whatcha got in your bag, friend?” the giant inquired, slobbering hungrily. He reached for it, causing Milton to clamp his hand over the top flap. He hugged the satchel to his side defensively. 

“Nothing, why?” he responded, laboring to keep his voice calm. 

Chester lunged for the bag like a tiger tackling a boar. Milton, caught off guard by his sudden aggression, lost his hold on the satchel. Chester snapped it up with his hands and pulled it open, revealing the prize inside. Millie screamed as his colossal hand reached in and blocked out the light above, poised to snatch her up. 

“No!” Milton protested. He grabbed Chester’s wrist and forced him back, pushing him away. He clutched the bag to his chest with both arms. “Don’t you dare!” 

Chester raised a brow. “You can’t fight me, Milton,” he proclaimed. “I’m carrying out the will of the king.” 

Milton blanched. He glanced down at Millie, so small and scared and powerless as she huddled at the base of his bag. He glared back up at Chester, eyes blazing. “I don’t care if you’re an emissary of God himself, you’re not getting her.” His fingernails dug into the fabric. He took a step back, towards the exit, not turning away from his opponent. 

Chester prowled forward, closing the gap between them. His hungry eyes roved over the tutor like a predator salivating over a fresh cut of meat. Milton bristled as the other man’s hands raised, prepared for violence. Even so, Chester hesitated. He glanced around to ensure their scuffle wasn’t being observed. Providentially, they seemed to be alone. 

“What would you give me? To let her go?” Chester murmured. 

“Huh?” Milton didn’t anticipate the negotiation of a bribe. He had nothing of value. 

Chester stared down at the teacher’s hand, clenched so hard that his knuckles whitened. “How about that ring?” 

“My wedding ring?” Milton paused. He rotated the ring around his finger, weighing the options in his mind. The object had tremendous sentimental value to him, as a cherished memento of his late wife. Losing it would sadden him greatly, but he understood that it would be worth it to save Millie. “Deal.” 

Chester gleefully received the treasure once Milton reluctantly removed it from his finger and handed it over. As heavy as his heart felt, relinquishing the special ring, he was relieved that he was able to come to an agreement with Chester. He left the castle in a rush, his heart beating hard as he held his satchel like his life depended on it. 

Chester grinned as he twirled the ring in his fingers, assessing the value of the precious metal. His mouth started to water as he thought of Jackie again. If he threw in some other baubles, perhaps Bucky would let him spend more time with his beloved. His stomach grumbled eagerly at the thought. 

He looked out the window at the thick, brooding mass of storm clouds brewing overhead. His smile widened as the clouds wept, pouring their sorrows over the courtyard. What a shame. He couldn’t track an escaped human with his nose, after all, if the rain washed away the scent. 

Chapter 44

Tag List: @maybeiamdownbad @yummynomms @tinycoded360

[bhaal-battle-beer-bard]

A Million Miles Apart In This Room

Astarion x Dark Urge Poetry / ➹content/tags: angst, guilt, hurt, romance

Commission for @aristenfromwarsaw ➹pairing: SpawnAstarionxDark Urge Aristen

Lost lovers and vampire years of one’s life, piling up, drag me down Heavy like a thorn’s crown Falling to the ground, faces forgotten rotting autumn leaves How should I spawn deserve Aristen’s love and a heart’s peace? Wretched, torn, bleed and broken In my name the cruelty of blood awoken I should die, I should burn But for your heart, Astarion, I do yearn My body a graveyard, my soul the coffin I lie in Dead in the ground, forever remembering my sin Decaying, decaying, decaying Death obeying A vampire’s heart dead and cold, but still able to break Suddenly awoken by Aristen’s true love’s fate Cruelty, cruelty – written upon my face Never deserving the touch of love for a slayer’s grace Grimace in the mirror, “Monster!” Children should scream Nothing more as the shadow of their dark dream They call me “hero”, even though I should no longer be How could I set Astarion’s enslaved soul free? Beautiful sorceress of storm and light, like an idol you shine I wish so much to make you mine Or would my bloody, dirty hands only defile you? Because this is all I can do… Locks and skin of silver and snow You seem so pure like the stars that your name does know My heart’s dear But shedding this fresh fallen snow with blood is my fear Biting on glass, choking on words Memories they all do hurt Will I ever prove myself worthy of your love? When a dark urge within me only deserves a death’s shove Memories they hurt, they burn, bursting me into flames Burning my body into ashes, until nothing remains My eyes craving for light But my soul drawn and bond to the shadows of the night By heart and curse Good or worse Will I ever prove myself worthy of your love? When my song seems sung by a mourning dove I wish I would burn, forgotten forever, all angels and my name begone Then the darkness would have lost and would have won But you see no darkness in me, I feel Only how could I be with you, when falling night thickens my fate’s wheel?

Who will come to save me now? Who will come to save me now? Am I worth of redemption? Am I worth of redemption? How could I deserve your saving? How could I deserve your saving? Will I ever be worthy of your love? Will I ever be worthy of your love?

➹a/n: Picture of Astarion and her Dark Urge Aristen by @aristenfromwarsaw

She commissioned a poem about the self-loathing of Astarion and Aristen because of their bloody past and despite both think the other one is their saving, they do not think, that they deserve love and saving. Both are traumatised and feel rotten to the core. Astarion feels not pure enough to be with the friendly, helpful Aristen and she is full of guilt because of her bhaal origins.

I hope I could bring this theme request to life. (Blue are of course Aristen's thoughts and black Astarion's; so I have it in my bard book)

The style of writing is based on a medieval poem in which a woman talks and negotiates with death. The verses are also divided into her lamentations and death's answers.

Unfortunately, I can no longer remember the name of the poem or who wrote it.

My poem is not intended to depict a direct conversation between Astarion and Aristen, but their inner thoughts that are consuming them.

The similarity, as if they were questions and answers, is all the more intended to express their despair. The strong closeness with the simultaneous unbelievable distance. Distance although so close in spirit. Distance although physically close and perhaps in the same room, because of the trauma that lies deep inside them.

That's why it's so important to talk to each other. To make your thoughts and feelings known.

Words may sometimes be superfluous and can be misunderstood. But - please - if you love someone, make sure you tell them that. Tell them how important they are to you and show them.

[ovaruling]

no one asked, but here’s my detailed bird seed update since this blog has become not only a record keeper of my fitness but also my bird friends:

adjusting my budget severely for the elaborate bird feeding i’ve got going on. to recap, i feed about 200+ wild birds per day, mostly doves, grackles, blue jays, cardinals, catbirds, warblers, mockingbirds, and woodpeckers. sometimes i get a rare painted bunting! the number may possibly be more, my counting when they swarm is not reliable.

when i first started feeding, the birds were all terribly thin—the development in my neighborhood has been devastating to the general health of the bird population, as well as the sweltering heat of recent years. growing up, i remember it being a common sight to see birds milling about on the ground, scavenging for food. you almost never see it anymore, bc there IS no more ground. if its not paved, then it’s all tightly mowed grass with no chance for food to even have a chance to be there. based on the cityscape, my guess is that they have had to fly further and further distances in search of somewhere to forage. which, in this climate, must be utterly sapping them. they haven’t moved away, they still nest right here bc there are still thankfully lots of sheltering trees. but they are having to go further and further for food—not good.

the adjustment is worth it. i did find one store online that sells very cheap whole corn kernels by the pound, which the squirrels and jays love.

there is a female squirrel who is very obviously and very definitely nursing some babies. i am trying to keep supporting her bc she unfortunately picked a very bad place to give birth (landscapers and horses and vehicles nearby tear through almost daily on the other side of my hedge).

i don’t want her to have to go far, especially with the heat getting more intense, and so i’ve been making sure she has corn cobs every day at the base of her tree. but those get expensive, so i’m excited to have found whole corn kernels so cheap.

also found one decent price for halved peanuts which all the birds are absolutely obsessed with.

and the rest i’m still reliant on Tractor Supply for. i’d love to stop giving their murderous animal agriculture supporting asses money, but i’d need to find a better priced Fruit and Nut seed than they offer, and i haven’t yet.

as for seed cakes for the woodpeckers—which, the vegetable gelatin ones i buy are the most expensive per unit that i’m spending on rn, bc there is absolutely no way i’m going to conscience animal gelatin—my experiment in making them myself is ongoing. i used too little agar agar powder in my last batch (and also didn’t get it boiling enough) so it just ended up being a sticky crumbly treat that i put on the ground for the scavengers.

i’ll try again this week bc i’d really love to keep supporting my native red-bellies, especially as it gets hotter and hotter into the summer and the birds get more exhausted at a much faster rate.

[chenanigans-draws]

Here's the Flockless as each others respective species! Dungeon Meshi was a huge inspiration for this and just my love for my dnd party!

I'll talk about the designs briefly under the cut!

Cherry (Mechanically an Aasimar)

In every form, Cherry is still an Aasimar.

She almost surged due to the Howler, but instead she got a buff, being able to add her Charisma modifier to her attack cantrips.

Frogfolk - Based on the Cape Rain Frog (Breviceps gibbosus). This isn't new info!

Tiefling - She's still small, brown, and has huge eyes. Cherry would always be black and black-coded like all my characters.

Jackalope - Fluffy lil bunny with lil bud antlers.

Kenku - Based on the Canary (Serinus canaria forma domestica).

Yuan-ti - Based on an albino Ball Python (Python regius).

Shelley (Mechanically a Zariel Tiefling)

Shelley's eyes are red and blue, formerly purple, due to a surge caused by the god, the Howler.

Frogfolk - Based on the Amazon Milk Frog (Trachycephalus resinifictrix).

Tiefling - Formerly a Dhampir, she is now some kinda blessed and kinda cursed Zariel Tiefling.

Jackalope - Kept her elegant look as a Jackalope.

Kenku - Based on the Secretary Bird (Sagittarius serpentarius).

Yuan-ti - Based on the King Cobra (Ophiophagus hannah).

Luren (Mechanically a Harengon)

Frogfolk - Based on the Cinnamon Frog (Nyctixalus pictus).

Tiefling - I wanted to keep his cheeky nature in this tiefling design.

Jackalope - Same old Jackalope with a lucky white foot.

Kenku - Based on the Scarlet Macaw (Ara macao).

Yuan-ti - Since he also has an association with the god, Jack the Dealer, I wanted him to have more snake-like proportions.

Silence (Mechanically a Kenku)

Silence's skin is blue due to surge caused by the god, the Howler.

Frogfolk - Based on the Diablito Poison Frog (Oophaga sylvatica).

Tiefling - Their horns are black and white due to their patrons.

Jackalope - They're just fluffy with a blue nose!

Kenku - Based on an American Kestrel (Falco sparverius). This isn't new info!

Yuan-ti - He's a chubby, blue snake!

Cres (Mechanically a Changeling)

Frogfolk - Based on this frog (Hyloscirtus hillis).

Tiefling - Based on one of their forms aka Elia Crescentmoon.

Jackalope - Also based on Elia Crescentmoon if they were a Jackalope.

Kenku - Based on the Common Ground Dove (Columbina passerina).

Yuan-ti - It's their base form, what else can I say?

[outofangband]

Birds of Dorthonion

Flora, fauna, geography and environment of Arda Masterlist

Dorthonion was a region north of greater Beleriand. It was a cool region covered in steep slopes, conifer forests and Heath covered highlands. The mountain range Ered Gorgoroth bordered it on the south and above it was the fields of Ard Galen. It was inhabited by the Arafinwëan host following Aegnor and Angrod and later, the human host following Bëor. Nomadic and semi nomadic groups of the northern Sindar and Avari also possibly lived there

As always I included world building notes at the end so it’s not just a list of species

In the conifer forests: black grouse, willow tit, goldcrest, mistle thrush, pine grossbeak, common tree creeper, common redstart, black woodpecker, chiffchaff, coal tit, common raven, crested tit, wood grouse, goshawk, spruce grouse, black throated thrush, pine bunting, boreal owl

The highlands and around Tarn Aeulin: graylag goose, common nightjar, common kestrel, snow crane, hen harrier, tundra swan, horned grebe, common crane, blue duck, water rail, black francolin, northern pintail, velvet scooter, great bittern, pallid harrier, rough legged hawk, little egret, wood lark, corn crane, black necked grebe (migratory), garganey, Merlin

The cliffs and slopes: see see partridge, rock dove, great bustard, long legged buzzard, common quail, black headed bunting, booted eagle, chukard, barred warbler, northern wren, little owl, white throated dipper (near Rivil’s well), black winged kite, steppe eagle, roller

The mountain border: bearded vulture, red fronted serin, black stork, snowcock, horned lark, rock bunting, wallcreeper, blue rock thrush, red kite, peregrine falcon, golden eagle (rare), white wagtail

World building notes:

-The vague images of pine grossbeaks were embroidered on the blankets of Bëorian children using a diluted version of the dyes created from blood madder and coal. The name in Bëorian Taliska translates to pine song bird.

-The Arafinwëan host of Dorthonion as well as some of the Avarin groups hunt with birds of prey which are also used by some of the scouts. Kestrels and Harriers are the most commonly used species. The practice is less common than among the Noldor of Eastern Beleriand however.

-Feathers (usually of peregrine falcons or common kestrels) were also used as a method of communication among Arafinwëan scouts during the times of year where weather would allow for this, left in strategic locations, lodged into the earth or tucked into trees to indicate presence or dangers.

-Eggs of various ground species were eaten by the Bëorian population and there was a practice of burying the eggshells. This was learned from the elves of Ossiriand prior to their settling in Dorthonion.

-Birds eggs appear in Northern Sindar art, in or separate from nests. Though the eggs of certain species have different meanings, they are commonly associated more generally with fragility and defense. Their images may be created through pigments made from certain actual eggshells as well as minerals and plant based dyes. One common motif involves a nest of eggs upon a steep slope or cliff.

-Birds appear throughout Bëorian songs and poems. Most commonly mentioned are the general name for the “fisher birds” (wading and diving birds) seen on and around Tarn Aeulin, as well as several of the smaller songbirds found in the pine forests such as pine grosbeak, tree creepers, and thrushes. After the Bragollach the names for some species became lost or translated differently.

-Also it’s been a headcanon of mine for awhile that Baragund would take Morwen when she was a young child out to the cliffs to watch the birds. He would teach her to identify them by their call. She remembers a lot of them, even as an adult though they are called different names and their habits are often unfamiliar.