#because the second he lets his guard down

[incrediblyaccuratethoughts]

Added another chapter, here we goooo ~~

-

Tim stepped out of the Batcave to grab himself a coffee. He was gone for 10 minutes.

So tell him why as soon as he closes the entrance, he's accosted with the sound of Jason and Damian bickering over the bat computer. The computer he’d been using for the past 5 hours to try and solve an ongoing trafficking ring.

“I told you my fucking number and I’m no liar,” Jason grumbles.

“Shut it Todd, I’m concentrating.”

Why does this always happen to Tim? What god did he piss off enough to regularly put him in the room when his brothers are arguing? What did he do to deserve such slander??

“You wouldn't have to concentrate if you just believed me-” Jason snaps, as Tim starts to make his way down the staircase, quietly stepping between shadows to avoid being seen.

“I refuse to believe that you’ve killed that many people since you were revived.”

“I’mma crime lord, brat. I’ve killed a lot of fucking people. Not to mention the Pit Rage.”

When Tim gets his first peak of the Bat Computer, he doesn't know why he bothered to be sneaky. At a first glance, Jason looks casually relaxed, his feet up on the desk, but his shoulders are tight and his attention is focused on whatever the hell Damian is doing.

Did Tim mention that he didn’t like where this is going? He would like it on record that he doesn't like this one bit.

“Pit Rage or not, that’s a preposterous number.”

“And that’s a good enough reason to hack into the Watchtower for all the information they have on the League of Assassins?”

Oh shit. Oh fuck .

“Father has encrypted folders stored in their databases holding detailed information pertaining to the League of Assassins." Damian sniffs, "If the information we seek is anywhere, it’ll be there.”

Nope, Tim is definitely not a fan of this development. He’d been meaning to see if he could get to that particular file and erase all mentions of Ra’s obsession with him. Tim just hadn’t gotten around to it.

“And you’re what? Going to hack past Oracle?”

“No,” Damian scoffs, “I know the password.”

Tim scrambles for his phone. It’s not his favorite device to hack from but dammit, needs must.

"How the hell did you manage that?"

"As if I'd tell you."

“Sneaky little shit.” Jason sounds begrudgingly impressed.

For a few moments, the cave is filled with the sound of aggressive typing, before Damian makes a small, pleased noise.

“I’m in.”

From this angle he can’t see what Damian typed, but Tim has been breaking into shit he shouldn’t for longer than he should have been able to. He’s just gotta get in before they can download something they shouldn’t.

“Great, where’s the LOA files? Do they even have the LOA files?”

“Of course they do, the watchtower is updated on every major server-”

Tim frantically pulls up backdoors and firewall scanners, hoping he can slip his way inside despite not being connected to a direct network.

“What’s that?”

“We have a task, Todd. Try to stay focused.”

“No, go back. I’ve never seen that before.”

Damian scoffs, but returns to a file labeled, 'The Detective - Project Failed’

See, this is why Tim can’t have nice things. Every time he lets his guard down for even a second, a meddling brother fucks it up for him. Truly a tragic life he leads.

“It’s nothing important. Clearly it wasn’t successful-”

“Open it.”

“This is not a leisurely perusement of information, Todd. We have a task to fulfill.”

“The file was created two years ago. That’s too recent to have been Bruce.”

Damian pauses, cursor hovering over the file. Tim hopes with everything he has that the kid will ignore Jason’s request.

But of course, because the universe hates him, Damian clicks it.

The Detective

Age: 17

Height: 5’6”

Weight: 131 lbs

"I fucking told you it wasn't Batman. That's Robin levels of scrawny."

"I applaud your clearly superior intellect, Todd." Damian drawls.

"Who the hell taught you sarcasm?"

“I didn’t need to be taught, unlike some.”

“Bullshit.”

“I don't see how this is relevant.”

ABILITIES:

Trained by Batman, Nightwing, Batgirl, Lady Shiva

Martial arts disciplines including but not limited to:

Kung Fu, Aikido, Jeet Kune Do, Escrima, Krav Maga, Tae Kwon Do, Judo, Wing Chun, Hapkido, Karate, Savate, Kendo, Ninjitsu, Tai Chi, Leopard Kung Fu and Biangan.

Prefered Weapon

Bow staff

Highly skilled combatant

Master Detective, Tactician, and Strategist

Gifted Intellect

Excels in computer science and inventions

Firm grasp of assorted scientific techniques including biology, engineering genetics, forensic, criminology, acrobatics, stealth, disguise, and escapology.

"So I know I made a joke about this being a Robin, but…" Jason trails off.

"These descriptions are too specific." Damien agrees.

AFFILIATIONS:

Batman and his associates

Leader of Young Justice

Leader of Teen Titans

Justice League associates

League of Assassins associates

"Which fucking Robin worked with Ra's of all people?"

"I am the heir of-"

"Tell me when exactly you lead Young Justice."

“Tch.” Damain scoffs.

PERSONAL CONNECTIONS:

Janet Drake (Mother): Dead

Jack Drake (Father): Dead

Eddie Drake (Uncle): Fake Identity

"Oh fuck ." Jason breathes.

ALIAS:

Timothy (Tim) Jackson Drake-Wayne

Robin - Boy Wonder

Red Robin

The Detective

Alvin Draper

"What kind of alias is Alvin ? What the fuck?"

History:

Defeated King Snake (assisted)

Defeated Clusmaster (alone)

Escaped Bane and Killer Croc (alone)

Defeated Firefly (alone)

'Zero Hour'

Defeated KGBeast (alone)

Kidnapped by Zeus - (escaped alone)

First contact with LOA - apocalypse virus

Defeated Cluemasrer (alone)

Lead Young Justice

'No Man's Land'

Defeated Mr. Freeze and Ratcatcher (alone)

Defeated Darkseid (assisted)

'Titans Tomorrow'

Defended Bludhaven from OMAC's (assisted)

Defeated Secret Society of Super Villains (assisted)

Reassembled Teen Titans

Defeated Obeah Man (alone)

LOA affiliation - Objective: [REDACTED]

“No fucking way.” Jason breathes, and judging by Damain’s silence, he shares Jason’s sentiment.

Tim’s frantic typing is yielding no results. Fuck .

“I didn’t think the kid had it in him.”

“I was not aware that Drake was so… versatile in his skills.”

“That’s a fancy fucking way of saying he’s got a rap sheet longer than Santa’s naughty list.”

“He didn’t strike me as the type to work with Grandfather.”

“Yeah, no shit. When did that even happen?”

“By the dates, it would have been during Father’s disappearance into the time stream.”

“ Oh my fucking god .”

Classification: Potential Heir

Mission Success Rate: 98%

Active Member: N/A

Time of Service: 1y 2m 15d

Kill Count: 8,528

“That number can’t possibly be right.”

“Holy fuck, that’s a higher kill count than me .”

“I refuse to believe this. We need more evidence.” Damian states, scrolling down to the detailed notes.

“He blew up a League base?”

“Not just one. He blew up 7.”

“I don’t understand how he would have had the information-”

Tim’s phone vibrates as finally gains access to the Watchtower. It’s too late to have kept his brothers from seeing what they did, but that doesn’t mean he can’t bury his file.

“It says he that he was favored by Ra’s and… that bastard wanted him to be the next Demon’s Head? What the hell did Timmy do ?”

“I don’t understand.”

The data starts disappearing, and Tim clears his throat. His brothers turn around, staring wide-eyed at Tim’s blank face.

His heart is in his throat and his hands are shaking, but he forces a smirk.

“No one will ever believe you.”

Tim turns and sprints for the door.

Without the copies stored away in the watchtower database, his brothers will be hard-pressed to come up with proof about his crimes and really, he’s heard far too many comments about him being one of the more morally sound people in the family, so it’s not likely that his brothers will be taken seriously, but he's not sticking around long enough to get caught.

Tim’s escape lasts about five minutes.

It’s an epic five minutes, there’s a lot of sick flips and narrow misses involved, but by the end of it, the entire family is on the chase.

Which, Tim thinks wryly, is just fucking perfect as he wheezes under the weight of 200 pounds of sheer muscle.

“You have some fucking explaining to do, Timbo.” The jerk that’s currently crushing all of the air out of Tim’s lungs says, but all Tim can do is wheeze.

The weight lifts and oh . Fuck . Yeah, no wonder Tim was on the verge of breaking a rib, Jason was the one who tackled him.

Rude. Tim weighs like. A third of him. The man could at least pretend to use some constraint.

“Tell me why,” Jason starts in a dangerously low tone, “You have the highest kill count in this family.”

Tim tilts his head, the picture of innocence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“ Bull. Shit . Damian and I saw the fucking file. Deleting it doesn't change the facts.”

Tim's expression doesn't falter. He’s been rubbing elbows with high society since before he could walk. He’s well practiced in a poker face. “What file?”

Jason lunges for him.

A short scuffle later finds both Tim and Jason separated, Bruce with an arm across Jason’s chest and Dick bodily hauling Tim off the ground.

"What's going on?"

Ah shit, that's Bruce's Batman voice.

"Tim has a kill count higher than me." Jason immediately spits, the snitch.

"He worked with Grandfather."

"He blew up 7 league bases."

Every gaze in the room lands on Tim, and he sighs, admitting defeat and slumping in the hold Dick has him in. Damn the man and his octopus arms.

It was a good run. But the gig is up.

"I was in a… bad headspace." He shrugs ruefully, "Black Canary once told me that shared misery is halved misery.”

“Your ‘bad headspace’ lead to blowing up 7 League bases ?”

Tim shrugs. “In my defense, Ra’s is an asshole who has my spleen in a jar. I think he deserves it.”

The arms tighten around Tim, “He has what -”

”Your spleen ?”

“That does sound indicative of Grandfather’s behavior.”

“What the actual fuck, replacement.”

"You have some serious explaining to do." Bruce says, tone authoritative with no room for argument.

Tim sighs. He just wanted coffee.

An opinion. Jason was the only batkid who did not come with a pre-installed Kill option, that was downloaded, after death, while he was with the League. Dick, Tim and Damian, tho, they came with it, and Bruce had to learn to manually turn it off.

99% success rate with Dick and Damian.

76% success rate with Tim who has not killed anybody, but has contemplated it way too many times for Bruce to be comfortable with.

Edit: for all the people who keep saying "But Tim blew up the League bases with so many people," listen, if Bruce doesn't know, it didn't happen. Don't go snitching on my boy like that.

[lightseoul]

CHAPTER 2 | ALL OUT OF LUCK

w.c. 3.8k

tags. fem!reader, pro-hero!katsuki, aged-up (26), some cussing, adult themes (not smut lol) (yet) (jk) (unless...), the mission finally starts, so much plot from here on out y'all so buckle up

a/n. i didn't get to include the most important bits that were supposed to be presented in this chapter because i got carried away with the buildup lol. exciting times ahead y'all. i have so much in store for you with this series. don't be a stranger and let's talk!

links. masterlist, ao3 (coming soon)

You can only stare back at the woman peering at you, her face painted with a thick layer of makeup, her hair styled to staged ‘effortless’ perfection, and her body wrapped in an outfit that’s equal parts provocative and refined.

Her image is so flawlessly curated—so much so that you barely notice the apprehension that’s hidden amidst her features, if it weren’t for the fact that that woman is you.

You can barely recognize yourself—and perhaps that’s the point of all this.

Asahi and Moriyama didn’t have to explicitly state it yesterday—they need you to put in every ounce of effort to make sure that you succeed, and that includes doing everything you can to supplement your quirk all the while keeping your real identity lowkey.

Even if it means looking like this.

You’re about to give in to your second thoughts and change out of the black, low-cut tank and beige cardigan you have on when an array of knocks echo from what you think is your front door, and you freeze.

With a cautious glance at your bedroom’s wall clock, you think you’re supposed to feel a wave of relief wash over you when you see that it’s 9:00 PM on the dot, the exact time Bakugou said he’d pick you up, which means no villain or mal intentioned person is at your front porch, but that doesn’t come.

Instead, the sense of dread that’s been stirring in your gut ever since you got swept by Asahi’s men yesterday only magnifies, leaving you a bit cold and…are you shaking?

You don’t get to dwell on that, though, because another round of rapping resonates from your foyer again, which somehow pulls you out of your nervous stupor. You hurriedly run to the door, not even bothering to check through the peephole, opening it with a turn of the knob to see Bakugou.

Wearing a white face mask and decked in a fitting black hoodie, with his ash-blonde hair peeking through the sides of a dark baseball cap.

His fist is frozen mid-air as he stares at you, eyes slightly widened in shock, as if he didn’t believe you’re capable of this thing called punctuality. He promptly brings it down, though, schooling his expression into a neutral one, but not before giving you a quick once-over.

“Hey,” he offers, voice gruff and way lower than you remembered it back in high school.

“Hello,” you counter, looking back at your messy apartment out of habit. “I’m almost done. I just need to grab my purse.”

And, because you genuinely need to know for the sake of what you’re about to do, you ask: “Do I look okay?”

He must’ve not been anticipating that question, because his eyebrows furrow ever so minutely like you just caught him off guard. “Yeah,” he eventually replies after studying the entire length of your body once again.

And, you may have just imagined it, but you swear to god his eyes linger on your chest for a beat longer than necessary before he meets your gaze.

“You clean up…” he pauses, like he’s grasping for the right adjective, before settling with: “…decent.”

At that, you feel yourself deflate a bit. Maybe you wanted a more affirming answer, definitely not because you want that from him, but because you need to look good. However, if there’s anything the rumor mill told you back when you were still teenage students, it’s that Bakugou Katsuki was a man of few words when he was serious, let alone appreciative, so you take his comment in stride.

Besides, in comparison to how you looked yesterday, anything is an improvement, really.

“Thanks,” you respond, and you debate for a second whether or not to say the next thing but ultimately decide on it. “…And you look mildly disguised.”

That seems to ruffle Bakugou’s feathers. “Mildly?”

You shrug, suddenly feeling unsure about your honesty. “I get the hoodie and the cap and the face mask, but there’s no hiding your hulking frame, man.”

And really, there isn’t. How are you supposed to conceal a torso as large as that?

You gesture to his chest and shoulder area for further emphasis. “I don’t think you can pass up as a regular citizen but like as a non-descript athlete, maybe?”

To your dismay, Bakugou merely grunts before shaking his head. “This’ll work.”

Apparently already over your suggestion, he glances past your shoulder as he shifts his weight on his other foot. “Can you grab your purse now? We’ve to get going.”

Now, you’ve got half a mind to argue and try to convince him that maybe going for a better disguise is better in the long run but you’re silenced by his domineering gaze. So instead, you nod before rushing back to your bedroom and grabbing the bag you already prepared beforehand, as well as your phone that’s charging on top of your bedside table.

Although it won’t be of much use later, or in the coming few weeks, if everything goes according to plan.

“Ready?” he asks when you return to the doorway with your things in tow.

“Yup,” you retort as you lock the door behind you, and just like that, you’re well on your way to a potential death sentence.

You’re in the elevator going down to the ground floor by the time he speaks up again. “We’re commuting,” he starts, not looking at you but instead scrutinizing the barely hanging on floor buttons. “Can’t risk raising suspicion by driving there.”

“Where are we going, exactly?” you ask just as the elevator dings, signifying your arrival.

The doors burst open, and he steps out. “You’ll see.”

The commute to wherever the hell it is you two are going is quiet.

Bakugou didn’t divulge any further details as you stepped out of your building, wordlessly ordering you with a stern look to just follow. Frankly, you don’t like how you’re being kept in the dark, but you don’t contend. You’re acutely aware that you have a limited number of cards to play with Bakugou, and you have to play them right, if you want to even survive this mission without your partnership falling apart and jeopardizing the entire thing. Wasting a card on stupid information would be downright foolish on your end.

Even the walk to the bus stop is silent, and so is the entire ride. Despite it being quite late into the evening, the vehicle is still somewhat crowded, which you chalk up to it being a Friday night. You find yourself relaxing in your seat as the realization dawns on you—perhaps there was no point in getting too riled up about getting noticed.

And besides, you’re taking extra precautions, too. You’re not sitting next to each other, because he’s trying to stave off attention while you’re straining to catch it. Maybe not of these strangers, but of the people you’re going to meet later on.

Roughly 10 minutes and a short subway ride later, you climb up the underground stairs to a stop you vaguely remember hearing from your coworkers about. You recall how she described an old party district right in the middle of Musutafu, and sure enough, the text on the street signs match the name she recounted during one of your lunch breaks.

“Over here,” Bakugou calls out from a few feet ahead of you. You quickly quit your observing and follow suit, mindful of keeping an appropriate, not at all questionable distance between the two of you.

After what felt like walking five blocks from the subway, you see Bakugou halt and make a left into a poorly lit alleyway. You hesitate for a second, having been on autopilot and going straight for the last how many minutes. You’re able to swiftly gather yourself, though, steering in the same direction.

The moment that you do, it instantly registers to you that you’re not just in the party district anymore. If the dingy signages and the palpable seediness of the alley are any indication, you’re most likely in the red-light district now.

Suddenly, everything feels a bit too real, and you barely catch yourself stumbling back on your feet. This doesn’t go unnoticed by Bakugou, who instinctively moves to reach out for you from where he’s standing. He pauses, though, when you’re able to regain your bearings with a slightly embarrassed smile.

“Sorry,” you offer meekly.

He eyes you with the very same inexplicable expression from before. “You good?”

You’re not about to tell him you’re scared shitless, so you give him a half-hearted nod. Turning to study the exterior of the small building, you take in the lightly peeling paint and the booming music emanating from it. “This the place?”

“Yes,” he answers without missing a beat. “Are you sure you’re good?”

You whip to look back at Bakugou, who, if you didn’t know any better, is now looking apprehensive.

You decide then and there that you have to get your shit together.

Bravery is contagious, but so is fear.

For a second, you contemplate using your quirk on yourself to calm your nerves down, but eventually decide against it. There are much bigger fish to fry tonight, and what’s the point of learning all those damned breathing and grounding techniques if you’re not going to use them?

“I’m ready,” you finally tell him after a moment of both of you standing there. “Let’s go in before we start looking unusual out here.”

If Bakugou notices the unease you’re sure you’re radiating, he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he gives you a curt nod, before turning to open the door.

And when he does, you’re almost instantaneously flooded by the music that was just escaping through the cracks and crevices of the run-down building. You fight the instinct to cover your ears as you step into the large room behind Bakugou, eyes quickly darting all over the place to drink in the scene before you.

Right in the back of the space is a stage that extends in the center as a runway to the middle of the room. The orange and pink mood lights illuminating the area are relatively dim minus the bulbs lining the set and walkway. And, beneath the elevated platform are what have to be pleather seats littered all over the floor—all of which are occupied by decidedly rambunctious men.

You resist the urge to wrinkle your nose as their boisterous laughter fills your ears, opting to face Bakugou instead.

“Hey,” you call out to him, who stops in his tracks to look at you. You sneak a glance at the people at the bar nearest the two of you, just to make sure they’re not listening in, before you continue. “Are you sure this is the place?”

You don’t have to peek beneath his mask to know he’s now scowling at you.

“What am I, a dumbass? I told you, this is it.” He then shifts away from you, far enough that you barely hear his next words. “…It has to be.”

Well.

That’s not exactly comforting.

Your discomfort only heightens when the already faint lights dim further, and the music switches from a pop song to which you know a bit of the lyrics to a rap that, if you were to base it on the first phrase, is all about having explicit, unprotected sex. The crowd of men cheers in anticipation, and as if on cue, a woman dressed in nothing but a two-piece lingerie emerges from the back of the stage, confirming your speculation of what the place is.

A strip club.

You watch as the woman confidently struts towards the center, and apparently, you’re no better than any of the men here because your gaze slowly roves over her slim and toned body, eyes catching at her cleavage that’s leaving nothing to the imagination. You can’t help it—you look down at your own chest, sinking in disappointment at the contrast before promptly looking up in embarrassment, only to find Bakugou studying you closely.

“It’s a strip club,” you blurt out, flustered at getting caught in the act. His eyes only narrow in a way that tells you what you’re already telling yourself: Thank you, Captain Obvious.

Bakugou doesn’t say anything, much to your relief, only moving to the far corner of the room where there are miraculously two seats unoccupied. You follow him with no further questions asked, plopping in the chair to his right, thankful you’re wearing black trousers so that your skin doesn’t have to go into contact with the sticky furniture.

You take the opportunity to clock the rest of the room, cataloguing the bar at the other end of the area near the entrance where a barista is swiftly taking and making orders all at the same time, while the men seated on the stools struggle to decide whether to look at the man or at the stripper now performing an elaborate dance around the pole. Amidst the decorated wall adjacent to the bar is a door with a restroom sign on it, and you squint just enough to see it’s only one stall for everyone. You make a mental note to hold in your pee, at least until you get out of here.

And, because you’re feeling nice, you shift to regard Bakugou with a good-natured smile on your face. “I hope you peed right before leaving your house.”

“What?” he says loud enough for you to hear him over the noise they’re calling music. “I can’t hear you.”

“Shit, right.” You lean in ever so minutely, and Bakugou mirrors you. You try to ignore the new-found proximity. “I said,” you repeat, with a little more volume this time, “I hope you peed right before fetching me. I bet the toilet’s filthy as shit.”

To your delight, not that you’d admit that to him in this lifetime, Bakugou smirks at your little quip after confirming the lone comfort room with his own eyes.

“Don’t worry about me, princess,” he starts, and you stiffen at the nickname, “I’m not the one who has to sit on one.”

You’re about to retort with something along the lines of what if he has to poop out of the blue, or at least try to, because the pet name has you gagged against your better judgment, when a ridiculously tall man clad in all black appears out of nowhere, startling you.

“The f—”

“Dynamight,” the behemoth of a guy cuts you off, eyes trained on the pro-hero beside you and completely ignoring your presence. “We’ve been expecting you.”

“Took you long enough to approach me,” Bakugou sneers, oozing with the confidence you can’t find within yourself right now. “I hate sleazy places like this.”

To that, the man only bows his head slightly, face solemn but devoid of remorse. You watch him as his eyes finally drift to you, albeit for only a split second, before looking back at Bakugou. “Follow me, sir.”

The ash blonde does so, perhaps a tiny bit begrudgingly, and you speedily get up along with him. The two men turn to move, and you’re about to take a step closer towards their direction when a long arm shoots up in front of you, keeping you in place.

Any protests die in your throat when you look up and see the guy’s menacing glare.

“If you don’t mind,” he grits through his teeth, “Only Dynamight is needed.”

“She’s with me,” comes Bakugou’s commanding tone. You chance a glance at the pro-hero, whose countenance is so serious you’d be afraid if you were the one he’s talking to.

“But, sir—”

“It’s the two of us or we’re leaving,” Bakugou demands.

The two engage in a stare down which you witness for what feels like a few minutes before the man finally looks away, frustration etched across his intimidating features. He glares at you once more, as if you’re the one who’s insisting on being Bakugou’s plus one, and you’re about to be convinced that he’s mentally chanting a spell to make you disappear when he gestures for you to follow him with a flick of a head.

You gradually release the breath you didn’t know you were holding as you shadow them as they enter one of the doors on the wall perpendicular to where you were just stationed. It leads to a staircase that swerves in the middle, and you lock eyes with Bakugou as he makes the turn ahead of you. Neither of you says a word, opting to keep on trailing the man, even as you land on the second floor, which looks more and more like a prostitution den.

Once again, your conjecture is confirmed as you walk down the hallway and past several sets of doors on both sides, from which emanate a cacophony of sensual moans and groans. You wonder what Bakugou’s thinking right now, although you can’t get a read on him as you can only observe his backside.

Finally, after what seems like a tortuous eternity, the man stops right in front of the door at the end of the hallway, and you pause right behind him.

He looks back at Bakugou and you with what you’re pretty sure is caution, before knocking on the door twice, and then another two times but in rapid succession.

“Come in,” is what the muffled voice on the other side says.

And so you do.

You’re not entirely sure what you were expecting, because you’ve never actually been in a service room before, but you at least anticipated a bed on which certain…activities can be done.

But what you’re met with instead seems to be a refurbished lounge room with floor-to-ceiling brick walls, black and red quilted couches, and a bar at the far side all lit up with moody orange lighting.

And smack dab in the middle of it—sprawled so languidly all over the furniture—are three individuals.

Three individuals who immediately look at Bakugou.

It’s them, alright. You don’t need your extensive training in reading people to know that these are the ones you came all the way here for.

You quickly take note of their appearances. The seemingly old man who has to be in his late 50s is seated—quite relaxed—in one of the scarlet solo chairs. He’s slim, bordering on frail, but the glint in his eye as he peers at Bakugou tells you that it’d be unwise to rule him out as one of your main threats.

Juxtaposing his age which is further revealed by his shoulder-length salt and pepper hair is the young woman plastered on the couch adjacent to his.

Or maybe ‘woman’ is a bit too generous…

It’s not obvious at first glance, but you immediately notice how some of her body parts appear to be outright robotic in the literal sense. Perhaps it’s her long, pin-straight, jet-black hair that softens her entire look, but there’s no mistaking what seems to be an artificial left eye, a metallic right arm, and angled, silver lips. She’s wearing long pants so there’s no telling which other parts of her are made up of what you think is steel, but the ones visible to you already tell you enough.

And then there’s the third and last man, who, in comparison to the other two, is remarkably…plain.

There isn’t an air of age-induced wisdom around him, nor is there anything peculiar about his body. He looks like just about any other 40-year-old-ish Japanese man you know, with short black hair, an unassuming face, and semi-formal clothes that are quite loose on his not-buff but not exactly thin body either.

But to your surprise, it’s him that the hilariously huge guy from earlier directly reports to.

“Pro-hero Dynamight, sir, as you requested. And…” the ‘escort’ trails off, and for a split second, you feel kind of sorry you’re here and making things complicated for him. “…he brought company.”

“Finally,” the plain-looking man pipes up from his seat, and even his voice is generic. “And here we thought you were never going to come meet us.”

Placing what suspiciously looks like a glass of whiskey on the table in front of him, the man shifts to fully regard Bakugou. “I see that you’ve deciphered the messages we’ve been sending you?”

“No shit,” comes Bakugou’s blunt response, and for a beat, you seriously consider using your quirk on him to make him calm the fuck down.

You decide against it.

To your chagrin, he drones on. “Y’all gotta do better. That was barely even a code.”

At that, the old male barks out a laugh while the plain-looking man only chuckles. “Of course, we expect nothing less from the #2 pro-hero. But…” the latter trails off, eyes finally landing on you. You quickly put on the most endearing smile you can muster, suddenly regretting not touching up your makeup upon sitting earlier. Thankfully, though, he smiles back, before redirecting his focus back on Bakugou.

“I see you brought precious cargo. Is there any reason why she’s here with us?”

“We want in your organization,” Bakugou replies without hesitation. “The both of us.”

And when none of them say anything in response, Bakugou presses.

“You need me, right? I heard you’re planning an attack. I want to join.”

“Yes,” the old man finally speaks up, not even denying it yet his voice is riddled with misplaced humor. “We do, in fact, need you. But what use do we have of this girl?”

“She’s got a useful quirk,” Bakugou supplies, before turning to look at you and then back at them. “Luck. She boosts the success rate of anyone she works with.”

“Luck?” the old geezer says back so incredulously, you feel your eye twitch in annoyance. If he only knew what you were fully capable of. He can’t, though, if you want to get out of this entire situation alive. “I don’t think we’ll need that as long as we have you, boy.”

“Well, tough luck,” spews Bakugou, a little bit too sarcastically for your comfort. “Because, as I’ve told your little lackey here,” he gestures to the definitely not little guy from earlier, “It’s both of us or I’m out.”

“The both of you, huh?” muses the plain-looking man who’s seeming to be more and more like the leader of the group by the second.

Once again, silence envelopes the room when none of them utter a single word, with you and Bakugou watching in anxious (you) and impatient (him) anticipation. You observe their facial expressions as they have a wordless exchange, and judging by how the ancient and the robotic girl are looking at the ordinary man, you guess your hunch about him is right.

Eventually, they appear to reach an agreement, and the leader adjusts just enough to look at the both of you directly.

You brace yourself with bated breath.

He flashes you a modest smile.

“It’s a deal, then.”

˖⁺‧₊ as always, reblogs, replies, and tags are appreciated <3 feel free to drop an ask, too—i'd love to chat with you. have a nice day!

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[mimikittysblog]

The Princess

Pairing: Mafia! Husbands! Poly! Ateez x Fem! Wife! Reader

Genre: Angst, a good chunck of fluff, a HINT of smut (no actual sex scenes of the sorts but they’re quite sexual towards each other)

Synopsis: If ATZ were asked what their prized possession is, they wouldn’t say what you think. It isn’t the money, the cars, the jewels, the priceless paintings or anything of the sorts. As cheesy and unexpected as it sounds, they would answer each other. Now while on surface that is true, the reality of it is their most prized possession, their true treasure, the one they don’t even dare let people know they have in true fear of it getting taken away, is you. Their Princess. So what would happen when one night, you don’t come home?

Warnings: Kidnapping, major violence, implied sexual activity, death/murder (not of the major characters), alcohol consumption, Arson, MxM of course. So because of all of this please ⚠️MNDI⚠️ if I missed anything please let me know!

Word count: 5.3k words

A/N: It’s finally here!!! My goodness you guys loved that teaser 😭 I’m so grateful for all your enthusiasm! I hope this fic lives up to your expectations!! Happy reading!! Please tell me what you think! Likes, replies and reblogs are so appreciated!

.✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ✧.

On one side of the outskirts of town, there is this mansion belonging to a very interesting group of people. As of this moment throughout the gargantuan mansion, the sounds of fast paced footsteps can be heard. While loud or fast paced footsteps like these weren’t necessarily uncommon.

However somehow everyone who heard them deep down knew, something was wrong.

Suddenly said footsteps came to a stop as the sound of the door to the meeting room was opened.

Then the dreaded question was asked.

“My loves, have any of you seen or heard from Princess?”

Silence.

Just like that it became nothing but silence as all discussions of work seems to halt after hearing Yeosangs question.

“Is.. she not home yet?” Seonghwa asked softly.

“Well.. I can’t find her anywhere and she’s not answering her phone…”

“What?!” Wooyoung exclaimed as he quickly pulled out his phone and called her number.

Yunho took a glance to the clock on the wall and saw how late it was.

“It’s past her curfew. She knows she’s supposed to be home by now.”

“Forget that! She knows to always answer us. And she’s literally not answering us!” Wooyoung groans after the call goes unanswered.

“She’s just supposed to go shopping again!” Jongho exclaims.

The rest of the men in the room were silent. Frozen in fear and contemplation of what happened to you and where could you possibly be.

Suddenly they hear the front door open.

Believing its you, they wasted no time and quickly rushed down. However what they find are only your body guards, bloodied and bruised.

You?

Nowhere in sight.

At the sight of their bosses, your guards quickly got on their hands and knees. A position that screams begging for forgiveness.

“S-sirs! We’re sorry! So terribly sorry!! One second we were watching over her then the next we go-“

BANG

Hongjoong had no need for useless explanations or excuses.

His Princess was taken.

All he needs now is her back.

Mingi takes the gun from Hongjoongs hand and steps forward.

He kneels in front of one of the other guards and grabs him by the hair, positioning the gun under his chin.

“Where?”

“D-downtown! The alley near her favorite Chanel store!”

BANG

Jongho then takes the gun and aims it at the last guard.

“SIR! Please no forgive me!! I will find her! I will-“

BANG

Protecting you and making sure you come home safe was these guards only job. And yet they have failed.

Now they’ve lost you and to them there is no greater sin.

As Yunho is cleaning the blood off of Mingi’s face, Seonghwa turns to the maids and the henchmen stationed in the room. Clearly terrified as they’ve never seen their bosses so angry.

“Clean this up. We want this place spotless. Not a single trace of these sinners left behind. And get everyone to work. Find her. Check every corner. Turn every stone. Use any informant we have. Use any methods you can think of. Do what you must! And Find. Her. Now.”

With that they scrambled and quickly got to work.

Your husbands then left the room. Rage and determination emanating from their very being.

They will find you.

And those that took you will pay.

.✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ✧.

At another mansion on the other side of town, much smaller than the one he calls home, San is residing. He's currently on an undercover mission to get information they need to get rid of this nuisance of a mafia.

This other group wasn’t really a threat. No one was. However they’ve been getting on their nerves for far too long. So they intended to just wipe them out for their own comfort. Silently, quickly and deadly. Like they always do. Furthermore it’ll maybe also send a message to other groups to not pull the same stunts.

So once they got wind of how the head of the mafia likes collecting and having ‘toys' around no matter the gender they knew one of them had to play the part.

After careful consideration and discussion they agreed upon San.

No one was entirely happy with the idea. They hated the thought that San had to flaunt what was theirs and let another man touch him, possibly even kiss him.

However they knew their options to make this quick were very limited.

They all drew the line that San cannot sleep with him though. Not like San ever wanted to anyway. He would rather die before betraying his loves like that.

Thankfully San knew how to play his part well, where he was fun enough to keep around even if he had yet to sleep with the man. Plus he's too pretty of an eye candy to be let go anyway.

However he still needed to get this information quick, cause he knew he couldn't play celibate forever. The man will eventually want to force him to sleep with him.

So he needed to get out of there before that happens.

Currently San is in the living room in nothing but a fur coat and his boxers, as how the man requests all his toys to dress, with said man and the rest of his toys.

He's just drinking his whiskey as the man plays, wishing he was back home.

When suddenly the door was slammed opened and a girl was thrown to the ground.

"Sir, we've retrieved what you've asked for!"

One of the henchmen announced loudly.

San acted uninterested and nonchalant as he usually does until he glanced at and unfortunately recognized the poor girl on the ground.

..Princess..?

Why were you here??

How were you here???

You’re supposed to be safe at home with the rest!

“Ah yes. So this is ATZ’s precious treasure.” The man said with a shit eating grin causing the diamonds in his teeth to shine in the light.

He then got up and made his way to kneel in front of you. The man then grabbed your chin to make you look at him.

San almost lost it.

How dare his filthy hands touch his Princess?! So roughly at that.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Let go of me you piece of shit.” You growled at him.

“Ah ah.. is this the way you talk to the only one that can spare yo- UGH! Fucking bitch!”

Before he even finished his sentence you spat straight into his face.

In retaliation he gave you a hard slap, knocking you down.

There your eyes met San.

While to an outsider San seemed unbothered, you knew your husband. He was beyond mad. So mad that the devil himself wouldn’t dream of messing with him.

You, of course, knew of his mission. So you understood why he had to just sit there and act like he didn’t know you.

You weren’t even upset.

You missed him too much. It was such a sight to see him again.

Especially in the outfit he’s in.

So you only give him the tiniest comforting smile. Letting him know that you’re okay.

“Lock her up. ATZ will come and find her soon. They’ll make the deal to get her back. And soon I’ll be the most powerful.”

As you were being dragged away, your eyes only lingered on San.

San could only take another sip of his whiskey, with only one thought in his head.

Oh how wrong this man was.

.✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ✧.

“What do you mean you have no leads?!?” Mingi barked at the henchmen who gave him the update. Or lack there of.

“I’m sorry sir.. we’re still look-“

CRACK

“We don’t need your useless apologies. Get out there and FIND OUR WIFE. NOW!” Mingi didn’t even let him finish before hurling a heavy desk ornament straight towards his head and yelling at him again.

Bleeding from the head but grateful it wasn’t from a bullet hole, the henchmen hurriedly staggered over to give Mingi, Yeosang, and Wooyoung each a kiss on their rings that dawn their middle finger. Once the obligatory task of showing respect was done he left the room to continue searching for the lady of the household.

The room fell silent again as Mingi walks over to the big portrait of his husbands and you right in the middle. Smiling so wide and beautifully. He’d do anything to make sure that smile stays forever on your face and for him to always see it.

All of them would.

You’ve only been missing for less than 24 hours yet that’s longer than any of you have been apart these past few years without reason. Along with the fact that they knew you were taken forcibly, unease would be an understatement to describe what Mingi and the rest of them are feeling.

Then after a sigh, Wooyoung reached over and rung a bell that was on the desk. Which caused a maid with a tray of glasses and Wooyoung’s favorite bottle of liquor to enter.

Wooyoung took the bottle, disregarding the glasses and took a swig.

“Have we heard back from San? He needs to come home now. I already hated that he had to do this. Now with Princess gone, I need to know that he’s safe too. And I’m sure he’d also want to find her.” Wooyoung rambled, jittery due to the present status of his lovers are up in the air.

“We just sent the message to him. He’ll respond soon.” Yeosang sighed, trying to reassure him by also softly grabbing his hand. However he also then poured himself some of the liquor and took a sip.

Suddenly a rushed knock on the door was heard.

“Come in!” Mingi yelled.

“Sirs! A message from Sir San!” A different henchmen hurriedly walked in and dropped a small note on the table.

“Good. Now leave.” Wooyoung said.

The henchmen nodded, also kissing the rings on their fingers before leaving.

Yeosang then took the note. It was only two words but it caused him to jump up from his seat. He bellowed for whoever was nearby to come in.

“Get Captain! We need to leave now!!” He ordered firmly.

“What?! What did he say?!” Wooyoung asked also jumping up.

‘Causing Mingi to also step forward curiously.

Yeosang merely had to show them the note for them to understand.

‘She’s here.’

.✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ✧.

Locked away in a small and quite frankly ugly room is currently where you are. Truth be told?

You’re just bored.

You wanted to go home.

Thats all.

You knew the second you were taken your husbands will bring upon hell on earth. So you’re just waiting for that to happen.

You’re not sure how they were able to figure out you were their wife in the first place though. Someone on your staff must’ve snitched. Well you can deal with them later.

Right now they just need to hurry and pick you up.

Ugh you bought such a pretty new dress to show off to them…

It’s probably ruined in that dingy disgusting alley by now.

Shame.

A loud thud can suddenly be heard outside of your locked door and it caused your heart to race. Soon the door unlocked to reveal the beauty that is Choi San.

“Sannie!!” You chirped excitedly.

You leaped from the bed only to be pulled back.

“Ugh! Stupid handcuff.” You grumbled. Completely forgetting it was there.

“Oh Princess!!” San said as he made his way to you in a flash, quickly uncuffing you. With a key you’re not so sure where he got it from. A knocked out guard possibly. No matter though.

As now with your arms free you can finally engulf your husband in a big hug once again.

“Oh my sweet darling! What happened?? How are you here???” He asked as he pulled away and checked every inch of you to see where you were hurt.

“I’m not sure my Sannie. One minute I was walking to the car then the next thing I knew these big oafs grabbed me and dragged me here. I’m fine though love! I promise! Minor bruises and scratches is all..” You explained and try to reassure him.

You knew it was in vain though as even a microscopic scratch on you will cause any of your husbands to go on a rampage.

The fact your old butler is now six feet under for giving you a small cut is proof enough.

“Princess.. you’re clearly hurt…” San said with a sigh. “We’re so sorry.. This should’ve never happened.” He apologized softly stroking the bruise on your cheek.

“Hush now my love. You know there’s only one way I could ever possibly be considered hurt. And that is if anything were to ever happen to my precious husbands. Only then. Will I ever consider myself harmed.” Pure love and sincerity lacing your voice.

A voice San truly does miss. It’s been weeks since he’s home. Oh how he misses it.

“Well it’s good to know the feeling is mutual darling. As seeing these bruises and scuffs on your precious skin brings me nothing but great agony and ignites a fire in me like no other.” He explained as he kisses each visible blemish and cut.

“Don’t worry Princess. The others will be here very soon alright? Just sit tight. I need to get back to work to avenge you darling.” Once finished with his reassurance that your husbands are on their way, he finally gives you a kiss you’ve been craving ever since he left the comforts of your home.

“Okay my love. Though do be quick. I’m awfully bored. Oh and by the way..” You start as you softly trail your hand down his chiseled body. “You should start dressing like this at home. I’m sure the others would also very much enjoy it!” You giggle as your hand made it to his crotch. Cupping it.

Oh you missed the little twitch it does so much.

“Ah yes, hmm your wish is forever my command Princess.” He replies with a chuckle. He then takes your hand and kisses the wedding band on your finger softly.

“I love you Princess. I’ll be back.”

“I love you too.”

.✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ✧.

“Ah yes. Mr. Jeong. Welcome to my humble abode! I see my offer finally has caught your eye.”

Yunho doesn’t bother to reply before walking in.

“My, how rude you are. But very well. I’m sure you’re uneasy as.. something is missing.” The man then continues to taunt with a smirk.

Yunho’s face remains stoic, however his fist clenches a bit tighter.

“I have no time for your games.” Yunho simply states before letting himself into the mans office. Yunho then sits down and tells the man to do the same. “State exactly what it is you want. We’ll talk from there.”

The man lets out a scoff before sitting down across from him.

He then claps his hand which causes a very familiar man to walk in to bring in a tray of drinks.

“Thank you San.” The man says in a smirk, once again causing the diamonds in his mouth to shine.

San simply ignores him.

No longer seeing the need to act accordingly.

As San makes his way to leave, he gets stopped by a hand on his exposed abdomen.

“Excuse me. I don’t believe I’ve given you permission to touch my lovely toys.” The man warns Yunho.

Who is simply admiring his husband.

“Hmm… well, ‘your toy.’ Is quite the specimen I must say. Can’t seem to help myself.” Yunho says with a smirk towards San, running his hand up and down his body.

Oh lord how much they’ve missed each other’s touch.

With San’s back facing the man, he can’t see the smirk that San reciprocates to Yunho. Yunho lets out a soft chuckle before taking San’s hand and kissing his ring finger. That was unfortunately currently empty.

“Leave San.” The man growls.

San does. But not before softly grazing his fingers across Yunho’s broad shoulders.

“Odd.. he usually never lets anyone else touch him…” the man mumbles to himself softly. Too stupid to realize what’s going on.

“So you’ve stolen our Princess. Due to that you expect us to work with you. Is that it?” Yunho finally cuts to the chase.

“Well you’d do anything to get her back wouldn’t you?” The man replies cockily.

“Naturally.”

“Well then work with me. Then I’ll set her free. Simple!”

CRASH

“You’re a bigger idiot than we thought.”

Suddenly the sounds of bullets firing, screams and yells can be heard throughout the mansion.

The man, the coward he truly is, instinctively hides under the desk at all the noise. However that desks gets thrown off of him, revealing Yunho standing above him. Gun aimed straight to his forehead.

“Run.”

Without a second thought he books it out of the room. Only to be met with the bodies of his henchmen, maids and toys scattered about. Blood coating the walls and floors. He was frozen in shock. That is before a bullet goes flying near his head grazing his ear.

“AH!”

“I said. Run.”

The man once again runs, but also stupidly tries his luck and pulls out his own gun. Before he could even aim at Yunho, his gun was shot out of his hand.

“The more you try to survive. The less likely it’ll be the case. So when my husband tells you to run. You run.” Jongho simply states standing in the living room. Surrounded by dead bodies, shattered chandeliers, ruined paintings, and mangled musical instruments.

While he was devastated at the state of his fortune he was thankfully still smart enough to value his life more. So he began to rush again.

He thought that maybe he could take the shortcut that leads to his garage through his dining room. So thats where his running legs took him as bullets were still flying everywhere. So much so that he can’t tell which came from his own men and which came from ATZ.

As he made it into the dining room he was only met with the sight of his most precious car on top of his dining table.

“Oh? Were you planning on escaping with this? Hmm. That doesn’t seem possible now does it?” Seonghwa taunts while sitting on the roof of the car.

“All this over some girl?!?!” The man roars enraged of what has become of his hard work.

Seonghwa’s expression hardens in the blink of an eye. Without another word he stands and pulls out his gun then starts shooting at the man without mercy.

The man realizes his mistake too late and gets shot in the shoulder and grazed on the thigh. However the adrenaline pumping through his veins was still enough to have him dashing out of the room.

He no longer has a plan and getting slightly dazed from the blood he’s losing, he��s just trying to get out of there. He opens the nearest door to him hoping it’ll lead to an exit.

Unfortunately for him, once again he’s met with a horrible sight and sound.

“Ah! You’ve finally come to play!” Yeosang says with a smile laced with venom.

What the man has stumbled into is his indoor tennis courtroom. Where currently Yeosang and Yunho have gathered a bunch of his henchmen, somehow tied up their upper bodies, and made them into moving targets for their tennis practice.

Many of his henchmen had succumbed to their injuries and their blood has splattered and painted the walls, floor and ceiling.

Frozen in shock due to the gruesome display, Yunho took the opportunity to serve and strike a tennis ball straight to the mans face.

“Wonderful shot my love!!” Yeosang cheers.

“Your turn handsome.”

Yeosang then wastes no time before doing the same and hitting the man right on the crotch.

“Oops wasn’t aiming for that but I’ll take it.”

“I would say you got a higher score than me.” Yunho chuckles.

This man still doesn’t give up however.

Not like the boys wanted him too anyway. They always loved a challenge and this man hasn’t even payed a fraction of his sins.

.✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ✧.

After hearing the commotion thats happening outside your ugly holding room, you knew it only meant one thing.

Your lovely husbands are finally here to pick you up.

While the man that thought he could have his way by kidnapping you was being dealt with, the door to your room opened revealing your knights in shining armor.

Oh my! They look absolutely gorgeous in their suits.

If circumstances were any different you would’ve happily have them take you right then and there.

“My loves!!!” You screeched happily and skipped your way over to them.

“Oh Princess!!!” Wooyoung exclaimed happily as he wrapped you up in his arms.

Seonghwa and Jongho doing the same.

“Are you hurt Princess??” Seonghwa asked worriedly. “Oh my you are! Oh we’re so sorry darling…” Seonghwa didn’t even let you answer.

“My loves I’m fine! I promise I’m fine! I have you here, I’m alright. Where are the others..?” You ask with a pout.

“Oh they’re dealing with pests right now Princess don’t worry. It won’t take them too long.” Jongho says with a soft comforting smile.

“Hmm alright.. are you three taking me home?”

“Yes we are darling! Come no- goodness! what an ugly room they kept you in!! Our Princess doesn’t deserve this?!” Wooyoung then exclaims when finally taking notice of the room. Genuinely upset that you were kept in such an ugly room.

“I know right?! It’s so tacky!!” You say with an eyeroll. Seonghwa and Jongho can only chuckle at your antics.

The three of them then safely brought you outside. Where you were met with Hongjoong waiting patiently on the hood of the limousine.

Also looking immensely good. As in ‘please fuck me right now’ levels of good.

Alas.

Circumstances didn’t allow it.

“Joongie!!!” You exclaim happily as you sprint to him.

Hongjoong quickly opens his arms for you. You jump into his arms as he picks you up and spins you around.

“Oh our Princess.. we were so worried. We’re so glad you’re okay!” Hongjoong sighs in relief.

“Of course I’m okay! You’re my husbands! Nothing will ever harm me!” You say with your gorgeous smile.

“You were taken sweetie.. We’re oh so sorry…”

“Oh enough with your apologies! I’m fine! I promise I’m fine! It seems like you guys constantly forget my vows! Now that hurts! You know I’m only ever hurt when you guys are!” You remind them.

“Well the bruises on your sweet body may not hurt you but they do hurt us sweetie. So that makes it hurt you!” Wooyoung explains going off your logic.

“Alright smarty pants!” You huff.

“Besides! You all bruise me constantly! Do you not?” You tease.

“Those are different love.” Seonghwa says with a knowing glance and grin. Stepping closer to you.

“You know that very well. Any bruising or scratches done to your skin that is caused by us is all because you wished for it. Done specifically for your pleasure.” Jongho says as he leans forward as well to kisses a certain spot under your jaw.

You quickly bit your lip to suppress the moan bubbling up your throat.

Once Jongho pulls away, and you’ve calmed down, you look at all of them properly and smile.

“In all seriousness I’m fine my loves. I really am. You’re here now. You saved me. Like I knew you would. What happened to me was not because of you. Someone betrayed us that I’m sure of and we can deal with that later. Now can you all just take me home?”

“Very well our sweet.” Seonghwa says with a smile as he steps forward to kiss the crown of your head.

As you were about to enter the car you noticed Hongjoong still just standing there.

“My love? Are you not coming with?” You ask.

“Not yet Princess. I need to watch over and there are things I must do. Go home with the others. We’ll be home soon.” He informs with a smile.

“Hmm very well… Don’t take too long though! Tell that to the others too! I miss my husbands!!” You grumble.

“And we miss you. No worries. Being away from you after everything that has happened aches me as much as you.”

“Hmm alright. See you soon my beloved.”

With a final flying kiss goodbye, you enter the car with the rest. You all then drive off as Hongjoong turns around and looks at the mess he intends to finish.

Back in what was once a mansion, with the help of his henchmen that are still abled bodied and loyal to him. The man that caused all of this is executing a plan of escape.

They were finally able to sneak past all of the chaos that was still happening, to the last functioning escape car they know of.

Or so they thought.

Before they could even start the car. That wouldn’t have worked anyway.

They noticed San standing in front of it.

With an expression none of them have ever seen.

“San..?” The man questions as he thought San would’ve been killed as well.

San without even thinking twice, pulls out his own gun and shoots the very last henchmen he had, dead.

Merely as second after their bodies slumped over, a fist slammed into the window of the mans side, cracking it.

“Get out.”

Laughed.

The man laughed.

Thats the only thing he can do in this situation.

Incredibly bloodied, bruised and broken.

With everything he had worked for.

Gone. In less than a 12 hours.

All because he thought he could kidnap you and get away with it.

He then finally got out and stood in front of Mingi.

Where Mingi happily grabbed him by the back of the collar and dragged him to the front of the mansion. Here he threw him down in front of the feet of his lovers that had stayed behind. Their sea of henchmen standing behind them.

Before Hongjoong even acknowledged him, he turned to San. Admiring his body that he missed as much as the others but then clicks his tongue. He grabbed the fur coat San was still wearing then asked.

“He gave you this?”

San simply nodded.

Scoffing he tugs on it more, silently telling San to take it off as he takes his own off.

“No husband of mine will wear such a cheap and ugly fur coat like this any longer.” He complains as he puts his coat on San.

Thankfully he wore the big sized one today. It fits San perfectly.

“H-husband..?”

“Yes. Husband.” Hongjoong replies still admiring San but now also running his hand up and down his body.

Now these are the touches San’s been craving for all these weeks.

“Oh which reminds me!” Yeosang exclaims before pulling out a familiar gold band.

Seeing this causes a huge smile to appear on San’s face and his eyes to light up.

As he did many years ago, Yeosang took San’s hand and slipped his wedding ring back right where it belongs. Kissing it to seal the deal.

“Hmm. Much better. Oh also! You should start dressing like this at home.” The smirk never leaving Hongjoong as he says it.

“I agree.” Mingi states.

The other lovers humming in agreement.

San could only chuckle.

“Princess said the same thing.”

“Well we must make it happen then.” Yunho said with a wide cheeky smile.

“What the fuck is going on?!”

Oh they forgot he was there-

“You really did mess with the wrong people you stupid man.” Yeosang sighs bored of the man already.

“I have a name?!”

“We clearly don’t care. And it clearly won’t matter anymore.” Mingi says with an eyeroll as he flicks open a lighter.

“So this is it? You’re gonna set me on fire?”

“Yes.” San says.

The mans eyes shot wide. Somehow not expecting the blunt answer.

“Not before you watch everything you have burn of course.” Hongjoong says as Mingi throws the lighter behind the man.

The lighter then lands in a trail of gasoline that leads to mangled furniture and fortunes that are strewn about, before leading to the actual mansion.

It doesn’t take long until everything goes up in flames.

The man watches in agony as everything. Everything. Burns. He then turns to the men and curses.

“You’ve taken everything.. literally everything. Must you really kill me too?” The man asks somehow still trying to make it out of this alive.

“I won’t bother you again… I’ll just vanish. Live a quiet life please. You won’t gain anything from killing me. You got her back!!!” He bargains.

SMACK

“Don’t even think about mentioning her again. No. Don’t even think about her. Your mind is not worthy to have her in it.” Hongjoong says after slapping him straight across the face.

“You’re right though. We won’t gain anything from your death. We won’t even gain satisfaction.” Yunho starts.

“However. We’re merely just punishing sinners.” Yeosang continues.

“Before you even bother. No. You haven’t suffered enough. Not even close. But we could’ve done much more. So consider yourself lucky. As of now at least. As we’re sure in hell you’ll suffer even more for what you’ve done.” Mingi adds with a gleaming smirk.

“You took our Princess. Your greatest sin and stupidest mistake. So for that. You must pay the price.” San explains further.

“To put it simply. You gotta die.” Hongjoong finishes as he steps forward and grabs the mans collar.

“‘Cause you being alive is still a sin in itself. Why? Well... you’re still breathing her air.”

And with that, Hongjoong merely gives him one last shove. Making the man fall back into the flames.

His screams of suffering can be heard for miles. However due to his extensive injuries it didn’t take long for said screams to just stop. Leaving nothing but the melody of crackling fire in the air.

Once that happened, Hongjoong lazily chucked in San’s old fur coat into the flames as well. Coincidentally the coat landed perfectly on the mans, now charred, body. This action actually made Yunho chuckle.

“Oh. Like he needed that. I’m sure he’s toasty enough.” Yunho commented sarcastically.

In turn causing everyone else to also let out a laugh.

“Well. Thought he might want to descend to hell wearing what he thinks is fashion.” Hongjoong reasons with a shrug.

.✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ✧.

As the fire burned on ATZ and their henchmen just watched. Making sure everything gets burned to the ground. Took a while but it was beautiful in a way so they didn’t mind.

Once the fire started dying down the sound of a car approaching was heard.

Odd.

They were supposed to wait at home.

The car came to a halt and then the rest of ATZ exited. As they walked up to ones who were watching, the henchmen parted straight down the middle to make way before returning to position.

The rest that just arrived now stand next to the others as they also tuned in to watch the fire.

“Weren’t you all supposed to wait at home and keep Princess company?” Yeosang asked.

“Well we were. But we all missed you too much. And you know Princess loves watching the show. Plus.. she was getting needy for all of us.” Seonghwa explains with a subtle smile.

“Aaah I see. Oh! But she shouldn’t be breathing this much smoke though!” San says worriedly.

“Relax. We made her wait in the car. She can still view it well but she won’t be in harms way.” Jongho reassures before handing San a pair of pants.

“Good. Oh? What’s this? You’re not enjoying seeing me like this like the others are Jongie?” San teases.

Jongho simply rolls his eyes and ignores him. Biting the inside of his cheek hoping no one notices his flushed cheeks. Also trying to not look down at San’s bulge.

“I think he just doesn’t want to be distracted. This is the first time we’ve seen you in weeks Sannie. We missed you very much. You and your sexy body.” Mingi says as he nudges Jongho’s shoulder.

Jongho just softly nudges Mingi back.

“Just say you miss my cock.”

“We all do.” Wooyoung chirped in with a smack to San’s ass.

A couple of hours past before the fire finally dies down and the smoke begins to clear.

Their work here is finally done.

And just ust like that the car door then opens.

Then out walks you, their Princess, wearing one of your newest most lavish and expensive dress in your favorite color. You’re also all dolled up just for them.

At the sight of you exiting the car, the sea of henchmen that were still standing behind your husbands, quickly part to make way like before. However this time, they also got down on their knees, head down, in respect.

As they should.

“What a beautiful sight! Oh my loves you outdid yourselves with this one!” You praise them giddy as if you weren’t talking about the scene of a gruesome massacre.

“An appropriate punishment for such a sinner don’t you think Princess?” Hongjoong asks as he takes your hand.

“I suppose.” You hum as you stand beside him.

“Now that you’re done, can we please leave? I’m hungry!”

“Ah! One more thing before we leave!” Hongjoong announces as he walks towards the ashes.

In said ashes, there lies the skeleton of the man that started all of this. With a wide smirk on his face, Hongjoong carefully crouches down and picks up a small but very sparkly diamond from the teeth of said skeleton.

Hongjoong, smirk not faltering even a bit, makes his way back to you and takes your hand.

“What do you think princess? Shall we customize you a new ring?” He asks showing the diamond.

“Oh my! Yes please! Oh! And check for any more jewels that are left behind in these ashes and rubble! We shouldn’t let such pretty things go to waste.”

“Of course darling.” Jongho starts before turning his attention to the men that were still on their knees before you.

“You heard her.”

“YES SIR!”

Like that they all got up, bowed to you once more before rushing to the ashes where a lavish mansion once stood. In search of anything shiny that might please you.

“Hmmm can we pleeeasee eat now?” You ask with a pout.

“Yes we can our Princess. Yes we can.” Seonghwa tells you with a smile as they all lead you back to the car.

“Can we go to my favorite place tonight?”

“Anything for our Princess.”

.✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ✧.

Bonus ending! ♡

© mimikittysblog 2024

Tagging: @faeprincess777 @starygw3n @bee-gremlin @pinkpearlstar @sweetinsaniiity @puppyminnnie @borahae-reads @spenceatiny18 @justconniez @rosydipity @vtyb23 @beccaskz @boredlol914 @ntlmundy @latisthegenderfluidwannabealone @ateezswonderland @peachyy-jooniee @robertsbbygirl @hanniehq @smally97 @pixie0627 @haven-cove @jaerisdiction @btskzfav @bbyunicornbby @tinybada @cecilleasworld @mudent @mortal-advocate @jjcanwrite

Those who are italicized I could not tag for some reason :(

[cuubism]

Covetous

E | Dreamling | 6.6k

fishbowl rescue, hurt/comfort, sex as a reward, dub-con, the intricate rituals that let you have touch and intimacy without admitting you need it

“Dream,” he says carefully, sitting down on the coffee table across from him. It’s new to him still, this name. Pulled from his stranger’s hoarse throat on their way out of the manor. Dream. His poor friend. Dream looks up at him. His expression is guarded. Wounded. “I owe you,” he says, in his low, sibilant voice, “a boon.” As a reward for his rescue, Dream offers Hob what he's always wanted most. Dream himself.

--

Hob’s beloved stranger is free. Miraculously imprisoned, and then freed by Hob’s hand. And never has freedom looked so fucking awful on a person.

He’s sitting on Hob’s couch like a crumpled bird, wrapped loosely in one of Hob’s shirts. It’s so oversized on him, even more than it normally would be on his narrow frame. His knees are knobby, his cheekbones sharp, hands pressed together in his lap in a mimicry of the way the manacles had bound his wrists. Bruised wrists, bruised throat, shadows under his eyes. God. Hob should have chained up Alex Burgess and thrown him in the glass cage for a change.

“Dream,” he says carefully, sitting down on the coffee table across from him. It’s new to him still, this name. Pulled from his stranger’s hoarse throat on their way out of the manor. Dream. His poor friend.

Dream looks up at him. His expression is guarded. Wounded. “I owe you,” he says, in his low, sibilant voice, “a boon.”

“For what?” Hob says. Dream continues looking at him meaningfully. “For rescuing you? No, you don’t.” He really thinks Hob’s that much of a profiteer?

“We are not even friends,” Dream says lowly, and ouch, that one hurts. “And you have risked the secret of your immortality to aid me.”

Hob refrains from saying that he considers Dream his friend, even if the bastard doesn’t return it.

“I will not leave that debt hanging,” Dream says, voice gaining strength. “Long have I been bound for use of my power and I will not have the same from you, Hob Gadling. Demand something of me, that this debt may be cleared and we be free of each other.”

“Okay, okay.” Hob raises a hand to placate him. He really wants rid of Hob that badly? That’s some gratitude. Insisting on transactional payment, when Hob rescued him because he cared about him? Assuming Hob must want some grand favor from him, when all Hob’s ever wanted is a second of his time and attention?

He lets out a long breath to calm himself. He’s so… frustrated. And angry, though it’s really more anger on Dream’s behalf, now without outlet as his captors are all dead.

“All I’ve ever wanted from you is you,” he says.

“Indeed?” says Dream with a bitter little laugh. Hob has never known him to have a particularly charitable view of things, but his imprisonment seems to have twisted that even further, carved him into a shell that only knows what it is to be hurt. “Not even your immortality?”

“You offered that,” Hob says. “And I would have gone after it whether you were there or not.”

Dream lets out another awful, dry laugh. Hob’s always wanted to hear him laugh, to know if he ever did, but not like this. “Seized it,” he agrees. “Demanded it. What was never for men to have.”

“That’s never stopped me,” Hob says. Dream is not the cause of him wanting to live, even if it was that chance encounter with him that enabled it, in the end.

“No,” Dream agrees. He meets Hob’s eyes again, challenging. Echoes Hob’s words: “All you wanted was me.”

“All I wanted was you,” Hob says. Some of the truest words he knows.

“Why?” says Dream, brow pinching. Genuinely asking. “I have given you little enough.”

Exactly, Hob thinks. Because I get minutes of you every century. Because being with you for those minutes is like touching another plane of existence entirely. Because you’re the most gorgeous and interesting thing I’ve ever seen and your attention, your interest, your approval is like a drug to me.

Instead, he says, “You know me. Greedy to the core. Given enough time, there’s very little in this life that I can’t manage to get. Except for you. Your time. You’re always at a remove. So high above.”

Dream nods as if this makes sense to him. A more acceptable explanation than that Hob might simply want to be with him. And it’s not untrue. But it’s certainly not the whole truth.

“It is agreed, then,” Dream says.

Hob frowns. “Sorry. What is?”

“All you have wanted was me,” Dream says, as if Hob should obviously know where he’s going with this. “Let the boon be sealed.”

“I don’t understand—”

Dream glares at him. He has always been quick to anger, but now it leaps off his tongue, smolders and burns for the slightest opportunity to rage. Well. That makes two of them. “Do not toy with me. I am not oblivious. I have seen the way you look upon me—”

Hob chokes.

“—so do not play at ignorance. If I am what you want in reward, then let it be done.”

Hob feels himself pale. Is he actually suggesting…?

“Dream—” He starts to reject him out of hand. To suggest some other favor if Dream is so hell-bent on it. Information, maybe, about Dream’s life, all the things Hob’s always been obsessively curious about. But.

Dream is not wrong. When Hob had said, all I ever wanted was you, he had meant it more broadly, but Dream’s interpretation of the statement is not incorrect. Hob does want him. In his bed. In his life. Has since he first saw him. Definitely has since Dream had looked at him from under his lashes like that in 1789, given him that damned smirk. He’d thought, in that moment, that Dream might want him too—it was one of the things that had given him the boldness to claim friendship a century later.

Hob wants him, wants to touch him, and have him, and see what he looks like when he’s losing himself to pleasure. Wants it feverishly. Painfully. And the way Dream is looking at him— there’s want there. In those shadowed eyes. In that body, bent and forced into an unnatural shape. He’s not looking at Hob with revulsion at the prospect. He did come up with it himself. And. Hob’s not sure he’s a good enough person to turn down his one chance at that offer. He’s not sure he’s a good person at all.

“Fine,” he says, and Dream looks briefly surprised, and then resigned, accepting. Like he had, fleetingly, thought better of Hob, but was not wholly surprised to be proven wrong. That hurts, too. But if Dream won’t even let them be friends, with the understanding and care contained therein, well, so be it. If Dream’s angry enough to do this to himself, then maybe Hob is, too.

He expects Dream to tell him how exactly this is supposed to work—presumably he has specific rules defining it as a debt and marking it paid—but for a long moment he just keeps sitting there in the aftermath of Hob’s agreement. Crumpled. Hands twisted together, bruises on his fingers. So Hob takes his hands, pulls them out of their violent twist. Dream lets him, going limp. That resignation. That, Hob doesn’t like.

He leans down and kisses Dream’s knuckles, then turns his hands over and kisses his palms. If he’s going to live out the long-held fantasy of having sex with his old stranger, then he’s going to do it the way he imagined. Not whatever way Dream expects of him.

When he looks up again, the cold touch of Dream’s hands lingering on his face, he’s just quick enough to catch Dream looking at him not with resignation, but with longing. It flees his face as soon as their gazes meet, but the afterimage lingers behind Hob’s eyes. Slides under his ribcage like a knife.

“Come on, darling,” he says, the endearment slipping out like that very knife pulled from a wound. He stands, pulling Dream to his feet with him. Now is probably not the best time to do this, but he suspects Dream will insist on it, wanting to be free of Hob—of their debt—as soon as possible so he can carry on his business unimpeded.

Hob leads Dream to the bedroom well aware of the blade he’s hanging over his own neck: if he does this, Dream won’t come back. He’ll clear their debt and that will be it, he’ll return to his mystical world and cut contact, end their prior agreement, knowing well exactly what he can expect from Hob, and that Hob really hasn’t changed at all.

Unless. Unless Hob can give him a reason to come back.

Dream is silent as he follows. He stops in the middle of the bedroom, feet bare on the carpet, Hob’s shirt hanging loose on him, face set in a harsh frown that trembles and wavers when Hob turns to him and, instead of pushing off his shirt and dragging him forward, takes his face between his hands.

Hob’s never had Dream this close. He can make out each strand of Dream’s hair, and the precise shade of his eyes, sea-storm blue. There’s defiance, there. Fire. Challenging Hob to take what he feels he’s owed. If he dares.

Challenge. Not resentment. Not revulsion.

So Hob kisses him.

He’s not a saint.

He’s not a saint, he’s exactly what Dream thinks him to be, greedy, and hungry, and unchanging. And he has wanted Dream for a very long time.

It’s easy to kiss him, the way it’s easy to slide a razor across one’s skin, the blade so sharp it barely stings. It’s easy to take his mouth, press inside, bite at his lower lip, hook his fingers around the sharp hinge of Dream’s jaw. Catch him. Gather him. Press warmth into his skeletal frame. It’s easy. It feels natural.

It feels natural like hunger. Natural, like seeing Dream standing over him in the inn that very first time, and the bright exploding sense that all before this had been obscured by smoke, and now for the first time he was seeing.

Dream makes a sound low in his throat, a moan quickly bitten off into a growl. Hob half-expects him to be passive, to decide he just wants to get it over with, but he’s not. He kisses back. Angrily, as if to punish Hob for his audacity, bites at Hob’s lip, grips his hips hard, the sharp points of his fingers digging in. It’s the intensity Hob always expected of him, when he fantasized about his stranger wanting him; it’s the low curl of his voice around Hob in the inn — you… dare? — grown claws.

Hob dares. Hob’s always dared. He dares to push the shirt, his shirt, off Dream’s shoulders, and he dares to pull his own shirt off over his head. He dares to walk Dream back towards the bed, and guide him up onto it, and to kick off his shoes and to follow him. He dares to study Dream’s bare form, laid out before him, but that is not a sharp dare, that is… a caress. A dream, in which he might hold his stranger close and trail fingers along every inch of his skin and his stranger none the wiser but feeling it, maybe, as a far off breath over the back of his neck. Stolen, that dream, but given back kinder.

Hob studies the gorgeous, bruised, sharp lines of him, the smudge of his hair, the shadows of his eyes, elegant fingers and sprawling legs and precise, round nipples, the stillness of him in repose, mouth slightly open, watching. Dream is more charcoal sketch than man, a memory of a lover drawn in the late hour, strong, pressed lines, and careful shading. If this all goes terribly wrong, if he can’t convince Dream how he really feels, that’s how Hob will remember him. As a shadow, a daydream, a vision filtered through the prism of the past.

He leans down from his place between Dream’s legs to kiss his sternum, then his belly which shivers at the touch, then low on his pelvis. Dream doesn’t move. When Hob looks up at him, he’s watching intently, eyes gone dark. With a measured touch he lays his fingers along Hob’s temples, dragging them to the corners of Hob’s eyes, nails sharp like claws, a sheathed threat. God, the audacity of Burgess to think he could keep this thing chained. Hob closes his eyes and, shivering with dangerous pleasure, lets Dream run his fingers over them, then retreat.

Dream’s sharp nails frame his cheeks. His voice rumbles above Hob, the turning of clouds, his tone fond, almost, but dangerous too. “My rescuer…”

Yes, Hob thinks, always.

“You have saved me,” says Dream. “You have returned me to my realm. And to myself.” The words have a sense of finality. “Now. Seize your prize.”

Seize, no, Hob thinks, but prize, yes. Dream is a prize, every second with him is. One Hob’s done little enough to earn, but takes eagerly either way.

“Take your reward of my body,” Dream continues, thumbs stroking Hob’s cheeks. “But know this.”

Hob opens his eyes and looks up at him. Dream’s voice is portentous. His eyes are swirling pits, dark, shadowed, and alluring.

“Know this,” he repeats, holding Hob’s gaze, “one cannot have a dream and remain unchanged. And to be so close to the Endless…” he runs his thumb over Hob’s lower lip. “Even more so.”

“Good,” Hob says. He doesn’t have to think about it; what more could he want than to be changed by Dream? He already has been.

Dream’s eyes flash with surprise, but slide quickly into satisfaction. It’s sick, almost, that look, like he would see Hob made twisted and wrong for what he wants, for what he’s taking. Fine. Good. Maybe Hob deserves it. The thought doesn’t make him want to stop. Dream can pierce him with his claws and undo him and Hob will only keep looking for him in every shadow.

He feels blissfully on edge from the danger. He ducks his head, Dream’s hands slipping off him, and goes low on Dream’s body, pressing his lips to the base of his cock, where he’s half-hard. Interested.

In Hob’s earliest fantasies of getting his mouth on his stranger it had not been like this. Dream had been powerful and strange and Hob had wanted to worship him, and to have Dream’s touch in his hair speak approval. But this Dream has no haughty approval left to offer him, only ashes and rage. And all Hob wants now is to taste him. Touch him, as Dream said, and be changed.  

He kisses his way up Dream’s cock, swipes over the head with his tongue, wraps his fingers around Dream’s bony hips. Then takes the head of his cock fully in his mouth, pulling a shallow gasp from Dream. His thighs tremble, his hips twitch up into Hob’s mouth. His stranger, always so controlled, must be terribly sensitive after having no pleasure at all for so many years. The thought causes an undeniable thrill.

He relishes in the weight of Dream on his tongue. In the shivering sighs of Dream above him, even more. His hands come to Hob’s hair, and his grip is not hesitant, it’s sharp. But he doesn’t try to move Hob. Only connects them through that point of pain.

He tastes metallic—not only his prick, or the drop of pre Hob pulls from him, but his skin too, when Hob pulls off and kisses his inner thigh, and the crook of his hip. There’s a tang to his skin that sticks to Hob’s tongue. He thinks it’s a relic of the magic that captured him, or the magic that had gotten him out. He wishes he knew the true taste of Dream’s skin.

Hob raises himself up on his arms, goes back up Dream’s body to capture his mouth. Dream tips his head back, baring his throat. Gentle now, instead of fighting. Hob bites under his jaw, wringing a cry from Dream’s lips. He adds his own bruise to the ring of them already painting Dream’s neck, then kisses over it, and the others besides, kisses pressing just hard enough to edge into pain.

Dream moves under him, legs wrapping around Hob’s hips. Hob gets one hand between them and finally unzips his trousers, takes himself out, grinds his cock against Dream’s. Rough fabric drags over Dream’s skin. Hob finds he likes the thought of it showing on Dream’s thighs later, the raw friction of them. He doesn’t like to see Dream battered, bruised, but with his bruises—well. That’s a different matter.

Dream catches his jaw and turns Hob back to his mouth, pulls him into a biting kiss, his tongue sweeping over Hob’s teeth. Then he meets Hob’s gaze, a hint of that dark imperiousness that Hob knows so well back in his eyes.

“If you intend to claim me for yourself,” he says, voice frayed at the edges and dripping shadow, “then do so fully. I will have all of your passion for me. Or nothing.”

Hob swallows hard, throat sticking. “That is quite a lot of passion, my friend.”

If anything, that only makes Dream seem more satisfied. “So it seems.”

Does he know what he could get Hob to do for him, in another situation? Here, now, Dream is for him—or so he’s set the bargain. But there is little Dream could not twist Hob’s passion for him into, if he only asked. It’s a dangerous thing to feel, and yet Hob is not afraid of it. There are worse things to lose oneself over than obsession with a strange, dear friend.

“I’ll have you, then,” he says. “If you insist. For now. But, you should know: if you find yourself trapped like that again, you can call on me. All of that passion also means that I will come for you.”

Dream’s eyes flash. “I will not be trapped like that again.”

Hob takes his wrists and presses them down into the bed, mimicking the circles of bruises bestowed by the manacles. “You were trapped once.”

Tendons flex under Hob’s hands. “Now you will bind me yourself?”

You bound me first, Hob thinks. As fast as a dog on a chain, as firm as a dog coming back and back again to the house where it was once left. Waiting. It’s a miracle he doesn’t want to force Dream to stay, just to stop waiting. It’s a miracle, given everything, that he finds the thought more sickening than anything else.

“We went over that, didn’t we?” He kisses each of Dream’s wrists, over his pulse, then releases him.

For a long moment, Dream leaves his hands where Hob pressed them, studying him. “I suppose so,” he says, considering.

That pain returns, what had first pierced him through when Dream proposed this ‘trade.’ You don’t think better of me? Perhaps Hob doesn’t deserve being thought better of. You don’t trust my friendship? It hurts more than anything, to think Dream believes Hob could do that to him. For not believing it to come as a surprise.

It hurts so much he nearly abandons this whole exercise, this pretense that— that he could actually want to take something from Dream, could want some reward from him, no matter how tempting it is when dangled before his face. The thing is that Dream is the great love of Hob’s life, and he isn’t Dream’s and he’s had to try to come to terms with that, and Dream’s body under his is making it harder, not easier.

“Hob.” Cold fingers find his jaw, and Hob realizes he’s closed his eyes, head hanging low. Dream tips his face back up, runs his thumb over the corner of Hob’s mouth, and Hob opens for him. There’s a new look in Dream’s eyes now, but he can’t quite read it. “Seal the bargain.”

The intensity of him bolsters Hob’s confidence, sets the want stirring in him again. He knows Dream doesn’t mean a kiss, but Hob kisses him anyway, sealing them together. Dream burns under him. His fingers frame Hob’s face, fire in each point where their skin touches. Dream wanted Hob’s passion. Well, he can have all of it.

He digs in the bedside drawer for lube, Dream tracking him with his gaze. He looks curious as Hob pours some out on his fingers, hitches Dream’s leg up further and reaches between them, pressing a finger to his entrance. Dream opens easily to him, gasping as Hob’s finger slips in.

“You needn’t— go to this trouble,” he breathes, unsteady. “Surely you need no reminder that my form is not human.”

“I’m not interested in your pain,” Hob says. Clearly, in this form, Dream can be hurt, the proof is all over his skin. Hob’s fantasies about him are myriad and sometimes dark but none have ever involved Dream hurt so Hob can take his pleasure. “I think you’ve had quite enough of it already, don’t you?”

Dream’s eyes flash in offense, and he opens his mouth to speak. Hob just holds his gaze, daring him to say that he wants to be hurt. But he doesn’t. His mouth closes again. The look on his face slips to something softer and hesitant, another crack opening in his assumptions about what this is. It’s almost trust.

Hob thinks that Dream would claw the expression away if he could see his own face. Better, then, that only Hob can see it, so he can hold it close, treasure it for longer. This is what Hob really wants, his real prize. Dream’s trust.

Even when you give me license to do something horrible to you, he thinks, I won’t.

Hob is a selfish man, but his most coveted treasure, often lost, always lusted after, is Dream’s regard. He doubts he’ll ever truly have it, but each flicker of new belief Dream shows him is a precious gemstone and he clings to them.

“Very well, then,” Dream finally concedes.

His body shivers, then sinks into the mattress as Hob starts moving again, working in and out of him. Dream is so serious and stoic that Hob had thought it would be difficult to get him to relax at all, but Dream just gives to him. Hob pushes a second finger in, and Dream groans, arching his back, gripping Hob’s shoulder with bruising fingertips. God he is beautiful like that, leaning into pleasure.

Hob meets his eyes, then, as he works him open, and catches, briefly, that look again. And that look—oh—it’s wanting. He wants.

It’s revelatory and exhilarating to see. Hob would do horrible things for that look. Anything to make him feel good.

He works Dream open like that, breathing in his quiet moans and the flex of his body under his hands. The way he tenses and relaxes in lengthening waves, played like a song at Hob’s fingertips. Then he settles between Dream’s thighs, Dream’s legs bent up around his hips. Such a vulnerable position he’s let Hob bend him into after so long curled in that sphere. It makes his breath catch; he has to treasure it.

As he lines himself up, he seals their lips together again, wrapping himself over Dream and pressing him under his weight, kissing him deeply. Dream gasps against his mouth as Hob pushes in. Hob breaches him so easily. Dream just opens to him.

Hob moans, overcome by the heat of his body. His grip tightens in Dream’s hair and Dream tilts his head back, exposing his neck for Hob to kiss. Hob kisses under his jaw, tastes his hammering pulse, drags teeth over the vulnerable skin of his throat, wrapped in bruises. Gives an experimental thrust of his hips and relishes in the way it punches Dream’s breath from his lungs. It’s delicious the way he responds, the way he feels, how sensitive he is, the sense Hob gets that if he could just play him right he could bring him out of his cage and make him feel, could be the first in a very long while to have and hold this creature and bring him pleasure—a gift, a privilege.

So this, then, is getting everything he’s ever wanted, and nothing at all. Dream delivered to his hands but as a sick prize, a one off trade for friendship. It makes the rising pleasure congeal in his throat, but Hob can only do what he always does. Make the most of it. Prove himself. If he can.

He sets himself to that task.

He covers Dream with his weight. Sets up a steady rhythm that has gasps and moans pushed from Dream’s throat. Dream’s body is tight and hot around him but better is each sound Hob can wring from him, those pleasured cries that curl through Hob’s belly like magic spells. He must be doing something right, to get those sounds, Dream must want it, must enjoy it. Dream thinks he himself is the reward, but no, it’s his pleasure—if Hob could bottle it he thinks it would make for greater power than whatever Burgess was trying to force from him. If Hob could keep it, he would be the richest man in the entire world.

“That’s it, darling,” he praises as Dream meets each of his movements, fingers gripping tight at Hob’s back. And instead of growling at him for calling The Lord of Dreams darling, Dream just shivers. “There you go, love. Is that good for you?”

“Hob,” Dream says, a ragged breath. Hob kisses him, catches that sound, and all that Dream shows him, that Dream gives him, pours all of it back into how he fucks him, steady, powerful rolls of his hips saying, I’m here, I’m here, I’m here. Familiar, if now sweeter, to stepping into a vaulted basement, finding a well-known stranger through a haze of violence, chained hands and twisted limbs, and sure, strong touches, I’m here, I’m here, can you hear me? I was dreaming about you.

All that and Dream thought he wanted a reward.

All that and Dream made the reward his own starving body.

Hob pulls him close, wraps his arms around his back, presses his nose into Dream’s throat and breathes in. That way they’re pressed all together, skin-to-skin, he can feel each rise of Dream’s chest and the shivers still running through him and Dream’s fingers finding his hair and digging in. He was down there for decades, Hob thinks. Decades.

“Do not stop,” Dream orders. Hob hasn’t stopped moving, though he has slowed, now that they’re pressed so tightly together. But he follows Dream’s word. Doesn’t stop. Keeps rocking into him. Dream’s cock rubs against his belly, pressed between them. Meanwhile Hob kisses up Dream’s throat, over the bruises there, and under the sharp line of his jaw.

Decades.

Hob can’t fix it, but he can fill Dream up with everything he feels. Can rock them together, so close they could be one, can wrap his arms around Dream’s back and feel Dream’s thighs tightening around his hips and Dream’s breath over his ear. He can want, so hungrily, and taste Dream’s skin and hear the slick sounds of their bodies connecting and, in the corner of his hearing, his own imaginings of this moment almost loud enough to actually hear—

No. No those aren’t his dreams. Dream is panting and with each breath Hob feels skin— heat— care— want— these scattered flashes of feelings, and when he kisses Dream again, catching his mouth, Dream tastes like ash, and static, and his eyelids have fluttered shut.

Hob’s breath catches wet in his lungs. He hooks an arm under Dream’s thigh, hitches his leg up and presses in deeper, wringing a cry from Dream’s mouth. With the sight of Dream bent open before him, taking him like he was meant for it, heat rushes through Hob, his thighs and chest and belly burning with it. He bears Dream down hard into the bed, instinct taking over as his hips stutter quick and he comes.

Dream moans, low and ragged as Hob spills in him. Hob struggles to breathe through the tight heat of Dream clenching around him, overwhelming now, Dream’s limbs wrapped around him and heartbeat shaking under Hob’s chest. He almost pulls Dream close like any other lover, driven by the sleepy satiation and the pleasure of touching him. But Dream isn’t like any other lover.

And his erection is still pressed to Hob’s belly, and Hob won’t leave him wanting, whether that was considered part of the bargain or not. He carefully pulls out, and moves back down Dream’s body to take him in his mouth.

Dream goes tense, startled, and comes in his mouth with a gasp. Hob swallows him down eagerly, every drop, then looks up in time to catch Dream with his head thrown back on the pillow, neck craned, eyes closed, mouth open, thrown into in a shock of pleasure. Then he sags back to the bed, tension fleeing him again.

Hob’s very glad he didn’t miss that moment.

The urgency of arousal gone, Hob presses his face deep between Dream’s thighs, inhaling. Just feeling him.

Tentative fingers find his hair.

“What are you doing?” Dream asks, voice low and hoarse.

He seems… surprised, Hob thinks. By the indulgence. What, did he think Hob would get to have him and then cast him aside? Callously decide he’s had enough, declare their exchange completed, instead of devouring everything he might be allowed?

“Feeling you,” Hob says. He strokes a light hand up and down over his hip. Gentle, now, not charged with desire. He’s been wondering, since rescuing him, when the last time was that Dream was touched. Long before that, even: did that strange creature in the inn that first night they’d met have anyone who dared to lay hands on him?

He looks up again to find Dream studying him from under his lashes. “Truly,” he says, and if there’s a bit of a shake in his voice Hob won’t mention it, “you remain quite daring in seizing what you want, Hob Gadling.”

“Try not to do so much seizing, nowadays,” Hob says.

“A better man,” Dream says. The tone is somewhere between mocking and considering, like he can’t quite decide if he wants to be sarcastic about it or not. “Yet, you agreed to the exchange.”

Hob kisses low on Dream’s pelvis, then his belly, which shivers at the touch of his lips. “Are you surprised? I’ve always been a selfish man. And you offered me the grandest treasure I can imagine.”

“I am your grandest treasure?” Dream says, voice faint. “I was Roderick Burgess’s great treasure,” he says, but without the bite in it that there would have been before. He tentatively touches Hob’s temple, then cheek, light fingertips like he could impart some much-needed wisdom into Hob’s brain through the touch. “Would you, too, keep me for your own pleasure, Hob?”

“I’d keep you for your pleasure,” Hob says without fully thinking it through, and Dream’s eyes flash—almost offense, as before, but more so heat. His fingertips scratch at Hob’s skin, sharp as claws. “No, Dream, part of what makes you so beautiful is that you can’t be kept.”

Hob’s stranger is no ordinary lover to be plied with sweets into staying, no ordinary pet to be collared in jewels. Hob well knows what it is to think of him, to want him, to wait for him, to wish, more than anything, for his brief arrival, the sighting of a rare bird, the passing of a once-a-century comet.

“It is the chase, then, that’s compelled you all this time,” says Dream, like he has all of it figured out now. And like he’s maybe a bit disappointed by what he’s figured.

“It’s the wishing,” Hob says. I always knew I couldn’t keep you, he thinks, pained, but that didn’t stop me from wanting you. Dreaming about you.

Dream’s expression softens, ever so slightly. “What does it mean for you, then, that you’ve had me? Fulfilled this dream? Will you grow bored, and move to other pursuits?”

Hob can’t help it, he laughs. “Does the sun get bored of chasing the moon across the sky? You’ve only made me hungrier. Now that I know what it’s like, how will I ever be sated?”

Now that I know what it is to touch you in pleasure, he thinks, how will I tear my mind away from having you as my lover? How will I ever stop thinking about having you, about being with you? It’s a devil’s bargain he’s struck, in more ways than one, and his throat clogs with anticipatory grief. He no longer worries Dream will disappear on him forever, for he seems to have enjoyed himself, but when he leaves for a time to wherever it is he goes in the eons they’re apart he will leave behind a gaping tear in Hob’s heart that may one day scar over but will never fully close.

Dream’s fingers frame his jaw, surprisingly gentle. He tips Hob’s head up to face him. “Hob,” he says. That low voice is a caress. His expression is… almost fond. Hesitantly so. “Truly you are so intrigued by me?”

“Intrigued? More like in love with you,” Hob says, then immediately wants to cut out his own tongue.

Dream blinks once, twice. Says, “…Oh.” And Hob thinks, for the first time, he’s not only surprised him, but truly made him speechless.

Does he truly not know it already? Perhaps Hob has not said it in so many words, but he has never exactly been reserved, never subtle about his emotions the way Dream is, has never bothered to try. He’d thought Dream could read it plainly on his face all these years, and had only taken offense once Hob voiced it, once he implied that there might be reciprocity, for it couldn’t be offensive to be worshiped, could it? But to imply that his vaunted stranger might care for him in return, that was a presumption that could not go unpunished, or so Hob had thought.

“You freed me,” Dream says, working through it as he speaks.

“And I told you I didn’t want a reward, but you insisted.”

“All you wanted was me,” says Dream.

“Your attention,” Hob says. Cards on the table now. “Your interest. Your time.” Your care.

“Oh,” Dream says again. Hob’s really managed to strike him dumb. Is he so used to people only wanting things from him that he can’t possibly fathom it?

“I wasn’t trying to insult you when I called you my friend, all those years ago,” he says quietly.

“No,” Dream agrees, contemplative. “I suppose not.”

His questing fingers trace Hob’s throat. Hob swallows hard.

“Guess you’ll vanish back to your duties now,” he says. Too bitter. “Boon granted and all.”

Instead of vanishing, Dream says, “You… love me.”

“Don’t need to keep saying it if you’re just going to tear it up,” Hob says. “Yes, I saved you because I love you. I killed people for you because I love you, don’t you know I don’t just go around killing for anyone in this day and age? God forbid it was necessary I’d do it again and that time there wouldn’t be any boon.”

Hob’s not sure he strictly had to kill all of them. Could probably have chased some of the guards away in the end. He wasn’t exactly thinking compassionately once he caught sight of Dream in that sphere.

“Did you kill them to gain my favor?” Dream asks.

“No.” He meets Dream’s eyes. “For the pleasure of it. And I would again— not for your favor, but for the way you’d look at me.”

For the way Dream had looked at him, when Hob had dropped the last guard’s limp body to the ground and had pressed a bloodstained hand to the glass cage. The wonder there, when Dream—still his stranger, Hob hadn’t yet gotten his name—had raised his own shaking, bruised, chained hands to touch back.

Hob had been surrounded by carnage and he’d still felt like he’d done something right. For the arbiter of what felt right was no god he’d ever been taught to worship, but the dark figure who’d granted him immortality. The dark stranger he loved, who could have laid a hand on his forehead and bid him do anything and Hob would have done it, and felt it righteous.

Dream lays a hand on Hob’s forehead. His fingers are cold. Hob takes that hand and brings it to his mouth, kissing his knuckles, warming the skin with his breath.

“I believe,” Dream says lowly, “I may still owe you.”

Hob sighs. “Dream, we went over this, you never—”

Dream covers Hob’s mouth with his thumb, stilling his words.

“Such great services rendered,” Dream continues, solemn gaze fixed on Hob’s, “and at such risk to yourself, surely deserve more reward. Your loyalty, your…” his eyes track over Hob’s body, where Hob’s still half-draped over him, appreciative, “consideration, surely beg a higher price.”

Hob is caught on his expression. Pinned in place, as he so easily is by Dream. “What did you have in mind?”

“When I have retrieved my tools. And restored my realm.” His tongue darts out, briefly, to wet his lips. “Perhaps I might return.”

“Perhaps you might,” Hob says. He’s slow but he’s gradually learning to catch on to how Dream communicates. That’s if he can wrap his mind around the impossibility of what he might be saying. “Perhaps you might… grant me more of your time. As recompense.”

“Yes. And perhaps you might. Consider. What you want of me while I am here.”

“I’m sure there’s plenty I’ll want with you,” Hob says, throat tight. He finally pushes himself up from where he’s still draped over Dream, and instead lies on his side next to him, so they’re at eye level. He pushes an unruly strand of Dream’s hair behind his ear. An act that still feels somewhat daring, but less so with each passing moment. Dream studies him, eyes wide and dark. Oh, Dream, Hob thinks.

“Maybe I’ll take some of that payment now,” he says.

“Will you?”

“Too greedy not to take everything on offer.” He uses the hand still dug into Dream’s hair to draw him in close, press their bodies together, wrap his arms around Dream’s back, palms flat over the sharp edges of his shoulder blades. Dream’s heart beats quick under his fragile ribcage, uneven breaths ghost over Hob’s shoulder, and tentatively, Dream’s bony arms come up to grasp onto him. He presses his face into Hob’s throat. His hair tickles Hob’s cheek. And Hob thinks, with a deep, throbbing pain, no, actually, there are greater rewards than his pleasure.

He holds Dream for some moments, until Dream’s skin, perpetually on the edge of cold, has warmed at all the points where they’re touching. Hob draws a blanket from the base of the bed over them. Dream shivers, the shake of cold leaving the body, then settles back against him.

“I hope this shows some measure of thanks,” Dream says quietly, face still buried in Hob’s skin, “for your service.”

Hob breathes out hard, chest heavy, but steadies his voice before responding. “How about I let you know when we’re even?”

Dream lets out a long sigh. “Very well. I will trust you to carry the scale.”

Dream’s trust alone is worth more than gold, in Hob’s estimation. But he thinks Dream might not point out if Hob measures it in pyrite. He thinks, as he runs his hand up and down over Dream’s sore, bony back, as Dream sighs again, melting into him, that neither of them might mind if that scale stays tipped for a very long time, indeed.

Perhaps, Hob hopes, until there’s no more need for it at all.

[sansaorgana]

— SOMEPLACE BETTER (III)

PART ONE || PART TWO

PAIRING — Sauron x fem!human(?)!Reader

SUMMARY — Lady Galadriel keeps convincing Halbrand and his wife to change their minds and go back to Middle-earth but Sauron is starting to realise that this new life might be his chance to start all over and redeem himself.

AUTHOR’S NOTE — As I warned, in this part Sauron is very ooc but I'm a sucker for happy endings... I couldn't picture it any other way with a mortal Reader tbh... 🤷🏻‍♀️ Although, whether she is really a human or not – I let you decide and interpret it whatever way you wish! 😉💝 The song The Reader sings in this part is called Lonesome Road and I know it from Joan Baez but I changed the lyrics a little so they could fit the fantasy world better.

WORD COUNT — 4,570

ENGLISH IS MY SECOND LANGUAGE.

SOMEPLACE BETTER (III)

Even though he thought Halbrand's wife had given up on him already, it seemed to be quite otherwise. The guards came to Sauron in the early morning to tell him that he was free to go under a condition to never start any fight on the streets of Númenor ever again. Next time, the Queen Regent would not be so merciful. And now, she would even give him a chance to prove his worth and earn the guild crest.

Apparently, (Y/N) had spent nearly the whole night begging and pleading after getting an audience.

Free to go anywhere he wanted to, he simply decided to walk back to his new home and wait there for Lady Galadriel to show up with the next idea or opportunity.

It was not going according to his plan – (Y/N) had made sure of it. But it was still going well enough and that was what mattered the most.

As he was approaching the house, he heard a familiar voice singing a song as the sound travelled through the open windows and out into the streets. The voice perhaps was not the most talented but it was not awful either and he found it oddly soothing to listen to.

Slowly and quietly, Sauron walked inside the house and leaned on the wall with crossed arms as he watched (Y/N) with a smirk. She had her back turned on him and had no idea he was there as she busied herself with brushing her hair in front of a small mirror and preparing to go to her new work.

And while doing so, she was singing. Sauron listened with curiosity because he had missed many new songs in the time when he had been regaining his strength to go back to the world of living.

And he had never been familiar with the songs of common people anyway.

“They say all good friends must part sometime. Why not you and I, my Lord? Why not you and I?” (Y/N) sang softly. “Oh, I wish to the gods that I'd never been born or died when I was a baby, my Lord… Or died when I was a baby,” she added and Sauron swallowed a lump in his throat.

He had no idea he would be able to see himself in a song written by commoners and yet, he sometimes wondered himself why the Valar had created him. And he often wished they had not. It would save him pain and suffering that he was not able to speak of.

“Oh, I wish to the gods that I'd never seen your face, heard your lyin' tongue, my Lord… Heard your lyin' tongue,” (Y/N) kept going with the song as she put some rouge upon her cheeks. “You better look up and down that long, lonesome road where all of your friends have gone, my Lord, and you and I must go…” she continued humming and then she jumped up at the sight of him standing behind her with crossed arms. “Oi, Hal, I haven't seen ye. Forgive me, I know ye don't like it when I sing,” she got nervous in an instant.

“I don't?” Sauron raised an eyebrow, surprised.

“Ye always say it's givin' ye headaches,” (Y/N) rolled her eyes with a sigh. “Anyhow, I'm off to work now,” she informed him with a sweet smile and approached him to place a kiss upon his cheek.

He let her but when she wanted to move away, he grabbed her wrists to keep her in place and she raised an eyebrow at him.

“What have you done to free me, love?” He asked in a whisper.

“I begged and pleaded for ye, Hal,” she answered. “Told the good Queen ye're naught but a man who wants to work, with a pride that's hurt. I promised ye wouldn't get in trouble again. An' ye better not.” (Y/N)'s eyes filled with pain as if she knew already he would break the promise.

Because Halbrand most likely had broken such promises many times before and Sauron had planned that, too. But now, looking deep into her eyes, he suddenly wanted to change his mind. He did not want to be like Halbrand – he wanted to be a better version of him.

“I don't deserve you,” he admitted and caressed her cheek gently.

“Start, then,” she challenged him with a cracked smile and patted his chest before going out of the house.

And even though Sauron was tempted to stay inside and wait for Lady Galadriel to show up, he walked out as well and went to the forge nearby where he was supposed to start his own training to be able to earn the guild crest.

Humiliating it was and very humbling for the disciple of Aulë to be reduced to the role of a common smith's errand boy.

When Sauron was coming back from work, it was getting dark already. He was walking slowly down the steps and whistling the very same song he had heard earlier that day – the one Halbrand's wife had been singing.

In his hands he was carrying a few coins he had earned on that day and he was playing with them by tossing them in the air and catching them swiftly right after. As he approached the harbour, he spotted (Y/N) standing by one of the wooden tables and selling the goods to the people standing in the queue.

He wondered why she was left alone by the stand but assumed the woman working with her was having a break. And the closer to the market he was getting, the more he could see how stressed Halbrand's wife seemed to be.

“You useless woman, you can't even count properly, can you?!” Sauron heard some man's harsh words due to the fact his hearing was much better than if he was truly human.

“I-I'm sorry, I'm still learnin'. How much do I owe ye, then?” (Y/N) was trying to sound nice.

“You're good for nothing, stupid wench,” the man spat out. “Where is Bellona?”

“She had to leave earlier today. Please, it is no big deal. Let me just give you back the money and–”

“You should go back to Middle-earth where low women like you belong,” the man interrupted her.

Sauron didn't think much in that moment as the primal instincts took over him. He hid his coins away and hurried to (Y/N)'s stand as he grabbed the rude man by his tunic and turned him around.

“Are you bothering my wife?” He asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Hal!” (Y/N) squealed, looking nervously at the guards that were already coming their way after sensing trouble. “Let go of him, I beg ye! Ye promised me ye wouldn't–”

“Oh, but it's different, is it not? This man deserves it,” Sauron hissed out and when he was sure that (Y/N) kept glancing at the guards, he allowed his eyes to transform into two snake-like orbs that visibly terrified the rude man.

Sauron let go of his tunic the moment he heard the guards standing behind him and the man hurried away as quickly as possible.

“It's nothin', it's nothin'!” (Y/N) exclaimed at the guards. “I'm closin' for the day! Please, let us go.”

The men looked at each other but since the other man had run away and did not file any complaint, they just shrugged their arms and walked away alongside the rest of the people waiting in the queue.

“Ye promised!” (Y/N) gave Sauron a very scolding look as she busied herself with tidying up the stand and collecting the money.

“If you think I am going to let some bastard treat you this way, love, then you are mistaken. If I must rot in that cell for a lifetime, then I shall,” Sauron shrugged his arms and Halbrand's wife looked at him as if he had just said something crazy.

“Since when are ye so gifted with words, Hal?” She chuckled and shook her head. “Anyhow, in that cell, ye won't be 'round to protect me. Foolish, it'd be, but ye've never been the brightest, have ye?” she pointed out and Sauron gritted his teeth with an eye roll.

She kept blabbering to him about her day while they walked back to their house and even though it was a short road, it felt like forever due to her talking. However, Sauron was very surprised at the sight of Lady Galadriel sitting by the table when they entered the house.

He had been waiting for her to come and now he was shocked, nearly startled. As if he had forgotten already about his scheme.

“Oi!” (Y/N) put her hands on her hips. “Is it not illegal to sneak up on folk like that inside their own homes, Elf?!” She asked. “When'll ye leave us be, huh?”

“The Queen Regent agreed to gather the army. They will seek for the volunteers,” Galadriel announced. “People of Númenor might not need you, Halbrand, but when we arrive in The Southlands, a strong leader will be needed. Someone to unite and show the way.”

“Someone to lie, ye say,” (Y/N) rolled her eyes and finally closed the door behind her. “But go on, Elf, keep talkin'. I'm sure my husband'll agree sooner or later. Vain as he is, always has been,” she sighed as if she was defeated.

Sauron felt an odd tug inside his heart at those words. Even though going with Galadriel to Middle-earth and continuing his plan while leaving annoying (Y/N) behind would be an ideal outcome… He felt challenged now to refuse Galadriel just to show (Y/N) that he could do better than that.

“I have already told the Queen Regent who you most likely are,” Galadriel insisted, ignoring Halbrand's wife and looking deep into his eyes.

“You must be desperate,” he pointed out with a smirk and watched his angry wife unpacking the groceries from her wicker basket on the kitchen counter.

“Of course I am. And you should be, too. It is about your home. Why do you give up on it so easily?” Galadriel wondered out loud.

“It gave up on us long before we ever gave up on it,” (Y/N) turned around to answer her.

“This land was your place in Middle-earth. It was giving you vegetables to eat, grass to feed your animals with, clean water from the rivers…” Lady Galadriel pointed out.

“And what do ye know about it, grand Elf?” (Y/N) rolled her eyes at that. “It ain't easy work growin' yer vegetables an' keepin' yer animals alive. One bad winter's all it takes to take away yer loved ones, yer cows, horses, an' chickens. I've no love for that land,” she stated, harshly.

“You can change the fate of people who suffer like you have suffered…” Galadriel's voice softened. “As their Queen,” she tempted and Sauron raised an eyebrow, surprised to see how dirty she could play.

Nearly as dirty as him.

“Me? A Queen?” (Y/N) laughed at that. “I can't even read!” She only said and turned around again to deal with the groceries.

“Halbrand, please. They need you,” Galadriel stood up and put her hand on his shoulder before lowering her voice. “I need you,” she added and looked down before leaving the house quietly.

Long silence occurred between Sauron and Halbrand's wife.

“Go with her,” (Y/N) muttered.

“What?” Sauron looked at her, surprised. She turned around to lay her wet eyes on him.

“I know ye want to. Just go, claim the title that's not yours, go on. But don't be stupid enough to think she'd ever want ye the way ye want her. Please, husband, don't embarrass yerself by thinkin' she'd want a filthy, ragged commoner,” (Y/N) whispered but in her voice there was no malice – it was pure worry and concern. Love.

“I'm not that stupid,” Sauron approached her with hesitance and put his hands on her arms to comfort her. “I know you're the only woman who is crazy enough to love me.”

“But is that enough to make ye stay?” She asked and her lower lip trembled.

He did not answer but he pulled her close to his chest to wrap his arms around her and kiss the top of her head.

Sauron was laying awake all night long as usual, caressing the back of Halbrand's wife and staring at the ceiling. He knew they would gather the volunteers on the next day and he still was not sure what to do.

The path he had chosen for himself was not so certain anymore. He truly did not mind the life he had here in Númenor and even (Y/N)'s presence was becoming less and less annoying to him. In fact – even though she had no idea who he truly was – it felt oddly nice to be loved and taken care of. As simple as that.

He extended his hand to the nightstand and brushed the pendant laying there with his fingertips as he remembered the very first conversation he had had with the heraldry's original owner – Diarmid.

“A sure path may crumble, but there's always another. Often, it can lead us someplace better. Someplace good. They say there's a place across the sea, a man can escape himself. Find another path. Perhaps another life.”

What if it was a second chance for him? Not for Sauron, but for the real him – Mairon…? What if it was his chance to get redeemed? To be at peace finally as if all the suffering Morgoth had put him through had never taken place?

(Y/N) shifted slightly in his arms and he looked down at her face that was now lit up by the first rays of the rising sun getting through the window. At that moment, that common and simple woman looked like the most beautiful creature in the whole world to him. And she certainly felt like peace.

“Is it time to wake up now, love?” She mumbled out, sleepily.

“No, love, not yet. I will tell you when,” he assured her.

“Good,” she smiled and nuzzled her face deeper into him.

“(Y/N)?” Sauron swallowed a lump in his throat as he fidgeted with the pendant between his fingers.

“Hm?”

“What if I told you I was not your husband?” He tried to make it sound light-hearted as if he was jesting. “That I'm a spirit that took over his body at that time when he was away while the village was being attacked?” He looked down at her, nervously.

“Ye're crazy, Hal,” she chuckled and opened her eyes lazily. Then, she tilted her head and reached her hand up to caress his hair. “But, mayhaps, I'd believe that, ye know? 'Cause ye've changed a lot since then,” she admitted and hesitated for a moment as she bit on her lower lip. “It doesn't matter, love. I love ye the way ye are now – more than I've ever loved ye, even though I didn't think it was possible,” she confessed and Sauron felt his heart swelling inside his chest as he leaned down to join their lips together in a loving kiss.

As he watched the ships sail away on that day, Sauron couldn't believe that he was simply letting them go. He saw Lady Galadriel standing in her shining armour, holding her sword. She was still glancing at him as if she expected him to jump into the waters and join them no matter what.

He wondered why she was so drawn to him, even after (Y/N)'s big mouth had made it clear that he was not any forgotten king. Could Galadriel feel who he was, deep inside?

But who was he? He was not sure anymore.

So, he looked away and went back on the road that would lead him to the forge where he worked these days. He was told he would get his guild crest very soon because they were in awe of his extraordinary talents.

Not only talent was his quality, though. It was also how much he was able to work at once and without breaks. At least it had been this way until recently.

It was the first time ever when he felt… tired. In the simplest and most common way, he felt exhausted and his stomach seemed to demand to have a meal. He nearly fainted at the end of his shift and when he dragged his feet back home, he was yawning. Surely, it would worry him under any other circumstances but now he was simply too tired to overthink what could have caused it. Was it some sort of a curse put on him by angry Lady Galadriel?

“Halbrand!” (Y/N)'s worried tone brought him back to reality when he entered the house.

She hurried to him and cupped his cheeks with widened eyes.

“Love, ye're so pale, an' the bags under yer eyes… What happened?!”

“Nothing happened,” Sauron shrugged his arms. “I'm just tired, that's it. I nearly fainted,” he admitted and sat down on the chair, sighing out of relief to finally be able to rest a little.

“Well, that's no wonder! Ye've been eatin' half meals for weeks now!” Halbrand's wife pointed out in a scolding manner. “We're not starvin' anymore, Hal, ye don't have to keep givin' me yer portions!” She exclaimed and approached the stove to pour him a bowl full of soup. “Here, eat,” she ordered as she placed it in front of him.

And, for some reason, Sauron ate all of it in a blink of an eye. He even asked for one more portion as Halbrand's wife gave it to him gladly but not without more of her whining about him being irresponsible. Then he asked for another and after three bowls of her soup, he finally felt better.

His stomach was no longer hurting at least, but he was still sleepy.

“Go, take some rest, love,” (Y/N) shook her head. “Ye don't sleep enough, don't eat enough. At least ye're not drinkin' and gamblin' anymore, but ye can't go on like this. Do ye want to die before forty, Hal? I ain't lettin' that happen!” She continued with her usual whining and he rolled his eyes.

“How can I rest when you keep your mouth open?!” Sauron asked and she huffed but she went silent and left him alone in the bedroom as she went back to the kitchen to clean the bowl after his soup.

It was the very first time when Sauron fell asleep not out of boredom or the need of dissociation but out of exhaustion.

And when he opened his eyes again, it was the next morning already and (Y/N) was shaking him to wake him up.

“Halbrand! Ye're gonna be late for work!” She exclaimed.

“But… I'm still tired…” He mumbled out, not understanding what was happening to him.

“Like all of us working folk each mornin'!” (Y/N) laughed. “Come on, I'm not lettin' ye out without breakfast, go to the kitchen,” she hurried him and he rubbed his eyes before nodding at her.

Sauron began to suspect that he was turning into a human for some time now but it took an unusual revelation to convince him that it was truly happening indeed.

(Y/N) was grinning widely on that day when he came back home and she welcomed him by throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him all over his face as he tried to give back some of the kisses. When she finally stopped, she fixed his brand new guild crest and batted her eyelashes while looking up to stare into his eyes.

“What is it?” He asked.

“I think I'm expectin', Hal,” she told him, excitedly. “I wasn't sure but my friends at work said those are the very symptoms!” She added happily and he froze as he blinked slowly a few times, trying to process the new information.

“That is… Impossible,” he furrowed his brows.

“I used to think so, too. Married for so long with no babe of our own but I was wishin' and hopin' and here we are!” She clapped her hands like an excited child. “Perhaps it was that damned Middle-earth not being good for us, Hal, but here we can!”

Sauron took a deep breath in. She didn't understand – it was not about being fertile or not. It was about the fact he was a Maia and there was no possibility of him putting a baby in her without doing it with his own free will.

Unless…

“You're not sleeping around, are you?” He asked before he could think about the rubbish leaving his mouth.

(Y/N) froze at his words and her smile turned into a frown. She approached him at this very moment and slapped his face. Hard. He could feel it like any mortal would now and he admitted it truly hurt.

“How dare ye, Halbrand?! Ye wretched bastard! Even if ye meant to jest, that was uncalled for!” She raised her voice as he rubbed his cheek and winced out of pain.

“I'm sorry, love, I haven't thought before speaking. I just can't believe it…” He tried to excuse himself. “Please, forgive me.”

Her face didn't look so angry anymore but she didn't say anything and turned around without a word to walk away.

In fact, she didn't say a word to him for the rest of the day and only at night when she was deep asleep, he dared to touch her abdomen slightly with his hand.

He wasn't able to feel any presence there but these days he couldn't feel anything, to be honest. He couldn't hear nor see as much either. He was losing his abilities as time was passing.

Sauron kept his hand there, on the belly of Halbrand's wife, and he sighed. It was happening, whether he liked it or not. And he was not even sure anymore if he wanted it or not.

As he got lost in the train of thought, he realised that he had been caressing (Y/N) abdomen all that time without thinking. Her eyes fluttered open and she smiled gently at him.

“Hal, ye son of a bitch,” she shook her head and giggled as she took his hand carefully and brought it to her lips to place a few small and sweet kisses upon his knuckles. “I swear, ye're gonna be the death of me.”

“And you are going to be the death of me,” he chuckled and leaned in to peck her lips.

She was going to be. Literally.

This body would start growing old normally now and, eventually, he would pass away like every mortal. But maybe he would do that laying in a bed, holding her hand and surrounded by their children.

When they broke the kiss, (Y/N) smiled widely and caressed her husband's cheeks lovingly. She looked ethereal at that moment and a crazy thought appeared inside of his head.

“Tell me, love,” he started and she raised an eyebrow at him, “are you a spirit sent to me from Valinor to lead me back on the right path? Have I passed the test?” He dared to ask and he could swear, there was a small sparkle lighting up her eyes for a short while. But then, she only laughed.

“Go back to sleep, ye madman,” she patted his chest lightly and turned around while laughing softly.

He kept staring at her for some time more, then he went back to looking at the ceiling. And, eventually, he turned around as well to wrap his arm around the waist of Halbrand's wife.

His wife.

Halbrand was coming back from work slowly while playing with the little horse forged out of iron in his hand as he hummed a song. The sun was setting slowly on the horizon when he approached the harbour where (Y/N) was slowly tidying up her stand on the market.

Her own one, that she had earned finally and was so proud of it as she was working for herself now and was able to bring more money home.

He watched her tidy up with a loving smile and their son was helping her while talking to her excitedly about something – his mouth would never close just like his mother's.

“Daddy!” He spotted him finally and ran up to him as (Y/N) chuckled.

“Hey, little man,” Halbrand crouched down to give his son a hug. “How was your day?”

“It was good!” The boy nodded. “I helped mummy a bit. And yours, daddy?”

“I made this for you,” Halbrand handed him the little horse and the boys' eyes sparkled at the sight.

“So pretty! Thank you, daddy!” He wrapped his little arms around Halbrand's neck to give him another hug and Halbrand patted his back.

“And for me?! For me?!” He felt something tugging at his tunic and he laughed at the sight of his excited daughter. He gave her a hug, too and caressed her ruffled hair as she gave him a toothless smile.

“I have something for you, too, Princess,” Halbrand assured her and took another item out of his pocket – a seashell made out of iron.

He had made sure it was crafted with the best precision and with all the tiny details, therefore it looked nearly like a real seashell. Only it was silver, which made it even better in his little girl's eyes.

“Thank you, daddy!” She giggled as she squinted her eyes at the shell and kept examining it under every possible angle.

“You spoil 'em way too much!” (Y/N) stood above him and he stood up to greet her with a short peck on the cheek.

“Somebody has to,” Halbrand answered playfully and his wife shot him a glance, which made his son giggle.

“Stop sayin' nonsense and let's go back home,” she shook her head and walked away slowly.

He watched his children follow her happily and he did, too, but much slower as he stared at the sun setting on the horizon. The sky looked like a canva full of pink and orange hues and he took a deep breath in at the beauty of it.

It was nearly as peaceful and beautiful as back in the day in Valinor. Mortals perhaps were not welcome there but, apparently, they could also experience wonders as marvellous.

And perhaps this whole life was built on a lie because he couldn't imagine telling (Y/N) the truth about who he truly was and that her real husband had been dead for years. That he had died because of gambling and drinking after leaving her alone when she was being attacked by the Orcs. There was no point in telling her even if she would somehow believe him. It would only bring her useless pain and he knew very well that her actual husband would most likely never do all these things he had done to make her happy. He would not love her right like he could.

“Ye comin', Hal?” His wife's voice brought him back to reality.

Halbrand nodded at her and joined her side to take his daughter by her little hand.

After all, it was not the sunset but her and her brother that were the real wonders. And it was not Númenor that he called home but it was them – they were his better place.

MASTERLIST

[ranpazz]

hahahaj

dazai nsfw below, we will get to ranpo later sbahajkw

do u think he's the type to fuck you in or on top of the car? getting back to this trope from my last ask too -- the wearing short and skimpy dresses. personally I feel he will be the kind to personally ask (or buy) you skimpy clothes like yk super short skirts and tops and stuff. I think he might be the kind to get off to it infront of u if you piss the guy off. pissing him usually means him getting jealous at literally anything. he doesn't get jealous but when he does, even the slightest thing can make him jealous.

he's sooo the type to talk to someone while u r under the seat sucking him off, like the window will be down just a bit so he can talk to whoever is outside.

wanna make him riled up? dress up in ribbons (I forgot what that's called) wear a robe/coat and get into his car and take pictures of yourself after discarding the robe/coat, take pictures with your legs spread on the backseat, straddle his seat and take a video of riding it. what's he gonna do? he's in another part of the country anyway.

..... except that dazai is a mysterious man, u dk how many connections he has and u always wonder how he has sm power. you think that now too as there are literally four or so guards escorting you to a flight to wherever he is and as you get into the hotel room he is staying at, you gulp. he's sitting there with a cigarette in his mouth, dark look over his eyes and the usual casualness or playfulness not even anywhere near him.

Oh IRAAAAA. YES HE IS.

NSFW BELOW THE CUT!!

He's a man of needs after all, and how can he resist his pretty passenger princess? Seeing you walking around in those skimpy outfits —It's a bonus if you have a letterman jacket with his initials on it— your pretty face flashing him a smile anytime you see him? You're immediately guided to the backseat for a quickie before his race. Or if a parking lot happens to be empty, you're taking him on the hood of his car.

He isn't a particularly jealous man, but I think he'd be dramatic to play it off. If a guy is bold enough to approach you and ask for your number and socials, or perhaps getting a bit too touchy, he can't help himself. Dazai will easily intervene, whether it be him coming behind you and snaking his arms around your waist or straightforwardly telling the guy to fuck off if he's not feeling cheerful. Afterwards, when you think he'll let off steam by fucking you, you've never been more wrong. He's got you on your knees, taunting you by stroking his cock after he instructed you not to touch him. And God he loves seeing you desperately trying not to touch yourself, attempting to ignore the breathy exhales and whines he's letting out.

As for clothing, unlike ADA!Dazai, Illegalracer!Dazai has money. After winning so many races and crushing high ranking opponents, the pay is incredible. He won't hesitate to buy you any clothes you like, lingerie, accessories, anything you want, you've got it. However, you think it's only fair to pay him back. So while he's all the way in a different part of the country, he leaves his precious car all to you. So what's the harm in dressing up all pretty for him in your letterman, lingerie in his favorite color, and your legs spread in the backseat as you take pictures for him? Or sending a video of you toying with your clit in the driver's seat? Though, once they're sent you're merely left on read.

It only takes a few hours before you've got his personal guards escorting you to a private flight to Tokyo Bay — courtesy of your man himself — and much to your surprise, your led to a hotel room before the escorts leave you standing just in front of the door. you can practically feel Dazai's presence within the room, and now you're sweating bullets. Because the second you open that door, he's on the bed, manspreading with a cigarette hanging loosely between his lips as he stares you down like you're nothing but prey to him.

[waterunleashed]

I’m so but, I’m so tired of hearing people complain that they are locked out of romancing Lucanis because they didn’t save his city. You left him to face a dragon ALONE. Lucanis does not trust anyone. He is used to people using him, betraying him, hurting him. He is not used to someone genuinely caring for him.

When you get him out of the Ossuary and express care and concern he starts letting his guard down. He sees how you treat everyone in the lighthouse and starts to thing MAYBE, maybe they care. Maybe he can trust you and let you in.

Lucanis is also a man that continually says that a crow never abandons a contract. Basically, your word is your bond. Then a dragon comes to destroy his home, he tells you that innocents are going to be blighted. And he runs to save them and fight for your city. Tell me that going to the other city isn’t a betrayal. Tell me that he didn’t look behind him a hundred times hoping to see you and curse himself for being stupid enough to hope every single time you weren’t there.

Soft, sad words after aren’t going to fix that you decided to leave him to face a dragon alone. Not when this man eventually would’ve fallen for you so deeply that he would try and stab a cloud for you. That he would kill an entire pantheon of Gods just to fall asleep in your arms. You can’t regain that kind of trust after abandoning him.

And for those upset that he is then in a romance with Neve. He wasn’t expecting her to come help his city. He knew that she would try to save hers. He also wasn’t falling for her before that. So there was no broken trust to work around after Treviso is blighted. There is just someone coming to help him pick up the pieces. And as Neve says their relationship is slow and cautious. They aren’t any steamier than that between Rook and Lucanis. However, Neve is a more aggressive flirt than Rook is. When they first meet Neve tells Lucanis he’s hot so it doesn’t surprise me that she is outwardly flirty with him.

Anyways, that’s my rant. I just chose to save Minrathis in my second playthrough to see the other storyline and I HATE it. I will never abandon my crow in another playthrough again. Seeing Lucanis sitting on that bench tore my heart out.

[chuuyrrkisser]

A Revised Narrative.

— summary… It was supposed to be a regular Tuesday morning, you should be in college running to your next class and pray there were no assignments forgotten but here you were, isekaied to the middle of nowhere surrounded by nothing but cold snowed plane unable to move because your limbs are buried in the thick blanket of snow.

But hey, at least you were in your favorite anime– oh never mind, it's bungo stray dogs, you are so dead...

— content… dazai osamu/reader, chuuya nakahara/reader, reader has an ability, Dazai—typical suicide mentions, slow burn, slow updates, angst, angst with happy ending, because I can’t write angst endings, isekai and transmigration…

— chapter 1/?

It was cold…

So cold...

The touch of soft snow falling on your eyelids as you weakly bat them away was all you could make out since your vision was blinded by the snow. You couldn't remember how or why you ended up in the snowed plane, the only fragments you had were opening your eyes to see snow hailing and being unable to move your limbs as they were buried deep in the snow.

The few steps you took were short lived as you fell onto the cold blankets of snow, your body curled desperate to find warmth and you could felt your conscious slowly slip away from your grasp...

  A sharp pain pierced your limbs as you tried to move them.

You tried to open your eyes as painful as it was, you couldn't register your surroundings nor did you try to but you couldn't help but feel a wave of relief brush past you knowing you weren't freezing in the snow.

It took a few moments for you to gain awareness of the situation you were in, you ended up in a snowy place with no previous recollection of how nor why, and now you were in an indoor location laying on the floor with a pillow beneath you and a blanket draped on you– it was still freezing but it was better than being buried in snow, and you definitely didn't move all on your own, that meant–

"Ah, you're finally awake." a voice spoke from behind startling you upright quicker than you should, your hiss in pain earning a chuckle in response.

"Now, now. You were found in a pile of snow frozen over, you might want to be less hasty with your movements."

You could tell the voice was amused by your prediction making you scowl as you carefully turned your head to look over at the owner of the voice to see a lanky tall man with mess dark hair and bandages wrapped around his head covering one eye strangely reminding you of... oh dear...

"How did you end up in a private mafia site? I know many incompetent guards but none enough to miss a high schooler in their summer uniform..." he began walking over to you with a strained smile that sent a shiver down your spine.

Every step Dazai took made your head spin, the fact that you were in a room with a certified sociopath that is known as a devil's prodigy is not exactly appealing and neither was your predicament with ending up in a private mafia sector without a reasonable explanation, and whatever isekai or transmigration nonsense this was is not helping.

You try shuffling back as he came closer before crouching down to your level. His voice held a strong disdain as he spoke with a faux smile, "I can speculate only one way you could have gotten in, but several reasons of why you did, a few I can get by and the rest..." he pauses, "I advise you to keep talking."

The blank could be filled easily without the need for multiple choices, it was a threat. But it stumped you on what you should say, there is no lie to get behind this without having a bullet through your skull.

The only thing you could do was to tell him the truth at least part of it. You look down as you take a deep breath before clasping your hands together before looking up at him with a forced feeble smile.

"Permission to plead insanity?", his eyes widen a second taken back at your request before relaxing and letting out a chuckle, "Permission granted."

"I am... from another world..." there was a brief silence before the brunette snorted a laugh, "If this is what you mean by insanity, then it isn't convincing enough." you turn red at his amusement at your awful explanation– I mean, how were you supposed to explain it? It wasn't like this is a daily event.

"No, don't you dare laugh. I am serious! Just listen to me!", you tried to get him to hear you out yet he couldn't help but laugh at how you kept insisting it was no laughing matter and you were 100% serious.

You tried holding him down when you noticed him trying to turn, "I am from another world! The only reason I am confident about that is because I know you– from a- a- a book! I know about you from a book and you are a fictional character!"

Deciding to lie about him being a fictional character from a book rather than an anime or manga because you really didn't want to get into it. He slowly calmed down looking back at you, "Saying you know me is only making it worse for you, but I will give you the benefit of the doubt... what do you know about me, little lady?"

You take a sharp breath, you could easily tell him everything but you also had to be careful without making it seem like you were some sort of spy, "You are Osamu Dazai... and you... you..."

Dazai's smile remains as he tilts his head as though a curious puppy, "And I? Come on, I expected you to know so much about me. Am I not your favorite character?" he clearly took this as a joke but you stared at him hesitant and scared not knowing what to do.

"You are suicidal but you dislike pain, you also don't like dogs, you–"

"Are you going to keep listing my likes and dislikes?", he cuts you off, "Well, I'd love to say information like you live in a shipping container but you'd just think I'm an undercover agent or something!" you squeal freaking out making him shake his head still amused.

"Listen, I know I sound insane, dumb, and other synonyms but I'm telling the truth... god, when I said I wanted fictional characters to be real, this is not what I meant..." he watched as you gave up hope and stare at your hands as you fiddled with your fingers dejected.

The brunette sighed before rising back up as he peered down at you, "You know, as much as I want to believe you are clinically insane, especially with your claims and nothing back yourself up with. I can't help but believe you..." you blinked at him surprised.

"...really?"

"Hell no, but while you were freaking out I pick-pocketed your school ID and it says 2024 on it plus you look too dumb to lie so I'm obligated to believe that at least some part of your story is real." you gave him a dirty look as he smirked down at you waving the ID.

He snickered before lending you a hand to take, you struggled to rise back on your feet still feeling the after affects of the previous event. Either way, you pulled yourself up and went to reach for your ID only for it to be pulled away by him tsking.

"I have to hand some kind of confirmation to my boss to deal with your situation. Come on, let's get a move on before I change my mind." He turned his heel to walk out the door as you followed along to only stop and look back at you.

"One more thing..." he reaches to remove his black coat and drape it over your shoulder, this scene was familiar to you. The coat felt heavy on you, not because of its weight itself but the reason behind it.

Pulling the coat off, you shoved it to his chest making he look at you dumbfounded at you, it was freezing outside and you were wearing a summertime uniform, you would be stupid to reject any kind of extra layers. And while that was true, you knew taking his coat meant having a relation to Dazai and to owe him, which was the last thing you wanted.

"I rather not..." he looks at you up and down deciding you might actually be clinically insane before turning around to open the door. A blast of cold breeze entered the room making every part of your body receive ptsd... maybe you could temporarily use his coat and forcefully return it later...?

  "You know, on second thoughts..."

— next chapter…

[novaursa]

Flames in the West (a sad lion)

- Summary: During the royal hunt in honor of Aegon's second nameday, you insult a lion and gain his attention.

- Paring: targ!reader/Jason Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: his rock

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The once-vibrant halls of Casterly Rock seemed unusually quiet—or so Jason Lannister thought as he trudged through them, his boots echoing against the stone floors. He hadn’t seen much of his wife in recent days, and what interactions they did have were… different. She wasn’t throwing her usual sharp jabs or teasing him with that infuriating yet captivating smirk. Instead, she had become polite. Reserved, even.

And Jason hated it.

He leaned against one of the arched windows overlooking the sea, a goblet of wine in hand and a deep frown etched into his features. The waves crashed against the cliffs far below, their rhythmic pounding doing little to soothe his growing paranoia.

Martyn Lannister strolled into the chamber, his easy grin in place as always. “There you are,” he said, plopping down into a nearby chair. “I was starting to think you’d fallen into one of the mine shafts.”

Jason didn’t reply, his frown deepening as he swirled the wine in his goblet.

Martyn raised an eyebrow, leaning forward. “You look positively miserable, cousin. What’s wrong? Did the kitchen run out of your favorite vintage, or did Sylveris decide to roast one of your prized banners?”

Jason sighed dramatically, his gaze still fixed on the horizon. “It’s Y/N.”

Martyn’s grin widened. “Ah, the dragon. What’s she done this time? Threatened to throw you off the battlements?”

“That would be preferable,” Jason muttered, finally turning to face him. “At least then I’d know she still cared.”

Martyn blinked, then burst into laughter. “She doesn’t care because she hasn’t threatened to kill you? You’ve lost me, Jason.”

Jason groaned, setting his goblet down on the windowsill. “She doesn’t insult me anymore. No jabs, no teasing—nothing. It’s like she’s ignoring me entirely.”

Martyn’s laughter grew louder. “That’s what’s bothering you? The lack of insults?”

“Yes!” Jason snapped, running a hand through his hair. “Don’t you get it? That’s how she shows affection—or at least, that’s how it used to be. Now she’s just… distant. Civil.”

Martyn leaned back in his chair, still grinning. “So, let me get this straight: your wife isn’t yelling at you or calling you names, and you’re upset about it?”

Jason shot him a glare. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh, I understand perfectly,” Martyn said, smirking. “You’re addicted to her barbs, and now that she’s treating you like an actual lord, you don’t know what to do with yourself.”

Jason sighed again, pacing the room. “What if she’s found someone else?”

That caught Martyn off guard. “Someone else? What are you talking about?”

Jason stopped pacing, turning to face his cousin with a look of genuine worry. “Think about it. Why else would she stop paying attention to me? What if there’s another man?”

Martyn stared at him for a moment, then burst into laughter so loud it echoed off the walls. “Another man? Jason, you’re ridiculous.”

“I’m serious!” Jason protested, his voice rising. “She’s barely said a word to me in days, and when she does, it’s all ‘Yes, my lord’ and ‘Of course, my lord.’ That’s not her. She’s up to something.”

Martyn wiped a tear from his eye, still chuckling. “So let me get this straight: your wife, who’s carrying your child, is suddenly so bored with you that she’s taken a lover in the middle of your castle? Do you hear how absurd you sound?”

Jason crossed his arms, his jaw tightening. “It’s not impossible.”

“Jason,” Martyn said, his tone still laced with amusement, “you’re not just a lion. You’re a delusional lion. She’s probably just tired, or distracted, or—dare I say it—growing another person inside her.”

Jason hesitated, his resolve wavering slightly. “But what if—”

Martyn cut him off, rising from his chair and clapping a hand on Jason’s shoulder. “If there were another man, Jason, do you really think she’d be subtle about it? She’s a Targaryen. She’d probably introduce him to you just to watch you squirm.”

Jason groaned, running both hands through his hair. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m helping more than you deserve,” Martyn quipped, shaking his head. “Listen, just talk to her. Ask her what’s on her mind. Or, better yet, stop being so insufferable and give her some space.”

Jason frowned, muttering under his breath. “Easy for you to say. You’re not married to a dragon.”

Martyn grinned. “No, but watching you flail around like this is entertainment enough.”

Jason threw him a withering look before turning back to the window, his thoughts still tangled. Martyn clapped him on the shoulder one last time before heading for the door.

“Good luck, cousin,” he called over his shoulder. “You’re going to need it.”

Jason barely acknowledged him, his mind racing with possibilities. He knew Martyn was probably right—probably—but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was amiss. And until he figured out what it was, he would remain the most miserable lion in all of Westeros.

The halls of Casterly Rock buzzed with quiet speculation as Jason Lannister, Lord of the Rock, embarked on what could only be described as an increasingly dramatic investigation. He’d spent the better part of the day questioning members of the household, demanding answers with the fervor of a knight preparing for battle.

“Have you seen anything unusual?” Jason asked a servant folding linens in the hallway. “Anything at all? A suspicious visitor? A secret meeting?”

The servant blinked at him, bewildered. “No, my lord. Only the usual.”

Jason frowned, muttering to himself as he moved on to his next suspect.

By mid-afternoon, he had interrogated a steward, a stable hand, and even the cook—each more confused than the last. His antics had not gone unnoticed by the rest of the household. By the time he cornered Martyn in the great hall, a small crowd had gathered to watch the spectacle unfold.

Martyn leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, his grin as wide as the Sunset Sea. “Still convinced your wife has a lover, Jason?”

Jason glared at him. “Something’s going on, Martyn. I can feel it.”

“Let me guess,” Martyn drawled, feigning thought. “She smiled at someone in passing, and now you’re ready to start a trial.”

Jason ignored him, pacing in front of the growing audience. “She’s distant, she’s quiet, and she hasn’t insulted me in days. There’s more to this.”

One of the younger cousins piped up, giggling. “Maybe she’s just tired, my lord.”

Jason stopped, turning to face the group. “Tired of what? Of me?”

The crowd erupted into laughter, and Martyn clapped him on the back. “If she’s tired of you, she’d let you know. Trust me.”

Jason sighed dramatically, raking a hand through his hair. “Fine. If none of you have answers, I’ll just have to ask her myself.”

Jason stormed into your chambers with all the subtlety of a lion on the hunt. You were seated by the window, staring out at the sea with a faintly pale complexion. A cup of mint tea sat untouched on the table beside you.

“Y/N,” Jason said, his voice firm. “We need to talk.”

You turned your head slowly, fixing him with a weary stare. “Jason. If this is about you imagining me plotting against you with some mysterious lover, I’ll save you the trouble. There isn’t one.”

Jason hesitated, his righteous determination faltering. “How did you—?”

“You’ve been stomping around the castle like a madman all day,” you said, cutting him off. “It wasn’t hard to guess.”

Jason frowned, stepping closer. “Then what is it? Why have you been so… different?”

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “If you must know, I’ve been battling the constant urge to vomit.”

Jason froze. “Vomit?”

“Yes, Jason,” you said dryly. “It’s a common occurrence in pregnancy. Did you not read any of those books I had sent to the library?”

Jason blinked, his mind struggling to process this new information. “You’re sick? That’s it?”

“That’s it,” you replied, sipping your tea carefully. “Though at this point, I wish I could throw up on you just to prove it.”

Jason’s reaction was immediate and utterly ridiculous. He sank into the nearest chair, his head in his hands. “Thank the gods,” he muttered. “I thought you hated me.”

You stared at him, incredulous. “You thought I hated you because I wasn’t insulting you every five minutes?”

Jason looked up, his expression sheepish. “Well… yes.”

For a moment, you were too stunned to respond. Then, you began to laugh—quiet at first, then louder as the absurdity of the situation sank in. “Jason,” you said between breaths, “you’re an idiot.”

The door creaked open, and Martyn poked his head in, grinning like a cat with cream. “I heard shouting. Did he finally figure it out?”

Jason groaned, running a hand through his hair. “Yes, Martyn. She’s not plotting against me. She’s just… nauseous.”

Martyn stepped fully into the room, his grin widening. “That explains a lot. Though I think we all enjoyed watching you spiral.”

“Get out,” Jason muttered, though there was no real malice in his tone.

Martyn chuckled, bowing mockingly before retreating. “As you wish, my lord.”

As the door closed, Jason turned back to you, his expression softening. “I’m sorry, Y/N. I’ve been an idiot.”

“You’re always an idiot,” you replied, though there was no bite in your words. “But you mean well.”

Jason smiled, reaching for your hand. “I’ll make it up to you. Anything you need—anything at all—you just tell me.”

You leaned back in your chair, a faint smirk tugging at your lips. “Right now, I need you to stop being so dramatic. Can you manage that?”

Jason chuckled, bringing your hand to his lips. “For you, my lady, I’ll try.”

The rest of the household, of course, was thoroughly entertained when word of Jason’s misunderstanding spread. But for now, the lion and his dragon had found their peace—even if it was only temporary.

The halls of Casterly Rock were bustling with energy right the next day, not because of any pressing matters of state or impending feasts, but because Jason Lannister had declared it his personal mission to ensure his wife’s comfort during her pregnancy. Naturally, his methods were anything but subtle.

It began in the early morning, when Jason burst into your chambers with a tray in hand. The tray was precariously balanced, piled high with everything from honey-glazed bread to a steaming cup of mint tea he saw you drink yesterday. Behind him, two nervous servants trailed, carrying pitchers of juice and an assortment of dried fruits.

“Good morning, my love!” Jason announced, grinning like a man who thought he was about to win a tourney.

You looked up from your seat by the window, arching an eyebrow. “Jason. What is this?”

“Breakfast,” he said proudly, setting the tray down on the small table beside you. “I had the kitchens prepare everything you might crave. If you don’t like what’s here, I’ll have them bring more.”

You stared at the tray, then back at him. “This is enough food for an entire household.”

Jason waved a hand dismissively. “You’re eating for two. You need options.”

“I don’t need options,” you replied dryly. “I need you to stop hovering.”

Jason clutched his chest dramatically. “Hovering? I’m not hovering. I’m attending to your every need, as any devoted husband should.”

Martyn, who had appeared in the doorway just in time to witness the exchange, coughed into his hand to hide his laughter. “Attending or smothering? It’s a fine line, cousin.”

Jason shot him a glare. “I don’t recall asking for your opinion, Martyn.”

“No, but I’m giving it anyway,” Martyn said, stepping into the room. “This is delightful. Please, carry on.”

Later that afternoon, you decided to take a walk in the gardens, hoping for a moment of peace. Naturally, Jason insisted on accompanying you. He hovered like a mother hen, holding your arm as though the slightest misstep might cause catastrophe.

“Jason,” you said, exasperated, “I’m pregnant, not made of glass.”

“I’m aware,” he replied, ignoring your tone as he guided you along the path. “But the ground is uneven, and I don’t trust these pebbles.”

You rolled your eyes. “The pebbles are fine. I’m fine. Please stop fussing.”

Jason opened his mouth to protest, but before he could, one of the younger Lannister cousins appeared with a mischievous grin. “My lord, I heard you’ve been quite the nursemaid lately.”

Jason straightened, his tone defensive. “I’m ensuring my wife’s comfort.”

“By hovering?” she teased, earning a snicker from Martyn, who had once again materialized to witness the scene.

Jason huffed, clearly outnumbered. “I’ll have you know, Y/N appreciates my efforts.”

You smirked, tilting your head. “Do I?”

Jason blinked, momentarily thrown off. “Of course you do. Don’t you?”

Before you could answer, a gardener approached with a bouquet of golden roses freshly cut from the garden. Jason seized the opportunity to present them to you with a flourish.

“For you,” he said, his grin returning. “To brighten your day.”

You accepted the bouquet, raising an eyebrow. “They’re lovely. Did you cut them yourself?”

Jason hesitated, glancing at the gardener before replying, “I… supervised.”

The group erupted into laughter, and even you couldn’t suppress a small smile.

That evening, Jason took his efforts to a new level by commissioning a troupe of performers to entertain you during supper. Among them was a juggler who insisted on incorporating live chickens into his act.

It did not go well.

As the juggler tossed the chickens into the air, one squawked loudly and escaped, flapping wildly around the hall. Guests ducked as the rogue bird swooped low, narrowly avoiding a platter of roasted venison.

Jason leapt to his feet, shouting instructions to the servants. “Catch it! Don’t let it ruin the feast!”

Martyn, sitting across from you, leaned back in his chair, thoroughly enjoying the chaos. “This might be your finest idea yet, Jason.”

Jason ignored him, lunging for the chicken himself. He missed, nearly colliding with a servant carrying a tray of wine goblets. You, meanwhile, sat calmly, eating your cake and watching the scene unfold with thinly veiled amusement.

When the chicken finally landed in the lap of an elderly aunt, who shrieked loud enough to rival Sylveris, Jason managed to grab it by the legs and hold it aloft like a trophy. The hall erupted into applause and laughter.

“Problem solved,” he declared, slightly out of breath as he handed the bird back to the juggler with a stern glare. “No more chickens.”

As he returned to his seat beside you, you leaned over and murmured, “Very heroic, my lord.”

Jason grinned, clearly pleased with himself. “Anything for you, princess.”

By the end of the day, Jason was exhausted but triumphant. He joined you in your chambers, watching as you settled onto the cushioned chaise by the fire.

“Well?” he asked, leaning against the doorway. “Did I succeed in making you more comfortable?”

You tilted your head, pretending to think. “Let’s see. You brought me enough breakfast for an army, made a spectacle of yourself in the gardens, and nearly lost a chicken during supper. I suppose you were… entertaining.”

Jason laughed, crossing the room to sit beside you. “Entertaining? That’s it?”

You smirked, leaning your head against his shoulder. “Don’t push your luck, Jason.”

He wrapped an arm around you, his grin softening into something more genuine. “As long as you’re smiling, I’ll take it.”

Inside the grand chambers, the fire crackled warmly in the hearth as Jason Lannister sat at the edge of a cushioned chair, scribbling furiously on a piece of parchment. His brow was furrowed in concentration, and his tongue poked out slightly—his signature thinking face.

You, reclining comfortably on the chaise with your ever-growing belly, watched him with equal parts curiosity and amusement. A plate of various fruits sat beside you, untouched, as you observed your husband’s peculiar intensity.

“Jason,” you finally said, breaking the silence. “What are you doing?”

He didn’t look up, waving the quill dismissively. “Coming up with names.”

“For the child?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“For our child,” Jason corrected, glancing up at you with a grin. “You know, the future lion-dragon of Casterly Rock. We can’t just call them ‘the baby.’”

You smirked, folding your hands over your belly. “And have you decided on anything?”

Jason held up the parchment triumphantly. “I’ve got a list!”

“Oh, this should be good,” you muttered, sitting up slightly. “Let’s hear it.”

Jason cleared his throat dramatically, as though preparing for a great performance. “If it’s a boy, I was thinking… Tylander.”

You blinked. “Tylander?”

“Strong, noble, and distinctly Lannister,” Jason said, clearly pleased with himself.

“Jason,” you said slowly, “that sounds like you mashed ‘Tyland’ and ‘Lannister’ together.”

Jason frowned. “Well, maybe. But it works, doesn’t it?”

“No,” you replied flatly. “Next.”

Jason sighed, glancing back at the list. “Alright. What about… Leorick?”

“Leorick?” you repeated, your tone incredulous. “It sounds like a name you’d give to a particularly pompous bard.”

Jason chuckled despite himself. “Fine. You’re a tough critic, my love. Let’s try another. If it’s a girl, I thought… Jasselle.”

You stared at him. “Jasselle.”

“Yes!” Jason said, his grin widening. “It’s elegant and unique.”

“It’s also clearly just your name with a few letters added and rearranged,” you pointed out.

Jason leaned back, his grin turning sheepish. “Well, I wanted to honor myself.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head. “Jason, we’re naming a child, not commissioning a statue of you.”

“Fair enough,” Jason said, crossing out a few names. “What about something Valyrian? Like… Vezena?”

You tilted your head, considering it. “Not bad. But what does it mean?”

Jason hesitated. “Uh… probably something about fire and greatness.”

You smirked. “You just made that up, didn’t you?”

“Of course,” Jason admitted, grinning. “But it sounds impressive, doesn’t it?”

You rolled your eyes. “Barely.”

By midday, Jason had dragged a second chair closer to yours, the parchment now covered in scribbles and crossed-out names. Several servants passed through the room, their expressions carefully neutral as they overheard snippets of the increasingly ridiculous discussion.

“What about Caster?” Jason asked, tapping his quill against his chin.

“For a boy?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Or a girl,” Jason said with a shrug. “Unisex names are all the rage in Lannisport.”

You gave him a long, unimpressed stare. “Caster. Of Casterly Rock.”

Jason blinked. “Oh. Right. That might be a bit… redundant.”

“A bit?” you repeated, smirking.

Jason huffed, tossing the quill onto the table. “Fine. Your turn, oh wise one.”

You leaned forward slightly, meeting his gaze with a smirk. “How about something simple? Like Aelora, if it’s a girl.”

Jason’s expression softened. “Aelora. That’s… beautiful.”

“Thank you,” you said, smiling. “And for a boy, maybe… Daeryn.”

“Daeryn,” Jason echoed, testing the name on his tongue. “It’s strong. I like it.”

“Well, there we go,” you said, leaning back with a triumphant smile. “Problem solved.”

But Jason wasn’t done yet. “What if we combined them? Aelorick for a boy. Or… Daesselle for a girl?”

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “Jason, stop.”

He laughed, leaning over to kiss the top of your head. “Fine, fine. But you have to admit, this is fun.”

“For you, maybe,” you muttered, though there was a faint smile on your lips. “At this rate, the child will be born before we agree on anything.”

Jason grinned, leaning back in his chair. “Well, we’ve still got time. And until then, I’ll keep working on my list.”

You rolled your eyes, but as you watched him return to his scribbling with boyish enthusiasm, you couldn’t help but feel a pang of affection. For all his dramatics, Jason’s excitement was genuine, and his love for you—and the child you carried—was as clear as the sun over Casterly Rock.

You sat by the window early in the morning, absently stroking the armrest of your chair as a servant placed a silver tray with your morning tea before you. The peace was broken when Jason burst into the room, a sealed parchment in hand and a grin plastered across his face.

“A raven!” he announced dramatically, holding the scroll aloft like a prized trophy.

You raised an eyebrow, taking a sip of your tea. “Jason, ravens come daily. Are we celebrating their flight now?”

“Not just any raven,” Jason said, striding to the table and dropping the scroll in front of you. “It’s from your father, the king.”

Your eyes flicked to the royal seal, and you picked up the parchment, breaking the wax with practiced ease. Jason leaned over your shoulder, reading the words as you did.

“An invitation,” you murmured, skimming the elegant script. “To a royal wedding. Rhaenyra and Laenor Velaryon.”

Jason clapped his hands together. “A royal wedding! That means feasts, dances, and—”

“Hours of tedious travel,” you interrupted, setting the letter down. “While I’m heavily pregnant, no less.”

Jason waved a hand dismissively. “Nonsense. We’ll take our time, and I’ll ensure you’re comfortable. We can’t miss this! Think of the grandeur, the spectacle—”

“The politics,” you added pointedly, arching an eyebrow.

Jason ignored you, already pacing as his mind raced with ideas. “We’ll need to start preparations immediately. The finest horses, the best wines to bring as gifts—no, the best gold. Velaryons love their ships, don’t they? I’ll have a golden trident commissioned. It’ll be perfect.”

You sighed, watching as your husband spiraled into a whirlwind of planning. “Jason, it’s a wedding, not a coronation.”

“It’s Rhaenyra’s wedding,” Jason said, spinning on his heel to face you. “Your sister. That makes it doubly important. We must arrive in style.”

The castle hummed with activity by mid-afternoon, thanks to Jason’s orders. Servants scurried about with rolls of fabric, crates of Lannister gold, and lists so long they trailed behind their carriers. Martyn, naturally, was in the thick of it, as he watched the chaos with an amused grin.

“Do you ever tire of creating a spectacle, cousin?” Martyn asked as Jason passed by, barking orders to a servant carrying a bundle of crimson cloaks.

“A spectacle?” Jason repeated, his tone affronted. “This isn’t a spectacle. This is preparation. A royal wedding requires a royal effort.”

Martyn smirked, glancing at the two knights polishing a gilded carriage nearby. “And the golden carriage?”

“For comfort,” Jason said, brushing off the sarcasm. “Y/N deserves nothing less.”

“She’ll love that,” Martyn muttered under his breath. “I’m sure she adores the idea of being paraded through the streets like a queen.”

Jason shot him a look. “She is the Lady of Casterly Rock. It’s only fitting.”

“Is that why you’ve ordered enough supplies to outfit a small army?” Martyn asked, gesturing to the growing pile of crates.

“Provisions,” Jason said firmly. “And gifts. You wouldn’t show up to a royal wedding empty-handed, would you?”

Martyn chuckled. “I’d show up with my sanity intact, which is more than I can say for you.”

By evening, Jason gathered the household in the great hall, standing at the head of the table with his usual flair for dramatics. You sat beside him, your hand resting lightly on your belly as you watched him address the room.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Jason began, raising a goblet. “We’ve been invited to the royal wedding of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and Ser Laenor Velaryon. This is not merely an invitation; it is an opportunity—a chance to remind the realm of the strength and splendor of House Lannister.”

The household exchanged amused glances, accustomed to Jason’s theatrical speeches.

“We will travel with dignity,” Jason continued, his voice rising. “We will bring gifts that reflect our status. And we will leave an impression so grand that even the dragons will be jealous.”

You leaned toward Martyn, whispering, “Do you think he rehearses these speeches in the mirror?”

Martyn grinned. “Absolutely.”

Jason, oblivious to the murmured commentary, finished his toast with a flourish. “To House Lannister and our journey to the royal wedding!”

The room erupted into polite applause, and Jason sat down beside you, looking thoroughly pleased with himself.

“You’re enjoying this far too much,” you remarked, smirking.

Jason grinned, raising his goblet. “Of course I am. It’s not every day we get to show your kin how it’s done.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress a small smile. For all his dramatics, Jason’s excitement was infectious—and you had to admit, the journey to King’s Landing promised to be anything but dull.

[treedaddymcpuffpuff]

Imagine being kidnapped by Tom Ludlow.

Hi anon. This got out of hand. I’m sorry. CW: mentions of child abuse/dark humor concerning it, rape/noncon fantasies and details. I write from a place of my own trauma, and it gets a little fucked up. If you don’t like dark fics, or are triggered easily, DO NOT READ THIS. Violence, bad cops, SA. Tom Ludlow is not the bad guy in this, though.

If you’re a big girl, a tall girl, a girl with a lot of muscle or fat, you probably haven’t been picked up off the ground since you were very young.

You question your femininity because of it, along with a whole lot of other shit that society decides to push on you for not having a traditional feminine figure…whatever the hell that is.

You often take on a more protective, mothering or masculine roll with your smaller or daintier or gentler friends. You don’t look down on them at all—or envy them too often. Some people just carry a unique tenderness that you wish the world had more of. But every little rainbow or sunbeam needs their strong protective cloud, and you mostly gladly, sometimes reluctantly take on this role.

You will never be a meek, kind, delicate person. It’s just not going to happen. You don’t want it to happen. You’re pretty comfortable with your role in life. It’s just…sometimes…and this is probably something that everyone craves in vulnerable moments…you want to be the one getting protected.

It’s just kind of exhausting, always being there for everyone else. As much as you love it, and you do, it can also really drain you.

The duality of man is that we can be more than one type of person, and want different things. You know this. But…it’s hard as hell to admit you want to be taken care of. Because doesn’t that ruin your tough facade? Your strength and independence? Doesn’t that let everyone know that you’re just putting on an act to cover up who you really are—a weak, sniveling girl?

That’s why you bottle up, keep things to yourself, regard the world cynically and humorously with a lazy shrug of your shoulder. You act like nothing gets to you, like you are a stoic guard at the queen’s gate, like a big mastiff on patrol of your sheep.

When you do wear an emotion, more often than not it’s either sarcasm or…anger. Like tonight, when some guy won’t leave your friend alone at the bar.

She’s visibly uncomfortable and attempting escape from the creep following her around. She’s too nice to tell him to go away, but you’re not, and you have had to put yourself between them way, way too many times.

“She’s not interested,” you tell him.

He sneers at you. “Yeah, yeah I know.”

Except he fucking doesn’t, because ten seconds later he’s smacking her ass when she stands up, and you’re punching him in the mouth.

He hits you back, and it feels like a slap from a two year old, but it startles your fight or flight, and before you know it, your vision is blurry with rage and your fists are flying.

The security guards have to pull you off of one another and haul you outside to where the police are waiting with cuffs.

“He was harassing my friend,” you tell the guy who’s chaperoning you.

“Her ugly ass is just jealous cuz nobody wants her!” Screams scumbag from down the sidewalk.

Wow, you’ve never heard that one before.

One of the cops grabs him by the collar and says something that appears to be stern with his finger pointed at his face.

The guy looks visibly shaken after that, and he specifically avoids looking in your direction again.

The ballsy officer, probably in some sort of supervising position by the looks of it, gets to you next, and you have to crane your neck up to look at him.

You expect anger, but his face is neutral as he pulls a pen and paper from his utility belt. “Hello, ma’am, my name is officer Ludlow with the LAPD. You mind telling me what went on here tonight?”

You tick through the list of events as best you can, trying not to paint yourself as innocent (because with the way you beat on him, you’re definitely not), but making sure he knows what a fucking reprobate you were up against, and he scribbles it all down diligently.

After you’re done, he flicks his chin at the officer standing next to you. “Reed, let her go.”

They uncuff you, and you roll your arms, testing the circulation and rubbing out the raw red marks on your wrists. “Thanks,” you tell the lead officer. “You mind if I go back in and get my friends? There’s only three of us and I’m worried about them…”

“I can’t let you go back in,” officer Ludlow says, “but give us their names and descriptions, and I’ll send Reed in for them, alright?”

You nod, comply, and a few tense moments later Abby is running out to wrap her arms around your shoulders, smearing her glittery tears and pink blush on your jacket.

You hug her back, picking her up a little bit off the ground with the ferocity of your relief, and look at officer Ludlow over her head. “Thanks,” you tell him.

Tye, arriving from the thicket of people at the entrance a few moments later, immediately wants to know what happened.

She, however, is interrupted, by the asshole down the sidewalk, still in cuffs. “Hope you think of me when you see that handprint on your cute little ass tomorrow!” He calls, and Abby turns away, choking on a sob.

You’ve always had anger issues. Usually, in adulthood, they’re pretty easy to tame down. Not in this circumstance, not when you see Abby shaking and crying, looking as defenseless as a baby mouse.

Unbeknownst to you, because your sight and sound have been marginally narrowed to one person who needs his face bludgeoned in so hard that he finally shuts the fuck up, the head officer has already signaled for them to haul this guy into the back of a police car.

You’re not sure how you cross the distance between you and him so fast—you’re built for endurance, not speed—but suddenly your fists are connecting with his flesh again, and there’s a lot of yelling and pulling and finally your feet leave the ground and your knuckles leave his face.

It takes you a minute to realize you are being carried away—that your feet are not on land—and you look up at the person whose arms are currently wrapped around you.

Like mentioned before, it’s been a long, long time since someone has picked you up and you’ve lost your center of gravity so quickly and so thoroughly. Like a startled animal, you fight to try and get back to the ground, more out of shock and adrenalized fear than anything.

You don’t mean to scratch or bite the nice officer, you really don’t.

Ludlow just sighs at your resistance, like he could be doing something much more important right now rather than manhandling you into the back of a squad car like you’re an ornery kitten rather than a formidable opponent.

You are silenced into shock the whole way to the police station.

They put you in the waiting room sans cuffs, and you’re not sure how much time passes until a heavy presence plops down on the plastic chair next to you.

“Fuck,” is the first thing you say to Ludlow. “My friends…”

“They’re safe. I’m giving them an escort back home.”

He gives you some room temp water, and after the fear wears off, grants you enough time to come back to your good senses. You look at him sheepishly, with your head tucked down. “Sorry, he was a fucking creep.”

Ludlow nods. “I get it, hopefully I can get you out of it with a slap on the wrist.” He hands you some tissues from his breast pocket. “Wipe that blood off your face.”

You didn’t realize you were bleeding, so it’s a shock to finally feel the ache of a bloody lip and bruised cheek and see the paper come back crimson streaked.

After a few long moments of silence, you say, “I feel like an asshole.”

He shrugs, leans back, grins over at you. You fight the urge to flush at his crooked smile. He’s a handsome man. Sometimes you like those. “Asshole, no. Dumb, maybe. He could have really fucked you up.”

“I handled myself just fine.”

“Your split lip will disagree tomorrow morning. Lemme see.” He holds out his hand, as if for you to rest your chin in, and you’re not sure what brain malfunction gets you to comply. You are not a good listener by any means, especially for men in positions of authority or power.

Maybe it’s sexist, maybe it’s unfair. Spend your whole childhood getting the shit taken out of you by a man that’s supposed to love and care for and protect you, and then decide what’s fair and what’s not.

He whistles low, turning you this way and that with a tenderness you don’t expect from calloused, bear paw hands with knuckles like golf balls. “I’ll give it to you, you’ve got balls. Bigger than most men I’ve met.”

Your mouth betrays your tough girl facade, and lets a tiny smile hike up the edge despite the stinging pain that follows.

Officer Ludlow gets you out with a slap on the wrist—aka a misdemeanor—just like he said he was going to. You tell him thank you about ten million times for saving your ass, and for offering to give you a ride back to the bar to get your car.

“I’ve already put you out too much tonight,” you tell him. “I’ll get a Taxi or something.”

“It’s a Saturday night,” he says, jangling the keys in his beater pocket. “By the time you get to the bar, you’re gonna be towed. C’mon.”

You open the back door of his charger, but he shakes his head and, instead, opens up his passenger seat for you to slide in.

It’s about now you’re starting to get a funny feeling in the pit of your stomach, like something is off about this interaction. You’re not one to trust easily, and getting in the car with a complete stranger, although one in uniform, is out of character to say the least.

Your radar has really been fucked up tonight. By the alcohol, the scumbag, the being arrested, the bruising and tearing of your knuckles. What a way to end it, you think, if Ludlow is a bad guy.

The funny feeling in your guts that you decide to ignore this one time? It turns out to be right. And as Tom Ludlow starts driving up through the deserted hills, in the opposite direction of the bar your car is at, you almost want to burst out laughing at how stupid you are.

Asshole, no. Dumb? Fucking definitely.

You test his door handle and he snorts at you; like he’s saying, you think I’m that stupid?

“Doesn’t hurt to try,” you grumble, sizing him up from the corner of your eye, deciding whether to fight or flight or just give up now. He’s thin, but he’s broad. Tall. Not lanky. He won’t be easy to push over. You’ll have to bite, claw eyes out, rip his hair from his head. Make sure he doesn’t pull that shiny pistol out of his belt before you can jump on him.

You could do it right here in the car and risk barreling over the steep hillside on your right. You could—

“Hey,” he says, calmly, capturing you too easily from your violent thoughts, “it’s alright, I’m not gonna hurt you.”

A part of you wants to believe him, or maybe just believe there’s still some good in the world—some good in men. Hell, maybe leprechauns exist, too. You never know.

He looks sideways at you when you giggle in response to these reassuring words, as if you’re the one who’s fucking psycho. “I’ve heard that one before.”

He makes a pensive sound, air puffing from his nostrils, switches gears as the incline increases. “Daddy beat you up?”

Well, fuck it, might as well share all your sob stories if this is really happening tonight. “Uncle, actually.”

“Sorry,” he says, and you hazard a glance over to see if his face matches his empathetic tone—it, surprisingly, does. “He still alive?”

“No.”

You must be violently shaking to compensate for the repression of a panic attack, because his still, steady hand on your shoulder pauses the tremors. “It’s okay,” he assures, like he’s trying to soothe a crying kid. You have to admit, his voice is a cool ointment for hot nerves, even if he’s the reason for them in the first place.

The brain has a funny way of dealing with things like this. There’s about a 30% chance his intentions are raping you, because with his looks he could get any lady in the city of lights for free, but rapists and molesters rarely think about physical attractiveness when it actually comes down to the act. Psychologists say it’s more about the power trip for them. And, at least, if he is going to fuck you, he’s not exactly the worst man that you could pick to do it.

At least he’s hot, is what it boils down to. Because you’re a disgusting degenerate. Because your coping skills are a ticking time bomb, a broken record, stuck back at the part of your life where you had to start liking the way uncle Eddy touched you to deal with the shame and the despair of it.

Officer Ludlow’s gonna pick you right up off the ground again, slam you into his backseat, tug your pants and underwear down in one go. He’ll make you beg him to fuck your pussy instead of your unprepared and untainted ass, use his spit as lube, rub his meaty fingers over your puffy lips and taunt you when his saliva encounters your slippery cum. He’ll smack your ass for liking this, leave big red handprints, whisper in your ear that you’re gonna remember him, not just tomorrow, but for weeks after he gets done working your cunt. That he should kill you and leave your body out for the flies, but he wants you to live just so you can feel the way he destroyed your pussy.

The charger slows to a halt out in the sticks, and you have no idea where the fuck you are or how long you’ve been driving. The night is thick black soup in a boiling pot, and his headlights cut through it meagerly. It’s enough light to see what’s happening ahead, though, and when you look over at him curiously, he is grinning at you.

The man from the bar who assaulted your friend is in cuffs, an officer on each arm holding him in place. You don’t feel bad at all when you notice his swollen lip and purple temple, but you do wish you would have gotten more hits in.

Lucky for you, Officer Ludlow has you covered.

“Do you want to hit him?” He asks, unclipping his seat belt. “Or do you wanna watch?”

You blink a few times in response, not sure what to say to this brutally kind gesture. This man who barely knows you is helping you exact revenge against his own brethren. You’ve never been so…flattered.

“Don’t tell me you’re attempting to grow a conscience?” He teases.

“I wanna hit him.”

To your disappointment, Ludlow is not a total savage. He lets you get 3 or 4—it’s hard to remember the exact number—good hits on this dirtbag, and even wraps your knuckles up in a cushiony flannel from his back seat beforehand. His only rule is, “stay away from his ugly ass face. I don’t need him coming back to the station more fucked up than it already is.”

You get him in the stomach, the ribs, kick him so hard in his dick that you feel the hard pelvic bone underneath. Maybe it’s only a couple hits, but you make them count. And when you start to ache, or get tired, all you have to do is remember the tears smearing Abbie’s pretty glitter eyeliner down her face.

If he does say anything to you, you don’t hear it. Or maybe he really doesn’t, because Ludlow stands behind you like a watchful wolfhound the entire time, and then escorts you back to his car with a heavy arm over your shaking shoulders.

“Good job,” he praises, seeming very amused and unaffected by this whole ordeal while you are trembling, soaked with sweat, panting like a hooker in a fur coat. “It’s alright, he had it coming. Hey, hey, hey, look at me.”

You do as he says, momentarily escaping your fury in favor of his calming voice and soft black eyes.

“You did amazing. Lemme see the knuckles.”

He takes your hand in his, and you notice the size difference first, and then the warm, damp, pleasant heat second.

There’s been a lot of firsts tonight: someone’s hands being larger than your own (big lady hands should’ve been your nickname in highschool), being picked up off the ground past the age of 7, a man going out of his way to do something nice for you—because your brain decides that’s how it’s going to frame this scenario whether you like it or not, as some fucked up little date on Tom Ludlow’s dime.

You feel safe with your hand tucked into his and the heat of his skin and the cozy intimacy of being belted into his vehicle. You feel grateful that good men still exist. You feel…tight, twisted up in some deprived box of longing you’ve made permanent home in.

You leave the sanctuary of your comfort zone, and have another first, as you cross his center console and kiss a man on his mouth.

For a moment where you feel like your heart is suspended on the edge of a very tall cliff, he freezes. This stiff resistance immediately makes you want to pull away, but, before you can, he wraps his hand around your chin and pulls you deep into his mouth.

Arthur from college, Monica from New Orleans…Hell, even Uncle Eddie—they have nothing on Officer Tom Ludlow with his big, slick tongue and muscular lips.

It’s so good you can almost ignore the fresh sting of your split lip.

He sucks your bottom lip between his teeth, and murmurs a laugh when you give him a low groan for the effort, then takes your angry little grumble and dampens it with his renewed fervor. His hands remain gentle and chaste on your face, your neck, your shoulders, even though there is nothing gentlemanly about the way he devours your mouth. He does not push for more, does not hold you down with those big hands that absolutely could if they wanted to.

You set the pace, you pull him closer, you push him back when you need to gasp for air.

He licks the taste of you from his tilted, beautiful lips. “You have to breathe through your nose, honey.”

“Sorry,” you say, crossing your arms over yourself, pressing back against the door, away from him.

His lazy smile droops. “Are you alright?”

”I just…Can you take me to my car? If not I can—“

The thick start of his engine cuts you off.

The car ride back is silent. You think about turning on the radio a few times, but don’t want to cross more boundaries than you already have. Luckily, he flips it on for the both of you and you’ve never, ever been so happy to hear Metallica.

When he parks, cutting the engine off in the nearly deserted garage, the tension between you immediately peaks, sizzling like vinegar on baking soda. He wraps a long limb over the back of your seat, looks confused—vulnerable for such a big, scary man, and he makes your heart twang a lonely cord.

He seems almost boyish, when he asks if he can take you out sometime.

And you want to say yes. Every feral primordial part of you does, anyway. But then there’s the rational part, the one that should and does win most of the time. You’ve already snubbed that part too much tonight, so you politely decline Ludlow’s offer, and with your traitorous heart padlocked and chained back into your breast cavity, you say goodbye to the nice officer.

[alwayssassydreamer]

Just My Type

A/N: next installment for my song prompt challenge

If I'm just being honest I'd rather be alone with you tonight You're just my type Yeah you play nice But you've got a little bit of death in your eyes

Warnings: none

Characters: Ace x GnReader

The night was quiet, the kind of stillness that only the sea could hold. Soft waves lapped at the side of the ship, and the gentle sway felt like a lullaby for everyone else who was asleep below deck. But not you. Not Ace.

You leaned against the railing, letting the wind play with your hair as you stared into the black horizon. You didn’t need to look over to know he was there, leaning back on his arms a few feet away, his expression somewhere between guarded and curious. Even when he was smiling, you had noticed that Ace had a certain darkness in his eyes, a little flicker of something lost, something hidden. It was like a part of him was forever out of reach — but damn if it didn’t make you want to try.

Eventually, he looked over, catching your gaze, and there it was again, that glint in his eyes — intense and wild, yet somehow quiet, like a storm just waiting to break. You should’ve been wary. You knew he was dangerous in his own way, not just because he was a pirate, but because he could make you forget all the reasons you shouldn’t let yourself get close.

“You’ve got that look again,” he murmured, his voice a low, teasing drawl.

“Oh?” you asked, a smirk playing on your lips as you turned to him, feigning innocence. “And what look would that be?”

He chuckled, tilting his head slightly, his eyes narrowing as he studied you. “Like you’re trying to figure me out.”

You shrugged, leaning back against the railing.

“Maybe I am. You’re a mystery, Portgas D. Ace,” you said, your tone light but truthful. “You’ve got this… spark, but there’s something darker too. Something that keeps you holding back.”

Ace looked away, his jaw tightening slightly, and for a second, you thought you might have pushed him too far. But then he let out a soft breath, his shoulders relaxing as he looked back at you, that faint, almost challenging smirk returning.

“And what if I said the same about you? I see it in your eyes too, you know. You play nice, but there’s something… dangerous about you. You've got a little bit of death in your eyes”

The air between you seemed to thicken, and you felt a rush of heat, but not from the cool night air. His words, the way he looked at you, as if he saw right through all your defenses — it left you feeling exposed, caught.

“So what if there is?” you challenged softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He took a step closer, close enough that you could see every detail of his face, the faint lines of his freckles, the intensity in his gaze.

“I like it,” he said simply, his voice low, rough. “I’m not looking for easy or safe.”

You felt a thrill run down your spine, a nervous, electric thrill that only he could stir in you. It would be so easy to step back, to keep your guard up — but then, here in the dark, with him looking at you like that, you didn’t want to.

“And if I’m being honest,” you murmured, your voice barely audible, “I’d rather be alone with you tonight.”

His smirk softened into something more genuine, almost vulnerable, and he reached up to brush a strand over hair behind your ear, his hand lingering, his touch warm against your skin.

“Then stay,” he whispered, his voice carrying a rawness that left you breathless.

You didn’t answer with words. Instead, you leaned in, letting your lips brush against his in a kiss that was slow, hesitant at first, but then grew deeper, more intense. His hand found its way to your waist, pulling you closer, and for a moment, it was like nothing else in the world existed — just you, Ace, and the unspoken promises held in the way he touched you.

When you finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the cool night air. His eyes were dark, intense, but softened by something vulnerable, something he usually kept buried.

“You’re just my type,” he whispered, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “A little dangerous, a little wild. And maybe, just maybe, exactly what I need.”

You let out a soft laugh, your hand finding his, your fingers intertwining.

“Then let’s see where this goes,” you replied, your heart pounding in your chest.

And as you stayed there, wrapped in each other’s warmth, you knew that this was the beginning of something beautifully reckless, a dangerous pull that neither of you could resist — even if it meant a little bit of death in your eyes.

[lightseoul]

CHAPTER 3 | ALL OUT OF LUCK

w.c. 4.0k (i know)

tags. fem!reader, pro-hero!katsuki, aged-up (26), much cussing, some adult themes (again, no smut y'all), bkg and reader go through one stage of grief: bargaining, the plot thickens!

a/n. wrote all this in one day—i couldn't put the doc down until i finished it. this chapter is jam-packed and has lots going on, but we're only at the beginning. i hope you have as much fun reading it as i did writing it!

links. masterlist, ao3 (coming soon)

“…Though I trust you’ll understand if we set some—” he pauses, and you’re 99% sure it’s for dramatic effect, “—precautionary measures in place?”

“Waddya have in mind?” asks Bakugou, his rough tone laced with unmistakable skepticism.

“Well, for starters…”

Their leader glances back at the bionic woman. “Sayaka, are they ready?”

Sayaka nods. “Ready for installation, Masaki-san.”

You scramble to take a mental note of their names—as well as try to ignore the fact that the robotic girl sounds like a robot, too—as you watch Masaki gesture to the escort from earlier who’s standing at the sides and in the shadows.

He emerges into the dim lights with a wide stride, but to your surprise, another leg steps forward right beside him. Your eyes trail up until they land on the other person, widening in confusion because they look just like a carbon copy of the intimidating escort—tall, ginger head, pale skin—only it’s a girl.

There’s no mistaking it.

They’re twins.

Twin bodyguards. In a quirk supremacist group.

You fight the urge to let out a dry laugh.

But apparently, neither of the two finds the situation funny, because they’re nothing but serious as they approach Masaki and bow politely, before heading to Sayaka and taking what looks like tiny…metal pieces?

You don’t get the opportunity to wonder about what those were, though, because, in the blink of an eye, the twins are already stalking straight toward you and Bakugou, glaring daggers.

“Those are bugs,” Masaki explains just as the twins arrive right in front of you, with the guy from earlier towering over Bakugou and the female staring you down a few inches away from your face, decidedly a little too close for comfort. You barely manage to stop yourself from gulping and looking away.

“They’ll be tracking your speech and movements 24/7. And don’t worry, they’re waterproof.”

You sense Bakugou’s about to spit some smart-ass comment, judging by the way he puffs up like he tends to do when he’s about to drop a curse-riddled quip, but he doesn’t get the chance to deliver the blow because the twins are on you in an instant.

You accidentally let out a yelp as the woman grabs the hem of your tank top so roughly you think it’s gonna tear, before she stuffs her right hand up. Mortified, you struggle against her hold, but her left has a death grip on you.

“Relax,” she seethes, obviously very much already done with you. “I’m just installing it.”

At her words, you manually will yourself to calm down, and it quickly dawns on you that she’s not touching you violently or inappropriately. You tamp down a shiver as her cold fingers come into contact with the center of your chest, right at the dip of your bra and between your breasts, feeling the surface before sticking something that you promptly identify as the tracker.

And as she retracts her hand and steps away from you, right at the same time as her twin like they’re wired for synchrony, you reflect on how it’s so light that you barely feel an added weight to your body. It’s circular, too, and you debate for a second whether or not to peer down at your chest to see what it really looks like, before ultimately deciding against it.

You can do that later, in the privacy of the (hopefully not downstairs) bathroom.

If such a concept even exists.

“Thanks, you two,” comes Masaki’s gentle voice, before shifting to regard you and Bakugou. “You can get to know your designated guards later on, but for now, let’s continue.”

As if on cue, the twins take a further step back before eventually returning to their dark corner.

“What we just affixed on your chests are special devices, again, designed to monitor any sound you make as well as your specific locations. They’re not your ordinarily engineered trackers—they’re Sayaka’s thanks to her quirk—which also allows her to directly receive the feedback and project it for others to see and hear.”

Ah.

You don’t know how that works exactly, but you bet the expensive ass perfume that you got for your birthday last year—the very one you wear for special occasions like now—that it’s got something to do with her robotic parts.

“Does everyone in your group get one, too?” questions Bakugou, who’s now looking a bit miffed. You’re sure he didn’t enjoy getting felt up by a stranger who he just called someone’s little lackey.

“Only the new members,” Sayaka answers succinctly, her voice sounding like it’s filtered with autotune.

But especially you two, you finish for her in your head. And really, you can’t blame them. Taking in a pro-hero, let alone Japan’s #2, is a huge gamble, and Bakugou quite literally can make or break their whole plan to attack. This level of precaution is not at all uncalled for. You’d even go so far as to say it’s not enough.

Bakugou must be thinking the same thing, too, because he doesn’t offer a follow-up question.

Masaki takes your silence as a sign for him to go on.

“Of course, that’s only the first layer of protection.”

Shit.

You hope you didn’t just think that into existence.

The plain-looking leader puts on that prudent smile of his, before turning to look at the old man. “Kouki-san here has a very handy quirk. Teleportation,” he glances at Bakugou, “A sought-after power in the hero world, isn’t it?”

Bakugou shrugs, although you’re guessing the answer is yes and that he’s just too stubborn to admit it.

Figures.

“Well, he’s gone and mastered his quirk, and has since been indispensable to our organization. Essentially—” Masaki huffs, like he’s preparing for the bomb he’s about to drop, “—the very moment you even hint at betraying us, we’re gone,” he snaps his fingers, “Just like that. And you won’t be able to trace us.”

“Really?” drawls Bakugou. “You’ll abandon this cushy, not at all seedy ass headquarters of yours?”

“This is only one of many, Dynamight,” Masaki responds, seemingly unbothered by Bakugou’s taunt. “And this is actually not our headquarters.”

He picks up his glass of alcohol and lightly twirls it around in his hand. “I also trust that you’re aware of what a distinguished group such as ours entails? Naturally, we need to have somewhere safe where we can conduct all our activities under the radar.”

“As you can imagine, it’s not just us five. We have many, many members who share the same principles, and this club can’t possibly be large enough to host all of us.”

“Where are you going with this?” Bakugou demands.

“What I’m saying is that we have a separate place as our headquarters, a place much bigger than this. And—” he cocks his head toward Kouki, “—we get there via teleportation.”

“Obviously,” sneers Bakugou, “Otherwise that’d be a huge waste of the old man’s quirk, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, but that’s only one of the reasons. You see, it’s also so that you won’t know where it is located,” Masaki pauses once again, which you decide in a split second is warranted because of what he’s going to say next.

“And for that to work, we’re also going to have to lock you inside.”

Your breath hitches. Bakugou bristles.

“The fu—”

“We’re going to have to make you stay with us—” the plain-looking man interjects with a slightly louder voice, “—at least until the day of the attack, as we cannot risk you two being seen constantly going in and out of this club every night.”

You’re about to contribute to the conversation for the very first time but Bakugou beats you to it. “Fucking stay in? Isn’t that gonna cause even more suspicion?”

“It wouldn’t if you both come up with a good excuse to disappear,” Kouki retorts with a smidge of attitude. He eyes Bakugou with a raised brow, “Wouldn’t now be a great time to have a top-secret ‘mission’ overseas? And I’m sure your friend here can whip something up.”

You brush off the annoyance that shoots through you at the dismissive mention. Instead, you finally bring yourself to speak up. “I thought you just said we’ll be stuffed in a secret hideout?”

“Ah,” Masaki sounds out, “You are, but this is our gateway, so to speak. You go here to get teleported to the headquarters, and from there, get teleported back here to return to the outside world. We won’t hesitate to teleport away from both places the second we have to, but that doesn’t mean our HQ is easily disposable to us, hence all these measures.”

“All this to say,” he furthers, his timid tone juxtaposing the threatening words you’re sure he’s about to utter, “You two better think twice about betraying us.”

There it is.

He smiles again. “Do either of you have any questions?”

Beside you, Bakugou mutters to himself for a second, before clearing his throat. “You’re yapping on and on about what you’ll do if we betray you and shit. Ain’t that such a warm welcome for your new members?”

—A rhetorical question, because he doesn’t let anyone get a word in. Instead, he presses on.

“But what if we don’t? What’s in it for us?”

“You get to live out your ideals, boy,” comes the old geezer’s snappy reply.

Bakugou snorts, and you’re sure it’s not because he found the guy hilarious.

“That’s a shitty deal on our end, don’t ya think so?” the pro-hero shifts his weight on his other foot. “How ‘bout this, you guarantee protection for my…friend here, and we’re even.”

You hold your breath.

Looking past the way he just so awkwardly referred to you as his friend, that segue just now wasn’t exactly the smoothest.

Still, you have no choice but to roll with it. So, with much conviction, you morph your face into that of shyness—one that you hope is charming enough to win their graces.

“Just her?” asks Masaki, placid as ever.

“I can get by,” comes Bakugou’s confident response.

Once again ignoring the mildly degrading remark, you ready yourself to use your quirk. You closely examine the leader’s features as they transform into an expression of contemplation, even as he turns to the other two and engages them in quiet conversation.

You and Bakugou stand there for a few moments, waiting, before Masaki finally turns again.

And all that preparing to utilize your quirk goes out of the dilapidated windows once you catch a glimpse of his face.

“I guess that’s settled, then.”

Called it.

Masaki then raises an eyebrow at the two of you. “Any more concerns?” he smiles to himself, “Heartwarming requests?”

Neither of you says anything.

“None?” he asks again, before patting his thighs in a gesture of finality. “Well, then, I believe it’s time for you to see your new home! Kouki-san?”

At the mention, the old man slowly gets up from where he made himself very comfortable on the couch, and walks leisurely towards you, planting himself in front of and between you and Bakugou.

“Hang tight,” Kouki smirks, reaching out for both of your hands, and you’re just about registering how eerily cool his are when the ground that was perfectly carpeted and steady just a second ago suddenly collapses from beneath you.

A violent wave of nausea instantly hits you as the room completely vanishes before you, replaced by pitch-black darkness in a second. You scramble for purchase—tightening your grip on the person responsible for whatever the fuck this is—as the noise instantaneously gets sucked in a vacuum, leaving you in full silence. Your legs are jelly as you stumble on your feet, and you’re convinced you’re going to fall to your death down to the abyss below you when—just as fast as the lounge disappeared—a warmly lit hallway materializes in front of you.

But it’s too late, you’re already out of balance and lurching forward—inch by excruciating inch—right until you feel a hand grab your forearm and you’re unceremoniously yanked back into an upright position.

You whip to look at Bakugou as you wobble on your feet, and he’s staring at you with such alarm that makes you feel so…vulnerable. He retracts his left hand a beat later when you eventually steady yourself, his serious and unrelenting gaze fixated on you before shifting to study the place you just got teleported to.

You follow suit, eyeing the hallway as you place the hand Kouki was holding into your pocket to warm it up.

Similar to the club and the room you were just in, the area is barely illuminated, but it’s bright enough for you to make out the dark wooden doors that line both sides. You’re right in the middle of the hallway, and at one of the ends you think are staircases leading both to a lower and an upper level, while at the other end is another door.

If these lead to what you think they lead…

Then, damn.

They weren’t kidding about lodging.

From the corner of your eye, you see the old man look at you and follow your line of vision, shifting to study the aforementioned door at the end of this hallway.

“That’s your room,” he offers curtly, like this job of chaperoning you to your place of residence for who knows how many days is beneath him.

Room, you parrot in your head.

Room singular.

“Well?” he asks, not even bothering to hide his impatience when neither you nor Bakugou makes a move. “Aren’t you going to check it out?”

You hesitate, glancing at Bakugou to find him frowning at Kouki, before turning to look at you.

“We don’t have all day, you two,” Kouki adds on with a sigh at the same time you raise your eyebrows ever so minutely at the pro-hero, as if asking for confirmation. “Go on, I’ll wait here.”

It only takes a small nod from Bakugou to pull you out of the paralysis, and the minute that he does, you’re already moving to the spot beside him, matching his pace as you trudge towards the door.

As inconspicuously as you can, you check the corners of the room along the wall facing you for cameras, only to find none.

And so you do it.

With your backs turned against the Teleportation master, you finally let your emotions show on your face.

You also chance a peek at Bakugou, only to find him already eyeing you with the very same expression you’re sure is written all over your features.

The one that says you’re fucked.

You don’t get to dwell or comment on the shared sentiment, though, mainly because they’ll hear every word you say, but also because you arrive in front of the door. Bakugou looks at the knob and then at you warily, and you can only nod in encouragement.

That seems to be enough of a push for him, because he reaches for and turns the handle, pushing past the entryway so you can walk in from behind him.

Now, the first thing that registers after you startle at the door closing is the fact that the room is small. Tiny, even. There’s another door at the back, which you think leads to the comfort room.

But that’s pretty much it.

That, and there’s only one bed.

To your credit, though, you’re able to refrain from gasping in horror at the sight of it, which you can chalk up to the next thing that you see—a couch.

It doesn’t seem like it’s foldable or can be converted into a larger bunk, but it’ll have to do. It’s brown and hopefully real leather this time, and is crammed right next to the bed. You remind yourself that they were only expecting Bakugou, and so you can’t really complain and that you’ll have to make do with sleeping on the couch for the next n days.

Aside from all those, though, the room is relatively bare.

Well, apart from the cameras with the blinking red light at the upper, four corners of it.

But you don’t get to wordlessly warn him about it, let alone come to terms with the fact that they’re deadass going to be watching your every single move, because something seizes your wrist, spinning you around, leaving you face to face with Bakugou.

You’re too preoccupied with the sudden motion and the fact that you’re just a breadth’s width away from each other to notice the darkened look in his eyes.

Which, in hindsight, you should’ve noticed.

If you wanted any chance at bracing yourself for what he’s going to do next.

“Wha—”

You yelp—cutting yourself off—when Bakugou, the Bakugou Katsuki—Japan’s #2 Pro-hero, Vogue Japan’s Hottest Bachelor of the Year, and the dickhead who used to be your biggest, fattest crush—grabs at your neck and smashes his lips against yours.

You involuntarily jerk away from him, but his free hand shoots up to roughly clutch your hip just as his grip on your neck tightens, pinning you in place and right against him.

And you don’t know how the fuck it happens, but he does something with his tongue, or his mouth? His teeth? You don’t know at this point, and frankly, you don’t want to know, because coupled with his scalding hold on your body, it causes you to do the unthinkable.

You moan.

And again, you don’t even get the opportunity to feel the utter humiliation, because just as quickly as he pounced on you, Bakugou pulls away, but not before scowling at the cameras as if he just noticed them—which you doubt—then taking your hand, dragging you out of the door and into the hallway.

The old man glances at you. “Are you don—”

“Take us the fuck back now,” Bakugou spits as he pulls you right beside him.

At that, Kouki’s eyebrows furrow. “You ought to know better than to speak to an elderly like that.”

But the man who just fucking kissed you apparently can’t give a single flying fuck, because he retorts without missing a beat. “Take us back now.”

That must’ve been the final straw, because Kouki’s face finally morphs into the scowl that you think he’s been trying to suppress this entire time, but to your surprise, he moves closer to the two of you and once again, reaches for your hands.

You don’t know what the fuck is going on, but what you do know is that Bakugou’s onto something here, because he wouldn’t have pulled that stunt just now without any reason, which means the last thing you should do is resist.

And so you take Kouki’s hand, just as Bakugou snags the other, and when you do, the floor gives out from underneath you.

You’re still overcome with a sense of dizziness as your surroundings shift and the noise dissipates around you, but as you find the lounge slowly appearing before your eyes, you find that it’s not as bad the second time.

Bakugou’s still holding your hand when you arrive at the second floor of the club, right back where you stood from a while ago.

Sayaka is the first one to notice you, most likely thanks to her quirk and the goddamn device stuck to your chest, but it’s Masaki who speaks up when he catches wind of your arrival.

He puts down the deck of cards you think he’s just been shuffling before shifting to look at you. “Back so soon?”

Kouki turns around to face him, “Bakugou demanded to—”

“Why the fuck are there cameras in our room?”

Offended, the old man whips around again to glower at Bakugou, seemingly ready to unleash the sermon of the century. “Young man—”

“Turn them the fuck off,” the pro-hero interjects, “And the mics, too.”

Bakugou hesitates, as if unsure of how to properly say the next few words. He glances at you, expression inexplicable, before turning back to face them. “…At least at night.”

Silence.

“Oooh, I see where this is going,” comes Masaki’s reaction a moment later, a knowing smile creeping on his face. You feel yourself flame. “You weren’t being clear with us earlier, Bakugou. You didn’t say you brought your girlfriend.”

“Didn’t think it was necessary to point out,” comes Bakugou’s terse reply.

“Yeah, well, I’m afraid it doesn’t matter either way. The surveillance is for our safety, which comes above everything else, even the privacy of our esteemed members.”

“You promised you’d protect her at all costs,” Bakugou counters. “Protecting her modesty from the perverts you call your surveillance people is part of that.”

Now, you’re not a hundred percent certain, but you’re pretty sure he just shot the cyborg a look at the latter half of the sentence, which you think would’ve been a noble gesture—if it weren’t for the fact that it’s not just her, judging by the sheer number of cameras in this room alone.

Your attention drifts back to Masaki, however, when he heaves a sigh, leaning against the couch with a tired expression on his face. “Tell me, then, Dynamight. How do you propose we make sure you don’t brew something behind our backs off surveillance?”

“I can turn off the bugs,” Sayaka pipes up before Bakugou can answer, her mechanical voice drifting across the room. “They emit a blue light at their circumference that shuts down when I turn the device off.”

“As for the cameras…” she drones on, “The blinking red light should be gone when they’re offline.”

“That shit won’t do,” Bakugou declares decisively, not even letting the suggestion simmer. “There’s no knowing for sure that they’re actually off and aren’t just hacked to seem like they are.”

“The cameras should also face down. And—” he huffs, “—We get to remove the tracker.”

A chorus of protests erupts from the group—particularly from Sayaka and Kouki��but even the twins who are still stationed at the sides. Masaki, in contrast, only sits in silence as he studies the pro-hero, but there’s no missing the uneasiness decorating his features.

“It’s only at night,” Bakugou reasons, voice now a bit louder to be heard amidst the sea of complaints. “You can set up guards around the perimeters of our room. We’ll surrender them at the door before entering, and we can’t go out beyond the doorway until they’re attached again.”

And when no one says anything, Bakugou pushes. “How does that sound?”

You chance a glance at Masaki, who does not seem to be getting anywhere near convinced.

Bakugou must be noticing it, too, because he squeezes your hand so imperceptibly that you almost miss it.

But you don’t, and quite honestly, you could have and be okay with having done so, because you were on it, anyway.

You quickly scan the room.

One, two, three, four, five.

Five.

You can do five.

And so with the most innocent tone you can muster, you speak up.

“That sounds reasonable to me.”

All five whip to look at you, and the second that they do, you pull—swiftly and in succession—eyes jumping from Sayaka to Kouki to Masaki to the male twin and then to the girl.

Your gaze darts back to the leader right after to make sure you got him, but his remarkably serene countenance is enough to tell you that you’ve successfully done it.

You did it.

You just won Bakugou and you the window of time to discuss the mission in the privacy of your own room.

And Bakugou must be seeing the palpable shift in their demeanors because he squeezes your hand once more, only this time you think it’s in gratitude.

You feel a surge of pride swell in your chest.

Let the games begin.

˖⁺‧₊ as always, reblogs, replies, and tags are appreciated <3 feel free to drop an ask, too—i'd love to chat with you. have a nice day

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[arabella0001]

More than just a genius (Shikamaru x Reader OneShot)

Pairing: Shikamaru Nara x Reader

Anime: Naruto

Synopsis: what was supposed to be a simpe training session with Shikamaru quickly turns into something much more intense

new to smut, pls be gentle (eng not my first language)

Warnings: praise kink, teasing, rough sex, all characters are of age/aged up, dirty talk, breeding

"what a drag..." Shikamaru mutters to himself as he looks around the village with a bored expression.

"whats wrong Shika? " you chuckle softly. he looks at you with a slightly annoyed expression, but his gaze softens slightly.

"nothing much, just bored out of my mind here." he sighs and leans back against a wall, crossing his arms over his chest. "i wish I could be off on some mission or training instead of stuck in this village."

"well i’m pretty bored too, do you wanna train with me? "you smirk at him with a threatening voice.

he raises an eyebrow, a hint of amusement flickering across his face at your sudden assertiveness. "train with you? What exactly did you have in mind?" he asks skeptically, though there's a spark of interest in his eyes. "and don't think for a second I'm going easy on you just because you're asking nicely."

"oh, but i didn’t say you should be easy, i like it rough." his eyes widen slightly at her bold statement, a mix of surprise and intrigue evident on his face. "rough, huh? Alright then, let's see what you're made of." Shikamaru says with a smirk, standing up straight and cracking his neck. he takes a few steps closer to you, his stance relaxed but alert, ready for whatever youmight throw at him. "so, what's the first move in this 'rough' training session of yours?"

"let's start with a little taijutsu spar, shall we?" grining mischievously at him while looking him up and down, hands already forming seals as you begins to cast a jutsu and charges at Shikamaru with a fierce cry, aiming a powerful kick at his stomach.

"whoa, easy does it!" catches sight of the incoming attack and sidesteps just in time, avoiding the kick by a hair's breadth, Shikamaru chuckles, regaining his balance and facing you again. he takes a moment to size you up, analyzing your fighting style and looking for weaknesses to exploit. then, with a sly grin, he lunges forward, attempting to catch you off guard with a swift punch aimed at your jaw. "let's see how you handle a real hit," he taunts, his fist cocked back and ready to strike.

you nimbly dodges the punch, using the momentum to spin behind Shikamaru and deliver a sharp elbow to his shoulder blades, trying to disrupt his posture and leave him open to counterattack "when i said rough, i didnt mean punch me in the face," he grunts as the elbow connects, his body jerking slightly from the impact.

 "hey, watch it! that hurt more than it needed to," Shikamaru complains, rubbing his sore shoulder. despite the jab, he quickly recovers and spins around to face you once more, a determined glint in his eye. "alright, alright, I get it. you want to play dirty. fine by me." with a swift movement, he launches himself at you,  grabbing you wrist in mid-air and twisting it sharply to disarm you.

"see how you like being on the receiving end of a little 'roughness'," he sneers playfully. you yelp as your arms is twisted, losing your grip.

"ow ow ow! okay okay, enough." laughing breathlessly, raising your hands in surrender.

he stops his attack, grinning smugly as he watches you stumble back.

"oh, come on, that wasn't so bad," Shikamaru teases, "you can take it." he says with a playful smirk, his tone light despite the competitive edge still present in his eyes. leaning in a bit, he lowers his voice conspiratorially. "but hey, since you're clearly not used to this kind of thing, I suppose I can cut you some slack... for now." his gaze lingers on yours, a hint of mischief dancing in their depths as he waits for your response.

"well, Shika, i think you didn’t understand me clearly, i didn’t exactly say i like rough, the train, specifically."  his eyebrows shoot up in surprise, a slow grin spreading across his face as he finally catches on to her meaning

he releases your wrist, a new level of confidence and flirtation entering his demeanor. "well, well, well. looks like I've been had," Shikamaru says with a chuckle, his eyes sparkling with amusement "guess I shouldn't have assumed you were interested in sparring when you mentioned wanting things 'rough'."he tilts his head, studying you with renewed interest. "so, care to elaborate on what exactly you had in mind? because I have to admit, i'm rather curious now."

"you are a smart guy, Shikamaru. i know you know what i mean."he notices your gaze lingering on his lips and eyes, a subtle flush rising to his cheeks as he meets her intense stare.

 "ah, I see," he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave lower. "well, when you put it that way..." Shikamaru takes another step closer, closing the distance,he reaches out, gently cupping your chin with his thumb and forefinger, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. "i think I can help you with that," he whispers, his breath warm against your skin.

your lips are mere inches apart, the tension between them palpable as Shikamaru hesitates for a brief moment before leaning in, his mouth brushing softly against you in a gentle, exploratory kiss.

you moan in his mouth "fuck you taste so good" and he groans into the kiss, his tongue slipping past your lips to tangle with yours as he deepens the embrace.

 "mmm, same here," he mumbles against her mouth, his free hand coming up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair. "you taste even better than I imagined."

breaking the kiss momentarily, Shikamaru gazes into your eyes, a burning intensity reflected in his own. "I want more," he confesses huskily, his lips seeking hers again in a passionate, demanding kiss filled with pent-up desire. your other hand slides down your side to rest on your hip, pulling you closer as he loses himself in the heat of your connection.

you take his hands and put them on your ass "Then take what you need" whispering at him with a sultry voice.he gasps softly as you guide his hands to your ass, his fingers digging into the firm flesh instinctively.

 "fuck, you're incredible," he growls, his hips pressing forward to grind against you. Shikamaru hoists you up onto a nearby table, stepping between yourt highs as he claims your mouth in a searing kiss. His hands roam your curves, squeezing and kneading as he explores every inch of you.

breaking the kiss, he trails hot, open-mouthed kisses down the column of your throat, nipping and sucking at you sensitive skin. "I need to feel you," he pants against your pulse point, his arousal straining against his pants. "Tell me where you want me, Y/N”

kissing him rough and grinding on him" Inside please" you kissed him roughly while grinding on him, his hands roaming eagerly over your body as he undresses you with haste.

 "as you wish," he rasps, his own clothes falling away to reveal his toned physique. claiming your lips once more, Shikamaru lifts your legs around his waist, positioning himself at your entrance. with a powerful thrust, he sheathes himself inside you, a guttural moan escaping him as your tight heat envelops his throbbing length.

he sets a relentless pace, driving into you with primal urgency, the sound of flesh slapping against flesh filling the air. "you're so fucking perfect," Shikamaru groans, his forehead pressed against your as he lost himself in the intoxicating sensation.

you wrap your legs tighter around him and moans loudly as he fills you completely"yes, yes, just like that! don't stop, fuck me harder! " hearing your desperate plea, his hips snapping forward with increased vigor, pounding into you  with unrestrained passion.

"fuck, you take me so well," he gasps, his breath ragged against your ear. "i can't get enough of you." reaching between the bodies, Shikamaru finds your clit, circling the sensitive nub with his thumb as he continues to rut into you with wild abandon. The added stimulation sends shockwaves of pleasure coursing through you, causing your inner walls to clench around him like a vice.

"come on, baby, let go for me," he urges, his voice strained with impending release. "i want to feel you squeeze my cock as you cum all over it."

"fuck you are so hot…fuck fuck fuck i’m cumming" he feels your pussy spasming around him as you hits your climax, the rhythmic contractions pushing him closer to the edge."That's it, shit..Where.... "he groans, his own orgasm building rapidly.

"in me...please....pease" he groans and with a few more powerful thrusts, Shikamaru buries himself to the hilt inside you, his member pulsing as he erupts, flooding you with his hot seed. He collapses against you, both of you panting heavily as the aftershocks of your  intense coupling wash over them.

after a moment, Shikamaru lifts his head, gazing into your dazed eyes with a satisfied smile. "Damn, that was hot," he murmurs, still buried deep within your warmth. "i think we make a pretty good team, don't you?"

"yeah, wanted to that for too long. but you didn’t take the hints, such an innocent boy" you chuckle at him soflty.

"hey, I'm not always this dense, you know. you just caught me off guard, that's all."he  laughs, a hint of embarrassment coloring his features. he leans in, capturing your lips in a tender, affectionate kiss. "but now that i've got you figured out, "pulling back slightly, he brushes a strand of hair from your face, his fingertips trailing along your cheek. "maybe we can even teach each other a thing or two about reading signals."

"oh i feel honored to caught you off guard, the smartest guy i know" your chuckle and he smiles warmly, his heart swelling with fondness for this intriguing woman.

"well, I suppose even geniuses have their blind spots, " he teases lightly, kissing you, hisarms wrap around you, holding you close as you bask in the afterglow of your intimate encounter. "but I'm glad you found a way to pierce through mine," Shikamaru admits, nuzzling his nose against you and holding you close, savoring the warmth and comfort of you embrace. "so, what do you say we take this back to my place?" he suggests, a playful glint in his eye. "I've got a feeling we're just getting started..."

with a final, lingering kiss, Shikamaru carefully lowers your legs to the ground, helping you stead yourself before retrieving his clothing. As you two dress, the air is thick with anticipation for what lies ahead.

Wattpad link

[transificationbeem]

Headcanons/Dynamic stuff for rook and contentment:

Little bit of background on my Rook for context/those interested: My rook doesnt have a name other than "rook." He's veshothi, raised by two Tal-Vashoth in a mercenary company/commune that still used role-names, so his name before he came "Rook" was "Tamassran"; he was trained to be, and briefly was priest of an altered, Tal-Vashoth bastardization of the qun (affectionate) as well as the teacher of the groups children (so, yeah. Tamassran.) He's a mage, so healing rolled into that. When his gender (neither a man nor a woman) came to light, his parents demanded he either change roles or stay a woman. He ran off with a recent-to-the-company laborer Tal-Vashoth named Athlok, settling in the Anderfels not far off from Lavendal, though the village is gone by the time canon rolls around. Athlok and he have a kid named Sataia, he works as the village healer and tutors the local rural children (though it takes a bit to earn trust in a mostly human and elven settlement). The local mine gets overrun with darkspawn. Athlok dies. Rook is blighted. Recruited by the wardens. (Sataia is okay!) You get the picture.

◇ Rook was possessed by Contentment in a similar fashion to how Lucanis was by spite, only much late (post First Talon Lucanis). Ie: captured by the venatori, who thought doing to Lucanis' lover what was done to him (very likely to fail and kill him) would be perfect poetic revenge for Zara's death. Obviously this doesn't go well for them.

◇ Rook and Contentment don't start on good terms, to put it lightly. Rook is, frankly, petrified of contentment as an emotion and as a spirit (he can't afford to let down his guard, to get comfortable. He certainly can't afford to rest). It doesn't help that Contentment introduces itself by impersonating his dead husband.

◇ Rook was already on very good terms with Spite. He's spent the whole game trying to get Lucanis and Spite to see eye to eye. By the point contentment comes into play, Lucanis and Rook are an Item with a capital I (mechanically, they were locked in), and Rook was trying to figure out how to broach the subject of making this into Thedas' second Polycule-That-Includes-A-Possession (DA2 Anders and Justice I love you)

◇ Contentment is a LOT older than spite, though not necessarily more powerful, and generally treats mortals as playthings or meal tickets, usually both. They're a bit of a busy body, possessive, and generally unconcerned with anything that isn't making the object of their fascination as relaxed and/or blissed out as possible. They can come off as lazy and selfish given these are traits they like to try and encourage in their mortals, but that's not exactly the truth of the situation. They covet beauty, kindness, and acts of devotion.

◇ Contentment (pronouns are they/it) is already head over heels for Rook. They like puzzles, and a challenge, and Rook is so wound tight that getting him Unwound is both.

◇ Contentment is mildly curious about Lucanis. Right now it enjoys Lucanis' company because Lucanis makes Rook content, which makes him Useful. Right now they see him as a mortal worth "keeping"; they're very invested in Lucanis treating Rook right, which they don't really have to worry about (Rook, however, is VERY worried about the pressure contentment is putting on Lucanis, and is having none of this).

◇ Contentment and Spite HATE each other.

◇Spite finds Contentment arrogant, lazy, and selfish. Not only is Rook THEIRS, but Rook is far from happy with the current situation, and given Rook is one of very few people that really enjoys Spite's company, that's a big problem. It doesn't help that Spite is also pretty possessive, and that Contentment is far from nice to him.

◇ Contentment thinks Spite is immature, brash, and hates that he keeps calling them out when they try to manipulate the current situation in their favor. They're only doing what spirits of contentment DO; besides, all of this is in Rook's best interest (Rook very much begs to differ!).

◇ Spite keeps calling Contentment Desire, (with some pretty colorful adjectives attatched) which pisses them off to no end.

◇ Lucanis, by this point, is juuust starting to see eye to eye with Spite. They still aggravate each other, they'll probably never stop bickering, but he's softened on him a bit. Begrudgingly. Contentment is one of the things they really don't agree on, but warming up to Spite has left him a little more open minded about the whole thing.

◇ While Lucanis is wary of it, worried they'll take things to far, he could think of worse things than a demon trying to make sure his lover with a savior complex and "I'll rest when I'm dead" attitude remembers to eat, sleep, and relax once and a while. He's keeping a close eye to make sure Contentment never gets out of hand—just as Rook has been keeping an eye on Spite in the event Lucanis has gotten thrown into the back seat, so to speak—but he's not hostile. He's not unlikely to develop a crush, but right now Rook is too freaked out—and Contentment too unconcerned with that— for that to be paleatable to him.

◇ Eventually this is going to settle into a really weird polycule. I don't make the rules.

◇ Everyone else on the team is mildly horrified and also eventually amused. Lucanis and Rook initially try to sleep almost in shifts (and it isn't like Rook wasn't already doing that for Lucanis before this when he could) but sometimes they nod off at the same time and suddenly everyone else is dealing with Contentment and Spite having the arguement of the century

◇ The possession and the unusual way it came about has the unintended effect of Lucanis and Rook being able to see each other's demons when they want to be seen, as well as hear them and feel their touch. This has interesting results. Namely Spite and Contentment bickering in the background until Rook and Lucanis both tell them to shut up. Outloud. In front of everyone else. Who can't see or hear them.

◇ Spite is taking FULL advantage of being able talk to Rook and he is being insufferable out it.

◇ Contentment keeps getting into Lucanis' personal space in ways that are generally annoying. Also making a lot of wildly innappropriate comments.

@ab121500

[penguinsblues]

comfort is suffocating

[tragedy-for-sale]

Bedrock Headcannons: Commander Wolffe

Bedrock headcannons are headcannons that I regard as a fact in the personality of a character I write about. They range from small details to a huge part of a character's backstory. These headcannons are a constant underlayer in all of my fics that involve these characters.

﹄『❝ Wolffe ❞』﹃

Wolffe knew after all his men died something had to be done but he didn't know what. So, he didn't sleep much during the weeks following the events of the Maleovance because everytime he closed his eyes he saw their faces, his face, dead in space. When he started being able to sleep through the night, he found it plagued with nightmares.

When Wolffe lost his eye, Plo Koon and the three of them were on leave on Coruscant. He knew Wolffe wasn't healing as fast as he should be, so Plo actually had Wolffe moved to the temple and that is where he did most of his recovery.

Plo would take Wolffe to go walk around the temple with him and it was during those weeks that Wolffe accidentally referred to Plo as his father.

If you bring that up he'll start getting all embarrassed and ramble on about how he was on pain meds all the time and his brain was still foggy.

Wolffe was a very shy cadet and even now, he doesn't know how he ended up as a commander. When he's by himself, when he's vulnerable, it's only then he'll admit that he's far too soft for any of this. He was created for war but he isn't made for war.

Fox and Wolffe were batch mates and whenever Wolffe is on Coruscant he'll spend time helping the guard. When Wolffe was at the temple healing, Fox undertook every assignment posted there (he hated it) but his brother needed him so there he was. If this had happened later in the war, Fox wouldn't have even stopped by once.

Wolffe does refer to bacta tanks as the aquarium of death and Plo is greatly concerned.

If you ask Wolffe why he chose the BARC helmet, he'll say it's because it looks cool. But he choose it because they limit visibility and only focus on what's in front; Wolffe, after he got his cybernetic eye, found himself getting sensory overloaded from all his eye could see and register, the BARC helmet reduces that.

Ahsoka and Wolffe have been thrown together a couple times by will of Plo Koon. Ahsoka is used to Rex and Cody, who are a hundred more times sure of themselves than Wolffe. She wants to go sneak out and cause trouble, things Cody and Rex jump at the chance to do with her, but Wolffe just doesn't want to. And Ahsoka doesn't understand why not. She understsnds the pain of Cody and Rex, but not Wolffe's.

He's scared all the time. Walking to the refresher, getting food at the mess, with every breath, he shakes from how scared he is. He's anticipating something to happen, for the loud boom of their ship exploding. When he's on the bridge, he doesn't breath. The trauma he faced after the Maleovance stunned him, it took months and him attacking Sinker for them to realize just how deeply he still lived in that day. Plo blames himself for not noticing sooner. Wolffe was his child and he didn't see it, Plo never forgave himself for missing all of Wolffe's pain.

He started to become cold and off putting really after he lost his eye, he'd never felt worse. Plo did everything he could to help Wolffe, but the only way for Wolffe to move on from all the horrors he'd faced recently, was to bury his old self. He might've been the type to joke, but now he's too scared to laugh because all that pain would come running back.

Wolffe is mortified of hugs because the last time he hugged someone, Plo Koon, he started crying; Plo brought him hot chocolate. (He was on a lot of pain killers and sleep deprived)

﹄『❝ Wolffe ❞』﹃