#biting through solid steel about them

[onyxedskies]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Fire Emblem: Seisen no Keifu | Fire Emblem: Genealogy of the Holy War Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Celice | Seliph & Yurius | Julius Characters: Celice | Seliph, Yurius | Julius Additional Tags: Hallucinations, Ghosts, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Guilt, Child Soldiers, Post-Canon, Inspired by Fanart, Inspired by Art, Self-Hatred, sorta?, Accidental Self Harm, Parallels Series: Part 18 of character studies Summary:

Seliph should have been happy. He was happy.

Yet he still walked the halls alone in the dead of night.

thank you so much @tmetta for inspiring this your art is so good <3

[kivaember]

Title: Young Jupiter Rating: M Relationship: Handler Walter/G1 Michigan Tags/CWs: Canon Compliant, Pre-Canon, Rivals With Benefits, Slow Burn, Worldbuilding, Implied/Referenced Sex, Friends With Benefits, Complicated Relationships, Morally Ambiguous Character, Unreliable Narrator, Class Differences Summary: "Enjoy your stay at Ganymede Colony... it'll be leagues better than that cesspool you just crawled out of." or; Walter begins the slow slog into gaining the connections and influence he needs to ensure that the Coral is gone for good. It's just that his starting point is at the very bottom rung of the social ladder on Jupter's colon, Ganymede, and his only way up is by taking the AC pilot sponsorship with Furlong Dynamics. More of a detour than Walter would like, but it was manageable - he won't let it be a distraction for his overall ambition. Then Michigan entered the picture.

I went insane and i had to write this before i could go to sleep so enjoy the fruits of my brainworms vibrating at the speed of light in my brain. jazz hands!

[syoddeye]

cw: butcher!simon, darkfic, dead animals, no butchery depicted, temperature torture, implied limb removal. definitely not for everyone. 490 words.

you find yourself hanging between pig carcasses in cold storage. swaying. chain creaking.

the chill sinks beneath your skin, numbing you in long, creeping waves. your fingers twitch, but grow stiffer by the minute. slowly ceding control to the ice. the threat of unconsciousness stalks the edges of your vision and mind, willing you to close your straining eyes and frosted lashes. find peace in oblivion. but the thought of what happens after keeps you stubborn.

of course, there are consequences for staying awake, too.

fifteen minutes, simon said. lettin' you off easy, he said. an eternity spent sailing the cocytus would be more comforting.

you're on the descent, about to pass orpheus on the stairs, when the door opens. the rush of warm air stings and bites, stirring your reflexes and making you thrash weakly. he chuckles as he takes you off the hooks, casting aside your shackles. he throws you over his shoulder, knocking the air from your lungs in scrapes, and pats your flank.

he lays you out on the table, a wet and sticky puddle smears and squishes beneath your back. he looms, his brutish form blocking out the sterile light above. something thick and heavy falls over you, slightly damp and smelling of iron, but you make no move to shed it. you can't, anyway. it's warm and solid but malleable like worn leather.

simon takes shears to your clothes. cutting them from your body and replacing your cover as he goes. his hand slips to your throat and wrists every few minutes. the thick pads of his fingers wrapped in elastic press down firm, monitoring.

he tuts about the kitchen. the longer you lay there, the more feeling you regain. the clearer your mind becomes. you realize your blanket isn't a blanket at all, but his stained apron. still sopping from a day's work.

he strokes your cheek when he catches you staring, petrified.

"feelin' warmer?"

you barely nod, the muscles and tendons of your neck uncooperative. he cups your chin, dragging it down and up, ignoring your whimper of pain.

"yeah? good. let's 'ave a chat."

simon drags a stool along the linoleum to sit behind your head, forcing you to roll your eyes back as far as they'll go. he pets your temples and forehead, closely examining you.

"tried to run. not smart, pet," he leans close, breath fanning over your face. "makes it the third time. remember what i told ya?"

an object clatters onto the table beside you, heavy enough to rattle a small shockwave through your back. his eyes don't stray from your face, but his head tilts expectantly. swallowing thickly, you crane your neck, nerves screaming in protest.

you see the handle first. then the long, steel body. the teeth. a hand saw longer than your arm, one you've seen him take to the pigs in the freezer.

"it's a shame. liked your legs."

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

Taking me higher

Written for @steddiesmuttyseptember, week 1

Prompts: mile high club & service dom

Rated: E

Words: 1,232

Tags: Dom!Steve; Sub!Eddie; Fear of flying; Airplane sex; Semi-public sex

Before today, if anyone had asked Eddie what hell looked like, the answer would've come easy. Hell was a blood red sky, parched earth covered in vines, and monstrous creatures with flower-shaped maws prowling the decaying landscape. Obvious, right?

Wrong. 

Hell is a two-hundred-ton sardine can, shooting through the sky at five-hundred miles an hour, the ocean stretching forty-thousand feet below. No, scratch that, thirty-nine-thousand-nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine feet, because the goddamn thing just hit another air hole. 

“Eddie?��� 

Next to him, Steve stirs. He looks infuriatingly at ease with his sleep mask pushed up into his hair and his neck pillow and the little fleece blanket with the airline’s logo on it. When he takes in the way Eddie’s fingers are white-knuckling their shared armrest, his brow furrows in concern. 

“Hey, everything okay?” 

“Fine,” Eddie grits out. “Peachy, don't you worry about- shit, what was that?” 

“Turbulences,” Steve shrugs. Like it's fine. Like it's not a big deal. Like they aren't locked in a steel and glass deathtrap moving faster and higher than anything has a right to. “It’s okay, they haven't even switched on the seatbelt signs.” 

“Okay, great,” Eddie babbles. “Perfect, I just- … shit, I didn't think it'd rattle so fucking much.”

“It gets a bit bumpy sometimes,” Steve's hand finds his, prying Eddie’s fingers from the armrest, ghosting soothing touches over his knuckles. “Just relax. Think of them as potholes.” 

“Potholes, right,” Eddie mumbles. “Brilliant comparison, Stevie, so helpful. You know what, if the potholes weren't ten fucking miles deep, that might actually-” 

“Baby.” 

Eddie barrels to a stop. For a second, he's convinced he must've heard wrong, because why would Steve call him that now? Steve only ever calls him that when they're playing, and there's no way-

“You with me, baby?” 

Steve’s voice has dropped to a low rumble, and fuck, all the training they've done must've finally stuck, because the answer is out before he even knows it. 

“Yes, sir.” 

Steve smiles, slow and pleased. His hand shifts to Eddie’s upper thigh. “There's my good boy.” 

And yeah, the training clearly stuck way better than Eddie is comfortable admitting, because the words go straight to his dick. Steve’s hand moves, brushing the shape of him through the fabric of his pants. Eddie gasps and squirms, and that smile goes smug. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Eddie hisses. He cranes his neck, casting frantic glances at the other passengers, but most of them are asleep in their seats. At the far end of the aisle, two stewardesses are talking and giggling at each other in hushed voices. 

“Shhhh,” Steve says. He cups Eddie’s cock in his palm, a firm and solid pressure. “They haven't noticed. You don't want that to change, do you?” 

“I- … no,” Eddie stammers. Steve’s grip tightens. “I mean … no, sir.” 

“That's what I thought,” Steve smiles, giving the bulge in his pants a good-natured pat. Eddie whines and rolls his hips in his seat, greedy for more friction, more pressure. Steve removes his hand. 

“Oh, come on,” Eddie groans. The lady in front of him grunts and stirs in her sleep. Eddie bites down on his own tongue.

“Now, here's what we're gonna do,” Steve says, lips tickling the shell of his ear, voice trickling down his spine like honey. “You're gonna go into the bathroom and get yourself ready for me. We'll need to be quick about it, so I'll give you … let's say three minutes before I join you.” 

“Wha-” Eddie wheezes. “You wanna-… Is there even room?” 

Steve chuckles. “Oh, we'll manage. I’ll just need to fuck you against the wall, nice and tight, huh?” 

Eddie gawks at him. Steve raises an eyebrow and checks his watch. “I’d hurry, if I were you. Your three minutes start now.” 

*

The bathroom is ridiculously tiny. For some reason, the movements of the plane are even more noticeable here, but Eddie doesn’t have time to dwell on that. Stumbling in on jelly-like legs, he pats his pockets until he finds what he’s been hoping for - a lonely, small package of lube. Ripping it open with his teeth, he yanks his pants down all the way to his ankles. When a few, awkward twists and turns reveal that this won’t do, he chucks off his right shoe and steps out of the pant leg entirely, propping one sock-clad foot up on the toilet bowl. 

He has hardly started preparing himself when the door opens behind him. For a panicked second, he’s afraid it’s a random passenger out for a midnight piss, now faced with the sight of him, two fingers knuckle-deep up his own ass. But it’s Steve. 

“Oh baby, look at you,” he whispers. Eddie hears the door lock, and then one large, strong hand caresses his hip. “So desperate for me? Tell me how bad you need it.”

Steve’s hand is casual and possessive as he cups his ass, the touch of a man taking what’s his. It makes Eddie feel owned in the best possible way. A prized possession, looked after and taken care of. 

“Need it so bad,” he whines, bucking back into the touch, knowing exactly what it is that Steve wants to hear. “So desperate for your cock sir, please-” 

He can’t turn, not crammed together in the tiny space as they are, but he hears how Steve’s belt and zipper come undone. That large, hard cock slaps free, hitting his ass with an obscene sound. 

“My poor, greedy boy,” Steve coos. “Asking for it so nicely. Of course you can have my cock, baby.” 

And then, without further preamble, he pushes in, all the way to the base. He sets a quick, relentless rhythm, not bothering to ease them into it slowly, and Eddie has to grip the toilet bowl with both hands or topple. It feels like his head being filled with fuzzy cotton. It feels the ground dropping out from under him, leaving him floating on clouds, but this time, it has nothing to do with the stupid plane.

It doesn’t take long. After a few hard thrusts, Steve moans and comes, hands digging into Eddie’s hips hard enough to bruise as he spills deep inside of him. Eddie is only seconds behind him, spilling his own release all over the toilet, and Steve shoves his fingers inside his mouth to muffle his scream.

*

“You good, baby?”

Eddie blinks back into reality. The ground and the walls are still rattling, but it doesn’t bother him as much, now that all of his bones have been replaced with warm jelly. Steve has pulled him out of his bent-over position and up against his chest, tucked his neck into the crook of his shoulder, and is peppering kisses over the side of his face and into his hairline. 

“Perfect,” Eddie slurs. “Thank you, sir. Could stay like this forever.” 

Steve laughs softly. “As much as I’d like to, I think we need to get back to our seats.” 

“Aw no,” Eddie pouts. “I thought everyone was asleep. Can’t we just-”

“You’re insatiable, huh?” Steve smacks a firm kiss to his cheek as he disentangles their shaky limbs, pressing a stack of paper towels into his hand as he goes. “C’mon now, be a good boy and clean yourself up. If you make it back in three minutes, I’ll consider doing this again. There’s always a return flight, y’know?” ✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️

More smutty September

[candycandy00]

I was literally salivating when I saw your 2k follower event (congratulations btw!!!) and had to send this. Your writing is fucking amazing and I can't wait to read more of your stuff!

Character: Dabi

AU Setting: Monster Forest

Spice Level: NSFW

Mood: Light

Kinks: Breeding and size difference

Blood Moon Rising - A Dabi x Reader Fanfic

Smut. 18+. AU. Dabi as a werewolf. Fem Reader. Breeding. Size difference. Werewolf related biting/blood. 

Part of CandyCandy’s 2k Followers Event! Any feedback/comments/reblogs would be loved! Dividers by @benkeibear!

You run through the forest at top speed, branches and twigs scraping your legs, tearing your dress. The night air is crisp and cool against your face, though the rest of your body is sweating beneath the layers of satin and lace. Above you, the full moon glows an eerie red. Blood moon, they call it. 

On nights like this, he hunts. 

You hear leaves crunching behind you, sticks snapping in the distance, an otherworldly howl among the trees to your right. A creature like him could attack from any direction. That’s how fast he is. 

You should’ve known better than to try outrunning him. Your weak human legs can only carry you so far, so fast, before they lose strength. Your fatigued feet catch on an unearthed tree root, and your body tumbles to the cold, damp ground. You’re lying on your stomach, panting, trying to get to your knees at least, when you hear him directly behind you.

Turning your head slowly, you look back. Even in the dim, red tinted moonlight shining through the trees, you can see him clearly. He’s taller than a normal human, his body toned but lithe beneath the thin layer of solid white fur. His face is mostly human, but with a slightly elongated nose and mouth, rows of razor sharp teeth visible in his grin. His eyes are a bright glowing blue, like two burning sapphires. His long fingers are tipped with terrifying claws that look like they could shred steel. 

You roll over so that you can face him, still lying on the ground. 

He stands over you, a low rumbling growl emanating from his throat. “I agreed to stop hunting the villagers since you volunteered to be my prey,” he says in a ragged voice, “but you’ve gotta make it worth my while, doll.”

You look up at him with a pouty expression. Touya is your childhood friend, one you fell in love with in your teenage years and have wanted to marry since you both hit adulthood. But you’ve never had the courage to confess your feelings. You might flirt with him, but so far he’s either oblivious to your intentions or is purposely ignoring them. 

When he admitted to you that he’d been bitten by a werewolf and now turns into one on every full moon night, you were of course very worried. He has dubious control over himself when transformed, and a powerful urge to hunt and feed. He killed several of the people in your village, though he targeted specific individuals. A man who was known for beating his wife. A woman who made phony medicine and sold it at exorbitant prices to sick, desperate people. A man who raped a young girl and received no punishment because he was the richest man in the village. 

But Touya was running out of bad people to hunt, and twice he was shot at by terrified villagers. So you approached him with an idea. He could hunt you, chase you through the woods and get it out of his system, and you would count on your long friendship to keep him from killing you. 

The first time, he clawed your leg, and the sight of your blood spilling brought him back to his senses. He clearly felt terrible about it. The second time, he almost bit you, but was able to hold himself back. The third time he tore your dress, almost ripping it off you before he got himself under control. You’re not sure what he intended to do, but you suspect his urge to mate is stronger in wolf form too. A part of you wished he would have kept going. 

For the past few times, his control has generally been better. Not always, but usually he just chases you down, catches you, and then the hunt is over. 

Tonight, he caught you faster than ever. There’s a strange gleam in his eyes that’s usually not there, and from his voice you can tell that he’s struggling to maintain control. Could it be the blood moon? Is it making his wolf instincts stronger? 

“Sorry,” you say, still on the ground, leaning back on your elbows. “You were too fast tonight. Are you okay?”

His eyes are moving over you, and it sounds like he’s breathing a little harder. “I’m fine. It’s just… the urges are really strong tonight. Maybe you should get back to the village.”

“But you’re not satisfied, are you? I can run again. Just tell me what to do to help.”

His shining blue eyes widen slightly. “Doll, you don’t wanna know what would help me right now. Just go home while I’m still in control.”

You stare at him, at the muscles flexing beneath the soft white fur. He’s wearing nothing but ripped black pants. God, you want him. You can’t satisfy his urge to kill, but maybe you can satisfy a different urge. 

While looking him in the eyes, you reach down and slowly slide your dress up your legs, revealing your thighs. 

He seems to stiffen, his eyes wide. “What are you doing?”

“I want to help you. If using my body will calm the urges and keep you from attacking the village, I’m okay with it,” you tell him. You don’t say it out loud, but you’re afraid he’ll be shot at again. 

He scoffs. “You don’t know what you’re offering. I’ve never done anything like that in this form. What if I lose control? I could hurt you.”

“I don’t mind,” you say, pulling your dress higher, bunching the fabric at your waist and showing him your lace panties. 

The pupils of his lovely eyes seem to shift, looking more like long slits than circles. His clawed hands flex and clench at nothing. “We shouldn’t do this,” he mutters, sounding extremely unconvinced of his own argument. 

“Let me satisfy your urges,” you tell him, opening your legs. 

He’s breathing hard and fast, his eyes looking completely inhuman now. “Fuck… I’m gonna rip you apart and devour the pieces!”

With that alarming statement, he lunges forward, his larger than normal werewolf body suddenly upon you. His claws make short work of your dress, reducing it to useless strips of shredded satin that cover nothing. Only your thin panties remain, a pitifully flimsy barrier against his animalistic strength. He tears them off before you can even blink. 

You’re equal parts thrilled to finally have the man you love on top of you, and terrified that you’ve made a mistake and he’ll literally eat you. But when his hands begin exploring your exposed flesh, you notice he’s being careful to avoid injuring you with his claws. Even though he’s in his most beastly state, looking crazed and out of control, he’s trying his best not to hurt you. 

His mouth is on your neck, licking and sucking the rapidly bruising skin before moving down. He makes a wet, hot trail down your body, tasting various parts of you, until he pauses between your thighs. His eyes flick up to your face, and you look back at him with flushed cheeks and parted lips. You buck your hips from the ground just slightly, an encouraging gesture. 

He grins, showing off entirely too sharp teeth, and then his head dips down to taste your sweet nectar. You moan, your back arching reflexively as his warm tongue massages your clit. You feel the edge of a tooth, not biting, probably accidentally scraping over you. The thought of this being that hungers for your flesh having his teeth so close to your most tender place excites you. 

“So fucking delicious,” he murmurs against your skin. 

Your hand moves down to sink into his soft white hair, and you can feel the silky fur of his body brushing over your bare thighs. “Ahh… Touya!”

He pulls away, leaving you breathless as he tears open his already frayed pants. You try to get a good look at his cock, but in the darkness of the forest you can only see a vague but massive shape as he pushes your knees up toward your chest. And when he pushes it all the way inside your tight, dripping pussy, you can feel the velvety fur around the base of it. 

It’s a painful stretch, but his movements are careful, surprisingly controlled, even as he pants above you. His hands are on the ground beside you, his claws digging into the dirt, his eyes gleaming with predatory lust as he looks down at you. His thrusts begin slowly, but gradually become faster when your arms wrap around his neck. He’s reaching the deepest parts of you, all the while growling softly. 

Suddenly, the growls grow louder, and you realize he’s almost snarling. You look up to find him baring his teeth. His mouth opens, lunges down toward your shoulder, but stops before biting. He pulls back to look at you guiltily, but doesn’t stop thrusting. 

“This is dangerous,” he says. “You should be afraid of me, so why do you look so…”

He doesn’t finish the question, his eyes staring into yours. 

“I’m not afraid of you,” you tell him, hands on his face. “I’m in love with you. I have been for years.”

You hear his breath hitch, see a light pink blush cover his face as his eyes look away from yours. “D-don’t tell me shit like that when I’m buried in your pussy! Gonna make me lose what little control I have!” But then his eyes shift back to you, and in a voice so low you barely hear him, he says, “I feel the same way. Always have.”

His cock pulses inside you, and you clench around him in response, making him growl again. “Touya,” you moan, “bite me!”

“What? I can’t do that! If I bite you, you’ll be like me!”

You look up into his glowing eyes. “I want to be like you! We’ll be werewolves together! We’ll hunt each other and mate under every full moon!” You feel your own pleasure building as you speak, like you’re on the edge of a cliff, about to fall over. “Oh god, I’m close, Touya!”

He growls again, his instincts battling with his emotions. Then he yells, “Fuck! This is gonna hurt like hell, so don’t blame me!”

In the same instant you cum around his cock, spasming beneath him, he sinks his teeth into your shoulder, tearing the flushed skin. You feel warm blood pouring from the wound as you tremble through your orgasm. Touya’s tongue laps at the ripped open flesh, his teeth still bearing down. You scream, from the pleasure and the pain, your arms clutching him. 

You hear him moan as he tastes you, and he thrusts in so incredibly deep as he cums inside you, filling you to the brim.

His teeth finally release their hold on your shoulder and he pulls his face away but remains inside you. He stares at the wound, and a mixture of guilt and arousal flash through his eyes. 

“Are you okay?” he asks. 

You move your arm slowly, and feel a stab of agony in your shoulder. “Ahh, how long does it hurt?!”

“For me it was a few hours. Then it healed like magic.” He leans forward and gently licks the wound. Strangely, it actually seems to help. “We should bandage it though.”

At this point he pulls out of you and climbs off, looking slightly awkward. “I hope you’re sure about this. There’s no going back now.”

You raise up on your elbows. “I’ve never been more sure about anything.”

His eyes rake over your nude body, then he holds out his hand to you and grins. “That’s good, because you’re stuck with me from now on.”

You laugh as you take his hand and let him pull you up by your uninjured arm, eager to begin your lives as two werewolves in love. 

Tags:

@doumadono 

[vampirzina]

could you please write something nsfw with smoke, him getting riled up because he had a dream horny about his partner and seeing her just chilling around the house is enough to get him flustered again thinking about it.. thank you!!!

☁︎‎‎‧₊˚ ┊Fog. (nsfw)

Tomas finds himself in a tough situation… A kind of fog, if you will… tomas vrbada x reader

tw: fem!reader (but only ‘you/your’ used), nsfw, mdni, established relationship, oneshot (?), dry humping

notes: good news for mk11 yearners: i have added that timelines’ raiden (previously was only fujin)! so if you have any requests about raiden, it would help to specify which, but i will always assume new era raiden. all love, and enjoy your fic anon!

masterlist

Tomas’ abstinence brought on by rigorous work gave more than just focus on the future and perfected skills as a Shirai Ryu ninja and teacher. Yet when the day was done, his head was always free to roam elsewhere. Perhaps that’s why he’s having this dream about you right now.

All the fleeting thoughts he had about you that he pushed away hadn’t been going away, like it should’ve, but settling into a damp dream. A dream where he’d get you in the sheets, and do what he’s been wanting to do to you for weeks now.

Tomas lets out a misty sigh.

Your featherlight touch that smoothed its way up his arm stop at his biceps to give them each a loving squeeze. You smile keenly from below him, “Finally… Was wondering when you’d come to me.”

“Sorry, baby. I really am. Kuai Liang and the others need me,” he’d apologize with more than just his words. Tomas’ solid want pushes further into your clothed core—it was whatever you wore to bed the night of this dream that only made him realize how badly he wanted you further… Not that this is anything you don’t usually wear. It’s you yourself, always, clothed or not, making everything infinitely more hotter.

You hum, sounding unconvinced but you know it was true. “I don’t know why you do the things you do. What made you think you could last so long without this? Remember when you came just from me sitting here?”

Tomas caught the moan in his throat as his hips bucked into your hands that touched his lap, then his inner thigh that’s dangerously close to his begging dick. You give that tender spot on him a squeeze, too. Steel eyes don’t leave your lust-squinted ones as you take in his wound up state—poor Tomas, you think. Between the two of you, only one of you knows it’s just a dream.

Still.

“Mmh—bring yourself... Like this,” you slide your hands up and across to his hips, guiding them right where you wanted them against you. “We have all night to do what you want. But fuck me like this, first.”

If that’s what you want, he’ll do it. Just as long as it’s touching you in some way, making you feed his eyes and therefore his carnal lust-ridden mind—he’ll do it. Tomas readily repositions his hands on your hips to bring you flush to him—you mewl when you feel him throb firmly there—and he pulls you secure atop of him as he takes your previous place on the pillows.

Tomas is so into this, he doesn’t realize the pictures on the wall blur or look any different than what is normally of them; or that the nightstand you use to rest the lamp on is void, yet the room is painted in a warm golden hue. He’s completely shrouded in his minds’ fog to give those constants the time of day.

Instead, he focuses on using his hands on your hips to grind you over and over his clothed crotch, as close as the universe would allow. He curses under his breath when you moan just the way he likes, unyielding and sweetly, the feeling you clench around yourself spurring him on to use you to get off.

Your sounds are impeded by Tomas’ roughness, only going octaves higher when he begins to thrust himself in sync to his guidance of your frame. Your entire body jerks with each new motion of friction. With the increasing pace of his work, Tomas can feel your wetness soak through your clothes and stain his dick through his own—he bites his lip at the sound of cloth dulling from the shared juices of your arousals.

Your hands don’t know where to go, other than his own over your hips and his chest. He was gripping so tight there, you didn’t need to ponder if you’d bruise later.

You felt him close, hearing him closer. Tomas’ could hardly breathe beyond this point. You cry out for him, and he grunts in return when he feels your pulsing orgasm. It’s almost too much for you once it wanes, and you begin to writhe in his grasp. He wanted to tell you to hold out a little longer for him, that he’s close, but something was off when you leaned down to kiss him.

He could have swore he felt the kiss a second ago…

…But it was much different when he woke. The room was a late morning’s blue, your side of the bed was finely tussled with, but it gave no clues as to where you’ve gone. Usually, you would be there to kiss his eyes awake. Instead, essentially—you left him a quiet morning in contrast to moments ago.

It took a moment to register, that you weren’t even bedside, let alone in the room at all. Tomas realizes now, by the sudden appearance of the nightstand not obscured by your beautiful frame, that it were a dream.

How embarrassing.

Tomas could only wonder if you were witness to any of that, as he’d clean himself up and promptly find different boxers to wear; those ones were only a bit stained from his dream from his rock-solid wood that he’ll have to work out later.

Tomas knew that he couldn’t go on like this, and knew that even if you were his, it was still wildly inappropriate. Perhaps he was better off just asking you, because surely you were saving yourself for that moment in real life, too, right?

Regardless.

Tomas had found where you’d gone when he ambled out of the room to see you lounging away on the couch, your attention away from the room and subsequently him coming out of it. You didn’t expect him to wake anytime soon, but alas. You finally noticed him in your peripheral, just as he passed you.

“Good morning, lazy,” you call from your spot, not looking away from whatever it was that you were doing. “You look like you’re spending your day off right. How was the sleep in?”

Tomas, unable to make simple eye contact with you now, hummed affirmatively. You would’ve taken that if you didn’t hear him exhale so loudly the way that he did.

Now you look up… He looks frustrated. Troubled. You had guessed that he would be when he woke, figuring that the small moans, red face and squirming in his sleep would do it. You could smirk to yourself, if it didn’t have the chance to give you away on what you saw in the middle of the night. Instead you remain silent.

Tomas can’t even make his food without his thoughts churning.

You were still wearing that, the same clothes in his dream. Your tone of voice, identical to the teasing one you used on him. How would you feel, if he wanted to ruin his clothes again with you? Except—no barrier for you, this time. He wanted you bent over the armchair, forget the mattress.

Thoroughly red all over again, Tomas barely catches himself staring at you—and the utensil he was grabbing—and he clumsily curses. He was lucky that you weren’t paying attention (or so he thinks). He apologizes to no-one, and sighs.

“I wasn’t sure why you were out of it all last night, but I’m glad to know it’s because of me, Tomas,” you only joke, tilting your head to the side. But the joke makes Tomas shamefully, sheepishly grin.

“Lucky for you, we have the whole day to fix that.”

@𝐕𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐙𝐈𝐍𝐀೨

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[ms0milk]

𝟏𝟐 | 𝐏𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐥 𝐃𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫

ー✧ prince!bakugou x royal guard!reader

"You will spend summers in rainstorms and autumns in his orchards because you are Alderan and he will kill Takoban gods to get you there."

cw brief description of drowning and a claustrophobic struggle with the ocean. suggestions of suicidal intention and self harm. reader tries to fight the sea and your prince has horrible misunderstandings about it. bkg 🫱🏽‍🫲🏼 unethical rescue tactics pt 2, borrowed clothes, a fevered fireside confession in the bedroom you’ve been searching for 6.4k

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If Takoba is the edge of the world, Aldera is the center. You so starved for comfort, stand with your feet at the tip of the surf and tie your braids together.

You watch the sea at midnight and the winds coming off the water bite your scars before they chill your bones. Autumn at the edge of the world is miserable. Lakes freeze but the ocean is colder, it's full of tides, which you’ve spent the day reading about. The ocean has a taste, salt and decay. It is unfathomably ancient. You watch its many maws foaming under the moonlight and seashells burn in frigid water when you step onto them.

In the view from Bakugou’s bedroom, you’ve lined your boots up neatly in the sand and stand watch beside them for a moment. You’re dressed to stop a midnight siege, in your white nightgown and padded habergeon, staring so small and far away from the warmth of his fireplace. You in a dark blue world, framed by his open window. Bakugou would have sipped his tea and rolled his eyes at his newly fucked up sleep schedule and how ridiculous you insist on looking in public if his cup wasn’t spilt on the rugs where he dropped it. If he hadn’t already ripped his door off its hinges in his sprint out of the castle.

You couldn’t sleep. You have no appetite and no mobility yet for sparring. Just books. Just Uraraka answering your questions about the sea while watching her men train. The ride with Todoroki yesterday was nice but it left your throat stiff and you are still in your kingdom’s service. Today in Takoba, tomorrow and forever behind your prince. Long before the blue gardens and scars, before the kitchen, before sticky crowds and white horses and cold hallways, something somewhere started to die.

You take another step into the swollen water, it rises with the moon, to confirm your suspicions and grimace when a crab scuttles over your foot. Another step and you’re up to your hem. It would all be easier if your heart was still a forest fire. When did that stop? When did the rain come? Up to your knees now. Seawater climbs your nightgown.

As it stands you’re no longer a dragon, just damp tinder. The black sea sways you side to side at the hips now so gently– keep walking, don’t look back. You will free yourself from doubt and you will fight a god to do it.

“Moon makes tides,” Uraraka yawned and slouched and stretched as you sat on your knees beside her in the pit.

“Can you swim in it?”

“In the ocean?” she squinted, “Yeah of course. But don’t tell me you want to swim in this weather?”

Shinsou could only pretend not to hear for so long from his spot beside you both this afternoon, “The moon makes tides, and tides make storms.”

Good. Up to your ribs now. Wear the rock there like an anchor.

In the cold water your body heat becomes that much more apparent and it’s lovely like home. Genuinely hot for a second. Your nightgown floats up around you and you sink quickly from chest to nose when the sand under your feet drops to freezing nothing. The sudden dip shoots icy pain behind both eyes and the sensation of failing steeles every joint sickly sore. Walking through the ocean is like a fight, like driving a sword through someone solid, like braving a thunderstorm, but sinking into it is easier than sleeping.

You gasp and spit out the aftermath of losing your footing but you also fight too hard in anticipation of sinking and you’re suddenly in the open air up to your waist like a salmon leaping upstream. The weight of the nightgown settles you back down in the water to your shoulders and it’s silent except for the sound of waves kissing the beach and one another. Whistling wind. You bob only some ten meters out from shore, just short of where Todoroki held you back for fear of drowning and something wild like greed blinks open a sleepy dark eye.

You hardly have to move a limb to keep your head above water; the sea is free and gentle. You float easily here, where a lake wants to watch you fight. It’s part of the fun at home and in exchange you are safe in freshwater. Salt stings– saliva pools under your tongue to keep it from getting inside– but it also holds you up in the foam like two hands under the hip.

Is this what you were so afraid of? This is the god you planned on killing tonight?

Every day in this miserable place you have been beaten. You have fallen apart in some way, your hair is too messy, your new clothes don’t fit right. You lose Aldera with every step, heel toe– earrings that are no longer yours, heel toe– a weapon you can't return, heel toe and stand at attention– a brooch you’re too afraid to wear, to lose too, so you keep it under your pillow and wear silver seashells instead. Blue fire took the first victory in the forest and you salvaged your prince with your life thin in your teeth. Takoba took the second victory and strung you out in your nightgown for nobles to pick at like crows. A driftwood table took the third and Bakugou stole the fourth. The only time you have ever won here is when you decided to die. When you churn the water with your arms a pain echoes across your back not quite inside your scars.

Kirishima on the verge of tears, Shinsou above your operating table, Uraraka at your side, Todoroki holding you back from the edge of the world– your prince, wet to his knees– you have never, not once in your life have you ever failed. Their gazes make your throat hurt and you spit again into a tiny rolling wave that lifts itself over your chin and into your ears.

The goddess of the sea does not pity you.

She pulls you into her arms and laughs when you rub your freshwater eyes. She tossels your hair with silent waves you could never have seen coming. She reminds you of her strength. And Todoroki told you that you couldn’t possibly challenge her– eat your words sealace prince. Even just this once, witness me. You are a gem in the crown of Aldera, the left hand of the golden family. Takoba is no setback the sea is not your master, you are a chosen servant, not a mistake. It is so wonderful to be in the presence of a queen again and at night her water is soft and black.

The shore is farther than you remember when you finally glance back at the world. You bob like a peach, a frozen peach, and realize you can’t feel the cold anymore. Time to head back. Today was just a test anyway, to make sure you could put up your fight. Maybe sleep will come now that you’re starting to breathe heavy and now that your muscles ache again after days without real training. Ice creeps up the back of your neck from wet hair.

The goddess of the sea plays with you for a few more seconds and you can’t wait to come back in the warmth of the sun to lay on your back with her to whom you no longer need to prove yourself. The ocean pulls in its depths just as much as it pushes at the shore so you brace your eyes for discomfort and duck under the surface to kick a good length forward. It would have worked in a lake, at the center of the world.

When you resurface you are somehow farther than before and considerably shorter of breath. The cold starts to press on your lungs now that you’re truly using them. It’s okay, one more time. You kick once to let the goddess lift you up with her salt and breathe in the free air before diving under again but all you actually do is stir bubbles around you exactly where you started. If anything even farther. Your boots are too small to see now.

There are no storms, no raging waves, no rain, no thunder, hardly wind, what is putting up the fight? Whatever. You paddle above water, thankful for light clothes, and weary of the growing ache under your jaw– the start of a pulsing headache. More than anything you are finally excited for bed, but no matter how hard you push there seems to be a growing distance between you and safety.

Dread drops in your peachpit stomach and you start to feel long pretty fingers tickle your heels in black water. The ghost of the flame mage happy to drag you with him to the bottom of the sea. Irrational like a fear of the dark, but still there’s no more time for testing pride, you have to get back to shore. The little girl inside of you cowers when you take one more heavy breath and then release it to sink yourself as deep as the salt will let you. You can see the breaking point, all you need is to reach the seafloor and kick yourself to it.

As you drift down into the pitch black something so much better than sand or ghosts meets your feet. You connect with rock as your lungs begin to ache for air and kick with every well trained muscle your legs have, forward towards the shore. Faster than freshwater, you rocket to the surface and gasp excitedly, blink rapidly, and infinitely closer to white sand, and then immediately the goddess pulls you under again.

Sure you found the breaking point, sure your toes tease the start of the shore you want to reach so badly, but that’s what waves do here. Break.

Something so silent couldn’t possibly be this powerful, but your head is forced back under as your hips are pulled back out and you tumble head over knees, mouth filled suddenly with salt and sand in the darkness. Resurfacing is no fun task, choking. You’re thankful it’s easy to float in the ocean but saltwater dries out your mouth as you retch it back out from your throat into the foam and then there’s another break over your head to remind you that humans should stay far away from god.

You’ll die just thirty meters from the shore. Salt blinds you. Water deep in one ear keeps you just dizzy enough to let this sea carry you out once again, and shouting isn’t an option. Shouting or gasping, you have to pick one. Ache has turned to paralysis; muscles so beaten and a heart beating so fast you’re already at the last limit reached by your master, training to failure. Striking and swinging until you can no longer hold your weapon. Hours of training reduced to fifteen minutes at sea.

The bruise of your shoulder protests every paddle you force out of it and goes much stiffer much faster than the rest of you. In a way, the mage is drowning you. In every way the sea is much more claustrophobic than a war room.

The moon watches you heaving for air stuck between beating waves and being swept back out to sea. She doesn’t do anything. You are pulled under again. The rocks beneath you scratch your soft skin this time and your instinct is to flinch which fills your nose with water and drowning is certainly not as peaceful as poetry makes it out to be.

Of course it ends like this. A soggy creature fighting gods alone.

Of course he’s watching you, his captain, being stolen by the sea.

You surface forcefully with a grip on your scruff and while your body remembers how to breathe, magic every furious color of the rainbow arcs above your head. The water recoils for a moment around you in the force of his impact. Bakugou erupts from the sky as he always does into the tragedy of your life in Takoba and you have no control over your searing gaze when it turns to him above you, framed by sparks and stars. Halo from the moon.

You both fall back into the water but not so helplessly as a moment ago. Your prince hooks and arm across your chest, pressing your back to his front and with so much more strength than you could ever muster, rips his way through the water in half of a backstroke. Half of him focused on keeping you afloat and only half of him conquering the sea. His legs create their own current. He holds you and you’re sure you’re breathing loudly enough into his collar to hurt his ears.

You are an excellent swimmer. Weak children, drunk diplomats, tests from your master; you have dragged your fair share of victims out of rivers and as the victim yourself you know better than to struggle or panic in your prince’s grip as he drags you from the goddess, but you can’t help how your fingers scratch at his translucent tunic. Cling to the warmth of his bicep.

In twenty seconds he has reached the break. Strength like a war criminal, like a godslayer. He turns in the water, times it to match the swell of a wave for height, and pulls you chest to chest with a guiding hand on the side of your head to fold you into him. The sea drops you and you know what comes next. Bakugou anticipates your struggle, or a drowned man’s panic, any logical thing and wraps another arm around you tight as he pulls you both under, but you don’t fight a single second and neither do you breathe.

He knows the sea so much better. If you weren’t unraveling like a common soldier you would have realized too, just how much calmer the water is underneath its surface. Even with ears full of sand you can hear the wave crash above you but there is no pull underwater. The roll of the goddess back out to sea twirls through your hair but nothing else. She lets your prince push up to the surface and doesn’t stop you from catching your breath inside the crook of his neck. Eleven seconds to beat the break. What does he even need a captain for?

This time when the tide drops, you don’t quite drop with it. Knees in the sand. Back on solid ground you realize how hard a body can shake and then water is beating you down again from behind, and a warm hand has you by the back of the haubergeon to keep you from slipping out to sea or laying flat down to sleep in the surf.

Both hardly walking, and you more-than-half carried, you and your prince stagger over seashells like glass back to the spot where your boots rest like nothing bad has ever happened at all, chased the whole time by a disappointed tide. You collapse the second he lets you. You, useless with cold and vomiting seafoam.

“Why?!” Your prince chokes, similarly out of breath beside you, hunched over his knees from the effort of winning your war. You can feel the glare. You are warmed by it and then entirely numb again, in a terrible turn of events, to even his attention. The very last ember dies without smoke.

Bakugou, even in a temper tantrum, has never looked quite so disheveled. He’s been wet before, and pushed his hair back with big hands and caught his breath through his teeth just like this, but he’s never looked at you with such confusion. His eyebrows don’t sit right. Without a scowl his whole thing really falls apart, huh?

“Answer me, Eyes!”

You wheeze instead of speaking when you try to use your voice for the first time and spit out the last of the salt that comes up with it. He doesn’t move, catching his breath across the sand at midnight. Your prince really is so pretty and something inside is eating you alive to the beat of the wash of waves. He is a star and you are the bloody little creature beneath him always, not chosen at all.

You sit yourself up. Bakugou is beautiful. Broad chest and shoulders trained for his magic and a wet tunic that clings to every lovely shape, just a few feet too far away to touch. Unmarred face and shaggy hair. His eyes. His jaw slopes sharp, sharper still in the moonlight and dripping with water, up towards his hungry red eyes that eat everything they’ve e–

“Wake up!” He barks.

He’s not eating you. He brings back your focus and when you hold his stare this time it’s so obvious he’s not confused, or angry, not exhausted or embarrassed or exasperated. He’s six and he’s holding your hands in a velvet carriage, terrified.

Oh boy. You guess self-control died with your heart, because your shoulders start to shake in a chuckle.

Bakugou stares. Any fold of his brows melts immediately at the sound of your soft laughter but he hardens again when he speaks. “What about this is funny?!” and pulls himself up to his knees as you lower yourself to clamshells, not-quite-laughing but not fighting the smile either. This is exhausting. “You just tried to kill yourself!”

This makes you snort, which is ugly, and shuts your prince up entirely. One laugh like a lie and then another and you curl in on yourself, shivering arms folded above your head and forehead pressed flat to the sand. Something like an apology. You are redundant, not suicidal.

If it were a real apology you would wait until he spoke again to raise your head like Todoroki in the stables, but that’s not what you’re doing at all. You ache from the inside. Burn in fact. You chuckle again and spit salt one last time when you sit up, then grab for your shoes with muscle memory instead of feeling since the cold has stolen that too. Bakugou is staring again– it is irritating, you should do it less.

The ocean makes a lovely noise when you are not drowning in it. It’s much quieter and sounds a bit like laundry sliding over itself. Or apples tumbling into a basket. You are the first to your feet, clumsily, and you are not so delirious that you forget you need proximity to a fire. Anyone else might not be able to stand through this adrenaline trembling but how many apprentices have come so close to death so many times as you?

“Oi,” Bakugou growls, confused again by the wrong emotion for just long enough to let you escape.

The hill between the castle and the sea is overgrown with dune grasses tall enough to tickle your hips and that is what you decide to climb. Empty stomach, ruined shoulder, shaking legs, deep dead eyes.

Your clothes cling to you. They make you small. He can hardly breathe in the cold as he rushes to catch up, dripping what he's sure are icicles, and you look as if you could hardly stay conscious in it. Does your face feel as red as it looks? Friction or fever? “Captain!” And it’s obvious Bakugou can’t decide on his volume, but bulldozes after you nonetheless husky with exertion, “fuckin wait–”

There are sandy paths beaten into this seaside hill, small like children made them on their happy little way to swim. Bakugou makes quick work of it. You hike. You put all your effort into staying on two feet through a chill you could hardly ever imagine. Heat pounds in your temples, cruelly imitating Alderan fire when really it’s something poisoned like liquor.

“Please don’t follow me sir,” you call over the wind when the prince gets a few steps too close to catching up and he makes a sound almost like words, like words you shot dead in his throat. You know that sound because you have been shot at the same exact angle. Deadly isn’t it? He falls back.

Just for a moment Bakugou stops and watches, filled with something neither of you have the words for yet. Recovering just as quickly as you are succumbing to exhaustion.

Wait, he stares. Just– “Y/n.”

Wrapped in white, you are framed by rolling seagrass in the moonlight. You finally stop climbing and turn. You like a half-drowned painting. In a furred cape you might be a queen. From your spot smiling sadly at the edge of the world, your nose has started to bleed.

“Give me an order.”

Six and shaking in his hands. Eleven soaked in a fruit filled hallway, always working and fond of libraries. Sense of humor that doubles over his queen. Often covered in blood, staring too earnestly right now for him to remember that anger might fix this. Bakugou doesn’t breathe.

You turn back towards the castle alone and for the very last time, your body keeps the tears at bay. On a hill of swaying green grass and bright in the moonlight, your prince, frozen, looks so much like his mother you should kill him for it.

You always thought you were hiding from him on duty, only slightly more stealthy than a dragon. It got better when Jeanist stopped training you in chainmail, but your excitement at every small job bounced off the walls of his castle so obviously. Squirrel duty? You helped a hundred bastards back outside without pause. Sent up to swept bookshelves under the Great Oak and you're the only person he’s ever seen hum to themself so high in the air. Stablehand? Stable master more like. Seven and stacking stools to reach the saddles before Jeanist set you back on the ground by your scruff like his kitten. Bakugou can’t remember what went first, your heartbeat or his hearing.

The very first time you snuck up on him was in August under a plum tree, nine years old. He slept beside his book in the shade on a perfect day, perfectly alone and free of tutoring for the afternoon. Maybe because you were barefoot, but somehow even out of breath, the only thing that gave you away was your voice.

“Careful Highness.” He shot awake with that and figured for a moment that you were a dream while his eyes adjusted to the light through the leaves behind you– panting above him and holding tight to a plum. Like premonition your other hand lurched to catch another as it fell toward him, “they’re ready for harvest.”

Bakugou sat up. Off at an impossible distance for you to have run to catch plums, Jeanist stood beside a hanging line of red uniforms waving a beckoning hand.

“Laundry calls,” you whispered. As the little prince turned stupidly back to you above him, you set both plums on the grass beside his book and bowed.

Wait.

“Maybe a nap in the vineyard? Grapes won't bruise.”

Wait, I know you.

He watched you bow one last time and jog out of the shade back to Jeanist and Alderan laundry, just as he watches you stumble now in the dark, towards the faraway lights of a castle without the fire you need.

Wait!

“Y/n!” Bakugou bursts over the ridge and back onto marble pavement, what the fuck is he gonna do– your name won’t work twice, he’s wasted too much time. “Captain!”

You pay him no mind drifting away with your back still turned and with even less coordination than when you were dragged from the sea. You are deteriorating– fuck, fuck it. Bakugou, brimming with something to the left of anger, charges. If you hear him coming you do nothing to stop him. Not as he closes the distance with eight good strides and slings you over his shoulder.

"I–!" you jerk to strike instinctively, “Put me down!”

Good, you can shout. He still has time, you’re still alive. He’ll apologize for touching you later, for hesitating and staring, he will say everything he set aside in anger when you are not trying to kill yourself.

“Put me down,” you hiss like you know you’re one of three people that can make his skin prickle with threat.

“Not a chance.”

You grip the back of his tunic, clinging so wet to his body that you grab equal parts flesh and he turns away from your path to the glowing front gates all those hundreds of meters away, to kick in a door on an insignificant corner of an insignificant annex in the shadows of the castle that is only unlocked because it’s the same one he flew from, instead of his window, when he was trying not to startle you with his magic and into the sea.

You will spend summers in rainstorms and autumns in his orchards because you are Alderan and he will kill Takoban gods to get you there. Your nails on his back begin to burn with your silence and it’s haunting not only because you weigh less to him than a phantom, but because the smell of the sea follows you inside when there is no one else left to close the door.

Immediately it is warmer without the wind but he will not slow until he finds fire, because you are gripping him instead of screaming again– because you are freezing to death and he will not let you win under new circumstances after he worked so hard to save you from the first.

This part of the castle is his, below the kitchens, the deep white underbelly in the cliff over the sea where no one will find him except cooks and staff who keep his secret and the queen who kindly ordered these quarters be built before she lost her mind. There is no difference of weight or warmth when he sets you down in front of the only red door in the hallway. You aren’t a ghost. Even if you aren’t convincing. He throws the door open.

You would win in a contest but Bakugou too can make a steady fire. It’s still chirping bright in his fireplace when he crowds you inside of his quarters. Wood and furs. The smell of bread, everything so unlike Takoba. Hard surfaces cushioned or covered in anticipation of winter with red and gold and wool, forest tapestries from home– and it is a small victory that you take another step, then another, deeper inside without hint or suggestion.

“where are we?”

“You need to change,” Bakugou dismisses when you’re far enough inside to close the door, and pulls open a cherry chest of drawers at the foot of his bed. It’s draped in pelts and pillows. Faded herbs hang in bundles above you.

“have clothes in my room.”

“Didn’t ask.” When he looks over his shoulder, you are wobbling towards the fire like a starving woman, with two hands reaching subtly from your side. Good, shut up and warm up. Bakugou rifles through his options one more time and grimaces, raising his own black Alderan riding tunic aloft; it’s the only thing that’s going to be long enough to cover all of you.

He’ll sort out this shitshow step by step– dry you off, shout scream scold, get you warm, shout some more– a good Alderan lecture, and then tie you to him if he must since you obviously can’t be trusted alone. Walking into the sea when you thought everyone was sleeping. And for what? He grinds his teeth and grips the sids of his dresser with the realization that he’s probably not going to sleep again tonight. He’d kill you if that wasn’t what you so obviously wanted.

“Alright asshole, get ch–” Bakugou chokes when he turns back to you, sitting politely fireside with a dagger materialized in your good hand, blade pressed flat to your collar. He jumps, black tunic flying and shouts indiscernibly in a lunge for the weapon.

Not fast enough because by the time he makes one step, you’ve driven the blade down your chest and clear through your shirt. It falls open and your bare ribs seize in goosebumps this close to the fire, “told you I’m not trying to kill myself.”

“Drop it!” He wails, as if to a dog.

Oh how you will haunt him until the end of time. Less than a month with you, just some soldier from his castle– a prodigal apprentice in a kingdom of geniuses– an impersonable, silent, invisible guard, who should cause harm only when necessary and appear only in danger– a woman who does this job to a tee, and still somehow steals his attention to any corner of the room she conceals herself in– just a month and you have beguiled him. Reaping grim satisfaction from watching you wreak havoc in this place he loathes.

You sit in front of his fire in his secret room, half bare now that you’ve decided to cut your clothes off of yourself, and entirely bare when you run the lip of the dagger across your shoulder to catch the fabric and then rough straight down the other side. You are pink from heat and staring through him entirely unfocused, all chaotic braids and parted lips. There’s a dry track of blood smeared under your nose and he shudders to think what part of his back it was wiped on while he was carrying you away. The fingertips of your scar peek into free air. Bakugou can’t spin around fast enough, howling in anger.

You sound like you’re smiling again mournfully like last time, “following orders, sir.”

“Don’t call me that!” He roars and shoves the black tunic behind his back towards you. This room is small, maybe five paces wide, and so he sits as far as he can from you on the floor beside his bed, still within arms reach. Back turned.

What the fuck is so funny? This isn’t a headache this is sustained torture. Bakugou’s own wet clothes cling to him in dry patches of salt and stick and grit that he’s desperate to bathe away just as soon as you are tethered to another magician. In another kingdom. You breathe heavily behind him in a mismatch between effort and task and then a sopping thud reminds Bakugou that you are stripping to nothing behind him and piling your rags onto his fine rugs.

“You’re a fucking nightmare.”

“you’ll be free of me in a moment.”

And it dawns on him, seasick irony, that there isn’t a person alive in this kingdom but him who could stop you from doing a single thing.

“If you think I’m letting you out of my sight you’re concussed.”

You pause your fiddling behind him for a second before resuming and you’re close enough that he can still hear your less than methodic pulling and ripping. A huff here and there. In the seconds it takes you to speak again your voice is still laced with the amusement that makes his skin crawl, “third time I’ve told you I’m not trying to kill myself.”

“Just hurry up.”

“was just saying a prayer.”

“Save. It. An excuse that fulla holes wouldn’t even work on Ei the naif.”

“right, because nothing gets past the champion.”

Bakugou erupts, out of unwounded fists to clench, and jerks around with every intention of barking at you. He’s not sure what he pictured before turning and he’s not sure where his voice went, but you are sat beside his fire draped in his black tunic with an expression he can hardly find the words for.

What is it in the way your shoulders hang? Exhaustion? The way your chin tips or your eyes flutter? Hunger? You watch him like you’ll eat him alive, like your life is the least of his concerns. The laces at your collar drape limp over your fingers from where you gave up their tying and so the shirt hangs loose and open, and much much too big. Bakugou has never thought of the shape your sternum makes between your breasts or what color the fine hair on your thighs might be. He knows the answers now because you’ve given up on posture like a selkie out of water and everything so unlike his captain– because something inside of you is slipping.

“don’t bother the champion with this,” your voice is still draconian. Even as your body fails, your eyes are still dark and infinite and possessive beside the glow of his fireplace and under a window that looks out over black water, “or Lady Mina, or your Lords. Don’t worry them with me.”

Bakugou mirrors you unconsciously in the way he sits close enough to touch. Why do you say that? You keep saying it, ‘Lady Mina,’ all month the same thing. Sir Sero, like he’s not a soldier in Jeanist’s rear guard. Like Mina and Denki didn’t grow up in the castle with you all to learn magic fifteen years ago.

“They’re not,” he admits because something about you unraveling by the sea sucks the malice like marrow from his bones. Maybe something inside of him is slipping too.

The pair of you slouch on the soft rugs from home and sticky with foreign salt, looking. Your next smile seems to take every ounce of strength, “what?”

“They’re not lords.”

And in a rush, horror ignites in the eaves of this tiny room like an Alderan dollhouse. It is a grease fire film of oil on water. He is the match. You drop your head to your shoulder and start to laugh like Bakugou isn’t watching the life evaporate from the top of your head and out his window in the heat that pinks your cheeks and blotches your chest. You laugh like you have life to spare, “course they’re not.”

You manage enough coordination to hold the chest of his tunic closed with one hand as you rise, still giggling bitter, nothing like the bells you rang for Todoroki.

“Stop–” Bakugou reaches for you as you walk past him towards the door but stops short of touching even the air.

“dream something sweet Highness, I won’t interrupt again.”

“Oi, wait–” He gathers himself awkwardly barefoot and still dripping seawater, to catch the door before you pull it open. You bow your head and reach for the knob at the same time as he manages to slam his palm and weight against it in case you decide you have enough life left to fight.

“Told you, you’re not leaving my sight.”

Maybe staring isn’t so much a habit as it is a system to keep you from collapsing under the weight of Alderan sun. You who watch the world carefully so that when you attack it is silent and succinct. As long as you’re only looking, just watching carefully, the world will never be in danger of you spilling the secrets obvious only to you, and your kingdom won’t have to acknowledge the war crimes it takes to teach a kid how to kill.

Bakugou looms above you and rests against his door on a forearm. You raise your head like it’s lead to look at him. Your mouth even opens to speak but then something like fire punches to life in the blacks of your eyes.

It’s not a blink this time, it’s a stutter at first– and your face is so flushed that it almost looks like you’re glowing– before something you see feeds the kindling to roaring. For a blessed second you aren’t smiling. You stare so deeply into your prince he can’t look away for long enough to realize that you’re reaching for him.

Why? Why are you leaning closer?

The first heat pools at the hinge of his jaw and then scalding follows. Why are your hands so hot? You pinch his earlobe between thumb and pinky and let your fingers graze over the ridges of ear just so gently that sparks itch where sweat prickles at his neck.

It’s still for a second before chills, agonizing, erupt up his spine, bone by bone as he realizes– as your prince’s face drops and his own hand jumps to reach his ears and what’s no longer there. His right hand grasps at Alderan gold, a tiny sun. His left only cups yours, so much smaller– and the ghost of your earring lost somewhere deep at sea. Six and bleeding in his hands, all grown up and at his mercy.

You smile in anguish, “I hate you.”

You don’t bother pulling your hand from his, only rest your head against the door and let your heavy eyes finally close. Nothing to hold back the freshwater tears now.

Bakugou almost isn’t fast enough in his shock to catch you when you begin to slide down the wall in collapse, “Y– shit– Y/n!” One hand pulls up on your own and the other reaches around your back to try and bring you into him instead of hard against the wooden floor like he’s still a prince and not just a man whose heart won’t stop racing.

“Y/n? Y/n,” he shuffles you in his lap where you landed, and breathes the shapes he hopes make the sound of your name as he searches, distracted. You are limp in his arms and entirely too warm to have been freezing to death a few minutes ago. Lips parted and rolling like you’re trying to speak. Running to safety with you on his shoulder, the seachill must have hidden your fever from him. He cradles your head to check for blood and holds your cheek when his fingers come out dry from your hair.

“majesty..”

Your heartbreaking laughter still bubbles up in quiet sobs and incoherence murmured, murmured, “..m sorry,” when you manage to see through the tears for a moment before falling unconscious again. Every apology laced always with “mitsuki.” You must have been holding it back. You must have been keeping the fever at bay by sheer force of will because now on the floor against him, your body is so hot it’s making his chest clammy. Sweat has soaked into the nooks of your black tunic and pools in salt licks between your breasts. Fuck Alderan fire.

Your prince gathers your shoulders and chest, your waist hips and exhaustion, into a bundle in his arms and pulls himself up with his doorknob because he will not let you drown, he will not let you freeze, and you will not win by setting yourself on fire. As he rises, blood leaks again from your nose. Tears fall aimlessly against his heart split to six like a pomegranate. When Bakugou is king there will be no child soldiers.

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[acourtofwhatthefuck]

Heart of Fire - Azriel x Reader Request

Hiii! A lil fluff request by @charlottewelshshit - hope this is okay for you love<;3

could you do one where the reader is the second eldest archeron sister, she has powers because of the cauldron and Azriel and her are mates please. If It ends in fluff It would be great. Thank you very much <3

Warnings: None.

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Breaking point.

You were truly, utterly at breaking point. 

You didn’t know what was different about that day. Each of them, of late, had been a blur of anger and longing swirling and melding into one. Anger at your situation. Longing for some semblance of normality. 

But that day—that day, you just knew you would break. 

And the trigger was right there before you. Your youngest and eldest sister bickering across the dinner table. 

It was no different to when you’d been mortals—Nesta wielding sharp words and Feyre biting back. You didn’t even know what they were arguing about. But these days, it was more than just you and Elain who bore witness to it. The entire Inner Circle watched and held their tongues as Nesta and Feyre tore verbal chunks out of each other.

You just…didn’t get it. Didn’t get how, when you’d been shoved into the Cauldron, had your mortality and your prospects of a normal life ripped from you, they could still find such pathetic, petty things to squabble over. As if you weren’t sat right there, trapped in a life you never gods-damned asked for. 

“If you don’t like it, Nesta,” Feyre sniped. “You don’t have to come. Stay home, read your novels, I don’t care.”

You gripped onto your fork, feeling the metal bend out of shape in your palm. Your eyes were pinned, unseeing, to the white table linen.

“Well.” Nesta’s jaw set, sarcasm drenching her tone. “Thank you so much for your permission, High Lady.”

“Do not,” Rhys chimed in, his voice like steel, “use Feyre’s title to condescend to her.”

The fork clattered from your hand. You were going to tip this fucking table over, tear the room apart. Your anger was growing, shaping into its own being. 

“Stay out of it, Rhysand.” Nesta spat at your brother-in-law.

You snapped. Totally fucking snapped. 

“That’s enough!” You shouted, and your voice was the most horrifying thing you’d ever heard. Like ice and heat, and wind and rain, old and young. It wasn’t you.

But the voice was nothing — nothing — against the physical impact of your anger. Like a storm had swept through the room, the tableware was sent flying on a phantom wind, plates and bowls smashing against the walls, knives and forks imbedding in furniture, drinks spilling all over the place. 

And as quickly as it had raged through, it stopped. Anything flying through the air clattered to the floor, and silence cloaked the room. Everyone blinked up at you.

“…my food.” Mor frowned down at the empty space her plate had been sat in.

But it was Cassian you were staring at, guilt immediately choking you. He dislodged a fork from the back of his hand, the wound already healing, the blood already drying. He seemed stunned — and impressed.

You immediately stepped towards him, reaching out as if you could do—something. “Oh, gods, Cassian—”

You could feel it…feel yourself breaking on the inside. If you didn’t get out of there, you would cry, or scream, or maybe stab a fork into your own hand.

“I’m fine.” Cassian promised. “No harm done.”

“I’m sorry.” You whispered, stepping away from the table. “So sorry.”

You hurried from the room, every bit of you trembling, a cold sweat breaking out over your skin. How were you supposed to live like this? You were a danger — to yourself, and to everyone around you. Everyone you loved. 

You staggered to a stop in the garden, bracing your hands against the solid surface of a wall. Tried to calm your breathing. You were so, so angry at the way things had become. What kind of curse was this that the Cauldron had bestowed on you? The ability to feel every damn emotion so strongly it would rip you apart from the inside? And the emotions of others too? You couldn’t live a life of being battered by feelings, couldn’t—

“Y/N.” The voice behind you was soft, gentle.

So heartbreakingly gentle. You felt a tear roll down your cheek.

“Y/N.” Azriel said again, stopping just behind you. 

You squeezed your eyes shut. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright—”

“How can it possibly be alright, Az?” You rounded on him. There — there was that flare of emotion again. You tried to swallow it down, to steady your breathing. Your voice broke as you said, “How will this ever be alright?”

Azriel’s eyes were soft as they studied you. There no was judgement in them, none of the anger you thought you deserved from him and everyone else after your outburst. Just…kindness. Understanding. Affection.

“It’s not your fault.” He took a step closer. “It will get better.”

A wry laugh fell from your lips. “It will get worse, Azriel. Way worse. I’m completely out of control. You saw what happened in there. What if…what if next time, it’s more than just an injury to the hand? What if I kill someone because I can’t control how I’m feeling?”

His full lips pursed as he studied you. You were suddenly an open book, and he was reading all the thoughts, all the feelings, you’d tried to keep hidden since you'd emerged from the Cauldron as a fae. Each one was tumbling out now.

“You have to stop seeing it as a curse—as a weakness.” He said. “You have to be kinder to yourself. To train and hone it as you would any other power.”

“Power.” You barked another laugh. “Is that what it is? Why couldn’t I have just become a Seer like Elain? Why am I stuck with some damn power that turns emotions into weapons?”

Az was staring at you again, his brow furrowed. You didn’t know what that look meant. The two of you had been growing closer since you’d moved to Velaris, a connection between you definitely blossoming and manifesting in subtle touches and glances — but maybe that was all about to change. Maybe he was seeing you for the liability you’d become. 

He took another step closer — and then slowly, gently, took your hand in his. The warmth of it was soothing, like a droplet of calm in a vast ocean of chaos. With such careful movements, he tugged you with him, and sat down with you on a nearby bench.

“Do you know when I first realised you were someone special?” He asked quietly, his thumb rubbing circles into the back of your palm.

You frowned, shaking your head. Someone special—that was what he thought of you?

“It was when you were still human. Way before you were dragged into that Cauldron.” His eyes scanned your face. “When Feyre brought us to your estate in the human lands, seeking your help. You were the only one who wasn’t scared of us or rude to us. Nesta and Elain retired to bed that night, but you stayed up and talked to us. Helped us write the letter to the human queens.”

You remembered — of course you did. Because you couldn’t deny the excitement you felt that might, to have three brilliant, breathtaking fae males in your home. Nesta would have throttled you if she’d known that you’d stayed awake and chatted with Feyre and the Illyrians well into the early hours. 

And you’d been utterly enamoured with Azriel right from the very beginning. But you hadn’t considered that he may have seen you as anything other than a plain, human woman.

His fingers laced between yours, dragging you back to the present. “That night,” He said, “We told you all about Amarantha—what she’d done to our kind. The horrors that everyone trapped Under the Mountain had suffered. And even though you’d been taught to fear us…even though you didn’t know us…you cried for us. For our pain and our suffering. You didn’t hesitate to volunteer your help in any way we needed it. And I knew—I knew then that you were something special. Because most people can’t feel emotions the way you feel them. On such a deep level.”

You didn’t realise you were crying again until a teardrop fell onto your lap. Azriel reached out his other hand, gently wiping your cheek with his thumb. 

“You mustn’t fear yourself, Y/N.” He whispered. “You should be proud of that fire in your heart. To feel so freely…to empathise with others…it’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.”

The dam on your tears broke, and Azriel tugged you closer as they flowed free—months and months of pent-up emotion being expelled from your body, your heart.

Suddenly, you were in Az’s lap, his arms wrapped around you. He rocked you through your shuddering sobs, his hand stroking your back. His shadows coiled around you, wiping your tears with feather-light touches.

“You’re brilliant.” Az murmured in your ear, his lips brushing the lobe. “And you’re going to be okay. We’ll be okay–together.”

You pulled back just slightly — just enough to look at him, to meet his eyes. There was pure truth shining there — he truly, thoroughly believed his own words. 

And if he could…surely you could, too.

Your eyes flickered to his lips. So wonderful, this male. So quiet and sensitive and real. Your anger was quickly dissipating and being replaced with another emotion. One that was far more pleasant and tasted like winter berries and warmth. 

You loved him. You were in love with the Shadowsinger. 

“You…you feel it too, don’t you?” You glanced at his lips again. “This…bond between us.” 

His answering nod was strong – sure. “I do…I always have. But even more since the Cauldron. I think I’ve always known that you…that you’re my mate.”

Mate. The word sang in your head. You’d seen the bond between Feyre and Rhys…that unbreakable, invisible thing that tethered them together so passionately. Had you truly been lucky enough to have found the same thing? And with a brilliant male like Azriel, no less?

And if you had…maybe the Cauldron hadn’t damned you so terribly like you’d thought. Maybe you could weather the bad to have the good. To have him. 

Your mate.

It only took that thought, that realisation, to spur you on. Azriel watched you as you leaned closer, lifting your hand to cup his cheek. You tentatively brushed your lips against his, giving him a moment to pull away, to change his mind.

But it was he who closed that gap and kissed you properly. 

It was both firm and gentle, a soft kiss as he moved his hand from your back to cradle the back of your head, his fingers twisting within your hair. The reciprocation gave you the confidence you needed to push a bit further — you pulled him against you and nipped his bottom lip, slipping your tongue into his mouth as it opened on a gasp. 

Kissing him was like being home. Just…just right. You wanted to do this forever, feel this forever. You wouldn’t be at all surprised if you pulled back and found yourself literally glowing. 

His tongue danced around yours, his lips working utter magic. Only when the two of you were huffing breaths did you both pull away, and a smile tugged at Azriel’s lips. 

“That,” He said, kissing you once, “is my favourite emotion.”

You couldn’t help mirroring his smile, your fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. This was how you wanted to feel. Forever. 

Maybe things really could be okay. 

It certainly seemed that way as Azriel leaned in and kissed you again.

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[lilibethdrawsreylo]

For my fellow Cullen-enjoyers, here's his POV from the first chapter of the fic I'm working on.

Water in the shaving bowl had frozen solid overnight. Over his years away from Ferelden, Cullen had forgotten how treacherous the weather in the mountains could be, even in spring. He’d have to see that his soldiers had extra heating runes to go between them, be it that Cullen himself was waking up drenched in sweat most mornings. He hadn’t touched lyrium since he came to command the late Divine’s forces and had a few months still before its song would become all-consuming. He only heard it in his dreams for now, boiling slowly like a frog. Foregoing the armor for a leather doublet for the time being, Cullen yanked aside the waxed flap of his tent. The camp under Haven’s logged walls remained quiet save for distant calls of watchmen, but the village’s lakeside gates were already ajar, with tavern folk going to-and-fro in preparation for the day’s first meal. Unnoticed without the steel and his red cloak, the Commander walked past bubbling cauldrons of barley tended to by yawning kitchen boys. He was soon stepping through snow that hadn’t yet been trampled on nor melted by bonfires. Cullen lowered himself to one knee near the lake shore, cupped the pristine snow in his ungloved hands, and put his face into it. For a blissful moment, the memory of lyrium’s blue humm was banished from his mind. He rubbed his palms down his cheeks as droplets of water trickled along his wrists. Before him, the black expanse of ice was starting to turn gray; as the dawn finally broke, he saw her. Cullen had watched her in the war room and when demons were falling from the sky, but it was like he’d never seen her before, the fine halo of hair aglow with the sun, blooming like a snowdrop between a fir’s raised roots. The Herald of Andraste. He understood it now. How he ended up near her, Maker knew, although those were Cullen’s boots that left tracks in the icy crust. He came to his senses upon approaching the lone tree she was sitting by, at the shore’s very edge. She’d been crying, Cullen could clearly tell, and now sat perched on a protruding root with her knees to her chest, letting the cold bite her reddened face. She gasped as she noticed his intrusion, and Cullen sighed to himself. Trust him to act like an oaf. “Forgive me, Lady Trevelyan,” he said, “I didn’t mean to disturb you.” “That’s alright,” she replied after a moment’s pause. “I was about to go back.” The lady looked up at him expectantly, and Cullen guessed to offer her his hand. He shivered when they touched. Were her fingers that chilled, or did his skin run too hot? As their hands parted again, Cullen reached for the clasp of his cloak—the cloak that was still in his tent. He… couldn’t very well present her with his doublet, could he? He wouldn’t dare. As they set out toward Haven, the lady kept her jaw tight lest her teeth begin to chatter.  “I thought I’d keep it to myself,” she eventually spoke, “but being called ‘Lady Trevelyan’ is about as odd as ‘Herald.’ My mother’s Lady Trevelyan.” “Oh. Lady Evelyn, then?” Cullen suggested, but she shook her head, small as a snowdrop beneath the green-tinged heavens. “I’d much rather just be Evelyn.”

As always, I plan to write the whole thing before posting to AO3. This one is most likely going to be long, so I can't tell when that will be - but I'm excited to share small excerpts here. :D

[authorautumnbanks]

One Night (23)

Kagome stares down at the phone on the kitchen counter. No response. She bites her lip, abusing it between her teeth. He must have not liked it. She blows out a breath, shoulders slumping as she turns her head away from the phone and glances down at the pink frilly apron with Gojo inscribed on the front.

Stupid. Stupid.

Kagome inhales and shakes her arms. It's fine. She's used to rejection. She'll just finish baking the muffins for tomorrow. Shippo eats so much these days, and so does Satoru. And soon, Koushi is going to be eating solids too.

She blows out another breath. Still no response.

It's fine. She can pretend like it never—

Boom!

Kagome jumps. The hell was that? She snatches the baby camera next to her phone. Okay, good. Shippo and Koushi are still sleeping. The barrier around their room is holding up. But still, what the heck was that noise?

Oh, Satoru is home. Maybe he knows? Kagome runs her hands down the front of the apron. Off to the side is a robe, just in case Shippo wakes up. The barrier is sound proof and entry proof against outsiders, but Shippo is free to leave the room if he wants to.

"Welcome h—mmph."

Satoru lifts her, never breaking the kiss. His hand squeezes her thighs. "You know you fucked up, right?"

Oh, he's not rejecting her.

"No idea what you're talking about." She smiles. What a relief.

"Not only did you get off without me, you sent me a video to tease me." He squeezes her again. "And then you put on this apron with my name on it." His eyes darken. "You aren't wearing underwear?"

There's a lot she wants to say. How she's been hoping all day that he'd come home and fuck her into the mattress or maybe against the wall, the stairs, hell, even the floor. She doesn't care where. She could say all those things, but she settles for a simple, "I'm so horny."

Satoru's nostrils flare. "Is it my birthday?"

His birthday is coming up. Maybe the event could be on his birthday, though it wouldn't be a surprise then.

Beep.

Kagome turns her head. "Oh, I was making muffins." She preheated the oven before making the batter.

"Can I eat yours?"

Her cheeks warm. "You never have to ask."

"Anytime?" He walks them around the counter and further into the kitchen. "Wanna keep you up all night." Satoru lowers her to her feet and wraps his arms around her. "But we have tomorrow, too."

She hums as she pulls away. Maybe she can just finish the batter and put it in the fridge. When she turns to the side, Satoru groans.

"What is it?"

"I knew, but seeing the back is..." He palms her ass. "I love you," Satoru says it so effortlessly that Kagome's heart thumps in her chest. "You don't have to say it back," he says while continuing to run his hand over her ass, squeezing every so often.

She loves him too, but it doesn't feel right to say it when she hasn't been completely honest with him.

"Do you remember that morning when the window cracked?" She reaches for the stainless-steel mixing bowl. With how much food they go through, maybe she should get the size they use in a restaurant.

Satoru presses himself against her. He plants his hands on the counter, caging her in. "Yeah, I remember. Woke up with you on my tongue."

"That is not how you woke up," she says with a laugh.

"Oh, must have been a premonition for tomorrow morning." He reaches for an egg and cracks it with one hand. "Course I remember, first time I tasted your milk."

Kagome bites her tongue. Satoru is too quick with it, and of course, he had to bring that up.

"What about it? Want to recreate it?"

She closes her eyes briefly, gathering the strength to continue this conversation. There's a chance he lashes out because she kept it from him. "Later," Kagome says, "right now I wanted to tell you why the window was cracked." She measures out the sugar and adds it to the bowl. It's easier to have this talk with her hands busy. Something to distract her.

"I'm listening," he says, pulling away for a moment. Kagome gasps and widens her legs to accommodate him. "Did it happen when you woke me up? I felt you."

She blows out a breath. No, it is better to have this conversation facing him. Kagome pushes the bowl back and turns around. Her stomach flips on itself as she not so discreetly glances down. After, she tells herself, after she has this talk with him, then she can have him in her mouth. Somehow, she manages to drag her eyes away and back to his face. The floor warms beneath her feet. It's going to take some use to having heated floors.

Satoru grins. "See something you like?" he teases.

"Always." She places her hands on him, lightly scratching at his abs through the fabric. Whoever invented compression tops deserves a generational blessing. "Did you feel off that day?"

Satoru stares at her. "No... I was horny when I woke up, but that's normal these days."

Kagome smiles. Such a Satoru thing to say. "That morning, you kissed me when you woke up, but it wasn't..." She wrinkles her nose. There is no way of saying this without sounding insane. "It wasn't you, you. It was another version of you."

Satoru blinks. "Ya lost me. What?" He laughs.

"You from another world. Universe. Honestly, I thought you woke up on the wrong side of the bed or something else was going on, because he didn't know about Koushi, but he knew about Shippo, and he had a locket that was definitely my energy." She swallows. Why is he looking at her like that? He must think she is insane. Time travel is one thing. She could prove that, but universe hopping is something else.

"Are you saying someone else kissed you?"

"Is that what you got from this?"

"Who's the better kisser?"

Kagome blinks. "You realize it was you, just—" She moans and wraps her arms around his neck, surrendering to the kiss. There's a hunger there. A hint of possessiveness to it. Satoru threatens to consume her. To take over her. With a gasp, Kagome lets him in. Gladly tangles her tongue with his.

She wants more.

Needs more.

It wouldn't take much. His cock is hard and right there. All she has to—Satoru pulls away and smiles at her, but there's nothing serene about it.

Is he jealous of himself?

Satoru grips her hips and turns her around. "Keep baking," he murmurs. His hand slides down. "Did you give him an energy massage? Is that why the window was cracked?"

Kagome rolls her eyes as she reaches for the flour. Goodness, he is obsessed with those massages. "No, I didn't give him a massage. He was upset." She pauses. Satoru isn't seriously going to feel her up while she's baking, right? "He was sealed. He got sealed in that box. I think the locket that his Kagome crafted for him must have interacted with the cursed energy of that box, and instead of him staying locked inside, it sent him to our world."

Satoru hums as he slides a finger inside of her, followed by another. "But he was angry. Did he hurt you?"

"No," she breathes. "No, he didn't hurt me. He was upset. Disoriented. His Kagome was pregnant, so when I denied us being together, it upset him. He figured it out first and he knew about demons, which you didn't know about them at that time. I gave the locket a boost and that sent him back to his world, hopefully." Kagome bites her lip as she measures out the other ingredients, stirring every so often. "Satoru."

"Can I rip this?"

"No," she says sharply. "It's the only apron I have." Kagome tightens her fingers around the whisk handle and pushes back against Satoru. Seriously, how is she supposed to focus on mixing the batter when his fingers are inside her?

"What if I buy you another one?"

"Don't be wasteful. You can just untie it."

Satoru sighs. "Fine." He slides his fingers out and sinks down to his knees. Kagome glances over her shoulder. Satoru winks at her with his fingers in his mouth. "Don't worry about me," he says, palming her ass again before spreading her. "Didn't have dinner."

Does he not care?

"Satoru?"

"Hm?" He looks at her. "Oh, all I heard is that no matter the timeline or universe, we're destined to be together. Now be a good girl and finish making those muffins while I eat yours."

"You're not upset with me?"

Satoru grunts. "No, baby, I'm not upset with you, but I will be if you don't push this ass out further. I mean, it's the least you can do," he says.

Kagome tries to focus on mixing the batter. Tries to fill the muffin tins without making a mess, but Satoru has her weak in the knees. She was correct about Satoru lashing out. The lash of his tongue immobilizes her. She's drowning in pleasure. Some of the batter makes it into the pan while some of it spills on the counter.

"That's my girl," Satoru coos, "Come for daddy."

Kami help her. Kagome holds onto the counter for purchase. Satoru never lets up, spearing her on his tongue. "Satoru!"

"Fuck yeah," he says with a hint of awe infused into his voice. "Kami, I could listen to you coming all day." He stands and wraps his arms around her, keeping her steady. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"

Kagome sucks in a breath. "You want to record us?"

"Mhmm. Could use that vibrator you bought." He kisses her shoulder. "You made a mess."

"Whose fault is that?" she grumbles. "I need to put these in the oven and set a timer." She reaches for the tin. "Satoru, you gotta let me go."

"Don't wanna. It's your fault for being so soft." He tightens his arms around her and takes a step back, bringing her with him.

"You can't be serious," Kagome says with a laugh as Satoru walks them over to the oven. He's so clingy, but she loves it. She didn't realize how starved she was until now. "What about the other muffins?"

"I'll just attract them to us, no biggie."

Attract them?

Kagome blinks. The muffin tins are floating. Satoru unwraps one arm to open the oven door and immediately pulls her back to him when all the muffins are in the oven and the door is closed once more.

"I want to go with you on a mission tomorrow."

"Uh...you sure you don't want to stay here? Or we could go somewhere like a date."

Kagome wrinkles her nose. She sets her phone down, the timer set for twenty minutes. "I want to come with you." She turns in his arms and grips him, internally sighing at finally having him in her hand.

"Love when you come with me," he jokes. "But..." His brows pinch together. "Why do you want to go on a mission with me?"

She gives him a look, trying to convey what she doesn't want to say, but Satoru either doesn't understand or he wants her to say it. He raises a brow.

"Because I like watching you," Kagome says, stroking his cock. She brushes her thumb over the slit. Satoru's eyes flutter shut, so Kagome does it again. His head is sensitive, she muses. "It's no different from how you like feeling my energy wash over you."

"Exorcising curses turn you on?"

"Watching you in your element does." Kami, just thinking about it, does something to her. She licks her lips and sinks down to her knees this time. "You'll let me come, right?" She moves closer to him, her mouth so close to him she swears she can already taste him on her tongue.

"That's not fair." Satoru groans. He threads his fingers through her hair. "What about—fuck, baby. What about the movie?"

Kagome hums as she watches the pleasure flint across his face. She worships him, working more of his cock into her mouth. "The tripod is portable," she says, before taking him back into her mouth. His hold on her hair tightens. "Please Satoru."

"Fuck! Okay," he agrees. His voice is shaky. "You can come. Just keep sucking me like that... fuck. Your mouth is a dream." He thrusts his hips. Kagome sticks her tongue out, flattening it against the underside of his cock. "Where do you want it?"

In her mouth, obviously. She sucks him harder in response, caressing his balls with one hand and working what she can't fit with her other. Satoru is more than a mouthful. She locks eyes with him, swallowing everything he has to offer. Satoru laughs, but it's short and slightly breathless. Kagome nuzzles her cheek against him. He's still hard.

"I love you too."

***

A/N: Ya'll I can't believe I'm saying this, but I tried to read a 750+ page book and I legit got tired of the smut. I got like 300 pages in or something close to that and then I couldn't do it anymore. I think really the issue was that it was one POV. The last 750+ page book I read this year had at least four POVs. With that being said...I started watching How To Build a Sex Dungeon for Brat Tamer research.

Side note, I lost half of my Satoru key chain and my husband laughed his ass off because I cried about how the event was canon. I do not know where the half of my key chain went.

Hope you are having an awesome Sunday and I hope you have an even better Monday. Take care of yourselves! Get lots of rest and drink plenty of water.

[zadralien]

Trying to save the one thing he loves most about space.

Ficlet under the cut

I always imagined this sort of scene to Trapped In Dillard’s by Foxing,

It hadn’t meant to go like this.

The Voot groaned, cutting Dib’s attention from the static over the radio as he yanked his boots on. He’d begged Zim to stay where it was safe, where they could wait in quietly together in the ship until the diagnostics were complete or until a friendly nearby ship heard their distress call.

But Zim had never been great at keeping his ego in check. He’d insisted that as a solider of the Irken Armada, he was most qualified to depart from the warm confines of the ship and manually check out the exterior for damages.

It had been fine at first with Zim giving frequent call-outs of his observations as Dib began to map all possible issues.

At some point, he’d registered a low buzzing sound beneath Zim’s chatter.

Dib scrambled to flick a call out of warning over the radio once he’d realised what might be happening - but it was too late. The buzzing had stopped and Zim was cut off, static pouring over the radio as the cockpit clicked and flashed to life.

Dib flung himself over the co-pilots chair, clamouring desperately towards the oxygen helmets kept in a corner compartment of the ship. Yanking the radio off his spacesuit belt, he threw his helmet on and slipped a second one under his arm.

“Zim,” Dib called out over his radio, “please tell me you’re alive.”

Nothing but the rush of static responded.

Dib whirled over to the airlock, reaching up and snatching an overhanging a lifeline to clip to his belt. He took a steadying breath, and punched the code in to open the airlock.

Usually, looking out into the open vacuum of space was soothing to Dib - the mundane reminder that he was just a small part of the universe, a leaf in the stream of a much larger river. It was a welcome relief from the crushing pressure of being his father’s prodigy. Now, the vast vacuum of space chilled him to the bone as he looked around the sides of the ship for his only friend. He was met only with a crushing black emptiness sprayed with dying stars. One wrong move, and nothing stops you from vanishing in an endless drift towards a certain and slow death.

He steeled his grip against the top of the airlock door and pulled himself upwards, letting go at the last minute to float towards the top of the ship. He looked desperately to the topside of the ship where he knew Zim was working, noticing a little hysterically that the hatch was still open and unmanned.

Swallowing, he looked up and around at the consuming blackness around them, their only grace a nearby set of dwarf suns emitting a dim light.

When his eyes finally landed on something floating some distance away from the ship, Dib’s heart jumped. He squinted as he took the binoculars out of his suit pocket, adjusting them hurriedly as the picture of Zim’s red suit slowly came into focus.

“Zim!” Dib called in vain over the suit comms, using all of his strength to launch himself off the ship with the help of his suit thrusters.

As he floated, he didn’t know if it was the scene that was slowly becoming closer or or the freezing temperature of space, but Dib’s blood felt sharp and icy as it forced its way through his body, biting pains emanating from his chest. Zim’s body was unmoving and, much to Dib’s mounting panic, unmasked against the void. His face was basked into the deep shadows of space and light of the nearby suns. His body, for the first time ever, was completely limp.

After what seemed like years, Dib finally reached Zim. He knew Irkens, with the the help of their Paks, could withstand the pressures and temperatures of space for an intimidating amount of time, but Dib didn’t know the limitations once the body had already sustained injuries from electrical charges. Already, Zim’s face was beginning to crystallise and bloom into a deep deadly blue. Dib yanked the helmet out from under his arm and pulled it over Zim’s head, clasping it desperately to Zim’s suit with shaking hands. He watched as the mask signalled it was delivering a much needed flow. Pressing one hand to Zim’s chest, he allowed himself a small rush of relief as he felt Zim’s chest move with a fragile breath.

Dib pulled Zim closer, cradling his neck carefully and pressing their torsos together as he inputted the recall command on the lifeline.

As they were yanked back towards the ship, he braced himself for the unceremonious crash against the floor of the spacecraft, twisting to ensure he broke Zim’s fall.

After a moment, the airlock closed swiftly. Dib reached over towards an emergency kit for high flow oxygen, clicking the hosing into the back of Zim’s helmet. With a pained grunt Dib slumped backwards, pulling Zim’s body up and into his lap, allowing the quiet hiss of air soothe him. He brushed a hand over Zim’s shoulders and arms, coming up to cup a hand against the helmet where Zim’s cheek slowly began to slowly radiate back to his usual green colour.

Dib let his head fall back against the wall behind him, taking a deep shuddering breath.

Even with everything he has seen on this escapade across the galaxy - from the extraordinary planets and individual lifeforms to the nebulas and vast galaxies, he’d never been as euphoric to see his alien again.

[tessatales]

The Sins of the Winter Soldier Chapter 2

Pairing: Bucky x Female reader

Warning: Non really, Nightmares still?

Notes: slow burn romance, find the first chapter here.

A/n: Hey! Thank you everyone who read the first chapter! Here’s the second with several more backed up ready to go :)

Tags: @scott-loki-barnes @kandis-mom @identity2212

Chapter 2

It took exactly one week for you to break your promise. You never intended too, but something about that night had drawn you to exactly where you shouldn’t be.

You’d woken up from another nightmare, your alarm clock clutched in your hand like a weapon as you scrambled to ground yourself. Once the demons had run away and your heart rate had calmed, you’d decided to go for a walk, the shadows in your room looking more and more like bad memories the longer you stared into the dark. Padding through the halls, you’d picked up a bag of cookies you kept for bad night’s as you passed the kitchen; your feet silent as you wondered the dark corridors.

You’d been wondering for a while before you realised where you were, the normal halls and doors being replaced with the reinforced scaffoldings and deadlock entrances.

Shit

You were stood in the doorway of the Pit then. Panic rising in your throat as you wondered if you’d already messed everything up.

Does he know? Can he sense me? I’ll have to leave again. Shit shit shit

Placing your hand on the door, you took several deep breaths, imagining the square technique Natasha had told you about. The memory of her hand on your back from the first time you’d experienced an attack at the tower throwing itself to the forefront of your mind as it battled against itself. When your breathing finally steadied, you watched as the subtle glow from your powers faded from your skin. With the room around you no longer spinning, you steeled yourself for something stupid.

With a final deep breath, you engaged the lock on the Pit deck. Striding into the quarters before you had chance to bottle it.

The room was dark, the only light coming from the edges of the cell itself. Since your first visit, the Winter Soldiers cell had been furnished with a simple bed. Or at least it looked like a bed. The remains of it were scattered about the cell floor like they’d been imploded from the inside. The only thing intact being the thin army style blanket that must of once covered the frame.

He wasn’t stood this time. Instead he sat amongst the chaos, legs crossed and eyes closed as he seemed to sleep. You knew he was awake though. You knew it in the slight hitching of his arm as he heard you approach.

“Hello” You said to the dark, your voice loud in the empty observation deck. The Winter Solider didn’t move.

“I know you’re awake.” You carry on, taking a step closer till you stood at the very edge of the main cell deck. He opened his eyes then. You couldn’t see him properly in the dim light, but you felt the chill of his gaze as it settled.

“Are you comfortable?” Your hands fiddled with the bag of cookies clutched in front of you as your voice echoed around the room. He said nothing.

Unsure what to do, you took a seat on the top step, opening the cookies and taking one out.

“These are my favourite. When I was younger, I had a terribly good imagination. Still do really.” You began to ramble, needing to fill the silence.

“My issue was my imagination was very good at taking bad things I’d see on tv and such and making them worse. So I’d have a lot of nightmares” You continue, taking a small bite of the cookie.

“So when I’d wake up after a nightmare, my mom would scoop me up and take me down to the kitchen. We’d bake any cookie or cake I wanted, then stay up eating them with milk until I was so full I’d fall asleep” You finish, taking the final bite. The Winter Soldier remained motionless, nothing in his posture showing that he was even listening.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I shouldn’t even be here. Your handlers want me for my powers. Though I’m sure you already know that. You’ve probably been plotting how to get out and take me to Hydra since I was stupid enough to wander in here.” You say, your voice becoming fragile as you thought out loud.

“But I’ll tell you a secret. I’ve decided I’m not going to fear you. You know why?” You ask the motionless man before you.

“Steve doesn’t shut up about you. You’re his best friend. And if he believes the old you is in there somewhere. I’ll believe it too.” You finish, brushing the crumbs off your legs as you got up.

“Goodnight” you say over your shoulder, never looking back at the man in the cell as you left.

A/n: Chapter 3 can be found here

[yoonavii]

𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐈𝐀

Gladiator Prince! Eustass x Warrior princess! Reader

Story description: Y/n, a skilled ice warrior from the frigid kingdom of Nosta, and Prince Eustass, a ruthless gladiator prince hailing from the enemy nation, the Modora Empire. Their two nations have a long history of conflict and animosity. However, when a dire situation calls for a political marriage to secure peace, Y/n and Eustass find themselves bound together in a union neither desires. As they navigate the treacherous path of diplomacy, they must confront their own prejudices and the weight of their peoples’ expectations. Through adversity and danger, the icy walls between them slowly begin to melt, and they discover unexpected connections and feelings, transforming their initial enmity into a deep and passionate love of the ages.

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄

The morning sun broke through the frosty windows, casting a gentle glow across your chamber. As you stirred from slumber, the maids moved with an air of urgency, bustling about to prepare you for your journey to the Modora Empire. With gentle and swift movements, they greeted you and began the process of transforming you for the day ahead. The first ritual was the snow bath, a tradition deeply rooted in the culture of the Nosta Kingdom. Stepping into the snow was a stark contrast to the warmth of your chamber, and the icy sensation against your bare skin was more biting than usual. But you bore it stoically, understanding its significance as a symbol of purification and readiness.

Emerging from the snow bath, your skin felt invigorated, and you were led to your attire. The dress they chose for you was a masterpiece, meticulously crafted to showcase your heritage and your figure. It bore intricate patterns that told the story of your people, and its design emphasized your strength and grace. With precise strokes, they applied kohl around your eyes, enhancing their allure. The face paint, reminiscent of warrior markings, was an embodiment of your resilience and the strength of your kingdom.

More maids arrived, their nimble fingers weaving through your hair. The elaborate braid they crafted was a work of art, adorned with intricate accessories that held both aesthetic and cultural significance. It was a reflection of your status and the history you carried with you. As the morning's preparations continued, you couldn't help but feel the weight of the moment. Each detail, from the attire to the makeup and the hair adornments, held profound meaning. They were not just ornaments; they were symbols of your identity, your heritage, and the legacy you embodied as the ice princess of Nosta.

Now as you were then brought by the head maid to a dimly lit chamber, two crowns rested upon velvet cushions, each a testament to the authority and power they represented. Your eyes, filled with determination, immediately landed on your late father’s crown. It was a formidable piece, crafted from solid steel and shaped like tall, imposing spikes. Choosing this crown was not just a matter of aesthetics; it was a deliberate declaration. You wanted the Modora Empire to understand that the blood of the former king of the Nosta Kingdom flowed through your veins, and you were not a mere pawn in a political game. You were a ruler with the strength and resolve to defend your people.

The head maid’s lips curved into a knowing smile as she lifted your father’s crown and carefully placed it upon your head. It settled with a weight that served as a constant reminder of the responsibilities that now rested upon your shoulders. You wore it proudly, for it was more than just a piece of metal; it was a symbol of your heritage and your commitment to your kingdom. Outside the castle, the royal council members, their fur cloaks providing a stark contrast to the white landscape, formed two rows to create a path for your departure. Each council member, in their own way, extended a hand to touch you as you passed, their silent farewells a testament to the unity and strength of the Nosta Kingdom. Their touch carried the weight of history, a promise of support as you embarked on this extraordinary journey, ready to face the challenges and opportunities that lay ahead.

As you turned back for one last look at the castle, a pang of bittersweet emotion welled up within you. It was your home, the place where you had grown up, and now you were leaving it behind for a distant land. The sight of your little brother running toward you, his nanny trailing behind, tugged at your heartstrings. He threw his small arms around you, tears streaming down his cheeks as he clung to you. "Big sister," he sobbed, "I'll miss you so much. I don't want you to go." You knelt down, hugging him tightly, and whispered comforting words in his ear. "Shh, don't cry," you said softly, brushing away his tears. "I promise I'll visit as soon as things settle in the empire. And until then, you have to be strong, okay? Train your body and mind, and one day, you'll become a great and formidable king, just like our father." He nodded earnestly, wiping away his tears, and replied, "I'll try, big sister. I'll make you proud."

With a warm smile, you kissed his forehead and watched as he returned to his nanny's side. It was a difficult farewell, but you knew it was a necessary step on your journey. As you turned to leave, you spotted Trafalgar Law with his sword and a bag of the weapons you had hoped to bring. His presence and his support were a source of comfort, and you couldn't help but smile at him before stepping into the carriage. With a heavy heart but a resolute spirit, you embarked on this journey, leaving behind your home and family, and venturing into the unknown world of the Modora Empire.

——

Prince Eustass stood stoically in his expansive room within the Modora Empire, surrounded by a team of maids tasked with removing his armor. The air was filled with an air of formality as the maidens carefully worked to disentangle the intricate pieces from his body. In the midst of this meticulous process, an unintended mishap occurred. The sharp edges of the armor proved unforgiving, resulting in one maid inadvertently cutting her finger. A hushed silence fell over the room as the others quickly suppressed any expression of pain from their wounded companion.

Eustass, seemingly indifferent to the incident, moved away once the armor removal was complete. His room, grand and imposing, rivaled even the size of the emperor’s quarters, befitting his status as the crown prince. The Roman-themed decor, a testament to the Empire’s opulence, had been meticulously designed by the finest architects and decorators at the Empire’s disposal. From his vantage point, Eustass could survey the lands beyond the palace, territories conquered by his father, offering a commanding view of the empire’s dominion.

Suddenly, a torrent of haunting memories flooded Prince Eustass’s mind, a sudden rush of images and screams that transported him to a different time. The vivid recollections of a young boy and his mother in terror overwhelmed his senses, causing him to stumble and eliciting a pained wince. Desperately, he clutched his ears, trying to block out the haunting echoes of the past.

In the room, the maids and servants, bewildered by this unexpected episode, froze in place. Eustass, his voice laced with a mixture of anguish and frustration, barked at them, “GET OUT!” They wasted no time, swiftly evacuating the room, leaving the prince to grapple with the haunting memories that plagued him.

Ever since his time at war, these relentless flashbacks had become a recurring torment, and Eustass found himself grappling with the unsettling question of why these memories continued to haunt him. Alone in his grand chamber, he faced a battle within himself, wrestling with the ghosts of the past that seemed determined to resurface at the most unexpected moments. Frustration boiling over, Prince Eustass seized a nearby amphora vase and hurled it with unrestrained force, the vessel shattering against the wall in a burst of shards. Unbeknownst to him, his father, the emperor, had silently entered the room, observing the display of unbridled emotion.

Furious, thinking a servant had disobeyed his order to stay away, Eustass turned abruptly, ready to reprimand. However, upon realizing it was his father, he swiftly dropped his expression of anger, immediately assuming a posture of deep respect, lowering himself to one knee. Despite the familiarity of their relationship, the emperor demanded the deference owed to his position. Eustass quickly apologized, explaining the misunderstanding and expressing regret for his unintended display of frustration. His father, dismissing the incident with a wave of his hand, chose to sit on Eustass's finely adorned bed, dressed in the richest shades of red fabric. The opulence of the room and the subtle tension between father and son lingered in the air, as the emperor considered his son's tumultuous state.

The Emperor settled on the finely adorned bed, his eyes meeting those of his son with a gravity that bespoke the weight of the forthcoming conversation. Cutting through the air with a directness characteristic of a ruler, he initiated the discussion about the arranged marriage, wasting no time in revealing the underlying reasons. "I won't be around much longer, Eustass," the emperor declared, a stark admission that hung in the room. "The Goddess of Dragons has cast her judgment upon me, a punishment for the relentless attacks and unnecessary bloodshed that marked our past. Our people are suffering, and it's time to make amends."

He continued, the lines etched on his face reflecting the toll of years of rule. "The people of the Nosta Kingdom possess skills that we lack. Their archers are formidable, but it's their expertise in herbalism that holds the key. Their medicines surpass ours in both efficacy and advancement. I've ended the century-long war between us, forging an alliance and establishing trade. Medicine in exchange for peace." The emperor's gaze bore into his son's, a silent plea for understanding and cooperation. "To strengthen this alliance, a marriage between our royal heirs has been arranged. It is a necessary step, Eustass, for the well-being of our people and the future of the empire."

Eustass listened with a mix of shock and composure as his father revealed the true reason behind the arranged marriage. Despite the gravity of the situation, he kept his emotions in check, maintaining a composed front in the presence of the emperor. The emperor, aware of the challenges this union might pose, expressed his concerns about the differences in cultures and traditions between the two kingdoms. However, he affirmed that, for the sake of the alliance and the greater good, the wedding must proceed.

Attempting to lighten the mood, the emperor jestingly warned Eustass to keep his guard up in front of the Nosta princess, playfully suggesting that she might charm him to literal death. Eustass chuckled at the playful admonition, countering with the belief that the princess was probably unappealing. The emperor swiftly corrected him, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Rumors say otherwise, my son. She’s rumored to possess near-extreme beauty, alongside her strength and warrior skills.”

Eustass, caught off guard by this revelation, flustered at the thought, eliciting hearty laughter from his father. The emperor playfully patted him on the shoulder, acknowledging the humorous twist of fate that awaited the crown prince. 

“I guess…we’ll see”

©𝐘𝐎𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐈— Any sign/evidence of plagiarism made from outside this name will be dealt with by whatever means necessary. Legal action may occur if non fanfiction works are plagiarized.

[whumped-by-glitter]

Day 6: Nonhuman whumpee / Reluctant Whumper / "Run!"

Bonus Alt Prompt: Forced to Hurt

Day 5 Here <

⚠️CW: Whipping, Blood, Captivity, Muzzles, Mention of Past Torture, Non Sexual Nudity.

Let me know if I forgot anything, but it should be pretty tame today.

This week was very busy, sorry I'm so behind!

story under the cut!

Thunk.

Thunk.

Thunk.

Youngest lightly hit the back of their head on the white cinderblock wall they were leaning against. The sound was the only thing breaking up the monotony of the white room. This was almost worse than the waterboarding several days before, at least they thought it was just a few days before. A week or more could have passed for all they knew.

Thunk

Thunk

There was nothing to do here but ruminate on their regrets. They wished they could take back those last words they said to Leader. They recalled seeing the pain in Leader’s eyes when they said them. They wondered if Leader would come break Whumpee out and just leave them to rot. It’s what they deserved after all they had done after all.

Thunk

Thunk

Thunk

They wondered if Whumpee was in a cell somewhere just like this, maybe even on the other side of this wall. They wondered what torture Claudio put them through. They wondered if they were alright.

Thunk

Thunk

The back of their head was beginning to go numb from repeatedly against the wall. They sighed and stood up. They stretched and began to pace the limited area. They had counted the tiles multiple times, there was about 30 and a half. They could stick their arms out in either direction and touch wall. They continued to pace in little circles to warm up, having never been given new clothes.

All at once the door to the tiny cell was flung open. A guard threw some clothes at youngest.

“put these on, you’re coming with us,” he ordered. Youngest could see another guard just outside the door.

They hurried and dressed, grateful for anything to cover up. The guard that was in the entry of the room then stepped into the threshold to bind them with shackles and cuffs.

Youngest fought back hard with every bit of strength they had. They scratched and clawed, getting punched several times in the process. Youngest  even biting the guard and drawing blood.

The guard hissed, drawing back. They looked livid. “Feral mongrel,” he growled, leaving the room, door slamming.

Youngest slid down the wall, shaking from the adrenaline and fear. Relief flowed into their chest, replacing the earlier anxiety. At least they were safe for now.

They soon returned, however, the other guard slid in immediately behind the first, holding something. Youngest tried to fight again, but their efforts were in vein. once the handcuffs were on the second guard approached with whatever he had in his hand.

Youngest began to struggle again as they realized what it was, but the first guard had them held tight.

“I’m not some kind of animal!” they gritted their teeth and thrashed their head.

It was all futile though. In the end youngest felt a leather strap being tightened and buckled around their head as a metal cage closed in around their mouth and nose. They could hear the distinct click of padlocks behind their head.

‘muzzled!’ they thought angrily, glaring daggers at the guards. The edges of the cage were already digging into their face from it being buckled too tight.

The second guard then retreated from the room to give them space. The first guard add shackles to Youngest’s ankles and shoved them forward out of the room. Shackles caused them to trip and fall, the guards just laughed cruelly before hauling them back up.

They were taken to some kind of courtyard through a set of solid steel doors a short ways down the hall. Youngest raked their eyes over their surroundings, the yard couldn’t have been more than maybe 20 feet squared. The dirt under their feet was a reddish brown, looking like clay. The solid windowless brick of the building went up about 8 feet, before pushing in, creating a ledge. The rest of the building continuing up had windows. Their eyes landed on a figure standing on the ledge, peering down at them, Claudio.

“Nice of you to join us, Dipshit!” Claudio mocked, “that’s your new name by the way, dipshit.”

Youngest just glowered up at their captor, trying to look menacing through the ridiculous muzzle strapped to their face.

“I heard you were quite a wild animal, gave my men quite a hard time. This would have been much easier on you if you had only played nice.” Claudio snapped and another captive was drug out.

Although the dry dust created too much of a cloud for youngest to tell who it was, their heart stopped. They feared it was Whumpee.

The form was dropped next to them. Relief and fear rushed through Youngest when they discovered it was not Whumpee…. ‘Where were they?’

Their gut further twisted when they realized that although the person was not Whumpee, it was in fact still someone they recognized. “Andrew?” Youngest questioned, eyes widening, also relieved to find they could speak through the muzzle. The man was part of the Intel division at the same agency they worked at. At least they were pretty sure it was Andrew; it was hard to say for certain under the bruises and cuts.

Andrew made a muffled noise through his gag.

“Now then Dipshit, I believe this is a friend of yours? They won’t seem to give us the information we want about your headquarters, so you’re going to get it out of them.” Claudio nodded at the guards to unlock Youngest’s handcuffs. “I owe you a huge thank you by the way, we only captured him because they were out confirming your whereabouts.” The arms dealer grinned wickedly.

One of the other guards that had brought Andrew out was securing the man’s wrists to a post as youngest was being handed a cat-o-nines flogger, studded with metal.

Guilt flooded them. Youngest began to shake, they couldn’t, this, not this! They would take waterboarding a hundred more times before this. Youngest shook their head, trembling, and threw the flogger into the dirt.

 “I will not cooperate with this.”

“you’ll do it Dipshit, or I’ll just have you both killed here and now,” Claudio retorted calmly.

Youngest took a deep breath trying to steady them self. “Fine, alright, I’ll do it,” they grumbled, reluctantly taking up the flogger. They did their best to reason with them self that them doing it was probably better than some guard doing it.

‘crack’

They threw the first lash, aiming just to hit Andrew with the tips of the falls to avoid doing damage with the spikes. They looked over to the guards, then to Claudio who just nodded for them to continue.

‘crack’

This one drew a little blood, but Andrew was still silent and had not reacted.

“Harder, you hit like a child, dipshit,” Claudio taunted.

“Stop calling me that!” Youngest screamed, anger gripping them. They lashed out with the whip out of frustration with everything they had before they even realized what they were doing.

‘CRACK’

Andrew screamed, being hit with not just the tips this time, but the entirety of the falls. Blood trickled down their back.

Youngest immediately dropped the cat-o-nine, crying at what they had done. They had hurt someone innocent, they had hurt one of their own!

“Good, just like that you dumb little dipshit. Keep going!” Claudio ordered.

Youngest, swallowed, fighting down their emotion. They had to keep going to keep them both alive.

‘CRACK’

‘CRACK’

‘CRACK’

Blood was now flowing down Andrew’s back. He was shaking from the pain.

‘CRACK’

Again and again, he made the flogger come down on the other man’s back. He had lost count around 20 but was urged on.

Andrew’s pained screams had become broken sobs, his voice long since cracked from screaming.  Youngest’s clothes were splattered in blood, the whip was coated with it. It looked like something from the horror movies Whumpee and themself used to watch together. But this wasn’t a movie, this was real life, and worse, this was their doing.

Youngest dropped the whip for the last time. They began to hyperventilate. Trembling from head to toe, they slowly sunk to the ground, falling to their hands and knees. They wretched at the sight of their ally’s blood. The blood that they had drawn. They were supposed to be the hero, how could they do this.

“Continue Dipshit.” The order felt like ice in their veins. They simply responded by shaking their head.

“I said keep going!”

“I-if I continue, they will die.” Youngest choked out.

“Then they die, you don’t stop until I say.”

Youngest again resisted, not moving a muscle. They didn’t even bother to wipe the blood splatter that was on their face.

“Have it your way then,” Claudio hummed, pausing for a moment, “slit the spy’s throat.”

The guard nearest to Andrew began to step forward, service dagger in hand.

Youngest began to scream, “stop! No! Stop! NONONONO!”

their vision began to haze. Soon the screaming almost sounded like it was coming from someone else, and they were watching events unfold as if they were an observer. They saw themself begin to go out of control but were helpless to stop it. Their body gave off a faint glow as they cried out, desperate to halt the execution that was about to unfold right before their eyes.

All at once everything fell pin drop silent. Everything was frozen in time. They felt their throat and chest burning, and an eerie feeling crept across their mind at the sight of statues that were once moving people.

Suddenly things began to move again and Youngest realized the burning in their throat was from their own screaming. They then gasped in air, realizing their longs were aching because they hadn’t been breathing.

They found they were all of a sudden toe to toe with the guard holding the dagger. They punched with every ounce of strength they could muster. To their complete shock, the guard went flying against the wall behind him. He could hear yelling, the four guards scrambling, more getting called in.

They snapped Andrew’s chains; they could tell they were quickly losing all control. They felt themself going nuclear. Using their last moments of clarity, they grabbed the intel officer and rushed to the far door, ripping it open and throwing them through it.

“RUN!” Youngest yelled. They hoped the confusion they were creating would at least allow them to escape.

@whumperofworlds, @whumpsandbumps, @3-2-whump, @pigeonwhumps.

Day 7 Here >

That was the last thing they remembered clearly before everything got fuzzy.

*I did not have a beta reader for this, please let me know if there are errors. The word app on my phone sometimes glitches and I don't always catch it on my read throughs.

Event Prompts Here

My Event Masterlist Here

[meowjaa]

✧ underground ✧

warning: swearing, alcohol, knife mention, fighting, blood, the undergound, levi ackerman x fem!reader <33 if theres any other mentions I forgot please do not be afraid to let me know :))

context: fem!reader and levi are in the underground in their 20's and as y/n scraped up some coins for a decent amount of food she bumped into the levi..

a/n: enjoy this but uh as you can tell I love enemies to lovers but enjoy my loves <333

Y/N hurried through the dingy back alleys of the Underground, clutching her meager bag of food close. She kept her head down, focused on getting back to her makeshift home before anyone could try and rob her.

Turning a corner, she suddenly collided with something solid, stumbling back as her bag of food tumbled to the grimy street below.

"Hey, watch where you're going!" a male voice snapped.

Y/N looked up, dread filling her stomach when she saw who she had bumped into. Levi Ackerman, notorious thug who ran this sector of the Underground with his gang. His steel gray eyes were like shards of ice as he glared down at her.

Y/N straightened up defiantly, refusing to show weakness. "You're the one who should watch it. Do you own these streets or something?"

Levi's eyes narrowed dangerously at her challenging tone. "As a matter of fact, I do. And you'd do well to show some respect, girl."

But Y/N had never been one to back down or grovel before bullies. She met his glare unflinchingly. "Respect is earned, not demanded through intimidation."

They stared each other down, the animosity simmering between them. Levi wasn't used to people standing up to him this way, especially scrawny young girls. But something about her fiery gaze stirred him.

"Tch, not worth my time,” Levi muttered, shoving roughly past her.

But Y/N’s temper flared. She wasn't about to let this criminal walk away after knocking her food to the ground. She reached out and grabbed his shoulder.

"You could at least apologize, you arrogant pig!"

In a flash, Levi had her wrist in an iron grip, his face inches from hers. "You've got some real nerve laying hands on me like that," he said, voice low and dangerous.

Just then, Isabel and Furlan came skidding around the corner, having heard the commotion.

"Levi, stop!" Isabel shouted. She and Furlan hurried over to pull Levi off of Y/N before things could escalate further.

"C'mon bro, she ain't worth the hassle," Furlan muttered, though Levi kept his blistering gaze locked on Y/N.

Y/N wrenched her wrist from Levi's grasp, rubbing it gingerly. Her own defiant glower remained, refusing to show an ounce of weakness.

"Don't you dare touch me again, you Underground thug," she spat venomously.

Levi's hands clenched into fists at the insult. "Say that again. I dare you."

He wouldn't admit it, but her fire stirred something in him. Those challenging eyes that didn’t waver…

Isabel desperately clung to Levi's arm. "Please, big bro! Just walk away."

With visible effort, Levi tore his glare away from Y/N's. "Tch. This ain't over," he warned ominously before allowing Isabel and Furlan to drag him off.

Y/N watched his retreating figure, pulse racing. She despised that criminal Levi with every fiber of her being, yet she couldn't deny the begrudging attraction. The thrill of an opponent who didn't cower before her. She had a feeling this wasn't their last clash…

Over the next few weeks, Levi and Y/N inevitably crossed paths again in the Underground's twisting tunnels. Though they exchanged only biting words and cold glares, the animosity between them grew.

Y/N bristled whenever she heard Levi's name, whether it was murmured fearfully by other residents or boastfully by his lackeys. She took every chance she could to confront him, calling him out for intimidating and extorting vulnerable people.

Levi remained coldly dismissive, making snide remarks about her self-righteous attitude. But the more she stood up to him, the more intrigued he became. He found excuses to be in her vicinity, carefully observing this defiant girl who wasn't afraid to challenge him.

Their clashes became almost routine - Y/N provoking Levi by pointing out his flaws and immoral behavior, Levi reacting with threats to put her in her place. Yet beneath the venom, there was an undeniable tension.

One day, things finally boiled over when Y/N witnessed Levi shaking down a shopkeeper for money. She immediately intervened, shoving Levi away and yelling at him to pick on someone his own size for once.

Levi roughly grabbed her arm, eyes blazing. "You just don't know when to quit, do you?"

Y/N stood her ground, mere inches from his face. "You should at least pick on a toddler.. its your size"

For a moment, they stared fiercely at one another, chests heaving. Then, in a rush of adrenaline, Levi pulled Y/N against him and kissed her forcefully. Shocked but instinctively reciprocating, the kiss soon turned heated and hungry, years of simmering attraction finally unleashed.

When they finally broke apart, Y/N shook her head in disbelief. "This changes nothing. I still hate you," she insisted, hurrying away in bewilderment and shame at giving into temptation.

Levi watched her go, fingers brushing his lips. "Likewise," he muttered to the empty air. But they both knew it was a lie. What had started as enmity had evolved into an undeniable, complicated desire that could no longer be ignored…

part 2??

[ternfic]

Penance

Chapter Thirteen: Hell’s Bells

“Alastar.”

“I know.”

“Alastar, I know these people.”

“I know, Cary.”

“They’re all-?”

“Dead Master Builders. Yep.”

Sirius squeezed off several warning shots into the oncoming horde, biting his lip and stepping back until he bumped into Good Cop when the shots had no effect. “Ah,” Good Cop said. “Just a moment-” He swiped the pistol out of Sirius’s hands and popped the cover off. “Sir, do you still remember how to fence?”

“Well, it’s been a few years, but I should-” He paused. “…You know, a crowbar isn’t exactly designed with fencing in mind-”

“Unfortunately it’s the best we’ve got for now. Think you and Cary can hold them off for a couple minutes?”

“Are you out of your mind- what are you even doing?”

“Making some adjustments and hoping Cary doesn’t decide to strangle me for it afterwards,” Good Cop quipped as he conjured tools made of magic to do… whatever he was doing to Bad Cop’s laser gun. Bad Cop quirked an eyebrow at his brother, but said nothing, instead taking the crowbar from Sirius.

“Hey!” the President protested, but fell silent when Bad Cop broke the hooked end off before handing it back. “…I can’t see how that little piece is going to do you much good.”

“Not like this it isn’t,” Bad Cop agreed. Sirius stared as he fashioned a pair of brass knuckles from the broken piece of iron.

“You’re sure that’ll work?”

“We’re about to find out.” Sirius sighed and rolled up his sleeves, giving the iron bar a few test swings. When he glanced back up, they were surrounded. The looks on the ghosts’ faces were unsettling, to say the least. As he looked at them he could see anger; grief; fear. He felt cold, then, like ice was running through his veins.

Master Builders, each and every one of them… And their deaths are our faults… He breathed in and out slowly to try to calm his nerves. He couldn’t blame them for wanting revenge- he would, too. Bad Cop glanced over at him as the tip of the crowbar dipped slightly, watching him warily. Would it really be so bad to just… let them? It’s no less than I deserve…

Almost as one the crowd of dead Master Builders swarmed them, separating Sirius from Bad Cop with a speed the officer couldn’t keep up with. He growled, throwing himself into the fight, but the ghosts were remarkably organized, making a concerted effort to keep him from getting to his friend. It made him wonder- was the Ringmaster controlling them, the way he was controlling Keelan? But at least it was keeping their attention off of Good Cop, allowing him to finish making his adjustments.

Good Cop glanced up as the crowbar slipped from Sirius’ grasp and hit the floor with a solid thunk, followed shortly by the President himself. “Sirius!” he shouted, but the President didn’t answer, hunching over and disappearing in the swarm. He gasped as he went unexpectedly cold, as though icy fingers had reached into his chest; it was like the whispers all over again, but inside him where he couldn’t block them out. Bad Cop faltered, apparently feeling the same thing, and Good Cop could only guess that was what had affected Sirius so badly.

He steeled himself against the despair so persistently trying to drown him, and snapped the cover of the blaster back into place. In his peripheral he could see Bad Cop go down; he’d given it his best, but his fighting style was useless against the intangible, when only the strikes enhanced with the iron would land. Good Cop took aim.

“I am not weak.”

He squeezed the trigger, smirking in satisfaction as a wave of energy tore through the spirits harassing Sirius. They vanished like smoke, and he hurried to his friend’s side. He fired again, dispelling Bad Cop’s assailants next. It would provide only a brief reprieve, but it was enough to allow Bad Cop to pull himself to his brother’s side. “Is anything broken?” Good Cop asked, checking him over.

“Not yet,” Bad Cop grunted. “Sirius?”

“Come on buddy, come back…”

“Just let ‘em finish me,” he murmured brokenly. “Can never make up for it…”

“That’s not like you to just give up,” Bad Cop growled back.

“He’s in deep,” Good Cop murmured.

“Where’s Brickowski when you need a heartfelt speech?” Good Cop huffed and swatted at his brother, and Sirius snorted, finally peeking up at them.

“There you are,” Good Cop greeted warmly, giving him a soft smile. “I told you these ghosts have a way of getting under your skin.”

“Look out!” Bad Cop snatched up the crowbar, sweeping it in a wide arc as the ghosts made a comeback, shrieking in fury as they descended upon the trio. Good Cop lifted the blaster again, but it was quickly knocked from his hands before he could use it. He didn’t waste a moment in calling forth his magic, hovering protectively over Sirius as he joined his brother in the fight.

They were too distracted to notice Keelan starting to stir.

With a screech the youngest of the triplets pounced on Sirius, shoving him to the ground. He let out a scream as claws began to slash mercilessly into him, and no amount of thrashing would dislodge Keelan.

“Sirius!” Good Cop cried out, but in his distraction was dragged further away. The ghosts returned as quickly as they were dispersed, overwhelming the two brothers. Soon, Sirius lost sight of the cops altogether under the mass of furious ghosts.

Keelan paused with his hand wrapped around Sirius’ throat, and glanced up at something approaching them. Or someone, Sirius realized as he tilted his head back just enough to see. Judging from the green haze, it wasn’t any of their friends.

“Well done,” said a familiar voice. Sirius stared. The Ringmaster wasn’t quite what he remembered. Mostly in that he wasn’t quite human anymore. His skin had been dark in life, but now it was outright black, like the cops’ uniforms. But mostly, it was his eyes. They weren’t like a human’s eyes anymore, with recognizable pupils and irises and whites. They were a solid, glowing green. And there were four of them. He grinned, revealing sharp teeth, and turned to the cops, showing off two rows of spines that reminded Sirius of lionfish fins, the bulbous ends glowing the same green. “I don’t think our guests have much fight left in them, now. All we have left to do is wait for the audience to arrive.” He glanced over to where the ghosts dropped his friends, the cops looking the worst he’d seen them in a long time. Bad Cop’s back was to him, but Good Cop sported several bruises and scratches on his face, and a split lip, the lenses of his glasses shattered, the frames mangled. Their uniforms were in much the same state as his suit, and he could only guess at the extent of the hidden damage. “Let’s start with your boss, shall we?”

“No, no you can’t do this to Keelan, please! He’s innocent!” Good Cop begged. Bad Cop struggled to get back to his feet, silent, but his expression promised there would be hell to pay.

Sirius took a deep breath and looked back up into Keelan’s empty eyes. “Come on, kiddo, I know you’re still in there,” he started, and choked when Keelan pressed harder against his throat. He struggled to get his next words out. “Listen to your brothers…” Shakily, he reached up until his hands were on the youngest triplet’s shoulders, yanking him down into a tight embrace. The hand around his throat went slack in surprise. “Fight him!” Keelan screeched, thrashing to get free, and he held on for dear life.

The Ringmaster crouched down near his head, grinning a Cheshire cat grin. “That’s sweet, that you think he can hear you. I have his mind, and he will do my bidding until I get bored and kill him.” He caught something flying toward him out of the corner of his eye, and jerked out of the way just in time for the crowbar to go crashing into the wall. He turned a furious look to where Bad Cop still held one arm out from throwing it. “So you do still have some fight in you!”

“You have no idea,” Bad Cop snarled in response. “I’ve already been through Hell, you’ve got nothing to keep me down.”

“So you figured you’d try to take me on all alone?”

“That’s just it. You’ve been so focused on keeping your hold on Keelan, you haven’t even realized…”

“…He’s not alone,” Emmet finished.