#dark red rash on skin

[yeyinde]

waking up after a night out drinking in a foreign country only to realise that the bed you're in is not your own. no one is beside you. you try to leave but the doors are all locked. the windows won't open. you're trapped. a pretty bird in a cage.

nothing is in the dressers except large, old shirts. the clothes you were wearing when you woke up disappear after you take a shower. no panties. no bra. food shows up on schedule. you never see who leaves it.

they don't answer when you scream. when you bang your fists against the door until they're bloodied. passing out on the floor when the drugs finally kick in. but the mess you make in the daytime is cleaned up. your hands bandaged. disapproval heavy in the air along with the stale scent of tobacco. smoke.

when you're good, you get things. books. magazines. treats. your favourite food. a laptop arrives when you sob yourself to sleep after screaming yourself hoarse about loneliness, and how this isn't right. this isn't okay. it's restricted, of course. you log into Facebook but the moment you try and ask for help, the internet is turned off. you're being watched. monitored closely.

you learn your lesson slowly, giving nothing away to your family and pretending you're enjoying your holiday. being good. quiet.

instead of treats, gifts, recipe books arrive—some pages dogeared. you start making the food. leaving a plate in the fridge. it's gone the next morning. more recipes appear. you make them, too. an expensive chain comes next. a pretty gold necklace for a pretty bird in a golden cage.

(each meal gets you a strange rash on your cheek, jaw the next morning. beard burn, you think, and try not to shudder.)

lingerie comes after. silk, lace. all of it fits perfectly. you try to avoid it. the idea, the implication, is a knife between your ribs, but the next morning, your laptop is missing. the books are gone. food, too. your clothes disappear until all that remains is the lingerie set and a little black box. one you pointedly ignore. throw out with the trash. chew on gum to make the ache in your belly go away until that vanishes too.

your world is narrowed down to hunger. loneliness. isolation—

(in the corner of the rooms, a red light glints in the dark. lonely, but not alone.)

it persists until you relent. give in. another lesson you learn. you wear the set to bed, and try to think nothing of it—

you wake up to something heavy around you. a warm, thick body pressed against your bare spine. coarse chair tickling the skin between your shoulder blades. a burly arm under your neck, elbow bent to wrap a rough hand around your neck. the other slung over your hip, shoved between your thighs. something hard presses into your ass. a bruising pressure. it aches. you stifle a gasp, but with his long, thick fingers wrapped tight around your throat, he feels it.

everything goes still. quiet. just the faint rustle of sheets. the scratch of coarse hair on silk. a breath. you tremble. fight back another gasp when lips press into your crown with a sharp inhale. scenting you. nuzzling into your scalp. warm breath that smalls of malt and honey. woodsy. tobacco.

your eyes adjust slowly to the dark, and fall on a black box left on top of your end table. velvet, you know. you've felt the softness between your fingers when you threw it in the trash with a sob. no escaping it, after all.

the hand between your thighs twitches. when he speaks, it shudders through your spine, makes your hair stand on end. it's a growling purr. the low roar of an old engine. more grit than comfort in the midnight dark.

"jus' close your eyes, love," he rasps, pushing his thick body tighter against you. coiling around you like a big, hungry bear. "an' go back to sleep for me."

and you do.

[innerfare]

Shanks NSFW // Smut Compilation 

Summary: A compilation of Shanks smut from my multi character posts (Kisses, Going Down On You, Fingering You, Sex Toys, Playing With Your Nipples, Threesomes, His Favorite Place).

Genre: Pure Smut

CW: NSFW // sloppy kisser Shanks, light exhibitionism, toys, oral sex (Shanks giving), Daddy Shanks, threesome x Beckman, threesome x Mihawk

———

Kisses: 

You’d better like the taste of liquor, weed, and cigarettes because that’s what this man tastes like. And you know that’s what this man tastes like because his tongue is always in your mouth, his scruff pushing against your cheeks. He has no sense of propriety, and you’ve probably made out in front of the crew more times than you haven’t. You’ve also made out on the beach, in countless dark alleyways, and just about anywhere else he can convince you to have him. He’s the type to shove his tongue down your throat, but what he really wants is for you to shove yours down his throat. 

Playing With Your Nipples: 

Genuinely doesn’t understand why it’s not acceptable to play with your nipples through your shirt in public. Men grab their girl’s ass all the time in public. Sometimes, they’ll even spank them. And while you protest to him grabbing or swatting your ass in front of the crew, it’s always a halfhearted complaint. But when he starts squeezing your tits and feeling for your nipples… well, suddenly that’s a problem, one he thinks is asinine. If you don’t wear a bra around this man, he will be pinching your nipples, and if he does that, it’s only a matter of time before his mouth is on them, so you really ought to wear a bra. He’s definitely guilty of unclasping your bra in public (magician’s fingers). 

Fingering You: 

You never know what you’re going to get with Shanks, but you always know you’re going to get something. He’s the handiest man you’ve ever met, always copping a feel. When you walk past him, sometimes he’ll reach out and grab your hand. Other times, he’ll simply brush his hand against your thigh. And sometimes, he’ll drag you over to him and shove a finger inside you, not even warming you up (not that it takes much from him to get you wet, just a, “baby, come here,” in that rocky voice of his and a sloppy kiss that tastes like weed). And when he does finger you, you have no idea if he’s going to lazily stroke your clit until you orgasm, you whining and writhing on top of him while he lounges lazily in his hammock, or if he’s going to take you to the edge and then fuck your orgasm out of you with his cock. 

Going Down On You: 

Swears it’s a hangover cure, and this man is hungover every single morning. He’ll wake up with a pounding headache, and before he’s even opened his eyes, he’s reaching for you. He’ll paw at you like a lazy animal until you remove your panties for him and he can fall face first into your delicious cunt. He’s trained your cunt like Pavlov’s dog, too, so that you wake up wet in the morning, your clit throbbing like an alarm clock. 

“Always ready for me,” he’ll mumble in his raspy morning voice. “Nice and wet. That's my girl.” 

You actually get a rash on your inner thighs from his stubble constantly rubbing against your sensitive skin, and you have to sheepishly approach Hongo for some sort of cream. Hongo has been on the Red Force long enough that he’s not phased, though you are so embarrassed you try to ban Shanks from going down on you for a while (spoiler alert: it doesn’t work). 

“I’d rather lose my arm than skip breakfast.” 

He’ll spend most of his time between your legs licking with broad strokes of his tongue, only pointing it and attacking your clit when you’re already on the brink of orgasm. He’ll finger you as you cum and won’t stop until you’re a crying mess, begging him to stop. Of course, he’ll only stop for as long as it takes him to get his cock out and push it in. 

His Favorite Place: 

His favorite place to fuck you, hands down, is the beach, bonus points if it’s at night and he’s had a few. Shanks lives to feel coarse sand and sea foam in all the wrong places, to smell the salty ocean air and seaweed while he’s in between your legs, to risk anyone seeing how excited you get when he tells you he's about to cum inside you. It’s uncomfortable and kind of gross, and he loves it. After he’s had his way with you, he’ll drag you into the surf to splash around and wash away the sand coating your skin after he pinned you down and fucked you so hard your knees wobble with each wave that hits. 

Threesome Headcanons 1: 

Beckman doesn’t share often, but when he does, it’s exclusively with Shanks. Shanks insisting Beckman’s cock is too big for you and ordering you to ride his face first. You trying your best to suck Beckman’s huge cock while Shanks tongues you but struggling to do anything with the captain working between your legs. Shanks finally relenting and allowing Beckman to skewer you on his cock, jerking himself off while he watches. Beckman starting slow because he’s well aware of his size and pounding into you by the end. You can’t even speaks by the time Shanks is fucking you. Shanks acting lazy the entire time but he’s calling all the shots. 

Threesome Headcanons 2: 

Shanks making out with both you and Mihawk and then grinning when the two of you make out with each other. Mihawk allowing his more submissive side to show, laying back against the pillows to watch you and Shanks kiss. Mihawk and Shanks stroking each others’ cocks while you watch, the more dominant side you always knew was lurking beneath Shanks’ veneer of nonchalance rearing its head when it’s just the three of you. Shanks watching with a satisfied grin as you whip a bound Mihawk, coaxing you to suck on Mihawk's cock until you choke, and then cumming on your face. 

Sex Toys: 

Kinkiest man alive, more than willing to incorporate any number of vibrators, plugs, and cock rings into your routine, but he likes to do his own dirty work and get you off with his mouth. Despite being more of a titties man, prefers butt plugs to nipple clamps, but uses them sparingly. Only on the nights when daddy dom Shanks comes out to play do you end up on all fours with both holes full and his calloused hand around your throat. 

———

Hope you enjoyed it! If you want more, you can check out my masterlist here!

[cheapshrimpysheep]

hi, is it okay if I request a comfort(?) scenario/headcanons where Leona, vil and rook(separately) has a s/o who starts randomly wearing gloves and hiding their hands from them due to getting really bad contact dermatitis from their work and not really able to do anything about it work wise

COMMENTS: Coincidentally, I myself have problems with dermatitis on my hands. So, perhaps what I wrote comes a lot from my own experience. Especially the thing about using an ointment that worked once and for some reason no longer works. 😅 And having some trouble sleeping because of the itching.

I hope you and all enjoy it ❤️‍🩹

CHARACTERS: Leona Kingscholar / Vil Schoenheit / Rook Hunt

TAGS: Comfort; Fluff; GN Reader

WORD COUNT: An average of 610 words per character

Contact dermatitis is an itchy, inflamed rash that develops when your skin comes into contact with an irritant or allergen. There are two main types: Irritant contact dermatitis and Allergic contact dermatitis.

I decided to go with the first one since Irritant contact dermatitis is the most common type. It's caused by a substance that irritates the skin, such as soaps, detergents, solvents, or harsh chemicals.

CONTEXT: You got dermatitis after cleaning Ramshackle Dorm. It's not the first time, you already had it before, so you think you know how to treat it. Nobody needs to know. So you will take care of your hands at home and whenever you go out you will wear gloves to try to protect them. You'll be fine in no time... Right...?

Leona knew something was wrong the moment he saw you wearing gloves. Nobody starts wearing gloves out of nowhere just because. But he didn't need to ask anything because he saw you moving your hands as if those gloves were uncomfortable. And once or twice he saw you scratching your hands through your gloves and stopping immediately as if you had remembered that you shouldn't do it.

He wasn't going to get involved. At least not if it looked like you were getting better. But on the second day, you still itched. And on the third day, you had bigger dark circles than usual and the itching seemed the same or worse.

You had just returned to Ramshackle Dorm and the first thing you did was take off your gloves and run to the bathroom to treat your hands. Why didn't that get better? You were using the same ointment as last time.

“You should go to the infirmary.” Grim said “Hench-humans should take better care of themselves so they are always ready.” He teases you before showing actual concern. “You're not even sleeping well. I wake up to you scratching yourself every five minutes.”

You won't admit it, but he's right. You should go to the infirmary. Maybe tomorrow. That's what you're thinking when you hear someone knocking on the door. But you can't cover your hands now, the ointment is still working. So you open the door with one hand, using the door hide this one and place the other behind your back.

“Show me your hands.” Leona demands calmly. You look surprised and confused. “Show me your hands.” he reiterates, crossing his arms but still patient.

“Why?” you ask.

“Why are you hiding them?” he asks back. “If everything is normal, why don't you show me?” and smiles smugly.

I mean, he's right. Who opens the door with one hand behind their back. This is very suspicious. You hesitate, but end up stretching your arms in front of you to show your red hands and unhealthy skin.

But Leona isn’t surprised. He barely even reacts. As if you had just confirmed his suspicions. He takes off one of his own gloves and puts it in his pocket, holding one of your hands with his gloved hand while he runs the other carefully over your broken skin, to feel it. Does he know it's not contagious?

“The ointment isn't working, is it?” He sais. You had just put it in your hand, so he definitely felt the moist. He puts the glove back on. “Do you have your keys?”

You say they are on the entrance table.

“So grab them and let's go. Unless you want to be locked out of the dorm.”

“Let’s go where?”

“To the herbivores club party. To the infirmary. Where else? If you don't go there alone, someone has to take you. Don't tell me you forgot where it is?” he smiles smugly again. “And don't make me pick you up. You know I would.”

Vil saw your new gloves. Were you trying to change your style a little? No. That's not it. You were uncomfortable with those gloves. He knows about fashion, the same way he knows when a person is using a piece to hide some part of their body.

After classes you went back to Ramshackle Dorm, took off your gloves and applied the ointment. It had worked last time, but this time it didn't seem to be having any effect. You had just come out of the bathroom, with your hands smeared with pumice, when someone knocked on the door. Damn it.

You can't cover your hands now, so you open the door with one hand, using the door hide this one and place the other behind your back.

“Hello (Y/N)” Vil greets you. “I apologize for the sudden appearance, but can I come in to talk to you about something?”

You think for a second, you can keep hiding your hands behind your back, so you tell him he can come in. He enters and you close the door behind you, always hiding your hands.

“You've never used gloves before. It's not your style.” It didn't sound like he was criticizing you, like he tends to do with a lot of people. In fact, he sounded quite calm and neutral, almost understanding. “If there's one thing I know how to distinguish when someone starts using a new accessory, it's whether they're using it to try to improve their appearance or to hide themselves. And this second one tends to be a sensitive subject. That's why I thought it would be best to ask you in private. Did something happen to your hands? Are you injured?”

You tell him no, that you're not injured. Well, not exactly in that sense of the word at least. You end up telling him the truth about your skin and how it has reacted to cleansing products.

“Dermatitis? Let me see. I want to know how bad it is.” He now has that judgmental look on his eyes. Which makes you hesitate a little, but you are now also at the point of no return.

You take your hands from behind your back and show Vil your red hands and unhealthy skin, without being able to look him directly in the eyes.

“For the Great Seven! And you let your skin reach this point?” he scolds you. “When did this happen? Have you gone to the infirmary already?”

You say you went there the last time this happened and they gave you an ointment, which was what you were applying.

“And is it having any effect?” He asks. You say that, compared to last time, not really. “Then get ready to go to the infirmary.” He thinks for a second if you should protect your hands from the sun, which reminds him of the gloves he saw you wearing that day. “Let me see the gloves you were wearing.”

You go get the gloves and give them to him. He looks at you disapprovingly as soon as he picks them up.

“These cheap gloves? This material is horrendous! It's probably making your situation even worse.” He throws the gloves onto the entrance table. If there had been a rubbish bin there he would have thrown it in there. He takes off his own gloves and hands them to you. “Here, use mine. They are cotton inside.” You hesitate. His gloves? And they must be expensive. “You can keep them. I have many more like these.”

As you put on his gloves, he details his new plans with you.

“We will go to the infirmary and you will hear everything they told you to do and use. After that, we will review all your cleaning products and materials you use that come into contact with your hands and can create this reaction again. If we have to get rid of everything and buy new products we will do so.” You look at him and show your concern about the price of these possible new products. “If they are truly that expensive, I'll buy them for you. Your hands won't go back to this state on my watch. And then you come with me to Pomefiore to analyze your skin and find products to protect and care for your hands. Did you understood?”

Que Adorable! Rook thinks. Trickster really thought they could hide something from me? That really entertain him. Seeing you wearing gloves and trying to hide how uncomfortable you were wearing them and trying not to scratch your hands too much. You reminded him of an animal that tries to hide the fact that it is seriously injured.

Even though it was funny at first, he couldn't see you like this. He assumed what it was from the symptoms you show, but he didn't want to talk to you in front of others. After all, if you were trying to hide it, it's because he didn't want others to know.

He sneakily followed you to Ramshackle Dorm. You opened the door, letting Grim enter first to run to the kitchen for some snacks. You pass the door jamb and it's when you go to close the door that you hear

“Bonjour, Trickster!” Rook’s head pops from the side. He lets out a little muffled laugh at how startled you were. “I spotted yor new pair of glove on your hands. Are you perhaps trying a new look? Merveilleux! It's exciting to try out new accessories to express another side of ourselves, isn't it? However...” His friendly look now changes to that hunter look of his. And the smile of someone who cannot be deceived. “I don't believe that's the real motive you're wearing those gloves. Am I mistaken?”

You don't even know how to answer him. He already knows the truth and you know there's nothing you can do about it. His expression returns to normal, he now has that characteristic resting smile on his face.

“There's no need to be shy with me. I purposely came to talk to you here because I knew it wasn't something you wanted to discuss in public.” And now his smile has faded into that slightly more serious look that he only tends to have when something worries him a little, or when he feels that the situation is not so light. “I saw how you itched your hands, how uncomfortable you were with the gloves. It's a skin problem, isn't it? Maybe dermatitis?”

You don't say anything. It's not necessary. He knows the answer just by looking at you, your face, your posture. And your hands were starting to itch again.

“Please, you can take off your gloves. They are clearly only making your situation worse.” You hesitate. “It really hurts me to see you suffering like this. No matter how damaged your skin is, I know that your hands are as beautiful as the rest of you and that they just need treatment to become très belles again. And if you allow me to help with your recovery, I will do so with the greatest love and care.” He smiles charmingly at you, the type of smile that makes you feel safe.

You take off your gloves, showing him your red hands and unhealthy skin.

“Sacrebleu! What did this to your hands?”

You tell him it was your cleaning products and about the ointment you were using since the last time that happened to you. And, unfortunately, it doesn't seem to be having much effect this time.

“We must go to the infirmary if it's not working anymore.” He proclaims, embodying his dramatic self. “Ooh, your poor, beautiful hands, threatened by something that should assist you caring for your home and yourself. They must be replaced. I will happily help you with it and get you gloves that will protect you in the future. Fear not, my dear Trickster. Shall your hands be healthy once again.”

If you dropped in here out of the blue and want to read more from me, you can find it in my pinned post: INDEX

[kaynanarie]

Eyes of Gold (Part 1)

(A WukongxReader story inspired by Beauty and the Beast and Lutung Kasarung.) (Part 2) (Part 3)

            Even in the daytime, the Mountain of Fruit and Flowers was a daunting place to be. You huddled under one of the massive trees, no idea what to do or where to go. Tears trickled down your face as you fought the urge to scratch your itchy skin, wishing you could wake up from this nightmare.

            The feeling of eyes watching you haunted your senses and sent chills down your spine. There were too many shadows to see where the gaze came from but plenty of demons inhabited the mountain, most with a taste for vulnerable humans.

            A quiet thump startled you from your thoughts. Something rolled across the forest floor, coming to a careful stop by your feet. It took you a moment to recognize what it is; a peach, perfectly ripe with a delicate blush on its fuzzy skin. You picked it up and looked around before finding where it came from.

            Gold, glowing eyes were watching from the darkness, staying low to the ground as they approached. You nearly screamed when from the bushes emerged…

            A monkey. A normal, brown furred, curly tailed monkey. You let out a relieved laugh while the creature just stared with his peculiar golden eyes.

            “Hey, cutie,” you greeted, holding the peach up. “Is this yours?”

            When you rolled the fruit back, the monkey glanced between it and you. Picking it up, the monkey hopped closer, tossing the peach back into your lap.

            “Is it for me?” you asked teasingly. The answering nod was unexpected and set you on edge. “Well…thank you, I supposed.”

            You pulled out your knife; a tiny, dull blade no bigger than your finger. The monkey watched you warily as you cut into the peach and offered a sliced piece of the fruit. “I don’t mind sharing.”

            Snatching the snack from your fingers, the monkey nibbled on his share while you cut a slice for yourself. You’d barely taken a bite when he shuffled closer, meeting your eye with a curious tilt of its head.

            “Why were you crying?”

            You almost inhaled your peach in surprise. Hearing the monkey speak nearly sent you through a new wave of panic. Instead, you found yourself too tired and resigned to do much more than stare.

            “I…” you trailed off when tears started to gather. The monkey frowned but said nothing, waiting patiently for your answer. “I’ve been curse.”

            “How so?”

            A sigh left your lips, the peach forgotten in your fidgeting hands. “It’s a long story.”

            The monkey hopped over to sit at your side, expectant and attentive. “I like stories.”

            “It’s not a happy one,” you warned.

            A small paw patted your hand in comfort. “Sharing a burden is the best way to lessen it.”

            Knowing he wasn’t planning to leave you be, you dried your eyes and began your tale.

            “My father is a noble in the village. About a month ago, he invited his friend’s son to be a guest in our house. He planned to arrange a match with my sister or I to unite the families. A few days before he arrived, though, this happened.”

            Rolling up the sleeve of your robe, you held out your forearm for the monkey to see. The skin was blotched with a red, blistery rash. Your nails scratching at the itch had left it raw and stinging, only just avoiding drawing blood.

            “When my family saw the affliction, they locked me in my room, fearing it would spread. My sister was allowed at the meeting and an engagement was quickly agreed upon.”

            “So, you ran away because of a broken heart?” the monkey guessed, no jest or mockery in his curious tone. 

            “No, I didn’t know him so marriage was not my concern,” you answered, shaking your head with a smile. “My sister’s fiancé is handsome but he is spoiled and sheltered. She already orders him about like a servant. I do not envy their union but do wish them the best.”

            “Why come to the mountain, then?”

            You sat back against the tree, the physical and emotional pain taking its toll. “Part of my sister’s promised dowry was an orchard of fruit trees near the mountain. The only problem was, they didn’t actually belong to my father. When he went to stake a claim, it angered the Monkey King. Sun Wukong himself appeared, accusing him of stealing and desecrating his mountain. My father begged for his life, offering anything in return before escaping. We barely heard the story before he had packed his things and fled, leaving my sister in charge of his estate. He’s incurred the Monkey King’s wrath and fears he will be killed for his crimes if he returns.”

            The monkey seemed surprised for the first time. “I’m sure it was a misunderstanding; easily fixed and appeased.”

            “Misunderstand or not, my father is gone and my sister took advantage of his absence,” you said, bitterness creeping into your words. “She convinced the village I was to blame. That my illness was proof of a curse that doomed our father and threatened her engagement. She was the one who sent me here, so that my death might appease the Monkey King and atone for my father’s transgressions.”

            “That’s ridiculous! You shouldn’t have to pay for the sins of your father.” The monkey climbed up to perch on your knees, shaking his head in disbelief. “Our King is not so cruel. He only wants to protect the mountain and his people.”

            “I’ve heard stories about him,” you argued. “The only reason I’m still alive is he doesn’t know I’m here.”

            “But he does know you’re here.”

            His casual reveal froze you in place, icy panic stealing your breath and quickening your heartbeat. You looked around, only seeing inconspicuous forest. “He does!?”

            The monkey nodded. “He sent me to find out your intentions. Now that I know, you’re free to stay as long as you follow his rules.”

            “But…what if he doesn’t approve?” you asked, still nervous and unconvinced. “Or what if another demon attacks me instead? Or–”

            Leaning forward, the monkey patted your cheeks in a gesture somewhere between silly and soothing. “I promise, I won’t let anything happen to you. Okay?”

            Despite the average look of the monkey, his golden eyes shown with determination and sincerity in his oath. Even such a small act of kindness was enough to put you at ease.

            “That’s very sweet of you.”

            Leaping off of your knee, he tugged at your sleeve and pointed into the forest. “Come with me. I know a place you can stay for the night. It’s not much but it’ll keep you safe.”

            You scramble to your feet, watching as the monkey scaled a nearby tree. He waited on one of the overhead branches, swinging to the next to lead you down a path only he could see.

            “Thank you,” you said, following after him. As you walked, you realized a lapse in manners that made you blush. “I don’t think you ever told me your name?”

            “Shihou!” a voice answered from the branches. The monkey suddenly appeared in front of your face, hanging by his long tail, lips curled in a cheeky smile. “You can call me Shihou.”

[heli-writes]

A dragon's heart, part 6.

Pairing: Barbarian!Bakugou Katsuki x female!reader

Summary: The dragonblood tribe is known for being cruel, barbarian warriors that slaughter, loot and rape all places they pass through. They are feared among the villagers and even bigger cities. Having lost most of their women to a plague, they're trying to ensure their tribe's survival by kidnapping women from other places. However, they're not the only monsters in human form out there. When y/n experiences this first hand, she has no choice but to ask for help from no other but the barbarian leader Katsuki Bakugou himself.

Disclaimer: mentions of injuries, mentions of dead animals, gutting and skinning of animals, mentions of chopping (animal) meat

[Please don't read if you are sensible to or triggered by the topics mentioned above.]

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7

Series Masterlist

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Y/n managed to stay up the entire night. She almost dozed off at dawn but a particularly loud crack next to their campsite startled her. Turns out it was just a small animal but it was enough to get her heart pumping that she stayed up for the rest of the night.

Katsuki wakes up later than usual. Y/n waited for him to stir until she got up and started to heat some water.

Katsuki sits up and rubs his face. His back aches and his leg still feels like it got, well stabbed. He watches y/n prepare some tea. When she walks over to him with two cups, he notices the dark circle under her eyes.

“You look like shit.“, he tells her. Y/n looks up with tired eyes and just hands him his cup. “Did you sleep last night?“, he asks with furrowed eyes. Y/n takes a sip from her tea.

Katsuki sighs. It's starting to annoy him that she doesn't understand him. Maybe he should teach her his language soon. At least a little bit.

“We need to get food for today.“, he tells her. Y/n states into her cup. She really feels the sleepless night. Katsuki watches her and starts to feel concerned. Y/n definitely needs to lie down.

They sit in silence for a while. Eventually, y/n gets up and gets the medicine bag. Katsuki finishes his tea as y/n gets ready to take a look at his wound.

Carefully, she unwraps the bandages on his leg and inspects the wound. The skin around the stitches is red and irritated but not infected. That's good, y/n thinks. She cleans her hand with some alcohol and smears some more rash cream into the wound. Then, she uses fresh bandages to wrap his leg up again.

When she looks up, she is met with Katsuki's ruby-red eyes. He's been watching her treat his wound intently. Her fingertips felt soft against his skin. She works a lot more carefully than the healers from his tribe. Of course, he can handle a more rough handling but it feels nice the way y/n does it.

“You need to take a nap.“, he tells her sternly. He starts to get up to make space for her on the bedroll. Alerted, y/n looks up and raises her hands. “No! You need to stay down or you will rip your stitches!“, she exclaims.

Katsuki swats her hands away and stands up on wobbly legs. Y/n quickly gets up and stabilizes him. Again, Katsuki swats at her and points at her and then at the bedroll. “Lay down!“, he commands.

Y/n watches Katsuki limp towards his dragon. He pats the lizard's neck and grumbles something into its ear. The heavy lizard rises up and starts flopping its wings. The rush of air almost makes Katsuki fall onto his butt if it weren't for y/n rushing over to him. Together, they watch the dragon disappear in the sky.

Nervously, y/n starts bombarding him with questions. “Where is he going? Will he come back? Why did you send him away?“, she rambles. Katsuki silences her with a swing of his hand. “You.“, he points at her. “Bedroll.“, he continues pointing at the bedroll. Then, he grabs her arms and pulls her towards it.

Reluctantly, y/n follows. Katsuki flops down next to the bedroll and points at the bedroll. Uncertainly, y/n sits down on the cushion. Katsuki gives her an angry look. “Down!“, he orders and puts a hand on her head pushing it down. At first, y/n resists but eventually, she caves. There's no point in arguing with Katsuki. He pulls his cape over her.

She looks up at him with wide eyes. “Don't look at me like that.“, Katsuki mumbles and ruffles her hair. “Sleep!“, he tells her. “Sleep?“, y/n repeats carefully. Her pronunciation is a bit off, but it's a good try, Katsuki thinks. He nods. “Yes, sleep!“, he repeats and mimics sleeping with his hands and eyes. He makes a snoring sound. With closed eyes, he hears y/n giggle. He opens his eyes again and gives her a lopsided grin. Y/n looks up at him with warm but tired eyes.

“Sleep.“, y/n mumbles in his language as she turns away from him pulling his cape over her shoulders.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Y/n wakes up a few hours later not feeling a lot better than before. She misses her foldable matress and her warm tent. Sleeping on the ground in the open air is not giving her the most restfull kind of sleep. She stretches and her joints make an unhealthy crackling sound.

Katsuki is sitting next to her. Y/n isn't sure if he moved or if he sat beside her the entire time. Part of her hopes he didn't. She really doesn't want to redo all the stitches just because Katsuki can't sit still.

"Mornin' princess.", Katsuki says and gives her a small grin. Y/n sits up. The air is cool around her and she instinctively rubs her arms. Katsuki reaches out to her and touches the side of her arm as if he were checking her temperature. Instinctively, y/n leans into his touch. Katsuki's so warm.

The loud flopping of wings rips both of them out of their thoughts. The dragon lands next to them and drops a dead deer in front of them.

„Appetizing.“, y/n comments dryly. Katsuki snickers. He may not understand exactly what she said, but he gets the sentiment in her voice and face. Chuckling, he ruffles through her hair and limps over to the deer. Upon inspection, he's sure that his dragon tracked down the flock Katsuki was hunting.

Katsuki takes his hunting knife and starts gutting and skinning the animal. He watches y/n's mimic while doing so. Y/n is surprisingly unfazed by the sight and eventually starts to build a fire. Katsuki cuts the animal into almost even parts. Smaller ones for him and y/n, the largest portion for his dragon.

„Y/n!“, he calls out to her and waves her towards him. Y/n follows suit and walks over to Katsuki who is standing with about ¾ of a deer next to the dragon. He chops off a huge part of the leg and holds it out to her.

„What am I supposed to do with this?“, y/n asks and crooks her head. Katsuki takes an equally large piece of meat and holds it out to the dragon which immediately grabs it out of Katsuki's hand with its snout. Katsuki then points at y/n and at the dragon.

„Me? I don't know...“, y/n says reluctantly. She had seen enough of the dragon's teeth when she gave him the tea a while back. „Don't be a pussy.“, Katsuki says challenging but with a crooked grin on his face. He snaps his finger and points at the dragon that watches y/n already expectantly.

Y/n hesitates for a moment, then steps a bit forward holding the meat towards the dragon with a wide-stretched arm. The dragon snaps at the meat and y/n can hear the bones in it crunching. Somehow it makes her really proud she was courageous enough to do it. She squeaks and almost jumps into Katsuki's arms who lets out a booming laugh.

„You little shit!“, he laughs and ruffles her hair again. Y/n looks up at him and gives him a big grin. Katsuki's aware of the impression of his dragon. Most people are instinctively scared by the beast and that rightfully so. He's never seen one of the other women his men brought home to get even close to their tribe's dragons. They usually stay in their mate's tents. It's rare they ever leave their accommodation and if they do, they're an eery sight. At least in Katsuki's opinion.

He's ripped out of his thoughts when he sees y/n reaching out to the dragon with an outstretched hand. „Hey!“, Katsuki warns and grabs her hands. At that moment, the dragon snaps at her. If it weren't for Katsuki, y/n's hand would be dragon food right now. „It's not a pet. They're proud beings. You can't just touch them without their permission.“, Katsuki tries to explain. Y/n looks a bit embarrassed. The dragon watches y/n with a wary expression in its eyes.

Y/n bows her head low in front of the dragon and mumbles an apology. Katsuki isn't sure whether he finds that impressive or hilarious. It's clear that it's an action of respect. It's also a stupid idea to lower your head in front of a dragon. It can get you beheaded. The dragon lets out a puff and turns his head away in disinterest. Seems like it has forgiven y/n for her foolish action.

„C'mon, time to fry this meat.“, Katsuki says and pulls her with him.

They roast the meat over the open fire and eat their meal in silence. Afterward, Katsuki and y/n sit by the fire for a while. Y/n takes the sewing kit from the medicine bag and starts mending Katsuki's ripped pants. Katsuki pokes the ember in the fire and watches y/n with a side-eye. He notices how y/n works quick and precise, just as she did when she stitched up his wound. He wonders if she is a seamstress. However, her clothes do not look like those of a seamstress. It's not the latest fashion in the kingdom. Actually, Katsuki isn't too sure what kind of fashion she's wearing. Not that he keeps up with the kingdom's latest trends anyway. Nevertheless, he's never seen a woman in the villages he passed through in clothes like these. He starts to wonder if y/n is even a citizen of the kingdom.

His conclusions actually aren't far off. As a wandering folk, y/n's people were not subjects of the Todoroki royals. They wander from kingdom to kingdom. Y/n spent most of her life in the Todoroki kingdom because simply it's the most safe. The harsh leadership of King Enji keeps crime levels on the low.

When y/n is done stitching up the pants, she wanders to the lake and washes the splutters of blood out of the fabric as much as she can. After hanging the pants up and a tree branch, she settles back down next to Katsuki. She feels tired again.

Suddenly, Katsuki puts an arm around her and pulls her closer without looking at her. Y/n shivers. Suddenly she notices how cold it has gotten. She leans her head against his shoulder and Katsuki leans his head against hers. Y/n has to admit she likes the proximity. She's been alone for so long, it's just nice to have someone so close. She also has to admit that she trusts Katsuki. From all the stories she had heard, she expected Katsuki to take her after her wounds started to heal.

Right now, she can't imagine Katsuki doing something violating like that. He's no gentleman by all means but he accepts boundaries. That's something she can live with. Plus, it's not like she's a lady. She can feel herself grow more tired with each passing second. She scooches closer to Katsuki. Almost, she didn't notice how Katsuki started running his hand up and down her arm or how he nuzzled his face into her hair.

Even if Katsuki would never admit it, he likes the proximity too. Y/n's warm and soft and her hair smells good. Living in a world of men, the smell of a woman is something Katsuki learned to miss. When he notices how y/n's head starts falling off his shoulder, he pulls her into his lap. Y/n stirs for a moment, then settles into his chest. Katsuki ignores the pain in his leg as y/n's weight presses onto the wound.

Katsuki will have to return soon. Tomorrow, he will try to shoot that stag one last time. Feeling y/n's soft breathing on his skin, Katsuki already decided what to do with her. He's taking her home with him. He's not sure what to do with her then. He kind of doesn't want one of his men to take her on as their mate but he's also not sure whether he wants to make this kind of commitment after just a couple of days or not. And then there's also his mother.

He wonders what y/n will think about this. So far, she hasn't shown any real attempts to part with him. Does she really have nobody to return to? It seems like it. But is she alright with joining his tribe? Maybe even staying with him? At least for a little while?

Y/n nuzzles her face into Katsuki's collarbone and lets out a deep sigh. Katsuki pulls the bedroll over to them. He lifts himself and y/n onto it and pulls his cape over both of them. He leans back and lets y/n snooze on top of him. He holds her by the waist and keeps stroking over her back.

Katsuki watches up at the nightsky contemplating the same questions over again until his eyes feel too heavy to keep them open.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

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[Please comment if you'd like to be tagged in future chapters]

[darylssunshine]

A Little Bit Dangerous, But, Baby, That's How I Want It

warnings: stockholm syndrome, f in v, swearing, TWD violence

genre: smut

era: reapers

word count: 2.1k

a/n: no I don't condone actual stockholm syndrome obviously, but I am deranged and have Fantasies.

~~~

The tightness of the ropes was harsh against your wrists, the skin growing red and raw. Your ankles were bound as well, to the legs of a metal folding chair, with your hands behind your back and a rag fastened over your mouth. You moved your hands around again, trying to find a loose spot, but it was to no avail. Those ropes held you, and held you down good.

—

The Reapers had found you in the forest, scavenging for food with Maggie and Gabriel. You had gotten separated from your companions to avoid a herd of walkers, finding an abandoned cabin in the process. Musty and ever so slowly falling apart, but it had four walls, a roof, and it hid you from the dead, so you were sold. 

The herd was almost past your cabin when you saw a couple of masked figures dressed in all black stride towards your cabin, knives in hand. You quickly ducked behind a tattered recliner in the corner of the room. The sound of knives plunging into rotted flesh sounded off before one of the masked figures opened the creaky door of the cabin and entered, with the other following suit. They padded their way through the cabin, making stealthy footsteps and slamming open every door to check for scavengers.

Just as the two of them were concluding that there was no food or supplies left in the cabin, one of the mysterious figures caught your reflection in a nearby window and dashed to your so-called “hiding spot.” You realized your mistake a second too late, and suddenly the base of a pistol came in rapid contact with the back of your head, feeling yourself fall forward and the world go dark.

—

Your wrists were getting more and more irritated by the second, so you stopped the pointless struggle and looked around to get your bearings. There was a window on the right wall with blinds that were shut, providing not a lot of light, but enough to see what was around you. Though, there wasn't a lot to see. It was a gray, brick room. It was presumably built for the torture of others, considering how empty it was, and that there was a window next to the wooden entrance door so that people on the outside of the room could see whatever sick and depraved things were happening on the inside. 

As soon as you were about to try to get the leg restraints loose, you heard heavy boot steps just outside of the door and the click of the lock being unlocked. Your breath hitched beneath the cloth that binded your mouth. You stopped whatever movement you were doing to stare at the door, waiting for the masked people to come and kill you slowly and painfully.

What came through that door wasn't a menacing looking masked figure, however. It was a tall, broad shouldered, brunette older looking man. He was dressed in a long sleeve button up black shirt, black jeans, a black leather vest, and dark brown combat boots. He had a hunting knife sheathed on his belt. His face was rugged and wounded, the most noticeable being a red and jagged scar cutting through his left eyebrow, the rest of the scar being about an inch from his eye. It was the face of a man that has seen, and done, a lot of things. 

You were taken out of your thoughts when you heard the stomping of his combat boots come towards you. Before he even stops walking, you spit on the ground in front of him and mumble, “I’m not telling you anything, you sack of shit.”

“So tha’s how ‘s gonna be, huh?” He questioned, one eyebrow raised. 

He began slowly walking around the metal chair, reading you, drinking you in.

“Wrists hurt?” He asked rhetorically, noticing the harsh rash blossoming from the base of your wrist. He watched the back of your head as you were unresponsive, refusing to give him anything to work with. 

He leisurely walked around to your front, with you looking back at him, trying, and failing, to look intimidating. He got down on one knee to speak with you face to face, eyes stern and unwavering. “Jus’ tell me where yer friends are. It don’t haveta be like this.”

“Go to hell.” You responded immediately. The brunette man sighed and gave you a rough punch to the jaw. You yelped and lolled your head to the side, squeezing your eyes shut. 

“I can go all night, Gimme a location, sweetheart.” He said lowly, flexing the hand that just pounded into your jaw. 

“Go. To. Hell.” You emphasized through gritted teeth. The next punch was straight to the left eye, so hard that it was sure to leave a nasty black eye. He then suddenly unsheathed his silver hunting knife and started flipping it in his hand absentmindedly.

“We saw who they were. A country girl ‘n a preacher. We can either find ‘em with yer help, or we’ll find ‘em, and before we kill ‘em, I’ll tell ‘em both how I killed ya, nice ‘n slow. Yer choice.” As the man was saying this, he leaned over, painstakingly slow, to put his knife to the base of your neck, his face inches from yours. 

Unfortunately for you, your stern demeanor faltered. Your breath hitched when you felt the cold blade pressed firmly to your neck combined with the man’s warm breath hitting your face. You were so scared that you were trembling, but also there was another feeling you had in that moment that you couldn’t quite place. “I’m n… not telling you anything.” You avoided his gaze like the plague, knowing that the man was catching on to how he was already breaking down your walls. 

“Huh? What was tha’? Use yer words.” He interrogated. He placed his hand on your knee and used it as leverage to lean impossibly closer, the knife nearly breaking the skin. Almost unconsciously, your eyes drifted from the man to his hand. It was so large, it could easily surround your relatively small hands. His fingers were so long and thick, and the veins. He had too many for you to count. There was dirt and a small amount of oil under his fingernails, implying that he worked with his hands every day. Maybe a car guy? Those hands could easily snap your fragile neck without a second thought, and it made you breathe heavier than you already were.

“Hey. Hey!” He moved his hand from your knee to roughly pull your hair back, causing the back of your head to slam against the back of the chair you were tied to. That got your attention. Also, earned a high pitched yelp from you. 

“Did ya even hear wha’ I jus’ said?” He asked, not as rough as just moments before but still firm. 

You decided to finally tell the truth. “No… I was… looking at your hand.” You said sheepishly, not looking him in the eye.

This time, the man falters, leaning back to get a good look at you. He eyed you up and down and smirked. “Oh yeah? Why’s that?” 

“N-Nothing. No reason.” You blabber out, honestly a little embarrassed that you told the truth, considering that you were supposed to be getting tortured at that moment.

He roughly tugged on your hair again, your head coming in violent contact back of the chair again, making your head fuzzy. Your eyes were half-lidded when they find the man’s piercing blue ones. “I… uh… think it’s hot.”

It looked like something clicked with the man in front of you. He eyed you once again while unconsciously licking his lips and smoothly resheathing his knife. He got down on both knees to properly look you in the face. To properly get you all hot and bothered. The same hand that was on your knee mere moments ago raised up to your throat, squeezing hard. Your eyes became wide and he chuckled maliciously. 

“Tell me what you want me to do with ‘em then.”

You swallowed, your mouth suddenly becoming very dry. You very much noticed the resistance on your throat when you swallowed, and he knows you did too.

“Touch me.” 

The man gave another laugh in response with how brazen you were with your desires. With one had still clutching your throat, he moved his other hand up your leg in a teasing manner. 

“Here?” He rubbed his thumb on your knee before continuing.

“Here?” His calloused fingers rubbed the inside of your thigh, and he could feel them tremble at his touch.

“Here?” He rubbed the crotch area of your thin shorts, already feeling how wet you were from him. For him. He thumbed at your clit, earning a soft whine from you. 

“Yeah? This where ya want me?”

“Yes.” You responded desperately, letting him know that you do, in fact, want this.

He then slowly removed his hand from your throat, resting both hands on your hips for a moment before starting to lower your pants and underwear. The process is excruciatingly slow, his hands rubbing up and down your ass and then your inner thighs. He finally gets your pants and underwear down to your ankles, then yanks both articles of clothing off. Your silky, red panties get shoved in his back pocket while your shorts get thrown behind him haphazardly.

His calloused hands then started making quick work untying the restraints around your ankles, getting them both off in about ten seconds. Without even exchanging words, you knew what he was doing. You swiftly wrapped your legs around his torso, adjusting so he would have the best angle.

“Good girl.” He rasped. You clenched over nothing.

He rubbed his hand dangerously close to your cunt, while his other arm was casually resting on your other leg. Like this is just a normal night for him.

“This hand? Ya want this?” He motioned to his hand with his icy blues.

You languidly nodded.

“Then beg.”

A strangled gasp forced its way out of your mouth at his comment. You then forced your brain out of its lust induced haze to come up with a coherent thought. “Ple… Please.”

He smirked, teasing your folds. “Name’s Daryl, by the way. Say my name if ya wanna be a whiny bitch.”

You were getting more needy by the second, trying to buck your hips to get even a little friction. “Please, Daryl.” Your voice was airy and you struggled to get your breathing under control.

He then shoved two shoved two fingers deep into your pussy, not even caring to stretch you out first. 

A strangled scream forcefully leaving your throat, you throw your head back in ecstasy. His- Daryl’s long, thick fingers fit perfectly inside you, almost like they were two pieces of the same puzzle. You arched your back as far as your arm restraints could let you, craving even more of his touch. You needed to feel his bulging biceps. You needed to pull and tug at his hair in desperation. You needed him. 

His pace was slow and excruciating.

Daryl spoke with a rasp. “Ya like bein’ tied up like this? Bein’ exposed? Huh? Little slut?”

All he got in response were fast deep breaths.

“Answer ‘n I’ll go faster. Told ya ta use yer words.”

Your brain was temporarily paralyzed hearing his accent get thicker, so you had to physically shake your head to snap out of your daze. “Yes. Yes, Daryl. Yes. I’m your slut.” You struggled to breathe out.

His eyebrows raised in a smirk as he quickened the pace. Unholy moans and whines left your mouth, not caring if anyone else hears. High pitched yelps and a tight feeling in your gut started when he continuously hit your sweet spot, his finger curving inside you. Your eyes were beginning to roll back, completely consumed by your hunger for Daryl. For only Daryl. 

“I- I’m gonna-”

“‘S fine. Let go, sunshine.”

With a few more pumps to your sweet spot, you did what you were told and let go. Your whole world was blurry and you felt lightheaded, but it was the best you’ve felt in a while. And no one has ever made you feel quite that good.

Daryl stood up and waited patiently for you to come down from your high, licking his fingers clean and grabbing your discarded shorts. 

You finally came back down to the same astral plane as the man now standing next to you and gazed at him with adoration. “Holy shit.”

The brunette chuckled and your dazed state. “‘Holy shit’ is right.”

He then suddenly went behind you and loosened your arm restraints. You looked over your shoulder in surprise. 

“What happened to wanting to know information?” You cocked your head.

He kneeled back down to caress your face. “Fuck yer friends. I only want you.”

[druidwolf21]

If it's not too much trouble can you write some wild warp sex with Magnus with a fem reader? Go balls to the wall with how crazy it gets.

Hey anon! Thank you so much for your ask!

Free reign for crazy sexy time with the OG magic man???

Yes please

Sorry this took so long hope you enjoy!

CW: dubious consent through lies, but NO forced stuff. Little bit of butt stuff, smut smut smut, brief mention of gore

@beckyninja @lemon-russ @moodymisty @kit-williams @jaghatai-khock @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨🌟🌟🌟✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

This isn't happening

This cannot be happening

You cried out in fear, siren screams echoed through the metal halls and red flashes of spinning alarms streaked your world with splatters of scarlet light as you stumbled down the corridor. Another shudder wracked the ship and you stumbled, skidding along the floor before crashing into the cold walls. Boots stormed past you and rough hands hauled you to your feet before sprinting away.

"warp drive fail, time until impact: T minus 2 minutes"

The cold voice, barely audible over the screams and thunder of movement softly counted down the time. Stunned, everything around you seemed to slow down. The faces of soldiers and crew, sprinting towards the evac bay, faces curled in fear and teeth clenched seemed fuzzy as they passed by, everything was muted and your heart hammered in your chest, filling your ears with the thunder of your blood roaring around your body with adrenaline. You snapped back to reality as a serf barrels past you, slamming you back into the wall as they fled the carnage.

Shaking your head you glanced around. The main bulk of the crew continued fleeing towards the hanger in an attempt to reach the evac pods. But they were finite, and you already knew your chances were slim at best, no, you had to find something else. Sprinting against the swell of bodies you pushed your way towards the armoury. Dragging yourself through the fear and trampling mass you stretched for the door, grasping the handle with white knuckles you heaved yourself inside, slamming the emergency lock button by the door before sliding down the alloyed surface.

You pulled your knees to your chest and pressed your forehead down, cupping your neck with interlaced cold hands as you listened to the gentle hiss as the doors hermetic locks sealed shut. Nothing in or out. Taking a deep breath you unlaced your hands and wrapped yourself around a exhaust pipe, clinging like your life depended on it as the tiny voice crackled through the speaker.

3

2

1

You screamed as the room crashed around you, guns, shells and munitions flew around you in a storm of metal as the ship impacted something. The screech of crushing metal and groan of collapsing iron surrounded you as you grit your teeth. Your arms burned from labour as you clutched the piping with desperation, your ribs sore from bouncing on the steel door and wall as the vessel was slowly ground into oblivion. Your head cracked against the wall and the world went dark and silent.

You awoke with a throbbing head and aches from so much of your body you couldn't tell what was what. You groaned and attempted to stand, before doubling over as pain and nausea swept over you.

"holy crap I'm alive" you whispered, staring at the scattering of metal rounds and clips as the sickness finally passed. You slowly bent upright, leaning heavily on the wall as you gathered your thoughts. YouR head was throbbing, along with your ribs and you pressed a tentative finger to your side and hissed, bruised, but miraculously nothing felt broken. Rolling your linen sleeves past your elbows you scowled at the rash of red and blue along your forearm from the rubbing of twisted metal on your skin but all in all, worth it to walk away with your life.

Sore, possibly concussed, but definitely alive.

Groaning as you heaved yourself off the now corrugated surface, you limped to the door and slapped your scuffed palm on the release, scowling and closing your eyes as the sudden light overwhelmed you. Blinking in disorientation you stepped out and gasped.

The world was cold and cruel, but so mesmerizingly beautiful. Peaks of bleak dark rock jutted from between aether clouds of untold colours, kaleidoscopes of lightning and energy chased through the mesmeric vapors and even higher still a ring of white circled the planet like a halo.

The gutted carcass of the ship lay strewn over 200 meters away. The corridor so many people had fled through was splintered, recognisable by only fragments of welded bolts and twisted venting. The main body of the transporter smoldered as thick oily smoke and promethium leaked and pooled around the decimated hull, the stench of burning fuel and melting ore lay thick in the air, rolling across your tongue and coiling in the back of your throat, threatening to drag up whatever bile was left in your stomach.

You slowly eased yourself through the half opened door and began walking towards the main bulk of your fallen ship, bodies littered the crash site, faces you knew, others flayed beyond recognition, torn and thrown like ragdoll.

"there has to be someone" you hissed, clutching your bruised side as you staggered on. "Hello? Is anyone still alive?'.

Your eyes flicked as you saw movement from a large slash in the side of the ship, the walls torn open angrily into jagged peaks groaned as a hulking shadow emerged from the bowels of the spacecraft. The air shimmered with iridescent light and you felt a wave of energy pulse through you, tripping your senses and confusing your thoughts, your mind felt like it draped in a chill fog, though it did nothing the halt the dread creeping into your gut as the figure finally stepped into the light.

The marines helm twisted as he paced, metal screaming as his armoured weight crushed it underfoot as he stepped. The incandescent shift of hued vapors danced on the blue and gold of his armour as he turned and stopped, catching your trembling figure in its crimson glare. It paused for a moment, cocking it's head slightly, as if listening, before it began thumping towards you.

"screw that"

You spun and began running, ignoring the throbbing in your body as you sprinted. You could feel the earth shake beneath your feet as the colossus of Ceremite and steel ground the rubble to dust in his pursuit of you. Turning your head over your shoulder, you gulped as the distance between grew smaller by the second, you could see motes of sparking dust puff from the marine as he moved. You turned your head forward again to focus on your esca...

Whack

You tumbled backwards with the impact, grunting as you hit the rocky floor with a hard thud and pain staggered up your bruised body. Panic flooded through you as you staggered to your feet, clawing at the dirt to get any form of traction you rose up. You balled your fists, helplessly bringing them up defensively as the armoured predator strode towards you. The astartes, now only meters from you stopped, head cocked once more as he looked past you, before turning around and stomping off back the way he came.

A laugh came from behind you, deep and luxurious, it resounded through your body, sending shivers up your spine. You turned on your heels and stared dumbfounded at the source of the sound and your impact.

The man towered over you, casting a long shadow as he smiled down at you. His skin shone like burnished copper, almost glowing with an ethereal light. Long flowing hair, a waterfall of burnt umber framed a handsome face, whilst sweeping bangs concealing a missing eye as his other looked down at you softly. A smile creased his feature as he continued watching you shiver under his gaze, spreading further as you straightened your back and tilted your chin defiantly.

“If your going to kill me, get it over with “ you spat, holding his gaze, each second feeling like an hour under the crunching intensity of his emerald stare and sheer presence, the blanket around your mind seemed to wash gently across your thoughts as he studied you.

Suddenly he laughed again, a deep bellowing sound as he threw his head back. His golden armour hissed and whined as he knelt down, levelling his face with your own. “Brave word, little one, I admire your courage! But I’m afraid you have lept to conclusions” he swept a muscular arm in the direction of the wreckage “your ship crashed, we mearly came to look for survivors.”

Brow creased in confusion, you studied his face, looking for a lie. You had heard all the stories of the crimson king, of how Magnus the red was a demon of colossal size and power, tearing friend and foe alike as he slaughtered his way through the imperium. But the man who stood before you was just that. A man. Albeit he was huge, but there were not teeth like swords or devil horns, no demons dancing to his whim. Just a very tall, very handsome man.

“But… I thought..”

He chuckled again, and placed a large hand gently on your head, tousling your hair gently, “I’m sorry to disappoint, but I am no monster”

At his touch all of the fear finally dissipated, a gentle warmth spread through your body, the dog around your mind became blanket thick and you felt tears prick your eyes. your knees finally gave out beneath you but warm hands clutched your soft body, supporting as you sobbed.

“Don’t fear, you’re safe now”

You awoke bundled in soft, warm sheets. Red silk hung from the four poster frame in a soft curtain around you and the mattress felt soft and pillowy under your body. Sitting up in confusion you glanced around the room. A marble fire held a stoked flame that cast gentle flickers of light across the oaken floor. A plush burgundy rug splayed across the centre of the room whilst a large side table held a plate of fresh fruits and flowers, everything you looked at had a faint pearlecent shimmer, almost unnoticeable, flitting in and out of your vision.

A knock came from the door and drew you attention as Magnus stepped in, bowing slightly to avoid the frame of the door. He flashed you a charming smile when he saw you awake and alert and, collecting the silver platter, he swept over to your bedside and offered the delicacies towards you. His silver robes sparkled against his ruddy skin as he moved. You eyed them suspiciously before shrugging and taking a ripe berry and popping it in your mouth, savouring the sweet juice as it flooded your mouth, all the while, Magnus eye never left your face as he watched you pick through the fruit.

"I'm sorry"

He cocked his eyebrow at your words. "Sorry?"

You nodded "You came to help and I was rude to you, so I'm sorry" your eyes twitched to his face before looking away as you continued. "I guess id heard all the stories and just..."

He shook his head, his red mane tumbling around his shoulders "I understand. The..." He paused for a moment and sighed "the imperial truth, as they call it, is hard to avoid" he lay the plate on the blanket beside you and gently patted your leg under the fabric. Heat traveled to your core and you felt yourself flush at his touch."You are safe here, rest until you are well enough to travel and we can arrange to return you to imperium space" he rose from his seat and turned to leave, the air around him shimmered and flickered for a moment, like static. You blinked and it was gone.

"wait"

He froze at your voice, throwing a glance over his broad shoulders.

"keep me company?"

He smiled and for a moment you thought you saw a shadow pass over his face, a hint of something darker in his expression, but as quick as it came, it was gone. He returned to the foot of the bed and the mattress caved under his weight. "Of course, little one" he reached out and ran his finger along the the form of your thigh under the shining material. You shuddered at his touch, and your body moved on its own, your head so full of clouds and muffled you couldn't think as you shimmied out from the covers and crawled over towards him, reaching for his large thigh. His smile grew larger as you caressed his thigh, his skin dark against you pale hand.

Wait wasn't he wearing a robe

All your thoughts seemed to slip from your grasp and your body moved on its own as you slipped your hand along his carved abs, along his chest before reaching his face. You edge forward as he turned the rest of his body to face you fully, sliding across his thigh as you brought your lips towards his. His large hands roamed your body gently caressing your bare curves, tickling the soft skin of your thighs

"beautiful" you muttered, stroking his cheek before pressing a chaste kiss against his soft mouth and tangling your hands into his locks. He tasted like spice and ozone and you moaned as he found your ass, squeezing the soft fat of your rear. Taking advantage he pushed his tongue past your lips, leaning into you until your back was against the sheet and he was hunched over you, your thighs spread around his wide hips. A heated touch found a breast and you arched into his touch as he rolled your tender nipple between his fingers, pinching the nub until you were gasping his name, your own hand clutching his wrist weakly as he toyed with you.

He pulled back from you and eyed you hungrily, static building up in the air around him, fracturing around him, flashes of colour and darkness appearing and vanishing around him. A flutter of wings echoed around the room and you dragged your eyes away from the primarch, lured by the sound. He quickly caught your chin between his fingers and brought you face back to look at him.

"eyes on me, little one" he cooed gently, relishing the sudden look of shock on your face as you felt his erection grind against you. "This was what you wanted, wasn't it?" He ran the length of his dick along your wet pussy, coating it in your slick as he rubbed against you, his tip spreading your lower lips apart and bumping into your clit as he moved. You gasped and whined underneath him, you mind wiped of all thoughts except to satisfy him, to have him take you over and over"

"please, Magnus" you whimpered , thrusting your hips up to meet him and clawing at his broad shoulders. He laughed, but the sweetness once in his was gone as he thrust into you suddenly, stretching you to your limit without any chance to adjust, he grunted as he felt your wet walls twitch around his cock as he entered you. Throwing your head back you groaned and hissed as he drew his length slowly back out before thrusting back in, over and over he fucked into you, his lips finding the exposed skin of your neck as he nibbled and sucked, leaving marks everywhere he touched you.

"so pretty, so good to me" he whispered in your ear, finally moving his fingers from your abused nipple to circle your puffy clit, circling the tender nub slowly as he ground into you. "So perfect" he continued to whisper sweet things in your ear and he fucked you, promises of sweet caresses and endless knowledge as his hard cock stroked the spot deep inside you that made your gut coil like a spring. " Say you'll stay" he uttered, voice like music as he continued to bury himself in your tight cunt.

"yes yes YES" you cried, cumming around his as he continued to fuck you through it.

His grinned and kissed you sweetly, allowing you to soak in the illusion he created.

In reality, Giant taloned hands clawed at your flesh as the demon prince pressed you into the rotten mattress, the silk sheets were faded and torn and the fire had been dead longer than the flower that rotted in the table. Magnus reached around your waist and pulled you up, seating you on his dick and relishing the noises you and your pussy made as he bounced you up and down on his length. Wisps of warp energy swirled around you, spreading your ass cheeks and caressing the puckered hole and sliding in, causing you to writhe and shake at the sudden intrusion, feeling yourself get fucked in both holes, your eyes rolled back in your head and your rocked against the sensation, drool pooling down your chin as the last sensibility was fucked from you.

Massive horns curved out of the sorcerers head and shaded you as he glared down with an eye lit with electric energy. His great wings spasmed and twitched as he edged closer to finishing and your head rolled forward weakly as he snarled, pulling you down harshly as he came inside you, his member twitching as he shot thick ropes of cum inside you.

He held you close, great chest heaving as he gulped in air crackling with aether before lifting you with surprising gentleness and placing you on the mattress, rotten and warped with age and decay, but to you, lost in the illusion he had crafted for you alone, it was as soft as down.

You whined at the sudden empty feel and He looked down at you, your pupils wide from arousal and magic as you gazed back. He rose to his great clawed feet, talons carving grooves in the floor as he moved. "Rest now, you need to heal"

"my lord" you sighed, so sweetly "will you really let me stay with you?"

He hummed and dragged finger across your forehead "of course my sweet thing"

He turned and left the room, locking the door as he went.

It wasn't like you had a choice anyway.

[thesassypadawan]

Repent (Don X FemReader)

Summary: Your pastor takes notice of your new sinful tattoo and gives you but one option for repentance.

Warnings: 18+ (mdni), because there’s sooo much of the smut. Pastor/Religion kink, hint of a breeding one, womb tattoo, implied age gap, and… Don’s big, girthy dick.

Notes: Notes: Happy Kinktober all you, lovelies! 🖤🧡

- “Please, stop by the sanctuary before the party starts.  I would like to speak with you…privately.”  The pastor’s calm, even voice rang throughout your mind; his request hanging heavy on it.

- You would be lying if you didn’t admit that you found the older gentleman handsome.  The way his blue eyes sparkle when he’s speaking passionately, how his smile lights up a room.  And his mustache; the very thought of it, all it could possibly do sends a small thrill run down your spine.  Causes a warmth rise into your cheeks, settle in your…

- Grazing your palm over your lower stomach, you quietly slip through the old oak doors.  Vision taking a moment to adjust to the dimly lit, candle filled space.  Before you silently and stealthily walk up the aisle, towards the alter…and him.

- Gaze sweeps, takes in the sight of your outfit.  “Don’t you make a lovely little angel,” he chuckles softly.  Resting his large hand gently on your arm, thumb rubbing soothing circles into your skin.  “Like you dropped down straight from heaven.”  Lips curling slightly at the corners in amusement or perhaps…

- “Th-thank you, sir,” you reply meekly.  Trying to hide how flustered you were becoming.  How your heartbeat quickens when he trails his fingers, traces over and along where your womb resides.  “But I’m…I’m sure you d-didn’t ask me here to just talk about my cost-costume.”

- “Clever girl.”  Moving in closer, towering above you.  “I noticed something interesting earlier today; a very intricate, heart shape tattoo that you apparently have.”  Don presses his prominent bulge against your side, grinding subtly.  “The one right here…”

- Nails sink in as he squeezes, kneads your sensitive skin through the sheer fabric.  “It’s supposed to represent a ‘curse’, isn’t it?”  Before his hand descends further; digits ghosting, cupping your plump mound.  “One for extreme fertility.”

- “I…I…”  You stutter, stumble with your words.  Body trembling, humming from his taboo touch.  The fires of hell burning hot, bright in your blasphemous core.  “I…can explain…”

- Slouching slightly; warm breath fans, wiry hairs tickle.  “It’s a sin to dabble in the occult…”  Teeth graze, tongue licks your earlobe in a long stripe.  “Perhaps I can help you repent…”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

- Desperate moan bubbles up from your throat as you wriggle, writhe.  Back arching, nails scratching lightly at the worn wood of the alter floor.  Pressure building, propelling you towards the edge once more.  “Please, I…I…”

- Weakly you clamp your plush thighs around Don's head, hips rolling forward.  Impaling yourself further, divine nectar spilling onto his skilled tongue.  “For-forgive me, my lor-lord…”

- Sticky digits grip, spread you open before him.  Flesh tender, an angry red; brushed, scrapped.  Stinging when the cool, faintly scented air kisses your burns…when he lets a fat glob of spit of drip, seep into the fresh cuts.  “He'll forgive you, my little imp…”

- Slick covered lips map their way up your vulnerable form.  Sucking, nipping…biting; leaving an array of dark purple splotches in their wake.  Groaning at the sound of your pathetic mewls and squeaks.  “Look past your rash decision…” 

- Hands tighten their hold; hitching, wrapping your stubby legs partially around his thick middle.  Bulbous tip prodding, smearing pre on your swollen folds.  Mixing and mingling with your juices, creating an unholy concoction.  “Absolve you of your follies…”

- Fingers trace over and along the inked lines.  “But not until you give yourself entirely to me…”  Squeeze, knead your soft paunch.  “Pledge that each child you bare from this perfect womb will be mine…”

- “Yes, I swear,” you whisper, vow.  Tears of pleasure, pain…of joy, sorrow streaming freely.  “My mind, soul, body.”  While you gaze up into the lifeless, stony eyes of the mother.  “Everything that I am is wholly yours.”

- “Amen…”  Your new husband,  co-creator of your future forbiden fruits mutters reverently, solemnly.  Thrusting forward; tearing, ruining…molding you into his own resplendent  image, his own earthbound angel.

Tag List: @espinathena-17, @myheartwillgoon2022, @laylaplease, @princessswifie, @kenobiskywalker16, @loverforoldermen, @speaknow-sw, @mathesonlvr, @decaffeinatedunicorn, @ann4zw, @xhunnybeeex, @jediavengers, @anisangeldust, @fredswrite, @t03soup

[shnoob]

Sal Fisher HC’s!:  

I normally wouldn't write something like this, BUT I love Sally Face and it NEEDSSSS more recognition 🙏🙏🙏  

(I'm totally not in love with him or something. WHAT WHO SAID THAT??)

 I feel like he would be one of those types of people who carry lotion, hand sanitizer, tissues etc due to him taking good care of his skin/body. Due to what has happened to him, any little germ can get under his skin which is not a good thing :P 

That being said, he would get bad allergic reactions to scented lotions so he’d stick with the typical scents. (However, if it's a scent he really likes..he won't mind getting a rash for once, he already has a prosthetic..) 

SOOOOO good at comforting people. Even if you just met him, he may be a bit awkward but he won't just let you sit there and cry. Possibly just reach in his bag and hand over a tissue while staring at you. 

Again, just carries EVERYTHING. That doesn't mean his bag is full! Due to Ashley, Larry, and even Todd he has random ass items in his bag until they ask if he knows where it is. (Even offering his space to carry your stuff too!) 

“Hey Sal, have you seen *blank*?” “Oh uh..*rummages through his pockets* this?” “Thanks man!” 

The type of guy to try and cuff his jeans but they always end up uneven so they either are uneven or not cuffed. (The stains man..)

Lets Ashley paint his nails. Can't tell me otherwise. Usually Black, Red or a blue similar to his hair. Probably matched with the gang at one point due to Ashley begging them. 

Has calluses on his hands due to guitar playing. 

First off, such a good listener to everybody. He could sit there for hours listening to you and comfort you if you felt like you were talking too much. That being said, if you mention you like ANYTHING (such as a candy) you know he will start carrying it just in case you wanted it or had a rough day. 

If he sees a bug or rock he likes, you know its going into a collection. Started collecting rocks in about 7th grade and hasnt stopped since. It probably started just in a box and now has a small display on a nightstand. Bugs he obviously cannot keep in a condition like that so he may just carry it around for a bit on a finger until they are in a place where they are safe. (Maybe even to scare Larry with). 

Is probably used to most jokes that could be considered “too far” or “rude” now due to the insults he's experienced of his prosthetic, but if it ever crosses a line by touching it or even towards a friend…watch out.  

With that, he probably makes dark humor jokes.  

When he's nervous, he probably scratches the sides of his hands or picks at his nails. (They never stood a chance) 

MAN NEEDS NEW SHOES THEY ARE RIPPING APART. SOMEBODY PLEASE 

He jokes around so much with his friends of “bromance” (like fake kissing, lovey terms etc) to the point he has had a rumor or two with his friends.

Cannot do gymnastics tricks well. He probably tried a handstand once to prove to Larry and fell right over. Ash most likely teaches him over time so he gets..better? 

I bet he reads a little! When he isn't ghost hunting or needs a break playing the guitar, he will pick up a book for fun. (Maybe even reads to Gizmo once in awhile) 

[aayakashii]

hii love ur stuff a lot!! i especially enjoyed the sh ones (as weird as that sounds, it's just nice to be cared for something <3) could i request the same concept but with tohma and sho? thank youu

Thank you for enjoying what I write!! It truly means the world to me <3 and it's not weird at all, I understand how it feels good to have a character you like comfort you in some way 🫂 also, I might have written a bit too much this time oops (´ᵕ `ก).｡

Here are the other drabbles of the same "series": part 1, part 2

Warning: sh mentioned and/or implied

While you took a big bite of your sandwich, humming in delight and chewing happily, Sho was burning holes onto your arms as he washed the dishes at his truck.

You tried to ignore his blatant staring, already used to the questioning gaze of those around you whenever you showed the skin of your arms, but the intensity of his expression compelled you to say something before he actually managed to shoot laser beams from his eyes.

"Okay, thanks for the food" you bowed slightly as you crumpled the used napkin "Now go on. Shoot your questions."

Hearing your words, Sho blinked, finally looking up at your face.

"Huh?"

"You've been staring" you pointed at the visible scars "You can ask me stuff, I won't bite."

He scoffed.

"Me? I wasn't staring. I don't care." Sho looked down and furiously scrubbed the plate on his hand.

"You were almost burning a hole on my arm, Sho. Also, you've been scrubbing the same plate since I came here today."

He winced, embarrassed by his own distraction, and put the plate inside the sink.

Sho rested his palms on the counter, making his shoulders reach his ears, his head hanging low as he sighed.

"Hey, I don't mind, you know? Like, I don't mind talking about them. Especially with someone I trust." you said gently.

At that, he looked at you, searching your eyes for something you couldnt quite understand. After a few seconds, he straightened his posture and cleared his throat.

"So... can you tell me? Why did you... why did you do this, senpai?"

His voice sounded so anguished and you couldn't help but feel a pang in your heart. You reached out your hands to hold his, and he hesitantly took them, twisting your arms a little so the scars could face him.

"I was in a very dark place some time ago." You observed as he stared at the marks on your arms, his hold on you tight and firm "It felt like everything was spiraling out of my control and I had to keep something under my restraints."

You chuckled.

"If you think about it, I'm actually in the same type of situation again, in a whole other scale."

Sho's grip on your arms tightened and he lifted his head quickly. His eyes looked sorrowful at your remark, yet he couldn't find the words to protest against the truth.

"But... you can't– I mean, you don't have to–"

"Don't worry" you interrupted, trying to calm him down "Despite the circumstances I'm in a better mindspace now. Also, loneliness played a big part in it. I'm not alone now, right?" you lifted your eyebrows, a playful smile tugging on your lips.

He shook his head, his expression still solemn.

"Yeah, you're not alone, no. Not if I'm here."

You smiled, a warmth spreading in your chest at how serious and genuine he looked as he said that.

"But." Sho breathed deeply before continuing "But if you ever need to cry for help, for any reason at all, you have to promise to come to me before you do anything rash, okay?"

"Okay." You nodded.

"No, that's not enough, senpai. You gotta promise me. Here." he lifted his little finger and pointed it towards you. His brows were knitted and his lips pursed into a thin line despite the way the tips of his ears burned red. "Promise me."

You snorted and intertwined your own little finger with his.

"I promise."

You have itched you arms through the sleeves of your blazer for the nth time that afternoon, Tohma noticed.

Honestly, it was getting a little bit on his nerves. He had taken time off of his schedule to help you study Anomalous Biology, something you seemed to struggle with, due to how haphazardly you had been thrusted into the unbelievable world of ghouls and anomalies. And he understood your plight, he truly did.

But was his teaching so boring that the itch on your arms shattered your focus that easily?

"My apologies if I make you uncomfortable, but... wouldn't you like to take care of what has been bothering you first, before we continue our studies?" he eventually said, closing the textbook he was using to teach you.

You looked surprised and a bit embarrassed, which was unexpected to him. Did you not notice? Was this a tic?

"I'm sorry, Tohma, I did it without noticing, truly. I have a itching cream on my backpack, I can put it on now if it won't make you uncomfortable."

"Not at all. Why would it make me uncomfortable?" he quirked up an eyebrow.

"Well... because, it's... um... I guess I should just let you see it."

You bashfully took off your blazer after grabbing the cream, and laid your arms on the table. On your skin, several small scars littered the underside of your forearm, which caught Tohma's eyes almost immediately.

"Oh." he mouthed, and you smiled awkwardly.

"I've had them for a while, but every now and then they itch. Usually when I'm having allergy symptoms and since we're on an old library..." you trailed off.

Tohma stayed silent for a while as he watched you apply the cream on your arms.

"My apologies." he suddenly muttered and you glanced at him.

"What for?"

"It wasn't my intention to make you uncomfortable with my remark."

"Oh" you waved your hand, dismissively "Don't worry about that. It's good you said, otherwise I might have hurt myself. I don't really mind showing them. They're already a part of me, so there's no benefit in feeling embarrassed by them, right? Plus, it's been a long time ago and... sorry, I'm rambling."

Tohma smiled and grabbed one of your hands, turning it to bring its back to his lips.

"You are a very fascinating person." he said, placing a chaste kiss on your skin "Maybe a bit reckless, but incredibly brave."

Your cheeks burned at his comment and his kiss, and you laughed nervously.

"No... not at all. I'd say I'm facing something a lot more difficult now and I'm honestly very terrified."

"But you're still moving on. Bravery is to keep going despite your fears. You're doing this now and you did this every single time when you went through these" he said pointing at the marks on your body.

You lowered your head, the redness spreading to your neck as he stared at you so intensely.

"I just hope you'll find it in you to rely on us whenever you need, now that you have all ghouls wrapped around your finger."

You raised a brow, finally facing him, a look of skepticism on your face.

"I definitely don't have all ghouls wrapped around my finger, Tohma"

"Oh no? Well, then maybe it's just me." he said it nonchalantly and opened the book in front of him again.

Full masterlist

[sidekick-hero]

let the impulse to love and the instinct to kill entangle to one

(steddie | wc: 918 | teen | written for @steddiemas and @steddieholidaydrabbles (prompt: came back wrong) | tags: fluff, first kiss, kas!eddie

"I'm not staring at you. I'm staring at your ugly ass sweater. What is that thing?" Steve asks, aiming to sound appalled but failing miserably. There is too much affection in his voice, laughter echoing in every word.

He thinks he can't be blamed, though, because Eddie looks ridiculous in that big green and red sweater with Rudolph the Reindeer on it, pulling an empty flying sleigh. Especially with the gray tinted skin and the sharp teeth and the fucking wings that spilled out of the cuts in the back of the sweater.

"Where's Santa, huh? Did you eat him?" Steve laughs and Eddie chirps again, this time clearly offended. He pulls away from where he was leaning against Steve, climbs off the bed and retreats to the farthest wall. Standing there in a defensive pose with his arms crossed over his chest, Eddie hangs his head and hunches his shoulders, making himself small. His long, black curls hide most of his face, but Steve can still see the onyx color of his eyes gleaming in the dim light of his bedside lamp.

The sight makes his heart ache in his chest.

Getting up from where he's been sitting cross-legged on his bed, Steve pads over to him, determined to fix whatever he's done to make Eddie look like this. But when he ducks his head to catch Eddie's eyes, all he gets is an irritated growl as Eddie turns his head away from Steve's searching gaze. Behind him, his tail flicks back and forth angrily.

One thing he didn't know about Eddie before, but learned pretty quickly, is how damn stubborn he can be. Good thing Steve is not one to give up easily, having spent nearly four years babysitting teenagers.

His hand slowly reaches out, making his intentions clear until it rests on Eddie's forearm. He learned his lesson when Eddie first started coming to his room late at night, still has the scars to remind him of that lesson. He knows that Eddie didn't mean to hurt him. Steve just startled him the first time he reached out to touch him without warning, eager in his excitement to see Eddie alive.

Things have changed since then. A lot.

Eddie is less cagey, no longer afraid of Steve. He tolerates his touch now, even seeks it out. But he still doesn't take well to surprises. Steve wonders what happened to him all those months he was lost in the Upside Down and thinks maybe it's better he doesn't know. He's not sure he wouldn't do something rash and epically stupid if he did.

"Sorry, Eds, I know you don't eat people. It was a dumb joke, I didn't mean anything by it." His thumb smooths over the tense muscles he can feel under the soft material of the sweater. It looks like it should be scratchy, offending more senses than just his eyes, but it isn't.

Just like Eddie looks scary, but isn't.

It seems to be the right thing to say, because the onyx of his eyes takes on a warmer shade, like very dark chocolate or the first precious coffee of the morning. Eddie chirps again and shakes his head.

"No, I mean it, Eddie. I don't think you're a monster. I know you wouldn't hurt anyone, it was a really stupid joke. I guess I'm still an asshole sometimes and -"

Eddie interrupts his ramblings by bumping his head against Steve's before nuzzling close to his neck, chirping and purring. He still can't talk, even though Steve hasn't given up hope that he will, but that doesn't mean he can't communicate.

"Okay, okay, no bad self-talk. Got it, jeez. You're worse than Robin, I swear," Steve laughs as he runs his hands through Eddie's soft curls. Secretly, he doesn't mind letting their bodies do much of the talking. Words have never been his strong suit, but this? He's damn good at this.

"But honestly, what's with the ugly ass sweater, huh?" He can't help but ask again as he practically holds Eddie in his arms. He's colder to the touch than a normal human, but Steve doesn't mind. He always runs a little hotter than most, so it balances out perfectly.

Eddie pulls back a little so he can look at Steve and points to Steve's chest with his claw.

"Me? What do I have to do with this? It's not one of mine, is it?"

Eddie shakes his head and his claw taps Steve's chest again, then points at himself and the ugly sweater.

"I'm sorry, Eds, I don't -"

The claw moves from his chest to his face and Steve holds still, his eyes crossing as it follows the deadly weapon. Eddie's finger touches his mouth, effectively shushing him, before the tip of the claw slips between his lips and pulls ever so gently at the right corner of Steve's mouth, forcing a crooked smile.

"Sssseve" Eddie hisses, the first words he's spoken since he returned not quite the same as before, and it clicks.

"You were trying to make me laugh?"

Eddie beams at him. "Ssseve," he says again, chirping with delight and Steve can't help but kiss him. Eddie freezes for a second under his mouth before kissing him back urgently as more sounds pour out of him between kisses, chirping and purring against Steve's mouth.

So what if Eddie came back a bit wrong? He came back to them. To Steve.

In his book, that's worth more than normal anyway.

[hp-hcs]

mattheo with sick! reader? idk something fluffy about mattheo taking care reader or angsty about reader trying to hide some sorta sickness or maybe mattheo's the sick one you ask for mattheo I shall deliver - yxdls

‼️WARNING: hella gross‼️ like, it goes into genuinely nauseating detail! i’m in a weird mood right now! i don’t know!

fine (chapter one of phoenix tears) — ex-death eater! injured! mattheo riddle x gn! reader

GRAPHIC GORE WARNING

seriously, don’t read if you’re easily grossed out. or eating. actually, just don’t read this at all. it’s pretty poorly written. i’m so sorry yxdls, for whatever this is 😭

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

“…and for which scenario would each of the following listed Charms work bes-”

Mattheo was cut off by another of his loud coughing bouts, hacking into his elbow.

Your brow furrowed. “Baby, that’s like, the seventh time you’ve coughed in the last five minutes. Are you sure you’re okay?”

He waved a hand in your direction. “I’m fine. Just a little cough.”

You set down your flashcards, leaning across your bed to lay the back of your hand against his forehead. “You’re burning up, baby.”

“So you think I’m hot?” He asks with a cheeky grin, waggling his eyebrows.

You roll your eyes and lightly smack his arm with the sleeve of your hoodie. “Yes, you idiot. But you also have a helluva fever.”

He grimaced. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”

~~~

It was, in fact, Not Fine™. It looked horrible. The skin was sunken in, to a worryingly deep degree, and the edges were blistered and raw, slowly leaking pus and refusing to scab over. Mattheo grimaced as he peeled off the old bandages, biting his bottom lip to keep from screaming when the gauze got caught on part of the torn edge. He was forced to look away as he hastily rewrapped his forearm, trying desperately not to vomit.

The minute he had deserted his father, his Dark Mark had begun to burn, to brand itself into his flesh. The tattoo sank deep into his skin, into his muscles, and into his tendons; Mattheo was convinced that at this point, it was entirely carved into the bone.

It would never go away.

The skin over the tattoo had first erupted with bright red blisters and a sickening rash, which sent Mattheo into a feverish daze for two days. Despite his friends’ protests, he refused to go to the hospital wing.

Nobody could see the Mark. They’d know. They’d know he had been a coward and a fool.

But then, his skin had begun to rot. It was unsettling. Not to mention that the Mark wriggled still, now more furiously than it ever had when he’d been a follower of his father. Combined with the state of his arm, the odd frantic movements of the tattoo felt like phantom maggots, crawling all over him, crawling under his skin, into his eyes, his mouth, Merlin-

~~~

“Riddle, man, you good?” Theodore nudged him and spoke quietly.

Mattheo startled, his eyes flying open from where he had begun to drift off standing up.

Sleep had become impossible. His arm was now constantly afflicted with burning, never-ending pain. Occasionally, random bursts of an even sharper agony would grate up his bones and make his teeth rattle. It felt like being Crucioed, but with no forewarning, no nothing.

“Mattheo!”

He startled again, not even aware that he’d started falling asleep again.

Theo put his hand on Mattheo’s shoulder, even just that small touch sending stomach-churning zaps of fresh pain down his arm. He bit his tongue to keep from crying out, squeezing his eyes shut as he did so.

Theo glanced around the room, waiting for the Herbology professor to turn her back before talking to Mattheo again.

“Dude, you seriously look like you’re about to keel over any second. You should go to the infirmary.”

“‘m fine,” Mattheo rubbed his eyes, his words slurred with feverish delirium. “Don’ need’a go anywhere.”

“Matty, dude, you look like a dead man walking.”

He opened his mouth to protest, when the worst pain he’d ever felt in his entire life struck him out of nowhere. It felt like what Mattheo imagined being beat with a baseball bat, run over by a semi-truck, and being Crucioed at the same time would feel like.

He dropped like a rock, the unrelenting pain forcing the edges of his vision to darken and then fully go black.

~~~ Mattheo woke up to quiet.

His eyes slowly creaked open, and he was greeted with unfamiliar white walls. He blinked quickly to rid the sleep from his eyes, before surveying the room.

It didn’t look like the hospital wing at Hogwarts, but it was definitely a place of medicine, if the bleach-heavy air was anything to go by. Maybe St. Mungo’s?

The overhead lights were off, thank Merlin, leaving the room lit only by the overcast afternoon sky peeking through the window.

But he started to panic when he saw that his arm lay across his chest, freshly wrapped and sore as all hell.

Someone saw.

Somebody saw the Mark of his cowardice.

Of his yearning for his father’s approval.

Fat tears started to roll down Mattheo’s cheeks. His sobs became louder when he saw that you were there.

You probably knew. You probably saw.

Merlin damn it. Why wasn’t there a magical version of HIPAA?

You’d pulled up the visiting chair all the way to the side of Mattheo’s hospital bed, your crossed arms lying on top of the mattress, and your head resting on your arms as a sort of makeshift pillow.

At least you were asleep. Mattheo couldn’t even fathom what he’d have done if you’d been awake.

You surely must hate him now.

How couldn’t you?

He started to raise his right arm, his only currently working one, to wipe away his tears, but the movement was held back.

He had the fleeting but terrifying thought of those cliché leather restraints on hospital beds in horror movies. Honestly, it wasn’t even that far-fetched. He was a criminal. A traitor. A psycho.

Mattheo looked down, expecting the worst.

Instead, he saw your fingers interlaced with his, your thumb slowly skating over his knuckles in a soothing back and forth pattern.

You were holding his hand. Asleep still, yes, but you were actively holding his hand. You were choosing to be near him.

Mattheo burst into tears again, but this time in relief.

If you were still by his side, despite everything, then maybe things really were fine.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

chapter two

[from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras]

🥀 Unwary 🥀

After working on and off for MONTHS and staring at it a long time, here’s the Théodwyn story many of you have heard me agonizing over. I can’t look at it anymore, so we’re just hitting “post”!

It’s called Unwary, which is one of the few words Tolkien gives us to describe Théodwyn’s husband Éomund. He was a “hater of orcs” who often rode against them “in hot anger, unwarily and with few men.” That got him killed and, shortly thereafter, Théodwyn herself died of an illness. This story is my attempt to tie all that together.

Note that Théodwyn’s 3 (canonical but nameless) sisters are here; they came to help after Éomund’s death. You’ll see I gave 2 of them Gondorian names; more explanation of that at the bottom if you’re interested.

There is a fire inside Théodwyn that will not be doused.

It has smoldered for years, just waiting for the breath of air that would coax its glowing embers to life and send a wave of flame racing through her as though she were made not of bone and blood but of kindling and fuel. Now lit by Éomund’s inevitable death, the fire burns bigger and hotter each new day that dawns without him, and it laps at her heart, singeing and charring until there is nothing left but heat. Gone is anything soft and pliant, anything tender or understanding, replaced instead by blistering fury.

She stalks the plains outside of Aldburg in the dark, crunching heavily over glittering, frost encrusted grass. She is trying to outrun that fury, though a fortnight of this new nightly ritual has achieved no such thing so far. But if she cannot leave her anger behind, maybe she can still exhaust it, tire it enough that it can be wrestled into submission and leave her in peace. Deep down, she suspects the effort is in vain, but she has no better plan. She is bereft of ideas, just as she is now bereft of laughter and sympathy and hope. Her husband is just one of many things suddenly missing from her life, and he is not the one she most wants back.

Sweat soaks into both her dress and cloak, and large red blooms form on her cheeks. Each gale of frigid wind catches the dampness at the small of her back or along her hairline beneath her hood, and sends a wave of wracking chills across her heated skin. But her pace never falters despite the passing of long hours and long miles. Over the sound of her boots grinding delicate ice into so many shattered crystals, she mutters her mantra again and again, hissing out the words in time with the rhythm of her steps.

I knew this would happen. I knew this would happen. I knew this would happen.

The night is her time to let this anger out, far away from Éomer and Éowyn, both much too young to be burdened with the knowledge that their dead father was a reckless fool. Someone who couldn’t control his own impetuous need to act and, worse, refused to accept a cautioning hand even from one he professed to honor and cherish. She had begged him not to go, to delay for even a single hour until more men could be gathered to join his small party of riders. But he had been blind, as ever, to anything but his own rash impulses and instincts. He had scoffed at her fears, swept aside her concerns, given bold assurances that weren’t in his power to make. And now he was being hailed as a fallen hero while she was left alone with the consequences of his folly, to manage a tragic loss that she knew to be entirely of his own making.

She hadn’t always felt this way about him. There was a time when she found his passion and spontaneity exciting. Stirring. Romantic. To be the object of his attentions, to be the desire that he would overturn the world to sate, was a special brand of intoxicant, and she drank it in willingly. His quickness to action and his unfailing courage set him apart from other men, and he gained much by risking more than others could stomach. She felt his every gain as her own, and they ran heedless together through the world, two free souls as yet unchecked by the realities of life.

But what felt brave and thrilling and decisive when they were twenty had begun to look much different on the doorstep of forty, when he had already gained more than most men could dream of and only stood now to lose what had been so daringly won. Slowly, creepingly, she began to see his whims as childish, his zealotry as self indulgent. It surprised her every bit as much as him, but somewhere along the way, with age and responsibility and perspective, she became the person who would check him as life never had. The person to ask questions, to say no, to thwart his boldest ambitions and disappoint his most absurd hopes.

Whenever she did, he would look at her as though he looked upon a stranger, an unrecognizable drudge that had stolen the body of his daring and passionate wife. He would look at her as though she had broken faith with him, betraying their bond by choosing to accept that they lived in a world of constraints and limitations. And then she would hate herself, and him, too.

A dull, thudding pain hammers away in the space right behind her eyes, and her muscles and joints ache with every wearied step, calling out for rest. To sit or lay quietly for a while might ease the strain that has increasingly weighed on her body these last few days, the strain of too little sleep, too little food, too little protection from the harsh bite of winter. But she no longer cares for physical ease or comfort. She can endure without them; it has always been the way of the Rohirrim to bear such things without complaint. What she cannot bear is the seething in her mind during moments of stillness, those times of lonely silence while others sleep and she can only gnaw on the bones of her grievances and look with contempt at her memories now tainted by abandonment. And so she stomps through the cold desolation instead, the frozen cloud of her breath drifting along in the wake of a body indulging in the only escape available.

She knows she should be at home in case her children need her, and she knows that her sisters disapprove of how she has been acting. You’ll catch your death out there, says Edlenniel each night as she walks out the door. You need to start taking better care of yourself, clucks Théopryte, a critical eye cast over her increasingly bony figure, her unkempt hair. And this, too, makes her angry, the insistence of her elder sisters on treating her as though she is still a child even now. Nothing she does is ever good enough in their eyes – her home is too untidy, her language too profane, her daughter too much at liberty to run wild rather than learning the ways of respectable girlhood. And now she cannot even grieve correctly.

In truth, she had not expected to mourn this way. The day Éomund rode off, she had imagined her own reaction to the eventual return of his meager company without him. Sorrow, longing, despair, regret – these had been anticipated despite her frustrations. But when Éothain knocked at her door with the news, watery eyes rimmed with red and a battered horse-tailed helmet in hand, she felt none of those things. They vanished in an instant, disappeared from her heart and mind, perhaps never to return. Instead, she became like the cicadas that come to Rohan every dozen years and litter the ground with their delicate molted shells, perfectly formed images of themselves that have been deserted, no longer fit for use and liable to shatter under the slightest of pressures.

Now every interaction, every well-meaning friend or suffering relative, is at risk of being the next target of the dull blade of her anger, always at the ready to hack and slice ineffectually at those who draw her attention and, thus, her scorn. The neighbors who look at her pityingly as they pass by. The men of Éomund’s company who expect her to join them in their grief. Even her sweet son, all knobby knees and gangly elbows, works an inflamed nerve as he swings a sword much too big for him, vowing to protect their house now in his father’s absence. It’s a mother’s job to protect her child, not the other way around, she says to the thin frame and slight shoulders that are not yet grown enough to bear his own charge. You have years left just to be a boy, safe under my care. But it is said through gritted teeth, her tone emotionless, and he doesn’t believe her.

She has enough awareness still to see what she’s become, and though she cannot change it, she knows to try to hide it. She labors each day to be the mother her children need, sitting with them as they cry and holding her tongue when they paint Éomund in their remembrances as a valiant hero, a man to rival all the greatest legends of song. But they know that something isn’t right within her; some voice inside their childlike minds warns them of peril in the one place where they were trained never to expect it. Éomer has stopped asking why she doesn’t cry, and Éowyn now clearly prefers to seek her comfort from Tadiel, whose soft arms, doughy middle and doting indulgence provide what Théodwyn’s sharp, angular body and brittle bearing simply can’t or won’t.

As it inches toward sunrise, she reluctantly turns toward home again, where soon the rest of the household will begin to stir and her absence will be noted, frowned about and tsked over. The judgment of her sisters is no real concern, but she doesn’t want to add to the worries of her children. For them, she will fight to maintain even the barest pretense of normalcy. For her children, she will sit in that house among the remains of Éomund’s life – his belongings, his clothes, his scent – and she will struggle to breathe through the poisonous resentment that is trapped in her throat because she cannot allow it to pass her lips. For her children, she will choke.

The gate comes into view and, beyond it, the garden that she once loved and nurtured into glory, now gone dormant for the winter. She stumbles on the rise to the path, and a knee drives into the frozen ground. She rights herself with difficulty, grunting in the effort, and she curses at this clumsiness. Weakness of body has never been a challenge of hers, and she cannot understand the heavy, dragging feeling that follows her to the door. For the first time, she considers whether everything – the throbbing head, the sweating skin, the screaming joints – is not just a product of exertion but something more serious. Something brought on by the refusal to rest, to eat, to stay warm, to accept comfort and support. It is an unsettling thought, and she tries to push it from her mind as she slips quietly inside.

The frozen sting in her fingertips and toes is a strange counterpoint to the burning heat of her forehead and cheeks, and she collapses into a chair by the fire, waiting out the gradual thaw of her frost-dulled limbs and the eventual return of her body to how it is supposed to feel. But though her fingers slowly lose their bluish tinge and sensation tentatively returns to her feet, the heat in her face and the exhaustion in her muscles only grow. Time ticks by, innumerable minutes that seem like hours, and she can feel it all continue to worsen. What little energy she had now spills from her body like the blood of the stags that Éomund used to hunt, their carcasses sliced open and left to drain. A shiver runs through her, once and then again and again and again, every time stronger until the shivers are full-body spasms that clack her teeth together, threatening to catch her tongue in each jolt. A low, groaning noise fills the room, and she discovers with surprise that it is coming from her own throat.

Good gods, Théodwyn. What have you done to yourself? Edlenniel is in the doorway, and the horrified alarm in her voice is enough to smother the instinct to snap in response. What has she done? She tries to stand, but her legs don’t respond. A strange distance has crept in and inserted itself between the intentions of her mind and the obedience of her body. She wills herself up again and lurches forward with great effort. Is she standing now? She cannot be, not with the cool, smooth stone of the floor somehow pressed to her flushed cheek. She would lift her head to check, but the exhaustion is so heavy that it pins her down, the turning of a screw that secures her, motionless, to wherever she has landed.

Her mind becomes slow and hazy, her sight flickering in and out as though she is passing quickly between rooms that are brightly lit and others that are in total darkness. Théopryte is there and then not. Calls for help are relayed down the hall, and more people rush in. Tadiel pulls Éomer from the doorway, a hand over his eyes as though the sight of his mother is too frightful for him even to look upon. Clamoring, urgent voices echo around inside Théodwyn’s head until they are no longer intelligible to her, just a whirling churn of volumes and tones. She floats, alone and disconnected, in a sea of others’ panic.

A man’s face appears in her field of vision, lifting her up and carrying her to a nearby couch. Théodred? It comes out as a hoarse whisper, and the face shakes its head. No, of course not. Her beloved nephew doesn’t live in Aldburg and never has. A neighbor, then? Or servant? She loses interest before she can unravel the mystery, distracted by a painful new sensation that prickles across the surface of her skin like a thousand small needles. She squeezes her eyes shut, trying to exhale the pain with her every labored breath.

Uncounted hours pass, and she is now in her own bed, though she cannot recall being brought there. It takes all her effort just to keep her eyes open, and each time she blinks, it feels like scraping her eyelids over sand. She drifts in and out of lucidity, bobbing in a current of confused thought like a small boat tied up at the edge of a running river. When she’s lost, she is certain she can see Éomund in the corner, watching her in grave silence. When she’s present, she hears bits and snatches of hushed conversation, all in the voices of her sisters. The healer says there is nothing more to be done, says one. Such an awful waste, sniffles another. I knew this would happen, sighs the third. But who could stop her from running herself into the ground this way? She’s always done just what she wanted, no matter how rash or irresponsible.

Amidst all her pains, these words hit her like a blow, and an immediate, convulsive heaving in her stomach has others running for the healer again to manage this fresh symptom of her malady. But she knows it for what it really is: the retching out of unwelcome truth, her body’s rejection of this simple distillation of her fate. Recovery is not coming. She will die here in this bed, and her death will be needless. Pointless. And all the more shameful because she should have known better. She could have heeded the cautions and warnings of others.

Edlenniel leans her over a bowl as she empties herself of what little she’s eaten in the last day, and the bitter taste in her mouth lingers even after she has swirled and spat out many mouthfuls of water. It lingers as she collapses back into the sweat-soaked sheets that cling to every inch of exposed skin. It lingers as her addled mind struggles to reckon with the weight and cost of her mistake, this tragedy of her own making. It will always linger, for all the minutes she has left in the world and for the eternity that stretches out into the boundless, unknown future beyond it.

Her head lolls weakly to one side, and she can see Éomund in the corner still watching, silent and attentive. His face is not impassive, but calm. He accepts what has happened, is happening, will happen, and she must accept it, too. He dissolves into a vague blur as hot tears begin to spill down her cheeks, and whether they are tears for him or for herself, she isn’t sure. When she blinks her eyes clear again, he has moved closer to the bedside. He smiles softly, the wistful look of one who knows what it is to carry the burden of self-blame past any hope of remedy, and he reaches toward her with an open hand. A hand of consolation and invitation.

She will take it, but not yet.

Bring the children, she rasps out.

There is a moment’s debate in the room, furious whispers that drift to her ears. Not something a child should witness, she hears. There may not be time to wait, is the response. She repeats her request, louder this time, and the debate intensifies, rising in pitch and strength. But before the argument can resolve itself, Éomer has pushed in from the hallway, towing little Éowyn by the hand. Her words have reached them on their own.

She struggles to bring her son and daughter into focus, just as they struggle to see the outlines of their strong, capable mother in this frail, spiritless form. She craves nothing more than rest, but she knows she cannot; if she rests now, she will not wake again. She takes each one by the hand, their skin cold and dry against her own clammy fingers and palms, and presses those hands to her lips.

Be good for your uncle, she tells them. Your cousin will love you as a brother.

Éomer, quicker to understand, begins to cry, and his tears trigger Éowyn’s. Soon all three are crying together, for both the first and last time.

You deserve better than this, she should say. I have failed you, she wants to say. But would it give them any comfort to know that she belatedly understands her own mistakes? That left to do it all again, she would guarantee that they would never be without their mother? What can she tell them now that will help and not hurt, that will be a gift and not a hindrance? She swallows hard, and it is like swallowing gravel. Your father and I did the best we could, she whispers. The two of you will do better, and we will be proud.

She drops back to the pillow, exhausted beyond measure, and someone bundles the children back out into the hall again. Éomund smiles at her, and she nods. Her eyes drift closed as his hand wraps around hers, and the burning in her heart and skin slowly fades, the fire extinguished at last.

A note on the sisters of Théoden: Their father, Thengel, ran away to Gondor as a young man and lived there for a huge chunk of his life. He married Morwen, a Gondorian woman, and Tolkien tells us he only went back to Rohan “unwillingly” to take up the throne after his own father died. 2 of his daughters and his son were born in Gondor before that happened, and my HC is that all 3 of them had Gondorian names because, at the time, Thengel never had any intention of ever going back. So that gives us Edlenniel (“daughter of the exile,” since that’s how he saw himself) and Tadiel (“second daughter,” so overshadowed by her siblings that Thengel couldn’t be bothered to even give her an interesting name).

Théoden himself had a Gondorian name as well (Arnhereg, “royal blood”) but he changed it to something Rohirric (Théoden means “leader of the people”) when the family went back to Rohan both because he wanted to fit in better and because it seemed only appropriate that the future king of Rohan have a Rohirric name. Then when the other two sisters were born in Rohan, they were given Rohirric names as well (Théopryte, “pride of the people,” who was extremely beautiful; and Théodwyn, “joy of the people,” who was full of spirit).

3 of the 4 sisters were dead by the time of the War of the Ring (Edlenniel from old age, Théopryte from an accident, and Théodwyn as described here), and Tadiel had gone back to Gondor. Edlenniel never had any children and Tadiel and Théopryte had only daughters, which is why we don’t hear anything about other cousins that might have competed with Éomer for the throne after Théodred’s death. I’ve made a backstory for each of the sisters, but no use putting that all here since I’ve already gone on too long!

(Dividers by the wonderful @quillofspirit !)

[whovianofmidgard]

Day 4 – Caranthir – Childhood, Appearance

For @feanorianweek You can also read on AO3

Life in Valinor for someone like Caranthir was an overwhelming existence. His dark eyes never quite got used to the brightness of Laurelin, like most babes usually did after some months. He ran away so fast on his short legs from the clanging of forges and choirs singing, the sounds too loud for his sensitive ears. He screamed and cried when certain fabrics and textures touched his skin, blotchy red patches and rashes forming inexplicably after an hour of wearing new clothes.

Caranthir didn’t like going outside. He especially didn’t like going out for chores. However, Ammë and Atar were busy with their work, and Maglor and Celegorm had their studies, so he was left in Maedhros’ care while he did chores that needed to be done. Like shopping.

Caranthir trotted after his eldest brother, small hand clutching large hand, as they waded through the noisy market. He was mostly being guided by Maedhros, for the elfling was left half-blind from the mid-flowering light of Laurelin. Caranthir alternated between staring down at his feet, squinting with tears obscuring his sight, or just simply closing his eyes.

Maedhros stopped by some vegetable stall, leaving Caranthir to hold on to him and be bored. The swish of fabric caught the edge of his sight, a rich dark purple in colour, yet so thin it let light peek through its weave. Letting go of his brother’s hand, he went closer to the textile stall curiously. He slid his little fingers through the dark fabric, unfortunately it was itchy and burning, but he lifted it over his head.

Caranthir could perfectly see right through it, he could see the market, the elves milling about, everything. The only difference the fabric made was that the light and colours were muted. And most importantly, it didn’t bother his eyes.

“Nelyo, Nelyo!” he bounded over to his brother, purple textile still on his head. “Look, Nelyo! I can see and my eyes don’t hurt!”

Used to his little brothers’ oddities, the strange image Caranthir made didn’t even phase him.

“You can see everything?”

“Uh-huh,” Caranthir nodded.

“And there is no pain at all?”

“Nuh-uh,” Caranthir shook his head. “Well, the fabric is itchy.”

Maedhros looked at his little brother for some time, deep in thought. Then he removed the fabric from Caranthir’s face and after returning it to the stall he led them to different part of the market.

“Come, I have an idea,” he said, stopping in front of a vendor selling glassware.

Maedhros talked with the vendor for a while, then the elf rummaged for something underneath the stall, finally producing a small sheet of glass. Maedhros took it then handed it to Caranthir.

“Try looking through it.”

The glass was almost completely black, but it still let a little bit of light through. He put the glass up against his eyes, and relief flooded him as the stinging sensation abated.

“It doesn’t hurt!” Caranthir exclaimed, his hands fluttering about him in a rare show of joy.

Maedhros ordered a full sheet of coloured glass to be delivered home, and the very next day Caranthir was gifted with dark spectacles that protected him from the light.

-

Caranthir liked sitting with Maglor. The harp had a gentle sound, not too loud, and his brother practicing his scales and harp solos made for enough repetition and predictability that he could read or do his numbers homework in peace.

Maglor’s voice was nice too, but not up close. There needed to be at least two walls dividing them, so his singing didn’t hurt Caranthir’s ears with its loudness. Usually, when Maglor reached the place in his practice where he’d start singing with his harp, Caranthir would pack his books up and leave Maglor’s room for his own.

Noticing the pattern, Maglor once asked his little brother about it, and once hearing the answer he fell into silent contemplation.

The next time they were comfortably doing their own thing in Maglor’s room, his older brother gave him something.

“Try it on and tell me what you hear,” Maglor said, and helped Caranthir put the thing over his head, two padded pom-pom-like balls covering his ears.

“Can you hear me? And is it itchy at all?”

“You’re all muffled but I can hear you a little. Not itchy, but it tickles.”

Maglor just grinned, and later when he started to sing during practice, Caranthir stayed and continued his studies, unbothered by the loud sound.

-

The itchiness he partially figured out on his own, when a bit older Caranthir ironically got into fibre crafts. He now knew which fabrics his skin tolerated and which ones he didn’t, yet from time to time his hands would still turn red with rashes. An occupational hazard when working with all sorts of textiles.

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

POLLUTED MARROW & HOLLOW BONES (VIII)

|| COV MASTERLIST || NEXT: CHAPTER IX ||

PAIRING: Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick x F!Reader.

WORDCOUNT: 6.4k

WARNINGS: Angst, arguments, high-tension scenarios, talks of death, strained familial relationships, anxiety symptoms including lightheadedness, vomiting, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

“L-let’s not be rash, here,” you chuckle awkwardly, still staring down from the top of the roof into Gaz’s glaring eyes, the amber in them boiling and rolling with fire. The vans all open their obsidian black doors, multiple armed men spilling out to case the area—but all the Sergeant does is set his jaw. 

“Get down,” it’s the only thing said. A low rumble and tilt of accent. Dead. 

The hair on the back of your neck stands up, and for a moment you’re so tense you forget the fact that you’re looking into Kyle’s eyes without so much as flinching. You stare a moment longer, one hand on the edge of the concrete, steadily tightening its hold as the other cradles your father’s things. 

“Eh…” Your eyes dart away, blood on the bottom of your face dried and itchy. You’d never heard him speak like that before. 

Before you can think to protest, you’re slipping onto the latter with a burning face and a skip in your heart. This was worse than having to smack a man with a vent grate—like being taken to your death. 

When you land on solid ground, a hand latches onto the neck of your jacket and begins forcefully moving you to one of the vans. Your free hand snaps to the clenched fist, grasping onto his wrist like a whiny teenager and releasing a sound of alarm.

“Hey!” Your feet try to dig their heels in, but the void of the car door is coming up quickly. “Gaz, let me go!”

There’s no response. The form beside you is so firm and his hand so unrelenting you wonder if you’ll be in even deeper trouble this time than when you stole your mother’s credit card in middle school. Kyle’s athletic build surges with anger—a clench to his teeth so hard his jaw bones can be seen while the corners of his eyes. 

Any snappy response or insult stales on your lips as you see his other hand tightly curled in on itself, the tiny growl that builds in him at your struggling. Throat bobbing, you let the man push you forward to the car and hop in without another word. 

Oh, I’m screwed. You thin your lips and cringe at the loud slam of the door, trying to keep calm in the enclosed space as the darkness sets in. Some of the soldiers enter the Museum, probably doing damage control. 

Bringing your items to your chest, you take a steadying breath and rub under your sore nose; bits of red flaking off like dirt on the wind. Your head pounds with uncertainties. 

Did you really think you could pull this off? Body hunching in, the driver glances back at you, his eyes narrowed with annoyance and a frown on his lips. Your face and the tips of your ears feel like they’re being placed over hot coals. 

You clear your throat, staring at the portion of skin right under his orbs. “Problem?” The driver scoffs and returns his gaze to the front as the passenger side door opens with a pop. 

“Get us back.” Kyle orders, voice clipped and final. 

Engine starting, the man that had tracked you down clicks his seatbelt on and closes the door with a stiff arm. Alone in the back, you do the same after a slight beat of hesitation; a second of something like panic hitting you in the chest. 

It was stupid to ask why he would be acting like this, but you still wondered if you had really met Kyle’s breaking point. The aggressive re-situating of his ball cap seemed like a good hint—the rod-straight spine and tapping fingers on the door-arm.

He was in full gear. 

But…this was what you wanted, right? A breaking point?

Your mouth opens and then slowly closes, breath caught in your throat and not knowing what to say. Why did you feel like you’d just done something irreversible?

Gaze darting to the floor, you glare at the mats as the vehicle jerks forward, turning to bring you back to the mansion surrounded by metal like an abyss and bullet-proof glass. 

“I…found some stuff, y’know,” you puff out, not liking the strangling silence about two minutes in. The USB in your pocket sits heavy.

Again, no one answers. The Sergeant’s eyes don’t even glance at you from the mirror. Frustration grows like a virus. 

“I wouldn’t have done this if you’d just let me help, Gaz.” You try to get him to speak, suddenly nervous and building in volume…or was that desperation? “I mean, really, it’s my dad!”

Nothing. 

Face stained with shame and lips peeled into a sneer, your eyes crinkle with a slight burning sensation trapped behind the skin. You sit with shaky fingers the entire ride, your mouth strangling down the loud exclamations as to why this wasn’t your fault so you don’t bark like a dog. 

You had to, didn’t Gaz understand that? 

Whatever was in your father’s belongings would tell you what you needed to know—break this entire thing open. And if the rest of the Sergeant’s friends overseas could track down the two that started this, all of it could be over. 

You could be left alone again, finish your classes, and…and…

Brows slowly slide in. 

What then? As the car pulls up through your gate, you find a horrifying realization that you have no idea. 

Unclipping your seatbelt, you go to try and open the door with a frown, only to find it’s unwilling to release you. Lightly pushing on the material again, your eyes slowly widen. 

No way.

Kyle had child-locked you. 

Gaping, you have to wait for Gaz to get out in a long moment of letting this new reality settle into your blood. He does so after pure silence, seeming as if he might say something, but the Brit just ends up sighing loudly and shaking his head. Gaz gets out and grasps the handle to your door, pulling it out and standing back—all without a mumble. 

Like you want to prove to yourself that this doesn’t make your chest feel weird, you shuffle out and scoff at him. But anyone can see the guilty expression on your face.

Striding up to the front door, you push at it with your shoulder, the night air cold and encompassing before the relatively warmer air of your house hits your face. The plate you’d left out for the cat hours earlier is left behind on the step, empty.

Kyle follows close after, hands hanging off his combat vest. In the foyer is when you snap. 

“Are you going to speak up or keep acting like a child? Look at the stuff I got, Garrick!” You hold the items in display as you can hear the car out front leave in a grind of gravel. “This could be the answer to if my father really—”

The laptop and the journal are all swiped from your grasp and he’s pushing past you before you can continue. Shocked, even petrified for a moment, your mouth flaps like a fish. 

Realization hits you like a truck.

“Fucker!” That was a new one. 

Twisting on your heel, you stalk quickly after the male as he stomps, hands clenched into themselves and the skin of your knuckles thin. “Give those back! Garrick—don’t you ignore me, I don’t deserve this!” 

It’s like he snaps at that, whipping around and pointing a finger right into your face. You balk back, surprise and alarm alighting your features.

“Deserve?!” Your eyes blink rapidly, lips parted. You stare widely into his cheek scar as his lips turn into an attacking jibe. “Bloody fuckin’ hell, what you deserve is to be locked into a fucking jail cell! Least then I’d be able to keep track of you, eh? What kind of bastard do you have to be to think that was a good idea?!” 

“Oh, I’m sorry, is it your family that’s,” you splay your hands, the house echoing with the sounds of verbal battle. The glass finally shatters. “Being goddamn hunted, Sergeant? Your father that got his head fucking imploded?”

You didn’t want to admit how much this argument was making you feel uneasy, but you want your father’s things back. They belong to you, and now they’re stuck in this jerk’s gloved hands like a doll. Those things were valuable; they could fix this.

“If it was me, I wouldn’t be running off like a bloody fool! I’d be listening to the people that are here to keep me alive!” You growl and shake your head. “How thick-headed are you?!”

Gaz isn’t done, his finger moving back and forth as the skin of his cheek tightens, lips dancing to speak rapidly like a fire was under his feet. 

“Your father is dead.” Blood drains from your body, expression immediately blanking. “He’s gone and he wasn’t someone to be proud of. Whoever he was with you was a facade for his family and the public. If it wasn’t an end by Row, it would have been by someone else, yeah, you understand that?” Tears infect the sides of your wide gaze, and you’re suddenly sucked into Gaz’s eyes as you had been the first day you’d both met. Amber and flashing gold—enraged emotion and raw bluntness that you’d had yet to experience in this capacity. What had happened to his sarcasm? His stern and laughable annoyance? 

“Hell,” he keeps going, moving his finger to point to the side. “Look at the carnage he’s caused just by being dead—innocent civilians and a fucking daughter who fights for an honor that doesn’t exist! You’re mental, Love, fucking mental!” 

Kyle pants, staring into your face and your tiny pupils; your shaking body. He grits his teeth and peels back, angrily twitching his nose. 

“If you would listen to me, this all would have already been over with, can you get that through your skull? I’ve tried to be nice about this, truly, but I’m done. No more leaving the mansion; no more late-night stunts that leave me callin’ up my Mates only to find you’ve gone and snuck out. No more damn,” he holds up the laptop and journal, “involvement from you. You’re done. I’m done.”

The house gradually goes back to silence, but it’s no longer a deep, ancient feeling. It’s like walking on glass, blood pooling along the soles of feet and sticking through flesh.

You stare and can’t find it in yourself to breathe anymore.

Amber darts to your bloody nose and Gaz bares his teeth, face bright with dismissal. He pushes past the concern at the crimson flecks. He’s done trying to earn your favor, so he blankly spits out, “Clean yourself up. I’m finished with being your bloody punching bag,” and turns down the hall. 

“I fucking hate you,” the words spill out in a strangled gasp, a wheeze on your tongue. Gaz pauses, his back taunt and straight. His chin partially peeks over his shoulder.

“Good.” The worlds feel like lead. “It can go both ways, Love.”

When he disappears, you stand in the darkness and feel the first dribbles of tears wet your lashes—making them stick to one another as you stutter on air. 

Your brain can’t make sense of it. 

Empty-handed, your body is so heavy the first few steps in the direction of your room feel like you’re dragging a statue of stone behind you; the rope tied to your fingers and toes. But when the bile starts to fizzle in your throat, you pick up the pace; darting through your opened bedroom door and beelining to your bathroom. 

Just in time, your face finds the toilet, vomit coming out in sputtering coughs as your sobs exit moments later, stuck between the acid in your throat and your stubbornness. 

You hated crying—hated vomiting—but lately, it was like those were the only things you could do; your body didn’t listen to your pleas or begging, only did what it wanted. On that front, you believe that your brain and matter were equally matched. 

Gasping and feeling saliva drip off your lips, you raggedly cough up what little you had in your stomach until you can sit back against the wall and blankly stare ahead. With varying success you try and take down deep breaths, shivering something awful as the chill gets to you.

But suddenly the silence of the mansion was a prison. 

The water pipes, the small creaking—the click of your small clock out in your room. 

Click-clock, click-clock, click-clock.

Your mind told you that you shouldn't feel bad. Shouldn’t be wearing that thousand-yard stare as you tase vomit on your tongue and in your throat; the burn of that shame and guilt. You had nothing to be guilty of—nothing. 

It was your father, not Gaz’s. He’d do the very same thing. 

Right?

You grasp at your scalp and lean forward, slotting your head in between your knees. Everything spins and twirls, there’s a violent need to satiate the thirst in your throat, but you can’t move. Can’t breathe. Can’t think. 

“...I’ve tried to be nice about this, truly, but I’m done. No more leaving the mansion; no more late-night stunts that leave me callin’ up my Mates only to find you’ve gone and snuck out. No more damn,” he holds up the laptop and journal, “involvement from you. You’re done. I’m done.”

Gaz’s hands on your palm and the way your very injured hand stings now in memory; those stitches popped and bandages bloody—the crimson on your nose. 

How he held you in the kitchen and leaned you back against the island. Spoke so softly and casually, as if you hadn’t nearly passed out on him.

He’d apologized not hours before you’d gone and snuck out. 

Your heart tightens.

He’d apologized. 

Your fingers dig into your flesh, biting hard as you suck down sobs and tiny whimpers; tears staining your clothes in fast droplets. 

“If it wasn’t an end by Row, it would have been by someone else…Look at the carnage he’s caused just by being dead…a fucking daughter who fights for an honor that doesn’t bloody exist!”

You curl into a tiny ball of horror.

“I’m finished with being your bloody punching bag.”

—

Kyle moved his things to the room directly in front of yours in the middle of the night, when you’d passed out from your panic on the bathroom floor. He’d grasped all of his belongings with clenched hands, bags contouring under the force.

At every instance, he cursed your name and everything you’d put him through. 

“Bloody, unbelievable,” he growls, shoving clothes into his duffel bag before zipping it up and wrenching it over his shoulder. 

It was rare to find the Brit this mad, so often level-headed.

“Give her every chance in the books, and what does she do?” He flicks the lights of his old room off and quickly walks down the hallway. “Fucking plays me for a fool! Jesus. Brilliant, just brilliant.” 

There was no way to describe how his heart had jerked out of his chest when he’d come to try and speak to you hours earlier; when he’d found the room empty after knocking for minutes—trying to be considerate to your privacy. 

The open window, the damn curtain rack. 

It was insulting.

Gaz stalks in a bitter and steam-emitting silence to the room across from yours, not bothering to check on the cracked open door from your own. You’d had your fun, you’d probably just forgotten to close the door fully as you made fun of him behind his back. 

Kyle frowns and sets his things down on the white, sheeted-covered bed that would be his. Tiny, and not even long enough to let his legs stay on it fully.

He tries not to remind himself about how afraid you’d looked as he’d laid into you. Halfway through his barking match of emotion, he’d thought maybe it was time to stop—to ease off a bit and reel it back in, but then it had become necessary. 

If you didn’t listen to him when he was calm, the fact was that you wouldn’t listen to him at all. Best to get it all off his chest while he could.

He’d already sent in a reassignment request to Laswell not an hour prior. 

Taking out his things, his fingers brush your stolen laptop and journal. Christ, there was so much paperwork to go through after what you’d done—damage reports and write-ups on his record for losing track of his VIP; the crimes you’d stacked like awards that needed to be scrubbed. 

This wasn’t only a protection Op, this was his job. 

And you were taking a hammer to his perfect track rep. 

Pulling out the two items, Gaz huffs and shakes his head, running his free hand over his chin. 

“Two things and it couldn’t have waited a few more days? What is this girl about?” They’re placed down on the bed and not given another glance. 

He’d have to go through them later. 

Kyle goes and splays both of his hands over his face, pressing his palms into his eyes before taking a deep breath to fill his lungs with oxygen. An attempt to calm down.

You’ll not get anything done acting like this.

The resounding truth was that he was tired. You’d tested him to the point of snapping—how was that even possible? You were a bloody Uni student with a big mouth and a stubborn streak, not even a drug lord could do what you did. 

You’d gotten him to yell at you and on the other end, he’d gotten you to look at him. Yes, look, with your own volition, but that fact left a sour taste in his mouth where it should have felt like a triumph after the terrible first in the park. 

You’d stared into his eyes with utter shock and numb fear—as if he’d pull a gun on you. 

A civilian. His charge.

You had been terrified, even if you’d tried to use entitlement to sneak around it. You’d been shaking. With eyes dead still.

“God, you twat,” Gaz grunts. Had he really called you mental? “Bloody hell, you’re in for it.” 

You’d be livid tomorrow when it catches up to you. A damn near homemade bomb wrapped in metal and filled with nails; Gaz’s name written on the top in red ink.

As he kept his door open to stare at yours in the middle of the night, the Sergeant prepared himself, still angry and dreading the future.

If only it could be that simple. 

In the morning, you wouldn’t even look at him. 

Wearing a large hoodie and pajama bottoms, you had already downed three cups of coffee by 9 o’clock, your body stiff and the air around your head a cloud of indiscernible separation. But it wasn’t like Gaz had tried to speak to you, either.

Both of you were forced to be in the same room, as the Sergeant wouldn’t let you alone save for the bathroom. You couldn’t be trusted. 

It was mental torture.

Jaw clenching, the man watched you work on your personal laptop, doing classwork while your USB stuck out of the port—he blinked away, writing up his own reports on the incident last night. 

The air was so thick you could be lost in it like a forest full of mist. It simmered; burned—then cooled to a degree of freezing before starting back up again. No words, no acknowledgements. 

Brown drifts back to your blank face as your fingers stop over your laptop’s keys, a small tremor, and then get back to it. Gaz bites his lip and closes his eyes harshly, shaking his head once.

He had to stop feeling guilty for the truth. You needed to hear what he said, no matter how blunt. It was the truth, after all. 

But the truth didn’t stop his heart from hurting when you reverted to a state of waking nothingness with little desire to eat or move beyond the shuffle of your body.

Gaz sighs and tells himself it’s not his problem anymore—in a little bit he’d be gone if Laswell approved him for transfer. Back with One-Four-One. Working with people who trust him and his judgment. 

It was for the best.

You stare at the ‘enter password’ screen on your laptop with a chill on your neck, blind to all else as you wrack your brain for answers.

The USB from your father’s office was password protected. Ten tries before it got locked out. You’d gone through five already. 

Staring hard, Gaz keeps distracting you.

He was sitting in the living room with you, on the opposite couch as well as on the opposite end—as far as he could be with still being near. Being in this state and feeling the tension in the air made you lightheaded with anxiety. 

It’s as if every urge to speak or breathe near him dissipates; your face a perpetual furnace, blood on fire. 

Focus, you have to tell yourself, but it only makes it worse. Eyes dig into the screen as the two words blend into one another, taunting. 

You can hear his breath, the scratch of his pen as it travels over paper—if the circumstances had been different, it would have been the picture of quiet companionship. 

A pity you both were the way you are. 

The shame was urging you to apologize, to rectify what you’d done; pride was taking that shame by the throat. But you were faced with the reality that you couldn’t go back to living alone like you had before, because this silence was enough to make you go insane. 

You missed his voice, and you’d only been without it for a short while. Kyle’s smirk and his cheeky quips. You both hated it and longed for something to grapple to.

It was true, you admitted, hands over the keys, you’d grown used to him. It was disgusting. 

About to chance another possible password—your parent’s anniversary halfway typed in—the front door rings. 

Immediately, everything that had seemingly already been still, halts. 

Freezing, you stare at the laptop and let the echo spread across the mansion, the high ding of the rarely used object. Your eyes slowly rise to stare at the living room opening, blinking, and for a moment any thought of Kyle and the argument; the hatred at your stubbornness and pride, utterly ceases to exist.

With a twitch of your fingers, you close your laptop in what seems like hours, the tiny sound it makes when it lays flat making your ear perk. 

Gaz’s head is already swiveled, body wound up. He sends a quick glance your way before standing and reaching for the X12 in his waistband. Your eyes catch the glint of his watch and you look away with a frown, lids narrowed with hesitation. 

Tell him you’re sorry. You know you are. 

Standing to follow, Kyle sends a hard look your way. Your feet stall.

Both of you seem surprised by that.

The Sergeant’s eyes widened for a second, hand on his weapon loosening and pulse up-ticking. So much expressed with absolutely no words to be muttered aloud. You take a deep breath and lick your lips, not able to speak over a raspy grunt of, “Kyle…I-I—”

The doorbell rings again, longer this time.

You snap your mouth shut.

Kyle looks you up and down, but his feet only hesitate a moment longer. He turns his head away quickly and carefully leaves the living room.

Running a hand over your neck, you close your eyes and contort your face into an image of confused pain, an inner hatred at…everything. You’d messed up. Badly. 

And you were afraid of your own fear. Afraid of your sudden unease at Gaz’s absence and his angry silence. Afraid because, deep down, you knew his outburst last night was nothing but the truth.

Sighing, you sit back down and lean into the cushions with a growing headache. You wanted more coffee, your stomach rolled with hunger, and you were cold. 

You hated being like this. 

“...Sweetheart?” your head whips up to a familiar face in the grand double doorway, breath getting taken in with a big inhale. 

A woman dressed in a nice shirt and dress pants stands with a hefty designer purse over her shoulder, face open and soft, blinking through the wetness at the corners which you stare at in pause. 

Gaz comes in behind her with another man, tall and blond with a mustache—your mother’s guard, because that was who the woman was after all...your mother. Home. The Sergeant looks over at you and places his gun back with a small sigh.

You clear your throat, standing before you shuffle your feet.

“Hey, Ma,” you glance to the side, itching at your arm. “How’ve you—”

You’re slammed into a tight hug and you flinch violently into it, sharp noise escaping your lungs and Kyle takes a quick step forward in alarm. The blond guard sends him a look of confusion, but the Brit stares at you and feels his lips thin. 

“Oh, my God!” Your mom exclaims in utter relief, sagging to you and placing a hand firmly on the back of your head. “I was so worried, I-I saw the news about the shooting but I wasn’t able to get in contact with you.” 

Your body is moved back and forth and you awkwardly place your hand on the small of her back. You stare at the far wall like a stuffed animal. Your mother was never a hugger, but maybe Gaz’s expression in the kitchen had been true. People change.

Three years.

“Christ, you have no idea how much I wanted to call you. Are you alright, talk to me.” The meat of your arms is taken and you’re maneuvered back so your matriarch—and last remaining family member—can look you in the eyes. 

You quickly move your head to the side. 

“I’m fine, Mom,” licking your lips, you shrug. “Glad you’re back…How was overseas?”

She sighs, looking at you in concern, and brushes past your question.

“You look sick,” your chin is taken and moved to the side, and another hand is taken and placed on your head. “And you’re running hot—when’s the last time you slept?”

Hot? You’ve never felt more cold. 

“Mom,” taking a small step back, you whisper out a meaningful utterance. 

“Okay, okay,” she shakes her head. “I’m sorry, I know, I’m a worrier...But, how have things held up? I feel like we haven’t been able to speak in lifetimes.”

We haven’t. Who’s fault was that?

Gaz tilts his head at the interaction, seeing your uncomfortable stiffness and your mother’s open and obvious love. This wasn’t how you described her at all, but then again, your mum’s actions weren’t the same either.

“How’s it been?” Alex asks, his arms crossed as the two women speak in low tones a few feet away. Your body is seen shifting and hands flexing. “Heard some stuff, everything goin’ smooth over here?”

“Wouldn’t call it smooth, Mate,” Kyle utters. “Recon you had it better than I have.”

“Ah,” the CIA Officer shrugs. “Gonna be honest, the Old Lady’s pretty easy—most I had to do was ask for her tea with extra sugar while on the plane.”

He sends over a twitch of his lips, a raised eyebrow. But the expression shifts to serious moments later.

“Word is the boys overseas haven't got any leads, they’re stuck in the dirt with this.” Kyle grits his teeth.

“Nothing?” 

“Nada.”

“Fuckin’ hell. That’s bollocks—how well are those two hidden?” Alex moves his fingers from their hold on his biceps, moving them up in a show of ‘no clue.’

He draws out his words with a huff. “It’s going to push out this timeline even farther than it already is, is what I’m tryin’ to say.”

“There any good news?” Gaz watches you as your feet realign, hands going to hide inside your sweatshirt pocket. A bobbing to your throat makes his shoulders turn in.

What is your problem? the Sergeant hums to himself. It's just her mum—Christ. Ease off it. Alex’s eyes narrow in question when he notices the hatted man’s attention is half on you and half on the conversation. 

“...Not any worthwhile.” 

“They’re expecting us to just wait? We can’t stay in a single bloody location forever, it makes a bigger target.” A brown gaze doesn’t stray from you as he says this. 

“Not much we can do, Garrick. VIPs take priority.”

Kyle shakes his head in disapproval. “For now, we might have something here—some new intel. Have to look into it.”

Alex perks, his arms falling to his sides. “How’d you come by that?” 

“Long story.” Gaz sighs deeply and the blond chuckles, giving a half-shrug. 

“Fair enough.” Alex nods to you and Kyle tenses. “It have to do with her?”

“...Longer story.” That gets a few grunted laughs, and the Sergeant smirks lightly, feeling a bit better to have someone he knows to talk to.

Across the way, you explain everything the best you can to your mother in small sentences and stuttering words. Her hands don’t leave you; studying you deeply at every mico-expression. 

“Well,” she takes a deep breath. “I think I’ll make us some tea, hm? Start cleaning up the estate when I get settled. I understand it’s a lot of work, but let’s at least open the curtains.”

She laughs and it fills you with dead. Clean up? She didn’t really expect to mess with everything right? Your mother kisses your cheek. 

“I’ll be right back—be sure to introduce yourself to Alex. And do try to be respectful.” Her fingers pinch your skin and you thin your lips. “Smile, Dear. No foul language. A-and let’s try to get some sleep tonight, okay? School can wait.” 

“Right. Yeah, I know.” She nods and smiles brightly, before telling you how happy she is to see you again. Your mother walks out and slips past Alex and Gaz. 

Two sets of eyes level on your form.

You waste no time snatching up your laptop and quickly walking to the separate set of doors, ignoring the confused looks before entering the hallway and breathing heavily.

This should be a good thing—having your mother back. Hell, you should be relieved she’s still alive after everything that went down. 

So why did it feel like everything was going to change? Three years and you’d had it under control, your routine, the fitful nights, you’d managed—not well, but you had. Now all of that was gone; stripped away like some meaningless cloth. 

It wasn’t meaningless to you.

The house was the way it was—like you in many senses. You lived with the covered furniture, and the curtains over with windows with a glance and nothing more. That was your normal. 

She’s going to change everything. She’s just come back and she’s going to wreck it.

It wasn’t fair to her to be like this, but it wasn’t fair to you to have disappeared when you needed a mom more than anyone. 

“Oh, God,” you cover your mouth with your hand and try to push away the footsteps that follow behind you, the nearly vacant press of shoes. 

Of course, he wouldn’t even allow you to have five minutes to gather yourself.

Gaz doesn’t utter a sound as he follows at your heels, staring into the back of your head. You briefly wonder where the ‘Alex’ fellow went, but find you don’t even care. Your mother was here after all. She’d take care of it.

She’d take care of everything. 

You glare painfully at the hardwood ahead of you and hold your laptop tighter, wishing you had your father’s journal—something that belonged to him. But Gaz had already stashed it away, probably locked it up from you. 

And you can’t find it in yourself to be angry, which makes you annoyed. 

That annoyance stays, just as the guard at your side does, even one day later. You don’t speak anymore, you don’t quip and dig; he doesn’t respond or smirk—no jokes taken in stride where yours are blunt and his whitty. 

Everything changes overnight. 

Gaz had seen your body completely turn to stone on the stares when you’d come down and glanced at the furniture open to the air, no sheets or coverings. Things were dusted and set on display; even taken from storage and laid out in expensive finery. He’d darted his vision down at you and tightened his lips, again saying to himself that it won’t be his problem for much longer. 

Yet, when he’d clocked your very-much real panic at the sight of the open curtains, he’d nearly put a hand on your shoulder and squeezed, having to restrain himself. 

You didn’t take it well. 

“Honey!” Your mother calls down from the foyer, holding her phone in her hand. “Lovely, just who I was looking for. Do you think we should change the colors from navy to green, or to violet?” 

You stare in horror, hands clenched into fists near the banister. 

“I-” your voice stutters. “Why are you changing the navy?”

“Well…it’s a bit dated, don’t you think?” Gaz’s face pulls. “Let’s, I don’t know, mix it up a little!” She laughs, flicking some dust from the coffee table near the old fireplace. “We’re back together—it’s time to move on.”

And still, to his shock, you say nothing, the fight sucked out of you. You bite your tongue and hold it all in as he spares you wide brown eyes. A sound of confusion bounces from Kyle’s throat. 

If it were anyone else you’d be down their ear by now—barking about the history and the memories.

For a moment he’s left as you slowly start back down the steps, back straight and neck tense, blinking at your spine. 

He almost speaks to you. 

Almost, but not quite.

As you seem to sink into a hole of mute acceptance you begin to close up even more—what little you’d opened up to Gaz was shuttering closed with a great shaky slam. 

“Hey,” Alex is leaning against the wall as a loyal hound would, keeping an eye on the ground floor. When he sees you he stands up straighter. “We weren’t properly introduced—Alex Keller, I’m glad to hear you’re—”

You stride past and grasp at the single straw to your name—the USB. You’d still had no luck with it yet. Only two tries left. It was weighing on your soul more than your mother’s insistence on eating meals at the family table. 

“...alright…” 

Alex passes a look to Gaz and the Sergeant only shakes his head over his shoulder and quickly moves. 

The blond is left with lightly parted lips and quickly blinking eyes—hand barely outstretched in failed greeting.

You end up in the library, hurriedly messing with the books under your name and piling them on the table out of instinct. Call you possessive, but no way was your mother touching anything that directly belonged to you. 

You own the estate now, you remind yourself, just tell her to stop. 

You only grab books faster—especially the ones that your father read. Maybe there was something of importance there; he liked to highlight and annotate important sections and quoted things often. 

A sequence of numbers or a code? A phrase? Who knew at this point, but you needed to do something. Keep you occupied. 

Keep you from thinking about the silent man who watches you from the side of his eye near the door. 

The silent treatment—you weren’t new to it. 

Just didn’t expect it from a soldier in his mid to late twenties. 

Huffing, you drop more books onto the table and tidy them, brushing off dust in your form of cleaning with a slap of your hand. When you’re done, the large objects are piled high in front of you and relatively dusted. 

Breathing stiffly, you try to push back the weight on your lungs before brushing off the heat on your cheeks as Gaz watches, head tilted and face tight.

If he’s anything as stubborn as you, he’ll be keeping this up for—

“What’s the question, then?” 

You immediately wind up like a jack-in-the-box, eyes daring to connect with Kyle’s. Twitching, you settle instead on his scar; studying the darkness. It’s a minute before you respond, and when you do, it’s nearly silent. 

Brows moved with apprehension.

“Kyle?” You ask, sticking your hands into your pockets. You’d left your coin back in your room. A frown mixes with a grimace.

It’s hard to admit how his voice made your heart lurch. 

Gaz clears his throat, feet shifting, but his voice is still hard and monotone. “Your question. You cleaned the books off.”

“I help you clean, and when I say we take a break, I have to answer one question of your choice.” 

Your bargain. A bit skewed, yeah, but apparently it counted.

“...I don’t have one,” you admit lowly, not a hostile thorn heard. Vision sliding, you look down at your objects. Apologize. Grunting, you grasp a few of the books, moving forward with them in your arms. 

Kyle lets you slide past, moving his shoulder until you’re not about to bump into it. In the bright light of the open curtains, he stares after and closes his eyes; breathing in through heavy lungs. 

Re-assignment couldn’t come soon enough. If not for his sanity, then for yours. 

Kyle fiddles with his watch and fixes his cap once before continuing after you, a very large hole of something in his chest that can’t be filled.

By how he wishes for your sarcastic comments and your fiery spite right about now, staring with growing worry at your hunched shoulders, he dreads what that something could be.

Tonight he’d take a look at your father’s laptop and journal—too busy yesterday with paperwork and reports; getting through red tape and trying to get into contact with Price.

He hadn’t told you, but there had been a break-in at the museum the same night you had snuck out. Same section. Same box bearing your father’s name ripped open and thrown to the ground. Five minutes after his team had cleared it. 

Five minutes after you’d left with the items in your dust-coated hands and bloody nose. Your wide, fake-innocent, eyes over the corner of that roof.

Someone was playing games.

And they were getting closer.

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[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Hi! Can you please write a fic of Nuada having a bad day, and his s/o takes the initiative to prepare a bath for him? She tenderly washes his scalp, massages his soapy body and leaving kisses on his skin. I like the idea of a grumpy, solemn character getting pampered, and how Nuada would feel getting treated like that for once. :)

I hope you like this!

“Tending the Prince”

Pairing:  Nuada x Fem. Reader (Human / second person POV/established relationship) Themes:  Soft | Fluff Warnings: Kissing  Word count:  1.5K words Rating: Mild NSFW | Minors DNI 

Summary: Nuada comes home in a foul mood, and you decide a little pampering is in order. 

Want to be tagged? Want to know the rules? Read all here.

It was cold, mercilessly cold, when Nuada made his way back home, slinking through dark roads and darker alleys, moving quickly and silently like a cat as he slipped past oblivious mortals before heading into the abandoned railway tunnels he called home.

Well, it was no longer just a series of abandoned tunnels. Nuada converted a part of them into an underground home, a refuge from the outside world and a small reminder of the once bustling city of Bethmora.

Tonight, he found no joy in any of it on his return, as he was tired and cold, and his body ached all over. Hellboy took it into his head to anger the Vizier of the Troll Market, and Nuada had to save him.

Yet again.

Nuada felt his hands turn into fists. Hellboy was always like this, bullheaded and rash, getting everyone else into a mess, and then, if he failed to extricate himself, someone else had to swoop in to save the day. This time that lot fell to Nuada. And Nauda was not happy about it at all.

Oh, how he wanted to punch something.

And how he just wanted to be alone.

He pushed open the doors, not even bothering to close them behind him. He snarled when Mister Wink greeted him and bit his tongue when you came over. Nuada could never, would never, take his frustrations out on you, no matter how surly he was of an evening. He grumbled a hello before disappearing into your shared chambers.

"Bad day, you think?" you turned to Mister Wink.

Mister Wink seemed to think so, and you tried to come up with something that could put Nuada into a better mood. "Right," you said. "You go lock up the place, and I'll  check on our Mister Grumpy Pants."

The troll chuckled heartily before going off to check all the doors, and you steeled yourself to check on the prince.

"Nuada?" you knocked on the door before entering. "Is everything ok, sweetheart?"

Nuada was muttering under his breath as he struggled to undo the clasps of his armour. You pick up mumblings of Hellboy and the Vizier and other words that were quite colourful and inventive. It seemed like the visit to the Troll Market didn't go according to plan, and that had put Nuda into a foul mood. When he struggled with a clasp for the umpteenth time, you bit back a smile and went forward to help him.

"Here," you said softly, taking over where he left off. "I'll do it."

The rage in Nuada's eyes died the moment you neared him. "I want to be alone, my love," he mumbled.

To sulk and be miserable, no doubt. You sighed and worked on one clasp, then another. "Well, it's obvious you're not managing on your own." Your eyes widened when the deep red bruises on his neck came into view. "And you're hurt. What happened?"

Nuada lifted his arms so you could take the armour off him. "Anung un Rama, that was what happened," he muttered, anger and frustration bubbling inside him again. "And I would rather not talk about it, if you do not mind."

"Alright," you said and started on the clasps of his tunic. If Nuada decided not to discuss something, you would let it be. He would always talk about what vexed him once he was ready to do so. And his skin was so cold, icy to the touch. Perhaps something to warm him up might put him into a better mood, you thought. "How about a bath instead?" You peeled the tunic off of him, trying not to wince at a large bruise on his chest. "You could use it, I think."

Nuada shook his head, determined to refuse. "I would rather..."

And you were determined to have your way. Nuada needed some looking after, it was plain as day now. "In fact," you said, turning sharply on your heel, "I insist on it. I'll have one ready for you. Give me ten minutes."

Nuada grumbled at your back, determined to stay where he was. He did not attempt to move when you headed toward the bathroom. He tried to turn a deaf ear to the sound of water running, to your humming. He wanted to refuse, to not indulge, but -

The sound of that water proved too much, and his body yearned to be warmed a little after being in the filthy cold for so long. With an angry growl, he muttered under his breath and stomped to the bathroom once the ten minutes were up.

And you were there, standing beside a large, claw-foot tub. The lights had been dimmed and there were candles all over. "What is all of this?" he asked, as he took in a little tray on the bathtub counter, filled with all sorts of scents and ointments.

"This, sweetheart is a bath."

"I know what a bath is my love, but what is all of this?"

You came over to him and sank to your haunches. "A bath, nothing more," you insist, working on the lacing of his left boot. "Now lift."

Nuada stifled a wince when he lifted his leg, and that first boot was disposed of in no time. Same for the second boot. You then rose and got to work on his belt. Now that filled him with a sliver of mischief. "In here my love?" he teased. "While I am sore all over?"

Oh, how the innuendo made you blush. But at least he was in a better mood. "I'm not unbuckling your belt for that," you grinned and laughed lightly, and went to work on the clasps of his trousers. "I'm just helping you with your clothes. But if you're of a mind to ruin a good pair of trousers," you said, gesturing at the tub with one hand, "By all means."

Nuada chuckled before quickly taking your face into both hands and stealing a quick kiss. "I have no interest in getting into a tub while still dressed," he said, his eyes lighting up at the soft hint of pleasure reflecting in yours. "Go on."

You smirked and helped him out of his trousers too, tossing them to the pile on the side. Nuada took slow steps and got into the tub, a sigh rising from the tips of his toes when warm water met his skin. You pulled up a little stool and took your place behind him.

"Now what, my love?" Nuada said, and let his body ease back against the tub, his aching muscles slowly easing and unwinding in the fragrant, soapy water.

You reached for the little tray to pick up a soft sponge and dipped it in the water. "And now I'm going to look after you."

Nuada's grumble died when that sponge slowly glided over his skin. Soft, it was, almost as soft as your skin. He sighed wistfully and surrendered slowly when the hurts of the day ebbed away. And how it surprised him, to be cared for like this. It felt alien, but oh-so-wonderful at the same time. "You need not do this," he said.

You smiled and kept running that sponge over his shoulders and arms, his quiet sighs encouraging you to continue. "But I want to do this," you said. "You take such good care of us, and ask for nothing in return."

Nuada softened and tilted his head up, his hands reaching up to play with your hair. "That is because you are worth it. I love you."

Your smile just grew. "I love you." You dipped your head and brushed your lips over his, only to pull away when he winced. "I'm sorry."

"Not your fault," Nuada grimaced and swallowed, waiting for the dull throb in his throat to pass. "I will be fine in a little while."

It took a moment or two, but the pain passed. While he waited, you rose and went to the sink, to fill a wash basin with fresh water. When you returned, you brought it with you and kept it on the counter, next to the tray. "Now dip your head little," you said, and picked up a little bowl.

Nuada sighed wistfully again as the water went through his hair. His throat was sore, but he ignored it, so focused was he on what you were doing. His entire scalp tingled sweetly when you carefully applied shampoo to his hair and massaged away. He sighed again when you poured more water over his hair, to wash it clean. He sighed even more when you took one of his hands, to see to his nails. So strange, that something like this could lighten him and make him feel so good, yet he did not want to give it up, not when you were looking after him the way you did. 

And you enjoyed every moment, just as much as he did. It felt so intimate, taking care of him like this, feeling him soften and unwind under your touch. And since he rarely took the time to look after himself, you thought he deserved this.

Nuada just closed his eyes. It all felt so wonderful, the way his skin warmed, and the way his entire body softened. He felt his breath hitch a little when he felt your lips brush against the tips of his fingers, his wrists. "You are too good to me," he breathed.

"You deserve it," you hummed and carefully nipped down his arm. "And I need to get back to work," you said and sat straight. "Your nails, sweetheart, are a mess."

Nuada chuckled and urged for you to continue.