#even the damned desire respite.

[boar-cry]

blinding ire

All these foolish religious weepers and overzealous preachers; don't they know the Gods remain indifferent to the plights of man?

Omnipotent beings sitting high atop their shrines, deaf to the screams and sorrows so far below, collecting gold and rot as if offerings owed. And yet still there are those who carve their names in polished silver and iridescent stone; sculpt temples with diamond pillars and weave jewelry out of pearls; not out of desperation, but delusion – that if they worship so called divines, they can somehow remold their spoiled lives.

What good are useless Gods that regard us no more than grains of sand?

[just-trying-to-fangirl-in-peace]

A true gift (Sauron x fem!Elf!reader)

-> in which you share a private moment with your husband, then add a special little detail to his new look

Warnings: evil!reader, nudity, mentions of smut, but really this is just a silly fluff piece written ‘cause I’m obsessed with his little hair bow🤭

Note: set in 2x06, part of the evil!reader collection - all you need to know for this one is that reader has been married to Sauron since before Adar killed him and infiltrated herself in Eregion as a smith while she waited for his return.

Your husband is a Maia, and as such never sleeps. He does, however, feel inclined to lie down with his eyes closed and be lost to the world, in moments such as now—when he is held in your peaceful embrace, your fingers lovingly stroking his loose hair.

It’s a rare moment of intimacy these days, and you cherish it all the more for it. Celebrimbor rarely allows you a moment of respite in his rush to finish the Nine, and you and your husband do your best to not disappear at the same time, so as to avoid suspicions that you share any deeper of a relationship with him than the other smiths of Eregion. Needless to say, you are overjoyed to find yourself alone with him. And in a bed, no less.

He had slipped inside your chamber under the cover of night, and sleep had been the furthest thing from your mind as you and your husband had sated your longing over and again. Naked and spent, you had pulled each other close, and so you still are now, as soft morning light pours through your window. He has coiled himself around your completely, one leg draped across your waist and his head resting upon your chest, and you do not mind his weight above you in the slightest as you hold him close. His hair is wonderfully soft under your roaming fingertips, his skin delights yours everywhere you touch.

He may not need sleep, but you would gladly drift into it. In a blissful position such as this, you would drift gladly even into death.

But you do neither, for he stirs, wishing to lift his head. You know what he means to say—that your absence will soon be noticed now that the day has begun, that you ought to return to the forge and to your plans and to your charade. You tighten your hold on him and keep his head against your chest, giving a stubborn groan.

His low chuckle reverberates into your skin.

“I know. I know,” he coos, shifting to press his lips to your heart. “I have no wish to leave.”

“But you will,” you sigh in defeat, even as he trails lazy kisses up along your clavicle. “We must.”

He hums, nuzzling your neck. Too much of you is pressed against too much of him for desire not to ignite within you at the slightest movement. It’s a bittersweet relief when he presses one last, lingering kiss to your lips and takes it upon himself to pry his body away from yours and leave the bed. You turn to your side, pulling the covers up to your chest to ward off the cold he leaves behind.

You are, however, presented with the slight consolation of watching your husband move naked about the room.

Of course, it isn’t exactly the particular image of your husband’s body, or even the features of his face that had won your affections in the first place. Your love runs too deep to be dampened by any sort of aesthetic transformation, though you do admit some forms are more practical than others when it comes to the physical aspect of your relationship, strictly shape-wise (one such as the amorphous black mass to which he had been reduced until recently, for instance, might prove a challenge in that department—yet not an entirely insurmountable one).

His current form, however... Lord of Gifts, indeed. It is the finest of male specimens of whom you are given a most generous view, and he damn well knows it. He takes his sweet time sauntering across the room, each movement slow and deliberate as he treats you to the sight of his tall, perfectly sculpted body. His long hair falling over his shoulder blades, the elegant line of his spine, the plump globes of his buttocks—oh, the bastard. Showing himself off as if you are not in a state of constant desire for him, like you’re not literally his soulbound wife already.

Or maybe it’s you slowing time with your eyes as you look at him, precisely because of how utterly and hopelessly smitten you are.

Whatever the case, a knowing smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he glances your way. You look on, shamelessly, as he recovers the clothes he had carelessly discarded the night before, and methodically (as well as tragically) begins to dress himself back to decency. He’d had a new garment made, one more suited to his tastes now that his previous modest, light-grey robes had served their purpose of conveying his most pure intentions to Celebrimbor. This outfit is an intricately patterned black with a golden band at the waist, the imitation of leaves raining down his collar area and left shoulder, and a discrete glimmer that looks as though stars have been trapped deep within the fabric of his sleeves.

You’d loved the sight of him dressed in it so much that, paradoxically, you had taken tremendous pleasure in stripping it off him. He was a gift in too pretty a wrapping for you not to greedily reach inside for the wonders you knew lay there, meant only for you.

But if you had it your way and peeled it off each time the mood arose, you would never get anything done. Perhaps, once you are King and Queen and have plenty of servants to carry out your orders, you shall be free to confine yourselves to some ornate bedchamber and reemerge only after days on end of having your fill of one another.

For now, you must allow his newly tidy appearance to remain intact. He is nearly ready to join the others in the forge, the only unruliness left about him being his loose and disheveled hair. You particularly enjoy how softly it falls upon your shoulders whilst you are beneath him, and he certainly takes pleasure in your tendency to fist your hands in it and tug at the roots, causing all kinds of entanglements. It’s nearly sad, how easily he can undo the sensual mess. One power-wielding hand smoothing down the tresses, and his hair looks as though it has been brushed to perfection with a thousand thoroughly administered strokes.

That done, he sits down at your vanity and picks up the last accessory he must arrange upon himself—the headpiece he’s been wearing since he became Annatar, the partial imitation of a crown which curves around the back of his head, serving to hold his hair practically away from his face whilst accentuating the divine nature of the presumed Lord of Gifts.

Lord of Gifts.

Your love-addled brain is stricken with an idea too wonderful to go unheeded.

“Oh, let me,” you say, suddenly rising from beneath the sheets. It takes but a moment to put on a nearby nightgown, not nearly enough for your husband’s questioning eyes to drink you in the way he attempts to, but you are too enthusiastic to care. It is best anyway not to let his gaze set your skin ablaze when you must wait for the following night to have him tend to the flames.

His brow knits in slight amusement, but he indulges you and halts in his movements, waiting for you to come to him. He must think you mean to arrange the headpiece in his hair yourself—thus stealing another few touches before you leave the bedchamber and must refrain from doing so for the remainder of the day. And he is not too far from the truth. But as soon as you are standing behind him, you take the accessory from his hand and toss it casually upon the bed, reaching for your comb on the vanity table instead. Now, your husband frowns, unsure.

“My love, as much as I would like an excuse to prolong our stay—”

“Oh, shush,” you chide. “This will take but a moment.”

With nimble fingers and the help of the comb, you part his hair at the temples and brush it into satisfyingly neat sections. It’s an improvisation, really, but you set about the task you have in mind with nothing but determination and a nice little hum on your breath. Your husband sits with the sort of quiet compliance he reserves for your benefit only, and you know that he is relishing the sensation of your fingers gently handling his hair as much as you are. At times your fingers more or less coincidentally brush over the pointed tips of his ears, and the lightest flutter of his lashes betrays how sensitive they are to the touch, the very same as those of any Elf.

You catch his gaze in the mirror, and give him a playful smile as you work on his hair. The vision you had in mind is beginning to take nice shape, and you bite your lip in concentration as you try to guide each golden strand precisely where you need it to be.

“Pass me that hair tie, will you?” It’s a bit further away on the vanity table than the previous ones you had used, and you are busy keeping together quite the intricate design. Your husband obliges you—but his hand catches yours as you take the tie from him.

“My love,” he says, mirth dancing in his eyes in the mirror, “I do hope you have not managed a knot so vicious that even my power cannot see it undone.”

“It isn’t a knot,” you retort, lightly swatting his hand away from yours so you can finish what you started. You shake your head in faux disappointment. “How little you trust me.”

“I trust you with life, my flesh and my soul,” he declares solemnly. “My hair, however, is a different matter.”

That would earn him another scandalized swat, if your hands weren’t occupied with the finishing touches to your little masterpiece.

“There,” you grin triumphantly, at last satisfied with what you have accomplished. It’s almost ridiculous, the youthful delight that takes over you. An echo from a distant life that was so long ago, it barely feels like it was ever yours. It brings a small pang to your chest—but you ignore it as you cradle your husband’s head from behind and place an adoring little kiss to his hair, right above your handy work.

With a small, not unkind sigh, he picks up a hand mirror from the table and turns around on his stool so he may align the reflection with the one in the vanity mirror, see for himself what you have accomplished:

An utterly precious, superbly elegant hair bow.

“A true gift,” you say proudly, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear, “for all of Middle-Earth.” Your fingers drift to his chin, and nudge it upward so he meets your gaze. “But for me, especially.”

Without looking away, he sets down the hand mirror and takes your wrist, planting a kiss to the palm of your hand.

“It is fitting,” he admits, a teasing lilt to his tons as he idly plays with your fingers. “It shall be a pity, when I next bed you, to see such beautiful work unraveled by the very hands which crafted it.”

“Oh, I am not ruining that,” you assure him, striving to sound like you mean it. “Whatever you may do, I shall keep my hands firmly to myself. Or rather, to other parts of you,” you add, shrugging as if in afterthought.

The underlying challenge in your voice is swiftly accepted. Your husband stands and faces you with a mischievous gaze, cupping your cheeks.

“We shall see,” he murmurs against your lips, right before he claims them in a parting kiss filled with lurid promises. Then he pulls away, smiling innocently. “See you soon, my love.”

You are reminded, as he leaves, how futile it is to pretend like you may ever part without your body and soul aching for his return before he even steps out of your sight. But all eyes which look upon him today shall see the work of your loving fingers that he proudly wears upon himself—another small consolation to which you cling whilst you wait for the victory that shall make all your sufferings worth it.

Previous fic with same reader -> As we are now

Next fic with same reader -> Jealousy

[thepinkdreamganjaqueen]

Run Rabbit

Homelander x Fem Reader 

Masterlist 🩷

Summary: Homelander spots you assisting first responders helping those less fortunate in a building fire. People he wouldn’t normally bother helping or even caring about. It’s just his job and a mundane and boring one at that. But you caught his eye. You selflessly cared for them, helping them. It disgusts him. HE needs your help! It makes him want to make you dirty, to spoil your spirit, to make you like him, and what the Homelander wants, he takes.

Warnings: SMUT, NSFW, 18+, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, oral (m and f receiving), piv, unprotected sex, breeding, gaslighting, coercion, DUBCON, praise, begging, mentions of violence, stalking, swearing, obsession, D/S implications, mentions of death (implied), blood play, choking, kidnapping, Stockholm syndrome, dacryphilia, mommy issues (brief mention)… It’s homelander… 

A/N: My head Is so full of fuck! I had to get a Homelander fic out in the midst of all these fics I’m grinding on! This man, being of pure perfection, got me in a damn chokehold!! Why do we always tend to go for the guys that are walking red flags? Like, I can fix him! On a more serious note, these characters are all endearing in their own way. Trauma can manifest into some pretty terrible things, and I think we can all relate to that in some way or another. I tried to keep it short... that did not happen you know how it goes. Please, I hope y’all enjoy this one! And as always, I welcome, ideas, comments and criticisms, but please be nice. Cheeers! 

Word Count: 6.3k

Tags: fem!reader, smut, dark content 

RUN RABBIT 

He watched as you helped those around you. He had been for a while now, just out of view of the bustling crowds beginning to form and watch the commotion. He watched as you gave aid to those less fortunate. The vulnerable people you had pledged to help so long ago. It was your job and came naturally to you. He watched as the building continued to burn growing fiercer with each moment that passed. Fire reflected in his eyes with a look of discernment, perhaps even disgust, but all he could seem to focus on was you. He watched as you gave people solace and respite, watched as your hair clung to the sweat on your face from the heat of the flames, how your ample chest rose and fell as you breathed shakily, helping the local paramedics and EMT’s. You gathered supplies and handed out bottled water to those affected. A fire had broken out at the shelter. It was an old building, probably not up to date on fire regulations and things of that nature. It housed approximately 80 people that evening. You rushed about frantically helping in any way you could. A bleeding heart, he thought.  

He felt a mixture of abhorrence and lust. Something about the way you cared for those he considered beneath him. He couldn’t understand, his distaste for humanity growing every day. Yet, something about the way you cared for them, in a loving, and motherly way, so perfect. It stirred his loins and a deep longing simmered within him, a feeling he was quick to extinguish. He often had these troubled thoughts paired with erections. It was nothing new. Trauma manifesting into sexual desires as a coping mechanism. He hastily grabbed at his crotch, shifting his bulge within his suit.  

He was above it all anyway. Humans merely play things for him, entertainment. Like a fox chasing a rabbit, you became his prey. He would make you his new toy and break you. He wanted to make you dirty, to make you like him. He wanted to ruin you. He had to be methodical about this, but still, it would be easy, he thought. Conquests were never a challenge for him. He was handsome, had charm, and could put on a “friendly” demeanor if he needed to. Plus, he was a supe. If he couldn’t get a woman with his A lister status alone, he could simply force her to be with him. He would do what was necessary. He preferred little to no effort, but he couldn’t lie to himself. Sometimes, he liked the chase. Both literally and figuratively. He was like a predator. Cold, calculated. Run little rabbit, he’d think to himself. Seeing lesser beings and their pathetic attempts to escape him was his favorite kind of entertainment and maybe even gave him the feeling of joy. If only for a short time. He often found himself bored, tired of the mundane. Meetings at Vought HQ, Ashley up his ass, saving…. People. His disgust caused a visceral reaction. Tonight, he would find entertainment to chase that elusive high.  

He flew over, hovering then lowering himself as he outstretched his arms, palms down as if to quell the crowd’s murmurs and bestow peace. A façade, he couldn’t care less. He had ulterior motives. “Don’t worry, everyone, everything’s under control” he spoke. Sure, he initially showed up to do what The Homelander does… be a hero. But you caught his eye, something more interesting and surer to be more giving than the appreciation of his adoring fans and the thrill of an applauding crowd. He wanted the pleasure of seeing you beg for him. Soon. He thinks to himself with a mischievous look crossing his lips. He is staring at you as he lands. You thought he looked your way but couldn't be sure. He began that repetitive, mundane, and ever so grueling process of saving these pathetic souls. He darts in and out of the building, grabbing them one by one at a crawling pace ‘for him’. Everyone in the crowds cheered on as you watched this man help people.  

It was no unordinary feat truly. Supes were common, and Homelander was the most well-known. The leader of the seven, Americas hero. Nevertheless, you watched on as he effortlessly helped people get out safely. You caught yourself admiring his physique, he was essentially perfect. No wonder, you thought. It’s as if he was made to be perfect. His charismatic smile, striking blue eyes, chiseled jawline, and athletic build. You found yourself breathing heavier, face flushed, racy thoughts manifesting. You were still in that moment, watching how his suit would singe from the flames that brushed and flicked against him. Embers flew from the fabric and fizzled out, skin remaining untouched but revealed underneath. The glint of the gold eagle shoulder accents on his suit shined in the light of the raging fames that burst through every opening of the building, returning once more.  

The building erupted in what must have been a gas line explosion you thought. Homelander walked out through the flames with the last individual hurled over his shoulders. He sauntered over to your direction where you stood with a few EMTs who were supporting victims in a pop-up tent. Next to you, a bare stretcher. Homelander stopped next to you and dropped the smoking body onto the stretcher, eyes locking with yours as he did. He could hear your heartbeat quicken and your breathing go shallow. You were unsure if it was fear or excitement in this moment, he scared you in a way. You couldn't tell if he was disingenuous. Too many things were happening all at once, it was a state of high emotion and your head was spinning. You felt like you were helpless and had no control. He did though. He behaved as if this was nothing to him, as if he could do this one hundred times over. Of course he could, yet you could sense the arrogance behind his charismatic demeanor. 

You manage to speak in his presence. Something you had tried to do for several unending moments now under his gaze. “Thank you” you manage to mumble in a timid manner. You found it hard to maintain eye contact with him. He was so sure, so confident, and so… beautiful. You had never had the opportunity to be in the presence of a supe, let alone meet one. You had only seen them on TV, in the news, or in movies. Simmering in what you thought to be embarrassment or intimidation, you hastily make you way out of the tent, brushing by him as you passed. He watched over his shoulder as you disappeared behind him, feeling the warmth from you as you passed. He inhaled deeply as you walked away. You were so flustered but didn’t know why… You knew why, truly you did. It just didn’t make sense. You didn’t want it to make sense. You felt attraction to him, and you felt guilty for it for whatever reason. For many reasons. But mainly, you felt bad that in this moment, you felt lust and your attention drawn away from the people that needed your help the most. 

You made it behind the tent and had begun fidgeting with a worry stone you kept in your pocket. Rubbing it furiously when you hear the wet splat of steps behind you. You look down, the grounds wet; the fire fighters must be here, you think. A firm hand grabs your shoulder and spins you around. He looks at you matter of factly with a smirk. “You know, I wanted to tell you back there, thank you, for the work you do and for helping these fine people” he said, hand still on your shoulder. His eyes beaming into yours a deep sapphire. “I also wanted to let you know that there were some folks over there that could really use your help! That is, if you still want to help people.” He watched as shame crossed your face, then guilt and confusion. Easy, he thought. They’re so fucking easy! His smile, perfect white teeth gleaming at you. You recoil at his words, struck by how kind he sounded with the contrast of his delivery. You felt immediately inclined to help, like you didn’t have a choice but to prove it to yourself, and to him, for whatever reason. 

You nod your head in agreement, convinced by him you needed to. You feel a weight take over your entire body, pulling you down. Before you realize you were being flown away from the scene. The Homelander had picked you up and shot towards the sky. His arms wrapped tightly around your waist, holding you against his body. Terror filled you, but you were too high up to scream, the force of wind hindering your speech and breathing as it forcefully blew past your face. What did you agree to? You think. Where is he taking me? As quickly as the thoughts came to fruition, you were on your feet once more. He was looking down at you, still clinging tightly to your lower back. His face is indifferent and uncaring, almost empty. The suit he wore felt ridged where flames made contact. Soft in some places where the fabric was still intact and cool, where his skin peeked through. Your arms still grasped his biceps until you became aware you were doing so and let go. You wondered how he felt under the suit. He’s invincible, is his skin like that of a rock, or is he soft and pliable. He caught you gazing at the areas where his suit had melted away. He watched as you admired him. He knew the thoughts running through your head. He could see them cross your face. He was amused. That mixture of lust, exhilaration, and fear. He craved that from you, and you were abundantly insatiable. 

“Just through there.” He gestured kindly toward a door as he let go of your waist. You took a second to observe your surroundings, still fearful of what exactly you were doing and where the hell you were. For an educated girl, you felt like this was a really stupid decision. You were standing on a white tiled balcony about fifty, maybe sixty stories up. The city sprawled out before you. You could see city lights and in the distance a plume of smoke sure to be the fire you just came from. You remarked at how far away you were. Looking towards the door you saw white curtains billowing through the opening leading into a dark room. “This way” he gestures once more. His hand at the small of your back pushing you towards the entrance. 

You step inside, looking for someone, anyone. A large room with a couple connecting hall ways it looked like. Seems to be an apartment. A very nice one. You begin searching the room familiarizing yourself with it, it’s pretty dark except for the light of a modular fire place that hung from the ceiling. There’s a four-post bed with sheer white curtains, lace pillows, and a velvet duvet. Some accents, art, and statues, it looked very high class, very luxurious. Who did it belong to? You thought. It didn't matter though. 

Homelander had stepped behind you watching you roam the apartment you were now essentially trapped in. He stood behind you, shedding off pieces of his torched suit, exposing himself completely. He playfully tugged at his cock, already hard. Pulling it to his abdomen and letting it slap down onto his leg in a spring like motion. SLAP! He was hard watching you at the building fire, the intensity only grew. Especially when he held you close. He watched you search the room, calling out to no one. He snickered to himself. How much is she really willing to help hmm? He thought about you begging for him, praying he would let you come, but only after he tore you to shreds and broke you down mentally. He needed you to crave him, needed you to need him. Appreciate him, respect him, and most of all, obey him! Look at her, stupid enough to go along with this, she’s so sweet. It sickened him and only made his fervent lust grow. 

The realization finally began to hit, and a pit dropped in your stomach. There was no one here to help. In a way, you already knew but held onto some kind of hope, albeit for nothing. You began to spiral in your mind when a loud slap could be heard behind you. You spin around quickly on your heels, already on edge when your eyes are drawn to Homelander. The doors had closed behind him, and there he stood, completely nude in front of you. You stood with your mouth agape when he said “sorry, my suit was burned, practically tarnished, I had to take it off.” He shrugged his shoulders and chuckled with a sly smile. Hs eyes narrowed as he grabbed his cock and pulled it up once more to his abdomen and let it slap down onto his leg. SLAP! He was throbbing, watching your reaction to him so boldly lying to your face and exposing himself to you, jacking off in front of you with zero consequences. He knew he could do anything he wanted- get anything he wanted, and anyone would give it to him, even you. Whether you liked it or not. 

You recoiled in disgust and shock, eyes wide with fear. Although earlier you had thought about him like this maybe even slightly, not like this! “Where are they?!” you tried to say in a tone that was stern yet confident enough to not show fear. He could hear the fear in your voice, the pulse that raced through your veins that told everything in your mind and body to run away. “Who?” he replied teasingly. SLAP! “The people! The people you said needed help!” you shot back, starting to lose your cool. Heat rose to your cheeks and you felt hot, dizzy and angry. The light of the fireplace danced gently over his features illuminating him in an amber glow. Every muscle, every shape and curve on his body, shrouded in firelight.  

He stepped forward, walking briskly towards you. You stammered back, glancing behind you, looking for a place to run but hitting a wall. You tried to look for an exit, but the room was dimly lit, and it was too late. He was already right in front of you. You leaned against the wall and clasped your hands behind your back as he pressed his hand against the wall next to your head, the other hand holding his throbbing length… SLAP!  

“It’s me!” he said in a curt tone, almost annoyed you didn’t know. His eyes traveled, looking you up then down. “I need your help!” he stated. You turned your head sideways as he leaned in, whispering in your ear “My suit was burned, I could have been hurt saving those people, don’t you care?” A brief flicker of red lit up behind each eye, and you felt yourself shrink in his presence. You were scared, unsure of yourself. He’s invincible, you thought. Your head spun; you didn’t understand the weight of the situation. Except that he lied to you to get you here. He grabbed your chin with his free hand and turned your face to his, looking at you behind a furrowed brow. “Don’t you care about me?!” SLAP! His face scrunched, examining your reaction, waiting for a reply. “Y-Yes.. I care about you.” You chimed apprehensively and unconvincingly. He doesn't even know your name, you thought. He doesn't care. 

He let go of your chin. “Show me” he demanded behind a mischievous smile that curled at the ends of his lips. He placed his hands on your shoulders gripping the fabric of your shirt underneath and ripping it off, pulling it apart, you heard the buttons pop off and hit the floor with a ting as it ripped down the center. Your heart leapt into your throat as he devours you with his eyes, reeling in the sight of your ample breasts and the soft fleshy skin beneath your bra. He was all but salivating for you. He wanted to rip your bra off and nuzzle himself between your breasts, to inhale the skin, to feel their warmth. But he wanted you to prove yourself. Did you really care about him? Were you really a good girl? 

At this point, you realize what he brought you here for. But why you? He was a supe. He could literally kill you without a thought, and he would be protected. Your mind was hazy, but you couldn’t stop your own eyes from wandering. He was, in all his glory, vulnerable and bearing himself to you. Part of you thought it irresistable, intimate even. His body against yours felt like fire, and your senses began to tingle and go haywire. SLAP! You found yourself at the will of your hormones as your thoughts and body took over. He pushed his body closer, his hard length now pushing into your abdomen with force. A gasp fell from your lips as he looked into your eyes, a deep blue sea of burning blue ice. Entranced by his physique. Another whisper, more stern this time “I said, show me!”  

He stepped back, and you dropped to your knees in front of him. His hand on top of your head caressed the side of your face and slid to the underside of your chin, forcing you to look up at him, he gave a cursory look, eyebrows raised as if to say ‘I’m waiting’. Not wanting to disappoint him or make him angry, you quickly raise your hands up and rest them on his thighs. Feeling the softness of his skin. Leaning in, you open your mouth and take him in. His hands were immediately in your hair, pulling you in closer. Sticking out your tongue and forcing his length down the back of your throat. Tears begin to stream down your face. He put a finger to your face, catching a tear as it fell and pressing it to his tongue. His throbbing cock twitched in your throat. It was substantially thick and unreasonably big, the force stretching your throat was enough to make you cry.  

He threw his head back, letting out a low groan. Your mouth is so warm, so wet, and so tight. He imagined stretching your pussy, pounding you into oblivion until you either cried and begged for him to stop or climaxed and cried for more. You continued sucking, taking him in as deep as you could each time, hoping to please him and show him you were truly a good person. That you did care about him, you cared about everyone truly...but especially him. He created a feeling in you- you had not had previously, a desire for him. You used your hands to explore his body as you gulped him down, mesmerized by him. Caressing his abdomen, his buttocks and his balls. He had his hands twisted in your hair, rocking with the motion of your mouth. Every once in a while, taking your time to gently circle his tip with your tongue while sucking, ending in a kiss to his tip. Each time your lips pulled from him, a trail of precum would string from your lips.  

You looked up at him, licking your lips clean. “Mmm, that’s a good girl. Show me more.” He growled through his passion as he pulled you to your feet and directed you to get on the bed. He smacked your ass with force as you walked, it rang out with a snap, even against the fabric, it stung. You lurched forward falling into the bed face first. He quickly stood behind you spreading you knees apart on the bed with his legs as he approached. He began tearing your remaining clothes from you in shreds laughing. You felt defeated and ashamed, but you wanted more. Embarrassment filled your face with heat, a bright red hue colored your nose and cheeks.  

Your bra, snapped and torn. Your jeans, off, split in two, your underwear, lacy and white, torn from between your legs. You whimpered as they dug in while being ripped off of your body. Quick and painful. Grabbing your hips, he pulled you closer to the end of the bed where he stood. A cold breeze drifted across your back, buttocks, and exposed legs. He had you right where he wanted you. He liked it when you squirmed, when you whimpered. You thought perhaps you liked it as well. You found yourself helpless, at his mercy, and obeying his every command.  

He smacked you again and again. The sound of your flesh being abused rang out into the empty room, bellowing out and echoing back to you. Your skin again burning from the impact of his open hands leaving red hand prints sprinkled over your flesh. He joyfully continued. His face in a half smirk with eyes narrowed as he reveled in every cry that escaped your mouth. Your skin, now mottled with bruises and scratches. Smack! Again, he slaps your ass and drags his fingers down. Pinching you, squeezing hard, and watching you recoil, helpless to get away. You could feel the wetness spread between your legs. “Who’s my good girl, huh?” he said confidently in a gruff. “I aam” you cried out in a huff, face buried in the blankets. He placed both palms on your cheeks and placed his thumbs close to your crevice, pulling with his thumbs and exposing your most intimate parts to him. The brisk air on the wetness of your cunt sent a shiver up your back and goosebumps peppered your skin. Homelander took notice and began smoothing his hands over the surface of your legs and back as you lay before him, relishing in the work he’s created. An artwork of purple and red now enhanced by the prickling of your skin. 

What a sweet little cunt, he thought to himself. He then pushed against the surface of your opening with a single finger, taunting you, teasing you in a cruel way. You rocked your hips back toward him but couldn’t move, not unless he decided to let you. “what’s wrong bleeding heart? Not so sweet now, are you?” You whined as he toyed with you. Slowly drawing circles around your labia, clit, and opening, spreading your wetness around his fingers and your vulva. “Please, Homelander, please!” you begged him, a muffled plea distorted from the blankets below. You turn your head to look back at him, the only thing you could manage to move. You watched as he brought his face down, placing his tongue along your slit, flat, wide, and slowly licking up towards your entrance. You couldn’t take it anymore; he was teasing you and you were putty in his unforgiving hands. You melted into his touch. Pure bliss and euphoria filled your body as your mind released a load of dopamine to your receptors. Telling you, you wanted him, no- you needed him. Now! 

Slowly, he pushed two fingers in. The sheets below you, clutched within your hands as you lay on top of them. His hand held tightly, gripping your left cheek, holding you open as he explored, pushing in harder and deeper as he went. He could manage his strength sure, but he wanted so badly to fuck you into the bed, and you wanted to feel just a fraction of his strength, you thought you could handle it. In his mind he knew you couldn't. You, a delicate little thing. A rabbit he had caught. But just the same he held back, he needed time to play, to be entertained. 

The room filled with the aches and moans coming from your mouth as he pulled his fingers in and out of you, licking up and down your slit, and fucking you with his tongue. You wanted to move, but he had a hold of you. But you wanted to see his face, to watch him as he pleasured you so lovingly, a stark contrast to how you got here. They way his tongue traveled so freely between your folds and into your core, both tender and firm. There was no escape. You didn't want him to stop, your walls quivered around his fingers. 

He stopped, his fingers sopping, his face covered in your fluid. You feel his arm reach under you and pull you, turning you around. You lay before him on your elbows, knees bent. He pulls your forward, his face stern, as he gazed at your chest. He kneels in front of you and without words opens his mouth and laps at your breast flesh with his tongue. Sucking, licking, biting, lightly flicking your nipple with his tongue. A low hum building in the back of his throat. Your juices now smeared all over your chest as he paws and devours your breasts. You moan in ecstasy, a high-pitched squeal that reverberated in the room. You could feel his lips curl into a smile around your areola as he consumed all of you. Inhaling you in deeply.  

Your hand roamed his body, such a powerful being, and you had the pleasure of taming him. Your hands, rubbing along the muscles on his back, your fingers tracing the veins sticking out on his arms as he cradled your chest. In this moment, you weren't scared of him. You knew his power that he could kill you with his dick if he wanted to. But in this moment, he was vulnerable, weak even. He was the most human right now with you than he had felt in a while. Something about a woman with ample breasts opening up for him, opening everything up for him, filled him with a sense of true belonging. The elusive high he was truly trying to chase but always evaded him so eagerly. It was true compassion, isn't that why he chose you? You, specifically. Not just a beautiful woman, a beautiful woman with a pure heart.  

"You’re being such a good girl," he moaned into your chest. You move your hands from his shoulders to his face, pulling him up. He looks up at you. You observe an innocent, unassuming look in his eyes. He follows where you guide him. Your lips push against his in a heavy kiss. He pushes your shoulders down and pins you to the bed, enveloping you in his own passionate kiss. He swirls his tongue in your mouth and bites your bottom lip hard. You could taste the tinge of blood, like pennies in your mouth. Blood pooled at the corner or your mouth. With a flick of his thumb, he wiped it away and kissed you again. He found the taste of your blood mixed with your essence to be intoxicating, making him drunk with lust. 

 "Are you ready for your reward?" He said nefariously. That smile, no matter how menacing you thought it was, still made you crumble. "Mhmm" was all you could manage. He stood, quickly lifting you from the bed so you were face to face with him once more. He cradled your legs in his arms, holding you to him effortlessly. Slowly, you felt his arms drop you down, his hardness, now piercing your slick wet opening just barely. You groaned, once again trying to motion yourself closer to him, to feel him inside you, but he wouldn't let you move. It was his decision and his alone. With your arms wrapped around him, you began kissing his face and neck. Lightly with delicate pecks.  

Her lips were so soft and moist, he thought to himself as you indulged in him. Leaving traces of saliva trailed down his neck as you pulled your lips from his skin. Soft breaths from your mouth, creating a cool sensation on the surface. He growled deeply and with sudden force, dropped you down, sliding his whole length into you without hesitation or effort. He chuckles as you cry out. His swollen cock, so stiff, so large. It hurt sliding in. You were dripping with him just sticking the tip of his head at your surface, so he entered you easily. But you could feel the pressure inside stretching you from within, a painful yet satisfying fullness. His face was focused on yours as you cried in ecstasy and pain. The pain only amplifying the pleasure of him forcefully ramming you, lifting you up and down, sliding you on and off his cock. He could feel the pressure of your walls closing up and gripping him every time he slid hid length out of you. Then having to forcefully push back in again, opening you up. “So. Fucking. Tight.” He said with each grunt as he proceeded. 

Homelander’s thoughts had ceased at this point. He was enveloped in euphoria, acting on pure instinct but somehow still able to hold back. He concentrated on your face, watched as beads of sweat pooled on your forehead, then dropped down your face and onto your chest, glistening on your breasts. How your eyebrows curled up in the middle as your voice rang out into the room. Your screams only made him more crazed. He pounded you in a frenzy. Meeting each thrust with a grunt as he hit your cervix harder and faster with each push, causing you to cry out in moans of pure passion intermixed with pain. 

He dropped you back on the bed and stood at the end, parting your thighs once more with his legs. You thoughtlessly wrap them around him pulling him closer almost instant as if it was a natural reaction. You were too out of breath to speak; you could only mumble 3 words “I'll be good”. Homelander leans into the bed, a hand placed at either side of your face as he enters you.  

With your legs wrapped around him and his hands not holding you down, you were now free to meet his thrusts with your own, something he did not expect. He stopped for a moment and watched as you had become what he made you. Craving him, only wanting him, and willing to do anything for it. His body was rigid and still as you bucked and rocked underneath him, trying to meet his pelvis with your own thrusts when his right hand reaches over and closes over your throat He enters you. “Fuck!” you whisper in a harsh tone, unable to fully speak. He shoves his throbbing member into your cunt, squeezing your neck tighter with every slam into you, you fuck him back looking into his eyes as you moan his name.  

He sucks in through his teeth and lets out a long sigh, loosening his grip on your neck. “Now be a good girl and finish me off” he says in a deep whisper. You nod your head in agreement, wanting it just as bad as he did. He lightly pecks your lips before releasing his grip and lying next to you. You lift your legs to straddle him on the bed, knees pressed to his hips. His hands wander to your chest, squeezing and pulling the flesh. With your hands placed firmly on his abdomen, you allow yourself to sit down on him, giving yourself he time to adjust to him, which he had not done. He thought this to be tedious. Were you teasing him? He would not allow it. His hands reach out and grip your hips, pushing you onto him. There was nothing you could do; his strength was unimaginable. The power of his cock expanding you within was a testament to this. 

You didn't need him to push you down, you thought. You would happily ride him regardless of the pain. This was worth it, something you didn't know you needed and never thought you wanted. The earlier nights troubles were miles away in your mind, you could only think about him now, pleasing him. You felt a yearning for him brew deeply within your loins, and a longing in your heart. 

You propped yourself up, crouching above him on your feet, still stranding him. Your body had accepted him now, and you were wetter than ever, sopping around his manhood. Each bounce met with a loud exhausted moan from you, and a wet slap could be heard echoing off the walls of the room. Music to Homelanders ears, internalizing you moans. Mesmerizing to hear, indifferent to the pain it may have caused you.  

With your arms outstretched behind you gripping his thighs, you bounced on him, each time taking him in fully, rocking forward, as you did. The brush of his pubic hair against your clit as you grinded into him sent you into hysterics. You began slamming yourself on top of him, breathing heavily. He used his hands to cup your breasts and playfully tug at your nipples as you found your climax. He had never heard someone scream so loud while taking his cock. Your pace slowed as your orgasm took over, your body convulsing with every contraction of your cunt around him. “You’re not done yet!” he growled “How greedy” he chuckled maliciously. His words barely registered in your fucked out brain, still swimming from the intensity of your climax.  

“I said you're not done yet! Keep going!” He said in an insistent and unsympathetic manner, slapping your breasts, leaving a large red hand print that stung. He then grabbed your face, pinching your cheeks in his hand and pulling you down. “Fuck me.” You immediately slink back and do as you are told. His good girl. Taken aback by exhaustion and overstimulated, but not wanting to disappoint this work of perfection, not wanting to disappoint The Homelander, you find the strength to continue on. You use all of your strength incomparable to his, to please him, hoping it was good, that it was enough. You were eager to please him and wanted your reward for it.  

You planted yourself on him, over and over again, easing his tip in and out each time. His hands had reached to your backside, clutching the flesh in each fist, pulling you forward with each fall. Looking into his eyes, those piercing sapphire blue eyes sparkling with adoration. You watched as his lashes futtered and his face scrunched, his lips parting as he looked down watching himself slide in and out of you, hands latched onto you. He lets out a low breathy grunt, and his hands go limp on your cheeks, his eyes roll back. You reveled in the moment, soaking up the feeling of him spasming inside you while bursts of his seed shot deep within you. His cum dripping out and collecting around the base as you continued to slowly fuck him. Each burst causing his body to buck and convulse. You maintained your gaze on him, seeing him in his weakest moments. It was sweet. This man you had feared, turned from a monster into something beautiful to you. He was this anamorphic being you could now see clearly. He wanted to be loved, adored, cared for, appreciated, and feared. You wanted to be that person for him. You didn't want to let go or cease this moment. 

He helped you off of him, and you lay sprawled out on the bed. A mess of exhaustion. Pearls of his essence are still leaking out. He sat calmly next to you, enjoying the last bit of euphoria from this high as his orgasm subsided. A coy smile crossed his lips as he caressed the side of your face with his fingers. With no explanation and no words spoken, he left. Just like that. Out the balcony door and into the cloudy night. Still in a daze, you lay there admiring the bites, bruises, scratches, and hand prints that freckled your body, playfully tracing along all the marks he gifted you. Waiting eagerly for is return. 

[thelonelyshore-if]

Ravi Winter Drabble

Happy Holidays again, here's a present for you all <3

When is a funeral not a funeral?

When nobody died? When he isn't home but instead crowded in the foyer of a friend of a friend? When he's wearing a wool jacket and a plush scarf and thin leather gloves instead of his usual suit?

When it's a party?

Ravi stands hunched in the nook beside Yasmin Bakir-King's front door. His arms are folded across his chest. One hand is tucked in his armpit; the other clutches the thin stem of a chapagne flute like it's his lifeline. Impatience makes him antsy. He keeps raising the glass to his lips and trying to take a sip, even though he drained it dry ten minutes ago.

He doesn't know what to do with the damned thing, is the problem. It's empty, and he has no desire for a refill, but walking it to the kitchen would require pushing through a crowd of faces that swim and spin in his vision, strangers in all but name.

He can't put up with the staring.

Better to lean with his back against the door, hoping upon hope that the cold green metal does something for the scorching heat of the room. The wool of his jacket is too thick; a rivulet of sweat has started carving a path down his spine, and the skin around his neck itches, but removing either the coat or the scarf is a surrender.

So instead of surrendering, Ravi prays. He waits, holding one of Yasmin's glasses hostage and silently begging god and the Fog and literally anything that will listen that you'll just hurry up and get back to him.

How did he end up here?

Most years he spends the night before the Squall huddled in his office, listening to music and knitting, or doing a puzzle, or tucking into a book. It has never bothered him that everyone else in town is having some sort of get together. He isn't everyone else.

Yasmin throws one of these things annually. It's his first time in attendance. He wasn't invited. You were invited.

Jay tries to drag him along to this every year, and he declines. He should have said no when you asked, too. Even when you turned your pleading eyes to his and explained that you wanted to see what the whole 'Squall Party' thing was about.

It makes sense, that you're unfamiliar with the Squall. It's so very Easthaven. Ravi knows the power of it better than anyone, so it comes as no surprise that things are different in the outside world. He could have told you anything you wanted to know bundled up together on his couch, in truth, but…

You were curious. And he can't resist you when you're curious.

It's something about the way your eyes light up when you have a new mystery to solve. Like you see the world as a puzzle—so long as you get all the pieces you might finally be content. Your thirst for knowledge infuriates and fascinates him in turn.

Plus. Well. Ravi struggles to deny you anything.

So he’s at the party.

At the very least, he’s near the party. Waiting by the door, with this damn glass in his hand, eyes frantically searching for a sign of you.

The heat in the house is becoming unbearable. Ravi loosens the scarf around his throat, seeking out any ounce of relief he can find. Should he go out for a smoke? The night air would provide the respite that he craves, and a cigarette would calm his nerves.

Ravi reaches behind his back with his free hand and grabs at the door handle. The shiny brass knob is cool under his fingers, and that’s enough to convince him. He’s about to open it when–

“Leaving without me?”

He drops the doorknob like it burned him, whirls around to face you. His heart jumps into his throat and instant relief unburdens him, sending a looseness throughout his body that summons a warm smile. He can't help it. The mere sight of you calms him.

The relief fades somewhat when he notices Yasmin following you, eyeing him suspiciously. You shoot him an apologetic look before turning to finish your conversation.

"Thanks again, Yasmin," you enthuse, expression shifting into a smile, "This was great."

“It’s no problem–it’s best you get home before the storm starts up,” Yasmin gives you a friendly nudge. She pauses and looks at Ravi, some of the warmth draining from her face. Her brow furrows, and she says, “Are you stealing that?”

Ravi grimaces and looks down at the stupid glass in his hand. He can’t exactly tell her that he was scared of walking it back to the kitchen. Because that would be ridiculous. Instead he offers Yasmin a pained smile and explains, “I was just finishing it.”

She rolls her eyes and holds out her hand. He hands it over, relief and chagrin making him all the more eager to flee right fucking now. Yasmin takes the glass, bids you a safe journey home, and vanishes back into her house.

“Sorry it took me so long. Got caught up with some of Jay's friends,” you explain, pushing past Ravi to get to the door. He trails gratefully out after you. The moment you pull the door open a brisk winter wind tumbles inside, brushing against his face and soothing some of the warmth.

“It’s fine,” Ravi says, and then realizes how short he sounds. He clumsily rushes on, stumbling, not wanting to hurt you–especially because it is fine, he agreed to this, he just wants to go home, “I’m…not very good at these things.”

You lean in and press a kiss to his lips. His eyes flicker shut and he immediately melts into it. Your lips are gentle against his. Warm—but nothing like the sweltering heat inside the house. This heat is pleasant, liquid, and it takes all he has not to swoon like a teenager with their first crush.

Your touch is grounding. For the first time in half an hour he feels solid; like a human being rather than a ghost hovering at the fringes of reality. He reluctantly pulls away, because the two of you can't make out in Yasmin's front yard, but he's left smiling.

Ravi steps around you, off of the porch and toward the sidewalk. You start to follow, but before you get far you stop short. He glances back. What…?

Ah.

The night sky stretches overhead, precisely the color of ash. You stare upward, head tilted as you take it in. Snow twirls on the breeze. Ravi makes note of the wind, the amount of snow falling. Not bad enough yet that he should worry–you should still be able to get home safely.

“Is this it, then?” You turn and ask.

“The Squall? Not yet. This is just…winter."

"Hm."

You reach a gloved hand out. Snowflakes land and start beading on the thick yarn, the cold bolstering them, saving them from melting into oblivion. Ravi watches you, fondness wiping away all of his panic and discomfort until all that remains is affection welling in his throat. He wants to kiss you. He wants to wrap his arms around you, pull you down into the snow, feel your face pressed against his neck. He wants to—

The wind picks up. It turns the snowflakes sharp. Minuscule shards of glass that slice and cut. They sting at his eyes, at his cheeks, and he knows that the longer you both stay out here, the more risks you’re taking.

He wants to take you home.

Your safety is paramount. Typically Ravi could keep you safe from anything the Fog might throw at you. He knows it and it knows him. It wouldn't take you from him, and is curious about you on top of it all. It would only hurt you to keep you.

He hopes.

But the Squall is different. It's something wild and untamed, something that goes beyond his connection to the Fog. Better not to mess with it, to get you somewhere secure to ride out the storm.

Ravi turns to tell you that it’s time you both get to the hearse, but before he gets the chance he finds you crouching at the edge of the sidewalk. You’re bent over, faced enough away from him that he’s unsure what your hands are doing. He hesitates for just a moment before slowly approaching. Did you drop something?

You turn a mischievous smile up at him and whip something in his direction. A bundle of snow, wet and cold and altogether unpleasant, smacks him in between the eyes. He takes a stumbling step back. His hand darts up to his glasses, foggy and beading with sudden moisture. 

“Oh, shit, Ravi, I didn’t mean to hit you in the face!” you gasp.

You rush up to him. He ensures his glasses are in one piece and wipes away some of the snow. He meets your eye and finds you holding back amusement. Ravi smiles at you–the smile that is just for you, nobody else gets to see him so soft–and it gives you permission to laugh. The sound tumbles out of you like music.

Maybe he can be reckless, just for tonight. The Squall won’t come until morning, not truly, and he wants this moment to last forever.

Ravi takes one calculating look at the snow piled up on the yard before wrapping his arms around you and throwing you both to the ground. It takes you by surprise and you let out another breathless peal of laughter, this one a little scared and a little excited, as you both tumble into the snow bank. The snow cushions the fall and he lands, his face pressed against the icy wetness, his arms still holding you tight.

“Call this my revenge,” he announces, satisfied by the surprised look on your face.

“Bastard,” you grin, but it holds no bite.

The world comes to a pause. Snow falls all around you both. He feels the coolness of it on his cheeks. Watches it bead in your hair and on your collar like droplets of water, except the flakes are crystalline and lovely. The night air is fresh and clean-smelling. Quiet.

It’s his turn to kiss you.

Ravi doesn’t have to go far to catch your lips in his. You’re bundled together in the snow, clutched close to his chest, like the precious thing you are. He wishes he could keep you there. 

He kisses you, and it’s warmth and joy and peace and relief. The party doesn’t matter. The Squall doesn’t matter. All that matters is the way you press your face close when he cups your cheek with a gloved hand. The feeling of your lips, hot and sweet as they brush against his. You pull back for just a moment, your lips still ghosting over his, and he can taste your breath.

“We should stay here forever,” Ravi whispers.

“In Yasmin’s yard?” you tease, giving him another quick kiss, snaking your hand behind his head until your fingers are tangled in his hair. His breath catches in his throat. He watches you, enraptured, as you add, “Not the best place to ride out a blizzard.”

“They wouldn’t find us until spring,” he joins in on the fun, playfully tapping his forehead against yours, “It’s romantic.”

“On that terrifying note,” you smile, rolling onto your back and sitting up. You brush some of the snow off of your shoulders. He doesn’t want you to leave, doesn’t want to be responsible. Just a little while longer. Wind howls through the trees, though, and you’re right. The longer you stay out here, the worse the storm is going to get.

Ravi detaches himself from the snowbank, clamoring to his feet. He holds out his hand and, when you take it, pulls you upward. You smile and hook his arm into yours. Press yourself tight against his side. Maybe it isn’t staying curled up together in the snow, but it’s incredible. You’re here. You’re together. 

Now you just have to ride out the storm.

[professional-yapper]

Curiosity

Aonung x Human! Reader

Summary: Aonung is curious about the sky demon that came to his village with the Sullies.

Warnings: Aonung not respecting boundaries like at all, treats reader like an object kind of, manhandling, nothing serious tbh, Spider gets ragged on repeatedly

It's late afternoon, the sun at its peak, bathing the Metkayina village in warm gold.

You were enjoying yourself thoroughly, floating on your back and letting the sun warm the parts of you that weren't submerged in cool water. Your exomask was gathering a little condensation in the heat, but not enough to disturb your relaxed state.

It had been a good day. Neytiri had been growing warmer towards you as of late, though you suspected it was mostly born of a desire to please Kiri, who felt Spider's absence sorely and had turned to you to fill the gap of her token human best friend.

A position which you didn't entirely appreciate being thrust into, as a matter of fact. Sure, you missed Spider too, and you were as close to her as you were to her other siblings, but you weren't him. You didn't want the sudden responsibility that came with being their fill-in human. You couldn't crack gross boy jokes with Lo'ak, couldn't comfort Kiri over the shared lack of parents. And you definitely didn't paint yourself blue and act totally feral.

Like you said, you liked Spider, but that was something about him you never understood.

So you were happy to have this respite, even if it were a brief one.

That is, until a shadow fell across you. A large one. You groaned at the disturbance and sudden lack of sunlight, opening your mouth to tell whoever it was to fuck off, when you found that it wasn't Loak, as you had expected, standing on the platform above you, but the son of the Metkayina chief. Onung or something.

"Can I help you?" you asked, trying your best not to sound too irritable. After all, his family was hosting you and the Sullies. He was a dick, but it wouldn't do anyone any good if you mouthed off at him. Not that the desire wasn't there.

"Do you have to wear that mask all the time? I've never seen you take it off," he commented, ignoring your question as he lowered his bulk into a crouch, tail swishing across the ground behind him as he looked at you with genuine curiosity on his face.

You squinted at him, shifting onto your front and treading water as you did so. "I can't breathe your air," you replied bluntly, then, unable to resist, added an "idiot" after for good measure.

He scowled briefly, ears flicking backwards.

You huffed out a laugh, rather pleased with yourself for managing to get under his skin. "Now, is that all? Because I'm trying to enjoy the sun, and- hey! Hey!"

You cut yourself off as his large hands hooked under your armpits, lifting you clear of the water. "What are you doing, dickhead?!" you snapped indignantly, trying to pry his hands off you, kicking at his arms. "Put me down!"

It was his turn to ignore you now, instead carefully adjusting himself to sit on the edge of the platform, legs dangling above the water.

He lowered you onto his lap, and you briefly considered stomping on his dick once you found your feet on his broad thighs, but settled for folding your arms and glaring at him. He shifted his hands to your middle, presumably to keep you from falling or jumping off, and continued to stare at you.

Your cheeks grew hot almost immediately. You felt beyond exposed as he observed you, standing there on his thighs with his hands on your body, only in your damn bikini. He was just looking at first, but then began to touch you, taking your arm between his forefinger and thumb and holding it out- as much as you tried to fight it, you were simply no match for this big blue idiot's child-like curiosity in your alien form.

And it wasn't like he was unattractive. It was just that he was Metkayina royalty or something, and dumb as a rock, and you weren't Spider and you didn't have a massive boner for every Na'vi under the sun.

So maybe you were a little bitter towards the idea of human/Na'vi romance. After all, you were the unlucky bastard who'd had to sit through Spider's long talks about his various crushes. It had started with Neteyam, mature and kind and confident and altogether a pretty good crush for a young human boy like Spider. Then it had been fiery, playful Lo'ak, then dreamy Kiri, and at one horrible point you remember it being Jake. Yeah, Spider went through the Sullies like he had a to-do list.

You were nothing like that. You'd never had a crush on a Na'vi in your life.

And you weren't about to start now, even if his eyes roving over every inch of you with genuine interest made you squirm and flush.

"Do you mind?!" you said waspishly, finally getting fed up with his intense scrutiny as his hand travelled down your leg, dwarfed in his massive palm as he tried to examine the limb in question.

"Not at all," Onung or whatever his name was replied, grinning at you, teeth flashing. Jesus, they were sharp.

"Look, Onung, you can't just-" you began indignantly before he interrupted.

"Aonung. My name is Aonung," he corrected.

"Aonung," you repeated back to him, rolling your eyes. "You can't just-"

"You're not saying it right," he pouted like a little kid. Did he honestly think you cared how his name was pronounced?!

"Shut up and let me speak!" you snapped, hand lashing out and grabbing him by the ear, making him yelp as you dragged his big head towards you. "Listen, you big blue jackass, you can't just pick people up and start examining them like that! I didn't consent to it!"

"Let me go," he hissed at you, fangs inches from your face.

You stared right down his throat, unafraid. "You let me go. I'm not a toy you can fuck around with."

"Fine," he huffed, his tail thumping behind him irritably as you released his ear and he set you down beside him.

You stood for a moment, the seaspray-wet platform cooler on your feet than his thighs had been, and resisting the urge to shrink into yourself as the wind hit the place where his hand had sat around your middle.

He kept sitting there, looking rather like a kid that had been sent to time out, frowning, ears flat against his head and tail still twitching.

"Why did you wanna look at me, anyway?" you asked abruptly, looking at him. "You seemed pretty set on drop kicking me into the ocean when I first came here."

His ears drooped even further and he didn't look at you. "Cause," he grumbled.

"Cause why?" you persisted, reaching out and pushing at his broad shoulder, feeling a little braver now you were no longer at his mercy.

He glanced at your hand, then at you, a weird expression on his face that you didn't feel like unpacking.

You withdrew your hand. "Sorry."

"It's fine," he grunted, then heaved a sigh. Your eyes followed his chest as it rose and fell absentmindedly, before you caught yourself and gave yourself a firm mental telling off for checking out the big blue guy who'd just handled you like you were an object.

Not that you'd hated it. It was just... unexpected.

"You can look at me if you're that curious," you relented. "You just had to ask first. I get that you'd be curious but-"

"I didn't think you'd mind," he muttered.

"Didn't think I'd mind? When a guy twice my height literally snatched me out of the water and started handling me like an object? Aonung," you say severely.

"You're still saying it wrong."

You roll your eyes so hard it hurts for a second. "That's the best I can do."

"No, it's not."

"Oh, yeah, since you've got your degree and know every fucking thing."

"I don't know what a degree is," he pointed out, looking at you steadily.

You huff and glance around, then back at him. "Teach me, then. If it's such a big deal. Teach me how to say your name."

He just scoffed at you and looked away.

Okay. Rude, considering he'd been bitching about it nonstop.

You took the initiative and climbed back into his lap to make him look at you, gripping his shoulder tightly for balance as you stepped back onto his thighs. Thankfully of your own volition this time.

"What are you doing?" he asked, sounding mildly irritated, his hand cupping your hip instinctively to steady you.

"I said teach me," you repeated firmly, poking him in the chin. "I'm sick of you nagging me about it."

"I've only said it twice," he huffed.

"I've only said your name twice," you countered.

You stared at each other for a long moment. His hand was warm, gentle on your hip, and you still had your hand on his shoulder, his skin sun-warm and slightly gritty with sea salt and sand. Okay, so maybe you were kind of attracted to this one Na'vi specifically.

He sighed, looking away from you, then back at you, adjusting himself to be more comfortable, leaning back on his other hand. "Aonung," he said clearly. "Ow-noong."

You made a rather feeble attempt at imitating the sounds. You were used to the more blunt names of the Omaticaya, but the embarrassment of not getting it right was killing you a little inside.

He chuckled, thighs shifting under your feet a little, making you wobble and glare at him.

It takes you a few more attempts and much laughter from him, but you get it, or as close as you think you'll get.

"I think that's about as close as we're gonna get," Aonung said finally, voice warm with amusement as he looked at you.

You blushed despite yourself. Eywa, what was happening to you? This wasn't like you at all.

He was still gazing at you, and you realised his thumb was rubbing lazy circles into your hip.

You sighed deeply.

"Something on your mind?" he prompted.

"You're more tolerable than I expected."

A grin spread across his face as he tilted his head, ears tilting forward. "Should I be flattered?"

You just shrugged, smiling back a little.

"Well," he continued, shifting once more beneath you, heaving a sigh of his own. "I guess you'll be pleased to know I find you tolerable too."

"Well, isn't that convenient?" you snickered. "The human and the Metkayina's precious little prince-"

"Ah, shut up," he murmured, sitting a little more upright, bringing his face close to yours, before he stopped himself.

You didn't dare to move. "And what are you up to?" you whispered.

"Nothing." He smiled, slow and lazy, still rubbing soothing circles into your hip, tail beginning to thump again behind him.

Then he moved his hand to your mask, still watching your face. "Take a deep breath for me," he hummed.

You did so as your heart began to thump insistently against your ribs, hoping- no, praying that he was about to do what you thought he was going to do.

He lifted your mask off gently, and leaned forward, covering your mouth with his.

Like everything else about him, his lips were warm, firm, tasting of sea salt and some Metkayina herb, the name of which escaped you.

You sighed contentedly into his mouth, looping your arms around his neck as best you could, leaning your body against his chest.

You wanted this to drag on forever. There was no great realisation, either, beyond the simple oh. I have a crush on Aonung. No desperation in this.

It was just nice, to be here, standing on his thighs, kissing him slowly and peacefully while the brisk sea breeze enveloped you both.

He eventually pulled away and replaced your mask, looking down at you with a serene, content expression, tracing his fingers down the glass.

You couldn't help smiling, cheeks flushed as you shifted your hands to his shoulders.

"That was nice," he commented, trying to hold back a grin. "We should do it again sometime."

You laughed a little breathlessly. "Definitely."

His laughter mingled with yours, his chest vibrating a little as he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the glass of your mask above your forehead. "I'll hold you to that."

I love dumb hunk himbo Aonung can y'all tell

[bad-as-me]

Love without Compassion, Compassion without Love

Ok so I wanted to unpack this for a while, but it would be a whole thing to explain and, I'll be honest, the constant hostility from both camps towards the other made me hesitant to make a whole thing about this. But it's been over half a year since sote's release, and the heat has died down enough where I feel comfortable enough to dissect my thoughts as a fan of both of these guys.

tldr: I believe Mohg and Miquella's actions towards one another are meant to mirror each other, because they are inversions of each other's goals.

Full disclosure, this is a culmination of all my general headcanons and interpretations of these characters and their actions. Elden Ring is deliberately vague because it wants you to make up your own mind on what really happened, what matters most to you, things like that. I am not claiming I know the mind of Martin, Miyazaki, and Fromsoft, nor do I think that it would entirely matter if I did.

However, they are still trying to communicate a story with themes at the end of the day, and I find that there is a super common thread in this story around karmic retribution and characters mirroring the actions of another. Mohg and Morgott are an obvious one, as are Miquella and Marika.

But I feel that the intense scrutiny around who the "true victim" was between Mohg and Miquella is completely ignoring the fact that they kind of do unto each other more or less exactly what the other did to them. And I really don't believe that is a coincidence!

We knew in the base game that Mohg stole a sleeping Miquella from his cocoon in the Haligtree. We know he has a penchant for kidnapping people for his service, and that he intended to use Miquella's godhood as an offering to the Formless Mother in his pursuit of Lordship.

We also know the Mohgwyn dynasty is heavily coded in gothic romantic sensibilities. That as Varre tells us, Mohg intends to bless his followers with Love, even if that entails pain and suffering on their part. Mohg is in a lot of ways, a forever open wound: forsaken by his mother for his curse, he only seemed to find respite in the embrace of the outer god known as the Mother of Truth. I think, to Mohg, this idea of love as a painful endeavor is something he operates his entire situation around. He craves love, he craves it especially in maternal figures and people who are in so many aspects, a perfect reincarnation of his own mother. And the painful truth, to him, is that love can only be seized for yourself, and damned be what everyone else thinks of you.

But love is not a kind thing to him. It is a painful, bottomless hole that he is trying to fill for himself. This isn't his fault obviously, it's the result of centuries of abuse and neglect, but that is the fatal flaw of his design that makes him an enemy in our game. He wants a dynasty founded in Love, but without Compassion.

Then we have Miquella, a child of Marika who was surrounded by people who were suffering, but not particularly experiencing that suffering firsthand. He was cursed with eternal childhood, but he was incredibly gifted, and destined to succeed his mother in ascension to godhood. This is his fate, and he knows it's coming no matter what, but either out of a deep sense of care for his sister or just an innocent desire to make everything right, he sets out to make this happen in a way that will somehow fix everything, for everyone.

It's a bold ambition, to be sure. One might say it's a utopian ideal, an impossible ask in a world mired in war and conflict. But Miquella holds this with a deep conviction that could only be manifested in one with a childlike heart, who can't understand just how impossible his own desire really is. He knows of everything his mother accomplished, and in his mind, the only thing that really needs fixing is to just do it right this time.

I'll be honest and say, I don't think Mohg's kidnapping was initially a part of Miquella's plan. I think the track record he already has in seizing people for his own purposes (the albinaurics, the white masks, etc) is enough to believe that he would do it again, and I think it tracks with his general understanding that acceptance is not something that is given to someone like him- it is taken.

Plus, given the understanding that he was bewitched, I just don't like the idea of taking a choice of his that is so central to the events of the game that it is a part of the opening cutscene, and rendering it effectively powerless on Mohg's behalf. I can believe that Mohg's need for an Empyrean body for his goals, meshed with an unhealthy, obsessive need for love from his mother, would translate into jumping the gun and stealing Miquella when everyone is away at the wheel. Love, again, does not come to him out of Compassion, only through force. Unfortunately for him, Miquella is used to failed plans, and knows well how to shift gears and improvise.

Miquella's vow to Radahn happened when they were both fairly young, likely well before Mohg had ever set eye on the vision of a Dynasty in his name. Miquella, forever trapped in the same stage of his life, not only keeps this promise long after it's ever relevant, he incorporates it into his ultimate desire to make everything okay in his new Age.

For the sake of keeping this about only two major characters, I'll keep the Radahn custody situation brief, but in short, Miquella is put in a situation where his promised Lord needs a physical body. And as it so happens, there is a fresh one right in his hands. Someone who also desired for his hand, and the glory of Lordship, but was much too late to be considered for the part.

Miquella's age is one of Compassion. It is so devoted to the idea of endless Compassion, that all other parts of him are shed and made irrelevant. In this endless ambition, powered by centuries of failed plan after failed plan, he starts to forsake so much of himself that the line between "Person" and "Concept" start to blur. He abandons things that should never be forgotten for the sake of a dream. He abandons his Love.

I believe that, in an ill-guided attempt to solve every loose end and satisfy everyone involved, Miquella chose Mohg's body as a vessel out of a "compromise" for Mohg's desires. Radahn may be his destined consort, and Mohg's death may have been made inevitable. However, the wish to be loved and worshipped as Miquella's Lord would still be made his - in body, but not in soul.

Ansbach remarks on the grotesque ritual by saying that "I'm afraid Tender Miquella fails to grasp the humiliation implied by this act." And I am inclined to take him at his word here. Miquella can't understand how this "solution" is an abomination, because the part of him that could have known better is long gone. It is a choice made in Compassion, but not Love.

I hope all of this expresses how much I don't believe anyone in this story deserved their outcome. Rather, their choices are deliberately made to call back to one another. I really do enjoy both Mohg and Miquella as characters at the end of the day, because in so many ways they are mirrors of each other's flaws. Both of them had the intention of using the other's body as a vessel for their own ascension. Neither was right for doing so, but they also had their own reasons for deciding that was what had to be done.

You can't have Love without Compassion, nor Compassion without Love, and that is why they were both doomed to make the same cruel mistakes in their grasp for power.

[muiitoloko]

The gypsy witch

Summary: The damned gypsy witch bewitched him, Slope was certain of it.

Pairing: Obadiah Slope × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Smut, degradationself-punishment and violence.

Author's Notes: You've asked so much for a part two that I was surprised by it, but here it is!

First, Second, Third, Fourth and Fifth part here.

Also read on Ao3

In the days that followed that fateful encounter with you, Mr. Obadiah Slope found himself in a constant battle against his own desires. Each morning began with a rigorous routine of self-punishment and penance. He fasted, depriving himself of food and drink, hoping to cleanse his mind of impure thoughts. He prayed fervently, spending hours on his knees in the cold stone chapel, seeking forgiveness for the sinful acts he had committed. He lashed his own back with a whip, the sting of the lash serving as a painful reminder of the temptations that haunted him.

Throughout the day, Mr. Slope tried to avoid any reminders of you. He busied himself with his duties as chaplain, visiting the sick, comforting the needy, and delivering sermons that preached against the dangers of lust and desire. Yet, despite his efforts, he could not banish you from his thoughts. Your image lingered in his mind, your voice echoing in his ears, and the taste of your lips on his mouth.

At night, exhausted from his day of self-inflicted punishment, Mr. Slope would collapse into bed, hoping for respite in sleep. But even there, you haunted him. In his dreams, he would see you standing before him, your body a tantalizing temptation that he longed to touch but knew he must resist. He would wake in a cold sweat, his heart pounding with guilt and desire, unable to escape the hold you had over him.

Today was no different. Mr. Slope sat in the chapel, the early morning light filtering through stained glass windows, casting colorful shadows on the stone floor. His hands were clasped tightly in prayer, his eyes closed in concentration. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," he whispered, the words a desperate plea for absolution.

His mind wandered, despite his best efforts to keep it focused. Images of you, your eyes dark with desire, your lips parted in a teasing smile, flashed before him. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts, but they persisted, tormenting him with their forbidden allure.

After what seemed like an eternity, Mr. Slope rose from his knees, his body stiff and sore from the hours spent in prayer. He made his way back to his small room in the clergy house, the weight of his guilt heavy on his shoulders. He knew he must resist you, must avoid your presence at all costs, but the pull of desire was too strong.

As he entered his room, Mr. Slope closed the door behind him, leaning heavily against it. He removed his vestments with trembling hands, the fabric feeling heavy and suffocating against his skin. He sat down on the edge of his bed, burying his face in his hands.

"Why do you torment me so?" he murmured to himself, the words barely audible. "I am a man of God, a chaplain in His service. I cannot allow myself to be consumed by these impure thoughts."

But even as he spoke the words, he knew they were futile. His body ached with desire, his mind filled with fantasies that he knew could never be realized. And yet, you had awakened a passion in him that he could not ignore.

Mr. Slope stood up suddenly, his hands trembling with a mixture of guilt and longing. He walked to the window, staring out at the town of Barchester spread out before him. The morning mist was beginning to lift, revealing the familiar streets and buildings that he had come to know so well.

He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the memories of you, but they came flooding back with renewed intensity. Your touch, your scent, the way your eyes had sparkled with mischief – all of it consumed him, driving him to the brink of madness.

"I must be strong," he whispered to himself, clenching his fists in determination. "I must resist temptation, no matter how strong it may be."

But even as he made the vow, Mr. Slope knew that he was fighting a losing battle. His heart yearned for you, his body burned with desire, and there was nothing he could do to quench the fire that you had ignited within him.

The days turned into weeks, and Mr. Slope continued to wrestle with his inner demons. He threw himself into his work, hoping the distraction would help him forget you, but it was no use. Everywhere he turned, he saw reminders of you—in the faces of the townspeople, in the streets he walked, even in the quiet solitude of the chapel.

He couldn’t take it anymore.

In the quiet stillness of your shop, you were going about your business, arranging bottles of herbal remedies and tinctures on the shelves, when the door creaked open. Your heart skipped a beat as you looked up to see Mr. Slope, the local chaplain, stepping into your establishment.

Mr. Slope's eyes bore into yours with an intensity that made your breath catch in your throat. There was a hunger in his gaze, a yearning that mirrored your own. And as he approached, his movements purposeful and determined, you couldn't help but feel a thrill of anticipation.

"Mr. Slope," you greeted him, trying to keep your voice steady despite the butterflies that danced in your stomach. "What brings you to my humble shop today?"

He ignored your question, his eyes sweeping over your form with undisguised desire. "You look as enchanting as ever, my dear," he murmured, his voice low and husky.

You fought to keep a defiant expression on your face, refusing to let him see how his words affected you. "Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. Slope," you replied, your tone sharper than intended.

But Mr. Slope seemed unfazed by your rebuke, his lips curling into a knowing smile. "Oh, I think it might," he said cryptically, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

Before you could respond, he crossed the distance between you in a few swift strides, his hands reaching out to grab you by the arm. "Come with me," he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument.

You bristled at his audacity, pulling away from his grasp. "And why would I do that?" you demanded, your voice tinged with annoyance.

But Mr. Slope ignored your question, his grip tightening on your arm as he led you towards the back of the store. Panic flared in your chest as you realized his intentions, but you forced yourself to stay calm, to think of a way out of this predicament.

"What do you think you're doing, Mr. Slope?" you demanded, your voice laced with defiance as he pushed you against the wall.

He ignored your question, his eyes blazing with a mixture of desire and frustration. "Damn gypsy," he muttered under his breath, his fingers tightening around your throat.

You gasped, the pressure on your windpipe making it difficult to breathe. "What kind of dirty magic did you play on me to torment me like this?" he growled, his voice thick with anger.

You struggled against his grip, clawing at his hand in a desperate attempt to free yourself. "Let go of me, you madman!" you choked out, your voice barely a whisper.

But Mr. Slope's grip only tightened, his eyes burning with a fire that sent shivers down your spine. "You will tell me what you've done to me," he insisted, his voice low and dangerous.

With a surge of adrenaline, you managed to twist out of his grasp, your hand flying out to strike him across with all the force you could muster. Slope staggered back, his grip loosening as he stumbled to his knees, clutching his stomach in pain.

You took a step back, panting for breath as you watched him writhing on the floor, the agony etched into his features. "That's what you get for laying hands on a woman without her consent," you spat, your voice filled with venom.

But even as you spoke, you couldn't help but feel a surge of satisfaction at the sight of him brought low, his pride shattered by your defiance. Slope's eyes flickered open, his gaze locking with yours as he struggled to rise to his feet. "You'll pay for that, you wretched witch," he snarled, his voice thick with rage.

You laughed bitterly, the sound echoing off the walls of the small room. "I'd like to see you try," you challenged, your voice ringing with defiance.

With a growl of frustration, Slope surged to his feet, his hands reaching out to grab you by the shoulders. But before he could make another move, you seized the opportunity to strike, grabbing hold of his robes and pulling him close.

He froze, his eyes widening in shock as you pressed your lips to his, tasting the bitterness of his defeat on his tongue. For a moment, he resisted, his body stiff with surprise. But then, to your astonishment, he responded eagerly, his arms encircling you as he deepened the kiss.

The world around you seemed to fade away as you lost yourself in the heat of the moment, the forbidden passion that had simmered between you finally boiling over. And as Slope's lips moved hungrily against yours, you couldn't help but feel a sense of triumph at having finally broken through his defenses.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were left breathless, your bodies pressed close together in the dim light of the back room. Slope's eyes were dark with desire, his hands trembling as they traced the contours of your face.

"I... I don't know what came over me," he murmured, his voice hoarse with emotion.

You smiled softly, reaching up to cup his cheek in your hand. "It doesn't matter," you whispered, your voice barely above a whisper. "All that matters is that you're here, with me, now."

Slope nodded, his eyes shining with a newfound sense of clarity. "I can't stay away from you," he admitted, his voice filled with longing.

You leaned in to kiss him again, your lips meeting in a passionate embrace. "Then don't," you murmured against his mouth, your words a promise of things to come.

And as Slope pulled you close, his lips hungry and demanding, you knew that this was only the beginning of a forbidden love that would consume you both. But for now, in this moment, all that mattered was the fire that burned between you, igniting the darkness with its incandescent glow.

Mr. Slope's hands roamed your body with a fervor that matched your own, his touch igniting sparks of desire wherever it landed. He was a man driven to the brink of madness by his conflicting emotions, and you were the catalyst that had pushed him over the edge. You reveled in the power you held over him, knowing that despite his position and his vows, he was just a man—vulnerable and fallible.

Your fingers worked quickly, loosening the buttons of his clerical robes and slipping them off his shoulders. He shivered as the cool air touched his skin, but his eyes never left yours. There was a raw intensity in his gaze, a hunger that had been suppressed for too long.

"Do you still think me a witch?" you whispered, your voice a sultry purr as you pressed your body against his, your hands exploring the hard muscles of his chest.

Slope's breath hitched, his hands trembling as they slid down your sides to rest on your hips. "Perhaps," he admitted, his voice rough with desire. "But if you are, then I am damned, for I cannot resist you."

You smiled, a triumphant glint in your eyes as you pushed him back against the wall, your fingers trailing down to the waistband of his trousers. "Then let us be damned together, Mr. Slope," you murmured, your voice filled with seductive promise.

With a swift motion, you unfastened his trousers and let them fall to the floor, his arousal evident as you wrapped your hand around him, eliciting a groan of pleasure from his lips. His hands tightened on your hips, pulling you closer as you began to stroke him, your movements slow and deliberate.

"God help me," he whispered, his eyes closing as he surrendered to the sensations you were creating.

You chuckled softly, your breath hot against his ear. "There is no God here, Mr. Slope," you teased, your voice a low, throaty whisper. "Only us."

He shuddered at your words, his hands sliding up your back to tangle in your hair. "Then take me, temptress," he pleaded, his voice a desperate rasp. "Show me the pleasures of the flesh that I have denied myself for so long."

You needed no further encouragement. With a swift, practiced motion, you freed yourself from your skirts, the fabric pooling at your feet as you stepped out of them. You could feel the heat of his gaze on your body, the admiration and desire burning in his eyes as he took in the sight of you.

Without breaking eye contact, you guided him to the floor, your movements fluid and graceful as you straddled his hips. His hands found your waist, his grip firm yet gentle as you lowered yourself onto him, the feeling of him filling you completely drawing a moan from your lips.

For a moment, you both stayed still, savoring the sensation of being joined together, of finally giving in to the desires that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long. Then, slowly, you began to move, your hips rocking against his as you set a rhythm that matched the pounding of your heart.

As Slope lay on the floor, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions, he watched you with a mixture of awe and trepidation. Here he was, a virgin and a clergyman, succumbing to the temptations of the flesh in a way he had never imagined possible.

You rode him with a grace and skill that left him breathless, your body moving in perfect harmony with his as you sank down onto his cock. He could feel the heat of you surrounding him, the tightness of your walls gripping him in an embrace that threatened to consume him whole.

But even as pleasure coursed through his veins, Slope couldn't shake the nagging voice of guilt in the back of his mind. Sex before marriage was a sin, a transgression against the laws of God and man. And yet, here he was, unable to resist the siren call of your body.

"What... what are you doing to me?" he gasped, his voice strained with desire and confusion.

You smiled down at him, your eyes dark with lust as you began to undo the buttons of your blouse, revealing the swell of your breasts beneath. "I'm showing you the pleasures of the flesh, Mr. Slope," you purred, your voice dripping with seduction, "as you asked."

Slope's breath caught in his throat as he watched you, his mind reeling with the forbiddenness of it all. With a practiced motion, you pulled yourself off him, leaving Slope panting and desperate for release. But before he could protest, you knelt between his legs, your hands wrapping around his throbbing member as you began to stroke him with practiced expertise.

Slope's breath caught in his throat as waves of pleasure washed over him, his hips bucking involuntarily as you worked your magic on him. He was teetering on the edge, his resolve crumbling with each passing moment.

"Oh, God," he gasped, his voice thick with desire. "I can't hold back any longer."

You smiled up at him, your eyes sparkling with mischief as you quickened your pace, driving him closer and closer to the brink. "Let go, Mr. Slope," you urged him, your voice a husky whisper. "Give in to the pleasure."

With a primal roar, Slope surrendered to the ecstasy, his body convulsing as he spilled his seed onto your waiting hand. He cried out your name, his voice a symphony of pleasure as he rode the waves of ecstasy to their peak.

As he collapsed against the floor, spent and satisfied, Slope felt a sense of peace wash over him. Despite the sinfulness of his actions, despite the guilt that gnawed at his conscience, he couldn't deny the overwhelming sense of fulfillment that coursed through him.

And as he lay there, basking in the afterglow of his release, he knew that he would never be able to resist the temptation of you again. You had awakened a passion in him that he could never hope to suppress, a desire that burned with the intensity of a thousand suns.

As Slope looked up at you, his eyes filled with adoration and gratitude, he knew that he was lost. Lost to the irresistible allure of your body, lost to the intoxicating pleasures of the flesh, lost to the forbidden love that had consumed him whole.

At that moment, as you held him in your arms, Mr. Obadiah Slope couldn't bring himself to care about the consequences. For now, the weight of his guilt and the fear of damnation were overshadowed by the profound sense of connection and fulfillment he felt with you. He sat up with your help, pulling his pants and underwear up clumsily as you started to dress yourself.

But just as you began to fasten your blouse, Slope stopped you, his hand gently resting on yours. His eyes were filled with a mix of vulnerability and desire. "Wait," he said softly, his voice trembling slightly. "I... I want to please you too. But I don't know what to do."

You smiled to yourself, a warm and knowing smile. This was a man who had spent his life in denial, in repression, and now, here he was, yearning to learn the ways of pleasure. "It's alright, Slope," you whispered, your voice soothing and encouraging. "I'll show you."

You took his hands and placed them on your body, showing him how to touch you, how to explore your curves and contours. "Feel me," you murmured, your breath hot against his ear. "Learn what makes me shiver, what makes me moan."

His hands moved tentatively at first, tracing the lines of your body with a mix of reverence and curiosity. You guided him, encouraging him with soft sighs and whispered instructions. "Yes, just like that," you breathed as his fingers found the sensitive skin of your neck. "And here," you continued, moving his hand lower to the curve of your breast. "Touch me gently, but with purpose."

Slope's breath quickened, his eyes darkening with desire as he followed your lead. "I want to make you feel as you made me feel," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

"You will," you promised, your voice a sultry purr. "But you need to listen to my body. Let it guide you."

With that, you laid back, pulling him down with you, his body pressing against yours. His lips found your neck, his kisses tentative at first but growing bolder with each passing moment. You could feel the warmth of his breath, the gentle scrape of his teeth, and it sent shivers down your spine.

"Slope," you moaned, your hands threading through his hair, guiding him lower. "Taste me."

He hesitated for a moment, unsure of himself, but the desire in your voice spurred him on. His mouth traveled down your body, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. When he reached the soft swell of your breasts, he paused, looking up at you for reassurance.

"Go on," you encouraged, your voice breathless. "Take me in your mouth."

He obeyed, his lips closing around your nipple, his tongue flicking out to taste you. The sensation sent a jolt of pleasure through your body, and you arched your back, pressing yourself closer to him.

"Yes, just like that," you gasped, your fingers tightening in his hair. "Keep going."

Slope's confidence grew with your encouragement. He suckled at your breast, his hand moving to the other, kneading gently. You guided him with soft moans and whispered praises, your body responding eagerly to his touch.

But you wanted more. You wanted him to lose himself in you, to give in completely to the desire that simmered between you. "Lower," you urged, your voice a breathless command. "I want to feel your mouth on me."

Slope's eyes widened, but he didn't hesitate. He moved down your body, his hands and lips exploring every inch of your skin. When he reached the apex of your thighs, he paused, looking up at you with a mixture of awe and trepidation.

"Here?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

You nodded, your eyes dark with lust. "Yes," you breathed. "Taste me here."

With a deep breath, Slope lowered his head, his tongue tentatively flicking out to taste you. The sensation was electric, sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body. "Oh, yes," you moaned, your hips lifting to meet his mouth. "Just like that."

He licked and sucked, his movements growing bolder with each passing moment. You guided him with your hands, showing him how to please you, how to drive you wild with desire. "Don't stop," you gasped, your body trembling with need. "I'm so close."

Slope's hands gripped your thighs, his mouth working tirelessly to bring you to the brink of ecstasy. You could feel the tension building, the pleasure mounting until it was almost unbearable.

And then, with a cry of pure bliss, you came undone, your body arching off the floor as waves of pleasure crashed over you. Slope held you tightly, his mouth never leaving your body, his hands soothing you through the aftershocks.

When you finally came down from your high, you looked down at Slope, his face flushed with exertion and desire. "You did it," you whispered, your voice filled with wonder. "You pleased me."

But Slope kept his gaze fixed on your pussy. His mind raced with a torrent of conflicting emotions. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the sight before him, the taste of you still lingering on his lips, sweet and intoxicating. It was unlike anything he had ever experienced, a forbidden pleasure that sent shivers down his spine.

Were all women like that? Did they all taste divine? The thought sent a surge of desire coursing through him, his body responding eagerly to the memories of your touch.

But even as he reveled in the sensations that you had awakened in him, Slope couldn't shake the nagging voice of guilt in the back of his mind. What had you done to him, you damn gypsy? What sort of dark magic had you wielded to ensnare him so completely?

He tried to push the thoughts aside, to lose himself in the intoxicating haze of desire that clouded his mind. But the questions lingered, tormenting him with their unspoken accusations.

"You bewitched me," he muttered under his breath, his voice thick with frustration and longing. "You made me forget everything I swore to uphold, everything I believed in."

But even as he spoke the words, Slope knew that it was futile to resist. You had awakened a passion in him that he could never hope to suppress, a desire that burned with the intensity of a thousand suns.

With a groan of frustration, he leaned down, pressing his lips to your pussy once more, his tongue tracing the delicate folds with a mix of reverence and hunger. He was lost to the pleasures of the flesh, a slave to the forbidden desires that had consumed him whole.

And as he lost himself in the heat of the moment, Slope knew that there would be no turning back. For better or for worse, he was yours now, body and soul, bound to you by the irresistible allure of your touch.

[dmitriene]

ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ.

❝ 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵 ❞ 𝘱𝘰𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘳 𝘳𝘦4 𝘭𝘦𝘰𝘯 𝘹 𝘨𝘧 𝘧𝘦𝘮 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳. ❝ 𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘴 ❞ 𝘕𝘚𝘍𝘞, 𝘚𝘔𝘜𝘛, 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧, 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘯𝘰 𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘵, 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘴𝘦𝘹, 𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘶𝘯𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘱 𝘪𝘯 𝘷, 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘱𝘪𝘦, 𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘱.

 ✎ 𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵. 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘴𝘬𝘴. 𝘢𝘰3. ˑ༄

Leon has always been a man of exceptional determination, having pushed himself to the limit as a police officer in Raccoon City, striving to become a paragon of law enforcement, and never letting up in his pursuit of justice.

But that dedication came at a cost, a cost that you, his closest confidant, understood all too well

One evening, as the sun sank below the horizon, casting long shadows across your shared apartment, you found yourself stretched out on your bed, a novel on your chest, but your thoughts were wandering, when suddenly the door at the end of the hallway swung open, interrupting your train of thought, and the jingle of keys announced Leon's return.

You put the book down and propped yourself up on your elbows, listening to him hastily kick off his shoes — a clear sign of his fatigue.

Footsteps echoed down the hallway, getting louder and slower by the second, and finally Leon walked into your room and you could see the tiredness that crossed his face, causing you to greet him with a soft, concerned question — «Leon, is everything alright?»

He grunted in response, the words barely audible, his uniform falling to the floor with the heavy thud of his belt buckle as his eyes met yours, and there was an unspoken plea in their depths — as if he was asking for your understanding and comfort without uttering a word.

Without hesitating another second, he climbed onto the bed, wrapping his strong arms around you as his lips descended onto your face and neck with passionate, desperate need, peppering you with kisses.

In the dimly lit room, Leon's kisses felt like sparks of warmth in the cool, dim atmosphere, you ran your fingers through his tousled hair, your voice a soothing murmur — «You've had a long day, haven't you?»

He nodded, his lips finding yours in a deep, lingering kiss that spoke of longing and desire, as if he was seeking comfort in your arms, a respite from the relentless demands of his job, and you pulled him closer, entwining your legs with his, and the world beyond your four walls slipping away.

— «Leon» you whispered, your fingers tracing the contours of his face — «I'm always here for you»

His gratitude was evident in the way he held you, his strong arms creating a soothing cocoon around you as he leaned down to capture your lips again, the intensity of his kisses reflecting the emotional weight he carried.

And thus you found yourself in your current position, where Leon’s hands instinctively reach your waist, holding you tightly as he pushes deeper inside you with each thrust, the slick, velvety warmth of your cunny walls enveloping his cock.

His movements are both gentle and desperate, a captivating combination of tenderness and hunger, the feeling of your sticky walls sliding along his cock only fuels his desire, making him thrust harder and faster.

His voice, suddenly and so unfamiliar rough with desire fills the room as he praises and humiliates you at the same time, as if the process of your sex is venting his anger, and his slight hoarseness adds extra appeal to his words — «Oh my love, you're so damn, hngh — tight! Feel how wet you are for me, such a nice little slut, takes my cock so well»

His hands grip your hips tightly and his control is obvious as he sets the pace and his thrusts become more fervent, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room, mixing with your mewls and his deep guttural moans.

The intensity builds, pleasure spreading through both of your bodies as he fucks you mercilessly, but trying to combine it with the genuine care that always takes place in your relationship, so from time to time his hands stroke the marks on your hips with calloused fingers.

As the sensations overwhelm him, his movements become more chaotic, his thrusts becoming stronger and faster, more desperate as he feels the tension building inside him, the familiar warmth coiling in his lower abdomen.

The curled up arousal pulsates hungrily, causing his cock to bump up and bruise your cervix with every thrusts, while your walls flutter and clamp down on him with teetering release, and with one last powerful thrust he is finally released inside you, his hot cum completely filling you, oozing from your hole and around his shaft, in time with your pussy spasming all around, pulling him in greedily, gushing with all your juices.

Breathing heavily, Leon slips out and falls onto the messy sheets, his body still shaking with pleasure, every vein on his body bulging as his hands release your hips, sliding up your body and gently cupping your face as he presses a soft kiss to your lips, and his voice is full of adoration and unexpected apologies — «I'm so sorry for my sudden outburst, sweetie, so sorry»

Your eyes look tiredly into his blue and puppy eyes, there is still a mixture of seething excitement and regret for the sudden rudeness in his wide pupils, to which you giggle tiredly, pressing your nose into the line of his neck under his chin, leaving a warm kiss on the sweaty flesh and saying comfortingly — «It's alright, Leon, i would've say something if that was too much»

He smiles, full of gratitude for your understanding before leaning down and kissing the top of your head, burying his face in and scooping you closer to him, as if nestling you like a baby bird under his arm and letting the weariness take over the two of you, falling asleep in each other's arms, and nothing else matters.

taglist: @roseglazedlens, @scar-crossedlvrs, @daydreamrot, @cehrie, @kennedyswhore dm me if you want to be tagged in my works or open my taglist

[howlingday]

The Ace ops are on a joint mission with the Blood Angels to find a missing squadron of Atlas soldiers and other Blood angels sent to clear out the Grimm in an abandoned mine, they discover the dismembered bodies of both groups, they look to see a lone Blood Angel standing in the middle of the cavern, the Chaplain questions his brother on what happened, but he was soon filled with horror as he heard him whisper the name “Horus”.

Where Traitors Tread

"Atlas Outpost Zeta, this is Leading Specialist Ebi, requesting permission to land."

There was no answer. Again. Clover had tried to make contact with the outpost for the past thirty minutes on approach, first en route, second on arrival, and everything else was as they were circling.

"Let's just land this thing, Clove." Harriet groused.

"Patience, Specialist," the red-and-white-armored Chaplain hushed with his hand, "I am certain there is a reason for their silence." He then veered his skulled helm towards Clover. "Of course, one must be diligent to not mistake patience for sloth."

Clover gave a sigh. He was trying to be nice, but there was a limit. "Atlas Outpost Zeta, this is Leading Specialist Ebi. We are landing to refuel and investigate. Please stand-by."

As the bullhead docked on the hangar above, there was no staff to greet the joint operation of Atlas Specialists and Blood Angels. Ironwood's finest and the sons of Sanguinius both felt the chill of the Solitas wastes and hurried into the building below. So far, everything about this mission felt off.

There was no contact from the outpost for the past twenty-four hours, and not even the drones sent ahead were able to make contact on arrival. In fact, the moment they arrived, they became disconnected and went offline. If this was some kind of Grimm, it needed to be investigated and resolved by experienced huntsmen, ergo the Ace Operatives.

This outpost served another purpose as a temporary base for those Blood Angels who needed respite beyond the walls of Mantle. Ties between Remnant and the Imperium had been tense, and not without good reason, thus this measure seemed fitting as a first step towards better relations.

"We'll check the operations room," Clover explained, "see if it's a radio glitch or something that's making it impossible to get a response." The elevator was large enough for the Space Marines and huntsmen to ride in. "I don't know about you, but I'm hoping it's just a glitch."

"A glitch that takes out drones, too?" Elm raised her brow.

"Chaplain..." The apothecary called.

"Yes, Antrit," replied the elder Blood Angel, "I smell it, too."

The doors opened to a horror show. Blood covered every surface as the console, too, bled with sparks and flittering screens. Corpses lay strewn about, both Remnant and Astartes, all covered in ghastly wounds made by either blade or bolter.

"Brothers..." Marrow covered his mouth and nose, trying to keep the offending iron scent from making him retch.

Clover clicked his radio. "Atlas, this is Ace-Op 1, respond." Nothing, not even static replied. "Atlas, Ace Op 1, do you read me?"

"Your radio is useless, Specialist." The Chaplain held out his hand. "It appears our adversary has fashioned an EMP emitter out of the console."

"Damn..."

"Brothers, it is imperative that we locate the perpetrator and subdue them. Failure will only result in more blood spilled than desired. We shall search every level until we have located this killer, be they monster or traitor."

"Ace Ops," Clover spoke up, "what he said."

The four entered the elevator, moving down to the lower levels. Light filtered through the doors as they opened, the flickering bulbs within acting as first warning to the horrors that awaited the joint teams. Each floor told the same story; blood, violence, destruction, and death, all performed with malevolent. A familiar malevolence as well to the Chaplain.

"Lead Specialist," the elder said, "from this moment forward, we shall take point." Before there was any contest, the Blood Angel directed singled out his brother. "Tamenzo, your services as vanguard are needed."

"As you wish, Chaplain." The hulking, red warrior stepped forward, his bolter level with the door. Before they could open, they could hear the unmistakable shouts of another Space Marine beyond. A silence fell over the group, especially among the much smaller specialists as they didn't dare step forward of their Astartes counterparts.

"TRAITOROUS FILTH!" The doors screamed open as armored hands rended the elevator seals apart. "YOU WILL NOT HAVE ME THIS DAY, HERETIC!"

The screaming man shouted from within his blue helm, heedless to the amplification of his voice booming from his vox. The chaplain recognized this man as his company's own devastator, Brother Faustal Archun. Gareus lunged forward, foolishly holstering his bolter before taking hold of his much stronger battle brother's arms, hoping to speak reason to him. Before he could, he was tossed aside as more venom spilled from his assaulter.

"IN THE NAME OF THE EMPEROR, I WILL AVENGE OUR FATHER, HOR-" A shot rang through the otherwise empty room, splintering through Archun's armor and driving him to his knees. Before he could rise, Tamenzo drove his blade through his battle brother's chest. The devastator grasped hold of the sword of his undoing and looked to his killer. "H... Hor..." His arms fell as his dying breath carried his final words. "Horus..."

The air became tense as the crazed battle brother became limp. Sliding his blade free of Archun's chest, Tamenzo approached the Chaplain, sheathing his sword. Wordlessly, the vanguard returned to formation with the rest of the squad. Turning to the two squads, the Chaplain spoke.

"We are returning to Atlas."

"Already?" Specialist Ederne asked. "What about the rest of the base?"

"I am afraid it is lost to us, Specialist." The Chaplain replied. "If there are any survivors, then we will require more than what we currently have."

"What?!" Specialist Bree balked. "I don't know if you've noticed, but we're not just Atlas Specialists; we're the Ace Operatives, as in the best of the best at Atlas!"

"Not to mention what that guy said before he died." Specialist Amin added. "What did he mean by Hor-"

"If you wish to keep your heads, you will cease your retorts and do as I command." The Chaplain said in such a low growl, you'd swear it was some kind of Grimm hiding under that skull helmet. "Unless you have something more to say, Leading Specialist?"

Ebi hummed. "There's definitely something weird going on here, but I don't think ignoring it is going to help anything. How about we split up into two teams? One team will head to the roof and send word back to headquarters. Even if there is a signal jammer, I doubt it can stop a message going out if we fly out just far enough. The rest of us will look for any survivors. Keep your scrolls on and be ready to move."

The Chaplain did not care for this undermining of his authority, but he could also not disregard the opportunity to search for survivors. The two parties then split with the Chaplain, Lead Specialist Ebi, and Specialist Ederne moved to the roof to deliver the message while Specialist Amin and the Blood Angel Scout Ottavio Silat, attempted to remove the signal jammer from the control room. Meanwhile, Specialist Zeki and Bree searched the deeper parts of Atlas Outpost Zeta with Apothecary Leonardo Antrit and Vanguard Gareus Tamenzo.

The Chaplain and the two specialists returned shortly after once their signal to Atlas Headquarters was delivered. Apparently, Amin and Silat managed to remove the jammer. Upon arrival, however, only Specialist Amin was there to greet them, much to the anger of the Chaplain.

"Where is Scout Silat?" He asked.

"He said that he heard something downstairs and he was going to make sure the others are okay."

"And did you hear anything?"

"Well, I-I didn't, but-"

"But what?" The Chaplain nearly snarled.

"W-Well," he gulped, "you guys are already so much bigger and stronger than us, I didn't think it'd-"

"You didn't think?! This failing of your faculties will only serve to hasten your end, you belligerent-"

"Chaplain!" The elder space marine turned to see Ebi's scowl. "Yelling at Marrow like that isn't going to help anyone. Let's just head down and-"

Explosive rounds thundered from below. The Chaplain moved away from the Specialists and made his way to the stairs. The trio moved to join him, only to be halted by his extended palm. Without looking to his companions, he gave his orders.

"I will descend alone. Those were bolter shells that were fired. Your assistance would only worsen the odds of your survival. Remain here while I retrieve our comrades and investigate."

Without another word, the Chaplain moved his way down the stairs, his hulking mass doing little to hide his presence, though such things mattered little when the lives of both his battle brothers and their companions were in danger. His words to Specialist Amin were not first spoken to the Faunus, but also to the Chaplain when he'd first joined the company of his father's sons. When he was made the spiritual leader of the Sons of Sanguinius, he made a personal oath to ensure none strayed from the path he now walked with his brothers.

Every step brought him deeper into the darkness. Each step brought him closer to saving his brothers. He could do little more than hope as he kept one hand firmly wrapped around his staff and the other tightly squeezing his pistol. He could do little more than hope that his brothers could be saved from this blight.

He'd heard tales of the Black Rage afflicting his brothers, and each story only made his title as Chaplain all the more important. If he had his way, if he were to perish, it would be at the hands of a dying enemy of the Imperium, protecting the innocent that his father fought and died to save from the clawed fingers of Chaos. Better a gruesome death for a noble cause than to be brought to your knees by your own battle brother, either of you if not both driven mad by the psychic backlash from your father's demise. He clenched his eyes for a moment, but only for a moment, using his blindness to hone in on any sign of Scout Ottavio Silat.

He'd hand-picked this squad, Silat included, hoping to reinforce a sense of camaraderie between the ranks of both the Blood Angels and the Atlas military. Accompanying would be the "newbie" Marrow Amin, and Chaplain Sepharan Asbesco had agreed with Leading Specialist Clover Ebi that both could learn from each other as they embarked on their first joint operation. Vanguard Gareus Tamenzo held a competitive spirit poorly kindled with an eagerness to prove oneself that was all too familiar in Specialist Harriet Bree. Such excitement could be tempered under the watchful visage of one more experienced, such as Destroyer Faustal Archun and Specialist Elm Ederne could provide. Should anyone come to harm, as is to be expected in this extremely hazardous occupation, an apothecary and combat medic would be there to mend faster what the body could not alone, such to be done by the deft and dextrous hands of Apothecary Leonardo Antrit and Specialist Vine Zeki.

Five Blood Angels for five Atlesian Specialists, with one dead brother under his skull-helmed aegis. If this were some sick, twisted competition like the other legions played, then he would be on the losing side. But there was no side to be had here, save for the living and the dead. The galaxy is much different than it was ten thousand years ago. So different, and yet still very much alike.

"Chaplain Asbesco," a voice beckoned from his vox, providing evidence that Specialist Amin was able to remove the jamming device, "this is Brother Apothecary Antrit hailing Chaplain Asbesco."

"You have hailed and you have been heard, Brother Apothecary." The Chaplain replied. "Report status."

"Multiple casualties, Chaplain, both human and Astartes." His tone turned sour for a moment. "As well as the mutation regarded as 'Faunus'."

"Save your prejudice for another time, Brother Apothecary. Who among the Astartes are slain? Are they of our own party?"

"Negative, Chaplain." The Chaplain gave a silent sigh of relief. "They seem to have been dead before our arrival, likely around the time communications were severed. The wounds, however, align with what was seen with Brother Archun."

"Report location." The Chaplain continued, remaining vigilant of the flickering light of the darkness.

"I am on the lower-level designate B-3," the Chaplain noted his position on level B-2, just one floor above the Brother Apothecary's answer, "and I am here with-"

The vox became silent. "Brother Antrit?" The Chaplain hailed. "Brother Antrit?" Fear opened the gates of haste as the rib-plated space marine hurried down the step and into the dark. Activating his armor lights, he was greeted by a charging Blood Angel, his helm removed to reveal Vanguard Gareus Tamenzo.

Blade met staff as brother battled brother in the dark. The Chaplain held the advantage of night vision, which he used after shoving his brother away to leave him in darkness as his lights dimmed to nothing. Tamenzo roared as he swung wildly in the shadows.

"Traitor!" He barked. "You hide in the shadows like the daemons you consort with, Horus!"

Another brother fallen to the rage. Another brother too many. The Chaplain steadied his bolter and fired through the dark to bring the light to his fellow son of Sanguinius. Regrettably, his aim struck true and the mad barkings of the Black Rage fell to silence.

"Forgive me, Brother." The Chaplain said, approaching his fallen vanguard. "You deserved a warrior's death, an end fit for one such as our father."

"Chaplain." Looking up, he saw two space marines standing in front of him. One in white and red armor. The other looming behind in black armor, and a blazing orange eye in the center. The elder clenched his eyes shut and blinked. Looking once more, it was Apothecary Antrit with Specialists Bree and Zeki standing behind him. "Chaplain Asbescos?"

"Brother Apothecary." The Chaplain stood, heaving a sigh. "Forgive my belated reply."

"There is nothing to forgive, Chaplain, for no sin has been committed." The four looked down to the headless remains of their former vanguard. "Or no sin against I, Chaplain."

"Have you gathered the gene-seed of the fallen?"

"Save Brother Tamenzo, yes." He gave a nod. "Though I fear this madness has made the gatherings difficult, as our brothers met a woefully efficient end."

The Chaplain gave a hum in understanding. One did not become a chaplain without understanding the deeper meaning of those with greater tact than themselves. In their madness, the Black Rage ensured the Blood Angels would destroy themselves in the war of attrition by rendering one's gene-seed beyond salvation, be they Blood Angel or other Astartes mistaken for the great traitor.

"What the hell are you guys talking about?!" Specialist Bree barked. "We've got a lot of dead guys here, but you're talking about plants at a time like this?!"

"Bree," Specialist Zeki spoke in place of the ever ired Chaplain, "perhaps we cannot understand because we are not meant to understand." He looked to the Chaplain. "What would you have us do?"

"Return to the roof and rendezvous with Leading Specialist Ebi. We must evacuate and make a full report to our respective superiors." The trio gave salutes, the aquila from Apothecary Antrit and an unarmed hand salute from the specialists. The Chaplain watched them as they left, words left to be shared. "Apothecary. Specialists." They stopped and turned towards him. "Have any of you seen Brother Scout Silat?"

"Negative." The Apothecary replied. "The only other Astartes we've seen are dead or yourself. Brother Antrit was not among the casualties."

"Then I have deeper to go." The Chaplain replied. "I will travel to the lower levels as you ascend. If I have not returned within the hour, evacuate to Atlas headquarters."

The Apothecary was silent but gave a nod. The Chaplain stood and watched as the three climbed higher while the darkness beckoned below. A terrible thought crept into his mind; one of treachery of the lowest kind, with his Brother Apothecary abusing his greater strength to easily slaughter the specialists they had been assigned to. He gave a long exhale, putting his faith into his brother before descending, forgoing his lamplight and choosing instead to opt for night-vision. Better to maintain the element of surprise when uncertain of who is your ally.

The levels below, ending at sub-level designate "B-5", were free of all but blood and echoes of violence. A shadow moved in the corner, and the Chaplain's eyes were deceived as it proved to be nothing more than a rat that had managed to escape the rampaging Blood Angels. That such a scavenging vermin could evade what more intelligent beings could not was almost enough to make the Chaplain laugh in morbid fascination. However, the time now was not for mirth, but caution.

"This is Chaplain Asbesco of the Blood Angels," he spoke into his vox, "I am returning to the roof. Respond."

"I hear you, Sanguinius." Bile filled the Chaplain's throat as the venom spilled into his ears. His hearts thundered against his ceramite plates as his vision blurred so horribly, he could barely stand. He stumbled to his knee, bolter clattering across the floor. "You've lost your pistol, Brother..."

"You are no brother of mine, Horus!" The words screamed through his mind, like a fiery brand to the center of his skull. In an instant, his staff had been forgotten and replaced by a sword. "I will have your head by the end of this day for what you have done, traitor!"

"ENOUGH!" The Chaplain roared, attempting to silence the echoes of his father's demise. He began a mantra, one he had been taught by his predecessor Chaplain. "My father is dead, but I still live. My father is dead, but I still live."

His heart seemed to calm and the blinding vision of the final days of the Heresy had been replaced with darkness illuminated by a green tint. Sweat poured from the Chaplain's brow, but he felt calm. At peace with his return from the nightmare.

A return accompanied by a roaring Astartes. The Chaplain spun in time to find his Brother Scout charging with revving chainsword and blinding fire in his eyes. The Chaplain rolled away, finding his bolter in his previously empty hand. He fired at his Brother Scout, hoping to grant him the same mercy gifted unto Brother Vanguard Tamenzo, but Silat was too swift on his feet.

"I will have your head by the end of this day, traitor!"

"Reclaim yourself, Ottavio!" The Chaplain called futilely. "You are not our father! I am not Horus! We are Blood Angels! We are brothers!"

"You are no brother of mine!" The chainsword roared in agreement as Silat charged the Chaplain, teeth finding only air and cement to chew. More bolter shells were fired, only to find the same diet as its melee counterpart in its foe's hands. "HORUS!"

Looking around, the Chaplain found other holes and gashes delivered by bolter and blade, those these ones were from before this fight. It seems Brother Silat had been driven mad and began striking at shadows in the dark, mistaking them for the great traitor. If he had not collected himself, would Asbesco share his brother's fate here? Were their father here, he would surely weep to see his sons warring here, where no light can be found, gone and astray from the path of light he'd fought and died for his own father's Imperium of Man.

"HOR-AGH!" Silat found himself blinded in one eye, a stray bullet blinding him of all to his left. Or that's what Asbesco thought until he saw the line glittering in the darkness from the distant light.

"Need any help, Chappy~?" The voice called from the dark. One familiarly upbeat yet commanding. Leading Specialist Ebi had found his way down here, into the dark. "Looks like I caught a big one~!"

"Damn you and your trickery, Horus!" Silat barked, slicing through the line with his chainsword, knocking the specialist off his feet. The Blood Angel Scout charged up the stairs, towards the smaller Atlesian. "Your daemons cannot save you now!"

Clover covered his head, unable to escape the uncomparable speed and roar of the Space Marine and his chainsword. Suddenly, there was a booming thunder, followed shortly by the dying sputter of a small engine. Looking up, he saw the Space Marine laying dead with his head split asunder by a bolter round, and another behind him with a skull-helmet as terrifying as the Grimm Reaper.

"Please," Asbesco held out his hand, "refrain from calling me such names as 'Chappy'."

The walk into the light from the depths was quiet, save for the echoing clatter of Blood Angel boots against the concrete steps. Once on the roof, Leading Specialist Ebi and Chaplain Asbesco met with their teams. Or rather, Specialist Ebi's team and what was left of the Blood Angels. And even here, in the light and the wind, he could still hear him. The traitor.

"Apothecary Antrit."

"Yes, Chaplain?"

"Do you hear that?"

He was quiet. "I'm afraid I'm not certain what you're referring to."

"Then I'm afraid I am also lost." Removing his helmet, Sepharan Asbesco looked to his brother and hefted a heavy sigh. He'd grown tired in this short time, and it was time for him to rest and surrender his fight. "When you return to headquarters, tell them to retrieve me for the Tower."

Leonardo Antrit was stunned. "The Tower?! But Chaplain, that's-"

"Too kind of a mercy, I'm aware." He hefted another sigh, placing his hand on his brother's shoulder. "I am afraid this will be our last meeting, Brother. Have you any final words of advice for me?"

Once more, the Antrit was silent. Then he smiled. "I would refrain from consuming the snow. It does little to hydrate you and only increases your risk of infection."

"Thank you, Apothecary."

"It is my duty, my honor, and my joy, Chaplain." He smiled once more. "Have you any final words of advice for me?"

"I believe my actions will speak greater than any words could suffice."

With a nod, the two parted ways. The Chap- The former chaplain watched his brother board the bullhead and leave with the confused specialists. Looking down from the rooftop, he found beasts of black fur and bone armor and red eyes glaring from below. He looked to his staff, noted the amount of shells left in his bolter, and then leapt into fray.

And in the distance, leading these creatures of Grimm, was the Arch-Traitor himself.

[twola]

Devil's Backbone - Owanjila V

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x FemOC/Reader POV 

Tags: Longfic, Slow Burn, Smut (18+), Violence, Canon-Typical Injuries

Limpany’s burning was a lot more than meets the eye. Deception, greed, and murder follow everyone touched by Leviticus Cornwall. A story where the Van der Linde gang gets even more inescapably involved in Cornwall’s dealings, with the survivor of the massacre at the heart of it all. Slow burn. Pre-Blackwater and beyond.

Owanjila V: Respite in the Valley

After the return to Owanjila, settling into a routine proves to be difficult for several members of the gang.

cw: smut, post-traumatic stress, heartache (a lot of that last one)

➵ AO3 Link ➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ Previous | ➵ Next

You awaken softly in the morning light, not all at once, like the blooming sun far in the eastern horizon. Birdsong wafts through the window, even through the pane of somewhat cloudy glass, the chirps of tanagers and cardinals fill the air.

You stretch your back in the bed, blinking as you feel the rumble of your bedmate behind you, the long, warm line of a body curled up next to yours, an arm thrown around your waist.

Chapped lips touch the back of your neck and you smile against your pillow. A calloused hand moves under the sheet from your waist up, up, to cradle your breast, thumb brushing across your nipple as it hardens. 

A breathy moan escapes you as you press yourself backward against him, the both of you bare under the sheet, skin running hot, and against your rear, you can feel him stirring. 

“Ruth…” A sleep-hoarse groan of your name is whispered into your ear as the hand slinks downward to the meeting of your thighs, and your legs open of their own accord to welcome him in.

“Mmm…” You moan as strong fingers press against your folds, parting them and tracing the seam of your body. You jolt as he finds that little nub of your pleasure, circling it as you begin to pant. 

He’s thick and ready with arousal behind you, and your slick begins to come, readying yourself for him as you press your small hand over his own, guiding him to press harder against you, then guiding him the blessed few inches from your clit back to your entrance. He slides a long, thick finger inside you and you do not even attempt to suppress the high, flighty moan, accompanied by his low one as he begins to work his finger in and out of you. His hips press against your rear in time with his thrusts.

“God damn, Ruth.”  He groans into your ear, pressing his middle finger into your cunt and you mewl, grasping the sheet for dear life between your fingers.

“P-please.” You whimper, feeling as if you’re going to burst, that you need this burning desire quenched in your very core.

“I gotcha, I’ve gotcha-” He pants, extracting his hand and moving it to tilt your hip, pressing his cock to your weeping entrance and gently pushing inside.

You moan outright at the feeling of being filled, stuttering breath on your neck from behind you as he begins to thrust.

“God,”  You cry out, causing him to groan aloud as he moves his pelvis against yours, hand tight over the curve of your hip.

“Ruth… Ruth. Here we’ll build our town,” He rasps, his voice hoarse as he pants with exertion, “Here we’ll build our family.”

Wait…

His arms clutch around you as you stiffen, unable to turn around, feeling like you’re swimming in molasses. Your heart thumps like a war drum in your chest, less from arousal and more from the sense of dread building up in your belly.

He whispers in your ear, throwing his hips against yours in finality, driving himself into you and shuddering.

“Right here in Limpany.”

You rocket up from your bedroll, hand splayed over your sternum, gasping for air. You look around, the camp on the hillside is still dark, and the other women are all still fast asleep in a line next to you under the protective awning. A campfire several feet away glows softly, down to embers before the breaking of the dawn. Far to the east, the sky begins to burn red.

You get up, grabbing your checked shawl and wrapping it over your shoulders to stave off the morning chill, harsh once you shed the blankets of your bedroll and quietly pace away from where the women sleep. Your bare feet collect morning dew as you descend down the hillside, unable to stop the flow of tears down your cheeks, trying at least to stifle the sob trying to claw itself from your throat. You try to ignore the damp feeling of the seam of your bloomers against your skin.

You’re breathing heavily, eyes overflowing by the time you reach the lakeside, bare feet freezing as cold lake water flows over them.

The sob you were trying to hold back works its way out, and your shoulders heave as you wrap your arms around yourself.  All of this, the death and the misery and being alone, for Christ’s sake, why can’t you just wake up from this nightmare?

You weep, standing there ankle-deep in the cool waters of Owanjila. You weep for your child, your husband, your friends. You weep for your former life, never to be lived again.

Above the sound of your shuddering breath, unheard by you, a match is struck in the night to light a cigarette. Arthur Morgan stands back on the hillside, observing your shaking shoulders and the soft sound of your cries.

He thinks of how he wrapped himself around your small frame, how you sank back into him, and how he seemed to assuage your tears. How you looked at him like he was some heaven-sent savior pulling you from the fire. He wants to walk down there and draw you in, to pat down your sleep-addled hair, and whisper words that could tamp your shaking shoulders.

But nothing good can come of this desire - Micah’s words slither into his mind like a snake, ready to strike at the remnants of his beating heart. 

You ain’t different than any of us - rotten to the core. And all you want is her sweet little cunt.

No, Arthur Morgan simply takes a drag of his cigarette, nothing good would come of it indeed.

-

The widow Adler is in a fugue state of grief. Staring blankly ahead, eyes red and bloodshot, there along the hill overlooking Owanjila.

Fortunately, the girls were able to scrape enough clothing together for her. Mary Beth tries to offer her coffee, but it is two days before she even accepts. She gazes out at the lake, silent in her suffering, not speaking to any of the other women who try to keep her company. Even Grimshaw gives her a wide berth as her bruises and cuts heal.

You will certainly admit to yourself it is far too long before you approach the woman alone, her silent stoicism near standoffish as she does not acknowledge your presence as you sit down on the hill next to her, some yards away from the shoreline. 

“Missus Adler-”

“Sadie.”  She croaks, not turning toward you at all.

“...Sadie,” You are corrected, and pull your knees up toward your chest to loop your arms around them, “I know there’s nothing any of us can say to make it better or get your husband back-”

“My Jakey - he was a good man- and they butchered ‘im.” Sadie’s voice goes low, hoarse, and angry as you can tell she is gritting her teeth, “God damn O’Driscolls…”

You swallow, staring ahead at the still waters of the lake. Sadie sniffles next to you, wiping angrily at her eyes.

“Dutch thinks it was O’Driscolls that killed my husband… I never saw who did it…” You say softly, your chin on your drawn-up knees, not trying to discount her loss, but trying to establish a connection through your own.

Sadie sniffles again, her jaw setting hard as she swats at her eyes, remaining quiet at your admission. Her ill-fitting clothing and bruised face are a reflection of her frightful state in the morning light. 

Several moments of silence sit between the two of you before you stretch out your legs again to get up.

You stand up, dusting leaves and dirt off your skirt. “I know it isn’t going to change anything, but I’m here, Missus Adler, if you ever need anything.”

Sadie doesn’t reply, staring off at the lake once again. You hold in the sigh you feel like letting loose until you are far enough away that she won’t hear you. Walking back up the hill, you move straight towards the tent to the side of the camp, just past the bubbling coffeepot over the main campfire.

You let another sigh out as you sit down in an empty chair, rubbing at your eyes tiredly before turning to look at the person occupying the next seat over. Hosea inhales deeply over his steaming cup of coffee as he sits in the rickety old chair next to you. “My dear…”

You frown, looking back toward Sadie as she stares off into the distance, northward into the Grizzlies, to the life she used to have. You know that stare, should you travel back toward the ice-blue waters of the Dakota, you would have that same grief in your eyes.

“I was like that… the first few days.” 

“Better than I was when my Bessie passed,” Hosea continues to sip his coffee, “Stayed drunk for the better part of a year.”

You frown, looking down at your hands. It was humbling, though you knew that certainly, you weren’t the only widow in the world, that you are now surrounded by people who have keenly felt that kind of loss. Part of you feels silly for your breakdown the other morning, thankful that no one saw that moment of weakness.

“Missus Adler will have to work things through her own way,” Hosea continues, “All we can do is try to offer her some kind of solace.”

“Indeed.” You reply, watching forlornly as you see her shoulders crumble into sobs.

-

“Sure you don’t have anything to tell us about Colm?” Dutch eyes the prisoner with disdain. The poor man, unkempt and unshaven is a frightful mess, terrified and stumbling against the rope tying him uncomfortably to a tree along the edge of the camp.

“Jus- jus that he’s hittin’ the train in Ambarino - I s-swear, that’s all I know.” He sputters, wide-eyed and fearful, surrounded by men who look like they’d love to torture him in any bodily way possible. 

“I dunno, Dutch,” Arthur blows smoke in the young man’s face from his cigarette, “He ain’t entirely convincin’ me.”

Dutch runs a hand over his mustache, exaggerating the idea that he is mulling over the prisoner’s fate, “Bill, what do you think?”

The slide of metal on metal pierces the air as the prisoner’s wide eyes move from Dutch to the larger, burly man beside him.

“I think he don’t need some parts on ‘im, Dutch.” Bill replies, the large tongs in his hands loudly opening and shutting.

“Please- please, I don’t know anything more!” He screeches as Bill gets closer.

Dutch gleams with a predatory glare.

“That’s a shame there, O’Driscoll. I am running out of reasons to stop ol’ Mister Williamson from gelding you.”

-

“You’re goddamn lucky you have people that give a shit whether or not you die.”

John wishes he could escape. But he’s bedridden still, nearly a week after the journey down the mountains and his unfortunate run-in with enemies of the canine variety. The long ride did his body no favors, keeping him in the cot in the sick tent for days longer. His stitches itch across his face, and his bruised and bloody body still wracks in pain when he tries to move.

Abigail breathes out heavily in frustration as she wrings out the warm water from the rag over the steaming bowl of water set at the side of his cot. She leans over him, pulling back the blanket to expose his bruised chest.

“Hell if I need you to bathe me, you damned-”

“You smell worse than horse shit, you worthless-”

John curses aloud, lurching upward as Abigail swipes the rag across his collarbone, not exactly gently, over red and inflamed skin. 

“Jesus Christ, Abigail, that shit hurts.” He snarls up at her, and for a moment, her eyes flash with something that looks like regret before they harden again.

“Stop your bellyachin’.” Abigail sneers, and turns back to the bowl to dip the rag in the water again, muttering under her breath as she wrings it out. John’s scowl deepens as he can’t make out what she’s said.

“What now, woman?”

“You’ve got a son, John Marston. Y’cant… you can’t be goin’ off doing shit like you have a deathwish.” Abigail sighs, dabbing the rag more gently over his collarbones and shoulders.

“I ain’t doin’ anything like I’ve got some deathwish, Abigail.” He retorts, laying back on the cot and wincing as he tries to get comfortable again.

Abigail pulls the blanket down further, exposing his lean waist. John has always been skinny - half-starved and hunger panged through his difficult life.

“I told you, you don’t need to-”

“John, ain’t like I haven’t seen it before. Numerous times.” Abigail cuts him off, pulling the blanket further down his torso against his protests. He immediately looks at the pitch of the tent as the blanket moves over his hips, trying to think of anything other than Abigail stripping him down to bathe him with that rag.

“Yeah but-”

“Just be quiet. Ain’t gonna submit any of the other women to have to deal with you stinkin’ like shit.”

John wishes he could escape. He wishes he could not feel Abigail’s hands on him. He wishes he were anywhere else… and god almighty, he wishes he could see something else behind his eyes when he closes them than Abigail climbing over him like she used to.

-

Arthur grumbles to himself as the old Walker trots back up the hillside along Owanjila before the afternoon sun dips behind the cliffs. He knew better than to trust one of Micah’s leads. But no, he went along with this one - robbing a stage outside of Riggs Station - too damn close to Blackwater. And the stage had guards that Micah hadn’t planned on. 

So of course, it turned into a mess that Arthur was forced to remedy by emptying his revolver. At least the lockbox on the stage had a decent amount of cash and a large bag of jewelry. Also, Micah had the good sense to slink away to Strawberry instead of riding the whole way back to camp with him - Arthur was vexed enough as is to have spent any more time next to that snake.

The golden light of the setting sun glints off the lake as Arthur glances toward it before he pats the Walker’s mane, pulling a sugar cube from his satchel and feeding it to the horse. The horse had a good temperament - maybe Arthur wouldn’t sell him and keep him around camp and just spring for a new mount. He needed to get over toward Valentine at some point.

He swings himself down from the saddle before tying the reins of the Walker to the makeshift hitching post on the edge of the camp. Tapping the horse’s flank, Arthur grimaces as he rolls his shoulder, the tightness in it betraying his aging body. He clears his throat before readjusting the hat on his head, walking through the camp toward Dutch’s large tent and the gang’s cash box to unload his ill-gotten gains.

“Oh, Mister Morgan - do you mind if…”

The outlaw looks up to find you standing a few feet away from Dutch’s tent, fiddling with the wrist of your blouse nervously, staring at your feet.

“Missus Shaw?”

“I was wonderin’-”, You stumble, “wonderin’ if you might be able to spare a chain from that pile of jewelry you’ve got there.” You nod upwards at the large bag in his hand, hovering over the camp’s cash box.

“It’s just the chain I need, no pendant or anything.” You finally make eye contact with him and he curses himself that he finds the blush dusting your cheeks endearing.

“Course, Missus Shaw.” He places the bag down on Dutch’s table and pulls out a necklace with a delicate gold chain. Dangling it out toward you, you step closer and grasp it. You undo its clasp and slide off the pendant, a solitary pearl drop you place back in Arthur’s gloved hand. As you stick your hand into your skirt pocket, you try to ignore where this necklace came from.

Arthur tosses the pendant into the box, turning back toward you as you find what you’re looking for in your pocket.

“Thank you, Arthur. I’ll find a way to pay you back.” 

“Don’t worry abou’ it.” He says softly, his eyes on your hands as you thread the chain through something small between your fingers.

When he finally sees what you’re working with as you move to hang the chain around your neck, he feels as if he’s been shot in his chest, trying to maintain composure as you lay the gold around your neck and clasp the necklace.

A gold wedding ring adorns your throat, and your delicate fingers press over it quickly before you let your hands fall back down to your sides. The pit of his stomach opening up becomes too much to bear.

Arthur nods, stepping toward his own tent, trying desperately to escape the situation unscathed. “Missus Shaw.”

“Thank you, Mister Morgan.” You call out softly as he retreats.

By the time he reaches his tent and yanks the canvas shut, he breathes out an angry, frustrated breath out his nose as he yanks his hat from his head, throwing it on the side table next to his cot. 

Running his hand through his hair, he closes his eyes, letting out another breath that sounds suspiciously like a sigh. He looks back to the table where he set his hat. A piece of paper lies on the table. He grasps at it, unfolding what he sees as a letter, with proper, looping handwriting.

His arrow-shot chest cracks again.

Dear Arthur…

[soulofapatrick]

Heart’s Desire 2/2 - Simon Lewis x female reader

Summary: after talking with Alec you go find Simon

Words: 1.9k

Warnings: non really; a little angst

Y/N’s POV

As I step into the familiar confines of the institute, Simon tailing behind me like a lost puppy, his presence a comforting anchor in the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside me. The air is heavy with tension, a silent reminder of the events that unfolded in the Seelie Court, and I can’t help but feel a knot of guilt tightening in my chest. 

Jace is the first to notice our arrival, his keen eyes narrowing as he takes in our somber expressions. He raises an eyebrow in silent inquiry, a silent question hanging in the air like a sword waiting to fall. "What happened?" he asks, his voice laced with concern. "Why is Clary so mad and upset?”

The weight of his question hangs heavily between us, and I swallow hard, the guilt threatening to suffocate me. How do I even begin to explain the tangled mess of emotions that led us to this point? How do I put into words the conflicting desires and fears that churn inside me like a tempest?

I glance at Simon, his expression almost pleading, and I can feel the weight of his uncertainty pressing down on me like a leaden blanket. It's as if he's bracing himself for rejection, for the inevitable fallout of our tangled emotions now that we're back in the real world where consequences cannot be easily swept aside. I have to swallow hard before I turn back to Jace, the bitterness of my words tasting like ash on my tongue.

“Stupid Queen playing her sick jokes," I mutter, the frustration and anger seeping into my voice. The words hang heavy in the air, and I see Simon flinch, a small sound escaping him that feels like a punch to the gut. I shake my head, unable to meet his gaze as I grumble out, "I need to find Alec."

Without waiting for a response, I turn on my heel and head out of the main room, the weight of everything that's happened pressing down on me like a physical burden. I stride down the corridor towards the bedrooms, each step a deliberate effort to put distance between myself and the overwhelming emotions that threaten to consume me.

As I push open Alec's door with a sense of urgency, the familiar sight of his room greets me, offering a sanctuary amidst the chaos of my emotions. But my respite is short-lived as Magnus lets out a sound of surprise, his eyes widening in astonishment as I enter unannounced.

“Get out Mags.” I say to him, my voice tinged with urgency, gaze unwavering as Magnus glances between me and his husband in bed beside him. 

“You can’t kick me out of my own bed.” Magnus retorts, a challenge in the raise of his eyebrow as he waits for Alec's response. But Alec merely tilts his head slightly, his gaze fixed on me with an intensity that sends a shiver down my spine. It's unnerving how he always seems to be able to read me like a damn book, seeing through the facade I try so hard to maintain.

As Magnus huffs in frustration, he snaps his fingers, and suddenly he’s fully dressed and climbing out of bed, his movements swift and decisive. “Fine,” He mutters, tone laced with a hint of annoyance, “I’ll go get some coffee.” 

With a swirl of his jacket, Magnus strides towards the door, leaving Alec and me alone in the quiet intimacy of his room. As the door clicks shut behind him, Alec still doesn’t move, his eyes fixed on me with an unreadable expression. It causes me to swallow hard, feeling a surge of vulnerability wash over me as I meet Alec's gaze. But there's no judgment in his eyes, only a quiet understanding that fills me with a sense of comfort and warmth.

Slowly, tentatively, I climb into the spot Magnus just vacated, curling up beside Alec with a sense of relief that floods through me like a tidal wave. His warmth envelopes me like a protective shield, wrapping his arms around me and I rest my head on his chest, focusing on the steady beat of his heart until I’m able to think straight enough to tell Alec what happened. 

“Simon kissed me.” I mumble, feeling Alec's eyebrows raise in surprise as he processes my confession. He knows all too well how much I've longed for Simon to look at me, not Clary, and the weight of that realisation hangs heavy in the air between us.

“Why don’t you sound happy about it?” Alec asks gently, his voice soft yet probing. He shifts slightly, turning to face me fully, his eyes searching mine for any hint of what’s troubling me about this all. 

I swallow hard, the guilt weighing heavily on my conscience as I struggle to find the right words. "It's complicated," I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper. "I mean, I wanted him to... but not like this.”

Alec’s brow furrows in confusion, his expression a mixture of concern and curiosity. "What do you mean?" he prompts, his voice gentle yet insistent.

I take a shaky breath, steeling myself for what comes next. "The Seelie Queen," I begin, the memories of our encounter at the court flooding back with painful clarity. "She made Simon choose... between Clary and me.” 

Alec’s eyes widen in understanding, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place as he realises the gravity of what I'm saying. "And he chose you," he says softly, a note of awe in his voice. 

I nod, unable to meet his gaze as the guilt gnaws at me like a relentless beast. "But at what cost?" I whisper, the words barely audible in the quiet of the room. "Clary... she might not be my friend but I never wanted to hurt her.” 

Alec reaches out, his hand finding mine in a gesture of comfort and solidarity. "You didn't do anything wrong," he says firmly, his voice filled with conviction. "The Seelie Queen's games are twisted and cruel. You can't blame yourself for her machinations.”Alec's words of reassurance wash over me like a soothing balm, offering a glimmer of comfort in the midst of my turmoil. His hand in mine is a grounding force, anchoring me to the present moment as I struggle to make sense of the tangled web of emotions that threaten to overwhelm me.

“You’re right,” I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper. "I can't let the Seelie Queen's games dictate my happiness." With a determined nod, I steel myself for what comes next, resolving to take control of my own destiny.

Alec squeezes my hand gently, a silent show of support and encouragement. "Go find Simon," he says firmly, his voice filled with conviction. "Tell him how you feel. Don't let fear or guilt hold you back.”

I nod, a sense of purpose settling over me like a mantle as I rise to my feet, determination burning bright in my heart. "Thank you, Alec," I say gratefully, a small smile tugging at the corners of my lips. "I don't know what I'd do without you.” 

As I make my way towards the door, Alec's voice follows me, a beacon of strength and reassurance in the darkness. "And remember," he calls out, his words a silent vow of solidarity. "You deserve to be happy."

With Alec's words echoing in my mind, I step into the hallway, my resolve firm and unwavering. It's time to face my fears, to confront the feelings that have long simmered beneath the surface. And as I set off in search of Simon, I know that no matter what challenges lie ahead, I'll always have my friends by my side to help me navigate the stormy waters of love and loyalty. 

As I turn the corner, the hallway seems to narrow, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my chest. And there, right in front of me, stands Simon, his presence both comforting and unnerving in equal measure. The air crackles with awkward tension, thick with the weight of unspoken words and unresolved emotions. It feels as though time has slowed, stretching the moment into an eternity as we stand there, locked in a silent dance of uncertainty.

Summoning every ounce of courage I possess, I take a shaky breath and blurt out the words that have been weighing on my heart for far too long, my voice a jumbled mess as nerves threaten to consume me. "Iwantyoutowantmeto." I falter, needing to gather myself before I continue, taking a deep breath and gripping Simon's hands firmly in mine. "I want you to want me too," I repeat, the words clearer this time, though my voice still trembles with a mixture of anxiety and longing.

As the words hang in the air between us, I watch Simon's expression shift, a kaleidoscope of emotions dancing across his features—surprise, disbelief, and something else, something that sets my heart racing with anticipation. And then, like the sun breaking through the clouds, his face lights up with a radiant smile, his eyes alight with a warmth that sends a rush of euphoria coursing through me like a tidal wave.

“You  have no idea how long I've waited to hear you say that," Simon says, his voice filled with a mixture of joy and relief. His words wash over me like a soothing balm, banishing the doubts and fears that have plagued me for so long.

Before I can fully process his response, Simon tugs me towards him, surprising me with the strength of his embrace. His arms wrap tightly around me, pulling me close as if he never wants to let me go. In that moment, I feel safe, cherished, and loved—a sensation unlike any other. 

As Simon pulls back slightly, his gaze holds mine with a captivating intensity, sending shivers of anticipation racing down my spine. And then, with a tenderness that leaves me reeling, he leans in once more, his lips capturing mine in a kiss that ignites a firestorm of emotions within me. 

His lips are soft yet urgent against mine, a silent plea for reassurance and confirmation of the feelings we've both harboured for so long. The kiss is a symphony of longing and desire, each brush of his lips against mine sending sparks flying through every fibre of my being.

As the kiss deepens, Simon's hands find their way to my waist, pulling me closer until there's no space left between us. The corridor fades away, forgotten in the heat of the moment, as Simon presses me against the wall with a passion that steals my breath away. 

His touch is electric, setting my skin ablaze with longing as he explores every contour of my lips with a hunger that leaves me dizzy with desire. It's as if we're two stars colliding in the vast expanse of the universe, merging together in a blaze of passion and intensity.

“I told you to find Simon not make out with him in the hallways!” Alec’s voice comes from down the corridor as he leaves his room, breaking me and Simon apart, both of us blushing like teenagers, “I’m happy for you but no making out in the corridors.” 

“Yes sir.” Simon mumbles out, face going even redder after calling Alec ‘sir’.

“Alright Ali” I laugh.

The Shadowhunters Masterlist TAG LIST - updated 21st Dec 2023

[seradyn]

Royal Respite and Midnight Melody!

The two I’m most excited about 🤤🤤

I’m going to start with Midnight Melody cause I wAnT tOO

This is a short one shot I thought of when I reexamined some of Astarion’s lines post Cazador. When the player asks how he feels directly following the event, he explains he feels ‘numb’. From my own experience and what I’ve learned about surviving abuse, often people can struggle coping with a world where their abuser is out of the picture, because so much of their life was consumed by them, either physically or mentally. We see this not only in Astarion, but in Karlach too, who has similar feelings after Gortash’s death, because all the rage she built up around him has nowhere to go. It’s still there, but now it’s trapped inside without an outlet, instead of being healed when her abuser went away like they think it should have.

Astarion is the same way; without Cazador, where is he supposed to direct all his energy, his hatred, his rage over what happened to him? It’s still there, even though he’s dead, and it’s not fair. I wouldn’t be surprised if he struggled with his purpose after Cazador’s death. This happens with real survivors too; their whole world revolved around their abuser for so long, once they’re gone they just feel so empty and lost.

This fic is a take on that, where reader helps reassure Astarion that he doesn’t have to know what he wants right now, and they’re more than happy to help him figure it out. He tells them he doesn’t have a heart to guide him, but that’s not true. Is it not reader’s blood that flows through his veins? Does reader’s heart not beat for him? They remind him, hold his head gently to their chest so he can listen, can hear the heartbeat that is not only theirs, but one they give freely to him, too.

Basically more tooth rotting fluff and non sexual intimacy. Baby boy just needs to be held and I’ll be damned if I don’t smother him in affection. He deserves it.

Here is snippet:

~

“It’s nothing serious, of course…” he said quietly. Another lie, but you didn’t say anything, simply cradling his hand to your chest, a precious and fragile part of him. It gave him time to work up the courage to continue.

“It’s just that…When I was under Cazador,” he hissed the name, fangs poking out over his bottom lip, “every thought I had, everything I did was for him. He dominated us, mind, body and soul, and used that dominance to make our whole world about him.”

His eyes were wild with anger, that grimace back on his face, because it was so much worse to say it out loud, to acknowledge how much of his life belonged to his old master. You squeezed his hand to encourage him to keep going. This needed to come out, lest he push you away to protect you from the rot that did naught but burrow and consume down into his being.

“Even after the nautiloid, he inhabited so much of my thoughts,” he went on, his voice slightly rasped and shaking. “Though instead of fear or obedience, it was anger and determination to kill him. Even when he lost control of me, all I could think about was him. Even with his body rotting in the dirt, I cannot get him out of my head.”

“And now that he’s gone…I can’t help but wonder…what am I supposed to do?” His eyes filled with sorrow then, displeasure with himself. “With Cazador dead…I find myself losing all sense of direction.”

Your heart broke for him, jagged pieces of it left on the floor for you to step on. You cupped Astarion’s cheek, lifting his face to look at you. His eyes were wide, glistening in the dim candlelight as they filled with pain and worse: self loathing. You didn’t need the tadpole to hear that treacherous little voice in his head, one you knew like an old friend that whispered pathetic, worthless, weak. You knew he wanted to protect you, wanted to give you the life you deserved, yet he hadn’t the faintest idea how to do that, where to even start, and it pained him.

Gently, allowing him to pull back if he so desired, you led him into your arms, wrapping them around him so you could rub at the tension in his back. He nearly collapsed into your embrace in relief, immediately wrapping his own arms around you and crushing you to him. You massaged his shoulder blades while he pressed needy, frantic kisses into your hair, afraid you might pull away and leave should he stop.

“It’s okay not to know,” you said into his chest, kissing his sternum. “We can figure it out together. I’ll always be here with you, no matter what future you decide you want.”

He let out a tense breath, burying his face in your neck. “I know,” he mumbled. “I know whatever future awaits, I want you to be a part of it.” He leaned back, just enough that he could meet your eyes, so you could see into the dark abyss where his mind lingered. “The problem is, I don’t know what I want our future to look like. What I want it to look like.”

It was then you fully realized that what Astarion had been feeling since the confrontation with Cazador was lost. So, so lost, in a world without his master to contend with. The hopelessness you heard on his tongue was a knife piercing your tender heart, a sharp pain burning through your chest as it tried to beat around it, blood gushing from the wound and radiating out across your skin. What was freedom to one who didn’t know how to live with it, didn’t know how it felt? Though his chains had been broken, the memory of them still pulled him down and suffocated him. You wished so deeply to spare Astarion this pain, for he lived so long in the shadows of the world, you wanted to shower him in the light until he was blinded.

Abruptly, he shook his head, a growl ripping past his lips as he pulled himself away from you. It should be so easy, to move on and enjoy life now that he was allowed to. His desires could be fulfilled, instead of remaining the desperate wishes of a slave who longed for escape. The world was his for the taking, his life his own once more.

So why did he still feel so broken?

“Now that I’m free, I’m supposed to be able to do whatever I want. Follow my heart, as our companions said.” He spit the words; they tasted foul in his mouth.

“How am I supposed to know what I want without a heart to guide me?”

~

I’ll send you the full version once the first draft is done. Hope you like it 💕

Royal Respite has a similar vibe, and is also pure tooth rotting fluff/non sexual intimacy. It’s a one shot in which reader gives Ardyn a massage after he delivers the peace treaty proposal to the Lucian council. Just letting reader dote on him while he talks about his day, and letting him relax before everything goes to shit, basically. Ardyn has been working to make this plan come true for literally decades. I think he deserves some rest before it fully comes to fruition.

No snippet for this one yet, since I’ve been hyper focused on some of my Astarion fics *cough* see above *cough* but hopefully it doesn’t take too long to get on paper. You’ll be the first to know when there’s a rough draft 💕

[star-named-riddle]

Day 17 - Scarf

Yep, that scarf. if you know, you know. Entirely NSFW, a lemon from the very start, no plot, all smut

Also another long one

Lord Voldemort climbed atop his barely coherent paramour, half-mad with desire, the other half mad with the notion he was not the only man to see her like this.

Bella panting, blushing, naked beneath him.

He gathered her wrists above her head, pinning them together with a single hand, her hands and his digging into the pillow, over her tumbling curls. The softness of her hair elicited a memory in him.

The scarf. The damned green, near transparent scarf, had been soft in his hands as well.

His left hand reached through the air, his palm turned up and awaiting. The scarf flew into it, and Lord Voldemort wasted no time in tying Bella’s dainty wrists to the headboard.

“Your husband said you should wear it,” he teased.

The pupils in her grey eyes went wider, and he thought, even if just for a second, that he would like to dive in and get lost in their enticing darkness. And never come up again.

Instead, Bella wrapped her long legs around his waist and pulled him closer with her thighs. He devoured her lips, robbing her of the fleeting moment of control. He rubbed his palms up and down her sides, from shoulder blades to hips, reveling in the way her body spasmed under his.

He rocked against her, teasing her, weaving back and forth across the line of pleasure-pain that ruled her desire. She was swollen and sore, but delightfully pink and wet, he saw as he pulled himself back to sit on his haunches.

He let his fingers caress her inner thighs, delighting in the shiver of her skin. She’d have bruises there in the morning. He had been rather careless in his ravishing tonight. He smiled, thinking of the things he had already done to her tonight. Of her naked body pressed against his, then against the mirror. Of the way he had carried her mellow, sated body to his bed while her mind was still high on pleasure, just to take her again, hard and rough and fast, until she had mewled her pleasure from beneath him, fighting for every breath under his weight.

His own desire stirred again, heat pooling low in his belly, hardening in his groin. He leaned forward, placing his hand steadily over Bellatrix’s mons, palm all pressure while his fingers teased her lips.

Bella’s hiss turned into a hum under his touch. He cast a vibrating charm on his own hand, and watched her struggle to release her hands. Her legs came entirely off the mattress, thighs twisting together over his hand, knees and ankles pressed together, toes curling as she pleaded, with moans and gasps, for him to stop.

He would do no such thing. She had spent the entire evening teasing him with that damned scarf and filthy, delicious visions of herself slipping those damned thin straps off her shoulders. He would have her beg for him.

Bella’s pleading eyes found his. He renewed his spell and her eyes rolled back, a moan breaking loose from her throat only to die against his lips. She went limp, her body slowly unfurling, limbs stretching on the mattress. She weakly returned his kisses.

He could stop now, he ought to, really, as she was utterly spent. And yet, he felt like the scarf hadn’t been put to proper use. With a playful nip of her lips, he whispered a spell into the shell of her ear.

“Tergeo,” he said, a mischievous smile on the corner of his mouth. Bellatrix opened her eyes, and looked at him, content. Her body clean, and fresh, and rid of all evidence of their night.

“Thank you, my Lord.”

Lord Voldemort did not acknowledge her words in any way. He removed his equally clean hand from between her legs, and pushed Bellatrix’s hair off her neck. He gave her a moment of respite, if only to better savour her surprise the next second.

Bellatrix stretched, her hands reaching for the headboard, pulling herself slightly up on the pillows, trying to alleviate the tension of the scarf around her wrists. She looked up, to the green garment that had got her into such trouble. She didn’t dare ask to be released. Knowing her master, and considering her previous teasing, he would leave her to sleep like this.

His low laughter caught all of her attention. Mirth, true mirth, was a rare thing in the Dark Lord.

She turned her head towards him, smiling. She was sated, and willing to bet his laughter meant he was too.

The glint in his eyes was enough to prove her wrong.

“We’re not done, Bella. Oh, no, I’m not done with you,” he growled into the skin of her neck, trailing kisses down the column of muscle there. “We’re merely starting over.” He balanced his body on his elbows, looming over her.

She swallowed a whimper. She felt depleted, and yet her body seemed to awaken again under his gaze.

“My Lord?” she asked, unsure of what else to do.

It was the wrong question. Or the right one, perhaps. Lord Voldemort’s eyes flashed red, and she knew she had stirred something within him. It was entirely the right question.

She expected hungry kisses, possessive hands, even daring fingers, but not what followed.

The Dark Lord parted her legs with his right arm, pulling her left thigh up onto his right shoulder, and then lowered his body into the mattress, settling between her legs. She could not peel her eyes off him as he moved, and he held her gaze as he adjusted her right leg upon his left shoulder.

He kissed the skin of her inner thighs, where it was softest, first one side, then the other, allowing his chin and nose to drag across her swollen core. The gasping scream that earned him nearly destroyed his resolve to tease her within an inch of her sanity. He looked up, watching her breasts move with every heave of her chest. He kissed her lips, and the painful but pleasurable cry that escaped her told him she was entirely too sensitive to tolerate his touch for long. She moved her feet to his back, her heels softly pushing down and away.

This would be torture for her. He caught a glimpse of the green scarf, which she had tangled further in between her hands in a hopeless effort of either setting herself free or pulling herself away from him. The sight of it was enough to have him focus on his goal again.

Teasing.

He wrapped his arms around each of her thighs, pulling her feet off his back while steading her hips. She wouldn’t be able to move. Then, he dove into her. Tongue and lips and all, going so far as to carefully drag his teeth across her sensitized clit.

The sounds that drew from her were delirious. Her body squirmed, trying and failing to get away. He tightened his hold on her, pulling her down every time she managed to gain an inch away from him.

“Master!”

“What?” he asked, taking a deep breath before resuming her torture.

He pressed his tongue against her and sucked. Bellatrix bucked, successfully pushing his mouth off her. He gave her the respite she had earned, head leaning on her leg.

“Stop! Enough,” she said, gasping for air between words, her whole body working for every single breath.

He plunged his mouth into her one last time, reveling in her desperate moans. He gathered enough focus to pry into her mind, and found her on the verge of despair between pleasure and pain.

“Beg!” he ordered, kissing her thighs again. He licked a path up her body then, giving her a second of peace before twisting two fingers into her.

She curled her legs up again, trying to hold his arm between them and twist away from his touch. She was so close, yet it was unbearable.

“My Lord, it’s too much.”

“Beg!”

She didn’t. She wouldn’t. His Bella would not crack so easily. Stubborn and proud, begging did not come naturally to her. And he knew it.

He pushed his body back in between her legs, leaving her core at the mercy of his fingers. He curled his fingers inside, and pushed his thumb against her nub, rubbing it in circles. He felt her inner walls quiver and squeeze his fingers, which prompted him to alleviate all pressure at once.

Her complaint was very audible, and her eyes searched for his, pleading.

“Would you like me to stop now?”

“Mm-mpht… no! Not now!”

“What do you have to say to me?”

Her mind had become an incoherent mess. He moved his fingers inside her, gathering her thoughts and cuing an answer out of her.

“Please…” her voice died in her throat.

“Please what?”

“Please, my Lord, please-”

“Stop?”

“No!”

“What then, Bella?”

He kissed her, his thumb resuming its motion.

“What then, Bella?” he growled low into her ears.

“Master! I nn-need-” her voice trailed off again, giving place to a mewl ripped from deep within her.

“What do you have to say to me?” he asked, kissing her. His fingers teased her, but never touched her in quite the right way.

She pulled her lips from him, inhaling sharply.

“I’m sorry, my Lord. I’m sorry about the scarf, Master,” she said, her wide grey eyes pleading with him. “Make it stop, please, please make it stop, my Lord.”

Lord Voldemort laughed, removing his fingers from her entirely.

“That’s it. That’s a good girl now, Bella.”

He released her wrists with one wave of his hand. The green scarf fell from the headboard, landing on her curls. Her hands came to rest on her chest, angry red lines marking them. She was still panting beneath him, still not done. They weren’t over yet.

He entered her with one long, slow thrust. His hands gathered her body close to his as he pushed deeper. She arched her back under him, pushing herself against him, her body already succumbing to her pleasure. He made sure to rub against her as he thrust, and her pleasure enveloped him completely.

He kissed the last moan off her lips, and abandoned himself into the familiar cradle of her hips.

Also on AO3, together with all the fics uploaded today

[realmsmp]

Quackity stood alone at a party.

He held a glass of wine in one hand, leaning against a very expensive-looking table in an effort to look casual. The wine smelled sharp and distinctly fruity, deep red like blood. He raises it to his lips hesitantly, before deciding against it and setting it down on the table.

He didn’t remember how he got here, why he was here, or who he was with.

This party was not his speed. The collar of his suit was uncomfortably tight, rubbing a very sore spot on his neck that was bound to make a very unattractive mark later on. His body felt like it was coated in starch, stiff and frozen, legs sore and shoes too small. He just wanted to go home.

It wasn’t even worth it to get wasted. The wine was terrible, the bourbon far too dry even watered down, and the array of cocktails too absurd to consider.

All-in-all, a terrible party.

He sighs.

“Is the wine that bad?”

Quackity turns around, coming face to face with- Himself. His long black hair is tucked behind his ears, his smile charmingly catlike and crooked despite the long scar that drags down his left eye.

He stares, dumbfounded. The other Quackity laughs. It sounds exactly like his own but with a crackled quality, raspy and harsh.

“It’s like looking in a mirror, isn’t it?” He says between chuckles. “Damn, I look young.”

“What-“ Quackity is still reeling. “Who are you?”

“You.” He responds flippantly.

“You’re not me. I’m me.”

“I am you. I’m Quackity. Just not you. A different you.”

Both Quackities eye eachother, one hesitantly and one with a calm yet mischievous look on his face.

“How can you be me?”

“The universe is an endless and beautiful place.” The other Quackity responds, glaring at Quackity’s wine glass on the table. “Don’t leave glasses on my table.”

Quackity picks up the wine glass.

“I’m not real. Not anymore. My story is over, my book is closed. But yours…”

They are walking towards the bar. Two Quackities, two completely different stories.

“I’m impressed with your resilience. Your consciousness is persisting even while you’re here with me. How long have you been dead for, do you think?”

“I’m not dead.” Quackity says. His voice is small, weak. “That’s impossible.”

“It’s the only way to get here. Something went terribly wrong.”

Quackity remembers sinking through black water. He remembers suffocating alone, unable to see the sky.

They are both silent for a long time.

The bar is elegant, made of dark wood and delicately sanded, smoothed over years and years of loving dedication. Still saying nothing, he sits down on a barstool, rubbing his hands on the smooth wood.

The other Quackity joins him, watching him with a stony expression.

There is no bartender at this bar. The entire floor seems terribly empty.

A party of two that was really a party of one, a dream forever unwaking and the terrible desire to go home. No respite came forth from the pit inside his heart.

Something had gone terribly wrong.

[permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88]

Old Town Road | Halbrand/OC (part 6)

Summary: It was supposed to be a simple arrangement. Give up her freedom, and save her family home. The ultimatum was one Tilda had grown to accept, given that she could stay as far from her would-be captor's presence as she wished. But when chance forces her into closer proximity with the man known as Halbrand, she will find that her patience is not the only thing being tested. Particularly when what he seems to desire most, now, is her heart. (Yellowstone-ish AU).

Warnings: alternate universe, original character(s), house fire, death of a parent, burn scars, toxic relationship, Stockholm syndrome, angst, allusion to smut, unrequited love, enemies to lovers.

Other: Please let me know if you would like to be added to a tag-list!

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five

Sitting on the hard bench in a holding cell at the precinct, Bain allows his aching head to drop like a stone held between both hands.

How in the hell had it come to this?

Through the thick sludge of thoughts vying for dominance inside of his mind, he tries to piece it all together. He tries, but he cannot seem to move past the heart-rending pain that each attempt provokes, bringing with it the sensation of an icepick being forcibly stabbed into his skull. All that he can think of clearly is the fact that his mother is dead. Gone. Burned, in a fire that had consumed their family home, and had nearly robbed him of his father, as well.

Everything he had ever known—ever loved—is just gone. Gone, and there had been nothing he could have done to stop it. Nothing he could have done to change the reality of what his life has become.

And the worst part of it all? He has next to nothing to go on when it comes to finding the person or persons responsible.

It had been relatively simple, after that particular discovery, to seek solace, or what little he could find of it, at the bottom of a bottle at the bar. The alcohol had numbed his thoughts, even if only by a little, and for a moment, things were simpler. Easier. The knot of pain squeezing like a vice around his heart had dulled a bit, and it had become somewhat less excruciating to simply breathe.

Desperate to hold onto that feeling, however fleeting it may be, Bain had kept a running tab, ordering shots, beers, hard liquor, and everything else in between. His thoughts had never left him, but they had grown quiet, at least for the moment. They had become more—bearable—than they had ever been while sober.

Not quite content, but perhaps a bit closer to as calm as he could manage, he'd spent an hour or two knocking back booze like it was his job, and that had been when he'd heard it. Sounds of a scuffle, coming from the opposite end of the bar.

Interest piqued, he'd turned toward the sound, already halfway out of his seat before he could think twice. Hardly stumbling, even in spite of the drinks he'd imbibed in, he'd managed to make his way toward the commotion with little difficulty. And when he'd clocked the man standing with his back to him drawing an arm back to deck his shorter companion on the jaw, Bain found it was almost second nature to intervene.

Gripping the man's arm and yanking backward, Bain had felt the indignation that came his way as a result to be a welcome respite from the solitude of his own morbid thoughts. He'd offered the man a thin-lipped smile in response, grip still firm on his arm as his gaze dropped to the man who had been on the receiving end of the impending blow.

His eyes had widened as he looked closely at the man. As he realized he knew him. Arlo Tanner.

A man who spent his days drunk and high, more often than not, and who had now found himself at the business end of a rather pissed off opponent.

How typical.

"The hell did you do this time, Arlo?"

"Damned fool says he ain't got the money he owes me."

"Wasn't askin' you. Was askin' Arlo."

Shaking his head, half-amused, and half-resigned, Bain had maintained his hold on Arlo's would-be adversary. Even as the man had struggled to break free, cursing under his breath about debts owed, Bain had refused to let him go. Refused to let him attack a man he had known since he was a child.

It wasn't until the man struggling in Bain's grip muttered his next words—a deeper threat than any made against Arlo, thus far—that he had seen any of this as anything less than a joke.

"Maybe I'll go see his daughter, instead. Reckon she'll pay up. Maybe I'll even get a little extra for my trouble."

Engaging the stranger in the fight he so clearly yearned for had been as easy as breathing, after that.

Fueled by his own rage, and booze, and a deep sense of protective ire, Bain had thrown Arlo's assailant into the bar. He'd stalked towards him with a grim smile, clenched fist eagerly finding purchase in the man's gut. Jaw. Cheekbone. Nose.

He hadn't stopped hitting him until the skin on his knuckles had begun to split and bleed, and even then, it hadn't been enough. Anger and grief had given strength to his blows, even when he might otherwise have taken a step back.

Only the weight of a sturdy hand clapping down on his shoulder to pull him back had stopped Bain from continuing to beat the man sandwiched between his taller frame, and the bar to a bloody pulp. And it had been that hand that had landed him here, at the precinct. In this damned cell.

In the damned cell, with nowhere to run from the thoughts he had so hoped to avoid.

Groaning, he straightens on the bench. Leaning back, he allows his head to drop against the wall behind him, wincing as the thud only redoubles the pain reverberating between his temples.

The brightness of the fluorescent bulbs hanging above him persuades Bain to squeeze his eyes closed, another low groan escaping as the hardness of the bench only adds to the aching in his bones. And even when he registers the sound of footsteps approaching, along with the resignation held at arm's length in the familiar voice that addresses him, he does not move.

"Bain?"

"Was wonderin' when you were gonna show up."

"Are—are you okay?"

"Do I look like I'm okay, Til?"

With eyes closed, Bain can still hear his sister's sharp intake of breath. The way the inhalation snags in her throat, ample evidence of how deeply his question cut into her very bones. Guilt roars to life as a result, snaking its way towards his heart and pulling. Twisting, but even still, he cannot bring himself to take any of it back.

Irrational though the desire may be, Bain finds that he almost wants to hurt her. To cause her as much pain as he, himself, is experiencing, even if he hates himself all the more for doing so. And as he forces himself to look his sister in the eye, straightening from his former slumped position against the wall at his back, he knows.

The effort, such as it was, clearly struck true.

"What do you want?"

"What—I want to take you home, Bain," Tilda replies, the words barely more than a whisper, "I want to get you out of here."

"Did you forget, Til? Our home is ashes, now."

His sister hardly seems to have a reply to that, not that Bain truly expects her to, her fingers twisting together nervously, while she tries and fails to hide how her teeth are currently worrying at the inside of her cheek. The sight twists the knife that is taking permanent residence in his heart just a bit further, and he is entirely incapable of resisting the wince that follows, no matter how he might wish to.

"You should go."

"I can't just—just leave you, Bain—"

"You should," Bain insists, the way in which Tilda almost automatically seems to recoil a punishment that he embraces, even as it drives the knife of pain he'd been trying so valiantly to avoid even deeper inside of his heart, "Ain't like we've got anywhere to go, anyway."

"Well actually, that's not entirely true."

Startled by the unanticipated addition to the conversation, such as it is, Bain catches himself looking toward Isildur with no small amount of surprise. Though the idea of his presence at Tilda's side isn't exactly an unfamiliar one, he'd always assumed Tilda would come on this particular errand on her own.

For the briefest of moments, he feels the first hints of something not all that far from jealousy. A sharp stab of it, because whether she asked for it it or not, his sister has someone to cling to through all of this. Someone there to keep her standing. But before it can get too far on its own, Bain does what he can to push it down. To keep it dormant, because already he knows if it came down to having support of his own, or ensuring that Tilda had it, instead, his desire would always be the same.

If it meant Tilda had someone keeping her steady, he would take being alone and make due as best he could.

"An' here I thought I was the one who drank too much, Isil—"

"Haven't had a drop," Isildur replies, sharing a glance that Bain cannot entirely read with his sister, before turning back to face him head-on, "And your sister thought the two of you could stay at your grandparents' old place."

"Dad know about this decision of yours, Til?"

"Not—not yet," Tilda admits, a faint flush of embarrassment coloring her cheeks, though she draws herself upright in a clear attempt at masking it, not long after, "But it's better than a hotel, or—"

"Or nothing?"

Unable to avoid the renewed spasm of guilt as he watches his sister manage a shaky nod, Bain settles for silence. He allows it to stretch between them, whether the reality of it is an uncomfortable one, or not.

Although a part of him may wish that it did not exist, that silence serves as tangible proof, in his eyes, of exactly how much has risen up between them. Of exactly the sort of thing he isn't even sure can be fixed. But in spite of that, he cannot exactly remain blind to the fact that his sister is here. That she is trying to bring him home, when she could, just as easily, leave him to rot in the consequences of his own actions and mistakes.

Somehow, that makes all of the guilt he feels at least a thousand times worse.

"Arlo's here too, Til. Or at least he was," Bain says, then, the sudden desire to divert the subject of their conversation a thing that he cannot fully begin to understand, "Whoever came to pay his way free clearly didn't have a problem leaving others behind."

"What was—were the two of you brought in together?"

"You could say that. Was about to get his arse handed to him, 'til I stepped in."

"Who—who got him out?" Tilda inquires, moving a few steps closer to the cell, so that her fingers can wind themselves around the bars, "Lucy?"

"No. Some man in a fancy-pants suit."

Aware of how his sister seems to stiffen in response to the information, Bain would be a liar to pretend it does not spark his curiosity. That the way in which Tilda seems to go pale, while her teeth worry at her lower lip is not intriguing.

He wants to ask her if she thinks she might know this man, and it is clear by Isildur's suddenly wary expression, that he might wish for something similar. But before either of them can find a means of asking her what it is that suddenly has her so fearful, the sound of approaching footsteps robs them of the opportunity in its entirety.

"Looks like the man who aided your friend had a change of heart," The newcomer states, fiddling with the keys in his hand for only a moment, before he finds the one required to unlock Bain's cell, "Even with your insults."

"Shameful, really. Must be losin' my charm."

"I think what my brother is trying to say is thank you," Tilda corrects, throwing a warning look Bain's way that is so reminiscent of their father he is forced to stifle a sudden laugh while simultaneously watching her turn back toward the man who had spoken to address him directly, "What—what do you mean change of heart?"

"Guess he decided your brother was worth the trouble after all."

Watching as the man fiddles with the key in the lock for a moment, Bain moves to stand to his full height. He ignores the renewed throbbing between his temples, and the sloshing of bile at the back of his throat, in favor of focusing on where Tilda and Isildur stand nearby, instead.

His sister still seems somewhat wary. Uncertain, as though the idea of accepting this stranger's apparent charity went against better sense.

He still wants to question her on that, even in the midst of the fog that wafts in between his conscious thoughts, a lasting after effect of the alcohol he'd hoped to use to create a sense of numbness that no longer feels real or attainable. But something in the shadows that flicker in her eyes holds him off. It keeps him silent as he registers the echoing screech of the cell door opening on its hinges, and he is unable to fully restrain the wince that passes across his features as a result.

Somehow, as he steps through the door to join his sister and their friend, Bain realizes that the freedom implicit behind the act no longer feels like he thought it would.

Movement from the corner of his eye pulls him from the gut-punch the thought brings him, and his gaze snaps up in seconds as he realizes that Tilda is managing half a step towards him. Another half—and another—before her body comes to a dead stop. Her fingers twitch at her sides, and her expression practically screams that she had been preparing to throw herself into his arms, even as she rocks back on her heels trying to pretend that had not been her intention, all along.

The idea that she would hesitate like this—that she would think he wouldn't relish the contact—stings like a fresh brand against his skin. It threatens to tear him apart at the seams, if Bain were being honest, but somehow he forces himself to remain steady, regardless. To pretend he hadn't noticed her movements for what they were, at all.

A few more seconds pass in silence, allowing him the wherewithal to steel his nerve, and that seems to be all the time that Tilda requires to shake herself free from her own thoughts, as well.

"I was—I was thinking about stopping by the hospital, first, if—if you wouldn't mind," She hedges, the renewed glance she shares with Isildur only serving to stir the flames of lingering anger that resides in Bain's gut. An anger that doesn't fully make sense, given that what awaits them in the building she mentions is hardly any fault of their own.

Teeth clenching, with a muscle he can feel twitching against the tight line of his jaw, Bain braces himself against that anger as best he can. He forces himself to remember that his sister does not deserve to be on the receiving end of it, even as it insists upon clawing its way to the surface with all the force of a hurricane.

Straightening his spine, Bain settles for offering his sister a curt nod. He ignores the look Isildur gives him, a clear question of his intentions and his ability to remain calm.

Weary at the thought of seeing their father, Bain still forces himself to follow after Tilda as she heads down the hall that will lead to the doors of the precinct in the wake of the man who had freed him. He is aware of Isildur's presence walking at his side, but ignores it, or at least he tries, knowing that if he even looks his way, the man who had always been Tilda's staunchest defender will not be capable of holding back. That he will no longer be capable of restraining the type of justice he so clearly feels that Bain deserves.

The three of them are soon leaving the officer at the doors, heading out into the muggy early afternoon air, and angling towards the familiar form of a truck parked at the far end of the crumbled pavement of the lot. Humidity almost immediately brings beads of sweat to the skin above his upper lip, and it presses inward on his temples until he fears his skull will not survive the pressure.

Surprise arcs through him as he realizes Tilda intends to clamber into the driver's seat, her hand lighting on the door handle with far more confidence than she'd shown inside the precinct mere moments before. He turns to head for the passenger door without argument, but finds Isildur is already there.

Biting back the sarcastic quip that nearly breaks free, Bain settles for silence. For turning to wait for his sister to knock the driver's seat forward so he can climb in the back of the cab. Again, the two of them share a look, Tilda's expression unreadable where before he had always been accustomed to it being clear as day.

Poignantly aware of the wall that seems to have risen up between them—a wall he may as well have built himself—Bain exhales in a heady rush before beginning the act of clambering inside of the cab, the only thing that stops him being the sound of tires grinding against the crumbling pavement as another truck passes them by.

He isn't sure what persuades him to look towards the sound. What it is about it that pulls his attention, even though half a second prior, he had all but been itching to leave. But the one thing Bain is sure of as he catches sight of Arlo Tanner sitting in the passenger seat, body curling inward as though trying to avoid being seen, is the almost predatory look that the man driving the truck gives as he offers them an acknowledging nod.

A nod that has Tilda stiffening as though she has been turned into stone at Bain's side.

It was him.

The man who had bailed Arlo out had been the one to do the same for Bain. The very same man who had intruded on her panic at the hospital, what feels like ages ago. The card he had given her still rests in the pocket of her jeans, now burning like a brand through the fabric as though desperate to reach her flesh.

Her mind had been so consumed with the realization that it had not been long before Isildur had encouraged her to guide the truck off to the side of the road. Head swimming, it had been simple enough for her to allow him to gently nudge her into the passenger seat, so they could be off again, this time with him behind the wheel, in order to avoid the risk of a crash.

She could still feel Bain's eyes on her from the back of the cab, his gaze never once seeming to waver even as Isildur tried to pull them into conversation, and now?

Now that they are securely parked in the hospital's lot, Isildur already heading inside to see about getting a late lunch for the three of them, Tilda knows her brother is not about to let her off the hook.

"You know him."

"No. No," Tilda corrects, feigning a sudden interest in her reflection in the passenger side window in an attempt to gather her thoughts before forcing herself to turn in order to look Bain in the eye, "I've—I've seen him, before, but I don't know him—"

"Where?"

"Where?"

"S'what I said," Bain confirms, stepping closer to where Tilda stands beside the truck, his taller frame almost completely eclipsing the afternoon sun as it tries to reach her face, "Where'd you see him?"

"At the—at the hospital," Tilda confesses, finally looking up at Bain in time to notice the slightest flickers of a muscle twitching against his jaw, "He—he asked about Dad. Thought he was—he thought he was—"

"Dead?"

Unsure whether it is the word itself, in association with her father, or the curious detachment with which Bain says it, Tilda does not immediately offer him any reply. In truth, she cannot seem to do a thing, aside from biting down on the inside of her cheek, so fiercely she can nearly taste the metallic tang of her own blood, and willing the sting of tears away from her eyes.

Finally summoning the wherewithal to offer a simple nod, and swallowing past the sudden constriction in her throat, Tilda feels herself deflate, bit by bit. She recognizes the precise moment when the inexplicable sense of dread provoked by her discovery that the man she'd seen at the hospital, and the one who had seen to Bain's freedom are one and the same settles in.

She cannot explain it. Why the realization haunts her so fiercely, like a dog worrying away at a bone, when it may, in truth, mean absolutely nothing at all, but it does. It has been eating away at her ever since she saw the man drive by their truck at the precinct.

And Bain is clearly able to read that truth in her expression, now, whether she would want him to or not.

"Dad know him?"

"I didn't—I haven't—"

"You haven't told him," Bain gathers, the words digging beneath Tilda's skin like millions of tiny needles, fanning the flames of the guilt she feels over her deception, such as it is, and forcing her to avert her gaze whether or not a part of her knows he is hardly holding her to any blame, "You plannin' on doin' that today?"

"I don't—I don't know."

The confession slips out freely, the twisting sensation in her gut hardly keeping Tilda from risking a look at her brother's expression in the aftermath. From seeking out any judgment he might give her for a thing she can hardly begin to understand.

Though she hardly feels deserving of it, Tilda finds a strange sort of camaraderie passing between them. As though the recent circumstances in which she'd found him have given Bain a reason to trust her need to play things close to the vest, at least for the time-being. And when he finally takes a step back, the act causing her to squint as the glare of the sun peeks around his shoulder, she is not entirely prepared for the sudden shift apparent behind his tone.

"Seems to me you and I need to make a deal."

"A deal?"

"I don't tell Dad about this stranger, an' maybe you keep quiet about my little stint in lock-up?"

She doesn't like the idea. Bain had obviously known she wouldn't, but it hardly surprises Tilda that he'd stoop to such a level. That he would try whatever he could to buy her silence, given that it is hardly a secret that neither of them are ready for full disclosure of their innermost thoughts.

For a moment, the weight that has settled itself snugly about her shoulders since the night of the fire lifts as she finds herself remembering all of the times, when they were younger. When the two of them would find themselves in some manner of trouble, desperate to claw their way out before either of their parents would be forced to step in.

It had been a joke between the four of them. The source of resigned laughter from their father, and smiles that were a mix of amusement and exasperation from their mother.

Remarkable, how very bittersweet and almost hollow that joke seems, now.

"Well? Whattya say?"

"Fine," Tilda relents, a world-weary sigh escaping as she wavers in place for a moment, some small voice in the back of her mind all but screaming that this is a poor choice on her part, regardless of its transient appeal, "Fine. I won't say anything."

"Appreciate it."

"For now. He needs to know, Bain. About—about all of it."

Her brother does not respond to that, not that Tilda had truly expected him to, but she can read his disapproval of the idea in the sudden tightening of his jaw. In the way the muscle seems to twitch as he struggles for some semblance of control.

It takes only a moment, before he turns to head for the entrance of the hospital, leaving Tilda to straggle along in his wake. She frowns, but hurries after him, because somehow in the midst of his seemingly erratic behavior, she can sense the turmoil that lingers underneath.

In silence, they make their way to the elevator. That silence continues to stand between them on the way up to their father's floor, thick. Murky, and laden with unspoken regret.

By the time the doors slide open, that silence is entirely too close to strangling. But try though she might to think of something she might say or do, Tilda's mind remains completely—almost defiantly—blank. Her lips thin into a line, and she struggles to breathe in spite of the vice that tightens around her chest.

She reaches her father's room only a half step or two behind her brother, taking some manner of comfort from the relief that spreads across his features as he registers the sight of the two of them, together, and then she sees the second form sitting beside the bed. Or rather, the form who was sitting, until the sound of her approach with Bain persuades her to stand, one hand lifting to tuck a loose lock of hair behind her ear before she is facing them head-on.

"Hi, Til."

"Lucy?"

Though she can hardly explain why her friend is here—how Lucy came to know of her father's current circumstances, since she certainly hadn't had the time to inform her, herself—it would be a lie for Tilda to pretend she cannot feel the immediate sense of consolation that sweeps over her the longer she holds her friend's gaze. That she does not feel as though everything that has been weighing upon her is suddenly lifted, even if only by a little.

The freedom from that pressure, however fleeting it may be, is what serves as the catalyst for the release of every last emotion Tilda has been attempting to keep behind bars. And it is not long before she is emitting a strangled sort of cry, before she launches herself into her friend's open arms.

[starweaving-fairsuns]

By A Silvery Thread

Since returning to the mainland for a momentary respite, Saedre found herself breathing somewhat easier now that the powerful whispers of the void were not nearly as potent as what she had endured in the weeks passed. She felt deeply unlike herself for the duration of time she spent underneath that damned shifting crystal whenever it was at its darkest. It always brought along that bone chilling sensation that one was being watched and seen straight through where the deepest of secrets were kept; a timeless strategy the void used to hold power over its target. No matter how prepared one was, the darkness could somehow find at least one crack within a seemingly iron-clad defense and hungrily snake its way through to use it. It only needed one entry. One focal point. One thread to grasp and use for all it was worth. 

It had been some time since Saedre had found herself under such a potent siege to her reality. The last time it was at its strongest was at the influence of a fallen from grace member of her own; her father. Iaerian Starweaver had once been quite the powerful mage but he lost his touch with his reality long ago and easily gave into the temptations of the void and how he could wield it as it used him. A mind warped by heartache and resentment. It was just the piece such darkness needed to take hold of and use to its own ends no matter how in control her father likely felt. 

He was such a damn fool. It was the only sense of it the Saedre could make as she sat at her desk looking over a newly inked map of the Isle of Dorn; a gift from a dear friend whose specialization sought to aid her in what seemed like a fruitless search of precious items she lost when Dalaran had fallen. While some of her own heirlooms held significant importance to her, there were more precious items she had been tasked in the safekeeping of within her flat in Dalaran that were highest on the list; dangerous relics she had studied and maintained for years. One such relic was an ancient hand held mirror named Az’alara that dated back to a time before the Great Sundering. If one were to get ahold of this without knowledge of its history, they were at great risk of harm as the tormented spirit trapped within had long sought to escape by trading spots with the living. 

With a frustrated sigh, Saedre marked off areas she already had searched and when it started to seem like she was crossing off nearly all places on this new map, the frightening knowledge of how rapidly the warding would be fading by now hit her. In the volatile atmosphere in which these items were plunged, it wouldn’t be long before the idea of keeping it safely would only become merely that. An idea. And as the vultures of the black market had already been noted to descend hungrily for items of value lost by the Kirin Tor, it would only be a matter of time before it fell into someone’s hands and they were lost. 

“Couldn't you live with yourself if a soul were to be lost?”

Saedre felt her blood run cold as a familiar voice fell upon her senses. Her long ears twitched, unsure if that voice touched upon them or if it was a trickery of the mind. Silvery glowing hues looked up from the map and searched every corner of the room, paying close attention to the shadowy corners even though they too seemed untouched and not particularly noteworthy. Her abjuration skills were excellent, nothing could enter her sanctum unless she willed it and she always went the extra mile after her last run in with him.

“Is there truly any value in worrying over such trifles? What is one soul anyway?”

Looking at the familiar going about his business around the room unbothered, Saedre was reassured that she was alone here on this plane but it wasn’t the comfort many might come to desire. Rubbing her eyes, she resolved to ignore the taunting voice that had somehow penetrated her mind. Either she was starting to lose it or something was truly here with her. This wasn’t new when it came to her father; wherever he might be. Lost to the Shadowlands she had thought, but was he?

“You have always concerned yourself for the sake of others. What a waste of all the sacrifices that were made for you.”

She could envision him sneering in disgust as the words rolled from his lips as he looked down his hawkish nose to her. The memory of his slow pace, hands tucked behind his back as his white hair swelled out behind him in a breeze. Golden eyes seemed to always pierce right through her and somehow she had always felt as if she were unseen; returning a gnawing feeling at how she desired nothing more than to prove her merit to him - but it was always pointless. 

“You cannot deny who you were always meant to be. The time will come…”

“...it will come.”