#he’s refusing help despite losing a fucking limb

[this-is-fine-dont-worry]

Hey, where did all the things about Izzy being in the navy before come from? Just curios, was there something in season 1 I missed? Is that a historical fact that we headcannoned?

[sigmasoyboy]

[On the exploration of homo-sapiens' obsession with vaginal intercourse.]

A short drabble I wrote about Coeus' disappointing first time (bad enough not to try again for almost 20 years lol). It finishes a bit abruptly but I do like most of it enough to share.

cw: body dysmorphia, overly medical language, explicit description of bad sex, kinda cringe superiority complex

He squeezed his nearly non-existent breasts, nascent mounds looking almost out of place on a body stripped of every last gram of baby fat; sharp bones jutting from taut looking-skin as if it was simply pulled over the frame of his skeleton. No hips, no ass, only the ever so slight amount of fatty tissue under his navel could hint at the sex he was thrusted into; nature trying her best to shield what society deemed to be the fair gender’s most valuable asset. She had yet to lose against him then, his distaste for everything brought by a simple assessment at birth over some parts failling to migrate or develops not yet linked to his biology; the discomfort with having his pitiful chest fondled like this simply chalked up to a shame he didn’t really feel about their size. Surely, the gesture would feel less silly, less thoughtlessly pornographic had they been bigger, even though he had never wished so before despite being likened to an ironing board a few time as an attempt to rouse something -humor, or perhaps inferiority- out of the cold, flippant teenager who had joined the university. No worries, surely they’d come in, had they say as if to wash themselves of any eventual hurt they might have caused with this teasing remarks, as if it wasn’t the reason they were cast in the first place. To humble him, shoot this bratty little girl down a peg.

He hoped they didn’t. He had started bleeding long ago, though infrequently: surely his body would not go through a sudden spurt and finally give him the womanly figure expected of his chromosomes.

If it was going to, it hadn’t decided to kick in as he dipped his toes into his twenties, finding them no different from his adolescence save from a newfound curiosity that arose with older colleagues talking amongst them, looking almost startled when remembering his presence in the lab. Apologetic. Embarrassed. As if, despite his now long gangly limbs, he remained a teenage girl, not to be spoilt by crude topics; enough for a few to reject him, perhaps finding in the age difference a good excuse to avoid fucking the ugly chick. He was no stranger to the idea that he was far from the feminine ideal of beauty, with the beak-like nose standing in the middle of his gaunt face, framed by a wild, unbrushed mess of hair that had been seldom cut in his life. His older sister made sure he knew, admitting defeat early as he was, in her own words, a lost case. He had no hint of elegance, no wish to please and appease those around him and not even much interest in personal hygiene.

It’s also possible that his propositioning was at fault for the awkward refusals. Even the one who was attempting, still, to find something to grab on his chest, had shuddered at his request; not one of arousal, but more a full body cringe at the blunt, cold wording. In spite of the subject, there was nothing exciting in the language he had used, his nonchalance tasting more of ennui than of a casual, no fuss attitude towards sex: his virginity held no sex-appeal offered this way, not even with the burden of silly feelings that some men seemed so afraid might bloom behind his ribcage rendered null by the clear scientific curiosity itching to be relieved.

Perhaps men, even men of science, were more romantic than they thought. It seemed so in the way his partner for this experiment insisted kissing would help get in the mood, cheesily knitting his fingers in his before he inserted himself into him. Did his heart flutter when he reflexively squeezed his hand as his entire body fought the intrusion, hissing through teeth as he tried to do as he was told and relax in a shaky breath, assured that it would start feeling good soon in between whispers of how tight he was ? Oh he could feel it, painfully so, a startled sob managing to crawl it’s way out of his thinly pressed lips, his breath stolen by the pain tearing him in half. It was no lie that this had nothing to do with the scant fingers that had explored his insides before, finding a little discomfort at first too but easing in the strange if unfulfilling sensation, tentatively curling digits brushing a sensitive spot; the one he thought would bring him over the edge if only he didn’t have to split his focus on both his hands and the coiling feeling pooling into his guts. But it seemed like the appendage was ramming into him in all the wrong places, hitting the back of his cervix without ever grazing that spot. The more it went on, the more his mind tried wandering away from the pounding pain and the growing irritation of his tender flesh, sharpening his focus on every other detail. The squelching sound, the labored off-puttingly warm breath above him, the mingling of perspiration, uncomfortably wet skin on skin contact, the long strands of hair clinging everywhere trapped between his back and the rapidly moistening bedsheets, pulled ever so irritatingly with each thrust, that fucking hand still kneading the surplus of fatty tissue surrounding useless mammary glands and the rapidly cooling path of the tears that had spilled over, tickling his tragus, a mess of fluids and grunts and too many thoughts. He could not fathom that this was it, the thing that made society go round under all the pretense of virtue: even the pain had become a boring thud in the back on his mind, barely registered if not for the soreness of his clenched jaw.

He was spared putting an end to the experiment, something he had yet to ever do, the data put above all else, even suffering, even boredom, even disappointment. His volunteer stopped suddenly, quivery, a strange pitiful whine escaping him as his fingers dug into the pale skin of his breast, riding the very last wave of what must have been the famed big orgasm he was still waiting for; one that surely had to surpass any shaky climax he could ever bring himself to justify the rave around coitus. He was as relieved as he was confused to feel the offending member slip out of himself, condom ever so slightly stained pink quickly removed, tied and discarded into a tissue: that guy had always been a bit of a clean freak, even outside of the lab. He couldn’t understand how he justified the mess of bodily fluids integral to the act to his near germophobic obsession with cleanliness, so much so that when he laid back next to him, he couldn’t help his perplexity. “That’s it ?” was the offending statement, one that made the older man huff and lose his words for a minute, having not even regained his breath yet, before claiming that this was as good as it got, annoyance clearly souring his afterglow.

Despite this affirmation, the wound in his ego was deep enough for him to request a transfer almost as quickly as it took for the slightly bruised crescents to fade from his chest.

Proper scientific method would require more data before forming a conclusion, but he wasn’t keen on putting himself through this waste of time again; his leading hypothesis was that perhaps his higher intellect yet again barred him from finding enjoyment in something his lesser peers were infatuated with, his brain needing more stimulation than the average person and thus being better suited for quick relief to quench his needs when they arised. Perhaps his body was ill-shaped to accomodate for a phallus, a little mistake in his biological engineering, yet another natural rejection of his sex, born not to be penetrated or bear children but to pursue matters of the mind. Call it pelvic floor dysfunction or something else, he found no will to remedy his failing as a woman; if anything he leaned into it, getting rid of the puny, pointless breasts only a couple of year later, not regretting one second that they had been fondled by someone else only once, bar his surgeon’s much less displeasing palpation during his first appointment. The smooth expanse of his chest interrupted only by the still sore scar running across felt much less out of place, devoid of any superficial details. One step removed from the other mammals he failed to understand.

[xxlady-lunaxx]

It was like losing them all over again.

Over the years, the Hashira had become a family to him. The family he had been deprived of before. He and his biological siblings had never been very close, unable to make enough time between their merciless training and basic necessities to be normal children. Nevertheless, they held an unspoken bond between them—one where they all shared the same, stilling need of survival, one where they all understood each other despite little words being spoken. Their relationship and his relationship with the Hashira were different, of course, but they all shared similar hardships, they all knew how it felt.

When Tengen’s blindfold had fallen from his eyes, showing him the bodies of his siblings, he hadn’t known how to feel. Emotions crashed against him in waves, but somehow didn’t sink in for another few, horrible moments. And when they did hit him, he was nothing but tears and broken sobs, hearing their final breaths leave them—their heartbeats thumping… much, much too slowly… because they were nothing. Gone.

He hadn’t tuned his exceptional hearing enough to have realized fast enough to realize who they were when they had been fighting. He had been too focused on his own survival, his own life, to pay attention to the ones he would be taking away. He had been foolish. He still was.

The crows. The shouted, panicked words. “Dead! They’re dead!”

One Hashira. Two. Another. Another, another, another, fuck! They were gone, dead, they were— And then it was his fault again. With his own hands or not, his decision to not participate directly in the fight made their deaths his fault. They were his fault. His responsibility, his family, his—

They, at least, had funerals. When his siblings had died, he had been unable to mourn them for long. He had fled like a coward with his wives, leaving his final brother there. He had had no wish to continue this morbid training, whether or not his brother cared. He would not be a Shinobi. He refused. So he had run.

His siblings bodies had no doubt rotted where they had died. Blood staining their clothing, the ground. The air reeking of death, of pain. He hadn’t stayed long enough to know what happened to them after. Only enough to know that they were all dead. Because of him.

He tried reasoning with himself. His brother must’ve killed maybe half of them. They had killed each other too. It wasn’t entirely his fault. But it was. It was. He should’ve put a stop to it. Should’ve realized. He’d been naïve. Stupid. Cowardly.

If he had joined the fight with the Hashira, he’d have been more of a liability to them—something causing them to be a step behind, someone simply in their way. But then, he had been fine during the training. Even if he’d only been training the weak Demon Slayers, even if he’d spent most of the time shouting, his condition hadn’t been entirely hindered by his injuries. He’d had one good hand, one good eye. He had heard from the crows in the reports. Gyomei had fought to the end, even without a leg. Muichiro, at fourteen, had fought the strongest of the Uppermoons with only one arm. Sanemi with half his blood. Giyuu with one arm. Obanai without his sight. Even Tanjiro, for fuck’s sake! With a crushed eye and a missing limb. Hundreds of rank-and-file Demon Slayers that had poured their hearts and souls into the fight, delaying Muzan by even a second to help the Hashira. And then there was Tengen. Useless, stupid, incompetent Tengen. Sitting safely inside watching people sacrifice their lives.

God forbid he’d do it again. Not after his siblings. Killing them with his own hands. Yet, despite their blood not sticking to his hands this time, he’d all but killed the Hashira himself. Directly or not, it was his fault. All over again.

What the fuck was wrong with him? Why did he have to be so goddamn selfish?!

this was soso lazy 💀 but i wanted to write smth like this idk..

[averagewriter-inthedark]

Love Across the Galaxy 🌌 | Helmut Zemo Imagine

Contains spoilers for GOTG Vol.3

Link to my Marvel masterlist

Characters & Pairings: Baron Helmut Zemo x Roman Goddess/Guardians!reader (romantic), The Thunderbolts—Baron Zemo, Bucky Barnes, Thaddeus Ross, Valentina Alegra De Fontaine, John Walker, Ghost, Justin Hammer, Taskmaster, Yelena, & Red Hulk (platonic), The Guardians of the Galaxy—Quill, Mantis, Nebula, Drax, Rocket, Groot, Kraglin, & Cosmo (platonic)

Content Warnings: profanity, light angst, fluff, mentions of death, fighting & violence, spoilers for GOTG Vol.3 (don’t read if you haven’t seen it!) | female!reader (she/her) | wc: 4.9k

Requested 📨 yes/no (rules for requests)

Premise: In which Baron Helmut Zemo, hater of the Avengers and desire to rid the planet of enhanced beings, becomes a member of the antihero team led by General Thaddeus Ross & CIA Director Valentina Fontaine where he meets the legendary group of misfits turned Guardians of the freakin Galaxy and loses his heart to a Goddess with a love for 80s music and talent for cutting of limbs.

Note: GOTG Vol 3 has permanently altered my brain chemistry and I cannot stop thinking about it. Truly the best film since Endgame & it’s inspired me cause I’m also back to loving Zemo again. I refuse to believe Marvel would give us a Thunderbolts film w/o Zemo so I will make sure he’s in this team.

After learning about all the Gods in Thor: Love & Thunder, picture you are Minerva, the Roman Goddess of Wisdom & War (Roman equivalent to the Greek’s Athena) and has cosmic powers similar to the Eternal’s Thena and has been with the Guardians since the events of the first GOTG film.

————————

Fall 2023

“I don’t see why we need these people to help us,” Zemo rolled his eyes, strolling beside General Ross with the rest of the team around them. Once outside the cool breeze hit him, ruffling the lapels of his coat as his eyes squinted from the bright light.

Ross lets out a tired sigh, “Because, Zemo, as much as it galls me to admit it this threat is far beyond what we can deal with. It’s not terrestrial and chances are these…” he had trouble coming up with the word, “let’s just say they’re more experienced for this situation.”

They all stop before the flight line. It’s clear all around them with no sign of an approaching vessel.

“Who are these guys again?” Justin Hammer popped some jelly beans in his mouth. John looks down at the file in his hands, making a face as he does.

“They call themselves…The Guardians of the Galaxy.”

“Oh God,” Bucky moans, immediately making mental notes to protect his mental arm knowing a certain talking animal was on the hunt for it. He was gonna have to sleep with one eye open.

Zemo raises his brow, “Friends of yours, James?” Bucky is not pleased by the assumption.

“I wouldn’t call them that.”

“Aren’t they part of the Avengers?” Ava’s tone is slightly disapproving. While Scott Lang and the Pym/Van Dyne’s helped her, she still got bad rep despite doing what she did to survive.

Zemo, not happy with the idea of working with Avengers, snatches the file from Walker.

“Not technically,” Ross replies while Zemo reads over the page. “They arrived with Thor in 2018 against the first battle with Thanos, remained an associate to the team while continuing whatever the hell it is they do in space, and returned in 2023 to defeat the purple bastard once and for all.”

“Did you fight with them, Bucky?” Yelena asks from beside the soldier.

“Yeah,” the memory appears in his mind. Specifically where he grabbed Rocket by the scruff and spun them in circles to cover more area as they fired off their guns. “Our interactions were brief…but memorable.”

The Baron had seen many things over the years, like the rest of humanity with the formation of the Avengers and reveal of intergalactic and enhanced beings, but to stay he wasn’t thinking, ‘what the fuck?’ by the picture in front of him would be a lie.

An earthling turned ravager, a blue mercenary, a woman with antennas, a genetically engineered raccoon, a living tree, a gray alien that could take down Thor, a man with a metal Mohawk, a telekinetic dog, and an exiled sword wielding Goddess. All misfits and outcasts, mostly space criminals turned superhero guardians of the cosmos.

Well….they were quite the bunch.

“They are not still with the Avengers, I take it?” Zemo wanders around, eyes lingering on the Goddess. White streaks adorned her natural hair color, eyes gold and lips painted with what appeared to be a permanent smirk. She wore a gold and white headpiece that had an owl extending its wings.

Name/Alias: Minerva, Goddess of War; Race: Deity; Planet of Origin: Caelum; Age: approx. 2500 yrs (39 Earth yrs); Occupation: Warrior/Mercenary/Defender of the Andromeda Galaxy; Allegiance: The High Council of Caelum (formerly), Guardians of the Galaxy, Thor, God of Thunder, The Avengers (formerly); Abilities: Cosmic manipulation, enhanced strength, agility, speed, & durability, thermal detection & mental teleportation; Specialization: artillery and battle strategy.

Ross let out a sigh, “only when the planet is about to go to shit due to an intergalactic threat. Which we’ve now got on our hands, but considering the Avengers are all on sabbatical I’m sending you in,” he checks his watch, “but I need all the extra hands and like I said, they’re experienced.”

Zemo stares at the blank sky, “How will we know they've arrived?”

“Believe me,” Ross mutters under his breath. “You’ll know.”

A loud rumbling noise caught everyone’s attention, gazes turning upward as a hexagon shaped breech in the sky revealed a very large spaceship in its wake, followed by the distinct lyrics of AC/DC’s ‘Back to Black.’

“Back in black. I hit the sack. I’ve been too long, I’m glad to be back. Yes, I’m let loose. From the noose. That’s kept me hanging about.”

“Oh my,” Yelena breathed out, hair flying back from the gust of wind. Zemo lifted a hand to cover his face from the leaves, as did the others, many wide eyed.

“I’ve been looking at the sky. ‘Cause it’s gettin’ me high. Forget the hearse ‘cause I never die. I got nine lives. Cat’s eyes. Abusin’ every one of them running wild.”

“Great song,” Justin voiced, grinning from ear to ear. The ship made its descent, music getting louder.

“‘Cause I’m back. Yes, I’m back. Well, I’m back,” it approached the tarmac, “Yes, I’m back. Well, I’m back, back.” wheels hit the tarmac, engine powering down but music still blasting, “Well, I’m back in black,” the ship doors opened, revealing steps extending to the ground, “Yes, I’m back in black.”

It was almost like a scene from a movie. Slow-motion if one will by how the Guardians exited their ship and stepped foot on the tarmac with AC/DC on full volume. All dressed in their new suits of red and blue leather with the Ravager flames on the chest.

Arriving in style.

Quill led with the rest flanking his sides. Drax munching on snacks while Nebula looked menacing and Groot towered over everyone. Cosmo had her tongue out in excitement, Rocket carrying his gun strapped to his back. Mantis’s chin held high, like she was on top of the world and Kraglin trying not to appear lost. Lastly Minerva was drinking a caprisun, Ray Bans covering her gold eyes.

Zemo tilts his head in amusement at the sight. He expected the Goddess, of war nonetheless, to have a more menacing approach like Nebula considering her reputation. But she was just as relaxed and laid back as Drax.

The Guardians walked several paces until they were directly in front of the Thunderbolts. It was then the music stopped, Ross being the first to address them. “You sure know how to make an entrance.”

Quill gave a smug grin, “We know.” Hands go to his hips, “You’re wearing a suit so you must be the boss man. Although I believe there’s also a boss lady we’re here to do business with.”

“Director Fontaine is currently occupied. She’ll be arriving in the morning.”

“I assume we won’t be knowing a damn thing until that happens, huh?”

Ross tightens his lips, “You assume correctly.”

“I told you we should’ve handled it on our own,” Minerva’s glances to Quill annoyed. Surprised by her voice, Zemo's eyebrows raised at her sudden input. Her accent was slightly Italian given her mythological origin is Roman.

Quill clicked his tongue, “We don’t have authority here, Minnie.”

“Midgard is part of the Andromeda Galaxy. Technically we should.”

Now the man was giving her a pointed look after Ross’s body language turned defensive, “I’d rather not get our asses thrown in Earth’s prison system. We go by the rules—the ones we established.”

Minerva grumbles under her breath, finishing the last remnants of her juice pouch, “Would’ve finished the job faster. They wouldn’t even know we were here.”

“Okay well, we’re doing things this way. We’re here as a team to work with a team. Right, Mr. Secretary?”

Ross’ disapproving eyes linger on Minerva, who in return rolls her own, before turning his attention back to Quill, “Yes. Now let’s move on shall we?”

He lets out a breath of relief, “Agreed.” Bidding a warning look to each of his teammates, they all wait for what the man in the suit has to say. Ross extends a hand to the people on either side of him.

“This is my team. All with different levels of skill and experience. Justin Hammer is our tech and weapons specialist,” Justin gives a wave, “Yelena Belova,” Ross points to the blonde in a white tactical suit, “former Black Widow and master assassin.” At the mention of Black Widow Rocket, Nebula, and Minerva all tense, faces becoming solemn at the memory of Natasha. They were the three remaining Guardians during the blip, becoming close with the Avenger.

“Ava Starr, she can phase through anything,” they all look impressed, finding the talent cool. “Antonia Dreykov, who we like to call Taskmaster.”

“Why’s that?” Kraglin asked intrigued.

“She has photographic reflexes and can mimic your fighting powers. Basically use your own moves against you.”

“Niceeee,” all the Guardians echo. Ross points to the two individuals in between Zemo and Yelena.

“Our super soldiers, Captain John Walker and I believe you all know Sergeant Barnes.” Bucky tightens his mouth with a curt nod.

“You still got that arm on ya?” Rocket muses, earning a nudge—well more like a kick—from Minerva. The rest of the Thunderbolts besides Bucky all become wide-eyed at the talking Raccoon…even though it said on the file he could.

But how the fuck else were they suppose to react to a talking raccoon?

All Bucky does is glare, “Don’t even think about it.” Rocket shrugs, “Worth a shot.”

“Why is that one carrying a giant frisbee?” Drax’s mouth is filled with Zargnuts. Walker, the man in question, becomes visibly offended.

“It’s a shield not a frisbee.” Zemo bites back a smirk at the soldier's tone. Not to mention the Guardians' reactions were priceless.

“A shield?” Mantis repeats confused.

“It’s a frisbee,” Drax mumbles.

“Like that circular object Minerva conjures to deflect attacks,” Nebula tiredly explains. Mantis’s mouth forms the shape of an ‘o’.

“And lastly,” Ross sounds just as exhausted as the cyborg, “Baron Helmut Zemo, former intelligence operative.”

“I am Groot,” Zemo’s attention goes to the tree alien, confused by his words. Minerva, seeing his expression, addresses it, “He says he likes your fancy cape.”

‘Cape?’ He thinks, but doesn’t comment on it and his perplexed reaction makes Minerva smirk. Instead Zemo says, “Well, I appreciate the compliment. Thank you.” Groot’s pleased, grinning wide like a child.

It’s then Quill’s turn to formally introduce the Guardians. The Thunderbolts bite back their own amusement at the nicknames and surprise of hearing the dog, Cosmo, speak through her suit with a distinct Russian accent. Afterwards Ross leads them all into the hangar, Minerva removing her sunglasses now that she was inside, allowing her gold eyes to be visible.

From there they all interact, awkwardly for the most part as they have no idea what the hell to do as they wait for further instruction. It soon becomes bickering and even challenging someone in hand-to-hand combat.

Well, what can you expect when a team of heroes meet a team of villains/anti heroes? Rivalry at its finest.

“Any day now, Quill,” Minerva groans, relaxing her stance. Across from her several feet away was Walker, confused by why she was taking so long to attack. They were standing in the middle of the squared off area with the teams surrounding them, but giving enough space to avoid being in the crossfire. Quill was scrolling through his Walkmen.

“What’s he doing?” Zemo whispers to Kraglin, eyes flicking back and forth from the human Guardian and the Goddess.

“Trying to find a good fight song. You know, get the vibes going.” Out on the square Minerva lets out a loud huff signaling her annoyance was increasing.

“Just give me another second—.”

“Quill.”

“I almost got it.”

“Pick a goddamn song!”

“Fine!” Quill shouts, randomly selecting the first one his finger hits. A second later Duran Duran’s ‘Hungry Like the Wolf,’ blasts through all the speakers attached to the Guardians arms. The antiheroes become perplexed, while also noting the song choice. Justin and Yelena started to bop their heads.

“Darken the city, night is a wire. Steam in the subway, earth is afire. (Do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do)”

Minerva smirked, retaking her stance. As she lifts her hands, cosmic energy around her consorts to physical matter, taking the shape of a spear and shield in either hand. Wide eyes take over the Thunderbolts.

“Woman, you want me, give me a sign. And catch my breathing even closer behind. (Do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do)”

“Wow,” Justin exhales. “In touch with the ground. I’m on the hunt, I’m after you.”

“That’s so cool,” Yelena muses, others muttering in agreement. “Smell like the sound, I'm lost in the crowd. And I’m hungry like the wolf.” Keeping his admirations to himself, Zemo watches the scene unfold in silence.

“First one to step or get thrown out of the square loses,” Bucky shouts over the music, “Ready….” Walker clutches the strap of his shield, Minerva twirling her spear once, “Fight!”

“Stalked in the forest, too close to hide,” Walker lets out a cry, charging at the Goddess. “I’ll be upon you by the moonlight side (Do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do,” Minerva blocks his attack, pushing back slightly only to crouch to swipe at his legs, “High blood drumming on your skin, it’s so tight,” Walker dodges her spear, but fails to avoid her kick to his chest, sending him backward. “You feel my heat, I’m just a moment behind.” He brings his shield up in time as her spear barrels down at him. “Do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do.”

They continue their one-on-one for several minutes, both coming close to getting the other out of the square and the song changing to ‘Cherry Bomb’ by The Runaways—a favorite amongst the Guardians. The entire time Zemo was mesmerized to say the least. Every move she made was effortless, showcasing strengths and ability to predict Walker's moves.

He hadn’t felt such attraction to a woman in so long. And here he was experiencing a feeling that was almost unfamiliar.

Ultimately Minerva wins the battle in what one would call a divine move. At the peak of the song, Minerva’s golden eyes glow bright resulting in the eyes of the owl headpiece to also glow and become animated. It takes form, coming to life and soars straight at Walker, throwing him off by covering his face.

“What the—uuugh!!” He’s flying through the air, back meeting the harsh ground with an audible groan. The owl leaves him, returning to Minerva and consorting back into a headpiece. When it does her eyes dim back to their normal hue. Her team broke out into whistles and hollars, meanwhile Walker’s were unimpressed.

“Guardians for the win!” Rocket cheered.

“I am Groot!”

“Never underestimate the power of Duran Duran!”

Minerva helps Walker up, “Not bad, soldier.” As she turns to head off the pad, her eyes lock with Zemo’s and a wink is sent his way. Heat rises in the Baron, glancing away to hide his smirk.

Oh boy, trouble was on the horizon.

Next Yelena went against Nebula. Their fight was even more intense and nearly ended in a draw. Eventually Yelena overpowered the cyborg and got her to step out of the square. It was a tie. Groot and Rocket teamed up against Ross in the form of the Red Hulk—which took a lot of convincing—the two claiming the win after fooling the General. Taskmaster beat out Quill, handing his ass to him which had the Guardians in a heap of laughter.

“I enjoyed that more than I should have,” Minerva teases, crossing her arms as she takes a spot beside Zemo. He glances at her, mirroring her expression.

“Not a common occurrence for your friend to lose a fight?”

She scoffs, “You’d be surprised by his record.”

Lastly Bucky went toe-to-toe with Drax, and of course Rocket had to yell, “Take his arm and give it to me!” And well….it ended with them tackling each other out of the square.They didn’t know who won at that point, so the teams were tied 2-2 initiating a debate on who should be crowned the best.

“Okay, let’s call it a day,” Ross announces, ending the squabbling between the groups. “Night’s upon us and frankly I could use a drink. We’ll return here first thing in the morning—7am sharp to discuss the threat and where to go,” he turns to Quill, “we’ve got sleeping quarters arranged for you all if you please. Otherwise my guess is you’ll remain in your ship?”

About an hour later, after both teams settled for the night, Zemo decided to take a walk around the flight line. It became a habit of his since joining the Thunderbolts. A way to clear his mind after a long day of briefings and training. He basked in the peace that came with being alone, but there were times he felt lonely and longing for company to share the peace with.

Ten years since losing his family and the pain never strayed. Yet, he managed to live with it. He accomplished his goal in 2016 when he tore apart the Avengers. Likely is to blame for the loss against Thanos resulting in half of the universe’s population turning into dust for five years.

Did he feel remorse for the consequences of his actions? Possibly. Did he regret it? No. At this rate he’s accepted the reputation he painted himself to be.

“Zemo, correct?” The sudden intrusion spooked the Baron, jumping slightly by the glowing eyes in the darkness. A moment later Minerva stepped into the lighting, eyes dimming to normal. She was still in her suit, though her hair was pulled back, white streaks seeping through the natural color.

“Yes, but you may call me Helmut,” he replied, nodding in greeting to the Goddess.

“Helmut,” she tests the name, “like the headwear people use when they ride bikes or spacesuits?”

“That’s one way to look at it, but yes I suppose so.”

“Interesting. What brings you out this late in the evening?”

He shrugs, “wanted to get away from the constant complaining of my comrades,” eyes go to the sky, “and I like to admire the stars.” Minerva moves to his right, glancing up as well.

“They’re much more incredible up close.” He peers down at her, not bothering to question her judgment. She lives in space after all.

“I bet so. I’m sure the view from here is nothing compared to what you’ve witnessed.”

She shrugs, “These stars you don’t even know if they’re still alive. It took years—possibly millions—for the light to reach Earth.” Zemo looks back up, focusing on the North Star.

“For all we know they burnt out ages ago.”

Their eyes connect, Zemo feeling a weight on his chest by the intensity of her gaze. It’s followed by unease when she says, “Natasha told me about you.”

Instantly he looks away, feeling an unfamiliar wave of dread. “Ah.” Here was a discussion he was not expecting, nor willing, to have.

But Minerva didn’t show criticism. In fact, her gaze and tone resembled understanding. “How do you do it?” The question took him aback.

“Do what, exactly?”

“Align yourself with people who go against what you stand for?” Minerva’s tone wasn’t condescending at all, only curious. “Most of your team are enhanced individuals—two are super soldiers to be exact. You went to many lengths to disband the Avengers and put an end to superheroes,” there’s a slight tilt of her head, eyeing the Baron with intrigue, “but you join a group consisting of people who fall between the spectrum of hero and villain where most are the exact thing you wished to eradicate. Not to mention led by two people you wouldn’t say you share similar moral values with. Why join them?”

For the first time in his life, Zemo was at a loss for words. Not a single word uttered as he tried to comprehend what Minerva had just confronted him with. How could he explain? Hell, he didn’t even know the real truth other than wanting to stay out of his cell. A big price to pay in exchange for freedom.

Minerva spoke again before he could respond, “I once committed an act similar to you,” the surprise is evident on Zemo, “Vengeance against those who were responsible for the death of my loved ones. It’s why I was exiled,” a frown appears, her attention returning to the stars. “So I understand you, probably better than anyone here. Understand why you committed those acts to destroy the Avengers. I don’t fault you for what you did—if I did it would make me a hypocrite. You’re not the villain Ross and the Avengers made you out to be.”

“How so?” His voice is strained, “what have you lost?” He didn’t mean to come off as defensive, but the conversation was bringing up emotions Zemo didn’t want to face.

“As Goddess of War all I knew was bloodshed. How to prevent it and how to fight it. Battle strategy was my domain, and the High Council knew better than to question my judgment,” she releases an exhale, “but Mars, the God of War and my brother, was my ultimate rival. He hated how much our father doted on me and agreed with plans I coordinated. It made him feel inferior. He’d do anything to prove himself.” Her tone remains neutral despite the painful memory surfacing.

Zemo remained quiet, picturing the scene as Minerva relayed it. Though stoic the Baron could see the pain and sadness lurking behind her eyes. Managing it as best she could for the sake of her friends. Who knows how many years it’d been since she lost whoever it was close to her. But the hole would always remain.

“To put it short,” she started again, bidding a glance, “Our home was under attack and his rash decision to slow down the enemy led to the death of my family—my husband and children.” Sympathy arose in the Baron, understanding her anguish, “An intentional move on Mars’ part because he believed I wouldn’t be fit to remain on the High Council after stuffing such a loss, therefore he would take my place as Head Commander of our armies and my father’s second Command.”

“He wasn’t exiled?” The question left Zemo before he could stop it. Confused by how the God avoided persecution for his crime, Minvera was shunned. “Your family was targeted.”

Minerva’s smile was bitter, “because their deaths were a result of war, the High Council viewed it as collateral. They failed to see Mars’ responsibility, believing he didn’t intend to kill them. So, I took it upon myself to bring justice. Not only to Mars but also the High Council.” Her smile fell once more, “I made sure they would pay. And they did, but it was far from over after finishing the job. Those who survived didn’t hesitate to throw me out to the wolves once I was contained.”

Zemo nods his head, “where did you go afterward if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I was imprisoned on Xandar for some time,” well they certainly had some things in common, “Once I escaped I became what your people would call a bounty hunter. Where it led me to meeting those clowns I now call my family,” she pauses before adding, “and escaping prison for a second time. Only it was to save the Galaxy.”

The laugh that escapes Zemo surprises him, “I guess it all worked out then.” Once more they lock eyes, twinkling against the stars shining down above.

“I suppose it did.”

Three Years Later

Zemo raced out the door the moment he awoke to rumbling that shook the foundation of his home. After three years he’d recognize the sound in an instant, only this time it was without warning.

An action that rarely occurred.

Throwing on his coat and house slippers, the clock read 2:30 am, flooding the Baron with worry. ‘What is she doing here at this hour?”

Usually when Minerva drops in she gives Zemo a heads up. A day or two’s notice, but recently he couldn’t get a hold of her and passed it off as the Guardians on a job. With the unexpected visit, so late at night, Zemo instantly knew something was wrong.

Hurrying out to the front lawn right as her ship landed, Zemo jogged to where the stairs extended. When they did, the doors revealed his Goddess, still wearing her suit, standing before him. Zemo noted the exhaustion painting her demeanor. Dark circles beneath her eyes, which appeared dimmer than usual, and scars indicating recently healed wounds.

His arms are around her the moment she’s within distance, her own around his neck, “This is a surprise.”

“Sorry I didn’t call,” the exhaustion was evident in her voice. Barely above a whisper causing Zemo to tighten his hold.

“It’s alright, darling. I’m just glad to see you are okay,” his hand runs along her hair, “wanna tell me what happened?” He hears her sniff, increasing his dread, “Close call?”

“Too many,” her voice cracks and there’s a pause. “We almost lost Rocket. We saved him thankfully, but then we nearly lost Peter. And I almost—,” she stops short, not wanting to relive her near death experience. “This was…it was too much for all of us, Helmut.” A kiss is pressed to her head, offering comfort.

“Let’s get you inside, mein schatz.” Zemo leads Minerva into the home, sitting her in the living room while he goes to put a kettle on the stove. Filling two cups of cherry blossom tea, Minerva’s favorite, he joins her in the living room.

After taking her first sip of the brew, Minerva removes the headpiece from her hair and makes herself comfortable before giving Zemo a play-by-play of the past three days. He stays quiet, listening intently but visibly reacts with each awful detail Minvera relays to him. From the unexpected attack from Adam Warlock, to the disgusting abuse Rocket endured at the hands of the High Evolutionary, to Quill nearly imploading in space had it not been for Adam’s change of heart.

Zemo’s knuckles turned white when Minerva spoke of what happened to her. Anger consumed him and he wished he had been there to protect her. Seeing his distress Minerva placed her hand on his, gently squeezing, “I’m okay, Helmut. I’m here now and we all made it out. There were many close calls, but we’re all alive and that’s what matters.”

Taking her hand, Zemo brought it up to brush his lips against her fingers, softly kissing her knuckles. “I don’t know what I would've done if I lost you, Minnie. I—-,” he stops himself to exhale, squeezing his eyes shut, “I would’ve found a way to fly across the galaxy to avenge you.”

“I know you would,” she murmurs, removing her hand but positioning herself in his lap. Arms snake around his neck, pulling him so they were inches apart. “I’d expect nothing less. Also I’d be a hypocrite considering I would do the same for you.” A playful smirk formed, “I was already plotting when Ross let you get captured by those bastards last year. Had it ended any other way, Ross would cease to exist.”

Zemo snickered, “I see we haven’t really changed completely despite our friends believing the opposite. Neither of us hesitating to return to old ways if it comes down to such circumstances.”

She smirks, “No, I don’t suppose we haven’t.”

“What a pair we are,” leaning in, his lips meet hers in a soft caress. Warmth seeping through his veins. That effortless high he believed he’d never have again after the loss of his family.

But he found it with a Goddess in the stars. Where love swept across the galaxy.

When they pull away after a moment, Zemo keeps his forehead against hers. Gold meeting brown. “I’m not sure I can let you go now, liebling. At least not for a while.”

“You never have to anymore,” her words have him startled, the man pulling away slightly to get a better look at her.

“What are you saying?”

Minerva’s gaze turns soft, though there’s slight nervousness, “After everything we all realized something. We found the family we were searching for, but some of us needed to find ourselves. Peter’s here on Earth to find his grandfather. Mantis is off on her own adventure. Drax and Nebula are on Knowhere to help raise the children we saved from the High Evolutionary. Rocket and Groot are leading a new era of the Guardians. And me,” she stops, emitting a gaze full of love that takes Zemo’s breath away. “I’d like to be here. With you, Helmut. If you’ll have me.”

If his heart could explode from the happiness Zemo was feeling it would. Tears were threatening to prick his eyes, the Baron willing himself to remain composed. “Oh, Schatz,” he croaked, cupping the side of her jaw. “I should be the one asking you that. Of course I’ll have you. I love you more than every star in the galaxy.” With that he kisses her, putting all his love and passion it causes her own eyes to water.

“I love you too,” she kisses him again. They remain on the couch, falling asleep eventually curled up in each other’s embrace. Their last thoughts filled with joy as they awaited the new adventure on the horizon.

An adventure just between them. A reinstated Goddess and a fully pardoned Baron opening the next chapter of their lives. Together.

[radiowallet]

Home

Summary: Joel is shocked her words hurt as much as they do. Pairing: Joel Miller x Tess WC: 733 Warnings: 18+MDNI, Grief, child loss, descriptions of blood and wounds. Canonical type violence. A lot of purple prose. Angst. Character introspection out the wazoo. A/N: I don't know guys. I watch the episode. I journal. It's always a mess. I hit post. Honestly, I'm sorry.

~~ Please follow @radiowallet-writes and turn on notifications to be notified of new writing ~~

Gif by @viktorhargreeves

-----

That’s not my fucking home.

Joel is shocked her words hurt as much as they do. How deep they cut. They tear through blood and bone, carving out a space beneath his ribs where his heart still beats despite all efforts. He could have disagreed, denied, refused. But the damage was done. The pain was real.

When had her words become stronger than bullets? Sharper than steel? The horrid crack of fists against flesh? 

Was it before? Before all of this? Before truck batteries and ration cards and fireflies? Lost in the dark of that shitty apartment, cramped bodies and tangled limbs on a mattress not nearly big enough for two? Two people, trying to survive together but somehow apart? Tending wounds and sharing jokes; crapshoot whiskey passed back and forth as battle scars were spared in the smallest of increments. 

Or maybe it had happened in between. Lost in the sparse few moments where hope seemed like a plausible option. Not one he had been ready to entertain just yet, but an idea. One he could ruminate on when everything inevitably went to shit. Something to help sleep come a little easier, when the liquor ran dry and the oxy ran low.

Or had it been quicker than that? A flash and a crack, the site of her molted skin fused into his memory. Putrid shades of ultraviolet red spreading faster than it had any right. A ticking watch, meticulous and cruel, as it steadily took one more thing away from him.

He knows though, that it’s always been there. That potential for crudeness, that risk of pain, the fear of loss. It’s all too tight, a twenty year old memory sinking its teeth in him, blood stuck to his hands, soaked into this shirt, caked beneath his fingernails. He carries it with him, the weight of his daughter painted across his body, his arms so pathetically empty, her blood drying on his skin. 

He can feel it now. He always has and no matter how hard he scrubs, the stain is still there. The weight hangs heavy, too heavy, for something so distant. Yet there are days, more and more and more, he wishes he could look down at his hands, weathered and beaten and so very empty, and still see that sucky shock of black and red. 

He would beg for it if he had the words. 

Tess keeps talking. Of time, of the future, somehow hopeful in the face of her own shortcomings. Death waits at her door as she pushes away the man she refuses to call home, one single request parting her lips. She asks him one thing. This one thing and all he can say is no. 

No. 

He can’t be asked to do this again. To lose someone to this thing, this nightmare. Monsters in the night, shadows of horrors he can’t control. The kind that peel away his flesh and fill him with dread, with only his guilt to keep him company in that shitty apartment, on that tiny bed. 

Joel feels his lip tremble, his hands shake. Does he lean in? Step back? Does he run? Should he stay? 

There’s only one answer. One. 

And it still feels wrong. 

Or is it just that nothing can ever be right? 

There are no goodbyes. No confessions. Later Joel will say there was no time. The lie no worse than the truth; he didn’t have the words. Not then, not now. And as he ran, faster, faster still, Ellie at his heels and smoke in his lungs, he wonders what the price will be this time around. 

There’s no blood dripping down his arms. No marks to wear. No weight to carry. No stains to scrub clean. All he has are her words - cruel in the name of honesty - and in that moment he failed her. He flinched, in the face of her pain, at the beck of her call, refusing to say the thing he knew she could never ask. 

And so he plays them again and again. A staccato in his head, loud and sharp between his eardrums. He flinches every time, his eyes dry and his heart hard, testing the weight of those words on the breadth of his shoulders. Would he carry them for 20 years? One more scar, another stain? Is he strong enough for one more truth? One more failure?

She says it again. 

Home. 

It wasn’t hers. 

Joel wished he had disagreed. 

[biggukuma]

Theo Reaken’s goal was to become an alpha. To have a pack.

And if he wanted to have a pack because it rhymed with safety and protection.

What if he and Tara were just a sister and a brother in the middle of a toxic home. A sister and a brother terrified to come home.

What if Theo meets a strange person with a disfigured face who promises him and his sister could leave their house and never see their parents again. That they will be protected and safe.

And for that, Theo has to help them. Let him help them raise an old friend.

What if Tara was using different jobs to earn enough money so that she and her little brother could leave Beacon Hills but Theo didn’t know it.

And if this strange person with his two equally strange and a slightly terrifying friends told him that to help them, he had to kill his older sister Tara.

What if Theo initially refused because it’s his big sister. He refuses to lose her.

And if these three people, doctors had they said they were, took him to their top secret workplace and showed him that magic exists. There was a man on the table, cold and stiff. They injected him with a needle. And the man woke up. With huge fangs and super-speed. Like a vampire.

What if Tara loves vampires.

What if she loved Twilight and had once told Theo, while they were watching the movies, that she would like to be Bella Swan to have a little piece of Edward’s faceted ball.

And if Theo hadn’t fully understood that sentence, except that Tara would want to be a vampire.

What if Mom and Dad always said they were bad severe for their own good.

What if killing Tara was for her own good? The doctors will turn her into a vampire and she’ll be happy. They will find a pack, a kind of family that would never harm one of their own, explained a werewolf in the doctor’s office. ( the Werewolf wanted to bite him when he realized that Theo would not open his barred door to him despite answering his questions. The Doctors warned him that the werewolf was bad.) They’ll find a pack and they’ll be safe, away from Mom and Dad. It’ll be okay. The Doctors promised it.

And if when Tara reaches out her hands and calls Theo as the cold of the river numbs her limbs, slows down the beating of her heart, Theo takes them and pushes them back towards her and tells her that everything will be fine, that Theo would find a good home for them, that he just had to help the Doctors find a friend of theirs.

And if Tara wanted to scream at these three shadows behind her little brother to leave him alone and at Theo to get away from them.

And if her tongue was frozen. That she could not utter a word. Except:

Theo. Theo. Theo.

And if when Tara sinks, the memory of all her savings hidden in her room for Theo and her was frozen on her retina.

What if the Doctors had taken Tara’s heart but her body was kept in the lab, waiting for Theo to finish his work.

And if, when Theo returns to Beacon Hills to do his work to resuscitate his sister, to find safety and peace, he would come face to face with his parents.

What if for this work, he had to go back to his old life. As if the teeth and nails removed, flesh and eyes ripped out, blood shed and broken bones had never existed. Like Tara never existed.

What if they said Tara had been drowned by accident and the Reaken had left, unable to stay in this city because of the heavy grief.

What if the Doctors kidnapped Mr and Mrs Reaken after Tara died.

And if they had already planned everything since they had seen this little boy on this sad swing, his nose bleeding, his eye swollen and blue.

What if Theo hadn’t seen his parents since Tara died.

What if he knew the Doctors kept them away from him so he wouldn’t be distracted from preparing for his work.

And if, when he finally sees them again, it is in his childhood home, ready to do his work, find his sister and finally find safetyandpeace and he shakes, shakes, shakes under the tones of dark memories embedded in the fucking wood.

What if he knew that in front of him were not his parents but doppelgangers created by the Doctors for the good of this job.

What if he didn’t care and Theo just wanted to make them cry as much as their faces made him and his sister cry.

What if, when the Doctors die, Tara’s frozen corpse gets stuck in their two-dimensional cabinet.

What if, in the end, Theo had never managed to resurrect his sister, or find a pack.

What if, in the end, Theo was just alone.

(Sorry for the possible spelling mistakes. English isn't my native language. Aaaand my pen is already weird in French. Soooo... sorry.

I'm pretty sure this idea was already said but I wanted still to share this theory that my friend and I thought. We haven't checked if this theory is near canon, so if we pick out something, doesn't hesitate to tell me. Tumblr is made to exchange ! )

[seasons-beatings]

Happy holidays, @tiaswritingsideblog!

Something to Fight For

Time blurred into a white-hot rush, the seconds marked by bursts of pain.

Makra had speculated that the beatings would stop after a while, that she’d be let up for air, but alas, this was not to be. After the beatings, the demon holding her captive had turned to torture. After that, sleep deprivation.

Her tongue bled from biting down so hard, but she wouldn’t scream. She could not scream. That would be letting the enemy know that it worked, that they were victorious. And she had a job to do.

Time was marked by the methods of torture. One minute, the demon would be slicing into her skin, the next, white-hot pokers would be inserted into the wounds. Salt, to burn her skin further. All of it was part of the job, she just had to stay vigilant.

“For what, though?” This statement interrupted her careful machinations, and for a moment she wasn’t sure if she’d actually heard it, or the unspecified hours without sleep were finally getting to her. When she opened one of her eyes, though, she saw the demon Xlan grinning down at her cruelly, like this was some sort of twisted game.

“What do you bother staying vigilant for? Or, rather, who.” Xlan pushed a blade underneath Makra’s chin, tilting his captive’s head up with a dangerous gleam in his eye. “Not a scream, not a word since you came here…I’m starting to think you’re mute. Shame.”

Makra stayed silent, the rest of her eyes opening and staring blankly at Xlan, refusing to give him any indication of anything at all. Her mission before was to kill Haedra’s informant. But now, her mission was to stay silent, resolute, despite the overwhelming urge to give this demon a big fuck you. Those words though…they carved a well of doubt into her painfully alert mind. For what?

“I don’t like it when I have silent ones.” The blade trailed along Makra’s jawline, then her cheek, stopping just at her eyelid. Makra stayed still, glaring at Xlan with all the affection of cats and dogs.

“Silence always comes with a reason. You, little spy, have something to lose. I’ll find out what it is with or without your help.” And with that, Xlan stabbed his blade into one of Makra’s legs, slicing, slicing deep, and it was all the spider demon could do to bite her tongue as her limb fell to the floor, twitching still.

“You’ll break, they all do! The journey may be long, but oh, will it be painful, don’t you worry…” Makra jerked away, making a low clicking sound under her breath in warning.

“What a pity you only have seven legs left…hm. You could always go for the eyes…” Xlan mused, fiddling with the knife, tracing it haphazardly across Makra’s skin.

“You could always go away,” Makra suggested, her voice strained and hoarse from disuse, but none the less acidic with hatred.

“She talks! Fucking finally!” The demon’s blade was stabbed into her shoulder, left there like she was a scabbard as he circled her. “So you’re not mute, you do have something left to fight for…” He leaned in close, causing Makra to squirm away, disgusted.

“It’s called balance. You should be fighting for it too, without schmoozing up to some whore of a fallen angel.”

Xlan paid no mind to her words, searching her face with an all-knowing smile, a little bit of insanity in his eyes.

“Something to fight for, something left to rip away, something to destroy…oh, this…will…be…fun.”

[cryingtulips]

This Place is Not a Home

Tommy arrives at Earth. It’s not a pleasant experience.

CW: Religious themes, religious trauma, implied emotional and verbal abuse

crossposted to ao3 || moodboard || Ch 1 || Ch 2 || Ch 3 ||

~+~

Ch 2: What Is This Place?

The first month on Earth was one spent in excruciating pain.

Knives were dragging repeatedly into Tommy’s back where his wings were damaged, and Tommy refused to look at the bald patches and ruined feathers that made up his wings now. He didn’t want to confirm his new reality, the betrayal of trying to explain himself only for no one to listen, the pain as his wings—

He couldn’t deal with that loss, instead he spent his time trying to adapt to his new environment. For the first three weeks, Tommy spent his time hiding in an abandoned train cart. It was a perfect spot at the time. Secluded, and on the outskirts of the city, Tommy wasn’t that concerned about anyone finding him.

The problem was opening the fucking shitty doors. Weak and delirious with pain, Tommy was barely able to shove the rusted doors open enough for him to squeeze in.

The cart was dark and cold, and Tommy was sure he saw mold in the corners next to some strange liquid he didn’t want to know the identity of. It smelled horrible and there was nothing soft for him to lay on, but it was better than having nothing. Curling in the far corner, Tommy passed out for a week straight, small figure trembling as a fever slowly raked over him.

The second week he didn’t have the luxury to finish resting. He wasn’t in Paradise anymore, he didn’t have the blessings as an angel anymore– his wings serving a permanent reminder of what he lost. Hunger pains were constant, and his throat burned from dehydration. Despite the pain his body was in, Tommy knew he needed to get supplies for himself.

However, the first four days Tommy didn’t bother to move, body heavy with stones anchoring his body down. He was constantly sinking, everything in a fuzzy haze still. 

He was tired, and alone. He felt lost on what to do, but he knew he had to push on. He refused to die from something like hunger, refused to go through Limbo. If he went through limbo…he heard the stories from the older angels. Heard the rumors and myths. Tommy wouldn’t survive it. He just wouldn’t.

On the fifth day, with shaking limbs and a heaviness dragging him down, he left the cart to see if anything was worth scavenging nearby. There was a lot of trash, and very little of value. In three days, he found no food except a half eaten bag of crisps and a water bottle filled only a quarter way.

Tommy was reluctant to leave the train cart, finding safety in the dark smelly walls and the way everything was isolated. But he knew, realistically, he would not survive out there.  Tommy has never been able to cope alone, always having Tubbo beside him and to rely on. Even if he found a city, Tommy didn’t know if it would be possible for him to live there. 

Ignoring the state of his wings, and the danger it would possess if someone found them, Tommy didn’t grow up human. He’s not familiar with the culture anymore–it’s been centuries since he was last alive, he wouldn’t understand the jokes or current values or even what’s considered right or wrong. Tommy was at sea adrift from course, and there was no land or ship within sight to rescue him home. He didn’t know what else he could possibly do besides wander the wilderness.

He wanted to pray and ask Lady Clara for help, for Her guidance and forgiveness. He wanted to go back home, even if it meant having to be reborn again as a new Light, even if it meant losing his wings. He wanted Tubbo most of all, his best friend and brother. Tubbo would know what to do, where to go. Tubbo knew everything, and was better at everything compared to Tommy.

Tommy wasn’t smart or clever, or at least not in a way the other angels wanted. He was bad at puzzles, pitiful with math, and couldn’t even tell left from right. Where Tommy lacked intellect, he excelled in intuitiveness. Always one to follow his instinct, he was quick to react and quicker to argue when something felt off. “The heart of a defender,” Tubbo would defend him. The others would counter with, “The temper of a demon.”

Tommy never understood what was wrong with having a strong sense of justice, after all the whole point of being an angel was to protect those who couldn’t. The Warden would just tell him he was too young to understand, that things were more complicated than that.

“Complicated, huh,” Tommy grumbled as he tripped on another tree root. “What bullshit.” There should be nothing complicated about it, in Tommy’s opinion. Everything he ever knew has always been black and white, bad and good, protecting the good is the very reason for angels and their existence.

It was a thin line between what they were fighting for, a thin line others have misstepped and tripped on. So why is it that only Tommy was punished for these mistakes? Why was he always getting the short end of the stick, always being punished and scolded while all the others got praises and affection? Heaven wasn’t fair, was not even close to it—but it was home, and Tommy always tried his best.

Shouldn’t that count for something? Shouldn’t that make up for Tommy’s flaws?

Complications, complications, complications. 

What bullshit.

What fucking bullshit.

At least Earth was pretty, if you ignore the debris and rot that lingered in places. It was a complete one-sixty from the pristine perfection Paradise aimed for. It was wild and unforgiving and everything that screamed familiarity to Tommy. And in a way, that scared Tommy. That something so untamed, something so foreign, felt like home. Or as close to the idea that Paradise never accomplished for the blond.

He should’ve hated it, resented the planet for being the ensuing resting place of his divine body as he slowly starved and as his destroyed wings dragged him down and as every twinge of pain threatened to collapse his sense of awareness.

He was told that once he earned his forgiveness—once he admitted his sins against Lady Clara, Heaven would take him back. As black spots took over his vision from pushing his body too far, Tommy knew the chances of him even surviving the next month was low.

=+=

The first thing Tommy noticed with groggy eyelids was how cold Earth became once darkness shadowed the lands.

The land was still as Tmmy dusted himself off, wings fluttering as dead and weakened feathers drifted down. There was the brief sight of gold before Tommy started up at the sky, eyes scrunched up.

He didn't want to think about it, about his situation, about the state of his wings. Tommy didn't even want to look at the stars, for he knew that once he did, he would break down with thoughts of betrayal. He was fine, and maybe if he said it enough times, he would believe himself.

Tommy didn't think as he continued towards, body slow and mind sluggish, eyes blinking absently. He didn't process anything, not lack of songbird birds, or the stream beside him. He wasn't there, present in his body. But he knew he was tired, and he knew everything felt sore and his wings throbbed.

He had walked some distance when the trees faded into a clearing, the vague outline of a  path turning into a dirt road. There was an empty fenced house, but Tommy didn't even stumble in its direction. Even in this…state, he knew that wouldn't work in his favor.

Instead, he headed towards a shed. It was an old one, brown paint starting to chip and warm orange acting as a lighthouse for Tommy. He was adrift at sea, and this shed was the rescue boat. It was decently sized, a few animals deep asleep, a few others flickering their ears at him but not bothering to look his way.

He headed inside the stall in the far back. He didn’t even bother to check if it was empty before collapsing in the clean bedding, body shivering at the cool breeze. He closed his eyes as he shifted his wings over himself, a pitiful attempt at blanketing himself under warmth with damaged wings. Not that he had any other choice.

Before he was dragged under the cover of sleep, there was a soft murmur beside him. Something heavy walked over him, and he was too tired to even shift away. He felt warmth as the thing shifted to lay behind him, warmth already seeping into him. He shifted closer, and sighed as slumber caressed him goodnight, comfort seeping into his body as crickets kept company throughout the night.

[redemptioninterlude]

everyone's, always, so eager to tear you down. maybe she shouldn't be SURPRISED ABOUT IT. it's like, the human fucking condition, and it's not like she was the one who called the shots on all of that shit. an itching, scratching, terrible lull that dragged through her chest, and made a home within her rib cage, counting each curving arch as yet another bar within the prison she'd set within her own mind. hunching down to get in a little bit closer ; she craves that nearness, the kind of drug she knew how to dive headfirst into. always faltering in the light of all that she could have, not knowing how to cope with the disappointment should it never come. like the shit she liked to imagine to be real, between herself, between others. not knowing what to trust, even in her own fucking head, knowing she was a fucking con artist of the highest form, even willing to rewrite history, to suit her needs.

so maybe she's going to pretend like she didn't bleed red all over that porcelain sink. that she wasn't overdoing it on the pills, the coke, the everything that swims within her veins and leaves her feeling FEATHER LIGHT. because here they were, and they were alive, and oh, dakota would make everything alright just by being there. just by not disappearing, into the night, into the sun. how every dawn, there he was, a reminder that maybe she had found something that felt like solid ground for the first time in forever. and like, that shit meant something to a girl like rue, who spent all too much time watching everything twist, in ways that felt so fucking hopelessly overwhelming. so unfairly out of control. there is no god and she refuses to think that there's poetry and meaning in the death of her father. in sometimes, the real death of herself... because like it or not, despite the way that she'd lie through her teeth, that shit... it stuck with her. it changes her, and maybe it just latches onto something already there, maybe that's the shit that fucks her up, who cares, she's just... barely holding on, some days.

look at him now! pulling her to a stop, arms tangled, limbs a mess. or maybe that's just them as they know it, their laughter helping to punctuate the air between them, the both of them twisting. hopeless things, that were really just out here looking to be that little less alone that came from loving someone else. and dakota, oh he never shies away from proclaiming it to her, loudly, at the alter of it all. as if to make each WORRIED REJECTION she's felt in the past disappear, his own personal remedy for her ills. he doesn't know how much that means to her, how it smooths out the rough edges, how she believes in him, in this so much more because of it. it's easy to fall in love with a murderer when you felt yourself exempt from the horrors of it, knowing you'd locked up a piece of love somewhere worthwhile. "lose it then!" rue's grinning, wider. "i love you!!!! fucking-!!!" she chokes, on her own voice, clearing it with another roar. "we're fucking on top of the world!" the coke, it seems, has hit.

- @eat3rs

loving   her   felt   as   easy   and   as   natural   as   breathing   .   that   was   the   part   that   terrified   him   the   most   .   what   if   she   left   ?   what   if   she   grew   tired   of   all   the   baggage   he   brings   ?   tired   of   running   ,   tired   of   hiding   .   one   day   she'd   yearn   for   normalcy   ,   and   that   would   never   be   something   he   could   fully   provide   for   her   .   would   it   feel   like   death   ?   would   the   air   get   knocked   right   out   of   his   lungs   ?   couldn't   imagine   a   life   in   which   he   wasn't   head   over   heels   for   rue   .   couldn't   imagine   himself   without   her   beside   him   .   his   head   spins   at   the   thought   ,   but   he'll   pay   it   no   real   mind   when   he   catches   a   glimpse   of   her   at   his   side   .

everything   would   be   fine   ,   so   long   as   she   stood   beside   him   .   she   was   his   rock   .   his   solace   .   his   peace   in   this   fucked   up   life   he's   forced   to   live   .   the   one   thing   that   had   never   been   made   more   clear   .   the   one   thing   that   just   made   sense   .   not   once   has   he   ever   felt   like   he   needed   to   second   guess   his   position   in   her   life   .   she   loved   him   abundantly   .   loudly   .   so   clear   that   he'd   be   a   fool   to   ever   question   her   . 

he   watches   her   with   such   love   .   like   ,   she   was   someone   worth   worshipping   .   religion   begins   to   make   sense   whenever   he   looks   to   her   ,   even   in   her   high   haze   .    "   kick   my   ass   ?   you're   out   your   head   ,   for   sure   ,   "   he   teases   ,   his   eyes   rolling   .   always   been   their   dynamic   ,   light-hearted   and   playful   ,   like   two   kids   who   play   as��  adults   .   laughter   comes   so   easy   with   her   ,   and   she's   just   this   glowing   reminder   that   life   is   still   worth   living   despite   however   he   may   feel   on   his   lowest   of   days   .   he   laughs   ,   watching   her   shoot   off   from   him   .   quick   to   follow   ,   catching   up   to   her   to   wrap   his   arms   around   her   middle   .   he   pulls   her   into   him   ,   stopping   her   in   her   tracks   .   turns   her   around   to   face   him   ,   his   hands   capturing   her   face   .   "   you're   fuckin'   insane   and   i   love   you   for   it   .   i   love   you   .   d'ya   hear   me   ,   rue   ?   i   fuckin'   love   you   ,   "   laughter   fills   his   words   ,   and   he's   drunk   on   this   sickly   affection   .   he   loves   her   and   he   needs   her   to   know   .   he   loves   her   and   the   world   just   feels   better   for   it   . 

"   i   swear   t'god   ,   i'll   scream   it   right   here   .   right   here   in   the   middle   of   fuckin'   nowhere   .   that's   how   much   i   love   you   .   just   losin'   all   my   damn   rationality   .   "

[write-ur-wrongs]

The Death of Me

Pairing: Geralt x reader

Word count: almost 4K - big whoops!

A/N: This was totally meant to be a drabble / blurb, but the story got away from me! A huge thanks to the sweet anon who submitted this prompt - I was beyond inspired and chuckled warmly throughout the entire writing process. This baby isn’t proofread so thread lightly!! I sincerely hope y’all enjoy this one :’) 

Prompt:  Heya! I saw your post about wanting to practice writing short stories so I have a small prompt for Geralt! What about: the reader and Geralt have always had a difficult relationship, always running into each other at the most inconvenient moments and hence disliking each other. However, while Geralt is passing through a village the reader comes barging into his room bloody and near death, only getting a chance to say “I didn’t know where else to go” before collapsing. I would be honoured if the idea inspired you :3

____________________________________________________

You’d never considered yourself unlucky but lately life had a funny way of throwing you for a loop, or rather, throwing you to the wolves. One wolf, actually. A damn, irritating, and arrogant white wolf.

At first, it was all business. You’d arrive in a village itching for a contract, only to find that a “legendary witcher” had already come through and taken care of every monster within a two-days ride. Furious, hungry, and broke, you set out determined to get as far as you could and as quickly as possible. Your determination got you far enough that you’d managed a full three months of contract work, but not far enough it seemed.

You’d been on your way to collect payment from your latest contractor when you’d heard the buzz on the street; a witcher had come through asking about work, and had been told to wait and see as someone else (a woman! A human woman!) had already committed to the case. Apparently, he was either incensed or bemused at the idea – the brute was very hard to read, so say the town gossips – but it didn’t matter to you. You beat him to it and now you get to eat. When you finally met with the contractor to collect your coin, you couldn’t help but swell with pride as they thanked you, eyes wide, for taking care of a monster no human ought to be able to handle. You could have sworn your pride had given you wings as you floated out of the inn.

That is, until you heard them mumble under their breath, “Thank Gods that lass was able to handle it! Had it been the witcher, I would have had to pay triple!”

“Thank heavens for cheap labour!” whispered their partner, raising their glass to cheers their big victory.

Suddenly whatever weightlessness you felt transferred onto your coin purse. Biting hard on your cheek you pushed up your chin, determined to remain dignified. But then you saw him.

Impossibly broad chested, rippling muscles evident beneath his leather armour, with golden eyes that reflected back to you with a cruel playful nature that made bile rise in the back of your throat. He held your gaze and raised his own tankard to you as you walked past him. His deep voice rumbled through you as you pushed the door open.

“Cheers to cheap labour,” you heard him say, and swore you could hear the smirk on his full lips.

Groaning furiously, you pushed the door so hard it swung back and slammed shut behind you with such force a flock of birds took off somewhere in town. Undeterred, you stomped off towards your horse and set off at a gallop.

I’m going to make sure I never cross his fucking path ever again, you thought searingly.

You were wrong it turned out, but how were you supposed to know that?

You’d gone years without actually seeing him again, but that didn’t mean you were free of him. You’d alternated winning and losing contracts to each other, and the pressure of beating him to the next one stressed you so fiercely you developed ulcers. That alone would have been enough to push you to murder had you not heard from another witcher that their brother, the great white wolf, was losing sleep trying to keep up with you. Knowledge of this fact spurred you on; after all, if you couldn’t beat him, it’s best to be even, no?

The next time fate brought you two together, though, you could not have been farther from on top. What made matters worse, is that you weren’t even in battle when your paths crossed. Your literal paths just simply… crossed.

You’d been riding east for many days and just as many nights. You were tired, sore, and somehow still soaked to the bone despite the fact that the rain had stopped at least a day ago. You were so tired, your muscles seemed heavy in your limbs, and you had to keep blinking hard to bring the spinning world around you back to its axis. As you rode through an intersection on the trail, the sun peaked out from behind the thick curtain of clouds just long enough to pull you fully into sleep, and right off your still-moving-horse’s saddle.  

You honestly didn’t remember falling asleep, or off the saddle. You also had no memory of the moment another traveler, who was riding towards the intersection on the other trail, leapt off his mare just as you started your descent and caught you before you could split your skull open on one of the many rocks sprinkled throughout the street. You had no memory of the way he’d pulled you off the path, leading both horses behind him as he’d carried you over his shoulder. Zero recollection of him laying you down on a bed grass, tying your horse to a nearby tree, lighting you a campfire, or filling your pack with some bread and meat.

What you did remember, was the arrogant look on his face when you finally woke up. The condescending tone he took as he reminded you that you were ‘only human’ and had to take care of yourself accordingly was also seared into the annals of your memory.

You hated that he’d saved you almost as much as you hated the fact that you’d been asleep around him. Completely vulnerable for God knows how long and he’d been there to witness it all. Whenever the memory of the look on his face or the way he’d crossed his arms and tilted his stupid head as he condescended your humanity came to you, you couldn’t help but cringe even months after the fact.

***

Your saving grace came a full six months after your damned damsel in distress moment on the trail.

Well fed, well worked, and well travelled, you were taking your time enjoying the market in your town of the week. The work you did wasn’t glamourous, but it did allow you the means to afford a few luxuries every now and then. This time, it just so happened that your coin could buy you the sweetest gift of all: revenge.

The market was busy as ever, you could barely hear yourself think over the cacophony of voices and animal bleats bouncing around the square. Had it been anyone else, the conversation would have been lost among the noise around you, but when that voice came rumbling through the mess of shrieks and shouts, you couldn’t help but seek out the source. You didn’t know why you cared or why you were so surprised to find that the voice’s owner was none other than the White Wolf himself.

“You good?” you asked, making sure to tilt your head, hands on your hips, the same way he’d done the last time you’d met.

“Fine.” He practically barked, not even turning his head fully to address you directly.

The merchant, none-too-concerned with your arrival on the scene, continued as if uninterrupted. “I’m sorry Mr. Witcher, sir, but I can’t go any lower. This is the best I can offer.”

“I can’t pay that much,” he grumbled, hands closed into tight fists.

“I’m sorry-”

“Is this enough?” you interjected, knowingly offering forward far too many ducats.

“Y-yes!” breathed the merchant, looking quizzically at Geralt before picking three coins from your open palm, “thank you, madam...”

“Y/N,” you introduced yourself with a warm smile and a nod.

“Y/N!” Geralt hissed, at the same time, reaching out to push away your hand a fraction too late; the vendor was paid, and you’d won this round.

“What is it, Witcher?” you teased, as the vendor took his sword back for repairs, “been on vacation? Why so skint?”

“Been low on work lately,” he replied coolly, cat-like eyes boring into yours, “not as many contracts as there use to be.”

“Well, I’ll be,” you said, cocking your head to the side and pursing your lips in mock contemplation, “I can’t imagine why that’d be the case! Seems I keep running into monsters to kill.”

“Mmhm.” He hummed, narrowing his eyes at you.

Refusing to let him have the last word, you quickly turned on your heels and high-tailed it out of the market, shouting over your shoulder to the blacksmith to give any change back to Geralt before disappearing back into the crowd.

***

Being even should have brought peace between the two of you but it seemed to have the opposite effect. Your last interaction only fanned the flames of your rivalry. As the months turned to years without coming upon each other again, you still found yourself filled with unreasonable anger whenever you saw a mop of white hair cross you on your travels.

And not that you’d know it, but it turned out that Geralt wasn’t faring any better; finding himself frustrated and acting recklessly whenever he’d come upon anything that reminded him of you.

You were both completely obsessed with one another. Thoughts of the other constantly on the mind. Whether in waking or in dreams, you were both equally afflicted by an intense need to outperform, out run, and also, inexplicably, to impress the other.  

*

It was that need to impress each other that led you to accept a contract you should have never even considered taking. You honestly wouldn’t have even considered it had the circumstances been any different but you’d been hearing about this monster for weeks on your travels. Tales of the mighty griffin tearing people to shreds had been circulating far and wide on this side of the Yaruga, and honestly, with every retelling you’d expected to hear that a witcher had handled it, but that never happened. You’d somehow managed to arrive at the village at the source of these stories before him and had an opportunity to literally rob him of this victory.

Granted, you were the only one who’d been attributing him with this win, but that didn’t matter, not to you. The only thing you cared about when accepting this particular contract was the knowledge that by taking it, you were preventing him from having it, and that was more than enough.

The shock on the villagers faces when they saw you accept the contract only added to your already inflated confidence. The sheer size of the griffin’s wingspan humbled you a little, though, and whatever grand illusions of an easy victory you’d carried into the forest were squashed along with a couple rib bones only moments after engaging the beast. In short, you were fucked.

Some might say that coming out of it alive was enough of a win. Those people would be morons, you thought as you stumbled clumsily back towards the lights of the village, clutching your split abdomen with both hands and blinking back blood dripping from your forehead. Every step you took came with the stabbing pain of additional tearing around your wound. You could barely think, your ears were blocked and caked with dried blood and dirt, your tears stung as they fell across the gashes on your cheeks, and every breath in felt like it could be your last. You’d never admit this out loud, but a part of you wished the creature had finished the job.

Perhaps the only saving grace here was that in your condition, you couldn’t hear the villagers as they pointed and gossiped. You didn’t hear the “told you so’s” or the lewd shouts coming from the drunk men as you stumbled into the tavern. You could barely hear the disappointment in the inn owner’s voice as they reprimanded you for accepting a contract, they knew you couldn’t complete. Rolling your eyes, you pushed your way towards the stairs as quickly as possible – which, as it turned out, was not so quick, praying that someone would call you a healer.

“… and to think a witcher arrived only hours after she went off to kill herself! Tsk-tsk!”

You stopped dead in your tracks, drops of blood falling across your brow as you interrupted the momentum you’d been building. “W-what?” you croaked, turning towards them as much as possible to make sure you’d hear them correctly.

“Yeah! And not just any witcher, lass, the Butcher of Blaviken no less! Checked in with us just as you head out. Had you waited half a day you could have saved yourself a world of – ‘ey! Now where’s she off to?”

As you registered this news, something inside you snapped. Before you knew what was happening, you’d made your way upstairs and started pushing your full weight onto every door you passed. The great White Wolf, the Butcher of Blaviken, was certainly arrogant enough to leave his door unlocked. You might have been wrong about the griffin, but you’d be damned if you were wrong about this.

Fortunate or not, you weren’t wrong about this. As you pushed your shoulder against the last door with whatever strength you had left, the door swung open with very little resistance. The heavy wooden door slammed loudly against the wall at the exact moment that your limp body crashed onto the floor.

“WHAT the fuck!” Geralt howled, leaping off the bed and onto his feet. His wild eyes assessed the situation in an instant, and he bound to you in barely two strides. “What the fuck did you do? What happened?” he asked as he flipped you over, so gently you were sure you’d already passed out and were now dreaming. Or maybe the blood loss was finally catching up to you and you were full-on hallucinating.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” you breathed, barely above a whisper, before losing consciousness in his arms.

*

Regaining consciousness was a slow, painful process. You’d come in and out of it a handful of times throughout the night, and flashes of what you’d seen before you lost it were coming to you in an almost dreamlike haze; terrifying images of the furious griffin, its blood-soaked talon shining in the setting sun as it reared back to strike you again, and warmer visions of Geralt, shirtless, running towards you with – could it be? – genuine concern in his eyes.

Now as the rising sun cast its glow across the room, you squinted painfully against the light. Your head felt as though it was full of cotton; heavy, and scratchy, and unnatural on top of your shoulders. Hesitantly, you ran your tongue over your teeth and were equal parts relieved to find them all there and disgusted at the acrid, mineral taste the blood left behind. Blinking slowly, you tried to bring up your hand to rub at your eyes, but stopped short as you felt the large bandage draped across your forehead.

Slowly, you started to register the other bandages, on your arms, your cheek, across your abdomen. Your eyes grew wide as you finally registered the man facing away from you in the far corner of the room. Geralt’s broad strong back was hunched away from you as he rifled through herbs and small glass vials looking for something. Inexplicably, you found yourself disappointed to see he’d put his thick black tunic back on. Horrified by that realization, you literally gagged, startling Geralt and pulling his attention squarely onto you.

His big dumb beautiful face was all hard lines as he looked you over, stern eyes flashing to meet yours before dropping back down to the vial in his hands. You couldn’t help be notice the way the muscles in in jaw rippled and tensed as he sighed. He was oozing disappointment and anger, and that infuriated you.

“Am I dead?” you ask, squinting at him a little theatrically as you squirmed and winced in your bed.

“No.” he practically growled, his body tense as he made his way towards you slowly.

“Oh,” you breathed, bringing your eyes up to his before adding, “this isn’t hell?”

To your immense satisfaction, his stern eyes widened into shock, but then something unrecognizable flashed across his features – wait, was he hurt?

“Why, because I’m here?” he shouted, as if in confirmation of your hunch, and slammed the damp cloth he’d been holding back into the basin.

“No, jackass,” you retorted, pleased that despite the position you were in, you still had some semblance of an upper-hand, “because a griffin fucking fileted me like a fish and some poor drunk is probably downstairs slipping in a pool of my blood right now.”

You’d kind of hoped that he’d laugh, or at least have a comeback geared up for you, but Geralt just stood there staring at you, his mouth in a tight line, nostrils flaring.

Uncomfortable by the intensity of his stare and the silence accompanying it, you decide to continue to poke the bear.

“Come on, what’s with the face, Geralt? Pissed I’m still alive? You know you could have just closed the door over my body, let nature finish the bloody job.”

“Fuck, no! Y/n!” he screamed, startling you out of the attitude you’d put on, “I’m pissed because you’re an impossibly difficult woman hellbent on killing herself! I’m pissed because you don’t seem to fucking care about what happens to you! You can’t keep doing this Y/N! Because one of these days you’re going to get hurt and you’ll be too far away from me and I won’t be able to fucking save you, again! I am pissed because I am losing my mind spending every god-awful day wondering if you’ve gone and gotten yourself killed! Fucking hell, woman! If you didn’t find me – I-if I wasn’t here, with these herbs – Damnit Y/N!”

You just sat there, mouth opening and closing like a fish. You couldn’t believe it. You didn’t know what to say. This man, your nemesis, was in front of you pacing back and forth, breathing heavily, looking like a maniac. His nostrils were flaring more than the monster that almost killed you just yesterday. Part of you wanted to correct him and demand he never address you as ‘woman’ again, but his wild earnest eyes kept you quiet. My god… was he crying?

Before you could say anything, Geralt sighed gruffly, ran his large hand over his face and stormed out, mumbling something about needing to get you more water.

Left alone with your thoughts, you couldn’t stop yourself from spiralling. You’d expected him to be angry – hell, you wanted him to be angry! You’d humiliated yourself twice over, enraging him would ease the blow – but this was… different. He seemed genuinely concerned about you. And what was with his whole speech? He spent every day thinking about you? Worrying about you? There’s no way.

Sure, you thought about him daily, but that was out of spite! You hated the man! Why else would your heart race whenever you thought you spotted him in a crowd? Why else would you actively seek out the most dangerous contracts? What, like you were hoping these contracts would draw him out, and therefore, closer to you? As if!

Your ridiculous inner monologue was interrupted by Geralt’s return. The horrible brute knocked gently on the door before stepping inside, and your heart had the audacity to skip a beat.

Oh, you thought, fuck.

“I need to change the dressing on your wounds,” he grumbled, not meeting your eyes. You nodded wordlessly as he settled onto the chair next to you. You watched him work in silence, praying he would attribute your insane heartrate and flushed skin to a pain response from his work.

“Geralt?” you tried, chewing nervously on your cheek, as was just finished up with the last of your dressing.

“Hm?” he hummed, keeping his eyes cast down as he fussed with the bandage on the gash across your abdomen.

“Thank you… for saving me.”

He finally brought his gaze up to meet yours, but said nothing in return. He merely grunted in acknowledgment. You didn’t know why, but his silence in combination with his inscrutable gaze encouraged you to keep talking.

“I honestly only took this contract because I didn’t want you to have it,” you admitted bashfully.

“What the fuck? No one was taking it because they weren’t paying nearly enough! Hell, and you’re just a human,” he fumed, throwing up air-quotes as he said it, “so what – they offered you a third of nothing?”

Laughing lightly, you shoved him with your elbow, “they offered me three whole ducats!”

“Oh, wow,” he laughed, low and rumbling, “so a big pay day for you, eh?”

“Shut up,” you gasped as pain rippled through you with each peal of laughter, “knowing I could screw you over was payment enough!”

“Well congratulations are in order, you did manage to screw someone over,” he chided.

“Me,” you stated dryly, gesturing widely at your busted up body.

“You,” he echoed with a sigh that seemed to deflate him.

He suddenly looked so small, sitting there next to you. You watched him as clenched and unclenched his jaw, rubbing his large hands up and down his thighs – was he anxious? You mind raced as you felt his eyes travel slowly up your body. You held your breath as he worked up the nerve to finally bring his eyes up to yours.

The moment his eyes landed on yours, something shifted. Whatever had been lodged uncomfortably between the two of you all these years had finally clicked into place. This change, albeit small, was palpable. His eyes dropped to your lips and lingered there. He was looking at you like he’d never seen you before. Like he was afraid he might never see you again.

Without speaking, Geralt inched himself closer to you and reached a tender hand to tuck your hair behind your ears before cradling your face.

“You’re not allowed to die, do you hear me?” he whispered, gently stroking your cheek with his thumb.

You gave him a quick nod and brought your hand up to his, nuzzling into the warmth of his palm before giving his hand a quick kiss.

“I need to hear you say it,” he begged, bringing himself even closer to you.

“I do,” you breathed, trying to sit up to bring your face closer to his. “I’m not going to die, not on your watch, but I’m also not quitting.”

“Y/N –”

“No! If I quit, you’d get lazy. Who’d push you? What would be your driving force?”

“Wow,” he scoffed, looking at you incredulously but fondly, “you’re so fucking arrogant.”

“And yet…” you said, quirking a brow flirtatiously as you pulled him closer by the collar.

“… and yet?” he murmured, letting himself be pulled closer to you. His eyes half-closed and his lips slightly parted.

“You love me.”

“I love you.”

And then he kissed you. His mouth claimed yours urgently but his hands were ever gentle, ghosting over your bandages and caressing your skin with a feather-light tenderness that would have brought you to your knees had you not already been bedridden. Any hesitation or doubt melted away under the heat of his touch as all those years of tension sprung apart catastrophically. The knot you had carried in your stomach unfurled into flittering fireflies, their heat traveling up your stomach to your chest as his hands worked their way into your hair.

You didn’t know when they’d fallen, but you let out a shaky laugh as Geralt kissed away the tears on your cheeks, his thumb swiping at the tears his soft lips failed to catch. Breathing heavily, he rested his forehead against yours; his hands cupping your face as yours captured his.

Gods – this man was going to be the death of you.  

[lacystar]

When Tommy died, it was void. It was the flaring, heated hurt all over his body and nothingness. Unable to see, unable to feel anything but pain. Screaming and getting nothing back; not even an echo. Feeling Wilbur and the cards in his hand, and the feeling of the other moving around him, and hearing him painfully close, but being unable to see him. Alone yet trapped.

When Wilbur died, he was shoved rudely off a metro and into a station. He paced it up and down for years, yet the stairs to the outside were firmly blocked off. Trains would pass, but none stopped. Only when Schlatt visited, which wasn't often, and only that time when Tommy came. And only when it came to take him back, of course. But it was close to agony to be passed by so many times. Alone. The world moving without him. His world moving without him.

Schlatt... has no idea what's going on. He's in the gym, but he's corporeal enough for Quackity to visit him. Sometimes he goes to see Wilbur, Sometimes he catches glimpses of the outside. He really, truly has no fucking idea what's up with him and why Wilbur is stuck in a whole other realm while's stuck all Ghostbusters'-future-victim. He knows it hurts though; heart palpitations, killer headaches... his voice has gone so rough on some days he sounds like a scratching record. His lungs are full of lead, and if he doesn't want Quackity to bring him back for the chance to taste power again, he at the very least wants it so he can stop feeling the burn in his throat.

When Ranboo dies...

When Ranboo dies he's dunked in water that's freezing, yet still burns his skin to the point of peeling in a terrible icy-hot hell. The ocean stretches to never-ending horizons without land in sight, and below him the ocean stretches to void, and all he sees is a thousand eyes staring up at him, almost unblinking. Expecting. Their stares burn almost more than the water, and his fear to keep his head above the waves to avoid seeing them is more compelling than the yell of his limbs to quit swimming, accept the burn, and sink. But after enough years... where is he? Why is he swimming? Why does he bother? Who is he, anyways?

When Tubbo dies, he wakes up in a yellow concrete box. It's not quite pitch black, but the walls give him no chance to move as his arms are pressed close to his sides. There isn't room enough to sit or do much more than turn around in place, and he can hear nothing but his own frantic, shallowed breaths as he gulps in air he feels as if he's constantly losing. He spends a few years wondering if this is his coffin and they didn't realize he was still alive when they buried him.

When Sam dies, he wakes up in an obsidian prison cell he's walked past one too many times. Theres a lectern, a clock, a pot of water, and occasionally potatoes drop down for him to eat. He stares at the wall of lava, praying for a visitor, and almost dares to empathize with the man he imprisoned when none arrive. He wonders for years if he regrets building the prison, and can never come up with an answer that doesn't make him feel ashamed of himself.

When Bad dies, he wakes up with his limbs wrapped in red vines, restraining him in a way he used to find comforting but now sees only as the torture it is as thorns dig into his skin. His vision is tinted blood red. Occasionally, a flash of blue teases his vision, but when he turns to call its name, it vanishes. He takes up swearing again; there's nobody there to hear, anyways.

When Eret dies, they wake up in their castle and left to wander the halls. Wander, but barely more than a few minutes at a time; the crown on their head weighs more than the world on Atlas' shoulders, so heavy that they often must return to their throne just to get the chance to rest their head back and let the weight off their shoulders. They wonder if the sacrifice was worth the weight.

When Niki dies, she wakes up in a crowd of people whose faces she can't quite make out. A sea of people, most taller than her, that stretches out for miles. Most smile and laugh, and she's relieved she's not alone. But when she taps on one of them and politely asks for directions to where she can get help, they stare through her. She isn't a ghost; they bump into her all the time as they shove her to walk past, but they don't see her. They don't hear. She screams and not a single head turns. When she collapses against an unlucky stranger to sob, they flick her off like she's a fly. There's not even an excuse she can tell herself to say she's alone.

When Quackity dies he finds himself falling. There is no ground in sight, only sky and clouds as his wings refuse to work and he plummets constantly into nothing. He reflects on the casino and L'manberg and El Rapids and wanting more. His stomach gets used to the lurching as the cold wind burns his cheeks. Maybe his ambition was a little pointless. Maybe he flew too close to the sun.

When Karl dies he awakes to colors that hurt his eyes and a million doorways, each in different shapes and angles. He spends years pacing and stepping through doors he hopes might lead home, that ultimately lead to only more doors. Some are too high up to reach and he stares at them and cries at the fact that he'll never know what's behind them (despite knowing its probably nothing). He doesn't remember everything; just enough to know that anywhere is better than being lost here.

When Phil dies it's a long time coming. Cursed with only one life, the universe goes easy on him. There's a field of rich grass and flowers and trees and skies that beg to be flown through. If only his wings worked. If only he could show Wilbur.

When Puffy dies she finds herself in an endless graveyard. She paces through it for seemingly decades, reading the engravings of her closest friends on each one and spending no less than year knelt at each in mourning, apologizing for her shortcomings. Maybe if she'd been a touch stronger, this wouldn't have happened. Worst of all is when the headstones are blank and she doesn't know who she's mourning at all, forever unsure of the poor soul she let down.

When Hannah dies she awakes to a world rotted away, the air polluted with smog and the seas full of plastic and sludge. Sometimes she sees a rosebush or sapling, tiny and thriving in the distance. Yet whenever she rushes over to coddle and nurture, it dies underneath her fingers. The ground wilts and cracks wherever she steps. She feels as if she's wilting with it.

When Sapnap dies, he wakes up in some sort of cage. A zoo. Figures come and stare at him and laugh as birds pick at his skin until he bleeds, wolves sink teeth into his calves to hit bone, and cows crush his ribs beneath powerful hooves. Each day a new round of animals come to have their way with him. And yeah, he thinks, that's probably fair.

When Dream dies, he's almost relieved to wake up in his SMP. Great, he can get back to business, he thinks. But the more he walks, the more he notices... how quiet it is. It doesn't take him long into his afterlife to realize the people have all disappeared. Vanished. Leaving him alone. No animals or Monsters even appear. Not a friend nor foe, not even a silverfish. The world is his to do anything with without repercussion, yet all he can do for years is sit at an old bench at a cliffside and play discs over and over until the melody burns into his head and makes him want to tear his hair out. All that over a stupid disc. He laughs until he cries.

When George dies... well, it might as well be like any other dream, he supposes.

[sunstrides]

.   ˚   ₊   𓆩  ⟡  𓆪   ₊   ˚   .  ❝   well   ,   i   don't   want   them   ,   either   .   ❞  they   only   remind   me   of   you   .   seren   crossed   her   arms   to   her   chest   ,   refusing   to   take   the   box   back   and   averting   her   gaze   from   silas   .   she   wasn't   quite   certain   what   she   dreaded to find   more   ⸺   the   sincerity   and   love   in   his eyes   that   destroys   her   resolve   and   softens   her   heart   once   more   ;   or   the   lack   of   it   that   proves   she   really   was   nothing   more   than   a   forgotten   plaything   ,   a   pastime   he   grew   tired   of   ,   a   moment   of   freedom   before   his   inevitable   fate   .    ❝   you   said   ⸺   ❞   her   voice   broke   ,   a   few   tears   escaping   from   her   eyes   that   she   quickly   wiped   away   .   ❝   you   said   you   weren't here   to   see   me   .   why   don't   you   just   take   your   stupid   camera   and   leave   ?   god   ⸺    ❞   she   couldn't   help   but   sob   despite   her   determination   to   keep   a   rigid   demeanor   . she   hated   how   absolutely   pathetic   she   looked   .   but   it   was   difficult   to   keep   her   composure   when   her   heart   was   being   shattered   over   and   over   just   by   silas'   presence   .    ❝   do   you   think   anything   you   do   would   make   any   difference   ,   now   ?   i'm   being   harrassed   for   ❛   being   someone's   mistress   ,   ❜   i'm   losing   all   my   projects   .   i   thought   it'd   get   better   if   we   broke   it   off   ,   but   it's   not   !   you   know   ,   i   can   take   all   the   hate   ,   and   losing   my   career   ⸺   my   dreams   ,   ❞   she   met   his   eyes   this   time   ,   the   tremors   in   her   limbs   evident   even   with   her   arms   crossed   .   ❝   as   long   as   i   have   you   .   but   i   don't   ,   either   .   i   have   nothing   .    i'm   tired   ,   silas   .   and   i'm   fucking   lonely   .   so   if   you   have   nothing   to   say   or   do   that's   gonna   make   me   feel   better   .   i   really   think   you   should   just   go   .    ❞

          ❀               ៶               𝐬.               ﹚               silas   wanted   to   be   the   one   to   go   inside   and   get   his   camera   .    any   reason   just   for   him   to   stay   at   a   place   they   shared   once   for   a   little   bit   longer   .    so   for   seren   to   open   the   door   only   to   give   him   a   box   full   of   his   belongings    ,    even   gifts   he   gave   to   her   in   the   past    ,    his   heart   shatters   .    he   refuses   for   the   night   to   end   like   this    ,    with   him   going   home   with   so   much    ,    but   also   empty   handed   .      "    seren    ,    these   are   gifts   i   gave   to   you   .    i   don't   want   them   back   .    "      but   instead   of   handing   back   those   gifts    ,    he's   handing   back   the   whole   box   .    including   all   of   his   stuff   .      "    i   don't   want   it   .    i⸺    i   don't   want   want   to   leave   .    i   don't   want   to   leave   you    ,    seren   .    i   know   i   keep   going   around   in   circles   here   .    but   you're   still   the   one   i'm   in   love   with   .    all   i'm   asking   is   for   you   to   trust   me    .  .  .    and   to   let   me   in   .    "

[bratkook]

like a peach. kth.

pairing. taehyung x reader genre. fluff, established relationship warnings. mentions of alcohol, oc is sloshed and clumsy while drunk but otherwise cute word count. 2.5k note. this was requested by @pars-ley​ under #14 #57 #60 from this prompt list, i know the numbers were listed under angst but somehow this became fluffy so im sorry asksjak

The hallway in your complex is completely quiet besides the metallic clanks of your keys jingling against the door knob that echo out, your double vision making your hands miss their target as you once again try to unlock it. With a small laugh you rest your forehead against the door, lips pressed together tightly to hush your drunk giggles. 

A shaky breath leaves your mouth as you press your palms flat against the door, refusing to look at the keyhole since that hasn’t been going well, instead you feel it out, index finger guiding the key against it until it finally slides in. 

“Hell yeah,” you cheer in a whisper, turning the lock and smiling as your front door gets pushed open and reveals the interior of your dimly lit apartment. The creek of your floorboards makes you grimace, only being made worse when you lose the grip on your keys and they clatter on the ground in a sound you swear is deafeningly loud. 

You were doing an absolute horrible job at keeping quiet, clamping a hand over your mouth to stifle your laughs as you bend over and grab them, wobbling around ungracefully and unintentionally slamming the door shut once you stepped inside. 

Taehyung groans from his spot in bed in the room a few feet away, having heard you the minute you rammed into the front door ten minutes ago as you failed to unlock it, trying to block it out in order to get his eight hours of sleep needed before his shift tomorrow morning. He remains in bed though, trusting you enough to know you’d be able to get from point a to point b on your own.

Just as he flips over and tugs the sheets above his head, you enter your shared bedroom, going in totally blind in order to not turn the lights on to prevent disturbing him further. His eyes are shut as he listens to your movements, a small smile on his lips when you start to mumble to yourself as you attempt to recall the layout of the bedroom in your inebriated state. 

“Okay,” you whisper as you inch forward, mentally calculating how many steps it took to get to where you wanted to be, hand outstretched to swat in front of you to help guide you in a fool proof method. “That's the nightstand,” you decide when your palm smacks the hard surface, a small giggle filling the air before you hush yourself once more, finger pressed against your lips. 

If you were right then your bathroom door should only be a few feet to the right, close enough for you to be able to enter with ease, but seeing as you decided to throw back two more shots before leaving the bar you’re not as coordinated as you’d like to think. 

With a confident step, you’re ramming your knee into the corner of the nightstand, the pain flashing up your thigh as you bend forward to clutch the area that throbbed. “Ow fuck,” you wince, loosing your footing and tumbling onto the ground with an even louder thump, unable to conceal the laughter from escaping you full force. 

Taehyung can’t pretend to be asleep any longer now that you’re laughing in pain, sitting up in bed and flicking on the table lamp on his own night stand, the room flooding with that warm familiar glow and it grabs your attention. With a muffled yawn he’s rubbing at his eyes before looking to the side where he sees you laying on the ground in a heap of limbs, absolutely defeated as you continue laughing to yourself. 

“You okay?” His voice is laced with sleep, deep and gravely but you can hear the hint of a smile that you know is on his lips and as you lift your head up to stare back at him you see that much is true. He looks tired beyond belief, eyes squinting at you but the curl of his lips makes you smile back at him, sitting up to rest on your butt instead of sprawled out on the carpet. 

“I think my knee is broken,” you slur with a tilt to your head, eyes looking down at the knee in question, the dull throb still felt from earlier pulsing through the joint. It aches as you stretch it out, wiggling your toes to make sure you weren’t somehow paralyzed now from the force of the impact.

Taehyung chuckles at that, shuffling out of bed and stretching his arms out as he does so, his shirtless upper body out for you to ogle at without a care. If you thought your knee was broken that just wouldn’t do, not on his watch. You observe him quietly as he rounds the bed, his grey sweats hung dangerously low on his hips, bed head leaving his curls fluffed and nearly covering his eyes, looking just as beautiful as he always did.

“Did you have fun?” Taehyung wonders as he approaches you, smelling the alcohol from you now that he was closer. The glazed look in your eyes spell it out for him, the cheeky smile on your face despite the tumbles you have taken entering the apartment alone not putting a damper on the small buzz coursing through your veins, you had clearly had an amazing time.

He sighs gently as he crouches down to your level, knees bent as he softly cradles your face in his palms, thumbs soothing your face when you lean into his touch. “No,” you surprise him with your answer, bottom lip pillowing out as you bite down on it, eyes falling shut briefly as you enjoy finally being with your boyfriend.

“No?” He repeats, leaning forward until his lips met the skin of your forehead in a sweet kiss and you swear your heart squeezes in your chest at the action, more so when he takes it upon himself to start helping you get ready for bed, smiling when he hears the cute way you mumble about him being too good for you under his breath. His hands are tender as he unclasps the hooks to the necklaces you have layered on, your earrings and rings being next to slide off and be placed on top of the nightstand that was the reason for your tumble.

“I missed you too much, couldn’t stop thinking about you.” It comes out as a whine, knowing that although you did have a great time with your friends on a much needed outing, you couldn’t stop your mind from wandering, wanting to text him every hour to see how he was doing at home, desperate for any update despite how mundane it was. He appeases you always, sending you selfies as he rewatches episodes of Criminal Minds, answering your drunk phone calls just to hear you ramble about how good the salted tortilla chips you were eating tasted before abruptly hanging up when your friends handed you another drink.

“Yeah, I think you sent me around fifty I miss you texts,” he teases you, kissing you quickly before standing up to grab one of his shirts from your shared dresser for you to change into. Taehyung would never mind the abundance of messages he’d get on your nights out, preferring that to radio silence and wondering when you’d be home, the love spelled out in typo filled texts leaving him excited for your return home.

“I always miss you.” You breathe out a sigh, smiling wide when he reaches his arms out for you to grab onto, hauling you up onto your unsteady feet once more. The throbbing from your knee was long gone but the wobbling remained so he wraps one of your hands around his shoulder so you could keep yourself steady, not willing to let you tumble once more now that he was around.

“I always miss you too baby.” His admission makes those same butterflies swirl in your tummy, wings flapping so hard you think you might pass out, choosing to grip his shoulder tighter to prevent that from happening. You feel like a love sick puppy whenever you’re around him, sporting permanent heart eyes that are crystal clear despite the beer goggles strapped tightly to your face.

Taehyung has to hold in his teasing when he sees the way your eyes stay glued on him despite how your head lolls to the side the longer you stand there, allowing him to tug up your simple black dress up and off your body, unhooking it from the hand holding onto him before it fell to the floor in a pile.

With the new exposure of your skin, his eyes zero in on the slowly forming bruise on your hip, a splotch of red that was sure to blossom and spread out into shades of purple and blue tomorrow morning. He can’t stop himself from reaching forward and allowing his fingertips to prod at it, apologizing when you wince at the small flash of pain.

“What happened here?” He wonders, knowing very well that you didn’t have that on your body before you left. The only purple specks that coated your skin were nestled in between your thighs, victims of his wandering mouth, but he knew that his lips hadn’t traveled this high up.

With a confused pout you stare down at the area he was now circling softly, eyes widening in realization before you begin giggling. Taehyung simply watches in confusion as you break out into a fit of laughter as you recall how you had gotten that nasty bruise, having rammed your drunk self right into the metal pole outside of the bar. “Tequila happened.”

He just smiles in understanding, unhooking your bra for you before sliding the top of his shirt over your head, he knew very well how clumsy you were without alcohol in your system, witnessing first hand how many times you’d taken nasty falls with the help of Don Julio.

“What, were you ready to square up with someone because I bruise like a peach?” The flash of possessiveness in his face as he spotted the bruise was evident enough, your hands coming up to cup his cheeks with a dopey smile when he tries to play it off with a huff and roll of his eyes.

Taehyung doesn’t fool anyone though, the creeping smile on his face calling his bluff when his eyes meet yours once more. “You know I’d hurt anyone who left a mark on you.”

“Oh yeah?” you giggle, pressing a loving kiss against his lips, feeling him smile through it, not minding the way you taste like tequila. “Well there’s a pretty sturdy light post outside of the bar that you’re more than welcome to go punch for me you macho man.”  

Taehyung laughs now, that hearty laugh you love so much and it warms your chest as he pulls away fully, large hand coming up to cup under your chin, fingers pushing into your cheeks until your lips pucker out obnoxiously. “I’ll do that first thing tomorrow morning,” he presses a rough kiss against you, the wet smack making you snicker in his grasp. “But for now it's bedtime.”

Your lips attempt to pout in the pursed position he has them in, only cheering up when he kisses you once more, releasing his grip and continuing to help you get ready for bed now that it’s been established that your knee was in fact not broken. 

This had to be your favorite part of going out, getting to come home to your boyfriend and being taken care of like a spoiled princess, he knew how much he personally enjoyed it when you would baby him when he came home wasted and giddy, so he always took the time to ensure you were comfortable enough to not go to sleep feeling gross. You’re pliant in his grasp as he hauls you onto the bathroom counter, allowing him to peel off your fake lashes and set them aside with care, removing your makeup with a wipe as carefully as he could, taking the time to not yank at your skin because he knew you’d lecture him about wrinkles.

He only gets a small noise of complaint from you when he brushes your hair, bristles catching onto a knot that he attributes to dried up alcohol that was surely splashed onto you earlier in the night. He decides then to call it quits with that, setting the brush aside and getting your toothbrush ready for you to use, something you were adamant on doing on your own.

Taehyung can just watch you with those same heart shaped eyes you wore as you brush your teeth, eyes droopy as you stare at your reflection, foamy toothpaste escaping from the corners of your mouth and dripping down into the sink as you stick your tongue out to be brushed next.

“What?” you mumble after spitting it all out, eyes narrowed at his own reflection in suspicion before gargling water.

“Nothing, you’re just really pretty.” You don’t fight him on the compliment, always loving how he confidently shot them out to you so often you had no other choice but to accept them even when you felt anything but. He smiles as you avert your eyes and dab at your mouth, mumbling a cute thank you out to him before swiftly exiting the bathroom, cheeks burning from the alcohol and flutter of your emotions.

He allows you to escape without teasing you further, cleaning up the splash of water you had left around the sink as you make yourself cozy in bed, breath minty fresh and face moisturized. Just as you’re about to complain about him being missing he slips into bed beside you, shuffling under the sheets until he feels your skin pressed beside his, wasting no time you nuzzle against Taehyung’s body, arm slung across his stomach with your leg hooked over his hip to keep him close. 

“So, tell me again how I’m a macho man.” The laughter that bubbles out of you makes him smile as he stares down at you through the dim light the moon provides, seeing the way you bury your face into his chest to conceal the giant smile. 

“You want an ego boost at 3 in the morning?”

“Hey you started it,” he shrugs, a yawn escaping him, showing you just how tired he was, not once complaining about being woken up by your drunk antics despite desperately needing sleep. 

“You’re right,” you sigh, tightening your hold on him and pressing a kiss to his bare shoulder, “love you my macho man”

Taehyung hums in appreciation, wrapping his arms around you and bringing you even closer, a kiss pressed to your forehead making you smile the way it always did. “Love you more my little peach.”

[nincompoopydoo]

DEBRIS AND MISERY

WELCOME BACK, AGENT ; PART 4 / ?

PAIRING: Loki Laufeyson x Female!Reader WORD COUNT: 2.5k SUMMARY: You're back at your desk job at the TVA, suffering the consequences of your mistakes that led to your crash on Sakaar. However, Mobius has a better job for you than doing just paperwork. A/N: I feel like this one has more platonic mobius x reader than loki x reader lol but you know, this loki is meeting her for the first time again. please leave comments, criticism or love, whatever, I love to hear from you guys who are reading this. enjoy xo gif by @alligatorlokis from this gifset WARNINGS: Swearing. Paperwork. support my writing through ko-fi💖 MASTERPOST ; MASTERLIST

The sweet musky smell almost lulls you to sleep as you skim through the case file of a Loki variant, pictures and text of monochrome glaring under the unforgiving fluorescent office lighting. It’s a harsh reminder of your mishap; a simple overlook during a mission that sent you crashing onto the wasteland of Sakaar. According to the reports as you stood on the pedestal, pleading your innocence to the judge, you were there for an estimated 600 years. Maybe more.

The thought of spending six centuries stranded on a planet sends a wave of pain through your skull—it’s overwhelming information but unsurprising. You do feel like you’ve spent 600 years on that God-forsaken planet.

Now, your once fugitive days have been replaced with the return of being trapped behind a desk and having to recount every event that took place during your time there. Word for word. You despise the TVA’s love of paperwork—it’s a fucking nightmare.

The collar of your shirt feels itchy against the back of your neck, bringing your nails to graze it furiously.

You decide to ignore Miss Minutes' cheery voice despite your agitation, your name rolling off her southern accent. It hints at her chagrin towards your disregarding nature.

"Are you even listenin' to me?"

Her voice lacks all sense of her once constant sunny disposition. You spare the projection a glance, watching her rubber-hose-like arms curve to her where you assume her hips would be. She looks at you with an expectant raised brow. You don’t say anything, keeping eye contact as you snatch an empty event report template, spinning in your swivel chair and away from the glowing tangerine clock.

With pursed lips, you swipe the scatter of mess away, revealing an orange typewriter that sits idly within the expense of your stacks of case files and your collection of vintage Earth cassettes. You hear Miss Minutes' sigh as she strides to the other end of your desk, perching on top of a dusty stack of pending paperwork.

“C’mon, it’s just a test,” the animated clock says. You spare her another look as you feed the report template into the roller forcefully. Bing! The return bar dings unceremoniously as it nearly startles Miss Minutes off the stack.

“That is exactly why I’m refusing to listen to you,” you mutter with annoyance, fingers already flying across the keyboard, punching letters onto the event summary section. The loud clickety-clack of the keys makes it impossible to hear over it. “I don’t get why I need to take a test when I clearly know everything I need to know.”

“Well, you were gone for a very long time and we just wanna test your memory on policies and procedures here at the TVA—”

“Then, why didn’t they come and get me earlier? From the moment I stepped foot on Sakaar, I did everything I could to create a Nexus event or even just a spike and you only came when? When I met Loki.”

Your eyes are now on her startled figure, clicks and clacks coming to an abrupt end. You’re upset over your arrest, the whole hoo-ha at the courtroom, and everything before that. Your behavior is nearly childish but understandable to those who express empathy. You feel like you were being used, prioritizing the capture of the Loki variant that has been causing a ruckus to the timeline. But, it is your job to protect the TVA and the sacred timeline. Although you feel that the TVA should be protecting its employees as well.

“Look, I am not taking that test and that’s my final word. Everyone knows I am capable of handling myself. Plus, I do have tons of paperwork to refresh my memory on policies and procedures if that’s what you’re worried about.”

The cartoon clock nods but with hesitation. However, you do make a fair point. Thus, with a swish and a blip, Miss Minutes disappears into thin air, and you’re left to your own devices once more.

Finally some goddamn peace.

As if the universe doesn’t loathe you enough, someone calls your name, approaching from behind you. A groan escapes from your lips, scowling at the glaring keys of the typewriter.

“What?” you spat. In a swift motion, you swivel in your seat and turn to look over your shoulder.

It’s Mobius, approaching you with sudden caution. You let your shoulder sag with relief, happy to see a familiar friendly face.

“Glad to see you’re back and still feisty.” Mobius hesitantly taps your shoulder, flashing you a small consoling smile. Your expression, however, remains unchanged. “Well, you guys did find me after all.” He spots the glimmer of melancholy in your eyes; they avert back to face the typewriter, hands resting on the keys. Mobius shoves his hand into the pockets of his brown slacks, shifting to lean against the edge of your desk. He knows to tread lightly around you after what happened. You’ve changed with wrinkles of age and crinkles of exhaustion. Sakaar must have not been kind to you.

Yet, you’re here, at your desk; alive and well.

“Hey, what’s got you all wound up?”

It’s a stupid question, really but it’s a question to show he still cares. You have every right to be upset. However, you have every right to be thankful. You would have been pruned. Desk cleared and cassettes discarded—it would be as if you never existed. Renslayer would have never given you any mercy after the act you pulled. Disobeying orders and recklessly throwing yourself into danger with the risk of bringing the whole TVA down. You’re impulsive on missions, but it’s your unrelenting determination that drives you to be one of the greatest analysts Mobius has ever seen.

You’re also a friend. A great one. And he isn’t planning on losing one.

“Please prune me, Mobius.”

Your statement comes off as intentionally sarcastic rather than truly meaningful.

“What? I always thought you adored paperwork.” Mobius hears you groan, burying your face in your hands, elbows propped up on the desk. “My back is already hurting, and I have a migraine just thinking about typing out reports of my time on Sakaar. I think it’s quite clear I adore paperwork.” Your muffled voice tinges sarcasm heavily.

Laughter erupts in his chest. He's glad that your sense of humor never changed. Then, the moment quickly passes and he senses a sudden change in the air. You turn up to look at him.

“What was my Nexus event?”

It’s abrupt, almost arbitrary but leads him to even more confusion. Mobius finds himself frowning. “You don’t know?”

You blink. “That’s the one thing they never told me.”

He shifts in his seat on the edge of your desk, blinking up to the ceiling in thought. “Well, from what I heard...it was because Loki willingly helped you. And it wasn’t for his own advantage.”

It’s your turn to frown. “Wouldn’t that be Loki's fault?”

“Apparently not. It was all you.”

You laugh in response; it comes out like a puff of air. “Well, then. That’s a first. I guess I can finally add manipulation to my list of skills. Plus, pick-pocketing weird cosmic fruits.”

Mobius laughs and taps your shoulder again.

“C’mon, take a walk with me. I’ve got a new case that I need your help with.” You shoot him a quizzical look, eyes catching sight of a thick case file in hand—must be important. “I thought I was supposed to be on desk duty.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to sit behind the desk the whole time,” he shoots back a clever answer with a raised eyebrow, beckoning you to accept his offer. Your laugh comes off as more of a snort. It’s the first one in a while. You stand on your feet, stretching your limbs as you shrug on your coat that was hung over the back of your chair.

“Plus, you’re under my supervision,” he says before turning on his heel, heading for the exit. You watch him raise a hand, his back to you, gesturing for you to follow as he pushes through the wooden door. You hum with amusement, trailing behind him.

-

The winding hallways feel hollow, mundane walls lacking any color of brightness the TVA tries to bring to the space when in all fairness, orange isn’t much of a fun color now that everywhere you look, there’s a tinge of tangerine somewhere. The posters that adorn the walls are your least favorite parts of the headquarters’ decorative choice. You pass one that says 'Always Watching' in big bold letters, ominously glaring at you. The words are far from comforting, almost inhumane—a jarring reminder of where you are and where you stand in the hierarchy of this bureaucratic organization.

Mobius clears his throat from beside you, pulling you out from your thoughts. In a weirdly discreet manner, he hands you the case file with an outstretched hand. You take it, eyeing him and his odd behavior, there’s an unexpected shift in the air.

Then, you glance down, reading the scrawled words on the file that reads: Variant L1130, Loki Laufeyson.

Your strides come to an abrupt end, whipping your head up to see Mobius’ sheepish smile. Your eyes are wide, and you’re shaking your head in utmost objection.

“No, no, no. No. Absolutely no—”

“C’mon, it’s just—”

“No, Mobius. Nuh-uh. I swear, if I have to deal with another Loki, I will prune myself. I literally will.”

You're shoving the file to him, as he attempts to suck it up to you like the optimistic idiot he is although he very well knows once you’ve made up your mind, you cannot be swayed. You’re stubborn, rebellious—it’s what makes you dangerous. Yet, the TVA are pessimists. It’s Mobius who truly recognizes your accompanying positive characteristics that make dealing with your spontaneous character worthwhile.

Then, coincidently emerging from the door of the locker room is Loki himself, dressed in a dress shirt, tie, and slacks—clothes and color schemes accustomed to the TVA’s dress code. Mobius can practically see the wires in your brain short-circuiting as soon as you lay eyes on the God. Your eye twitches and from that, he knows you’re about to go mayhem. It’s the mayhem that’s going to break out on him like a hurricane devouring everything and anything in its way.

“You hired him?! You hired a Loki?!”

Your voice is loud, startling Mobius and Loki as passersby stare at the commotion you’re causing. You find yourself hunching in response, shoulders sagging as if it’s supposed to help with averting the attention away from you. Still, your expression doesn’t falter, and you’re staring at Mobius like he’s nuts.

Your voice comes off as a whisper, tone still harsher than before. “Mobius, are you insane?—”

“Just, let me explain,” he cuts you off with a raised palm to you. You purse your lips, sparing a glance to Loki who seems amused by the looks of the conversation that’s turning to more of an argument because you’re directly questioning your colleague’s sanity in public. Nevertheless, you decide to hear him out.

You watch Mobius sigh at the sight of your raised brow. “We have a variant. A Loki variant that’s been killing our Minutemen and I believe it’s the same one that threw you to Sakaar. So, to hunt down a Loki, what better way than to source the help of another?”

Silence. You’re giving him that deafening silent treatment once more. You’re thinking, he can see the mechanics in your brain running like a steam engine. He observes the way your eyes flicker between him, the file, and Loki who attempts to hide his confusion of you and the whole situation.

You’re not his superior, not even close, but he’s hopeful for your approval of his plan.

You cross your arms, shifting in your stance. “Which Loki is this?” You gesture to Loki with a tilt of your head. Mobius heaves a sigh, a hand to his hip and the other waving in the air.

“He’s, uh, he’s from 2012—”

And you’re back to causing mayhem.

“2012?! Mobius! That’s the worst one yet!”

“Now, hang on just a minute—” Loki interrupts, voice tinged with bewilderment and resentment but with two sharp looks directed his way, he instantly shuts his mouth.

You and Mobius are now back to your whispered debate.

“Look, as much as I hate to admit it, the TVA’s survival all depends on catching this variant and that means our survival. He has potential for change, so much of it...You just have to trust me on this.”

Mobius makes an excellent point but you can't help but feel the queasiness rising from your stomach. It feels like bile. You begin to feel the weight of the case file in your grasp becoming heavier and heavier. It’s the thought of risky business, and you’re almost upset as to why Mobius thinks it’s such a brilliant idea to pull you into this case after the stunt you pulled.

“Care to explain why I'm involved in this? You do know I’m being scrutinized for every move I make, right?”

Following your question, he glances at Loki who seems to be growing impatient, eyes wandering around the hallway. He leans forward and lowers his voice though his pitch raises, like when he's excited about a breakthrough.

“Because I know you’re capable of getting Loki to trust you. It happened once, there’s a high chance it’ll happen again and that’s good enough for me.” He watches you blink once. Then, twice. He continues, “And you’re being scrutinized by me. So, does it really matter?”

You’re silent again but in deep thought and not out of spite. Your troubled eyes find Loki’s. He’s already staring at you and for a moment, you see an unknown glimmer in his eye, expression nearly vulnerable but in an instant, he seals it away from you and averts his gaze, busying himself with straightening his pecan brown tie. It’s a small sign that he must have heard what Mobius said to you quietly. Nothing more.

Your gaze returns to your colleague and you pull yourself together, heaving a deep sigh. “Fine, but I still think you’re insane.”

Mobius beams down at you in an almost proud manner. “Welcome back, agent.” And with a turn of a heel, he waves for Loki to follow as the three of you head down the hallway. Loki quickly catches up beside you, much to your dismay. “So, what’s your story?” he leans into you with a curious smirk. You keep your face forward, shoulder back, and chin up as you reply with a monotonous tone. “None of your business, daddy long legs.”

In your peripheral vision, you note how the God retracts in response to your reply, brows now furrowed as he glances down to his legs in an almost sheepish and innocent way.

You struggle to fight down a growing smirk.

Mobius looks over his shoulder for a moment and catches sight of you and Loki’s expression after your exchange.

It looks like the two of you would get along just fine.

TAGLIST:

@lareinedususpense

@poubxlle

@mystoragehatesme

[the-knife-consumer]

Hhhmg Villainous hcs!!

starting with Demencia bc i love her smmmm 🦎

Super online all the time. Leet speak. Emoticons. Rawrs and X3 s.

Beats the hell out of Flug on Smash Bros. Or any other video game. She mains Greninja khchkkhh

Feels lonely and doesn't know where to direct it or how to ease it so she tries as hard as she fucking can to have a crush on Black Hat.

cupioromantic, ace :))

100% a scalie

She/it

Was busted for petty theft, graffiti, and nearly mauling people when she was 19. After escaping prison with the blood of several guards on her hands, knowing that she could never live peacefully again and would be hunted for the rest of her life, Black Hat approached her with a job offer.

Hair is naturally a dark green. She dyes it neon, and it grows incredibly fast (if it was cut down to a pixie cut, she'd have it back to full length in about a week)

Her hair, even though it has no nerve endings, still causes her pain if its crushed/chopped off (what with it functioning as an extra limb)

Buff but not from lifting weights. She'll pick up 5.0.5. And tote him around. Take bear to go get ice cream 🥺 breaking out of straight jackets probably added to it as well.

GOES BONKERS OVER JET SET RADIO

Giant gir plushie. Insert your text here. (A TON of gir merch. Shirts, keychains, pins, etc. She has never watched iz)

Peeling apart those sour belt candies and putting them in a bowl filled with monster

Do not do this.

YEEPERS NOT EVEN TWO CHARACTERS IN THIS IS LONG

The rest under cut :3

Flug ✈️

Has absolutely lost his shit at Bh for tormenting 505 before. Busts into the office and makes bh remember what it was like to be in hell.

Struggles with being in the air after crashing as a pilot for a high class airline (had a passion for science, but it was interrupted by piloting) He was the only one who survived. Approached by Black Hat with a job offer shortly after.

Because of this, flying to missions puts him on edge and he's quicker to lose his temper. 5.0.5. Is good at calming him down most of the time

Despite his past he loves building model planes and still studies aviation.

Would draw what i think he looks like w/o his bag but. Eghh i'll do it later

Had a parakeet named Cloudy. Demencia ate it.

He/him

Bi

He has extremely strong prescription lenses in his goggles. Mans blind.

Lets 505 doodle little flowers and hearts on his bag 😌

Yk how in the shorts,, the device that makes the most horrifying thing you can imagine,, and all he could manage was an oozing sandwich. And how the device that makes the most important to them thing was bh?? Yeah he's not really afraid of him anymore outside of having his bones snapped. Completely desensitized to the paranormal bc of the chaos he's constantly exposed to.

Just chairs moving and knives flying out of the knife block and glasses shattering and he's just. "damn i guess the boss is angry again" one day brushing off everything is gonna get him killed ngxngx

Marie squid sisters his beloved

Black Hat 🎩

Incredibly weak by demon standards. Very weak

Smooth like smooth shark. If you see them have scales no they dont

Smells strongly of almonds (haha get it bc cyanide smell like almouhng)

Eye covered by monocle just doesn't work. Used to be helped by it, but over time they went completely blind in that one

Speaking of. HATES eye contact. Part of the reason they're constantly scaring the shit out of people is to make sure they won't stare at them.

Fucking refuses to be shorter than other people. Will wear heels if necessary. Will turn into giant horrifying mass if necessary. Just hates being short (even though they are reasonably tall) , especially compared to lowly clients.

Commonly refers to themself as 'we'

Exiled from hell for fucking too hard (KHXGKCHKC but no, they were exiled because they were considered a disgrace)

They/he/she

Was mean to 505 a few times. Flug's wrath shocked them so much that they never got they courage to do so again.

Honestly enjoys being out of hell (aside from dealing with idiots). Scamming people is fun

Girl help i cant fucking swim

Wears hats to cover up the fact that their horns are just. Nubs. Not even slightly intimidating

Has paw pads but not exactly??? They aren't soft they're more like sandpaper. Designed for climbing/tearing up stuff

Gets up later than everyone else because they're cold blooded. They need to be near a heater or in the sun for a bit before they can actually start their day.

Can barely change color. Stays in the range of deep grey/purple though

Weehee this is what happens when im bored

Hope u enjoyed my babbling session ❤️

[narrators-journal]

Step one

Hoo boy, this one is potentially dark as fuck, so remember that this is entirely fantasy. Do not think this is healthy or copy anything here.

Cw: heavy heavy nsfw. Drugging, b+e, somnophilia, Illumi gets possessive lowkey

previous part: here

First part: here

Illumi used the month or so you were closed off and mourning to try and dig up as much intimate info on you as he could, from childhood fears to how many times you've had sex. With this knowledge added to his collection, the last thing he needed to do was set up a cover story, than introduce himself. If this fails, she can be killed, or trained He told himself as he read through your social media on his laptop, ignoring a nagging sense of dread he hadn't felt since his first solo kill as a child.

The cover story was easy enough, murdering the people across the street from your home was boringly simple, setting them up to die of heart attacks and a break in, waiting out the investigation, nothing new to the assassin. By the time things had cleared up there, you were beginning to cheer up anyway, which was good, it'd be easier for Illumi to court you if you weren't verging into suicidal territory. Finally, the day came when he moved into the home, much to the teary refusal of his mother.       "I'm not leaving permanently," Illumi assured her the day he moved out, taking only a duffel bag of clothing with him, the issue was that his mother was holding him in a hug and refusing to let go. "You were so excited for me to be courting a woman, you can't sob and cling to me when I need to move out to properly 'woo' her." His voice was level and uninterested, as always, though on the inside he did feel a bit of reluctance at leaving, which was why he guessed he didn't use a lot of force to remove his mother's iron grip.        "I know, but why can't you go about the process from home?" she blubbered, Illumi's father standing a bit behind her sighing at her antics,              "To build up proper propinquity I need to be near her a lot, I cannot do that from here while also doing my work. Besides, it is relatively frowned upon for a 24 year old to still be living with their parents, so I need to have my own place for...the later portion." Sadly, even logic didn't calm Kikyo down, so Silva was forced to pry her from Illumi and simply wished the long haired assassin well as the man left. To atone for the sin of leaving the Zoldyck estate, Illumi was required to call his mother at least once a day, but other than that, he was free to live across the street from you when he wasn't working. This set up proved to be very useful, as it allowed him to linger on the street without suspicion, watch you from his windows, and it gave him more opportunities to run into you 'organically', despite having your meager outing schedule memorized already, and more. The day he moved in properly, Illumi was helping a trio of butlers move furniture in, trying to seem as normal as possible since he could see you sitting on your porch, getting some fresh air while also watching your new neighbor curiously. It's good to see her out at least, vitamin D is necessary for good health. he thought as he moved the last bit of strategically aged furniture into the home, letting the butlers return home after that. If he was to blend in, he'd have to slum it for a while after all. Though, he could put up with that as long as you stayed as friendly as you were the first night he was there. It was pretty late, the dark hours cooling the relatively warm air of the late spring day when he heard a knock at the door, but when he opened, there you were, your (h/l), (h/c) hair pulled away from your face, in a (f/c) jacket and some of your nicer casual clothes,       "Hello! I'm sorry if you were asleep or anything, but I wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood!" you chirped, your kind smile making something weird happen to his heart, but he hid that, not wanting to scare you by saying he was having a heart attack,      "Ah, hello miss. No, I was just trying to cook some dinner, not to worry." he assured, watching you relax a bit before tilting his head, "I'm sorry if this is curt, but have we met?" he asked, your (e/c) eyes shining with confusion for a moment before realization washed that away,       "Oh! you're the man I bumped into at that party!" he mimicked your stunned reaction, chatting a bit before you heard angry sizzling from his kitchen, the sound earning a concerned look from you. "Um?? Should you step outside?" you suggested, and when he looked in your eyes again, he saw that undeserved concern in those captivating orbs. That weird feeling returned in response, but Illumi repressed it once again,        "No, I believe that's just my food," he said nonchalantly, watching your expression change to panic, it was so intriguing to see how expressive you were compared to his family,        "Maybe you should go check on it??" you urged gently, the panicked look in your eyes compelling the empathy-less assassin to do as you said, so he nodded simply and returned to the pot of boiling water that was leaking with angry bubbles splashing water onto the burner. He simply turned the stove off and returned to you once the water had settled again. You were still there, nervously peeking in to try and check on him he assumed.        "Why didn't you come in?" He asked, making you jump,        "I-I wasn't invited, it's rude to just walk in." you pointed out, and he mentally kicked himself for forgetting that fact briefly. Though he verbally just sighed in defeat, running a hand through his long, silky hair.         "Actually, would it be uncouth of me to maybe ask if you would help me with something?" He asked, and when you shook your head he reluctantly continued, "You see, my family is rather well off, so I've...never learned to cook. Would you maybe teach me how to make the food?" He asked, and he liked to think it was the power of his natural charm that made you agree, not the pitiful mask of helplessness he put on. Either way though, you were now inside of his new home. Could this be considered a date? Illumi mused as he followed your instructions to bring the water to a boil again and put the store-bought noodles into the rolling liquid, People cook together as a date, so this should count as a date. He decided after a moment of watching you prepare food, following your orders until the two of you had managed to make a rather respectable looking dinner. He cemented this occassion's 'date' status by handing you a plate,          "It's fair that since you helped make it, you eat some of it with me." he pointed out when you went to refuse his offering. After that, the two of you sat in his living room in silence, neither making the first move to speak. For Illumi, the silence was comfortable, it gave him time to judge the weird thing that had happened with his insides. He wasn't dead, and the warm, fluttery sensation was fading, so it didn't seem to be fatal. I should get the family doctor to check me over. he decided as he ate, finally glancing over at you while you sat on the opposite end of the couch. Judging by the tension in your limbs and how you radiated discomfort, you were about to bolt like a scared rabbit. That's not good...

        "so." He hummed, hoping to ease your anxiety with some conversation, plus it'd give him a chance to dig into you, "why were you at that party?" There was a stretch of silence, your mood falling again for a moment, but than you seemed to put on a fake smile for him, how sweet.         "I'm a bit shy, so my friend decided to try and hook me up with a man she worked with." you explained, shrugging it off, "He ended up ditching me for some friends when we got there, so I didn't ask for a second date." Well of course your date went badly, you're supposed to be with me, not some stranger. a dark part of him thought, than stopped. What brought that up? I haven't even decided if she's really worth 'dating'. He reminded himself, but that possessive thought still lingered a bit more than he would've liked. However, that issue was for later, right now he wanted to see just how much information he could get you to willingly tell him.       "So, are you looking for a partner?" he asked, and he just caught a bit of a flustered epression on your (s/c) face at his question. He was beginning to enjoy seeing such an expression.        "R-right now? Um..not actively, b-but I'm not against a relationship." you said, not looking at him as you spoke, your body language screaming how flustered you were. After that, the two of you simply chatted, Illumi enjoying when you fully relaxed and opened up a bit more, but what felt like only a short time later, you were thanking him for the food and leaving for your own home. The tall man was polite back, but for the third time that night, his torso felt odd inside. He wanted to ask you to stay, maybe offer you a drink and slip a sedative into it, that way you'd stay the night, but no, he refrained from stopping you. If you drug her, she'll wake up tomorrow and be terrified of you. Maybe even call the cops. He told himself as he shut his door behind you. However, the thoughts were already there, making him groan. What is going on with me?! I'm losing control of myself so easily now. he thought, rubbing his face as if that would wipe away the bubbling waves of dark lust that were once again flooding his mind with images of you naked beneath him, calling out his name, mixing with the urge to control that he usually kept a close eye on. This is absolutely pathetic. She's not even that attractive! He chided himself, glaring down at the growing bulge in his pants as if it were to blame for his urges. Which, to a point was true, but either way it still twitched, demanding to be tended to. However, he refused to masturbate again. His sperm was precious, and while he could produce quite enough to impregnate a woman despite such a shameful act, he didn't like wasting his DNA. So, for a bit, he tried to cook up ways to relieve himself, unable to shake the lustful thoughts of you. Could he wait until tomorrow and lure you over again? No, that'd leave a horrid impression of him in your mind. Maybe he could sneak some aphrodisiacs into your food and than offer to help? No, that'd take too long, and he didn't know how long he could control his lust. Around eleven or so, Illumi finally came up with a satisfactory method. So, he turned his lights off and slipped out into the cool night to slither across the street and into your dark home. It was late enough that he knew you were asleep, so he was free to make his way in and towards your bedroom, What he wasn't expecting though, was to find you sleeping on your couch, your blanket fallen to the floor, revealing your pajamas to him. The sight only seemed to throw gasoline on the fire of neglected needs within him.       "now this is simply inappropriate," he breathed, shaking his head at your baggy t-shirt and (random color) panties, "(y/n), you should know better. Such outfits should be saved for your husband." He kept his voice low, making sure not to wake you as he chided you and his lightless eyes zeroed in on the bit of panty he could see with the way your shirt was ridden up ever so slightly. teasingly. He sighed, this would make his plan easier anyway. So, he just pulled out a needle of sedative and carefully moved you so that he could get access to your neck without waking you, sticking the needle in and injecting you with the fast acting drug. Within a few moments you were certain to stir for nothing less than a natural disaster, so he was free to do whatever he wished. The assassin's body burned with lust, his cock throbbing within his pants while he moved your thighs apart, revealing more of your panties. You weren't much to look at, he'd seen prettier women, but the feeling of your perfectly malleable thigh in his hand, seeing you so complacent and welcoming for him while his hormones were so out of control, you could've passed as a goddess in that moment. He wasted no time in removing your underwear, leaving your shirt and bra on so it'd be less work afterwards, revealing your most intimate parts to him with no arguments. It gave him such a rush to see you so obediently laying on your back, your legs apart and welcoming. your vulnerability was like a form of foreplay for him, but when he ran a slender finger up your slit and realized just how dry you were, it ruined his fantasy. Though, not enough to deter him. Instead of stopping, Illumi simply pushed your shirt up with your bra, using one hand to massage your breast while he kissed down your sternum and up the soft mound of flesh. His free hand slipped between the two of you, rubbing slow circles around your clit until breathy whines and moans slipped from your lips. Carefully, he teased your nipple between his fingers, simultaneously moving up to your throat until he found the spot that made you gasp and whine in your sleep again. The only downside was despite how badly he wanted to mark you, he couldn't. He had to wait until he securely had you, until then he couldn't leave any visual evidence of his actions. So, he nibbled and kissed the spot, but didn't bite too roughly and claim you. He simply teased you, rubbing your clit, massaging your breasts or hip, and pressing hungry kisses to your unresponsive lips until he could dip his fingers down into your warmth and pull them back coated with a healthy amount of slick. With you properly aroused, he eagerly freed his throbbing dick from his pants, giving himself a few pumps before running the head up and down your slit, making you hum at the stimulation. God, how he relished how your face twitched and you groaned at the feeling of him grabbing one of your legs with one of his hands before pushing into you. God the tight warmth alone could've made him cum, but he once again held himself back. He'd gone this far, he wasn't about to squander the opportunity to indulge himself by not savoring it. No, He simply grabbed your hips once fully inside and began moving, pretty soon slapping his hips into yours roughly. He might regret being so aggressive later, when it undoubtedly left you sore, or at the very least left bruises and scratches, but right now he just enjoyed the way your pussy squeezed around him and your breasts bounced with each rough thrust into your womb. He let out a few soft noises after a bit when the waves of pleasure began fogging over his mind again. The combination of your breathy moans, your warmth squeezing around him, begging to be filled, and the possessive urge to claim you continuously driving him forward, encouraging him to go until the blinding waves of pleasure erupted and he stilled himself so that every drop of cum was safely inside of your womb. It took him longer than usual to regain his composure afterwards, but when he did he swiftly pulled out, pulling his pants up and slipping your panties back onto you before too much of his essence escaped. He grimaced at the marks of his nails on your (s/c) flesh, though hopefully they would fade before you noticed. Right now though, his main priority was to get out of your home, and leave as little evidence as possible, save for his cum. He refused to feel sorry for filling his obviously needy wife with perfectly good semen. That's right. his wife. The phrase seemed to fit perfectly.