#his arm’s wrapped in thick bandages and still all he does is nod at them and leave again

[s0fter-sin]

saw a tweet about mer!ghost being rescued from roba by price and placed in his rehab facility that soap lives in after a boat propeller injured his tail and now i’m obsessed with the idea that ghost thinks he's traded one hell for another and when he sees the beached shark mer with a human device strapped to his tail, it's all but confirmed for him

the pens they’re in are poorly designed; they’re huge, deep with glass walls but completely open to each other and it takes nothing to pull himself over the edge into the the other mer's cage. he swims over to the platform he’s trapped on and hushes what he thinks is panicked warnings and fearful pleading. he covers his mouth and begs him to stay quiet; ghost is bigger and as an injured mer, he has every right to fear he'd take his territory if not eat him outright but he can’t escape and leave this mer behind to endure his fate

he promises he won't hurt him, promises he'll find a way to free them both from this human prison

the mer quiets, eyes narrowing in such human confusion that it makes him ache; this mer has been here too long, to have adopted their mannerisms and abandoned any hope of freedom

ghost quickly checks their surroundings, ensuring none of their jailers heard the mer's noises. no one disturbs them and he pulls the mer off the platform into the water, diving under his tail to get a better look at the trap. the mer tries to pull away, tries to get him to stop; it must hurt something awful if even freedom isn't enough of a temptation to try removing it

ghost winds his own tail around him, immobilising the mer and uses his teeth to tear through the trap and his heart breaks to see how his poor tail has been mangled; more than half of it gone, deep scarring left in its wake

he releases the mer and jets back to the surface; he’s wasted too much time, they need to hurry before the humans return. but when he looks to coax the mer through an escape, he sees him sinking to the floor like a stone, writhing and moving his arms in an attempt to swim but nothing stops his fall

ghost ducks back down and takes the mer in his arms-

only to rear back when he claws him away, baring his fangs in a threat display even as he sinks back to the floor, unmoving

ghost circles him, confused why he won't let him help when he sees him start to suffocate. he's a shark mer; if he doesn't swim, he can't breathe

and with only half a tail, he can't swim at all

ghost tries again but the mer won’t let him close so he waits for his eyes to begin to flutter and charges in, grabbing the mer out of reach of his claws and fangs and drags him through the water; forcing precious oxygen into his gills

he swims in circles until the mer comes to, sluggishly clawing at his arms but he refuses to let go. he won't leave this mer behind, even if he has to carry him through the ocean for the rest of their lives

but they took too long

a human enters and sees ghost holding the injured mer and hits something that makes the walls screech, red flashing from the ceiling, and even more human come charging in. ghost clutches the injured mer to his chest and hisses, saliva flying from his bared fangs

he won't let them hurt him any more

he spins, trying to keep them all in his sight- when the shark mer's fin slaps him in the face. his arms slacken around him and he throws himself at one of the walls of the cage, gripping it to hold himself up

ghost stares at him, betrayed and enraged; they've broken this poor mer until he doesn't even know who his true allies are anymore

his tail thumps against the wall, instinctively trying to swim and support his weight and one of the humans drops to one knee. he throws an arm out, barking something and another human takes off running

he turns back to the injured mer, grabbing hold of his arm and ghost hisses again, rushing them both when the mer snarls at him to stop and he freezes. he watches the mer hold his arms up and the human clasps his forearms and stands, walking him along the border of his cage back to the platform he'd been beached on

but he chirps as the human tugs him up on it, curling up with the end of his tail just barely dipping in the water

like he's happy

the wailing and flashing lights abruptly stop and ghost fights the urge to shake the echoing ring from his ears. the other human returns and he doesn't fight the hiss when he sees another trap in his arms; the same one the mer had around his tail

ghost's hiss cuts off when he gets a face full of water and he splutters, looking back incredulously at the shark mer who'd just splashed him

he laughs at whatever look is on his face and rolls his eyes in another painfully human gesture. he reaches for the trap, fingers flexing like he's trying to pull it right out of the air and the human shakes his head as he hands it over

the mer lifts his tail onto the platform and ghost can't believe his eyes when he fits the trap onto himself; tightening every strap until the muscles of his tail bulge under the pressure. the mer slumps like he's relieved and shoots him a look; daring and almost playful and winks as he throws himself into the water

ghost lunges for him, waiting for him to sink again-

but he's not sinking

he's swimming

he twirls and spins around him like an overgrown dolphin, flaunting his strength and agility and the humans around them laugh and shake their heads at the display like they’re used to it and ghost realises it isn't a trap on his tail

it is his tail

the humans gave him a new tail

the mer flicks to a stop in front of him, now easily supporting his weight and gives him a full-fanged grin

"you're a little tangled up inside, huh, big boy?"

[slow-motionlovepotion]

𝒅𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒕𝒆 | 𝒋.𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒓

𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈:  Joel Miller x f!Reader

𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕: 4.6K - this was not meant to be this long, oops.

𝒂/𝒏: I'm feral for Joel Miller and I won't apologise for that. This ended up so much softer than I planned but Joel Miller deserves to be loved, goddmit. part two is already in progress ~ no beta, we die like men

𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔: 18+ - smut, post-apocalypse, pre-Ellie, age gap (mid/late 20s!reader x early 40s!Joel), first time, loss of virginity, fingering, oral (f!receiving), unprotected sex (wrap it kids), Joel Miller has a big dick, risky creampie, multiple orgasms, dirty talk, manhandling, angst, implications of rape (does not involve reader or Joel), soft!Joel, fluff, idiots in love, innocence kink, Joel Miller is down bad. - minors do not interact.

𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚: Sometimes when I look into your eyes, I pretend you're mine, all the damn time

Joel had found you cowering in the corner of a store in some godforsaken town somewhere in deep Texas, the twitching body of an infected splayed in front of you. He’d eyed you cautiously, keeping his distance, gun pointed directly at you, not afraid to pull the trigger. 

“No, please, no. I’m okay, I’m fine, not bitten. I promise. Please” you were frantic, begging for your life. 

“Just the one?” He’d asked, voice gruff and dark, he exuded danger. 

You nodded “It was out the back, I checked but I didn’t see it, then it just came out of nowhere”

He nods once “You alone?” 

“Yeah, it’s just me” you hadn’t moved from your spot on the floor, hands raised in surrender, shaking in fear.  

“Christ” the man mutters more to himself than to you, giving you the once over he lowers the gun “C’mon, I’m not leaving you here” 

Your time together was meant to be brief, Joel had planned to find you somewhere safe to stay, people you could live your life with, some sense of normality. Life would never be like it was before the outbreak but maybe he could find you a new version of living. 

It took two months to find the first group of settlers but Joel didn’t even let you near them, he’d checked them out alone, swiftly deciding it wasn’t a safe place for you, he didn’t say why. Another six months until the next group, they initially seemed better but the cries echoing outside the commune at night told Joel all he needed to know. 

It’s been exactly 2 years since he found you in that abandoned store, you’d managed to survive for six months, barely, living in a constant state of fight or flight. And then Joel came, Joel who took a chance on you, who shared his supplies and taught you to survive. Joel, who stood watch and let you sleep despite being exhausted himself, who bandaged your wounds, and made his own life harder just to make yours a little bit easier. 

Joel, who would watch the world burn just to make sure you were safe. 

You could still to this day, pinpoint the exact moment you fell in love with Joel Miller. You watched the world burn. Well not the world, just a decrepit cabin on the side of a road somewhere in Texas. He'd thought it was safe, he’d checked and double checked, the place was free of infected, or so he thought. The thick knit of your scarf was the first thing that saved your life that night, when the infected had come at you from behind, jumping out of the dark and going for your neck.  Joel hadn’t even hesitated, gun drawn and a bullet in its skull before you could even cry out for help. He’d reached for you, entwining his fingers with yours as he dragged you out of the building, kicking the cap off a gas canister as he went and throwing a lighter behind him as the door had shut. He pushed you ahead of him, protecting your body from the flames licking at the dry timber frame behind him.  

You realised you loved him, were in love with him, laying on the dusty ground, with Joel’s imposing body shielded yours. You felt safe, he was firm behind you, chest heaving with laboured breaths, arms wrapped around you, keeping you close, muttering softly into your ear, “it’s okay, it’s okay, I got ya”.

So by the time you came across the third group you’d become quite the survivor. Joel had taught you to defend yourself, how to shoot a gun, how to actually use a knife, the weak spots of a man. You’d wondered why he was teaching you this, why you needed to know how to break the grasp of hands around your throat, how to use his body weight against him. When you’d stumbled across a group of men, animals really, surrounding a woman on her knees, her sobs echoed in your ears and you’d immediately searched for Joel, hands shaking as you grasped at his arms, eyes wide and terrified, you finally understood.

“They… they. Shit Joel, they were…”  He didn’t need you to finish, he knew what they were doing. Within 20 minutes he had you both packed and on the road. 

You felt like you’d been walking for weeks, in reality it had only been three days but you were exhausted. You were heading East, Joel had heard about a group of women that had settled just across the state border. You trudged slowly behind Joel, the unseasonable heat making you sweat, boots kicking up dust with every step, lost in your own thoughts.

“What’s bugging you?” Joel’s voice pulled you from your thoughts

“We should’ve helped her,” you confessed.  It didn’t sit right, that you just left her there for those men to take what they wanted

“There’s nothing we could’ve done, no guarantee she’d be safe in the next place” he’d explained softly 

“Is that why you’ve not left me?” The question slips from your lips before you can stop it.

Joel stops, his eyes meet yours but he doesn’t answer, he can’t, can’t admit that he won’t leave you, can’t admit why he won’t leave you. He can’t admit that he loves you.

Darkness has fallen by the time you reach a safe house, a favour from a friend, he’d said. The house was neat, tidy and clean, if not a bit dusty. Joel clears downstairs first, checks upstairs and calls you up to the bedroom.  A small puff of dust is released from the bed as he drops your bags. One bed. There’s two of you and more than one bedroom, but you know he won’t let you out of his sight. He won’t risk it. 

“Joel?” you croak, voice trembling as you sit on the end of the bed.

“Hmm?” He’s stood by the dresser opposite the bed, removing his jacket and boots. 

“I… there’s something- uhh, shit” you pause, taking a shaky breath “listen, please don’t make a big deal of this but I want you to fuck me” 

“Darlin’, I’m not gonna do that” he responds almost immediately, doesn’t give himself time to even think about it, doesn’t let himself indulge in the possibility. 

Not that he’s not thought about it, God knows he has. He’s wanted you, wanted to feel your lips on his, feel your nails claw at his back as he takes you. But you never gave any indication you wanted it too, so he stayed respectful, well, as respectful as he could. There’d been nights he’d fisted his cock, your name a whisper on his lips as he came into his hand, while your sleeping body lay just inches away.

“Please” you barely whisper, he goes to speak, to reject you again, but you cut him off,  “Joel, please. I don’t- I want it to be you, I don’t want it to be like that” your eyes are pleading, silently begging “please” 

“You’ve not…? There’s not been anyone?” He asks tentatively, hoping he’s misunderstood, that you’re not actually asking that of him, he crosses the room, sitting next to you on the end of the bed. 

“I’ve been kinda busy, what with the end of the world and all that” you try and make a joke but it falls flat, sobering, shining a light on all the ways your life has been taken away from you, all the experiences you’ve missed out on. 

It shouldn’t be him, he knows it shouldn’t, he’s so much older, he’s cruel and ruthless and angry. You deserve something else, soft, gentle, loving. He can’t give you that. 

But if he doesn’t, if he says no and doesn’t do this for you, there’s no guarantee the next guy is going to love you, no guarantee that he won’t hurt you. For Joel, that decides it, he can’t give you what you deserve but he can give you something better than what’s out there. 

Cautious fingers on his leg startle him out of his thoughts, “Just once, just this once” His agreement doesn’t soothe you, it ignites something, butterflies rolling in your belly; you want this. 

You’d seen other men on your travels, the way they treated women, both good and bad. You’d thought, naively, that Joel might be like that too, that Joel might take you to his bed, fuck himself into you then roll over, pretend it never happened. But he never did, always respectful, barely ever touching you unless he had to, you’d shared beds, and bandaged each other up, but he’d never touched, never taken it further. “All right?” He nudges when you don’t respond

You nod tightly and whisper a “thank you”, sitting quietly in awkward silence, you don’t know what to do next, you’ve read books, you knew how to do this before but you didn’t know how to deal with an arrangement like this. 

Joel breaks the silence first “Do you want to… tonight or would you rather w-?”

“Tonight,” your response is a bit quick and Joel huffs an almost laugh “tonight is good”  

You don’t know how to phrase ‘lets just get it over and done with’ when you’re about to fuck someone for the first time. He stands then, grabbing something from his bag then dropping it to the floor. Liquid sloshes as Joel brings the flask to his lips, drawing in three times, brow furrowed. He hands the  flask to you “Drink” and the look in his eyes tells you not to question him. 

You take a sip and nearly retch, the taste burning your throat and nose, eyes watering. You hadn’t liked whiskey much before and while it’s rare to find anything else these days, you still hadn’t got used to the taste. You take another sip, stomaching this one better. You hold the flask back out to Joel and he takes another drag before placing it on the dresser with slightly more force than he meant.

In two steps he’s back across the room, his hands finding your face, calloused fingers dragging along the skin of your jaw, bringing you to meet his lips. The kiss is bruising and feverish, hot lips pressing to yours, he licks into your mouth and you moan, it’s sinful and sweet and Joel wants more. He wants to pull more pretty noises from you, wants to hear you scream his name. His cock responds eagerly, hardening in his jeans, he’s not felt desire like this in years, it’s burning through his blood, overwhelming his senses. 

Joel stands between your legs, tilting your chin up, bringing a knee to rest on the mattress between your thighs. One of his large hands moves to support your neck, the other tracing the line of your throat, gripping gently. The kiss has grown sloppy, Joel is breathing hard, nipping at your lips. His knee between your legs moves to press into your clothed core and despite the layers of fabric you can feel the heat of his thick thigh, your hips roll, chasing more pleasure and a groan escapes your throat unexpectedly. 

Joel’s hand drops from your throat, following the neckline of your shirt, down between your breasts, flicking the buttons open, exposing you to the humid air. He pushes the flannel off your shoulders, taking the straps of your bra with it, reaching behind you to unclasp it, inwardly pleased he managed the first try.   

You slide your hands to his waist, dragging his shirt with you, brushing your fingers across bare skin. Your fingers trace the waistband of his jeans but he reaches for your hands, wrapping a large hand around your wrists he pushes you flat, pinning your arms above your head. The other hand joins his knee between your legs, fingers teasing the seam of your jeans. 

“You asked me to fuck you,” he pulls a nipple into his mouth, teeth nibbling at the sensitive bud “n’ I will” It may have been a while but it’s really just second nature to him and he feels you shiver beneath him “gonna make you feel good darlin’”

“Joel” Your throat is dry and your voice cracks but it’s enough, his hands reach for the button of your jeans, working them down your legs while his mouth assaults your breasts. You can’t focus, it’s too much, his mouth, hands, the feel of his body, large and imposing over yours. He finally gets your jeans off, discarding them to the floor.

You reach for him, finding the buttons of his shirt, tugging gently but making your intentions clear, he allows your trembling fingers to fumble with the buttons for a minute before helping you, making quick work of the buttons, all but ripping the shirt down his arms, throwing it to the floor behind him before positioning himself between your thighs.

Joel’s hand runs up your outer thigh, fingers digging into the flesh of your bum. He trails kisses over your skin, behind your ear, down your jaw, across each of your breasts, fingers playing with the nipple neglected by his mouth. He moves his head down your exposed torso, tongue tasting the salty sweat on your skin you gasp softly as he reaches the waistband of your underwear, black lace, a little luxury that makes you feel pretty and feminine. He nudges the fabric with his nose, breath ghosting over your skin and you shiver, 

“You don’t have to” you whisper into the darkness.

A soft “yeah I do” is mumbled into your skin. He makes quick work of removing your underwear, dragging the lace down your legs and dropping them to the floor in a rather obscene gesture.

His mouth is back on your hips working his way to nuzzle at your folds, leaving open mouthed kisses and grazes of his teeth on your skin. His hands press against the back of your thighs, pushing your knees up to your chest, spreading you wide. Joel’s eyes roll back in his head at the sight of you, pussy glistening in the dim light, the low growl that sounds in his chest shakes the bed and it takes all his restraint to take it slow, make it good for you. 

“This all for me?” He rubs his thumb through your folds, gathering your wetness and spreading it up to your clit, circling the little bundle. You look down at him between your spread thighs and nod. 

The sound you make when Joel flattens his tongue and licks a stripe up your cunt is unholy, and when he flicks his tongue against your clit you can’t help the way a hand reaches for his hair and tugs, nor can you help the sharp cry of his name. 

Languid, is the word you’d use to describe the way Joel works at your cunt. Long, slow, lazy circles around your swollen clit, soft passes over the entrance to your cunt, not giving you more than that for what feels like hours. You catch on, quite quickly, that this is as much for Joel as it is for you, and you think he might be enjoying it the most.  

Joel hums around your clit, sucking it into his mouth, and the arch of your back is violent, a stark contrast to Joel’s gentle movements, biting down on the fleshy part of your thumb to muffle your scream. 

“Don’t do that” a hand reaches up in the dark to pull your fist from your mouth, “wanna hear you” his breath is hot against your core, tongue lapping at you like a man starved. 

You’re hot, skin prickly with a layer of sweat, hips rolling, pushing your soaked pussy into Joel’s face, your clit catching on his nose as he teases your entrance with his tongue. 

“Jo-el” your voice is whiny to your own ears and your face heats at the sound “more, please more” 

Joel lets out a hum at your request, bringing two thick fingers to slide into you and already you feel the intoxicating spark of your orgasm approaching. Your cunt clenches around his fingers and the feeling shoots straight to his cock. 

“I’m gonna cum,” you breathe, your grip in his hair painful even to you.  “Fuck, fuck, I’m gonna cum, Joel”

You’re so close that when Joel crooks his fingers and continues his assault on your clit, your orgasm tears through you. You stiffen, hissing a “Yesss”through gritted teeth, hands clawing at the sheets and Joel’s hair.

“‘Atta girl” he coos around your clit “tha’s it baby” The sound of Joel’s voice is muffled by the ringing in your ears and when you open your eyes all you can see is stars, flashes of white clouding your vision. 

Sensing his movement, you open your eyes and when they’ve adjusted to the darkness again, you can see the burly outline of Joel kneeling between your legs, his eyes drag down your body, fingers of his left hand gently caressing the bend of your knee. You sit up, reaching for his belt, tugging at the buckle. Joel watches as you pull his belt free, fingers ghosting over his length confined in the denim as you pull down the zip. 

When your fingers dip inside to grasp him he can’t stop the choked “fuck” that escapes his throat. Pulling him free of his boxers, your jaw drops at the size, fuck he’s thick, so thick, and swaying heavily between his legs, dripping with precum. With hesitant fingers you run the pad of your thumb down his slit, smearing the fluid, stopping to rub your thumb on the underside of his head. Joel can’t help the jerky twitch of his hips at the stimulation. You take that as a positive, repeating the action once, twice more, before calloused hands still your movements. You look up to Joel, confusion clear on your face. 

“Won’t last if you keep that up” Joel explains, his voice a whisper, vulnerability evident even in his low tone. 

You release his length from your grasp, bringing your thumb coated in his arousal to your mouth, sucking tentatively. You don’t notice Joel watching you through hooded eyes, but he makes quick work of his jeans and boxers, kicking the offending fabric off as quick as his aching bones will let him.  

Experienced hands lift your legs to hook over his hips as he settles himself between your thighs again. You can feel the thick length of Joel’s cock pressed firmly against you, sliding through the wetness left by his mouth and your orgasm as he ruts against you. It takes the entirety of Joel’s willpower to not fuck into you, coming back to himself, he remembers why he’s doing this. 

“Gotta tell me if y’need to stop” he slurs against your temple and he feels you nod as he presses a soft kiss to your clammy skin. Joel rests the heavy weight of his cock against your entrance, running the head between your folds, bumping your clit and soaking himself with your wetness. He presses himself in to your tight heat and you feel like you’re being split open, wincing at the burn “I know, ‘m sorry darlin’, it won’t hurt for long promise”   

Joel pushes your sweat-damp hair out of your face, big hands cupping your face, open mouth dragging against yours. He tries to distract you with wet kisses to your jaw but when he pushes himself deeper you cry out, hands flying to claw at his hips, stopping him from moving any further. 

“We can stop” Joel mutters into your open mouth but you give a quick shake of your head 

“No. I’m okay, I’ll be okay” The feeling is foreign, neither his fingers or tongue could’ve prepared you for the stretch of his cock, nor the desperate ache that settled deep inside you, the one you know only Joel can satisfy. 

You can feel him throbbing inside you, and it’s taking everything in him to hold still

“Eyes on me darlin’” Joel orders as he pries your hand off his hip, entwines his fingers with yours, and pins your hand to the mattress. Your eyes meet through the darkness and there’s a softness in Joel’s eyes you wish you could bottle and keep.

You tense up in anticipation of Joel’s next movement, squeezing your cunt around Joel’s cock

“Fuckin’ Christ  darlin’, y’gotta relax, just relax” you will your body to relax, to release the squeezing of your core, “that’s it, doin’ so good, you’re doin’ so good. Takin me so well” and yes, you keen at his praise, the throb of arousal in your stretched cunt is heavenly and Joel takes your moment of distraction to sink the rest of his length into you. 

“Fuck” you whimper, the sharp stretch shocks you, eyes widening.

He shudders a breath above you, “‘m sorry, ‘m so sorry”

“So big Joel. ‘T  hurts” you practically sob and the sound breaks his heart in ways he didn’t expect. Joel breaks eye contact first, fixing his eyes on where you’re currently impaled on his cock. He moves to pull out but you tighten your thighs, keeping him still “No, don’t. Don’t wanna stop. Just give me a minute” you close your eyes and breath in deep through your nose, letting a shaky breath out. 

“Touch yourself,” Joel orders, bringing your hand still clutching his to his mouth, wetting your fingers with his tongue before pressing your fingers against your clit “‘t’ll make you feel better” 

You obey, stroking your bundle of nerves, still sensitive from your previous orgasm “that feel good?” He asks as you tighten involuntarily around him. 

“Yes,” you pause for a moment, continuing to stroke at your clit. Warmth blooms under your fingers, arousal spreading through your body, loosening your muscles, the discomfort subsides, leaving behind a different kind of ache “can you move? Please” 

The way you ask him, with your pleases and thank yous, still so polite despite the harsh world you live in, it’s innocent and sweet, and he loves it. It activates something primal in him, some deep desire to protect you, to please you. To pleasure you. 

Joel settles his knees wide on the mattress, pulling his cock from your depths before pushing back in slowly, when you don’t stop him he repeats the action. “shit darlin’, so fuckin’ tight”, and he’s not wrong, the girth of his cock is stretching you in ways you’ve never been before, you can feel every vein, every ridge, every goddamn fucking inch as he works himself in and out of you. It’s steady, controlled, almost gentle, the way he rolls his hips, leaving enough space between you for your fingers to continue working your clit, not that you need the distraction anymore. 

He could cum right there, your aching cunt absolute bliss around him. The whine that leaves your throat is of pleasure not pain and the tightness in his chest borders on uncomfortable. He’s done this before, he’s experienced, he’s had women screaming his name but nothing compares to the breathy sound of his name leaving your lips. You’re so sweet, eyes fluttering, fingers ghosting across the skin of his hips, the softness of his belly, the firm muscles of his chest and his broad shoulders. 

You could pretend, wrapped up in Joel like this, that it’s not the end of the world, that this comfy bed in this nicely decorated house is yours and Joel’s. You pretend, just for a minute, as he’s fucking himself into you, that he’s yours. Your hands reaching to wrap around his back, nails scratching at the muscles working beneath the skin, it’s intimate.

You feel his pace falter, “‘m close darlin’” he mumbles into the thick air above you, “fuck, y’gotta come for me baby, come on” it sounds like he’s begging and you find that you quite like the sound of Joel begging, especially when he’s begging you to cum for him.  

He can see you’re close, legs twitching, breathing heavy, he can feel the tell-tale flutters in your cunt and he knows “what d’ya need?” He pants, chasing your high, no care or regard for his own anymore, he just wants you to get there. 

“Joel, I need mo-” he drives himself into you deeper, tilting his hips to rub his cock against your sweet spot. With fluttering eyes and heaving chest you whine a tight “that’s it” fingers working furiously at your clit, hips rocking down as you meet his thrusts “Joel, yes” you groan, the sound reverberating in your chest. 

He feels your cunt squeeze him “tha’s it, good girl”, he needs to stop or he’ll cum but you don’t care, continuing to rock your hips, thrusting down forcefully against him, cock reaching deeper than you thought possible and you tense, muttering a “fuck” as you cum hard around him. You can’t comprehend that this is what it feels like, the violent quivering of your muscles, tight and squeezing. Fuck, you don’t want to let this feeling go, Joel’s cock buried so deep inside you it hurts, you never want to cum without this ever again. 

Joel gives a few tight thrusts, “Shit, what a sight” He has to pull out, he can’t cum inside you, can’t take the risk but the rhythmic pulsing of your walls is dragging him kicking and screaming to the edge.  You let out a breathy “inside Joel, inside,” the way you say his name sends a shiver down his spine, but the way you moan the softest “please” has him cumming, cock twitching violently, hips rocking, pushing his release deeper. 

His mouth meets yours roughly, ragged groans escaping between harsh kisses as he continues to pump inside you. He can’t remember the last time he came this hard, beyond satisfied and completely drained but he still can’t break his lips from yours. The kiss is soft now, tender and lazy, something close to loving. His sweaty weight above you is grounding, bringing you back to reality. 

Joel groans and drops his forehead to your chest, cock still buried deep you can sense his reluctance to part from you, you tangle your fingers in his hair, allowing him to rest against you. He stays for a minute or two before groaning, aging knees and shoulders protesting as he hovers over you. 

He moves slowly, dragging his softening cock out from your over sensitive heat and you moan low in the back of your throat as he disappears, returning from the en-suite with a damp towel, 

“There’s warm water” he mumbles as he wipes the towel gently between your legs. You hum contentedly, your tired body drowsy and dopamine drunk. You briefly think about the long hot shower you’re going to take in the morning when the bed dips next to you and Joel reaches for you, rolling you into his side, your head on his chest. If you had more energy you’d say something but the gentle caress of Joel’s thumb behind your ear and the slow thump of his heartbeat quickly has your eyes closing and your breath steadying. 

“Was that” Joel pauses, what, good? All right? Just okay? he thinks it’ll kill him if it was bad for you

“Good, it was good” you offer him a soft smile “thank you” 

“Christ darlin’ so fuckin’ polite” he can feel himself stirring again beneath the sheets, and fuck he’s depraved, he’s convinced you could make him cum just by saying please. 

Joel must think you’re asleep and you feel it more than you hear it, his whispered admission of “love you” spoken into your hair as he presses soft kisses to the top of your head. 

𝐉𝐎𝐄𝐋 𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

[thewinter-eden]

psycho | han jisung (1/20)

1 : hannie

Pairings: HAN JISUNG x OC | LEE MINHO x 2nd OC

Rating: mature

Summary: Anna finds herself trapped in the captivity of a psychopath with numerous other prisoners. The other girls who have been there for a while have been starved and abused, and Anna is obviously headed for the same fate.

Han Jisung, one of the prisoners, a sweet and handsome boy, serves as caretaker for the girls after sessions of abuse. As he and Anna grow closer, struggling to find their way home, the truth about her captor and his plans unfold in the worst ways possible.

cross posted on AO3 under the_winter_eden and wattpad under alone-at-last.

Warnings: fear, isolation, torture, angst, hut/comfort, terror

psycho masterlist

next chapter >

1 : hannie

She wakes up on something hard and flat, an icy chill seeping into her bones. It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust, struggling against a blurry film that she can’t seem to blink away. When her surroundings finally come into focus, Anna sees dark brick walls and filthy floors.

None of it is familiar, and neither are the grimy faces that blink back at her.

Realizing she’s being watched by eight or nine girls, she flinches back in surprise and feels her skull crack against a hard surface.

“Don’t move,” One of the girls says in a low, raspy voice. She’s leaning closer, close enough that a number of small scars are visible. “You’re still bleeding.”

Anna reaches for her head as a wave of pain washes down her spine. “What?” She feels the wetness on her fingers, and doesn’t have to look to confirm what it is. Her legs feel cold as she tries to back away from the girl who spoke and she realizes that her skirt is gone.

She’s been left on the floor of some kind of stone basement in nothing but a cotton nightgown that smells like sweat and urine. It matches what all of the others are wearing, though she can’t help but notice that hers has remarkably fewer blood and soil stains than theirs do.

“He sometimes hits the nose when he knocks us out.” The girl explains, far too casually for Anna to grasp the context of what’s going on.

“What?” She gasps again, but then she feels the viscous liquid that’s pooled in the bow of her lip and feels the fluid in her nostrils.

The girl puts a hand over her own mouth to mimic blocking her airways. “He holds on too tight. Most of us bled too.” She reaches for Anna, and helps her bunch the hem of the strange nightgown to mop at the flowing blood. “How do you feel?”

Another of the girls sits back against the wall, no longer interested in gawking at the newcomer. “What’s the point?” She grumbles. “She’ll wish she was dead soon enough.”

Anna’s eyes widen and her eyes dart around from face to face. “What do you mean? What is this?” She can’t remember how she ended up on the floor of a basement, or where her clothes went, or if what the first girl said about being hit and knocked out was what really happened. “Who is *he?* Where are we?”

Most of the girls seem to be about her age, fifteen or sixteen, but a couple of them look like they might be twelve or thirteen.

The second girl spread her arms to gesture to their surroundings, drawing attention to the tattered sleeves of her nightgown that revealed a series of terrible bruises along both biceps and forearms, both arms mostly wrapped in thick bandages. “Does it look like we know? It’s not like there are windows.” She brings her arms back to her lap and hunches over herself with a frown. “Might as well get comfortable.”

“You don’t remember?” The first girl asks softly.

Anna shakes her head and feels the ache pound behind her eyes.

“We were kidnapped.” The girl nods behind her, where all of the other girls are sitting and watching. “We were all ambushed, in one place or another, and woke up here.” Her words are punctuated by a few of the girls sniffling, scrubbing dirty hands and arms over their dirty faces.

Fear is worming into Anna’s heart, noticing the various states of the others with mounting distress. “How long have you been here?”

The first girl points at herself. “Two years,” She points to each one of the girls and labels them with their own durations, ranging from two years to two months.

Anna’s eyes fill with tears and she pushes herself up to lean against the wall. She studies each face, praying they’re pulling a prank, just waiting to break character and laugh at her for crying. But the room smells too much like waste, the girls too marked by pain and hunger, for any of it to be a prank. Her gaze jumps back to the girl who’s been there the longest, and sees the hollowness of her cheeks, the sharpness of her bones, and knows it’s real. “What does he want with us?”

She doesn’t even know who *he* is.

The second girl meets Anna’s eyes. “Nothing good.”

---

“How old are you?” The first girl, who introduced herself as Ruby, sits close by and offers her hand to hold as Anna cries into her elbow. “I’m almost nineteen.”

Sniffling against overwhelming sobs, Anna blinks tearfully at her. “Eighteen.”

Ruby smiles sympathetically. “Try to breathe,” she offers as the girl begins to weep once more.

The others are watching. Some of them cry, too, and some of them, like the girl who sits against the wall, just stare hollowly. One of the younger girls scoots over and sits next to Anna, and reaches up to stroke a hand gently over her hair.

She’s one of the ones who had been there for more than a year. “Your hair is like gold,” she whispers, feeling the silky strands slide against her skin.

Ruby rubs Anna’s arm. “That’s Jackie. She’s twelve.”

But the newest girl isn’t listening. “Is he mean?”

Jackie’s hand falls away from her hair, and the girl by the wall scoffs. Ruby just pulls her smile into a wince. “Yeah. He is.”

“Look at us.” The girl by the wall snaps. “You think he’s hosting tea parties?”

“Sara.” Ruby berates. “You don’t have to be so mean.”

Sara rolls her eyes. “She’ll find out soon enough. Doesn’t matter if I’m mean or not.”

Anna doesn’t care that she’s mean. If she’d been held captive by a malevolent psychopath for over a year, she’d be mean about it, too. Her red eyes turn to Sara and catch her already watching.

The bitter girl looks younger, maybe fifteen, and the right side of her face is bruised and blistered terribly. The swelling is still red and weeping, and Anna knows it just happened recently. Under Anna’s gaze, Sara pulls the neck of her nightgown up to her chin and holds it in her fist.

She looks away.

Somewhere, a door opens and a male voice calls, “Time to go back to your rooms. Come on,” Shuffling sounds and some of the girls’ voices make quiet whimpers of protest.

Anna scrambles back into her corner of the room, heart pounding. She doesn’t want to meet the man who abducted her and removed her clothes. She doesn’t want to be anywhere near the man who starved and beat and held prisoner all of the girls who sat around her like so many abandoned pets.

But Sara just sighs and gets herself to her feet, shoulders hunching as she heads deeper into the darkness of the room.

Little Jackie gives Anna’s shoulder a squeeze and stands up as well, disappearing into the places where the light doesn’t reach.

Anna’s eyes are darting around, trying to see through the black, trying to focus past the blur of tears.

“Hey, it’s okay.” Ruby says suddenly, rising to her full height. “It’s not him. It’s just Hannie. He’s stuck here, too.” She holds out a hand to Anna. “While Cain is away, Hannie lets us out of our rooms, lets us talk to each other. As long as we don’t tell Cain, and we all go back before we get caught, we can all be together. But that means we have to go back when Hannie tells us to.”

Anna blinks up at her, ignoring the hand of help, tears spilling over. She can hear the man—Hannie—coming closer, his low voice directed to the girls he’s nearest to. “Cain—?”

“He’s the one who abducted us. The one who does things.”

“The mean one.” Anna’s voice is small, childish. “And Han…Hannie?” Hannie sounds like a nickname, like some term of endearment that she either hasn’t earned or doesn’t want to get familiar with. She has thoughts of an abuser—a groomer who takes advantage of girls at their most vulnerable. She thinks again to Jackie and the other girl who looked so young.

What was he doing to them while Cain was away?

Did he make them call him Hannie?

“He was taken right after I was. Him and his little brother. Don’t be scared, he’s nice. He takes care of us.” Ruby kneels again, trying to see why Anna isn’t moving. “Are your legs okay? I don’t want to force you up if you’re hurt.”

Too many questions flood Anna’s mind, too many to process. She wants to have a conversation and answer all of them, but Ruby’s trying to rush her into movement. “He’s nice?” Her eyes flash to the dark form of the man who is now crouched over one of the young girls, the shadow of his hand extended towards her face.

Ruby places a hand on Anna’s knee reassuringly. “He’s nice. I promise.”

“Go back to your room, Ruby.” The man’s voice says, his footsteps finally approaching.

As he emerges from the shadows, Anna finally sees him clearly. He’s young, maybe twenty, maybe twenty-two. His collarbones jut out from the ripped neck of his wispy-thin gray sweater, which was more a draping of cloth that hung in tatters from the sharp points of his shoulders to dangle in shreds around the narrow edges of his hips. His sweatpants are too short, the elastic cuffs gripping a pair of frightfully scrawny legs just below the knees.

The voice that resounds from his chapped lips is low and soothing as his hooded eyes flick from Anna to Ruby. “I got her.”

Anna’s legs shuffle like she can push herself away from him, but she’s already pressed into the corner of the room. She doesn’t move an inch, instead feeling the roughness of the bricks behind her scratch into her back and shoulders.

Ruby gives Anna’s knee a squeeze, the same way Jackie had done earlier. “See you tomorrow.” She gets up and slinks past the man who is really more of a boy, now that Anna looks at him, and disappears into the shadows.

He just stands there, hands dangling listlessly at his sides, watching Anna with the same level of guardedness that she watches him with. There are claw marks on his face, long since healed and scarred over, but prominent enough to be noticed in the dim light of the single bulb overhead. Dull black hair that falls in tangled curls around the nape of his neck also lays over his brow and dances with his eyelashes as he blinks. “I’m Han.” He says finally, and lowers himself to his knees.

He’s still a few yards away, but she pulls her legs up under her to create more distance. “Han?” That means nothing to her. Cain means nothing to her. How could he approach her in a dingy, crappy basement and expect her to respond to him? He could be the very man who abducted her.

It’s not like she’d seen his face.

Not that she remembers, anyway.

“They call me Hannie.” He rubs his fingertips over the knobby bones of his knees that she can see even through the pilled fabric of his sweatpants.

“Why?”

Han blinks at her, hooded eyes widening just a little, and his mouth falls open for a second. “I…it’s a nickname.” He stammers. “They gave it to me.”

“They?” She has no defense except to question him at every turn, needling him for inconsistencies or information that can gain her a way of escape. In her mind, it doesn’t matter that eight other girls haven’t found a way to escape yet. It only matters that she hasn’t yet tried for herself.

“The girls.” He hooks a thumb shakily back to the dark side of the room. “And my brother. It’s…” He squints like he’s somewhat confused. “It’s the nickname you give to someone named Han.”

The hyper literalism startles her out of her fight or flight for a second, and she blinks right back at him. To be fair, she really is asking useless questions. “What do you want?”

His head cocks to the side. “You have to go to your room now. Cain will be back soon.”

Her hands are bunched in the skirt of her nightgown, heart hammering in her ears. “My room isn’t here.”

His chest concaves with a saddened sigh and his chin dips. “I know. But if Cain catches any of you out here, we’ll all get in trouble. You have to go to the room that he has for you. If you’ll come with me, I’ll take you to it.”

Her arms wrap around her folded legs and she frowns stubbornly. “No.”

He scoots closer, still on his knees. “I know you’re scared, but I won’t hurt you. Cain will. Please.” His eyes are saucers, reflecting the yellow light of the bulb. “Please come with me.” He reaches out a hand to her that is barely more than skin and bones, and it trembles in the space between them.

She can hear him breathing with a slight rasp, can see the trace of blood at the corner of his mouth. His face is just as bruised as the rest of the girls, all of his visible skin marked by either scars or cuts or abrasions, or all three.

He turns away slightly to sniffle and cough into his other elbow before returning to his former position, and she sees that he’s just as battered as the rest of them.

Anna scoots forward slowly. As soon as she’s not leaning against the wall anymore, she’s reminded of the sledge hammer pounding in her head as her vision goes topsy turvey. She sees a flash of gray clothes and black hair, and then a warm body is tucked against her side, his arm around her back.

“Don’t fall,” He rasps. “I’ll help you up.”

He smells like a mixture of fresh air and stale sweat, but it’s so much better than the crushing odor of urine and excrement that’s everywhere else, that she instinctively leans in closer before she stops herself. She lurches away from him. “Don’t touch me.”

His arm doesn’t move. “We only have a few minutes. We have to go.”

Before she can fight him, he’s bringing her to her feet and steadying her. His hands are still trembling against her arms, his steps slow and stilted, like he has to lock his knees in order to stay upright, but he still manages to keep her stable even when her equilibrium knocks around like a pinball.

“Please.” Her tears start again, face scrunching pathetically. “Please let me go. I didn’t do anything.”

Han’s hand settles on her shoulder, guiding her into the dark side of the room. The further they go, the more her eyes adjust. “I wish I could. I swear.”

The room narrows into a hall lined with doors, all of which are shut except for one on the end. There’s a heavy looking ring of keys hanging on the wall, well out of her reach.

“Please.” She sobs. “My family will be looking for me.”

He smiles at her sadly as they stop in front of the open room. “Just be glad they’re not here with you. Trust me. That would be worse.” Han nods into the room. “There’s a bed in there. I gave you clean sheets. There’s water in the corner, and a bucket.”

“A bucket?” She wishes she hadn’t asked. She doesn’t want to know.

He doesn’t want to explain it, so he doesn’t.

He gives her a small push. “Don’t tell him about this, and you can come out tomorrow. That’s how this works, okay?”

She steps into the room and turns to face him, tears streaking down her face. “Please.” She begs again.

He’s got one hand on the door. “What’s your name?”

She chokes on her sobs, and covers her face with her hands. It’s all crashing down on her. She’s somewhere, somewhere unfamiliar, with people who are miserable, people who promise her she’ll be miserable soon, too. No one can help her. She forces her shoulders back and gasps for air, letting her hands fall. “Anna.”

Han gives her the smallest smile, but after a second it turns into a wince. “Goodnight, Anna. I’m sorry.” And then he closes the door softly and locks it.

next chapter >

[fionajames]

WELCOME BACK FIRST OF ALL!!!

May i PLEAAAAASE request a little something about the Kadavo arc? May it please stray a bit from canon so Rex can get a bit more of a main role in the arc and he does a tad bit more and he you know sticks up for the togrutas and he gets worn out and is all worrying about Kenobi that he collapses and when he wakes up he has an emotional reunion with his vod’e 🥺 that was so specific but I’m begging you please I trust you with this pretty please with sprinkles on top?

Ilysm!!!!!!! You don’t have to do all that but just please more Rex 😭 I miss him

blood and bandages

A/N: OML FIRST IM SORRY THIS TOOK FUCKING FOREVER AND ITS ONLY 1K IM SO SO SO SORRY. I HOPE YOU ENJOY THO. PLEASE SEND REQUESTS GUYS IM BEGGNIG YOU.

(divider by @saradika-graphics)

Exhaustion hung heavy over Rex’s head as he took one weary step after another. He didn’t want to complain about the pain he was in, and so instead he lumbered quietly after his Jedi. Ahsoka was by his side and he watched her with worried eyes.

Thankfully, she was back in her usual attire, and not that filthy slave-costume she’d been forced to wear. Anakin had already apologised profusely for her having to wear it, and she’d insisted it was okay, but Rex still didn’t like it.

With every tiny movement of his body, pain shot throughout him, and Rex couldn’t help but bite his tongue until blood was drawn in. It hurt so much. 

Alongside Obi-Wan, he’d earned his fair share and then some more of whiplashes. And for no real reason. There was a particularly ugly wound on his left side from shielding a young Togruta from a whip when blood and tears were streaming down the teenager’s face. He hadn’t regretted protecting the frail child, even when blood was now staining his blacks as it trickled down his torso.

Cody was the first of his vod to greet him, and just the mere sight of him brought a smile to Rex’s face. His hands were still shaking from clutching electric staff he’d driven into the slaver’s chest. Something about killing that man had felt wrong, he just wasn’t sure why.

Maybe it was the fact that when he’d checked the man’s pulse to ensure he was dead, he’d left with blood coating his hands. Blood his and blood not. Another man’s blood on his skin. He’d broken another man’s flesh, and so violently that he’d bled and died, he’d killed a man. Killing a living, breathing man was different from killing a droid. That was something Kamino could never have taught him.

Rex glanced down at his hands, bile building up in his throat at the dry and dark red state of his skin. The blood was dried and crusted, and coating all of his hands. Underneath the thick layer of torment were his blisters and calluses, so damaged that merely breathing on his hands shot pain through them.

Cody rushed to meet him, barrelling into him hurriedly, wrapping his arms around him firmly and holding Rex close to him. He buried his face in the crook of his brother’s neck, and Rex couldn’t do anything to control his emotions when tears began to fall from his eyes.

“Rex’ika,” Cody murmured, cradling his brother's head as he felt the water drip down his neck. He saw the concerned glance Obi-Wan shot him, but the Jedi seemed to understand. “C’mon, let’s get you to Kix.”

Rex nodded but didn’t move until Cody turned him around. He stared at the ground as tears began to stream down his face, relying on Cody’s arm to guide him safely. When they finally reached medbay, Cody pushed him through the mass of injured Togrutas and to the front, where he called out to Kix. 

“Vod,” he called to the medic, who turned around quickly. “Can you take a look at Rex, please?” Kix nodded, patting the Captain’s shoulder. A sob bubbled up in his throat as Kix began to remove his armour, and then the top half of his blacks.

He knew from both Cody and Kix’s gasps that his injuries were as bad as they felt.

“Rex’ika,” Cody whispered as Kix began to frantically gather his equipment. “You should’ve told us sooner.” His gaze ran along the numerous whip wounds and cuts lining his brother’s skin, and his stomach burned hot with rage. 

Kix began to clean the wounds, and as soon as the first antiseptic patch touched his skin, Rex yelped, his body lighting up with the stinging sensation. A comforting hand ran through the short wisps of his blonde hair as Cody stood up, moving Rex’s head so his forehead was against Cody’s stomach. “It’s alright, vod, it’s alright.”

Kix worked quickly, cleaning and bandaging his wounds. With every gentle touch came a spike of pain, but Rex began to get used to it as they continued. Time passed slowly as Cody patiently ran his hands through Rex’s hair, over and over and over.

Once the stinging and the pain and the healing was finally over, Rex was more bandage than man. But his hands were still red and rough. Cody had noticed the way his brother seemed to only sob more whenever he saw it, and so as soon as Kix released them, he guided him to the sink to wash the blood off. 

Slipping the bar of soap between his hands and turning on the hot water, Rex finally began to feel some relief when the water rushing down the pipe was tainted red, and so he began to roughly scrab at the flesh. Cody watched carefully as his brother bent over the skin, dragging his blunt nails over his skin occasionally to see if any blood was hidden under the nails.

He scrubbed until his hands were numb and raw, and pink from being scoured so fiercely. Once he’d cleaned every speck of red off of his hands, Cody yanked the soap from him and turned off the water, much to his confusion. But he didn’t question it.

Instead, he let Cody guide him to the barracks, a warm presence amongst the cold blizzard swirling around Rex. The blonde felt numb, all over, as though he’d been dumped in an ice bath, and forced to stay there until he couldn’t feel anything.

But it was as though Cody leaked warmth, like a fireplace in the middle of winter. That was how Rex felt, like his icy white blue had been invested by gold orange shine. It was intoxicating, and he leaned into his brother’s touch as the dull silver corridors began to suffocate him in familiarity.

When they reached the barracks, a swarm of 501st soldiers rushed to congratulate Rex on his skilled rescue and assistance to the enslaved, but instead of feeling like a saviour, he too felt like a slave. Cody managed to disperse the ground with ease, and they understood as the older brother guided the younger to his bed. 

“Get some rest, Vod’ika,” Cody murmured, running his thumb over the top of Rex’s short hair. But a whine escaped from his lips, dragging Cody’s attention back to him and away from the path to the door. “What is it?”

“Can you stay?” Rex asked breathlessly, a plea so quiet Cody almost didn’t hear it over the din that was the 501st barracks. The Commander froze, contemplating whether or not he should. A moment of silence between them passed, before he let out a soft sigh, and nudged Rex to move over. 

Cody moved to lay down on the bed next to his brother, half dangling off the edge as he glanced at the Captain’s face. “You’re alright, Rex’ika,” he murmured, his eyes tracing the bandages covering his brother’s body. “You’re alright.”

A/N: I HOPE YOU ENJOYED!!! PLEASE SEND REQUESTS!!!

(taglist: @techs-goggles9902, @skellymom. dm me if you want to be added/removed from the taglist!)

[bitsandbobsofwriting]

5 times Merlin does something that requires a considerable amount of strength;

+1 time the gang has time to actually bring it up.

Everyone is baffled, half distracted by Merlin’s surprising buffness and half amused by Arthur’s gay panic:

1)

The clearing fills with the sounds of a brutal fight. 

The Knights of Camelot, along with their King, had given up on trying to figure out how bandits always managed to find them in the woods. It seemed impossible for there to be so many mercenary groups that it was just coincidence for them to stumble upon each other so often, but equally, the knights moved quietly and always covered their tracks well, so... yeah, who knows.

The point is, they’re outnumbered three to one, and all of them were starting to regret not listening to Merlin’s earlier suggestion that they keep riding for another hour or so; their camp was destroyed and the fight was tiring them out.

Three to one weren’t bad odds, especially for knights with such a high level of skill, but it was exhausting and time consuming and they just wanted it to be over. Merlin was having similar thoughts as he stumbles through the middle of the crowd, trying to get out of the way. He was keeping an eye on them of course, but his friends were winning so his magical intervention wasn’t really needed; he was just annoyed that Arthur was almost certainly going to make him clear everything up afterwards.

His attention is suddenly caught when Percival’s voice rings out across the clearing:

“Merlin! Behind you!”

All of the knights’ gazes whip to the servant when they hear the giant’s yell, and they all abandon their own battles to step towards him despite knowing that they were too far away to be able to help in time. The servant takes in a sharp breath at Percival’s warning, becoming suddenly aware of a fast-moving presence behind him; he forms a fist and turns, swinging blindly with all his strength and following through even when his knuckles crunch with surprising accuracy against the temple of a bandit.

The man, not expecting the rapid attack, doesn’t have time to move out of the way, and his head jerks to the side, his entire body following as if an afterthought. He crumples to the floor gracelessly, unconscious before his head makes contact with the trampled undergrowth.

Merlin hisses at the pain bursting through his knuckles and up into his wrist, shaking his hand out as he steps over the bandit’s still form without even blinking, back to focusing on attempting to find a tree to sit behind and sulk, as if nothing had happened.

The knights only have a fraction of a second to freeze in shock before they’re dragged back to their own fights, forced to defend themselves lest they get skewered. 

The battle only lasts a few more minutes; despite being outnumbered, the knights far outmatch the bandits in skill (and sufficient armour) and Merlin was correct in his assumption that they wouldn’t need any of his DIY luck, which is a good thing really, considering how much his hand is throbbing. He peeks his head around the tree when things go suspiciously quiet, getting up and making his way to the abandoned bag of medical supplies when he sees the knights victorious.

The servant runs a quick gaze over them, taking stock of any potential injuries as he makes his way through the clearing, injured hand clenched tightly and held to his chest. He may have knocked the bandit out, but that just meant that the punch was hard enough to do damage to his hand as well as the other guy’s head. When he finds nothing more than the odd bruise on the others, he grabs a roll of bandages for himself, quickly wrapping his hand almost painfully tight, before turning to Arthur with a scowl:

“I told you we were too close to the road, I told you we should’ve kept on going. But do you ever listen to me? No, because you’re-”

He’s cut off by The King stepping towards him and taking his bandaged hand, cradling it gently and looking to Merlin in concern:

“Merlin, are you alright?”

Merlin just rolls his eyes and huffs, snatching his hand back and retreating to check on the horses, thankfully tied and uninjured at the edge of the clearing:

“No, my hand fucking hurts, because, surprisingly enough, these idiots have skulls almost as thick as yours. We need to move camps, like I said earlier. Prat.”

Arthur frowns, looking down to Merlin’s unconscious bandit at his feet, and then glancing back to the other knights, who all just shrug with wide eyes. The King sighs, reluctantly nodding at Merlin’s assertion as he stares up at the darkening sky, deciding that Merlin must’ve... hit a pressure point or... something:

“Everyone pack up, I want to be moving on in three minutes.”

2)

Merlin had foregone his jacket and rolled his sleeves up in the surprising Spring heatwave.

Which was a sight in itself.

But what really made the knights look twice (I mean... Arthur was just outright staring, but Leon had long since glared the others into not mentioning The King’s little... crush) was the way the supposedly wimpy servant had two sets of chainmail folded on one shoulder, his arm curled over them to keep them balanced, and a few odd bits of mismatched armour clutched in his other hand. He was making his way from the training field up to the castle, presumably to find an empty room to sit quietly and clean them.

Elyan waves at him across the field, the movement just about catching the servant’s gaze as he twists around, flashing a bright, sunny grin in place of waving back. 

Arthur gulps, eyes drawn to the vein standing out from Merlin’s uncovered neck; apparently the heat had encouraged him to abandon his neckerchief as well. The King takes a deep breath, sending a scowl Merlin’s way to cover his... surprise, holding in a smirk when the servant just rolls his eyes and turns back to the castle.

His stride was strong, and though his arms were straining against the weight, he looked entirely unbothered, not even breathing deeply as he picks up his pace, jogging up the citadel steps.

Training had all but stopped at this point, the roundtable knights staring in confusion as Merlin carefully pulled the door open, making sure he wouldn’t drop anything, before nudging the door shut again with his hip. Gwaine was the first to break the silence, quirking one of his eyebrows up as he speaks in a slightly surprised tone:

“Didn’t know he had it in him. Wearing one set, when the weight is evenly distributed, is hard enough, let alone carrying two sets. And armour. Up steps. Huh.”

Arthur clears his throat, looking away with a slight blush as he asserts:

“Yes, well, knights carry the same weight in armour and weapons everyday, if not more. If you’re that impressed Sir Gwaine, perhaps you should work on your strength.”

Gwaine turns to him with a smirk, but Leon’s warning glare stops him from teasing, or saying anything else that could be considered treasonous. Instead, he rolls his eyes at the first knight before humming non-committedly and pointing his sword at The King:

“That, Princess, sounds like a challenge.”

Arthur, blush forgotten, looks up with raised eyebrows and a chuckle, noting with satisfaction the way the other knights spread out to form a circle around the two of them, swords lowered and expectant looks on their faces:

“Does it now? I suppose you’ll have to take me up on it then, won’t you?”

3)

The knights were on some stupid (in Merlin’s opinion) quest.

The group was currently making their way through a complicated cave system. They had maps, thankfully, but they were old, and provided by a small village of locals who hadn’t spoken common very well. 

They’d had to trade away half of their supplies in return for the maps, so Arthur was already in a foul mood, but a dotted line on the page across the path they were following was worrying him. The note written next to it was in some old, almost lost native language, so The King had just resigned himself to carrying on and hoping for the best.

Which is why he let out a series of echoing curse words when they turned a corner to find a ragged overhang, about eight feet above the path. The wall curved in on itself before jutting out again at the top, making it impossible to climb, even without armour and swords and packs.

Elyan is the first to break the tense silence after Arthur’s outburst, his tone half amused, half annoyed, as he mutters:

“That’ll be why the locals kept pointing at that ladder then.”

Arthur huffs, glaring at the knight with a rare venom, but Leon gestures to the map in his hand before he can retort:

“We can always go back, or is there another way around?”

Arthur huffs louder, letting out a short growl as he thrusts the maps to Leon’s chest and paces closer to the overhang:

“Feel free, if you can find an alternative route, please, enlighten me. The village is a day’s journey away, we don’t have time to go back.”

Leon covers his annoyance at Arthur’s harshness well, but Merlin scowls at The King openly before moving to stand at the junction between the wall of the corridor, and the overhang in front of them:

“Don’t be an arse, Arthur, it’s not Leon’s fault that none of us can understand Old... whatever it was. And it’s not that high, just-”

With that, Merlin braces his foot against the wall, bending his knees slightly before pushing off and jumping up, reaching out and grabbing the overhang, his feet dangling off the ground. The knights stare in shock, but before they can say anything, Merlin swings his feet forwards, and backwards, and forwards again. When they swing back for the second time, he uses the momentum to pull himself up, his arms locking out straight beneath him as he lifts his knees up, crawling over the edge and onto the floor above them.

Arthur blinks, looking from the floor, to the wall, and up to Merlin again, trying to figure out how the hell his manservant had enough strength in his arms and core to pull himself up; he hadn’t even taken his pack off.

Lancelot clears his throat, tilting his head and frowning as he slowly speaks:

“That was... impressive. But we’re wearing armour, Merlin, I don’t think we’ll be able to manage that with all the extra weight.”

No one mentions that they don’t think they could do it even without armour.

Merlin just rolls his eyes and sits on the edge, his feet dangling below him as he gestures vaguely:

“Well if you just get your hands on the ledge then I can pull you up. Take your packs off and throw them up first if you’re so worried, you can give each other a hand up, and Percival can go last because of how tall he is. Come on, it wasn’t that hard.”

Lancelot shrugs, taking his pack off and throwing it up with all his might. Merlin leans out, catching it with ease and chucking it behind him as he motions Percival to interlock his hands. The knight does so, allowing Lancelot to step on them and throw himself up, just about managing to catch the ledge and groaning at the strain in his arms. Merlin brings his feet back over the overhang, bracing his heels against the stone as he reaches down, gripping Lancelot’s wrists and hauling him up and over the edge.

Lance yelps as Merlin yanks him up, rolling onto his back and panting at the ceiling as he blinks in surprise. Merlin doesn’t pay him any attention, frowning down at the others and gesturing at them to hurry:

“Come on, I thought we were in a rush?”

With that, they all huddle below, taking turns to be thrown up and hauled over the edge. Merlin drags Elyan up on his own, Lance still recovering from his slight shock, but the more people gather at the top, the less work Merlin has to do. Which is good, because he may be strong, but he’s not sure he could manage Percival on his own. The giant has to take a running leap at the ledge, and it takes four of them to pull him up without dislocating any shoulders or throwing out any backs.

When they’re all successfully at the top, Merlin wordlessly picks his pack up, shrugging it onto his shoulders as he begins a quick pace along the corridor as if he hadn’t a care in the world; the knights break out of their stupors and jog to catch up, knowing that Merlin was right and they needed to hurry.

4)

Arthur was glaring resolutely at the floor, trying to psych himself up to confront whatever arsehole had managed to get the drop on him and his six best knights. The others were arguing in whispers around him, trying to figure out some way to escape the dungeon unscathed, though The King kept silent, knowing that the only way out was if someone unlocked these infernal chains first.

They’d only been there for around an hour, so no one from Camelot would have realised they were missing yet; their only hope was that Merlin was making his way back to the city to get help. He’d been off gathering firewood, and he’d already been gone half a candle mark when they’d been ambushed; Arthur would never admit it, but he had faith that Merlin would be able to sort everything out.

The King harshly shushes the knights as he hears the guards begin to yell, but frowns in confusion when he hears “They’re going crazy up there!” and “What the fuck?!” before the unmistakable sound of armoured boots running up the stairs and away from the dungeons reaches them.

The knights all look to each other in confusion, straining against their chains to try and see through the small barred window at the top of the door. A shadow passes through the square of light on the floor, and they all shuffle back against the wall, staying silent. None of them manage to hold in their surprised yelps however, when the door suddenly bursts in, the wood around the lock splintering violently and spreading shards across the dungeon floor.

A strong arm extends out, stopping the now broken beyond repair door from swinging shut again, and the knights look up, taking in sharp gasps when they see Merlin stood there, scowling disapprovingly with a ring of keys in his other hand and one foot in front of the other, as if he had... as if he had kicked the door. Leon is the first to break the silence:

“Merlin?? What are you doing here?”

Merlin’s scowl deepens as he glances down the corridor before stepping into the dungeon, sorting through the keys to try and figure out which one would open which set of chains:

“Well I’m rescuing you lot, obviously. I leave camp for barely a candle-mark and you get yourselves kidnapped. Honestly, how hard is it to not find trouble, for once?”

Arthur is too busy staring at Merlin’s apparently muscled legs to say anything, even when Elyan clears his throat and kicks him, so Percival is the next to speak as Merlin unlocks his chains:

“Why not just... unlock the door?”

Merlin doesn’t look at the largest of the knights as he moves on to the others, unchaining them one by one as he responds, his scowl still firmly in place:

“The key was on a separate ring and I only had time to grab one, figured the door would be easier to break than the chains.”

Arthur finally blinks and shakes his head free of.... distracting, thoughts as Merlin finally turns to him, holding his hands out to be unchained as he clears his throat and says strongly, forcing the waiver from his voice:

“How did you distract the guards?”

Merlin finally smiles at that, standing and reaching into his pocket to pull out a lumpy looking bit of plant:

“Snuck in and pretended to be one of their slaves, laced all the jugs with mandrake root. They’re all going loopy with hallucinations upstairs, a few of them vomited and I think one guy might have shit himself. The guards went to see what was wrong, so we don’t have much time, come on.”

Arthur nods impressed, and was the last of the group to sneak from the dungeon, pausing briefly to run a hand over the splintered wood and warped metal of the kicked-in door, before shaking his head and following the others out of the not-quite-abandoned fort.

5)

It had been almost a year since Merlin had last seen his mother, so when the servant requested two weeks off to visit home, wanting to help the village out with repairs before the winter set in, Arthur agreed immediately, on the condition that he and a couple of the knights could tag along.

Merlin reluctantly gave in, but only after insisting that he wouldn’t be Arthur’s servant, and whoever came would have to dig in and help out. To be honest, Arthur was mentally exhausted after months of work on repealing the magic ban, so Merlin was silently grateful that he was coming; The King needed a break, and Merlin knew how secretly fond the man was of Merlin’s mother, and her simple country life. 

In the end, Leon and Mordred were the only ones who could come; Lancelot and Elyan were left in charge of patrols, Percival and Gwaine were left in charge of training, and Guinevere, Gaius, and Morgana were left to oversee the council and the general running of the Kingdom. Arthur wasn’t worried to be honest, they were only going to be gone for two weeks, and if disaster set in they were only a two day’s ride away at most.

It was chilly, the winter was setting in early so Merlin and Hunith were eager for work to start as soon as possible. There were numerous leaks and fences to fix, and one of the village’s barns needed clearing out so it could filled with grain over the snowy season.

That, and as much firewood needed to be collected as possible so they could stockpile. They normally barely had enough to last them through the winter; Arthur had nodded in approval when Merlin had meekly asked if they could take a cart of wood with them from Camelot, but they still had a lot to gather.

It was the afternoon of their first day, Leon had been sent to a neighbour’s to fix a roof, Merlin was doing something outside, and Mordred was just about to head over to one of the livestock pastures to strengthen a few of the fences. Hunith was preparing the evening’s meal and Arthur stood politely in the doorway as he spoke:

“Merlin said that firewood had to be gathered? I can get started on that if you can point me in the right direction.”

Hunith smiles over her shoulder briefly, and Arthur ignores the warm fuzziness in his stomach at the sight as she speaks:

“Oh don’t worry about that, we’ve only one axe in the village and Merlin is out by the barn chopping wood now. I know there’s a leak somewhere in the basement of the village hall, a few of the boys are already down there if you’re looking for something to do?”

Arthur raises his eyebrow at Hunith’s insistence that Merlin, his lanky manservant, was outside with an axe chopping wood, and he glances at Mordred over his shoulder, who just shrugs, nodding to Hunith’s turned back. The King responds quietly, trying to keep the amusement out of his voice:

“Hmm. I’ll go check in with Merlin and then head down to the hall, if he doesn’t need help.”

Hunith hums in agreement, but otherwise doesn’t reply, mumbling under her breath about herbs and measurements as she stirs something into the pot. Arthur smirks at Mordred and the two of them head out, neither mentioning how Mordred was following Arthur to find Merlin instead of getting to the fences.

They walk in silence, though they both freeze on the spot when they turn a corner to see Merlin, once again with his sleeves rolled up, hefting around a huge lump of wood, a ginormous axe resting on his shoulder. He gets the wood where he wants it, stepping back and wiping his forearm across his sweaty forehead before lifting the axe and swinging it down again. The stump splits easily beneath the sharpened metal, and Merlin wastes no time in repositioning the new pieces of wood, ready to be chopped again.

Arthur doesn’t even realise his mouth is hanging open until Mordred looks at him and smirks, biting his lip before giving in and snorting quietly:

“You’re the colour of our capes, Sire, and you might want to shut your mouth. Don’t want to catch flies, do you?”

Arthur’s jaw snaps shut with a clack, and he frowns as his teeth begin to ache. Mordred chuckles slightly and though Arthur is grateful that the young knight is finally comfortable enough to joke around with him, he desperately wishes he wasn’t at Gwaine’s level of comfort.

Instead of retorting, Arthur just clears his throat and turns around, striding towards the village hall:

“It appears he’s got things handled. Those fences won’t fix themselves, Sir Mordred.”

Mordred only just manages to hold in his giggle, looking up to see Merlin staring confusedly at him and Arthur’s rapidly retreating back. He waves briefly, sending a quick “I’ll tell you later.” over their mental link before turning himself and heading in the direction of the pastures.

He knows full well that he has no intention of telling Merlin about Arthur’s crush; watching them tiptoe around each other was the funniest thing ever, and he didn’t want to ruin the bet that Gwaine had going.

+1)

The fight was vicious, more so than any of the skirmishes the knights had dealt with in the last several months.

They were vastly outnumbered, and the addition of four powerful sorcerers to the enemy ranks meant that Merlin and Mordred were quickly running out of energy, having to focus on both the magical aspect of the fight, and trying to keep everyone else alive.

The metallic scent of blood was almost overwhelming, and the constant clang of metal on metal mixed with the whooshing echoes of sorcerous fire and vines was deafening. The fight went on a lot longer than Merlin had thought it would; the enemy was clearly more skilled than predicted, but the Camelot knights did prevail eventually, Percival ending the fight with the smooth slice of his blade across the last mercenary’s throat.

Merlin wastes no time in running his gaze over the knights, giving special attention to Arthur as he searches for any injuries that need seeing to immediately. The last of the sorcerers had managed to escape, so they needed to get out of there as soon as possible: there’s no way they’d survive a second attack if he came back with reinforcements.

Merlin was relieved to see nothing too serious; Lancelot had a gash on his temple that would need a thorough cleaning and a few stitches, and Gwaine was holding his wrist to his chest in a way that told Merlin it was likely broken, but everyone was on their feet and no one was crying. That’s a good start.

Merlin relaxes, but his shoulders quickly tense again as Mordred’s voice echoes weakly through his head:

“Emrys... I’m... I’m tired...”

Merlin whips around quickly, his eyes wide and panicked as his frantic gaze lands on the young knight. He’s leaning against a tree, his eyes hooded and focused on the floor. Merlin leaps towards him, catching him just before his head lands harshly on a boulder, and pulling the collapsed younger man into a more comfortable position as Arthur rushes over:

“What’s wrong with him? I don’t see any blood, was he hit with magic?”

Merlin waves him off, checking Mordred’s pulse and breathing before he relaxes again, sending a tired, but relieved smile up to The King:

“He’s fine, just exhausted. This is the first time he’s used this much magic in years, he’ll need a little while to recover his strength, but we need to get out of here in case they come back.”

Arthur lets out a relieved sigh and nods, leaning down to take one of Mordred’s arms and waving Gwaine over to pick his legs up, but before either of them get even close, Merlin stands up, dragging Mordred with him and settling the armoured knight across his shoulders. He looks to Arthur next to him, not seeming to notice The King’s shock as he quickly says:

“I know you’re The King and all, but would you mind carrying my bag?”

Arthur nods dumbly, picking up Merlin’s dropped medical bag without taking his gaze off the Warlock, who wanders around double checking that the other knights were ok and that all the bandits were dead as if he didn’t have about 240 pounds of man and armour dangling from his shoulders.

Leon catches Arthur’s eye, nodding pointedly towards the path they needed to take, trying to pull Arthur back into the present before the others notice him gawping. Arthur gulps, blushing as he nods his thanks and moves away from the battlefield, Merlin’s bag secured on his shoulders as he confidently speaks:

“Merlin’s right, we need to get as far away from here as we can. I saw a cave about two hours’ back North, we can make camp there before heading back to Camelot in the morning. Gather as much as you can carry, we’ve no hope of finding the horses before nightfall, hopefully they can make their own way home.”

The knights all nod, following Arthur’s lead as he steps carefully through the underbrush, trying not leave any obvious pointers to their direction. He keeps his gaze resolutely ahead as he hears Percival ask:

“You alright, Merlin? Sure you don’t want a hand?”

Despite keeping his gaze stubbornly forward, Arthur strains his ears to hear Merlin’s response, refusing to acknowledge the sudden weakness in his knees at what the Warlock replies with:

“Nah, it’s fine, he’s not that heavy.”

Leon subtly sidles up to walk next to The King, glancing behind him before leaning in close, talking quietly as they moved:

“Perhaps you should... let him know of you affections, Sire?”

Arthur’s blushing gaze quickly finds the older knight’s before he looks away again:

“I don’t know what you think you’re implying, Sir Leon.”

Leon just raises his eyebrow in an unusual display of amused defiance:

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Arthur. He’s been by your side for ten years, you’ve been through the unspeakable, both with each other and for each other. That, and he has a surprisingly... admirable physique.-”

Arthur’s blush deepens and he clears his throat, crossing his arms petulantly and staring resolutely ahead. Leon puts a hand on The young King’s shoulder as he continues:

“-You’re...-”

The knight sighs and bites his lip again, debating with himself over whether he should say it or not:

“-you’re head over heels for him, Sire, perhaps it’s time to do something about it? Gods know he feels the same, and the Gods also know that he’ll never make the first move. He’s still... nervous, about messing things up, I think. His-”

Leon glances over his shoulder again to make sure no one could hear him before dropping his voice to a whisper:

“-his magic being outed put him... on edge, even after all these months. He won’t do anything that he think could push you away or anger you.”

Arthur sighs and nods, before turning to him slowly with an embarrassed scowl on his face; he doesn’t shrug off Leon’s hand, which the knight takes as a good sign:

“Not a word to anyone, Leon, I swear to the Gods.”

Leon holds his hand up and uses his other to wave a cross over his heart:

“I swear, Sire. Though I feel the need to tell you that... at least three of the other servants, and I do believe Lady Bronwyn and Sir Galahad, also have... uh... their eyes on him, as it were.”

Arthur’s scowl gets impossibly deeper as he huffs, muttering to himself:

“They do, do they? Well, we’ll see about that.”

Leon just smirks again and rolls his eyes fondly before falling back to walk with Elyan.

~

They finally make it back to the cave, though it took them even longer without horses. Merlin had requested they stop around a candle mark in so he could remove some of the heavier bits of Mordred’s armour, passing them off to the other knights, but he had once again rejected any offers of help, saying that he was slowly siphoning his own magic into Mordred so he would wake sooner. Apparently they needed to be touching for that to happen, and though Merlin had been teaching them, none of them had enough knowledge on magic to know whether that was true or not, but they did know that Merlin was incredibly protective of the young Druid, so they let it be.

A fire was lit quickly and supplies were laid out. A map had been saved, thankfully, so they could figure out roughly where they were and how long it would take them to get back home as Merlin quickly treated Lance’s gash and Gwaine’s wrist.

Mordred begins to stir just as Percival serves up food, groaning slightly and rubbing at his eyes before struggling to sit himself up. Merlin had rushed to his side as soon as he felt the Druid begin to wake, and helps prop him up against the cave wall, handing him a water-skin as he stares at him with concern. Mordred takes a long drink, nodding his thanks and clearing his throat before speaking, his voice gravelly and slow:

“This... this is the cave we passed a few hours ago...”

His voice trails off, and Arthur answers the question in his tone:

“Hmm. We had no horses, so we were never going to make it back to the city, but we couldn’t stay where we were.”

Mordred nods, yawning widely and rubbing his eyes again as he asks:

“How did you get me this far without horses?”

Arthur clenches his jaw, blushing slightly as he looks away, but thankfully Gwaine butts in, answering with a grin on his face before anyone notices The King’s flush:

“Merlin here is stronger than he looks. Carried you the whole way, didn’t use magic or anything.”

Mordred turns his incredulous gaze to Merlin and he just shrugs absentmindedly:

“You don’t weigh that much, it was fairly easy.”

Elyan laughs and shakes his head, joining in on the conversation quickly:

“Are you kidding me? I mean... sure, I could’ve carried him for maybe an hour, if I was at full strength and it was easy terrain. You carried him for three, only took his armour off in the second hour, down what could barely be classified as a path, in a barely tamed forest, after a pretty hefty fight. That’s... impressive.”

Merlin raises an eyebrow, looking around the room in bafflement as he realises that everyone is staring at him with varying levels of impressed confusion:

“You guys... you guys know that I grew up in the country, right? I spent my childhood climbing trees and running away from predators, and my teenage years chopping wood, building things with barely any help, and fighting the odd bear. I then arrive in Camelot, only to immediately be given a job that involves carrying a shit ton of heavy stuff, including, but not limited to: armour, luggage, hunting equipment, and the occasional unconscious idiot.”

Arthur sits up straight and scowls slightly when Merlin gestures to him instead of Mordred:

“You have never had to carry me anywhere.”

Merlin raises an eyebrow, gaze sinking to the floor as he smirks and coughs out something that sounds suspiciously like “Sophia”.

Arthur’s blush deepens and he jabs an accusing finger in Merlin’s direction:

“That. Didn’t. Happen.”

Merlin bites his lip to stop himself from laughing, but his dimples still show through despite his best effort and he holds his hands up in surrender:

“Whatever you say, Sire.”

Arthur just clenches his jaw and sits back against the wall with eyes focused on his food and cheeks red, stubbornly ignoring the knights’ curious stares as everyone eats their food. Merlin fusses over Mordred for a few more minutes but is quickly waved away by the younger man; the Warlock huffs and rolls his eyes, but gives in to the fact that Mordred did not need, nor want, to be babied. He moves subtly around the cave to sit down next to Arthur, barely a foot of air between them despite the abundance of space elsewhere.

Arthur forces his blush down at Merlin’s proximity, refusing to think of anything but his food and the difficult journey home, desperately keeping his gaze on his meal instead of Merlin’s strong legs stretched out next to him.

The King doesn’t acknowledge him, but doesn’t move away either, which Merlin takes as a good sign as he settles in, wrapping himself in a blanket to protect his body from the impending cold.

The other knights have long since finished their meals, scarping the lot in a matter of seconds in an attempt to gain back a little energy after the hours of riding and fighting and walking; they quickly settle into the blankets and cloaks and bedrolls they had managed to carry, though Leon seems to deliberately move slower, waiting for Arthur to glance up at him so he can give a pointed look to Merlin, just finishing his food, before laying down and attempting to sleep.

Arthur blushes with wide eyes, but Leon turns around before he has time to glare at him, and The King huffs quietly, risking a glance to a shivering Merlin next to him. He quickly frowns, not moving his gaze away like he had intended to, instead whispering softly:

“Cold? Can’t you use magic to warm up?”

Merlin looks to him tiredly, leaning his head back against the wall as his eyelids droop slightly:

“Hmm. I gave most of my reserves to Mordred, he was worse off than I first thought so he needed a lot more magic than I realised to keep him alive long enough for his energy to build up again.-”

Arthur widens his eyes at the fact that he was so close to losing one of his knights, but then shakes his head, huffing as he glares at the Warlock disapprovingly, but Merlin closes his eyes and continues before he can get told off:

“-I’ll be fine by morning, I just need-”

He’s interrupted when his body is wracked by a particularly strong shiver:

“-I just need some sleep.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, shuffling into a more comfortable position before opening his arms, spreading his cloak wide as if they were a pair of majestic wings:

“Come here, you idiot. I can’t have you freezing to death because you refuse to look after yourself.”

In normal circumstance Merlin would’ve argued, but he really was cold, so when he cracks his eyes open to see Arthur ready and waiting, he doesn’t hesitate to crawl hurriedly over. Arthur ignores the flush rising on his cheeks as Merlin clambers over one of his legs, settling between them and shoving his head under the blonde’s chin; he wraps his cloak around the two of them and rubs his cheek into the Warlock’s soft hair. 

He can feel Merlin grin against his collarbone, and it’s enough to distract him from the surprising, but not unwelcome, weight of Merlin’s muscled form against his chest:

“You know, Arthur, if you wanted to feel up my muscles so badly you just had to ask. You stare far too often to think you’re subtle.”

Arthur’s flush deepens and his body goes rigid as Merlin giggles. He clenches his jaw and lands a punch, far softer than he would normally go for, on the other man’s shoulder, but that just makes him giggle harder, and Arthur has to hush him in fear of waking the others. Merlin looks up at him through thick eyelashes, blinking tiredly with a satisfied smile on his face:

“Just let me know if you ever want carrying around, I’m more than happy to help.”

Arthur gulps, refusing to make eye contact as he stares resolutely at the opposite wall and not acknowledging the red hue of his cheeks:

“When we get back to Camelot, I’m hanging you for treason.”

Merlin snorts quietly, re-burying his face in Arthur’s chest and curling up tightly in his lap to stave off the cold:

“Whatever you say, Sire.”

Arthur gives in, smiling slightly and rolling his eyes as he tightens his hold on the other man. He lets his cheek fall back to rest on his soft hair as he closes his eyes, allowing his exhaustion to take over and descending into an easy sleep.

~

THE END!!

We stan Arthur gay panicking and all the knights (bar Leon of course, who handles it as tactically as he’s able) ruthlessly taking the piss :D

I hope y’all enjoyed reading this, I certainly enjoyed writing it! Thank you anon, I loved writing this!!!

Same as always, someone wants to write it up in full, go for it!! Drop me a message and credit/tag me :)

[shirakumos-sandwich-shop]

Tale of the Flower Hashira

Chapter 3

Master List

INFO:

This story will contain Kyojiro Rengoku x Reader, Tengen Uzui x reader and Douma x reader. All separately. (Tengen is still in a relationship with his wives.)

Y/n Shinaguzawa is 18 at the start of this story.

This fanfic will only follow the plotline of seasons 1&2.

WARNINGS:

If you are uncomfortable with any of the following then DNI.

(Extreme gore, Swearing, Manipulative behavior, disturbing content, Unhealthy relationships, disturbing relationship between child y/n and a demon.)

 Taglist: @violet-19999​ @devilfleur​ 

Your eyes fluttered open to see a child, perhaps a few years older than you, poking his head through the gap in the sliding door. He shuffled inside and stood at the corner of the futon, inspecting you like you were an interesting moth he had found. His clothes were rather unusual to you, a large hat sat upon his head, he wore robes and a string of beads. Blond hair framed a round, pale face. The thing that captured your attention the most was his eyes. Rainbow hues swirled in his irises. 

“Your eyes,” your throat felt rough when you spoke. 

“Hmm? What about them?” He cocked his head to the side. 

“So pretty…” you mumbled. 

He strolled over and sat down on the futon next to you. You sat up slowly, feeling every ache and pain in your body as you did so. While the pair of you stared at each other with wide eyes, you could hear the gentle patter of rain from outside.  

“You think I’m pretty?” The boy teased. “Well I suppose you're right.” 

You didn’t know what to say. Something about him felt off. When you didn’t speak, the boy’s thick eyebrows knit in what might have been a concerned expression. 

“Are you feeling alright?” He asked, lifting a small hand to feel your head. 

All you could do was whimper in reply. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll have someone fetch something for the pain.” He made no move to leave and instead slid closer to you on the futon, seemingly inspecting your face. He brushed back your long white hair so he could see your face better. “You’ll probably be quite the beauty when you're older. How old are you?” 

“Eight.” You mumbled. 

“So young, you have a lot of growing up to do, little one. I’m only eleven right now, but that means I’m certainly older than you!” 

“What does that have to do with anything?” 

“It means you have to do what I say, I’m the older one you know.” He smiled but it did not entirely reach his eyes. 

You shrank back against the wall and buried your face in your arms. “I need my older brother! Where is he!” 

“You were the only one that was rescued from that demon. If your family was attacked too then your brother is probably…”

“NO!” You sobbed into your hands. “Sanemi is strong, he’d never get hurt like me. I was all alone when that… that… what did you call it?”

“It was a demon,” the boy said calmly. “It would have eaten you whole if help hadn’t come.”

A few tears leaked out of your ruined eye, causing a shooting pain to erupt. You clutched at the bandage where blood was seeping through the soft binding. To your surprise you felt the soft blanket of the futon being wrapped around you. With a gentle tug, you found yourself with your head in his lap, leaning against one of his knees. His fingers brushed through your hair. You felt yourself slowly calm down, only sniffing quietly. 

“No more tears.” The boy chidded, lifting his clean sleeve to dab at your good eye. “I don’t think I’ve properly introduced myself. You can call me Douma.” 

His rainbow eyes were mesmerizing and you found that you couldn’t look away. 

“Aren’t you gonna tell me your name?” He cocked his head to the side. 

“Y/n Shinazugawa.” 

“Well then, little y/n. Shall I go see about a warm meal for you? Also a herbal remedy for the pain should do the trick.” 

You nodded. “Yes, thank you… Douma.” 

He noticed how wet and red the bandage had become. The smell of blood was heavy in the air. He swiped his finger over the bandage, leaving a small trail of blood on his thumb. 

“Your bandage needs to be changed.” He said in a distracted tone. “Lay back down for a little while, I’ll be back soon.” 

You did as you were told and the boy got to his feet and walked out of the room, shutting the door closed behind him. 

Douma walked down the hall and into his private rooms. It took barely a second for him to return to his normal size. Now back to his usual adult form, he fixated upon the streak of blood on his finger. He shoved it in his mouth and sucked every drop, nearly biting his own finger off in the process. 

“Well now, I have found something truly unique. I’ve already eaten my fill today and the little one is making me this ravenous? Even after the many marechi’s I’ve tasted, this one seems different somehow. Too bad she’s barely a snack at this point.” He licked at his finger again, wishing for more. “Well, I always did like playing with my food. A few years will be nothing to me. But it wouldn’t do for another, lesser demon to gobble this delicacy up. I’ll just have to keep her close till she matures. Then…” 

He smiled sadistically at the thought.

___

“Are my eyebrows really that big?” Kyojiro asked from behind you, immediately breaking your concentration. 

Instantly you jumped and dropped the sketch pad. The flame hashira knelt down and picked it up. Studying the picture you had sketched of him. 

“Give that back, please.” Your hand trembled as you reached out to take it back. 

Kyojiro simply grinned and leafed through the other pages. There wasn’t much to be seen, just a few sketches of scenery, a portrait of Ubuyashiki, and several studies of his children. 

“These are marvelous.” The flame hashira said in a soft and sincere voice. 

“...Thank you…” You twisted a bit of your long hair in your fingers, too embarrassed to meet the man's eyes. 

He stopped at an older portrait you had done. Kyojiro studied the multicolored eyes of the teenage boy in the painting. 

Douma, perhaps around sixteen, sitting by a koi pond in his gardens, glancing at you from the painting with a soft smile on his lips. The inky night sky and lotus flowers surrounding him. 

“Who’s this?” Asked the flame haired man. 

You tugged the book away then, hiding the detailed painting from view. “Just someone I grew up with.” 

“Is that so!” It was hard to read Rengoku’s expressions, they always seemed to have the same smile. He seemed to begin to say something but a crow squawked and drew the attention of both of you.

“Y/n Shinazugawa! You are to accompany Giyu Tomioka and Kocho Shinobu to Mount Natagumo! Report to the master immediately!”

Your first mission as a hashira had already begun.

Chapter 4.

[sugarrspice]

For a request: puppet Antiaverage, with an obsessive/possessive Anti. Thank you for tipping!

warnings: emotional and psychological manipulation.

The brick wall is cold underneath his fingertips, the rough edges catching on nails carefully kept blunt and short.

Chase grimaces at the bite, but doesn't take his hand away, leans more of his weight against the wall. There's a tiny voice in the back of his head that says if he steps away, if he loses his grip-

His head hurts. His vision swims. He just- he has to make it... make it home, right?

What would happen if he loses his grip?

He takes another step, and braces himself against another wave of vertigo. Where was he, again? His head hurts. The brick wall is sticky underneath his fingertips.

His ears are ringing. His throat hurts. His fingertips are sticky.

Where was he trying to go?

The wind's picked up, and he shrugs his jacket up higher around his neck. Tries to, at least; it does little to stop the chill's sharp teeth. The wind laughs, softly, and winds cold fingers beneath his collar.

Wake up, Chase. Wake up, wake up w-

"-ake up, Chase," someone is cooing in his ear, and Chase starts awake with an aborted gasp. Someone's leaning over him, form dark against the moonlight streaming into the unshuttered windows, and Chase slams an elbow into their gut on pure reflex, heart thundering in his ears.

He tries to, at least; they curl a cold hand around his arm, stilling it completely, and he freezes; Anti braces an arm by his head, and tilts his head. Unkempt strands fall over his eyes, and the very motion is so familiar that Chase stutters on his next inhale.

Just like- who? Who used to keep their hair long, unruly as it got in the late hours-

His head throbs again, and he must wince, because Anti sighs and releases his grip. A cool hand threads through his hair, resting against the parts of his head that aches the most, and Chase leans into the touch. It soothes the pain, but not by much.

"Bad night," Anti murmurs, and it sounds less like a question and more like a fact. Chase closes his eyes, and nods; Anti already knows.

"I didn't know the magician had scared you so badly," he says, softly, and Chase shrugs, a little, the memories slotting into place the longer he spends shaking off that dream.

Fire against his skin, burning bright and blue. Someone screaming. Smoke, too, gunpowder sharp against his nose and hot on his hands. He's lying, Chase, you have to trust us, you have to-

"Come home," Chase hums, softly. "He kept saying to come home."

"And he also tried to burn yours down. Ironic, really," Anti says, dryly. Chase shakes his head, gently. As much as he can with Anti's hand in his hair, at least. He eases himself upright, slotting himself under Anti's arm; Anti, for his part, pulls him closer. There's a faint hum in his chest that Chase has learned to call happy. Safe. Content.

"They keep saying the same things." Chase doesn't mean it as a question, not really, but Anti's arm tightens around him all the same. His head pounds, again, spikes with each word out of Anti's mouth.

"They're all liars. They tried to hurt you."

Anti ghosts a hand down one shoulder, bandages wrapped around burnt, blistering skin. Lingers, for a moment, above the bony bit, where his skin prickles at the barest of touches.

...Every hair on the back of his neck is standing on end, one foot balanced on the edge of a precipice. Chase swallows against a suddenly dry throat, and leans his head against Anti's shoulder.

"You didn't let them."

The pressure in his head eases, and Anti idly coils a lock of hair around his finger. "Of course not. Not my Chase."

It sounds like a threat, and a promise, all in one.

Fire against his skin, bright and blue. Static in his ears, steadying his hands as he pops off one shot after another, Anti goading him forward. Don't let them take you, Chase, don't let them take you from your home.

Smoke thick and choking in his lungs, and then a cool hand, guiding him to his knees where the smoke hasn't gathered. Anti, silent as his knife slips between the magician's ribs like a gift, Anti, looking down at him, haloed by the dying remnants of the fire, reaching down to cup a hand around his cheek--

Dry lips against the curve of his jaw draw him out of his head, and Chase blinks heavy eyes at Anti. Anti crooks a smirk, and leans back, smug in his success.

"You should get some more sleep. I told you not to worry about them, didn't I?"

Chase rolls his eyes right back at Anti; sleep does sound tempting, but...

"You'll stay?" He checks.

"Of course I'll stay," Anti murmurs, and it sounds- he knows when Anti sounds like he's won an argument. He wonders which argument this was. "I'll watch over you. Go to sleep."

There's a command in those words, and Chase curls into Anti's chest, letting the static wash over him, smoothing over the last remnants of adrenaline. He won't have to worry about dreaming, again, not tonight.

(Why would he? He's already home.)

[proserpina-magnus]

can you do a young sirius black x reader fic where the reader gets kidnapped and tortured by death eaters and sirius rescues the reader and comforts and takes care of the reader?

Hii! Thank you for the request, I didn’t go much into the description of getting tortured (sorry). I hope you like it! xoxo

One Where He Rescues You  [ S.B ]

Word count: 1.6k

[ Warnings: GN reader, kidnapping, bruises and blood, violence, bathing, non-sexual undressing, kissing, words such as “baby” and “pup” ]

A bright white light was seen flashing under the door where you sat, ankles and wrists bound by tight itchy rope. Your eyes downcast, fighting to stay awake to see what the communion was.

You heard the frantic yelling of men, thudding footsteps and the yanking of the doorknob. You let out a long sob, your tears mixing with the thick red blood. You have no strength to even try and scramble out of the ropes, your wrist and ankles burning with bruises.

A silent curse was sent at the locked door, Sirius looking around with worried eyes. His eyes slanted in anger, hair sprawled out in thick mounds. His eyes caught your wounded figure, a sad smile on his face as he let out a silent cry knowing you were okay.

You blurred for a moment before you saw his body in front of yours. He took your face in his gentle hands, you let out a painful whimper, his hands grazing your open flesh.

"Oh baby, Shh it's okay, it's okay," Sirius coo's, tears in his eyes as he fiddled with the rope. He throws them to the side, wiping his eyes with his sleeve as he takes a shaky breath. "You're okay, I won't let them hurt you anymore," he states in a hurry, eyes flashing to you.

You see James come bursting through the doorway, seeing Sirius hunched over your tired body. James lets out his own relieved breath, turning back to the hallway as he flashes a curse towards an unknown death eater.

"Are they okay, pads?" James calls out, moving his wand as he steps more in the hall. Sirius calls back quickly, more focused on getting you safe. When your eyes start to close and you don't respond to his simple frantic questions, he starts to worry.

"No no, keep your eyes open pup," He rambles, his hand in your hair before lifting you up into his chest. You can't even cling onto him, your arms too exhausted. Sirius curses to himself as he sees you pass out, moving out to the hallway as James and Sirius escape through the back.

—-

When you awoke, you were safe in your shared bed. You feel an ache in your wrists and ankles, stern bandages wrapped around them to hide them from view. Your fingertips rise and touch your scarred face, touching the band-aids that shielded them. You let out a loud sob, sensitive from the aftershock.

Sirius walked through the door with a glass of water, seeing you awake and scared. He jolted over to you, placing the cup down as his hands gently held your face.

"Oh baby, Shh it's okay. It's all over now," He coos, trying to wipe the running tears. He sits on the bed, bringing you to his chest as his hand rubs your back gently. "You're okay, you're okay,"

With the constant reminders of your safety, you let out relieved sobs and breaths. Clutching onto him for dear life, your body aches. You pull away with a sniffle, tears drying on your reddened face. You take a long look at Sirius, glad to finally be reunited with him. You notice his own glossy eyes, obvious tears stained on his face.

"I'm sorry," you cry, holding his face in your cracked fingers. You hold back the tears, breaths heavy and deep as you try to calm down. Sirius takes a sorrowed look, shaking his head.

"Don't apologize, s'not your fault," he says, a small smile ghosting his face. He was so relieved to have you back, he wouldn't know what he would do if you didn't come home with him.

"You came and saved me," you mumble, his smile contagious as you lean forward and press a long kiss to his lips. It wasn't a heated sweet kiss, it was just a small reminder that you both still had each other.

"I'll always come and save you," Sirius whispers, his lips coming to kiss your cheek. He pulls you back to his chest, his nose buried in your hair. He pushes back a cry, trying not to startle you.

"Can we have some tea?" You asked, your throat dry and swollen. Sirius kissed your head before lifting you with ease, holding you in his strong grip, he was too afraid to let you go. “Of course, Marlene gave me some herbs for this. It’s supposed to help numb the ache,” Sirius explains, carrying you out to your shared kitchen.

“Will James and Remus visit? What about lily?” You ask as Sirius props you up on the counter, Sirius pulls away just a bit, his hands on either side of you.

“I told them to come by tomorrow, I want you to rest up first,” Sirius explains, his hand coming up to tilt your chin. He leans down and plants a sweet kiss on your mouth, not minding the slight taste of dried blood.

“You’re so pretty,” he says, giving you another kiss. He didn’t want to waste the time he had.

“I’m bandaid up, how can you even tell?” You ask while Sirius starts to buzz around the kitchen, filling up a kettle as he places it on the burner.

“I don’t need to see you to know you’re pretty,” Sirius says, using a quick charm to instantly heat the water. You scrunch your nose, not understanding. Sirius laughs, kissing your forehead as he mixes in the herbs. He gets out two cups, filling them to the brim. Steam rolls from the new position, making you sigh at the familiarness.

“Alright, drink up,” he chimes, passing you the cup. You hold the warm mug, blowing on before bringing it to your lips. The smooth texture soothes your throat instantly, making you hum and lean back against the cupboard.

Sirius watches with love, rubbing your thigh before taking a drink as well.

“I wanted to wait for you to wake up before I bathed you,” Sirius says, watching as you finish the healing tea. You nod, arms wrapping around his neck as he picks you up once more. He takes you to the bathroom, setting you down once more on the closed toilet seat.

“Do you want some bubbles?” He asked, turning on the faucet as hot water filled the tub. You nod, reaching for the pink container as you pass it to him. Sirius smiles, kissing your knuckles as he opens and splashes the mixture in the bath.

“Alright, I have to take these off,” Sirius warns, motioning to your bandages, you look towards the side, afraid to see your bruised skin. “I know pup, I’ll be quick and then we can get you all nice and clean,”

Sirius takes a breath to calm himself, crouching down so he can take off the bandages on your ankle. He kisses your knee, undoing the white fabric. He does the same to the other ankle, clearing his throat. Sirius felt angry at the wounds, only wanting to harm the person that did this to you.

Sirius moves to your wrists, being gentle as he unravels the bandages. Your eyes scan your raw skin, an uncertain expression on your face. These wounds would leave scars and the thought scared you.

“Sirius, m’ so ugly,” you say, tears in your waterline as you look at your wrists. You peer down towards your ankles, seeing the same exact wounds. Sirius shakes his head, tilting your head up so you can focus on his eyes.

“No pup, just another thing to love about you. Shows me how strong you really are,” Sirius explains, love in his eyes as he rubs away a tear. He hugs you firm but soft, making sure to not apply too much pressure. He rubs your back, letting you express grief for a moment.

“I love you, Sirius,” You mumble into his shoulder, kissing his shirt before pulling away. “I love you too pup,”

“I’m going to take the band-aids off, it might hurt but I’ll be quick,” Sirius says, rubbing your shoulder before bringing his hands to the big bandaid on your forehead. He tears it away making you wince and tug away from his touch.

“I know, I’m sorry,” he expresses, tugging another one off with a quick swoop. You sigh, nodding as he finally pulls off the last one. “Okay, you’re all done. Let’s get you undressed and clean,”

He undressed you quickly, eyes scanning your skin to make sure there aren't any other wounds he missed. With his conclusion, he pulls you up and plops you gently into the bubble bath.

The warm water instantly makes you whimper, sinking into the tub as you let the water clean and soften your aching skin. Sirius brushes your hair, placing kisses on your face.

He picks up the movable shower head, cleaning your hair as he soaks it for cleaning. He applies some shampoo (the expensive kind, since Sirius Black could only supply you with the best products), his fingertips pushing into your trigger points on your skull. You groan in relief, leaning completely into him.

Sirius chuckles, washing out the shampoo as he grabs for the conditioner. He apples it graciously, letting it sit as he works on cleaning your skin. He picks up a soft cloth, washing with the bubbles to clean you from dirt. He was very careful around your wounds.

“Thank you siri,” you mumble, the detachable showerhead washing through your hair once again. Sirius cleans away the conditioner, kissing your wet cheek. “I’m only taking care of you pup,”

“Do you want to rest in the bath for a bit more?” Sirius asks, massaging your aching shoulders. You nodded, shoulders relaxing from his generous touch. “Yes please,” you whisper.

“Okay, I’m going to go pick out some comfy clothes and make you a small snack,” Sirius says, lifting your chin up so he can give you a small departing kiss. You nod, pulling him back down for another kiss before he disappears out to the kitchen. You smile, sinking back into the tub as you feel a sense of protectiveness.

[nochi-quinn]

Of The Moth For The Star

Fandom: Fallout 4 Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Deacon/Female Sole Survivor, Deacon/Sole Survivor (Fallout), Deacon & Female Sole Survivor, Female Sole Survivor & Nick Valentine, Deacon & Nick Valentine Characters: Deacon (Fallout), Nick Valentine, Female Sole Survivor Additional Tags: POV Deacon (Fallout 4), Hurt/Comfort, Pining, Falling In Love, Love Realization, Bittersweet Ending, Possibly Unrequited Love, Canon-Typical Violence, Deacon has PTSD

Preview:

The solo trip through Charlestown is more nerve-wracking than usual, his mind on his surroundings way less than it should be. It’s on her , damnably, why all the runner had to say was her name and not what might have happened to her.

There might have been more to it if you hadn’t bolted out the door , his mind taunts him. He shakes it off, irritated - he was allowed to worry about her. Right? She was his partner. His friend, even if he was really, really bad at saying that last part out loud. Hell, he just got comfortable saying the first part. With extending that kind of trust. 

“You’re fucked up,” he mutters to himself, for neither the first or last time, and quickens his steps through the city.

When he hits the settlement’s gates he makes a beeline for the market, detouring only when he spots Nick at a table in the corner. The synth stands to greet him, but the friendly hand falls away when he sees the look on Deacon’s face. 

“She’s upstairs,” he says simply. Deacon turns on his heel, taking the stairs two at a time. As a result he beats Nick to the second floor, realizing only once he’s there that he doesn’t know which room she’s in, and has to wait with barely-contained agitation until Nick catches up. Not thinking. Not planning. Pure reaction, pure impulse. Gonna get myself killed like this. 

“Kay did her best,” Nick mutters, approaching a door in the center of the hall. “But she’s gonna need a real doctor. Not that Kay’s - you know what I mean.”

That does nothing to help Deacon’s agitation. When Nick gets the door unlocked it takes everything in him not to shove past him, to get into the room as quickly as he can. 

“She might be asleep,” Nick says, sharp against Deacon’s hurry, but there’s already stirring in the bed in the corner.

“Deac?” Her voice is slurred - she had been sleeping. He feels a little bad for waking her until she sits up, ignoring Nick’s noise of protest, and the thin sheet falls away.

“Jesus Christ.” Deacon takes a half-step towards her, hand outstretched, but stops himself. Lets the hand fall and just stares . She’s wearing a button-down shirt, two sizes too big so that the collar falls low and he can see the litany of bruises crawling up her neck from under the bandages wrapped around what looks to be her entire torso. “What happened ?”

“Gunners,” Nick says grimly. That’s bad enough, but the way Fixer flinches is worse. She didn’t want me to know . The thought is clear and solid in his head, and he feels his jaw settle into a hard line. 

“So a real ‘you should see the other guy’ situation, huh.” The joke is automatic; he doesn’t feel it. Fixer, to her credit, meets his eyes as she nods. Even that small movement has her wincing, and she settles back against the wall with her eyes closed. 

“I’ll…wait downstairs,” Nick says, sliding out into the hall, leaving the two of them alone with the thick, heavy discomfort in the air between them. 

Fixer hasn't sat up, still leaned back against the wall, breathing shallowly. 

"How bad?" Let me see , he wants to say. Let me fix it.

"Ribs." Her voice is strained. "Back. Mostly bruised. No breaks. Probably."

"Grenades?" She just nods, wrapping one arm around her middle with a hard wince and a hissing inhale. 

"That and a car." Deacon closes his eyes, takes a deep breath in. Lets it out slowly. 

"Why here?" 

She opens one eye. "What?" 

"Why have Nick bring you here?" 

The eye drifts shut again. "He doesn't know the way home," she murmurs. "Doesn't want to. Operational security ." The phrase is accompanied by a thin smile. "Knew I could snag a runner here." 

"You couldn't have sent more than your name?" He sinks into the room's only chair, adrenaline finally draining and leaving his muscles sore. He can’t be mad. Wants to be, wants to know why she went and what she did and why she didn’t want him to know, but he’s just too tired and too relieved to find her in mostly one piece. His eyes are still fixed squarely on her, the ragged way she’s breathing and her jaw clenched against the pain. She cracks one eye again, frowning at him.

“I did. Said I was alive but needed help home.”

Told you so. He swats the mental voice away. “He didn’t get to that part,” he admits quietly. “I left pretty quick.” Fixer’s mouth curves into a smile.

“Careful, partner. People might start thinking you care.”

There's a sudden tightness in his chest he can't explain. Probably just adrenaline. He struggles to return the smile, but manages it in the end.

[plush-rabbit]

Tragedy

Word Count: 2.8K

A/N: It makes me really sad that his Father’s favorite things were his family and that he just wanted them to be happy

Each step of his is slow, his heels clicking against the floor as he walks to his room, his body still on high alert, his mind full of chatter and noise that had echoed in the room large enough to still fill soldiers. His mind is still full of destruction, buildings crumbling under him, the screams of his- Tomura closes his eyes tightly and takes a sharp breath, pausing in the middle of the hallway, his hand coming up to cover above where Father should be. Somehow, it feels sick- sicker than usual at least. He continues onward, his steps quickening subconsciously, an effort to push the past further away, to drown out the noise in the distance, but no matter where he goes, it follows him.

There’s no use dwelling on the past, wondering if things might have been different or if he would have ended up different if it weren’t for that night. If it weren’t for that picture. If it weren’t for him and his selfish want to be a hero. It was a child’s dream, something naïve and something so raw and filthy that he now pays the price for it.

He stands at the closed door, a faint sound from the inside, a song too low and muffled by the wood for him to make out and his hand is curled into a weak fist, ready to knock, pleading that you’ll allow him entry. It’s his room. It’s your room. It’s a shared room and yet, he still feels as if he doesn’t belong.

You’re on the other side, waiting for him, and he can only force himself to muster the energy to stand. His knuckles rap against the door, and he waits for a moment, a second that drags on and on, until he hears your voice, allowing him entry. When he enters, his eyes land on you. Your back is propped up by pillows, your phone in your hand that is put aside and a blanket that covers your bent legs. You’re comfortable, laying in bed, and waiting for him, your smile soft, only to break when he stands in the doorway, holding the door with his hand while the one is pulled close to his chest.

“What’s wrong, Tomu?” Your head tilts and the blanket curls at the bottom of your ankle as you move to the edge of the bed. Your legs swing over and you walk up to him, your hands already raising to cup his face, but he moves away. “Tomura?” Your voice is small, as if you’re tending to a wounded animal and he realizes that this isn’t the first time that you’ve used this tone before. “Hey, come on,” you plead, as your hand rests on his shoulder and he has to shrug you away to close the door. “Talk to me,” you ask of him, and he can feel your eyes as he locks the door.

The bed dips under him and it is free of anything uncomfortable. It isn’t like the hard dirt that he’s known for the past few months, it isn’t a bed with springs digging into his back, and it isn’t a bed surrounded by four walls with his old figurines. It’s a new bed, soft and alien to him.

You stand in front of him, crouched to your knees and your hands resting against his thighs. He knows he should tell you something- you’ve teased and chastised him enough about how communication is important in a relationship, but he doesn’t know what to say. What do you say to a person who believes you are good, who wants to see the good in you that they ignore everything else about you? What do you say to a person who looks at you with endearment and understanding?

He doesn’t want to cry. He shouldn’t. It’s not like him. It isn’t him. “I’m tired.” his voice cracks and he looks at you for a second, his bottom lip teased between his teeth and his head lowering almost immediately once he catches your eyes.

“Oh honey,” you coo, and the space beside him is taken, as you wrap your arms around him, your hands lifting off his shoulder for a brief second, only to latch back onto him. “Is touch okay?” He nods, unable to answer. He feels your hand thread through his hair, untangling the few knotted pieces and scratching at his scalp. “It’s okay, Tomura. No one’s here, it’s just me and you.”

It’s just you and him. There’s no one else. It’s him in your arms as you shush him gently, slowly pulling him closer to you. You mutter soothing words to him, pulling him slowly further into the bed. The pillows soft as they cushion his body, his hand held and knuckles kissed and he lowers himself, his head resting on your chest.

“You can hold my hand,” he says, watching as his bare hand is interlaced with yours. His hand is calloused, scarred and imperfect, and it fills your hand perfectly, overlapping and watching as your fingertips brush over a faint scar between his knuckles and the webbed part of his hand. You’re much warmer than he remembered, and without his gloves, you’re softer too.

“And you can hold mine,” you reply, a hand curving to brush his hair. “You can hold mine anytime you want.” He knows you’re being sweet to him because of how vulnerable he is, and he wonders if it were any other time, if it were someone else even, if you would be as kind. “What happened, Tomura?” You press further and exhaustion is heavy on him, dragging along him and opening old and new wounds. “Talk to me, honey.”

What is he supposed to say? What should he tell you? Does he have to? Would you be angry at him if he doesn’t? Would you pull away from him and would he be the cause of the failed relationship? He isn’t ready and perhaps he’ll never be ready to say it outloud. As short as the time frame was, he’s over it. It’s in the past. The screams and blood will always taint his skin no matter how many times he washes his hands, but it’s in the past. He’s accepted it. But he can’t tell himself the same thing about you. He wants to tell him that you wouldn’t leave him, not this far into the relationship, not after everything that you did and ignored, just to be with him, but it’s different. You may not be perfect, but you’re perfect for him. To him, you’re his everything. He wants you and he wants you to accept everything that he is.

“A lot of things resurfaced about my past,” he speaks slowly, testing the waters and when you press your lips to the top of his head, allowing for him to continue, he does so. He rises above, his knees straddling your body and your hands cup his face, brushing back his hair that falls like a white curtain separating the both of you from the outside world. “Kiss me, please,” he croaks, lowering his head, until he can feel your breath on his lips.

It's a rush of emotions, one where he falls onto you, gasping as if he’s dying, choked breath followed by tears that slide down his cheeks and linger on his tongue. You’re caught by surprise, your noise of shock muffled by the kiss. He lowers himself, his hands free of cloth, except for one wrapped in bandages, but he touches you. He lets his fingertips roam over your body, to touch against your neck and feel every small movement, the soft inhale, the way your spit travels down your throat, the beating pulse that is erratic and pounding under his fingertips. His hand hurts, aching with every harsh movement, warmth leaking out and if it weren’t for the thickness of the bandages, he's sure red would have stained the both of you by now. Your hands move from him, pulling down his hair, leaving him in a whining mess, and you hold his with your hands pressed and curled onto his back. His hands never leave you, dragging down your body, a piece of your clothing crumbles, tearing at the seams and leaving your collar ruined. When he pulls away, your face is heavy in a flush, your eyes wide and dazed but holding some semblance of rationality behind them. Pink flashes out to wet your lips and he goes to capture you in a kiss once more, so desperate to feel you but when you turn your head, he meets your cheeks.

“Tomura,” you whine, your hands back on his head, cradling him until he pulls away, his head turning, face burning in shame at the rejection. “I need you to talk to me first.” You turn away and your cheeks are heavy in color, and your smile isn’t one that he’s used to. “Please.” It isn’t you begging, it isn’t you on your knees pleading and crying for him to share himself, but it’s enough for him to make his mind dizzy and rest his head on your shoulder.

“Later,” he says, and he can feel your disappointment by the hitch in your breath. “I promise. Just- Just kiss me, please. I don’t wanna think for a while.”

Your hand is soft compared to his skin, running past old scars, past his skin that is dry, and you move past his ear, burning hot to cup the back of his head and pull him into a kiss and that’s all the acceptance that he needs. Your body bumps against his, and while you are gentle, he is in a frenzy, ready to rid himself of emotion and just give in to you, and he lays above you with burning eyes. He isn’t sure what to make of it, to feel your body so soft and giving and it makes his itch. A burning desire to scratch infects him, ruins him to his core and he’s left choking against nothing, his body collapsing beside yours and his hands clawing towards you like a child scared of the dark. His nails run down his neck, and old wounds are opened, leaving him with bloody hands and poison that runs through his body and forces him to turn away from you.

“Tomura,” you coo, your hands over his arms, pulling him to see you. “Sweetheart, you’re safe, you’re safe.” You repeat it as if it’s the only thing that can hold him together, as if anything else said to him would cause him to fall apart before you. He’s cradled against your chest, and his hold on you is tight, nails digging into your arms and he’s alone with you for a moment. “You’re tired,” your words are said in a soft whisper and he can only nod. “Don’t rush yourself. You went through a lot-” your hand flutters over where his hand is bandaged, held together by a brace and it hurts in the worst possible way- “just take a breather, okay? You’re allowed to rest, you’re allowed to feel good.”

He is destruction, a burning sense of desire to watch the world crumble away, leaving only things that his comrades care about. And leaving you for him. He could care less about anything else, he just needs you at this very moment. You hold onto him, letting your lips press against the top of his head and he’s realized that he’s still in his suit, his shoes still on and dirtying the bed with the dirt beneath him.

“I’m getting the bed dirty,” he says and for the moment, that’s the only thing that matters. The bed you share with him is ruined by him. “I didn’t mean to,” he says without emotion, a blank slate for him to fill in and when you move away and shift yourself away from him and he looks at your wounded, so fearful, so resentful of everything that bubbled up, and he’s reaching out towards you, his hand latching onto yours while the other nudges against your thigh.

The corners of your lips tilt into a sad smile, and you hold his hand, bringing it up to his lips to kiss softly at his knuckles that have been ravaged by his life. “I’m not going anyway,” you murmur against his skin. “Let me just help you change.” His hands are left empty, nipped by the cold air in the room.

It’s an intimate moment as he watches you fix your hair, your smile faint, but there as you fix yourself. The back of his hand is rubbed against his nose as he watches you untie his laces, his shoes removed and placed on the floor below the bed. In a brief moment of realization that he should help you, he shrugs off his jacket, letting it fall beside him, uncaring as it slips over the edge of the bed and crumples onto the floor. He struggles to unbutton the top of his shirt, fumbling with his fingers, the button catching and slipping and frustration starts to bloom. There’s a seed planted that he could just decay the shirt, but then your hands replace his and he’s left staring at you, watching as you slowly and delicately unbutton him, his shirt removed and his body chill.

Scars and bandages are wrapped against him, fresh gauze that is wrapped around his side, stuck to his skin and with his chest bare, his skin pricks with tiny bumps all over. “I’m cold,” he says, his mouth pulled into a frown.

You give him a soft hum and push yourself close to him, your lips pressed over a scar that curves around his chest. Your hands are pressed against his stomach, and with your touch, he feels vulnerable, as if it's his very soul that is bare and not him. He isn’t sure what to make of it, what he’s supposed to do as you kiss over every wound that decorates his body, your lips against his rib cage, and his heart beats faster with every kiss. He’s exhausted, but he forces his eyes to stay awake as you kiss him, as you let yourself hover over everything that he is, kissing his scars and brushing the tip of your nose against the edge of the gauze and he can only muster half a laugh, smiling at you, his hand combed between your hair as you look up at him.

“Let’s go to sleep, okay?” You rise and unbuckle his jeans for him, and he helps you shimmying out of them, his mouth pulled into a thin line when you pull down and accidently brush the rough material against a bruise.

The mattress cushions and molds to his shape as he sinks down and it’s much too soft for him. He isn’t used to something like this and yet, when the blanket that smells like spring covers against him, tucked under his chin and your arms that circle around him, everything is lifted off of him. Every overbearing weight, every hate and sadness is lifted from him and he’s left with exhaustion and the desire to just touch you. He turns around, his body close to being bare and his legs entangle with yours, and he buries himself into you, his eyes halfway closed and slowly, he pecks at your collarbone, his lips sticking to you and his breath is shaky and warm as he pulls away.

He wishes he could tell you what he needs to. He wishes that he could tell you everything, and that it wouldn’t change a thing and yet, he knows better. He knows you’d comfort him, give him the love and care he so desperately needed when he roamed the streets. He knows that you cradle him and treat him as if he were someone made out of porcelain. He needs you to think of him as someone strong, as someone who had gotten through life’s cruelty with only scars on his skin, not the repressed emotions of a child who was too scared to talk and reached for his mother’s arms.

“I got you Tomura,” you say his name as if it were something pure and sweet on your tongue, and he yearns for it. Your hands rub away the goosebumps over him and there’s a sort of light feeling that wraps around his heart. “I’m not going anywhere, okay? It’s just you and me.” His eyes are heavy and he focuses on how your chest rises and falls, how your fingertips tap against his body and circle over a smooth strip of skin that was once a scar, now healed. “I’ll be here for you.”

[wreckmetoji]

Fight for your love

A fic in which your boyfriend’s job keeps you from obtaining what you want the most.

↳ Geto Suguru/Reader

content warning. fluff, smut, established relationship, afab reader, oral(f receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, breeding kink, profanity

**Minors DNI**

2.5k words

In no way did Suguru think he was a clean, righteous person. He knew many decisions he made weren't the right ones, he knows he's had to hurt innocent people. But the way you looked at him every time he walked through the door made him believe he was. The gentle tender love and care tending to his wounds after a long day of work gone bad, hurting innocent people. You never seemed to mind, never seemed to ask, never seemed to care if the way you kissed his bruised, bloody knuckles spoke what your heart was thinking. Every time he tried to bring up his line of work, knowing there was a good chance one day you might get dragged in despite how hard he tried to keep you separate, keep you secret, you simply shook your head and smiled at him. As long as you're you, I don't care what you do, you'd say. As long as I'm happy with you here and now, I don't care what happens later. Suguru would be lying if he said he didn't come to the conclusion he couldn't live without you right there, right then, the first time you said those words with your blindingly bright smile. Everyone was far from perfect, except you. There was no such thing as perfect, except you– and sometimes, you made him feel perfect too. "I know you can't help it, but," You muttered, tongue poked out between your lips as you tied the bandage around his torso with utmost concentration, "If you're gonna get hurt, try to avoid something this close to your heart." His softened gaze followed your fingers as you gently caressed the bandages above his deep cut, the pain not even registering with how gently, how lovingly you treated him. "After all, if your heart gets hurt, so does mine." He knew, deep down, he didn't deserve you. "I'll try my best, darling." Suguru smiled, hands gently finding your hips, his forehead leaning into your chest as you cradled him from your standing position. There you stayed, slowly, gently swaying in comfortable silence. You made him feel virtuous, as if mere hours ago he didn't commit horrible, unforgivable atrocities, unforgivable and damning sins. This is how most of your evenings together would go, patching him up, dancing around each other in the kitchen as you made dinner together, if he was ever home early you'd watch a movie together. Even if it was rare with the long hours he worked, those were the days he cherished, those were the days that got him through it all. You never asked for more, even though he knew you deserved every second of his time, you deserved the world and the heavens above. What were you if not a goddess, damned to mortality, damned to a life loving him. Suguru held you close as you laid in bed, the rain pattering on the window lulling you both into a comfortable half-asleep daze. He noticed the way you kept some distance, trying not to irritate his fresh wound. "Sugu," Your voice called, urging him to open his eyes and gaze down at you. Your sudden silence intrigued him, and the way your ears went pink intrigued him even more. "What is it, little lamb?" Suguru sounded tired, voice gravelly from a long day. He kissed the crown of your head, rubbing soft circles on the small of your back, urging you to talk to him about what you so eagerly wanted to get out. "Maybe one day–" You paused again, fists balling at his bare chest, "One day, would you want to start a family?" The thought had most certainly crossed his mind, on several occasions. Suguru would regularly daydream about a peaceful life of domesticity with you, a child or two, a nice house in a nice neighborhood with a nice, respectable job. He'd always snuffed the idea, knowing that he probably wouldn't live to see his child grow up properly. Still, though, the way you pressed your cheek into his arm and stared at him with wide, inquisitive eyes had him smiling sadly. "My beautiful angel... Under different circumstances, I wouldn't have to think twice." He didn't want to lie to you, but the frown tugging at your lips had his heart clenching in his chest. "We could go somewhere they can't find you, we could move somewhere warm and sunny." Suguru chuckled at your optimism, though a twinge of sadness was behind it. They would find him, no matter what he did or where he went. He didn't dare say it, he knew your response already, that's just an excuse. "That would be nice, wouldn't it?" Your silence told him everything he needed to know. There wasn't anything he could say, so instead he kissed your forehead, your cheek, your nose, then your lips. There he lingered, sighing gently when your hands moved up to his shoulders, then his neck. Heightened by your saddened state, the way you pulled him closer, fingers brushing through the hair on his neck, thumbs stroking his jawline, was all so desperate. It was your silent plea, your attempt to change a fate already set in stone. "I can't stand to see you sad, little lamb." He smiled against your lips, slowly shifting on the bed until he was hovering over you. Those eyes, the way you looked at him, so wide and clear and swimming with emotion. So pure, so untainted, so good. Everything he wasn't, and everything he strives to be. "I'll make it up to you, darling," He kissed you again, then your chin, then your neck, "I promise." Only when he received a nod of approval did he proceed, gently pulling your underwear off, oh so gently helping you lift your night shirt over your head. Never in the years you'd been together has he grown accustom to just how lucky he is to exist on this world at the same time you did. "You're so beautiful, absolutely perfect. Have I told you this?" Of course he has, but the smile on his face was so cheeky, so mischievous it made you giggle. "Maybe once or twice." Suguru returned your laugh, pulling his hair back into a bun with the hair tie on his wrist, before descending down your body. Every place he stopped, he kissed, nuzzled, nibbled, eliciting a sigh from you nearly every time. The sight of your eyes closing and head tilting back once he reached your core, giving your bundle of nerves a sweet kitten lick, was akin to seeing God. Surely it was the holiest thing he would witness in all his time on this earth. You were, after all, nothing short of an angel. Making himself more comfortable, Suguru gripped your thighs, throwing them over his shoulders. The soft look you gave him, those sweet eyes, your perfect parted kiss-plumped lips... "Beautiful," Was all he whispered into the plush skin if your thigh before parting you with his thumbs, gently kissing, licking, and sucking your sensitive clit. The long whine you emitted only spurred him on, fingers teasing your entrance by touching and squeezing everywhere but where you wanted. Admittedly, it's been a while since the two of you got intimate time together. Either he would come home too late, or too hurt, for the two of you to comfortably do anything. You never seemed to press. "I'm sorry I haven't been taking care of you, little lamb," Suguru replaced his mouth with his hands, thumb swirling circles around your bundle of nerves, while his index and forefinger ever so slowly entered your heat. He set an immediately fast pace, fox-like eyes drinking in your pleasure twisted face. The sweet sounds dripping from your mouth were like music to his ears, the arch of your back from the mattress eliciting a dark chuckle from him. "I know I haven't been the most solicitous boyfriend as of late," His fingers curled inside you at his words, "I hear you in the shower, you know." He kissed his way back up your body, stopping only briefly to flick his tongue across a pebbled nipple, stopping mere centimeters away from your lips. He wanted to bask in your whines and moans for just a moment longer, his personal hymn. "Naughty little thing, never asking for help." Suguru didn't get to tease you for long, your hands finding quick purchase on his cheeks, tugging him down and kissing him with desperate force. Your frenzied, open mouthed kisses were met ten-fold, a slow, low moan coming from him at the uncharacteristic abrasiveness you were displaying. The way your walls clenched around his fingers let him know just how bad you'd been needing him, the whispered I'm cumming against his lips. When your hand came down to palm at his very hard erection outside his briefs was when he decided he'd have to reign you in much tighter than usual tonight. Tonight wasn't about him. His fingers worked in tandem with your heaving chest, every push and pull in sync with your hurried breaths. He had half a mind to pin your arms above your head and fuck you stupid with his fingers, but he couldn't deny you of what you really wanted. "I know you're eager, darling, but be good." He saw the shiver run up your body at his authoritative tone, one he didn't use often. At the same time, he pulled down his boxer briefs and added his ring finger to your dripping cunt. It isn't that he had to, he knew you were already perfectly wet for him, he just loved the way your thin fingers gripped the sheets, the way your head thrashed from side to side. Very briefly, Suguru entertained the thought of a golden band wrapped around his finger as he defiled you with his hands. How beautiful it would look disappearing, reappearing, covered in your slick. It made his cock twitch. The second he removed his sopping fingers from you, he'd lined up the thick head of his cock with your trembling sex, leaning back with his hands on your knees. He could see the surprise on your face, your arm half-way reached to the bedside drawer to get a condom. "I know," He crooned, stroking your knee. Admittedly, the two of you weren't diligent with using condoms when you didn't have to, but he was well aware this was the week you really should be using them, lest you want unexpected surprises. Your teary eyes and beaming smile could put the pearly golden gates of heaven to shame. The way you squealed as he pushed in had his own eyes rolling back, forcing your knees apart further until he had completely buried himself to in your welcoming heat. Having been a while, he had to take a shaky breath before slowly, ever so slowly, pulling out to the tip, pushing back in with a bit more haste. How quickly, and how tightly, you wrapped your legs around his waist nearly winded him, enraptured cries of faster, please, I need you making him groan. "You poor thing, so needy," Suguru barely managed to breathe out, hips moving at a steady pace. The obscene sound of your slick sticking to his hips every time he tenderly fucked into you made him acutely aware of exactly how long its been. Ashamedly aware of how close he was to his climax, Suguru's thin fingers moved between your bodies, sliding in a quick back and forth motion against your clit at an attempt to get you closer, faster. The immediate reaction had his hips stuttering, your gummy walls clenching intensely around him, your impending orgasm pushing him over the edge. He only briefly stopped moving, whispering an apology into your hair as he tenderly flipped your body. Having you lay prone was one of your favorite positions, but it was mostly done to hide the embarrassed pink tint climbing up his neck from your gaze. White seed squished out and dripped down your sex, between your thighs, when he pushed back into you, the feeling alone having you throwing your head back and crying out for him. He continued his unrelenting pace, seeming completely unfazed by his own orgasm. "You like that, hm?" Suguru teased, a hand sliding down the curve of your hip, reaching under you, pressing his palm flat against where he felt himself protruding on your pelvis. "You like getting filled up with my cum, you want me to fuck a baby into you, darling?" His lewd words elicited muffled screams and cries of affirmation, your face buried in a pillow and biting down. Usually, Suguru would save his dirty talk for rough, frustrated, passionate sex, but how badly you needed him, begging him, to fill you up again had his mind hazy. He knew you well enough that you didn't have to tell him you were coming undone. "Such a good girl, you're so– so good, cum for me." Demanding words had you squeezing around his cock, the flutter and spasm of your orgasm urging him to move faster, harder, climbing another of his own release. Suguru was much more vocal this time around, hissing through clenched teeth, muttering sweet nothings and your name and I love you, I love you, I love you so much. Rutting and rolling his hips into you as he coated your walls white, his arm came around your chest and hugged you back against him. He pressed long, searing kisses into the shoulder his chin had been resting on, only pulling out from your messy cum-coated slick once he was sure you were satisfied with how thoroughly he bred you. You tiredly collapsed back into his chest, head turned to lazily gaze up at his equally tired, smiling face. He knew what transpired was irresponsible at best, the weight of parental responsibility already settling in the back of his mind. For now, he would simply entertain the idea. The inquisitive gaze you held had him chuckling, kissing your cheek tenderly, as if that would answer all the questions he could see you wanted to ask him. He never fed you lies, but when he told you everything will be okay, we'll find a way, I promise it sounded almost sincere enough to pass as the truth. Soft strokes of your hair lulled you to sleep, but Suguru found himself wide awake and staring at your beautiful lips, nose, lashes, the curve if your jaw, the dips of your collarbone. He found himself thinking of your words more than he should, knowing what the outcome would inevitably be. He came to the conclusion that for you, he would fight for his freedom. He would fight for you, for a family, for a normal life, somewhere warm and sunny. In this life, in the next life, in the afterlife, he would fight for you and love you with everything he had, his beautiful guardian angel.

[peachbear88]

The Greatest Love Story

A/N: Inspired by this lovely image I saw. I'm making this into a high school angst AU that takes place in like the 1900's. For the record, I know Steve isn't a bad person but this is an AU and I need one of those... You know, guys for this story so.... Yeah! Sorry! BTW, the second poem is not written by me, it's written by Elizabeth Barrett Browning and I stole some quotes from Shakespeare.

Warnings: Angst, homophobia, swearing, character death.

Word Count: 3.2k

Pairing: Yelena Belova x Reader

----------

You scale the ancient wooden stairs of your small school. avoiding eye contact with anyone. The stares you receive from others are painfully obvious as you speed walk towards the library, seeking shelter from the judgmental glances from your peers.

"Hello dear," the kind librarian greets you as you walk past her towards your corner of the library.

You don't respond, quickly ducking behind the massive shelves, hoping to spend as much time as possible in your safe space before the classes start. Placing back your old books, you scan the shelves, until a particular title catches your eye.

"Love Poems by Women?" You murmur, flipping through the worn pages.

----------

A giant dusty book lands on the librarian's desk, making her look up.

"May I take this out?" You ask, your tone emotionless, cold yet tentative. The librarian smiles gently at you handing you back the book.

"Of course dear. Happy reading." You give her a small, thankful smile before dashing out of the library door. The halls are partially empty, save for the kids that skip class, hanging around in the hallways and dark alleys after school.

You duck your head, avoiding eye contact as you pass the group leaning against the lockers, most importantly, the hazel eyed beauty that could snap your neck in half, Yelena Belova.

"Hey!" Your head snaps up. Big mistake. You lock eyes with the famed blonde and you drop your head immediately, a faint blush creeping up your cheeks.

"Y-Yes?"

"Look at me when I'm talking to you." She snaps. You peek at her from the corner of your eye, her sleek dress pants catching your eye.

"Interesting outfit choice," you note before you can stop yourself.

"What did you say?" She demands and you gulp, backing away.

"N-nothing." She slowly steps towards you, backing you into the lockers.

"Get to class. And don't ever let me see you again идиот (idiot)." You hurry down the hall towards your classroom, tripping in the process as you repeatedly look over your shoulder, watching as Yelena turns back to her friend group.

---------

"She was cute," Natasha points out as Yelena reclaims her spot leaning against the lockers. "Why do you feel the need to tease her so relentlessly?" Yelena rolls her eyes, grabbing the flask of vodka back from her sister.

"She's annoying. I don't like her." Natasha smirks.

"Sure. Whatever you say."

---------

You let out a sigh of relief when the bell rings.

Your classmates flood out of the classroom, jostling each other aside in their rush to get home. You quickly sprint out the door, eager to get home, safe and sound when a hand grabs you by the arm and pulls you into a dark alley behind the school.

"Hello there girly..." A deep voice says. You gulp. The boy steps into the light to reveal Steve Rogers. One of those people that take pride in hurting others, a bully, your tormenter.

"W-what do you want?" He smirks, stepping closer to you.

"Well, a little birdie told me that someone had an encounter with a specific blonde this morning." You flinch when he grabs you by the throat, pinning you to the wall. "You wouldn't happen to be... I don't know, one of those dykes would you?" Your eyes widen and you shake your head vigorously as he laughs. "Oh man," he sputters, choking through his laughter. "Wait till the school gets ahold of this-"

He doesn't get to finish his sentence because a fist connects with his face, sending him reeling backwards.

"What the-" A strong hand wraps around his throat, pushing him backwards till his back connects with the wall.

"Listen to me you маленькое дерьмо (little shit), if you ever even think about coming near her again, I will sneak into your house at night, gut you like the fish you are and paint the school with them." Yelena warns in a surprisingly calm voice. Steve's eyes widen and he nods his head frantically until she lets go.

"Crazy bitch!" He spits, backing away quickly. You shuffle your feet, looking down at the ground as she watches him run.

"T-thank you." You mutter, not daring to look her in the eye. She sighs.

"This better not become a daily thing Y/L/N." You nod feebly. "Get out of here." You quickly pick your bag back up and sprint out of the alley, leaving Yelena by herself,

---------

"I'm home mom!"

"Welcome home sweetie!" Your mom pokes her head out of the living room.

"How's your book going?"

"As great as a woman writing a book can be." She chuckles forcibly. There's an awkward silence before she continues. "Your father came by today." She pauses as you swallow, feeling like something lodged itself in your throat.

"And what did he want?" She frowns at your tone.

"Sweetie, I know you don't like him but he's still your fa-"

"I don't have a dad," you growl, picking up your bag. "My dad died when he chose to abandon us." She watches as you climb up the stairs, sighing and rubbing her temple.

---------

You flop onto your bed, dropping the thick dusty buck onto the bed. You spend the rest of the afternoon reading through the poems until your mom calls you down for dinner.

It's an awkward dinner, quiet, only the sounds of dishes, chewing and utensils filling the room.

"I'm going to bed." You say after washing the dishes, not bothering to wait for a response.

That night, you lay in bed, staring at the ceiling of your room.

"Love poems by women." You mutter, an idea popping into your head. You quickly sit up, flicking on your lamp and pulling out the book and a pen.

----------

"Good morning dear," the librarian greets you like she does every morning.

"I'd like to return this book." You reply coldly, passing her the book once again. She smiles gently at you.

"I hope you enjoyed your reading." She says while passing you, returning the book to its original shelf.

-----------

"Hello hon, can I help you with anything?" The librarian asks the dirty-blonde haired girl.

"No, thank you." The girl sends the librarian a tight lipped smile before returning her attention to the shelves. A ripped leather cover catches her attention. Love Poems by Women. She smiles, pulling the book from the shelf. Flipping open to the title page, a neat cursive catches her eyes.

Love flows between beings Gift from the gods Curse from the demons The missing part of every person Destined to be opposites Love is flexible Yet some seek to objectify love Love is not for the weak willed. - Aristophanes

The blonde haired girl hums, pulling a pen from her jacket's pocket and discreetly writing in the book, right next to the poem.

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

Terrible.

That's the only way to describe your day. You received your essay back, ecstatic to see that you had received an A. Steve on the other hand had absolutely flunked. Instead of dedicating his time to studying, he decided to beat you up as a way of taking out his frustration.

You ended up limping out of the women's toilet, your leg flaring up whenever you moved, tears threatening to fall from your eyes.

"Hi sweetcheeks," the librarian murmurs, her eyes trailing down your injured leg.

"'Ello." You quickly duck behind the shelves, pulling out the book you were looking for. Your brows scrunch together in confusion as you see a messier scrawl next to your handwriting.

Reality hits hard

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of being and ideal grace. I love thee to the level of every day's Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light. I love thee freely, as men strive for right. I love thee purely, as they turn from praise. I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.

- Orpheus

You smile letting a light laugh slip from your lips. A sweet titter revealing the little girl underneath your cold, traumatized exterior.

Quickly, you grab your pen from your pocket and begin scribbling.

-----------

The air is knocked from your body as your back makes contact with the floor.

"Listen here dyke. I don't like you alright," Steve growls into your ear as Tony cracks his knuckles. "So here's what's going to happen: Everyday you're going to meet us here and," he pauses, cracking his neck. "Help us relive some stress." He smiles wickedly before punching you in the stomach, making you double over in pain.

Your eyes flutter shut as they deliver blow after blow 'till they finally stop. You tentatively open your eyes to see Yelena tackling Steve to the ground as Tony stares at them, eyes wide.

"I. Told. You. To. Leave. Her. Alone!" She screams, pummeling Steve with her fists. He groans, unmoving. You watch in terror as Tony picks up a trash can lid, sneaking up behind her as she punches Steve in the face.

"Watch out!" You scream, taking Tony as well yourself by surprise. She looks up to see you slamming into Tony sending him flying into the nearby wall of the alley.

He crumples, unconscious.

"Are you okay?" You mumble, limping towards Yelena, who's clutching a blood gash on her arm.

"'M fine,' she grits out. You shake your head, grabbing her wrist. She flinches but doesn't push you away.

"You're not okay. Let me help you." You plead. She stays silent and you quickly take her silence as a yes, leading her to the front steps of your home. You rummage through your back pack, finding a large wrap of bandages that you kept after your daily beating from Rogers and his friends.

She winces as you wrap her wound swiftly.

"Gentle!" She growls and you stare back at her defiantly.

"Well maybe if you would stop moving, it'd hurt less!" You retort and she shuts up, staring off into the distance. You dab the cut with a small bit of alcohol before wrapping the bandage all around her arm.

"Thank you." She whispers, giving you a small smile. Reaching out, she gently tucks a strand of hair behind your ear as you flinch back. You quickly, shovel the bandages and medicinal alcohol back into your pack, not noticing the hurt look on her face.

"No problem. The least I could do since you saved me." You reply bluntly, swinging the bag over your shoulder and slipping through the door.

"Wait-" She sighs as the door slams shut in front of her.

You exhale, leaning against the door as you try to catch your breath.

-----------

Yelena sighs exasperatedly, tugging at the collar of her dress shirt.

"What's wrong little sis?" Natasha smirks, plopping down next to her.

"I got hurt and Y/N patched me up." Natasha jumps up, eyes wide.

"You stained your new shirt?" She groans shaking Yelena violently. "God I'm going to kill you!" Yelena grabs her sister, stopping her.

"You're missing the point!"

"Oh yeah? And what's that?" Nat challenges, flopping back down on to the couch.

"She patched me up!" Nat's eyes widen.

"Oh. Oh." She inches closer to her sister, nudging her playfully, much to Yelena's dislike. "So are y'all like," she winks at her sister insinuatingly. "A thing?" Yelena scrunches her brows in confusion.

"A thing?" Nat rolls her eyes, sidling closer to her.

"Yes. A thing. An item? Lovers?" She shrugs, missing the way Yelena blushes.

"In her dreams," Yelena snorts, leaning back into the couch.

"If you say so..."

-----------

"Morning pumpkin!" The librarian chirps.

The blonde girl ignores her, breezing past her towards the the shelves at the very back, peeking over her shoulder quickly before pulling an old, leather bound book from the shelf.

She flips the leather cover aside to reveal the title page. Next to her messy, distorted scrawl was a neat, distinctive cursive once again.

Speak low if you speak love

- Aristophanes

She smiles gently, chuckling as she shakes her head.

"Shakespeare of all people," she whispers, her accent thickening. Pulling a forgotten pen from the shelves, she begins writing,

-----------

The highlight of your day became going to the library and reading the little messages scrawled in between the margins of the book by Orpheus. Like:

If music be the food of love, play on

Or

Her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love.

They made you smile on a daily basis, sometimes even eliciting a rare light laugh.

"Good morning sweetpea." The librarian greets you, not expecting a response. To her surprise and yours, you muster a small smile and a wave.

"Hello." You can feel the librarians shocked eyes following you as you round the bookshelf corner to find Steve, eyes wide, mouth open in shock as he stares down at something in his hands.

Your heart plummets. A book with a soft leather cover, yellowed pages. The book of poems.

You lunge for it but he step sides you swiftly, raising the book above his head.

"Speak low if you speak of love huh? I'm not surprised you know Shakespeare, you're such a nerd." He sneers, waving the book above his head.

"I-I don't know what you're talking about." You stutter, backing up. He grabs you by the collar of your shirt, lifting you into the air.

"Don't fuck with me!" He growls, dropping the book and kicking it to the side. "Who's Orpheus?"

"G-Greek hero. Musician." You stutter and he slaps you, hard. You can feel your cheek swelling under his fiery gaze.

"Don't even try me. Who. Is. Orpheus?"

"I don't know, I swear!" You mutter, wincing when you accidentally bite your cheek.

He drops you, watching as you scramble to your feet, backing away.

"This isn't over you little shit. I'll be back for you," he warns, giving your book one last kick for good measure before storming out of the library with Tony and Bucky on his heels.

You fall to your knees, silently sobbing as you crawl over too the book, dusting it off and hugging it to your chest.

Yelena sighs, her heart breaking as she watches you curl around the book protectively, lying on the floor.

-----------

"Where are you going?"

Yelena turns to find Nat, leaning against the school stairwell doorway, watching her.

"Just up to the roof. Need some fresh air," she lies, avoiding Nat's gaze. Nat lifts Yelena's chin up, staring into her eyes, boring into her very soul. Yelena squirms under her gaze until she finally lets go.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay." She smiles sadly at her little sister. "Just-" Her voice cracks as she pats her sister's shoulder. "Don't do anything stupid."

"Don't worry. I won't." She gives Nat a brief hug before hiking her pants up and starting up the stairs.

-----------

"Ah, well look who decided to join the party!" You look up from the ground to see Yelena, your eyes clouded with pain.

"No..." You croak but Steve pays no attention to you.

"Come to save your love Yelena?" He sneers, dropping you to the ground. "Or should I say... Orpheus?" Your eyes widen as you watch him advance towards her, pushing her closer to the edge of the roof.

"I don't know what you're talking about." She deadpans and Steve chuckles.

"Sure. If you won't admit, I'll just have to settle for destroying you from the inside out instead." He grabs her by the arm. "I haven't forgotten what you did to me." He points at a long thin scar along his jawline.

You watch as Tony sneaks up from behind Yelena, striking her with a metal bar. She crumples, falling to her knees.

"Hold her." Steve directs and Bucky dutifully grabs you by the arms. He holds Yelena's chin in between his thumb and forefinger, forcing her to look at him. "Now you watch as I destroy the one thing you love the most." Tony tosses his the metal bar and Steve prepares himself before swinging it like a baseball bat.

There's a sickening crunch followed by your scream as the bar makes contact with your ribs.

"Stop!" She struggles, her eyes never leaving your broken body as he hits you over and over again. "Please! Leave her alone!"

Steve smiles evilly, locking eyes with her before swinging the bat again. Another scream. Blood trickles down your face from your nose.

"Is that right? Did the famous Yelena Belova just beg me?" He smiles cruelly before pushing you down on your back, his foot on your chest. You scream as he increases the pressure, your broken ribs digging into your lungs.

Yelena screams, kicking Tony's legs out from under him before punching Steve in the jaw. She grabs the iron bar before it hits the ground, clobbering Bucky in the stomach before kicking Steve in the stomach.

"ты сука (you bitch)!" She steps on his face swiftly, taking satisfaction in the groan of pain he emits before turning to you, gently cradling your face.

"Wow... That was pretty badass," you mumble and she laughs, tearing up. You reach out, wiping the tears from her eyes. "Don't cry." She frowns.

"I'm not crying."

"You are too." You smile, wincing in pain. "I didn't know you knew Shakespeare."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have let this happen." You frown, caressing her face, forcing her to look at you.

"Hey, hey. It's fine. Don't worry. I'll be fine." You attempt to smile reassuringly but it comes out as more of a grimace. "Listen, if I don't make it-"

"Don't say that! You can't leave me!"

"Shush, listen you thickheaded poet. If I don't make it, go back to the book." You instruct her. She frowns but you can her off. "Promise me."

"But-"

"Promise me."

"I promise..."

"Good." You smile at her, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead, your eyesight blurring. "Wait for me okay?" Your eyes flutter shut.

"No! No Y/N! Come back!" She shakes you roughly, sobbing when you don't respond.

----------

Yelena watches as your body is carted off under a white sheet. Nat stands to the side, watching as her sister stares off into the distance, all life drained from her body.

Go back to the book.

She stands, slowly trailing towards the library, her eyes bloodshot, cheeks caked with dry tears.

"Hi dear," the librarian greets her, discreetly wiping her eyes with a handkerchief. "What a shame. She was a lovely girl."

"She really was the best." Yelena agrees quietly, giving the librarian a small, comforting pat on the back before moving to the back of the library where she finds the book, lying on the floor.

Yelena,

I believe that we are the greatest love poem ever written. I love you always,

Y/N

A choked sob escapes her lips as she stares at the page. You knew. You knew the whole time and you didn't even say anything. A pair of soft arms wrap around Yelena's stomach as she lets go of the dam, her cries echoing throughout the library.

"I'm sorry..."

I'm sorry...

----------

Taglist: @username23345 @musicinourlips @gingerbreadcookieforlife @xxxtwilightaxelxxx @trikruismybitch @ima-gi--na-tion @nicole-rayleigh-hot @olsensnpm @peabrain112

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Quite at Home in Hell

For @whumptober2021 day six & day 21:  blood-matted hair & hunger

CW: Vampirism, blood drinking, noncon touch, creepy whumper, sadistic whumper, biting, captivity, dehumanizing language

Vampire Chris AU Masterlist | Follows directly from this piece

Thanks to @boxboysandotherwhump for helping me with the German & @alittlewhump for helping with the French!

-

1918, the Western Front of WWI

The prisoners are held in a small, hastily constructed sort of barracks far too close to the front lines.

Gefrieter Erich Eeten knows why, of course. The hope is that his own people will hesitate before they blast this bit of dirt apart, that they will be concerned enough about killing their fellow soldiers that they’ll give up a few key moments of pause to the French, the Americans, and the British. Give them the advantage in a firefight.

They want to shield themselves with the bodies of the men in this tent, unwashed and dirty, who are exhausted from a day spent digging trenches for their enemies to hide in. 

He can’t exactly blame the Allied powers for it. 

It’s a brilliant bit of strategy, if less and less effective as men on both sides become so battle-hardened that they cease to care about their own lives, let alone each other. Still. He’d almost rather be at one of the true POW camps further away from the front lines, where the Red Cross at least comes to check on their treatment.

Here, so close to the front, there is no one keeping watch on what happens to them at all… and the longer the war draws on, the more viciously they kill each other, the more the prisoners kept here too far for oversight feel like they are teetering at the edge of some terrible invisible cliff. 

There’s a stiff breeze outside the tent, whipping the heavy, waterproofed canvas edges. They’re flapping a little, making a sound that Erich will one day hear in his nightmares. The cold sneaks in through the slight space between tent and ground, and the men in here are huddled together for warmth, sharing the meager blankets they are given. 

At least, though, their captors are officially the French. 

Say what you will about the blasted frogs, they never deny their prisoners a nip of strong cognac to help hold off the cold. The Americans, on the other hand, seem to be laboring under an enforced lack of good liquor, not just for prisoners but for their own soldiers, too. That seems a worse crime than nearly any other, in circumstances like this. To force a man to be a cruel killer without even a nip or three to soothe his conscience… to Erich, it sounds like brutality.

There’s a bit of a scuffle outside the tent, and the prisoners look up. Erich is at the back, leaning back against the rough frame of a cot he sleeps on at night, cards in his hands wrapped in strips of bandage cloth just for warmth. What happened to his gloves, he’s no idea. Probably one of the Allies took them for a souvenir.

The canvas wraps work well enough.

“Au garde-à-vous, prisonniers! Sur vos pieds!” Erich knows the voice - it’s the main guard of the tent they sleep in, a man named Alain who looks entirely too old for war. Here he is, anyway, all moustache and silvering hair, pulling open the entrance of the tent, moving the flap aside. 

Erich glances left and then right, meeting the eyes of his fellow prisoners, and the half-dozen of them that share this single small tent push heavily to their feet, shifting apart as much as the tent will allow, hands behind their back. 

His stomach dips, a low drumbeat of dread alongside his heart. Something tells him this isn’t a social call he wants to be part of. 

He’s even more certain when a tall, thin American steps into the entrance, nearly silhouetted by the dim, barely-there light behind them. Their hair is long, in a loose plait with parts undone, and their eyes gleam, briefly seeming to glow in the dark. Erich is reminded of his mother’s cat, who would stalk mice at night and whose eyes did just the same when light hit them.

He feels very… mouselike.

They wear a medic’s uniform, but it’s a little tattered. There are unrepaired bullet holes through the heavy woolen tunic, and they move with grace and disdain for how heavy wet wool must be, how itchy and uncomfortable. As if it simply doesn’t matter to them.

Because, of course, it doesn’t. The damn thing is a walking corpse, baring fangs in a grisly smile.

“Hello, soldiers,” They say, in a voice that isn’t quite a purr. “You all look a fright.”

“Verdammte Blutsauger,” Lukas Müller mutters to his right. 

Erich hates the bloodsuckers. Everyone does. They come with the Americans, monsters brought from the shadows as a kind of secret weapon. Erich has never seen vampires out in the open before - back home, they are creatures of hiding. They live in cellars and basements and houses with the windows painted in thick matte black. They sweep along the streets at night, a risk for anyone who stays out too late.

But they’re not part of anything. 

Here, they’re death itself, demons quite at home in hell.

 Oh, sure, the Americans claim they use them only for bringing the injured back to safety - and some of them, he’s sure, are kept to that purpose. Some kind of ability to deny the truth of them, if there are enough seen doing only what the official story claims.

Erich, though, has seen one dispatching wounded German soldiers one by one left behind in a field, killing them before they can be recovered by their own people. He’s seen one with fangs buried in the throat of a man who would otherwise have lived. They’re listed as medics, but those things are what keeps the Germans on their own side of the battle lines after dark, and everyone knows it. 

His own side brings canisters of poison gas. The Americans respond with an army laced around its edges in abominations the gas can’t touch.

The vampire sighs, faintly disappointed. “No good morning for me from my audience?”

Erich speaks the best English out of them all - his grandmother was English, taught it to his father in the cradle, who taught it to him. It’s made him more or less the spokesman for his small group of prisoners, and for the larger group when they are moved and briefly allowed to interact with the others. He clears his throat, stepping forward slightly. Lukas and Vilhelm, on his other side, nudge him just a little with their shoulders. It’s meant to be support, he supposes. 

He feels like he’s being pushed onto a target painted on the floor, one invisible only to him. 

“Good morning,” Erich says, voice flat, letting his accent roll far more heavily off his tongue than it needs to, turning good into gut. It’s always good to let the enemy believe you know less than you really do, so he pretends that English comes with difficulty and not ease. “Should you not turn to ash?”

Their eyebrows raise just slightly, not quite in amusement, and they give a brittle little laugh. “First off, Fritz, that’s a myth. Secondly, it’s not even morning. Probably close to evening now, honestly.” 

Erich rolls his eyes. Lukas mutters something under his breath next to him, but the slight creaking of their boots seems to cover it too much to be understandable. Erich sighs, heavily. “Then why did you have us say to you good morning, Blutsauger?” 

“Because it’s funny that you don’t know what time it is, of course. All right, who here is Fritz, who is Hans, and who am I just going to call Kraut?” 

“No one here is named Hans and no one is Fritz, fangs.” Erich tips his chin down slightly, a lock of greasy brown hair falling into his eyes. “May you drown in holy water.”

He spits at the vampire’s feet.

He feels a pang of regret when the vampire turns to look at Alain, the French guard and points back at Erich, cheerful. “I want that one. He’s rude.”

“Das ist pech,” Lukas whispers.

When Alain simply stares at them blankly - and Erich knows Alain speaks English, they’ve spoken before in a tongue they had in common when neither spoke the other’s mother-tongue -  the vampire groans. They don’t seem to know Alain is pretending not to understand them. “Fine. Let’s try this again. Je veux cet homme, s'il vous plaît.”

Alain’s expression tightens a little. He nods, and he won’t look Erich in the eyes as he draws the entrance open a little wider. “Emmenez-le alors.”

“Merci beaucoup,” The vampire says, giving a little bow. Erich backs up, but there isn’t anywhere to go, and none of them is armed. Besides, any resistance is met with removal of meals, with being denied the smallest comforts that make this bearable. With the possibility of all of them being handed over to a vampire, not just one.

This war had been civilized, in some ways, before the Americans brought their monsters.

It’s not actually true, but in this moment it comforts him to pretend it, to have a place to put his furious disgust as the vampire’s thin, long fingers close around his arm and yank him forwards with inhuman strength. They’re clicking their tongue against the top of their mouth in a strange animal way. Erich thinks again of his mother’s cat, making just that sound watching birds outside the windows.

“May your hands be pressed into the holy cross,” Erich snaps as he’s forced out into the freezing humid air outside the tent. There are others walking around - a war camp is never less than controlled chaos, no matter the time of day - but none of them will look at him. No one acknowledges him, although they’ve all seen this before. They know what’s going to happen here. 

“Je déteste ça,” Alain mutters.

A bell is rung, clanging in a discordant note, and soldiers move into the POW tents. Erich is led towards a pole in the center of the ring of prisoner tents, something that a half-century ago might still have been a flogging post, a punishment for mutinous men. 

“Crosses don’t really harm us,” The vampire says, careless and casual. “Very little does, actually. I’m a big fan of garlic, for instance. Silver, though…” They hum, dragging a fingernail over Erich’s wrist. “That hurts.”

He jerks his hand back and free, only to have the vampire laugh, bright and brilliant, and grab him again, spinning him around until they’re behind him, chest pressed to his back, using that demon strength to twist his arms up his back until his bones creak and ache, forcing him forwards towards the pole. 

“I hope you have silver shoved down your throat,” Erich manages, but his heart is pounding in fear as the vampire grabs his hair and jerks his head to the side, forcing his cheek against the rough-hewn wood. Splinters bite into his skin and he grunts as his arms are moved, forced to encircle the pole. His wrists are tied with rope, leaving him looking a little ridiculous, as if he decided today to go for a hug. 

Another rope goes around his shoulders, keeping him in this awkwardly pressed position. He tries to kick back, pulling viciously, but then his ankles come next. The rope goes from them to small metal hooks driven hard into the ground, keeping his legs more than shoulder-width apart. He can’t kick, or even balance himself. He must rely entirely on the pole he’s tied to in order to stay upright. 

“I’m going to enjoy you,” The vampire murmurs. 

Behind Erich, the sounds of a crowd gathering begin. Soft mumbles, exhalations of surprise and disgust. He closes his eyes against the rush of heat he feels - more rage than tears - knowing the prisoners are being brought out to witness this, to be shown what could happen to them next.

It does an excellent job of making them grateful for every day it’s not.

The French commander of the POW camp is barking a running list of commands to his men, but Erich doesn’t speak enough French to clearly understand them. Someone comes close by behind him, and he jolts as there’s a clap to his back. There’s a laugh behind him, not the vampire but someone else.

He manages to see from the corner of his eyes. A different American, of course. Comfortable enough with the vampire to get this close to them. 

“Isn’t this a sorry sight,” The American says, and laughs. “What’s the prize for, fangs?”

The vampire lifts their hand, gently brushing Erich’s hair from his eyes. He spits in their face, this time, and is gratified by a flash of very real anger that briefly overtakes their constant amusement. They slowly wipe the spit away, then clean their hand - sort of - on Erich’s uniform. 

It’s so dirty they’re probably even less clean after that than they were before.

“Reported a desertion. Now I get fresh food.” They lean down, meeting Erich’s furious hazel eyes. “I’m so hungry, Fritz. All the time. Imagine being surrounded by schnitzel and cabbage as far as the eye can see, and you’re not supposed to eat your fill. Imagine how empty you would feel.”

“Fick dich.” 

“What, you won’t even curse at me in English anymore?” The vampire pouts, lower lip sticking out. He hates them more than he’s hated anyone during this godforsaken war. “Come on, you have to understand how hard this is for me, right?”

Erich ignores them, jerks his wrists again, trying to yank himself free of the ropes through sheer force. His back already is aching from being slightly bent forward, his thigh muscles stretched. He does the only thing he can think of - he slowly, with effort, drags his face along the wood and manages to turn away, and look the other direction. 

“Well, fine. I suppose you’ll be mad at me for acting like you all eat schnitzel and cabbage, too,” The vampire says behind him. He doesn’t dignify them with an answer. He fixes his eyes, instead, on a point in the dark roiling clouds in the sky, above the remaining trees. 

“The prisoners are well-positioned to witness,” A French officer states, speaking with a light, dancing accent but without the difficulty and hesitancy some of the regular infantry have. “You may feed when ready, Private Saathoff.”

That gets Erich’s attention. “Saathoff?”

“That’s right.” The vampire laughs, stepping up behind him. Their fingers move through the hair that curls, grown a little too long, over the back of his neck. He shudders with disgust at the intimacy of it. Their mouth moves close to his ear, but there is no heat of breath. Only the brush of lips. “Ich bin Deustcher, genau wie du.” 

“Nothing like me,” Erich grinds out with his teeth gritted together so hard his jaw is already aching. He presses his forehead into the rough wooden pole and closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath. 

If he’s going to die…

“Vater unser im Himmel,” he begins, halting. He hasn’t seen the inside of a church since he was fourteen, and that was twelve years ago now. Still, the words to the Lord’s Prayer come easily, more muscle memory than thought. “Geheiligt werde dein Name. Dein Reich komme, Dein Wille geschehe, wie im Himmel so auf Erden-”

“Zu jeder anderen Zeit hätte ich dich als Haustier behalten.” They use his hair to jerk his head back, and their fangs jam into his neck with a flash of sudden agony.

It’s a white-hot pain that races down his spine to the very tips of his toes, and Erich screams, the sound strangled and thin but still echoing, bouncing off of trees and tents and back into his mind, crashing like the shells that slam into the earth. 

Lukas jerks forwards as if to run to help him and is pushed back by one of the French soldiers, their expression set in a grim line. They have to twist Lukas’s arms behind his back to hold him as he shouts, angrily, that this isn’t fair, it’s against the laws of conduct. 

There’s laughter, at that, from their captors. 

The other prisoners grumble and shift uncomfortably, look at anything but Erich whenever they can, but they can’t escape the sound of his horror, of his pain. 

There’s no pulse of the much-spoken-of venom. There’s no numbness to drift in, there’s no fog to cloud out his awareness of what is happening to him. Every muscle of Erich’s body is tensed tight enough to snap the bones they wrap around, the veins standing out in his throat as if giving them a roadmap of where the food can be found.

He didn’t know vampires could choose not to use the venom.

He didn’t know they could make it feel like this.

When his scream dies, he can’t get enough breath to make another. All he can do is let out high-pitched, thin whimpers and cries. Spots dance before his eyes. Beneath the sound of his heart pounding in a sudden panic to push more blood faster to replace what is being lost, he can feel - can hear - a low rumbling sound against his back.

Erich has heard the rumors that vampires purr, and now he knows they aren’t rumors at all.

He can feel it right through his back, just barely. It’s a vibration that would be pleasant if it didn’t seem to be somehow making everything hurt even worse, waking up his nerves the way the venom is supposed to deaden them. Their hands are closed around his ribs, pressing the tips of their fingers rhythmically against them, as if playing a piano, as if he is dough to be kneaded, as if he isn’t human at all.

As if he’s nothing but a field mouse that found his way into the wrong house, and the vampire is the housecat who has waited too long for a living toy to torment.

There is no prayer, in pain like this. There is no thought beyond the body’s fight for survival and the mind wanting to flee from it, if surviving means this feeling will not end. There is nothing but the feeling of his blood being pulled forcefully out of his body, nothing but his nerves screaming to escape it, nothing but the bite of the ropes that ensure he can do no more than jerk in his bonds and choke on his agony.

It feels like forever - and like a moment - when their fangs pull free, their cool rough tongue lapping at the wounds to close them, purring against his ear with contentment. Their fingers knead into his skin a little bit longer, drawing the moment out as he slumps against the wooden pole he’s tied to. He’s only standing because of the ropes.

Pain rolls through him, breaking against the edges of his body from the inside, like the smaller waves after a storm falling onto a beach already strewn with debris. He slumps. His own breath is a rasping wheeze, taking far more effort than it should.

Nein, Erich, Erich stirb nicht…” Lukas’s voice comes from somewhere so far away, filtering through the noise in Erich’s mind slowly. He can’t even begin to form a response. His mouth won’t answer his commands. It only hangs open, panting, pulling in the chilly air over his tongue. He starts to shiver as the breeze hits the cold sweat in his hair and on his neck, cuts through his uniform somehow.

He doesn’t have enough blood left to warm himself.

Their tongue licks up his neck behind his ear, matting his own blood into his hair there, sticky and hot. It starts to cool and dry immediately in the cold air. Erich’s stomach twists.

“Oh, he won’t die,” The vampire coos, petting through his hair slowly. Their nails scratch at his scalp. “Not today.” Their mouth presses back against his ear. “Thanks for the meal, Erich. And for being so entertaining. Maybe I’ll find you after the war. I’ll buy you a beer… and some schnitzel.”

They push themself away from him, turning away to wipe a bit of blood from the corners of their mouth, and walk with a jaunty step through an opening that appears in the ring of watching prisoners, whose eyes follow them with apprehension and no small amount of fear. 

When Alain comes up to untie him, Erich simply collapses into the Frenchman’s arms as soon as he’s free of the ropes. Lukas is allowed to move up to stand at his other side, putting Erich’s limp left arm around his shoulders, while Alain supports his right. Erich lets his head fall into Lukas’s shoulder, hitching his breath as he forces down a sob. 

“Wh… why do you let them do this?” He asks, his English slurred with the exhaustion that means he is dragged with his boots carving paths through the mud back towards the tent. 

Alain is silent until Erich is dropped onto his cot, the hard frame digging into Erich’s back right through the thin mattress. He glances over his shoulder, the three of them alone in here for the moment, and then looks back. 

“It is believed that this is how we will win,” He says, and pats Erich’s hand. “My apologies. I do not believe in the monsters, but I am not the one to run this war.”

“None of us are,” Erich says, weakly. He closes his eyes. “We are only the ones who must fight in it.”

There’s a pause, and Alain’s exhale is audible in the quiet tent. “I will ensure you are given extra meat rations tonight, and I will find you some schnapps. Essaye de dormir, maintenant, si tu peux,” he says with soft regret lacing his voice. Then there is a shuffle of footsteps, and he’s gone.

Lukas shifts and sits with his back to the cot, in the same position Erich was in before. He swallows, picking up the abandoned cards from the game they’d been playing, looking over Erich’s hand. “You’d have won, you know, on the next hand,” He says in German, before he reaches out to grab the others’ cards and reshuffle the deck.

“Do I still get my… my winnings?” Erich can barely move his lips to speak. He’s so tired. So, so tired. He can feel his hands starting to shake, now that it’s over, the trembling moving slowly up his limbs, stuttering his breathing. 

“My share of the liquor? Not on your life.” Lukas pauses, and then his tone gentles as he looks Erich over again. “You know what... of course you can. You’ll need warmth. What did the bloodsucker say to you, anyway? I couldn’t hear.”

Erich thinks about the promise to find him after the war, about the way they spoke into his ear as if he were little more than a toy top to be spun at their command. In another time, I’d keep you for a pet, they had whispered, before they bit down. 

He shakes his head, slowly. “Lies,” He answers, and feels the softer-edged darkness of sleep begin to take him.

“Lies?” 

“I hope… I hope they were lies.”

For the moment, at least, he is too exhausted by the present to feel terror for the future.

-

@mylifeisonthebookshelf @insaneinthepaingame @keeper-of-all-the-random-things @burtlederp @finder-of-rings @newandfiguringitout @astrobly @endless-whump @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @doveotions @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @downriver914 @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @nonsensical-whump @outofangband @what-a-whump @thefancydoughnut

[kckenobi]

Okay I could not resist any longer. For the comfort prompts: “just breathe. breathe with me.” with hurt Obi-Wan and caretaker Anakin? YOU’RE AMAZING THANK YOU 💕💕💕

“just breathe. breathe with me.”

you know I couldn't resist mixing some search-and-rescue whump with claustrophobic obi-wan. thanks for the prompt!!

It was almost dark when they finally dug him up.

The building had gone down that morning—a rogue bomb had triggered a sinkhole, bringing the whole Republic base to the ground in a matter of seconds. Only a few troopers had been inside, thankfully. The medical team fixed up the survivors as they were found, while Anakin led the rest of the troops in the search.

But by sunset, there was only one person unaccounted for.

"Status report, Commander."

Anakin approached Cody, who straightened immediately.

"Still no sign of General Kenobi, sir," he answered. "There's an area of the rubble that's particularly thick, and it's blocking our scanners. It's possible he's down there—but we haven't picked up any life signs yet..."

"Well, do better, Commander. "Possible" isn't good enough."

If Cody was taken aback by the sharpness in his tone, he didn't show it. He offered Anakin a stiff salute. "Yes, sir."

"Sorry, Cody. That was..." He exhaled. "I'm just worried."

"I know, sir."

"Yeah." Anakin ran both hands through his hair. "But I shouldn't use that as an excuse. You're trying your best. We all are. And he's—he's your..."

He didn't finish the phrase. Sensed Cody probably didn't want him to anyway. But it didn't matter, because suddenly they were both whirling around as a trooper's voice called out:

"We've got him, sir! He's here!"

And then they were both running.

The trooper was holding a scanner over the rubble, and it was all Anakin could do not to rip it from his hands. Anakin dropped to his knees and tried to probe through the ground with his mind, searching for a familiar life Force. And yes—it was weak, but it was there.

"I can lift the rubble away," Anakin said.

"Sir, respectfully, any movement should be approved by the engineering squad; the mass is unstable, and might collapse—"

"Fine, then. Show me which rocks to move. But do it fast," Anakin snapped, then huffed. "How far down is he?"

The trooper consulted the scanner. "About 10 meters, sir."

"And his air supply?"

Neither Anakin nor Cody missed the trooper's hesitation. "It could depend on a number of factors," he said cautiously. "It's...in our best interest to move quickly."

"Roger that."

And so Anakin and Cody began distributing orders, mobilizing the rest of the team and planning the most effective movements. Obi-Wan had always excelled at this sort of thing, Anakin thought—at leadership in the midst of disaster.

If only he were here now.

When he'd gotten approval from the lead engineer that the rubble was ready to move, Anakin pulled Cody aside.

"Commander...there's something else," Anakin said quietly. "When we pull him up, have a medical team ready. But no one else. There's...well, we want to give him space."

And so, even knowing Obi-Wan would be furious, he gave Cody the abridged version—how Obi-Wan wasn't fond of being trapped.

He couldn't bring himself to explain why.

"Sir, can I ask one question?"

Anakin nodded.

"General Kenobi told me once...well, how his Master died," he said. "Does this...his aversion to being confined...does it have anything to do with...?"

"Yes."

Cody nodded.

They left it there.

Anakin could feel the troopers watching him as he closed his eyes, their awe and neat disbelief rippling through the Force like waves. He used their hope, their light, to harness it now—to begin to lift the rubble.

The time passed quickly—at least for Anakin. When the sounds of the troopers' voices began to fade back into his consciousness, Anakin lightly set the rubble down and opened his eyes, unsteadily rising to his feet.

And then he heard the coughing.

"Sir," Cody said. "We've uncovered him, but the rubble on either side is unsteady. We have to extract him quickly."

"Send me down," Anakin said.

And he didn't wait for an affirmative.

Anakin rushed to the edge of the pit he'd created when clearing the rubble, peering over the side. Then, he leapt down into the crevice.

"Obi-Wan!"

Anakin pushed back some more rocks he'd been advised not to move, and slid beneath a slab of concrete. And there, coughing into his dirt-caked sleeve, was his Master.

Obi-Wan was sitting with one leg outstretched, bandaged with a piece of his tunic to quell the bleeding. The other knee was pulled to his chest, his arms wrapped around them tightly. His face was coated with dirt and blood and ash, his eyes wide.

He was breathing fast.

"Hey," Anakin said, relief and worry flooding him all at once. "There you are."

"Anakin. I--" His voice was more of a rasp. "The air—I still can't—"

"You're okay. Hey, you're okay." Anakin sunk to his knees and reached for Obi-Wan's wrists. "We found you. And we're gonna get you out."

Obi-Wan nodded. His eyes were dull. "Please."

Anakin pretended not to notice how his voice broke.

With a quick squeeze of Obi-Wan's arm, he crawled back under the concrete slab to call up to the others.

"Got him!" Through the dust, he could just make out Cody's face up above. "You can toss it down!"

A few moments later, the rope landed in front of him.

Anakin crawled back to Obi-Wan. His eyes were closed, and his breathing sounded more like a wheeze.

"Hey. We're gonna help you up, but you need to breathe. Breathe with me, okay? Nice deep ones."

Obi-Wan shook his head. "Can't."

"Yes, you can. Listen to my breaths, and--"

"No, I can't." He swallowed, wincing. "Hurts."

Oh. Anakin looked him over. If he was breathing shallowly, and the air was thin in here...

"Are you dizzy?" A nod in response. "Think you can crawl through there, then stand?"

A shrug, then a nod.

"Okay. Now your knee doesn't look good, so take your time with the crawling. After that...I've got you. You'll be fine."

He sounded sure. He wished he felt sure.

The crawling was painful for Anakin to watch--Obi-Wan's breathing came harder and more ragged until at last he popped out on the other side and rolled to stretch his leg out again. It looked like it had started to bleed again, too.

"There we go," said Anakin. "Hard part's done. You ready to get out of here?"

Obi-Wan seemed to be beyond talking at this point. He offered just another nod.

The rope had a few knots and a loop at the bottom, a place for Anakin to put his feet and somewhere to grab. Anakin tugged to let Cody know they were nearly ready, then turned back to Obi-Wan. He was still on the ground. Eyes closed again.

"Don't go to sleep on me now, old man," Anakin said. He went around behind Obi-Wan, reaching under his arms. "On three. You try to stand, I'll lift. One...two..."

Obi-Wan cried out as he put weight on his leg, and soon enough Anakin was holding him up almost entirely. They hobbled over to the rope again, and Anakin got them situated. Then, he tugged the rope one final time.

"See?" Anakin said. He was holding Obi-Wan up, and Obi-Wan's head lolled against his shoulder. "I told you I've got you."

He nodded into Anakin's tunic. And up they went.

Both of them tumbled to the ground the moment they reached the top.

"Medics!" Anakin called out, even as they already rushed forward. Obi-Wan cried out as they turned him over. There was a stretcher nearby, and Cody waited behind it. He couldn't even fathom the willpower it took Cody not to rush straight to Obi-Wan's side. Force knows I don't have it.

Kix and the other medics lined Obi-Wan's sides, to where was lying on his back. "Sir, we're going to lift you onto the stretcher."

Obi-Wan hummed. "Thank you."

The first two words he'd uttered since they'd first found him. As the medics lifted him, Anakin winced at the sharp breath he choked out.

"Kix--the base was destroyed," Anakin said. "Do we have enough medical supplies to--"

"Affirmative, sir. We don't have a lot to spare, but we have enough," Kix replied. They began to push the stretcher toward the ship. "My first assessment indicates the leg wound isn't deep. Potential fracture in the ankle. And probably a punctured lung."

"Sheesh, Master, you weren't kidding--you really couldn't breathe," Anakin said. "I thought you were just panicking."

"That too."

The subtle humor took Anakin by surprised, and he looked down to the stretcher. Obi-Wan gave him a small smile.

"Thanks for coming for me," he said softly.

"Obi-Wan," Anakin replied. As the stretcher moved along, Anakin reached down and squeezed his shoulder. "You know I always will."

comfort prompts

in case anyone was looking for the other fics in my claustrophobic obi-wan head canon:

the lift // six feet under // ray shields

[whumperooni]

Belonging

Pairing: Enji Todoroki x Daughter!Reader

Word count: 3k

Tags/Warnings: incest, possessive behavior, exhibitionism, mentions of being roughly handled by your big bros while daddy was away u.u

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This is written in response to a big brained, beautiful minded nonny <3 I was going to put it in the answer to the ask but I’m gonna chuck this in ao3 too so I’m making it a separate post.

THANK YOU nonny for this /chef’s kiss of an ask and please feel free to slide into my inbox again because this is primo content right here.

I hope you enjoy your crumbs <3

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

How long has Enji been away from home? Two days? Three days? Four? Certainly not away long enough for you to be in this condition.

Enji frowns despite the sweet kisses you’re peppering all over his face and grabs onto your waist, lifts you up and holds you back so he can look you over. You’re a mess- bruises on your wrists and hickeys mottling your neck so much he can’t see a speck of your natural color. You look tired, worn out and Enji can tell that you’re exhausted, that things have been busy since he’s been away for his team up. He’s not happy about the vivid bruises on your thighs or the fading carpet burn on your knees. He is really not happy about the bandage on your forearm. Enji’s frown deepens and you grow nervous before him- smile twitching anxiously and hands clenching at the fabric of one of Touya’s shirts that you’ve been made to wear. When he puts you down and reaches to grab your arm, you flinch- barely noticeable, so tiny in your movement; something that anyone who wasn’t him would miss. Enji’s eyes narrow, big hand circling over your wrist and he tries to soften his expression when he feels you tense up underneath him. Whatever has happened while he’s been away is not your fault- he knows this. He is furious that you’re so skittish from it, though. Again, not your fault- his sons are sure to blame. “...what happened?” You tense up even more- eyes darting anxiously around the room and smile wavering and fading from your face. He thinks that you might pull away from him whenever he runs his thumb over the bruises on your wrists, but you remain as good and obedient as ever and simply twitch in place where you are standing. “N-Nothing, daddy,” you mumble, lips trying and failing to smile once more. Enji frowns at you and you squirm under your father’s stern gaze- anxiety whipping through you and upset starting to creep all over your face. “It was just...they didn’t mean…” Oh, yes, they did mean. Enji scowls and he sets his irritation toward the bandage on your arm, has to clench his free hand into a fist so he doesn’t hold onto you too tightly. “What is this from?” he demands. “Give me the truth, little one.” Your bottom lip quivers and he can tell that you are torn. You are such a sweet daughter, a sweet sister- you cannot bring yourself to lie to the father that you love so much but you also do not want to get the brothers that you hold dear in trouble either. You are a good girl- you should not be in this position right now. Enji breathes in deep and he lets it out slow, tries to keep a leash on his temper. You are the only thing he truly loves in this world- his little one, his youngest, his perfect little girl. He doesn’t want to see you cry over something your brothers have done. Enji huffs and he pulls you closer to him, picks you up. Your legs wrap around his waist on reflex- arms looping around his neck and face burying into his chest as he positions you. There’s a quiet whimper from you whenever he cups your bottom and Enji feels his anger grow even darker when he feels you sniffle against him. “Are you sore there?” he asks, gruff as he totes you off to his bedroom. You don’t answer him for a  moment and even then you can only give him a tiny nod in response- arms clinging tighter to him. Enji lets out a tch and he’s careful as he sits down on the bed, as he sits you in his lap. Your upset is more than clear on your face now- bottom lip wobbling and eyes glistening with unshed tears. Enji frowns as your head lowers and he rubs your back with one big hand, touches your cheek with the other. “Did they spank you?” he asks. Your squirm in his lap- eyes averted and fingers curling into his shirt. Enji waits, patient, until finally your lips tremble and you give a tiny nod. “Touya-nii...he wasn’t...he wasn’t happy that I slept in Natsuo-nii’s bed,” you whisper. “They’ve been…” You trail off, nerves and upset skittering over your expression, and Enji grunts his annoyance as he eyes the bruises littered all over your body. “They’ve been fighting over you. Again.” A wince passes over you and you hang your head as if you are ashamed. There is a sniffle and that is all it takes to further cement Enji’s decision that his sons need a reminder of their place. “I- I’m sorry, daddy,” you whisper- eyes wet, lashes wet, voice trembling. “I- I tried to be good so they wouldn’t fight, but- but Touya-nii told Natsuo-nii that I- that I belong to him and it made Natsuo-nii mad and then- then Natsuo-nii was sad after and I tried to cheer him up and then that made Touya-nii mad and then- then they started fighting and then they kept dragging me to their rooms and I couldn’t- I couldn’t make them happy and I’m sorry, daddy! I didn’t mean to make them fight!” Your voice pitches with a whine of a sob and Enji grits his teeth, wraps his arms around tight so he doesn’t let his temper explode. “It’s not your fault, little one,” he tells you- gruff, stern, but soft for him. You sniffle against him, tears wetting the fabric of his shirt, and Enji rubs your back, places a kiss to your hair. “Tell me how your arm got hurt.” You sniffle, again, and it is pathetic, weak. It grinds at Enji’s fury more, but he closes his eyes as you press against him and seek comfort. “I- I fell,” you mumble to him, voice wobbling. “N-Natsuo-nii was holding my hand and- and Touya-nii didn’t like it so he...he grabbed my other one and he yanked me away, but I- I lost my balance and I fell...I hit it against the table and it...cut me…” Your voice gets smaller and more quiet with each word- reluctance to get your brother’s in trouble making it so hard to admit what happened to your father. Enji’s control snaps as he listens and his fire flares from him- something he is quick to put out whenever he hears your panic sounding against his chest. Enji breathes in deep and he buries his face into his daughter’s hair, holds you just a little too tight in his arms. “...okay, little one,” he says once his temper calms down enough that he can talk without growling every word out. “Did anything else happen?” You shake your head against him and it’s a bit too swift of a denial for his taste. He senses that there is more- knows that there must be- but he does not push; he does not want his little one to collapse further into upset. Enji takes another deep breath and lets you go, cups your cheek to smooth away one stray tear. “You’re a mess,” he tells you. “Come- take a shower with me and then we will relax.” You nod- one small, upset sniffle leaving you- and Enji presses his lips to your forehead before gathering you up in his arms and carrying you to the bathroom. He strips you down and reduces Touya’s shirt to ash- letting it fall into the waistbasket with a scowl. You do not comment on it, but you hug yourself tight- eyes wide and worried and body littered with bruises. They have been especially rough with you this time and Enji is not pleased. He is careful with you as he washes you- big hands moving as gently as he can manage but still firm as he washes your tangled hair, scrubs down your tired body. You relax as he takes care of you, melt under his warm fingers and let out soft, sweet noises as your father eases the anxious tension that has wound your body up so tight. He kisses you when you tilt your head back to look at him- your eyes half-shut and sleepy, a serene look on your face as he runs his hands over your breasts. It is a chaste kiss- loving and brief- and Enji feels a certain satisfaction whenever you sigh after, lean against his broad chest. “Daddy takes good care of me,” you mumble- words fuzzy with exhaustion and the gooey warmth spreading through your body and making your mind melt from much needed tenderness. “Not like…” You trail off softly, guiltily. Enji knows what you mean, though, and there is pride in him from it- a possessive, vindictive pleasure as his little girl nuzzles against him adoringly. You are daddy’s little girl- you always have been and you always will be. Enji finishes cleaning you and he sets you out of the shower to wrap yourself in a towel and wait for him. Your clumsy attempts to clean him before he does are cute, but he knows that you are tired and does not wish to push you just yet- he has plans and he needs you to rest while you can. He cleans himself and you wait for him obediently- wrapped up in a towel and yawning, propped up on the sink where he had sat you down. Seeing him emerge from the shower is a treat- water steaming from him and dripping down rippling muscles, through chest hair and a thick happy trail. A soft noise leaves you as you watch him dry himself and your cheeks pinken without notice despite heavy eyes and a fuzzy, tired mind that’s begging for sleep. Enji watches your soft thighs rub together and he goes to you, kisses you like you deserve- lovingly, hungrily but not forcefully. He breaks it once a sweet, low moan sounds from you and then he kneels, parts your legs and hooks them over his shoulders before burying his face into the honeyed crux of his little one. The bathroom echoes with your whimpers and mewls as Enji runs his tongue through your folds and burrows his tongue deep inside your cunny. He keeps your hips still whenever they begin to twitch, but he allows you to grab onto his hair, grunts with approval when you arch your back and whine out a needy little, “Daddy, please!” You come whenever he slips a thick finger into you- slick and warm insides fluttering and clamping down onto the digit as you cry out, grip his hair tight. Enji works you through it and he slips a second finger in at the peak of your orgasm, makes it trip into another and has you whimpering, gasping out “daddy, daddy, daddy!” “That’s right, little one,” he praises- voice coming out low and husky as your cunny clenches and cums around his fingers. “Who makes you feel good?” “Daddy does!” Enji hums, pleased by your mewled answer, and he allows you to ride out your pleasure before slipping his fingers from you. You look so sweet as you pant and flush- so worn out and vulnerable; a tender girl flustered by the dulcet, mellowed pleasure that you have been craving for days. You whimper whenever Enji stands- arms reaching for your father and eyes bright with needy tears. He picks you up and he kisses your cheek, cups your bottom whenever you wrap your legs around him and teases your wet, fluttering hole with a stretched out finger as he totes you off to the living room. The boys are there- arguing as always, in each other’s faces with heated, hissed words and glaring eyes- and they only look up when Enji slips a finger inside your cunny and coaxes a moan from you. Their reaction is immediate- heads snapping up and shock halting their anger only to multiple it. Touya’s lips pull back into snarl and Natsuo’s eyes widen, narrow as he watches your hips grind down against Enji’s finger. Enji glares them down as he eases another finger into your eager cunny, kisses your cheek when you whimper and cling to him even tighter. “Little one,” he asks, voice gruff but calm even as he glowers down at the furious brats that he calls sons, “who made you feel good earlier?” “Daddy did,” you mewl out- sweet and sleepy and showing the pleasure that is slowly wrecking your tired body. Enji hums and he spreads another finger to smooth over your clit, makes you moan softly and try to grind your hips against him. A growl rips from Touya and your lashes flutter from it, a tiny noise of worry leaves you and is instantly forgotten when Enji curls his thick fingers inside of your honeyed insides and causes your mind to blank from pleasure. “And who is making you feel good now?” Enji demands- hard and nearly imperious as you tremble and cling tighter to him. “D-Daddy is!” “Do you want your brothers to fuck you, little one?” Enji asks, narrowing his eyes in challenge when Touya takes a step toward him. A hiccup of a sob leaves you and you shake your head, bury your face against him with a whimper. Enji’s lips twitch with the hint of a smirk and he pushes you to answer with, “And why is that?” Another sob and you shake as guilt, frustration, repressed anger and upset at your brothers twine through you along with the honeyed, warm pleasure that your father is giving you. You sniffle- hips rocking against thick fingers and your syrupy, sticky juices leaking from you and coating your father’s hand. “Because- because,” you whimper as your heart pounds and your cunny throbs with need. “Because they’re- they’re mean! I don’t want- I don’t-” Guilt causes you to whine against your father and Enji hums as he teases a third finger against your entrance, looks over his sons. Touya is furious- hands clenched into tight fists and shaking with anger that’s close to exploding out. Natsuo, at least, has the decency to look guilty, ashamed. He ducks his head and looks away as Enji spreads your little cunny wider and makes you cry out as he slowly stuffs your squishy, warm insides full even more. “Who do you want then?” Enji asks- voice low and gruff. He grunts as your insides spasm around his fingers and his cock flexes against himself- hard and big and so ready to fill his sweet baby girl. “Who do you want to fuck you, little one?” You choke on a sob- the questions overwhelming your tired mind and your body racing toward another orgasm. You arch against him, head tilting back with a cry whenever he places a hot kiss to your neck. You can’t help the way you pant and shake against him and you can’t help your answer either, the way you moan out a loud, needy, truthful- “Daddy! Want- I want Daddy!” You cry a little after from guilt and need and the pleasure that is making your mind melt and your head spin. Enji lets out a growl of satisfaction and he slips his fingers from you- soothing you with a kiss whenever you let out a panicked whine. Enji slides you lower down his waist and presses the head of his cock against your fluttering hole, looks at his sons with challenge and superiority in his eyes, the set of his lips. “And who do you belong to?” Enji asks- voice low and demanding, making a desperate shiver crawl up your spine. You whimper and you lift your head from him, turn it so you can look at your brothers. There is no fear in your gaze- not like how there was over these past few days whenever they yanked you to and fro between them- and you shudder against your father- eyes heavy and cheeks flushed, body soft and pretty and clinging to him with pressing, loving adoration and need. “Daddy,” you mewl out sweet as honey. “I belong to daddy.” “Good girl,” Enji murmurs to you, sliding his cock into your eager cunny. “My good girl.” Choked anger tears itself from Touya and he snaps out a “fuck you” to Enji before stomping out of the room- singing the doorframe whenever he slams his hand against it in fury. Natsuo is frozen in place- eyes wide as he watches you come along your father’s cock- and he flushes from frustration, from anger whenever he finds himself hardening at the sight of Enji’s dick stretching your pussy and making your glistening folds part as he slides into you slowly. He clenches his fists whenever your moan and then he stomps out of the room- angry and needy as your chanted mewls of “daddy, daddy, daddy!” sound behind him. Enji smirks as his sons flee in a temper tantrum, smiles as he kisses your cheek and rocks his hips up to make you moan and go limp against him in pleasure. You nuzzle against him with a needy, tired whine and Enji hums his satisfaction at that, turns to carry you back to his room and his bed. “Shh, little one,” Enji tells you. “Daddy will take care of you.” A whimper leaves you and you tremble before giving a weak nod against him, clench around his cock even as he slips out of you to lay you out on his bed. “Love you, daddy,” you slur out through your pleasure and exhaustion, the overwhelmed feeling making your mind melt. “Love you so much.” Enji braces himself over you and he kisses your forehead, soaks in the soft mewl that sounds from you as he sinks his cock back into your honeyed insides. “I love you too, little one,” he tells you. “My little one.” You nod, panting and dizzy, and Enji kisses you, starts to fuck you slowly. You’re his. You will always belong to your daddy.

[yououui]

"Why is it so damn difficult for you to believe you're worthy of love?" but it's Kurogane saying it to Fai because we all know who the one that needs therapy is in that duo lol

They are given the luxury of time in Clow following the battle. A few days to rest and recover, to look back on what has transpired and consider what should be done moving forward. Syaoran spends almost every moment with Sakura, as is to be expected. Kurogane finds his time filled with Fai at his side; each morning, a knock at his door marks the start of a new day as the mage comes to fetch him. They take their meals together, wander the town and the castle together, visit the medics for checks and fresh bandages together. At the end of each night, they share some of Clow’s sweet wine and then part ways for their own beds.

Mokona usually hops between the two pairs depending on how she’s feeling that day, but she usually sleeps curled against Sakura’s neck.

They spend this evening on the balcony of Kurogane’s room. Kurogane’s weight is leaning against the thick stone safety railing and Fai is sat precariously atop said railing. Kurogane would have barked at him to get down, but he knew that Fai would easily be able to save himself if he happened to fall.

“Syaoran is going to have to leave soon,” Fai murmurs, eyes watching a lone, drifting cloud. “Time is ticking.”

“Hn.” Kurogane grunts in response as he takes a drink. “And what’re you gonna do?”

“I was thinking I’d join Syaoran-kun, if he’ll take me,” Fai responded. “It would break my heart if he had to do this on his own. And it’s not like I have anywhere else to go!”

Fai laughs as if the depressing statement is a joke. He’s tense, Kurogane notices, the topic of conversation painting a plastic smile on his face. Kurogane wants to tell him to knock it off. The sight of it makes something crawl under his skin.

“And Kuro-sama?” Fai asks, his gaze turning to the ninja. “You’ll return to Nihon, right? Tomoyo-chan must be thrilled you’re finally returning.”

Kurogane clears his throat before responding, “No, actually. I contacted her last night. I’m gonna join the kid, too.”

Fai’s rehearsed smile falls for a brief moment as he’s struck with surprise instead. His eyes shine impressively even under the dark sky until he shuts them with a laugh. “I would have thought Kuro-sama would run home as soon as he could, but Syaoran-kun will be so happy!”

Kurogane doesn’t ask the question lingering on his tongue—and Fai? How does he feel about it?

Kurogane clears his throat again—there’s nothing stuck in it but it’s tight for some reason as he continues on the topic. “It’s not like it’ll last forever. I’ll go back to Nihon when we get those two idiots back and I can give them a proper punishment for worrying us.” Fai’s smile softens as Kurogane speaks, the first vestiges of something real as he chuckles quietly to himself. Kurogane continues, “And… y’know if you wanna settle down somewhere when it’s all over… you can always come back to Nihon with me.”

“...Eh?” The surprised look is back on the mage’s face, his smile frozen from the pure shock of the question. He laughs nervously for a moment and looks away from Kurogane as he processes the question. “To Nihon? D-Did Tomoyo-chan say she has a job for me?”

Kurogane’s brows furrow with a frown. “No. I mean, I dunno. There might be a job you can do, but it’s not like you’d need one. Tomoyo and the Empress wouldn’t kick you out, anyway, and besides. I can work enough to cover you.”

“M-My, is there something in the wine?” Fai is laughing again, forced and awkward like he doesn’t know what else to do or say. “You’re making yourself sound like an old-fashioned father—I didn’t know Kuro-sama could make such jokes!”

“I’m not joking, you idiot,” Kurogane tells him, frustration rising hot in his blood at Fai’s adamant refusal to accept what Kurogane is telling him. “What’s so hard to believe about taking care of someone you love?”

There’s a pause, a moment when even the air around them seems to still along with Fai’s breath. “...Love?” It’s a quiet murmur, more to himself than anything, spoken like a child hearing an unknown word for the first time.

Kurogane’s frustration dissipates in an instant, his shoulders falling with a sigh. “Yes, you idiot. Love.” He should have known better than to assume Fai’s strongly built defenses would fall so quickly, even if the mage was trying. Kurogane has been honest with his feelings for such a long time now, he didn’t think there was a way Fai couldn’t see it. But if Fai, in his self-taught method of avoidance, refused to see it, there was no other choice than to say it outright.

Fai silently turned and pushed himself off the balcony railing to fall silently to his feet. He cradled his glass of wine close to his chest, like it could act as a shield somehow. “K-Kuro-sama shouldn’t tease me so much.”

The forced happy tone from before has disappeared. Now, he sounds properly hurt, his voice trembling as if on the edge of tears. He begins to leave and Kurogane catches him by the arm to stop him.

“Oi, what the hell have I done recently to make you think I’m lying?” He asks Fai. “You think chopping off my own arm was my way of teasing you?”

Fai’s eyes—two again, and Kurogane didn’t know how much he loved the color blue until that moment—widen as guilt sweeps over him. “I-I didn’t—” He lowers his head as if in shame. “I didn’t… mean it like that…”

Because of course Fai had to know, no matter how much his toxic thoughts tried to tell him otherwise, that Kurogane at least cared for him. No person would willingly give up their own blood and tie them together for life, nor cut through their own flesh and bone without another thought without at least some bit of concern and attachment. And Fai would always feel guilty for those decisions, even if Kurogane was adamant that they were his choice and he would make them again.

“After everything,” Kurogane releases Fai’s arm to tap his knuckle against the underside of Fai’s chin, gently getting him to lift his head. “Why is it still so damn difficult for you to believe you’re worthy of love?” Kurogane asks, voice so soft and mushy it surprises even himself. He can’t help it though, nor can he bring himself to care. Not now. Not with Fai.

Something teeters over the edge within Fai and his eyes immediately fill with tears. Although Kurogane never wants to see the way his lips tremble before parting with a much needed sob, he will always prefer the open honesty over the fake smile. Kurogane wraps his one arm around Fai and lets the mage have his much needed cry, slender fingers grasping desperately at the front of Kurogane’s shirt as tears stain the fabric.

“Come back to Nihon with me, mage,” Kurogane says, whispers into Fai’s hair like a secret kiss. “When it’s all over, come with me.”

Fai is rendered speechless for a long while, his throat tight and words interrupted with gasping, cathartic sobs that are sometimes mixed with unabashed, joyous laughter. He nods in immediate agreement. Kurogane only holds him closer.