#it was eons ago since I drew last time

[iricathel]

🧁 Sweet Date: Open Collab! 🧁

Art collab made with @kindan-no-kanojo

Leaving the version w/o text font if you wanna see better the little detail Irina gifted for her bestie! [Doe eyes, flutter eyelashes]

I'm early for Scarlett's birthday but better earlier than late IMMA RIGHT OR NOT?!?! 🗣🗣

A small cat keychain 🥺🤏🏻 🐱

Or else I should have drawn lots of boxes behind them, but that would obscure the background and it's too pretty sjsjsjsjsj

[tsukimefuku]

content warning: soft Aizawa x Reader, spoilers for season 6 of the anime, hurt and comfort, some fluff, roughly proofread. just a little something to get me off the writing rut. 1.1k

With a long-drawn sigh, Aizawa slouched back into the teacher’s lounge sofa, stretching his own leg forward as he mindlessly covered the eye patch with one of his hands. You wondered if his movement was propelled by a force of habit to scratch his phantom eye.

You had been catching up to speed on all the plans the pro heroes had made for what could only be dubbed as the D day. All the tireless, collective efforts to save Japan from more heartache and destruction. They had suffered enough — you all had.

At that moment, as your colleague draped his arms over the sofa, you couldn’t help but picture in him the figure of a hero Atlas carrying the weight of the world on his back.

Oxygen calmly came in and out of your nostrils, but somehow, your chest tightened as the room grew quieter after Aizawa’s sigh. The few stray rays of a setting sun cast on both of you the fleeting warmth of the calm before the storm, such as the bated breath from a last night on Earth.

“Hey,” you said, your voice lower than usual, barely above a whisper.

He hummed in return, still with his head dangling back in between his worn down shoulders, as he gazed past through the ceiling.

“You seem tired,” you concluded, mentally facepalming yourself with the stupidity of the obvious. Of course he was. You were too. The entirety of the UA was. “I…” you tried offering something else in earnest, but your voice trailed off to silence, only adding to the somber discomfort as the sun drew nearer to the horizon and darkness began slowly seeping into the lounge.

“I know,” he replied, tilting his head forward to look at you, fully aware that there was nothing much else to say in such circumstances. The dark circle under his eye hinted that tiredness was probably the only feeling his weary self could muster up to bear at that moment.

Ever since your high school days, when you weren’t much more than a teenager with a silly crush on your grumpy classmate and a chip on your shoulder, you had never seen Aizawa look so exhausted. Not during the exams you took together, not when you became teachers and pro heroes with gnarly working hours, not even after spending weeks in the hospital.

He looked decades older than himself.

You stepped towards Aizawa while sparing him a smile and stood in front of him, tilting your head down to meet his gaze.

“You’re looking like shit.”

A soft smile pulled on his cheek, which instantly brought you some semblance of comfort. These smiles from him — a rare occurrence, as you’d learned quickly during your first week of classes at UA with him eons ago — always did.

“Right back at you,” he replied, leaning forward on his knees with his elbows.

You chuckled, and he huffed, still with that smile on his face before it faded. His usual nonchalant expression was slightly tainted with the preoccupation of a teacher. You knew, you had seen that same face in the mirror more times than you could count.

“Aizawa, the students will be okay. They’re trained, we have a solid plan, and we know what we’re all dealing with this time,” you stated, putting your hands over his shoulders.

“You know that doesn’t guarantee anything,” he noted, and he was absolutely right.

“Still,” you insisted, “you have to believe it will all be okay. Otherwise, you won’t be able to rest well for tomorrow, and you absolutely need to.”

“I’m not the worrisome type,” Aizawa remarked.

“You give yourself too much credit.”

It was his time to chuckle, soft and low. For a while, you both stood there motionless, with your hands resting reassuringly over his shoulders. To share each other’s presence had been a staple for years, and the same could be said about the comfort you both drew from it.

Aizawa had this no-bullshit, straightforward way of dealing with things that drew you in right from the start, and the silly teenage crush became true admiration after a while. That, and the endless patience — in his own brand of brashness — that he had with you, because somehow, he saw something in you. Potential, he said years ago. And he was right.

You decided in a not-so-recent past to let go of your feelings for him — a not so successful attempt, but still. You were both always elbow-deep in a workload that never seemed to decrease, no matter how many hours you put in between the school and the pro hero gig. To have only twenty-four hours in a day seemed like a bad joke from the Gods to people like you two.

Not the greatest idea to get involved like this and risk such a treasured… something. Friendship? The word felt inaccurate to this day to explain the deep trust and bond forged through those decades.

“Can I offer some help with anything?” you gently brushed your thumbs over his shoulders before retreating your hands back to your waist, “You always have a pile of stuff to sort out before sleep, and you sure as hell need some shuteye quality time.”

Aizawa kept silent, his gaze low and focused on the ground.

“Shota?” You asked, still meeting no answer whatsoever.

Before you realized, he rested the side of his face over your abdomen, and gently pulled both of your hands up to his hair. Surprised, your breath hitched on its way out, and your eyes fluttered as your heart picked up the pace.

“Is this okay?” Aizawa asked, closing his eye while he relaxed further into you.

You softly hummed in accordance, brushing the tips of your fingers down his long locks, careful not to tangle them on his eye patch elastic band.

“I’m not just…” he paused, considering his words for a moment before continuing, “I’m not concerned only about the students.” He said those last words in a whisper, as his hands made their way to hold your elbows delicately.

Your hands instinctively tightened around his head, pressing him against you until it became a yearning embrace.

“I’ll be fine, I promise,” you whispered back, heaving a little before your next words, “promise me you will too?”

His hands slid under your arms, trailing around your body to press against your back while he hugged you back.

“I promise.”

You both stayed there for what felt like an eternity, embracing each other in borrowed time until the sun was finally set under the city’s skyline, taking away the last rays of clarity along with it.

written by tsukimefuku ㋡ comments and reblogs are appreciated. do not copy, translate or repost. copycatting is for losers.

[justarandomlambblog]

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 [END]

you know how you don't adopt cats, cats adopt you? Well here we have Narinder adopting a dad

(I encourage you to view each page in a new tab, it's all sketch so you can see all my thought and build lines but I think it's clear enough?)

This is sort of a prologue for this AU I've talked about and is one of like... 3 or 4 parts

That horrible moment realization, regret and grief hits you all at the same time

I like long-furred Narinder I think he should embrace manbun life /kidding (unless... (/j/j))

Ignore the perspective issues on the last page I got very tired (am sick today) and I am a firm believer in doing things bad but having fun. That being said I had zero intention of making backgrounds for this and just generalizing everything but then I drew the crumbling ancient temple platform and the divine battleground and it was over I needed backgrounds from there on out-

Does the world of Cult of the Lamb have the same meaning for middle fingers? Who knows, I just thought it'd be funny for Narinder to double-flip off Lamb as he's disappearing into the teleportation stone. Don't @ me <3

I didn't want there to be any dialogue so I hope the story is clear through the pictures alone but if not, there's an explanation below the cut

After being defeated, Narinder finds himself on the indoctrination stone, the manacles still around his wrists and neck. The Lamb offers him mercy- a place to live. But Narinder refuses. He gets to his feet on his own and runs to the teleportation stone, and the Lamb is too surprised for a moment to realize what's happening. They try to stop him, knowing how injured Narinder is and that this stunt will only aggravate Narinder's wounds, but Narinder is running on anger, regret, humiliation and adrenaline- and he is much older than the Lamb is and knows more locations than the Lamb does. He knows about the long-fallen territory on the very edge of the Old Faith's land, what was once a grand city of gods having become a divine battlefield eons ago; it is the only place he can think to go, stumbling his way down the stairs that are much too big for his newly mortal form and running for the forest beyond the Old Faith's border.

Running through the old beaten paths of the forest, he trips and finds himself unable to pull himself back up, his adrenaline fading almost as soon as he hits the ground and the pain of his wounds flares up. He allows himself to fall unconscious, thinking maybe he will just quietly perish out there in the woods, but is found by an older canine passing through. Finding the injured Narinder, the old dog puts him on the cart he pulls and takes him to his home, tending to his wounds.

Narinder wakes up in pain, finding himself in a strange, unfamiliar place, and his savior brings him food. Narinder struggles, his hands shakey and everything in pain, but he is resistant at first to the old dog's aid. Over time, as the dog tends his wounds and gives him clothes to wear and changes his bandages, Narinder begins to accept his help and allows him to help exercise his limbs while he's bed bound and, eventually, help him to walk again. Months pass them by, from summer to autumn to winter until it's spring. The old dog is happy for Narinder's progress and gives Narinder a fond pat on his head, unintentionally reminding Narinder of Shamura.

In the spring, Narinder is able to walk on his own, though he uses a cane to aid him. He explores the old dog's home, since the dog isn't around as much as he used to be now that Narinder is mostly independent again. Narinder spots him out a window, tending to a garden, and steps outside to discover he's on a farm. It's a large farm, though not very bountiful; it's a wheat field, one that clearly suffers from the lack of a god's blessing- in a world of gods, a godless village can only just get by. Beyond the fields are more homes and sheds, and people tend the fields.

He joins the old dog in the garden after being invited over, and the dog gives him a flower bulb to plant. Narinder remembers when he and Leshy did this exact same thing, with Leshy showing Narinder how to plant the flower bulb in the dirt; as he gently buries it, he can feel Leshy's phantom hands over his own, as if guiding him. To Narinder's surprise, not only does the flower bloom as soon as it has been covered, but it spreads out; the garden bursts to life with the strange black and white flowers, and they grow wildly through and around the garden, reaching all the way to three graves under a solitary tree.

Narinder is looking at his hands in shock, not having expected to be able to do this; he had thought his magic was gone, the last vestiges of it used to activate the teleportation stone when he escaped. As he looks at them, the manacle around his neck falls off, landing in his hands, and begins to dissipate into residual magic, and he remembers Leshy- Leshy, pleading with him to hold his tongue, to give up on his newest, heretical ideas, that the world isn't ready to hear it and the consequences would be too great and the other Bishops wouldn't allow him to pursue it. Realizing all at once exactly what he lost- what he threw away when he refused to heed his brother's warnings and wait for the right time, when the world was ready- he breaks down, doubling over in tears- the first tears he's allowed himself for nearly a thousand years, now. Hurt from the betrayal, regret for what he did and made the Lamb do, grief for what his siblings did in fear of him- it all hits him at once.

The old dog reaches out to him, and Narinder clings to him, letting himself completely break down. The kind dog just holds him while he cries.

(Not shown: the old dog shows Narinder the shrine, explaining what it is and what the painted flat stones are for. He gives Narinder flat stones to paint and goes outside to speak to the graves of his own family, even though it's begun to rain.)

Narinder paints four stones, each one with a symbol on top that he associates with his siblings (a book for Shamura, a diamond crystal for Kallamar, stalks of wheat for Heket, and a camellia for Leshy). He doesn't really forgive them for their betrayal of him, doesn't forgive them for locking him away for a thousand years- but it soothes an ache deep inside, to accept that even if he can't forgive them he can mourn them and regret his part in all this. That despite everything there was still love- it's conflicting, but it's almost like... closure. Or, at least, the start of it.

He makes tea and offers it to the old dog when he comes inside, and they sit together and drink tea while listening to the rain. The four stones sit on the shrine now, with the dog's family's stones, cementing the fact that Narinder has accepted that he isn't leaving this house.

Thus, the old dog becomes the adopted father of a 5,000+ year old cat ex(?)-god.

[moss-bride]

The ambassador x fem reader

Short oneshot

It was a great yawning light that pushed her into a void of cold and black. She couldn't hear the chatter of the other college students on the field trip or the metallic clinging of cameras and phones, gone was the stone path under her sandals and the cool brush of black grass touched her toes sending shivers up hrr spine. She crossed her arms, the dress her friend had lended to wear did little in the way of warmth. 

This isn't the museum path. There were towering branchless trees and nothing but distant rumbling of cheers.

The plants are dead and foreign, skimming past knowledge of classes where she studied the native foliage and she doesn't recognize them.

She calls out her friend's name. The professor put them in a buddy system, she'll lose points for straying out the museum path. "This isn't funny. Come out now." Wood crunches under foot.

"You can't keep wandering off." There is no response. If she took today as an opportunity for another tour….

"We're going to fail the mark if he sees us seperated." She can't afford to have a strike against her this year. 

Her voice, high and sweet, doesn't respond and she stops searching after a long moment. The sky is an odd yellow, striking her as strange since it was midday just a moment ago. 

Sunset and it's already so cold. Likely her friend snuck away and is drinking at a nearby pub with strangers that are buying her all the tequila she wants, laughing at the fact she managed to elude her. 

From the distance chattering sounded through the trees, the rest of the group , she ran towards them with relief making a smile light up her face.

Coming to a clearing she waved at the figures closing in. Eager to put this day behind and return to the hostel room. But as they drew closer a horrifying fact made itself clear. They looked nothing like college students or anyone she'd recognize. Decked to the nines in jewelry and dresses 

They came wearing masks and she seems to have so rudely interrupted their party. 

She tries asking them questions but only gets garbled replies. She follows after with little choice. And after a moment she realizes they lead her to a ball. Melting candle wax and red rose petals, glittering dresses and singing of white nights, perfumes of incense, alabaster stone.

The cloth flesh coils around her. When she enters they look up and cheer for her to join. 

She hesitates. Taking slow steps, her sneakers were replaced by lace heels. Streetwear and lanyard ID substituted by a white gown gleaming silver and gold and sleeves threaded with pearls to match

She gasps at finding herself in front of an audience. She had wandered into a royal audience chamber.

"I need to get back home." she pleads.

In her short time wandering the palace walls she managed to enrapture the attention of an important figure.

Disdain and amusement. They lean on their knuckle, resting on their seat. Like watching the riders of a carousel from the sidelines. When humans wander in they usually die quickly or are transformed. 

She jumps on the upside down stairs to see if they would fall. But her feet land, rooted by a strange gravity.

The ambassador lets her explore their bash. This one captures them. A male guest stumbles and falls down cowering in drugged stupor, they observe the human woman running to his side to help him up. Getting nothing but a burp in thanks but she only smiles as the citizen stumbles off.

They enjoy the sight of their smile.

The ambassador gives her a room in the highest tower. A stab at the yellow sky. It's beautiful and fully furnished with a lone single window offering a view on the city. An important room. Far too much for a magic-less intruder like her. 

She learned from servants the name of this place. Alagadda. 

Ten days since she had last seen her home. An eon since she had seen the faces of her family and friends. Her heart aches. 

Gowns, silk, fur, instead of cotton. It's still too early to say she's gotten used to this place.

Each evening she sits with the king, the four lords and the ambassador 

Odious questions and threatens her. But she remained unresponsive. The only reason he hasn't erupted and sent her to the dungeons is because of the ambassador.

There was this terrible opening of their chest laid bloody and bare for a simmering emotion they had not felt in eons. For the first time they wander the tower of their fractured city with a new viewpoint. Remembering all the times they stalked others through this building with malicious intent.

Now they are here with a chest full of….affection.

They see her window as they stand below the tower. Brushing flakes of gold out of her hair with the brush they had gifted her a week ago.

It wasn't until they felt a hand on their shoulder did they realize that they'd taken steps towards her.

It's the Red lord. They stand together for a moment, voyuers to her nightly routine, then he clears his throat. "If I could offer you some advice on the winning of a mortal heart?"

He takes their silence as acquiescence. "Human women love material gifts. You are on the right track by giving her the main tower but jewelry and clothes will have her panties dropping in no time."

Why do they keep Rubedo around? They take the nugget of crude guidance (not that they needed help) and apply it to the next meeting.

She's the star of the evening, they flock around her and laugh at her jokes, hanging on to every word. When she exits a party for the rest of the night they look towards the curtain willing for her to return.

They love her. Far different from the interest of passing entertainment or love of themselves, the way they felt for her rumbles the nonexistent pit of their stomach.

Life thrived through each motion she made, sincere and solid. People could trust the slow smile and wide eyes. 

So when she asked so sweetly to leave they couldn't help but delay. They won't let her escape.

Instead the ambassador offers her things that would appeal to her human senses. Jewels for every day of the month. "As pretty as your smile."

Hugging her to their chest. The hand cups her cheek and presses their face against hers. There is no mouth to kiss or nose to nustle against. Just the gaping imprint of where those features would be.

They are close and cold as a corpse when her hands reach their waist and shoulder. 

They present her with a crown of rubies. Placing it on her head. "As bright as my yearning." they whisper in her ear.

Gloves of fine diamonds that come to her elbows and black pearl earrings.

Food that she loves with the taste of joyful childhood. Tasting of the impossible. Concepts in bites of cookies, laughter in slices.

They have the three high lords bow at her arrival. Seated above the bound king. At their side.

Trumpets sound as soon as she descends into a party.  She wants to run from the masks that watch her. Foreign and far from the warmth of humanity. But the ambassador is there. Holding her tight. "As loud as my love for you." They say. Spinning her across the ballroom floor.

They tell her that her human origins are beneath her. Throw away the past and relish the eternal now of their all-encompassing love. Forget her family and friends. School and work. Dance with them under the light of candlelit chandeliers. The stage calls for her to sit next to the director. 

[curmudgeonness]

Another Get To Know Me Tag!

This time much more random!

I was tagged by @treason-and-plot.  I do grumble a lot when tagged, but then I grumble at everything, hence my name!

1. What do you have under your bed?

The low bedframe keeps me from discovering the monsters/treasures thereunder.

2. Favorite candy?

I’m not particularly a fan of sweets, but I do enjoy an occasional KitKat or Butterfinger blizzard (concrete mixers at our local fast food joint)

3. Describe your favorite shirt

Anything that’s not pastel or frilly!

4. The last thing you drew/doodled was:

I don’t remember.  It’s been eons since I drew/doodled.  I’m not artistic in the least, so it would have been inconsequential anyway.

5. Are you completely sober rn?

How dare you ask!  Back in my prime, I was known to drink a tad too much.  Now, aside from an occasional brandy or glass of wine, I stick to water.

6. What’s the one thing that annoys you more than anything?

Hair left in the shower!

7. Have you ever gotten your tongue stuck to a cold pole during winter?

If you live where I grew up, it’s a rite of passage!

8. If you could be anywhere in the world right now, where would it be?

SINGLE!

9. What was the single last word you spoke?

Let’s see, that would have been a conversation about a password to a banking account an hour or so ago.  Or maybe it wasn’t!  Honestly, if it’s more than ten seconds ago, I can’t be expected to remember.

Now in return I will tag:  (from my dash)  @lalunebleue, @albiorixsims, @serenasims, @desiree-uk, @danjaley, @kamel-simmer-ts3, @mspoodle1, @pixelbots, @necile, @aroundthesims, and the ever-ranting @murfeelee.

[ask-the-friendly-ink-demon]

Inkwell Hell, Chapter 1- The King Of All Demons

Plot: every story has a beginning, and a end. but how do they all start out? how do they end? From an world that was united as one, to a whole multiverse being created as a result of an war gone wrong, everything has to start somewhere, in this universe though, is where the story truly begins for someone, and a certain little demon. The Past can never truly Go Away. welcome to how it all begins welcome. to the start, of the terrors, of the inky past within Joey Drew Studios.

Chapter Summary: For Eons ago before the multiverse was created, they were all one entire universe, where everything was conjoined as one, and there was only one being in the whole universe at that time that was the only life, The Cosmic Entity. Though eventually after life slowly began on earth thanks to a meteorite, the Cosmic gets a idea and uses the remains of the meteorite to create the very thing that would eventually become the demons, but it all started, with the very first ones in the universe, with the last of the originals, becoming the King of all demons itself, Arzaxoth. ---

It is finally here, i’ve been waiting forever to show this. but seeing how i only got three chapters so far done ever since i made it in 2021 to mid 2022, i feel like i can show you all this so far for the time being, this and the next two chapters afterwards that i’ll also be linking after this post, are mainly backstory stuff for the demon within prowler, with any other characters mentioned OVERALL IN THE AU ITSELF AS EITHER PHYSICALLY APPEARING OR SIMPLY CAMEOS belonging to amazing friends of mine, mainly @sammys-sanctuary @ask-soul-bendy @outcast-shadow @tkvulturez @thesoftbean  @core4lost and a few others that i sadly do not remember or do not interact with much anymore bUT YEAH, here IT IS FINALLY. well, here is the LINK! That is right, i am not going to be doing what i did with the last one, cause one, way to time consuming, two, i don’t want to suffer FJDKGHDFKHK and three. i’ve seen others do the same thing with their fanfics of their aus so YEAH. this is just something im trying out, that is all! enjoy the first chapter of the prologue to terrors of the inky past! and the LORE  enjoy :) https://archiveofourown.org/works/33117046/chapters/82212157

[dusmoros]

"You don’t need to worry about me."  For Meg because being in Diasomnia is suffering.  [ @fireandfae​ ] ◤  last of us sentence starters ◥ 

      SHE GLANCES UP,  thin brow cocked,  mouth twisting to the left,  edge of rosy lower lip pulled in to be caught between teeth.  Small hands,  resting in the wide pockets of her mysteriously gained Ignihyde jacket curl into tight fists,  pale nails digging into the soft flesh of her palms.  From beneath thick lashes,  dawn blue eyes study Malleus for a moment,  processing his towering visage,  endlessly seeking.  Ever since her return  ( their return )  from the ominous isle,  the only question looming like a storm cloud beyond the horizon was a matter of when.  When would Malleus fall into the same soul crushing,  heart rending curse which had befallen almost everyone of note.  Even Ortho and Idia,  though,  some part of the Fury had not been terribly surprised.  ( It was the aftermath which had shocked her,  truly,  the breath of freedom as the cosmos roiled in her veins,  giving her back her self  ...  at a price. )

The Fury turned over Malleus’ words as one might a philosophical question,  turning it this way and that,  examining all possible sides for any hint of an answer.  He presumed overmuch about her person,  not quite to the extent of Sebek,  but as much as everyone else might have presumed.  She was of Diasomnia,  was she not?  Of course she must care for the emotionally stunted prince.  The coddled,  beloved,  feared,  awe inspiring  ——  ugh,  she could go on for a millennia and her tongue would only grow numb with how many adjectives were tied to this dragon.  She didn’t have the time to care for what she had no ties to,  at least,  to the extent one might assume.  ❝ You’ve got a lot of nerve. ❞  She snaps,  turning on carefully maintained legs so she faced him head on.  ❝ I’m not worried about you.  I don’t worry about anyone. ❞  She left that behind when Spring had vanished from the Underworld eons ago.  ❝ Besides,  you don’t let people worry about you.  They’re only allowed to fear you ... with the exception of that prefect. ❞

She drew a hand from her pocket,  waving it before her dismissively.  She hunted phantoms for STYX,  sought out overblotting wizards and blot stones like a hound.  A wolf in the shape of a girl.  And before that,  she had punished the souls of jealous men.  So what,  then,  need she fear?

❝ If you are next,  Malleus,  I will just have to clip your wings. ❞  There is no edge which lines the promise,  no wavering in her voice which might make her appear dishonest.  ❝ Now,  shouldn’t you have a meeting with Crowley to go to? ❞ 

[caramelcuniculus]

What a nice day to trudge through the dominated world. Cracks painted the street and sidewalk that stood within and without the figure passing by, leaving the remains best forgotten. Kicks of small debris and steps against weak ground were the only sounds that seemingly echoed through whatever this once was. The ruins of a city; the result of the end of all things. Another civilization left to crumble and decay into rubble. They always said third times the charm, for whomever came next. Desmond Sycamore hoped they wouldn't destroy themselves and heed the warnings of a time long past. Times twice long past. The humans should've sooner discovered the legacy and loss the Azran civilization had left behind eons ago… but the remains of the world still turn.

Professor Desmond Sycamore, perhaps not much a professor anymore, both was and was not herself. She had her hazel hair and wine irises, but there were added layers to her attire. Accessories far more fitting for the apocalyptic world, especially for one that was threatened by the newly surfacing vampires. To think they'd come to be from fairy tales and folklore, now preying on the people who now lay dead on the streets. Join them or die; most had succumb to the latter. Not her, never her. The archaeologist had lived a long, harsh life before. A set of fangs wouldn't stop her. She had the three necessities bagged onto her person: stakes, garlic and holy water. Her supply was limited, but it was enough. It kept her afloat and kept her walking through broken streets like these.

Today, his mission in life was to locate any food sources. While the city ruins provided more secure shelter, proper nutrition was a delicacy. Desmond knew so long as he stayed in this area, he wouldn't be eating the best, but the very least he could do was try and find any available vendors. It was easy to trade things such as stakes around these parts, especially since more vampires would stop in town searching for their next meals… The persistent thought of eating made a small grumble come from deep within his stomach. The archaeologist held a quick hand to it and squeezed on it. A scoff; he wasn't even that hungry!

Maybe their mind and body were fighting with each other, playing tricks on the unfortunate host. They couldn't say it'd been the first time, and they knew this wouldn't be the last. Desmond simply kept on their way, red eyes scanning the crevasses of tumbled infrastructure for any signs of human life. Wildlife worked as well, if need be. They believed themself to be quite the hunter, after all! They wouldn't mind if they had to--

A cry of her name made her mind freeze up. It responded to the first call, registering that someone nearby both knew her and was alive. The second chant made her head shoot up, quickly turning her head and body to locate the source of the sounds. Desmond knew where; she knew the voice of Simon Petrikov more than anybody. Well, mostly everybody… The antiquarian was spotted and the archaeologist stopped her twirling, unable to hold back an expression of exhilaration and relief. "Simon! I knew it was you!" As her best friend approached, he echoed a statement that was left ignored. She couldn't help her smiling.

"I'm your best friend, after all! I've gone to memorize your voice by he-" Desmond's voice died in their throat once the whimsy wore off and they noticed the parasol in his hands. Not only that, the paled skin… Wide eyed and lost to a disbelief that started to shake them to their core, they took a step back. Desmond wasn't stupid, and Simon knew they weren't stupid. At least he didn't attempt to hide the truth that stood in the display that almost felt like a knife through the back. Back-stabbing. Vampire.

The archaeologist immediately drew out one of his stakes, pointing it at the center of where Simon's heart was. Red like blood, his gaze stared daggers into the dots underneath the umbrella. "Save your concern; I was fending for food out on a nice, warm, sunny day." The stare increased in intensity. "By the by, you must be feeling quite famished yourself. Surely you haven't come out to make me your next meal, have you?" If Simon looked close enough, he could see there now lay unease and sadness in his eyes. The stake in his hands inched a pinch closer towards the vampire's core.

"But you wouldn't, and you won't, will you?" Again, the red looked at him, downward now at his attire. And now pain resided in Desmond's voice. "… Oh, Petry, just what did you get yourself into?"

  Starter for Des of @caramelcuniculus !

Though it's not the smartest thing in the world, Simon likes to take little daytime walks near the outskirts of the vampire colony. He doesn't hate his home, of course--his vampiric instincts cause him to crave the comfort of a hive--but he's still himself at the end of the day. He needs alone time, he needs a space to think, and he needs to see the sun even if it sears through his skin when he's not careful enough about the way he holds his parasol.

Perhaps he should be worried about angry humans trying to hunt him, but he simply can't be bothered to. He's much more powerful than a human could ever be, and it's not as if he goes out of his way to harm them. Honestly, he's more afraid of his own clumsiness. Simon is definitely the sort of person to trip and fall directly into a pile of garlic. Admittedly, the thought is amusing. He finds himself chuckling at the mental image. Marceline would never let him live something like that down.

Simon smiles. Marceline. His little girl. He's so grateful to have found her, both because he loves her so much and because being the caretaker of an apparently demonic child is probably the sole reason that he was ultimately allowed to 'live' rather than being drained of blood and left to rot. Somehow, he doesn't hold that against his vampiric brethren anymore. He understands the hunger now. He understands the desperation and pain that come with trying to ignore it and the pure, intoxicating bliss of a belly full with blood. The thought makes him shudder. He looks up from his haze of thought, and--Oh.

There's... Someone there.

They haven't noticed him yet--probably because he's been relaxing in a dark, shaded area left by the remnants of a crumbled building--but he's noticed them.

Simon watches the unknown figure closely and sniffs at the air. They definitely smell human, but there's something else there as well. For some reason, they smell... familiar? Simon curses the fact that becoming a vampire did not entirely fix his eyesight and squints, straining to see them in the light of day. Roughly average height, brownish hair, red eyes... Wait a second. Red eyes. Red eyes. Before Simon can think better of it, he's stepping out of the shadows and making a beeline straight for them.

"Desmond? Desmond!" The vampire speaks up in disbelief. He'd just sort of assumed Desmond was dead. He's happy to see his friend is still around, of course, but he also feels awful for not having tried to find them all this time. The fact that he's a vampire now certainly doesn't make him feel any better about all of this. What if Desmond hates him? Runs away from him? Tries to kill him? He's terrified, but their safety is much more important to him than his own at the moment. He has to make sure they're okay.

"It's me! It's Simon!" Simon knows his vampirism is obvious. He's pale, he's been hiding himself from the light, and he's dressed like a member of the King's court... because he is one. But he's too afraid to say it out loud. Maybe if he pretends it isn't true, it'll go away. Maybe Desmond won't notice. Somehow. "What are you doing out here alone? It's not safe!"

[artkaninchenbau]

Yes hewwo I finished working a thing yesterday so I spent the rest of the night doodling a celebratory Rat and tried to figure out how to draw ice cream

[solangelover]

A Glowing Future

Submission by @satans-little-helper33

This piece takes place right after Nico’s final chapter at the end of Blood of Olympus.

Main Characters: Will Solace and Nico DiAngelo

Solangelo fluff

Nico’s encounter with Eros had cracked him wide open and left him feeling vulnerable and broken, forced to face his own reality and feelings, exposed in front of Jason; he was forced to share his darkest secret for a god’s amusement. Nico now knew he could trust Jason to keep it to himself, though, and he was beginning to realize that in order to crawl out of his self-constructed prison, his barriers first had to be torn down.

The feelings that had haunted him for so long—the shame, the fear, the denial—caused by the mentality of the 1940s he’d grown up in began to fade away. 

He was no longer that scared little boy who had been enraptured by the presence of a powerful demigod, and now that he had finally confessed his past feelings to Percy, Nico felt that he could finally move forward. 

Hades’s son made his way back down the hill to where Will was waiting for him, wearing scrubs,  jeans, and a crooked smile that made his heart skip a beat.

--------

“Sorry I didn’t come visit you in the infirmary,” Nico said, wearing the hint of a smile.

“It’s alright, I forgive you,” Will Solace said, his mouth set tight but laughter in his eyes, like he was trying to stay mad at Nico and failing.

“You wanted me to stay there--”

“For at least three days. Doctor’s orders.” Will started to lead Nico back toward the infirmary.

“Really, I’m Fine,” Nico began, but then his knees buckled and Will hoisted him back up.

“Uh huh. Right. Let’s get you to a bed.”

--------

Even after Coach Hedge’s nature magic/sports drink concoction, which had sustained Nico for a while, the arduous task of shadow-travelling the Athena Parthenos across the world had caught up with him again.

When Nico opened his eyes again, he was in the infirmary half sitting, half lying on a piece of furniture that was somewhere between a bed and a stretcher. 

“Welcome back to the world of the living,” a familiar voice intoned, “have some ambrosia.”

Will sat on a chair beside the bed; the room of the infirmary he was in was long and lined with similar bed-stretchers, separated by white curtains that shimmered in different colors when they were moved.

Several other beds were occupied with demigods sporting now-relatively-minor injuries left over from the battle with Gaia and the monster army: a daughter of Hecate 2 beds over was glaring at her leg in a cast as if she was insulted by the inconvenience.

Nico turned back to Will, and noticed that beside the bed there was a small table with a baggie of ambrosia squares on it. Nico reached out to pick one up but encountered a familiar problem: his fingers passed right through the baggie and ambrosia, as if he was becoming one with the shadows permanently. His hand appeared fuzzy around the edges, as if he was dissolving.

“Uhh, maybe if I try again--”

Will frowned, then sighed. “This is what happens when you overextend yourself. Here, let me help you.” He picked up a square and held it out to feed Nico.

Nico leaned back. “What are you doing?”

“No arguing. Open up.” Solace said, his tone making it clear that he wasn’t taking no for an answer.

Will took none of Nico’s shit. That was one of the things Nico found most endearing and annoying about him; no matter how hard the son of Hades tried to push him away, Will simply refused to let him.

Nico took the ambrosia, and after a few moments they looked back at his hand, which seemed to be coming back into sharper focus.

“You had me worried there, diAngelo,” Will said, smiling, and briefly gripped his hand to check if it was now solid. Day of the Dead skeletons tapped out a jig in Nico’s chest.

“You were worried...about me?” Nico said, still wrapping his mind around the fact that Will had wanted a death demigod to visit him in the infirmary.

“Get some sleep.” he said, closing the ziplock bag.

“I’m not tired.” 

���Well you will be in a second. CLOVIS,” he called out. The calf-like son of Morpheus appeared around the corner and Will told him “we’ve got another stubborn one,” throwing a teasing smile Nico’s way.

Clovis yawned. “I’m all over it,” he said, and--despite Nico’s protests--touched his forehead. The son of Hades drifted off into a deep sleep.

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

Nico awoke feeling more rested than he had in weeks. 

He quickly sat up, suddenly worried, because the last time he’d felt this rested, he’d been asleep for three days.

Nico stopped a passing Apollo healer. 

“How long have I been out??”

The healer scratched his chin, trying to estimate. “About 6 hours?” He walked off.

Will walked into the infirmary, arguing with a Demeter camper; something about herbs and supplies? He turned and spotted Nico.

“Well, good evening, sleepyhead! How was your nap? Feeling better?”

“I think 6 hours is slightly more than a nap.” Nico retorted.

“Well, count yourself lucky that Clovis has learned to control his powers better. A while ago he put a camper out for a week by accident.” Will made his way toward him. “Can you stand?”

“Um, let’s find out.” Nico swung his legs over the bed and got up. Aside from stumbling a little, he was feeling much better. Nico marvelled at the healing powers of sleep.

As if he read his mind, Will said, “Oh yeah, sleep has endless benefits.”

Nico twisted his skull ring. “Hey, I came in here at about noon, which means--”

 The conch horn signalling the dinner feast echoed across the valley. Will grinned. “I think that’s our cue.”

--------

The Half Blood campfire that night still carried with it an aura of elation spurred from disbelief, that they had won the battle against Gaia and made allies with the Romans, and a sort of desperation to feel alive brought about by all of those who had died in the process. Nico felt a pang for Leo, though he had a strange feeling that his death wasn’t as straightforward as it seemed.

Will sat by him at the bonfire, the Apollo cabin on his left and Nico on his right, leaving Nico unsure as to whether Will had sat next to him or his cabin. He chastised himself for hoping that it was the former.

The enchanted flames in the brazier blazed brightly with the energy of the campers, and Nico felt the warmth flare in his heart as he cast a glance at the son of Apollo, the light from the fire reflecting off of his blonde hair. 

--------

Nico lay in his bunk that night after the campfire, staring up at the ceiling of the Hades cabin that was inset with precious stones. He quickly realized that there was no way he was falling asleep any time soon, and he climbed out of bed. The whole room was drenched in liquid shadows, and despite his exhaustion after the journey shadow travelling with the Athena Parthenos, Nico stepped forward and became one with the darkness with ease.

  He melted from the shadow of a tree, finding himself by the lakeside at the edge of Camp Half-Blood. A full moon cast a pale glow on the night. Nico walked down to the sand and sat down; the silence was intoxicating, and Nico closed his eyes and listened to the gentle lapping of small waves against the shore. Suddenly he felt something nearby, heard the brush rustle, and wondered whether the cleaning harpies had come to eat him for being out past curfew. Nico drew his Stygian sword, which seemed to pull at the darkness like a magnet, and got ready to defend himself. What actually emerged from the brush was Will, who abruptly spotted Nico’s sword and laughed quietly. 

“Expecting a fight?”

Nico quickly sheathed his sword. “What are you doing out here?” He noticed for the first time that Will had something in his hands.

He held up two goblets. “Mind if I join you?”

Will was the only one at camp who was not blatantly wary of him; after several years as an outcast, the effect felt foreign.

Will sat down next to the son of Hades and spoke to one of the goblets--“Pomegranate juice”--and handed it to Nico as the cup filled with garnet liquid. 

“Are these--” Nico began.

“Glasses from the dining pavilion? Yeah. I snuck a couple out before dinner ended.” He wore his trademark mischievous smile. “I noticed you asked for pomegranate juice at dinner.” Nico felt his face grow warm as Will turned to his own cup and requested ginger beer. Soon the glass was filled with amber.

“It...reminds me of my mom.” Nico said quietly. “Not Persephone, ironically. When Bianca, my mom, and I...” his voice caught on Bianca’s name “when we lived in New Orleans, I was little, but I remember her giving us pomegranate juice on special occasions. It was a tough thing to find where we lived, so she would only have it on celebrations or...when my dad came to visit. I was just a baby when she was murdered.”

He stared down in silence at his drink.

“It wasn’t your fault, you know. Bianca, your mom, none of it,” Will said gently.

“I know,” Nico muttered, his voice nonetheless doubtful.

Will placed his hand on Nico’s, and he tensed, ready to pull away, but then instead turned his palm up to hold Will’s. 

Nico turned his head to look up at Will, his pale blue eyes shining in the moonlight, almost periwinkle, an indiscernible expression on his face.

“You’re amazing, you know that?” Will murmured, his gaze taking Nico in. Will looked into his dark eyes as if he could perceive all of him, good and bad, and was still enraptured by what he saw. 

Will reached out hesitantly, as if to touch Nico’s face, but stopped before, gaging his reaction, and when the son of Hades didn’t pull away, he brushed the ink-black hair out of his face.

Involuntarily, Nico’s eyes closed and his heart began to race. His life had, for years, been spent more with the dead than the living. No one had touched him tenderly for what felt like eons, not since Bianca, and only now did he realize how starved for physical affection he had been. Not just starved, he thought to himself, afraid of it… 

And in that moment he decided that he was not going to be afraid anymore.

  Will’s gaze moved from Nico’s eyes to his lips, and he leaned in carefully as if approaching a wild animal. Nico closed the distance, and as their lips met, his life bloomed before him like a chrysanthemum opening layer by layer. Suddenly Nico could see a future before him that wasn’t ruled by death and solitude. 

Unnoticed by either of them, a dead mouse at the edge of the forest was brought back to life and scampered off into the trees.

 - Alya

@satans-little-helper33

My writing blog: @from-story-to-screen

[the-young-and-forgotten]

Chapter 1 - The Arrival

| masterlist |

A/N: this is set at the start of the marauders 6th year

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

With a clap of thunder and a single flash of lightning, four boys fell directly from the sun, slamming onto the concrete ground beneath them. 

As their backs hit the pavement, their mind whirled through memories that weren’t their own. A castle up on a rocky cliff, rooms full of magical equipment, a forest with danger at every turn and a fiery redheaded girl that made James blush.

Groaning, they all picked themselves up, dusting their clothes off.  Peter shielded his eyes and looked up at the sun, grumbling “Why did they have to go and drop us from the fucking sky?” Remus opened his mouth to respond but something hot and soft started falling from the clouds. 

James held out his palm to the sky and watched as a burning piece of ash floated down onto his open palm. He studied it, visibly confused. “The sky is.. raining fire?”  “Nah mate” Sirius said with his arms outstretched, head tilted towards the sky “The worlds shuddering at the weight of our power” At that, the other boys started to spin in the fiery rain, laughing as they caught the embers on the tip of their tongues. 

Unbeknownst to them, an old man had heard their laughter and was walking up to them, smiling softly. “So you must be the fallen gods” he stated bluntly, capturing their attention. A flash of panic flitted across the boys’ faces as they searched for an excuse. “Oh no,” James said quickly, leaning against Remus’ shoulder. The boy in question had just started picking the flowers out of his hair, which was not helping to sell their lie. “We are just four normal boys casually dancing in the burning rain.” The man laughed, looking at them with a twinkle in his eye. “I do not think I am mistaken, Hecate told me you would be coming soon.” Peter scoffed, “Psh Hecate. You should never trust the goddess of…..” He paused at this, looking at James in wonder who was waving his arms around haphazardly. Realising his mistake, he tried his best to backtrack.  “Wait I mean, who's Hecate? She sounds dumb.” 

Right at that moment, one too many ashes had landed on Sirius’ skin, activating his flames.  With a big flash, he turned into a humanoid fire. The flames gradually subdued, leaving a sooty boy who looked at his hands in shock before turning his gaze to blood brothers, eyes wide. “That wasn’t supposed to happen..”  James’ shoulders slumped, running a hand down his face as Peter ducked down to hide his grin. Remus finally looked up from picking out the flowers from his hair that now lay in a pile around his feet. Dumbledore raised his eyebrows at him. “That uh.. That doesn’t happen often...” he explained, shaking his head at what a mess they all were. 

“Would you like to take a walk?” Dumbledore inquired. They slouch after him, visibly relieved that he didn’t question their insanity further.

They walked in silence for a few minutes before Dumbledore spoke up. “Are you boys familiar with… the tale of the Children of Hecate? It’s an old one.” Sirius laughed harshly at this “dude, we are a thousand years old we know all sorts of tales you couldn’t even dream up.” “You never answered my question young god.” “No… we aren’t” Dumbledore smiled, pulling out his wand. “I thought not.” He waved about his wand and silver mist broke out of the end, morphing into people, animating the story being told.

“A long time ago, there was a woman.  Cast out by the gods from helping out a paranoid mother, she, like you today, fell from the sky in a blaze of burning rain. Filled with hate and grief, she vowed to anger the gods in any way possible. For a hundred years she wandered this earth aimlessly, occasionally accompanied by Thanatos who came to reap the mortal souls. One day, she stumbled across seven mortals, cowering at the feet of Death, begging for life. Now, this woman had traveled among us, watching all our struggles and misery. Listening to our heartbreak and treachery. She took pity on these mortals and stepping from the shadows for the first time in a century, she addressed the seven. Pushing past Thanatos, she knelt to their level and placed a hand on the cheek of the child in front of her. Smiling kindly, she knew what to do to help them and fulfill her vow.  Reaching inside of her core, she drew out seven silver wisps. Weaving it around the mortals in front of her. “Upon you I bestow the power of the gods,” she whispered, transforming into her godly form. “Follow the path this shows you and life will come.” As the mortals scampered away, hands smoking and eyes dancing, Thanatos turned to her furious. From then on, Hecate was forced to spend the rest of her immortality guiding demigods, gods and mortals along the three crossroads. The mortals she blessed, though some may say cursed, used the powers how their minds begged them too, some for good, some for evil. But the magic went on, passed from generation to generation, family to family and will do so forever. Among all these powerful witches and wizards, as we call ourselves, were two men and two women. Born with magic unrivalled by anyone but Hecate herself.  They drew together and formed a school now known as ‘Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry’.  From then onwards, magical folk have been taught, honing their abilities to perfection. Carrying out the vow Hecate made many eons ago.” 

The boys were speechless. Remus pointed to Dumbledore then his wand and back again. “So you’re…” “Yes” Dumbldore answered, turning towards them and giving a short little bow, “I am a descendant of Hecate.” “And you want us at this school of yours?” “With Hecate's blessing, yes.” 

Peter cuts ahead of his friends, raising his hand. “Interjection! How the hell are we supposed to get magic powers?”  Dumbledore smiles at him and holds his hand. “If you four trust me, I will take you to where everything will be revealed.” The godlings look at each other before holding onto the man in question, watching as he whispers something, waving his wand around.

The boys feel a tug on their abdomen and gasped as the world around them blurs, like they are on a moving train. They felt themselves morph, as if they were travelling through time. Their very fibre being pulled and torn. Before long, the scenery around them started to solidify, changing into a strange room with silver instruments and hundreds of portraits everywhere. “What the FUCK was that.” Sirius shouted from a pile of broken items he had staggered into, being vulgar as always.  Dumbledore merely dusted himself off and fixed his robe before moving behind the desk. “That, dear boy, was a form of magical travel called apparition.”  Peter lay on the floor, gasping for breath. “I think I prefer falling from the sky.”  “And I prefer lying on a couch throwing grapes at the nymphs.” James groaned, stretching out his back.

“So magical powers?” Remus asked, walking up to Dumbledore's desk as his friends gazed at him in shock, wondering how he could be fine after that supposed ‘hell’ they just went through. “Ah yes!” Dumbledore clapped his hands together, reaching into a drawer just behind his desk. Out of the drawer he pulled four glasses filled to the brim with grey smoke.  “Within these glasses contain the exact wisps Hecate used to infuse those seven mortals with magic. Take this and it shall do the same.” “I’ll drink to that.” Says Sirius, pushing past Remus and picking up a glass. 

In one go he downs it, smiling devilishly. “See men? All fi-” Suddenly, Sirius’ face freezes in a half smile as his hands fly up to throat. He falls to his knees, coughing horribly, eyes glowing silver. His whole body twitching uncontrollably.  As quickly as it started, it was over. He lay there gasping, trying to formulate a sentence. “That was delicious…” he wheezed “110% recommend you give it a go.”

After seeing what happened to Sirius, the other boys were more hesitant to take even a sip.  But one encouraging smile from Dumbledore made them drink it, going through the same process as their blood brother. 

When they had finally recovered from the side effects of the potion, Dumbledore was reading through a small scroll covered in glyphs. “I just need to ask your four a question in order to secure your stay here at Hogwarts. Now this may feel extremely unnatural, since I am jogging memories that don’t actually exist.” 

He looked up from the paper, his eyes holding that twinkle they had seen before.  “Boys, what house were you sorted into six years ago?” The godlings felt their soul pulse for a second and their mouths fell open of its own accord.  A movie tape started running through their mind, twisted and slightly burning. Back and forth it ran, so fast everything was a blur of colours.  Finally, it landed on a vision of their younger selves sitting on a stool in front of hundreds as a hat screamed out something. The boys on the stools were faceless and the edges of their bodies were blurred, as if someone had edited them into a scene. They felt something invisible reach towards the memory and rip it out of the tape, forming it into words. Speaking together, they all said “Gryffindor.” 

Their souls pulsed once more, and they were brought back to reality, grabbing their heads and groaning. “I swear if we have to go through that everytime we remember some pointless memory-” Sirius spat, grabbing at his hair like he was trying to rip the headache out. “No, do not worry, Sirius. This should be the last time it will happen. You will feel dizzy and weird when experiencing a memory though, since they were forcibly planted into your mind.” 

“That reminds me,” Remus interrupted, wincing as he stood up “How come we aren’t going dizzy from the sight of you? Something tells me we should know you even though we don’t .”  Dumbledore laughed “My, aren’t you inquisitive?”  “That's Remus for you.” said Peter smiling fondly at the boy in question. “Has to know everything about a subject the moment he finds out about it.”  Remus made a face at him before turning back to Dumbledore, eyes hopeful.  Dumbledore smiled kindly at him and continued. “That’s because I personally asked the gods not to include me in your implanted memories. I would prefer to get to know you as the boys you are now. Not what fake scenarios portray you as.”

The godlings look at each other, questions of trust in their eyes.  Taking the first leap of faith, James extended his hand for Dumbledore to shake. “You have left a good impression on us sir. You have earned our trust.” Delighted, Dumbledore shook his hand, once again smiling kindly at them all. “Now, I must show you to your dormitories…”

“No need Sir.” Sirius said, finally standing up. “We can get there just fine.”  They turned to leave, heading for the office door. Dumbledore cocked an eyebrow at their departing figures. “You may get lost” 

James stopped by the door just as the others went through, chuckling.  Turning around he winked at Dumbledore.  “That’s the thing about us chaos gods.” He said, grinning mischievously.  “We have impeccable navigational skills.”

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[thesassenachswiftie]

Lover - Chapter 8: “Me!”

Read on AO3

Chapter 1 // Chapter 2 // Chapter 3 // Chapter 4 // Chapter 5 // Chapter 6 // Chapter 7

Summary: Jamie and Claire are finally reunited!! We left our lovers under the bleachers, where Claire whispered "take me home." I'm sure you can imagine where this is going. 🔥

Notes:Thanks so much for reading and bearing with me through all the angst!! If you have issues with smut, maybe skip this chapter (the very beginning and very end are safe, but not much in between). 🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥 Follow me on Twitter (sassenachswifty) because I need more friends on there.

Chapter 8: Me!

In spite of the chill in the air, Jamie felt warm for the first time in months.  He had been living in winter and Claire was his summer--returned to him after their time apart. Somewhere in the distance, a teenager reluctantly shouted “strike the band up...1,2,3”; from the sound of it, the game had ended and the marching band was playing the crowd out. They had already made their way to the parking lot and arrived there before the throng, Jamie’s arm firmly planted around Claire the whole time. Jamie didn’t ever want to let her go again. He opened his car door for her in the parking lot and winced to let her go for the few moments it took to walk around the car to the driver’s seat. Once inside the car, he planted his right hand firmly on her left.  He never let go for the entire ride back to his apartment, caressing her hand gently with his thumb and stealing glances at her at every stop light. He could still hardly believe she had come back to him. He never wanted to see her walk away again. The last time they had been in a car together she wouldn’t let him touch her--would they have even been apart if she had? Having that physical connection made open and honest conversation easier between them. “Claire, are you really here? Are you really mine?”

“Jamie, when you ran after me and called my name, that was it for me. I couldn’t run away again; I couldn’t leave well enough alone even if I wanted to. I don’t know what it is between us. It’s not usual. It’s different.”

“Aye, I ken what you mean, Sassenach.” he briefly pulled the hand he’d been holding to his lips, kissing just under the knuckles.

Claire laughed gently, “one of these things is not like the others” she chanted, smirking.

“Well, there’s a lot of lame guys out there” he chucked back to her. “Babydoll, when it comes to a lover I promise that you’ll never find another like me.” Jamie was beaming, his world felt like a rainbow with all of the colors now that his Claire, his sorcha, his light was back in his life.

“Mmm… I don’t doubt it.” She closed her eyes, picturing just the kind of lover he was, grinning and blushing as she imagined where they would end up this evening. “I don’t doubt it one bit.”

           When they arrived in the driveway below his apartment Jamie was again remiss to let go of Claire’s hand to exit the car. Immediately, their arms were around each other again as they made their way up the narrow staircase to Jamie’s above-garage apartment. As soon as they closed the door behind them, Jamie grabbed Claire’s curly mane and brought her lips to his own, kicking off his shoes as he did so and guiding her into the studio apartment towards his bed. Their lips only separated to pull clothing over heads in a whirlwind of passion--a coat on the floor in the entryway, a shirt draped over the kitchen chair, a pair of jeans strewn across the coffee table, Claire’s bra discarded on an end table. Panting, they arrived at the bed where Claire sat and peeled off her skinny jeans and underwear before assisting Jamie in stripping off his boxer briefs. He stood before her beside the bed and she lay back. For a moment, they stared at each other, taking in the sight of each other's naked bodies, comparing them with their memories of a month ago. Jamie was the first to break the silence. “Sassenach, I’m bewitched by you--completely under your spell.”

           Claire reached up for his forearm, pulling him down on top of her, “Mmm… Spelling is fun” she cooed, pulling him in for another impassioned kiss. She wrapped her legs around his waist and they began rubbing against each other’s most sensitive areas. Claire had been so deprived of pleasure in the past month, she felt that just this simple action could be enough to take her over the edge. She wouldn’t have been surprised if Jamie felt the same, feeling just how much he wanted her against her.

           “Christ Sassenach”, he whispered in her ear, moving to kiss her earlobe, and down her neck. He adjusted his position to keep himself from finishing too soon, allowing her to rub on his strong thigh instead as his lips made their way to her breasts. He kissed and sucked each nipple generously, settling to work on the right one while his left hand caressed the other.  He devoured her skin ravenously; this was a meal he hadn’t had in a month and it was more delectable than he remembered. After satisfying both her breasts, her nipples engorged and erect, he continued kissing down to her stomach, her hips, her thighs, her inner thighs. He knew he was teasing her, but every inch of her skin was missed and delicious to him, he wanted to savor every bit of her. Feeling Jamie explore these untouched places caused Claire to involuntarily giggle, the scruff of his chin and delicate caress of his tongue tickling those sensitive spots. “I will never tire of your wee noises, Sassenach”

           “I do not make wee-e-e, oo- oo- oo--” Claire’s protestations were interrupted by Jamie’s mouth finally making its way to that bundle of nerves she had been anticipating for what simultaneously felt like moments and eons. Claire panted and hummed as he sucked and licked, knowing just when to change pressure to keep her pleasured yet wanting more. Finally, he brought her to that place where she saw stars behind her eyelids, and cried out his name in pure ecstasy.

           “Ya do make wee noises, Sassenach, and baby, that’s the fun of you.” he stated smugly, clearly proud of himself for eliciting such a reaction from her.  

           “I know I tend to make it about me, but allow me to return the favor, my darling” she elicited, sitting up and moving to her knees on the floor, beside the bed.

           “Who would I be to deny the lady’s request?” he mused, taking her position on the bed.  

           “God Jamie! It’s bigger than I remember!” she exclaimed, taking his cock in her and gently stroking it.

           “I know, I’m a handful, baby uh--” he groaned as she took him between her lips, “and a mouthful, apparently.” He attempted to wink at her for the second time that evening, his owl-like expression and smug smile meeting her whiskey eyes staring up at him. Using her hand to grasp and stroke his base in time with her mouth on his shaft, she ran her tongue and lips along him until he was the one letting out unrecognizable noises and sharp inhalations. He tangled his fingers in her curls as if he were holding on for dear life. “Oh God Claire!” he cried out, spilling into her mouth.  She swallowed, wiping her lips after releasing him. They were both breathless. He drew her up onto the bed with him and then down to collapse on the bed in his arms.  

“Come here, mo nighean donn, let me keep you company.” He brought his lips to hers for the umpteenth time that evening, worming his tongue between her lips.  They shared another passionate kiss, this time slow and lingering, savoring the taste of themselves on each other’s lips--something that was new for Claire.

“No one’s ever done that before,” she rasped when they released.

“Done what?” he questioned, his blue eyes peering deep into her whiskey-colored ones.

“Kissed me after… well, after what I just did to you.” Claire, blushed, averting her eyes to his piercing gaze.

“There’s a lot of lame guys out there, Sassenach. I’d kiss ya even if you just ate a tuna sandwich with onions dipped in garlic and topped with stinky cheese, this is nothing.”

Claire exploded with laughter at his comment. “Mmmm… how appetizing,” she sputtered sarcastically between her chuckles. She’d missed how fun he was to be around.  He certainly would never bore her. She’d forgotten how wonderful it was to laugh in his arms, in his bed. When was the last time she laughed? Had it really been since that night in Montauk? The night she didn’t think before she jumped in and told him she loved him? The same night she also thought too much and decided to ruin everything? How had he allowed her back into his arms so easily after what she’d done to him. She was lying beside him now--her curls and one of her delicate hands spilling over his firm chest, and he was gently stroking her hair. “Why’d you let me come back to you Jamie? You could have anyone else, you’re the kind of guy the ladies want. Why me? After all I put you through.”

He pulled her chin up so their eyes could meet. “In truth, I don’t always ken myself.  I’ll admit I was angry after I found out what ya did to me, but I meant what I said earlier. I forgive you. I can understand why you did it, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want it too--even if the circumstances weren’t exactly my idea of honorable. I’m glad you told me though--I felt I hated you for it at first, but it’s better to be honest with each other.”

“I’m so sorry Jamie, I should have never toyed with your honor like that. All I could think of that first night was how much I wanted you, but it shouldn’t have been like that. I should have left Frank right then and there. I’m afraid I was a coward.” she admitted. “I’m afraid you never get just what you see with me, but I want to change that. I don’t want to lie to you anymore. I feel like my heart and my head have been battling since we met and I’ve only been able to show you one or the other. Like I’ve been two completely different people. I want to be able to show you all of me, the only one of me.”

“I’d like that very much, Sassenach” there was a truth in her eyes that he saw and understood. For the first time in their torrid relationship, she was completely vulnerable and exposed to him. Free from the weight of any hidden baggage, the air around them felt light, like they could float together, right off the bed and into the stratosphere. Everything was out in the open and they were free to just be. Claire felt it too, the weight that had been bearing down on her their whole relationship was gone from this meeting. She had aired her dark secrets and he still accepted her in spite of her shortcomings.

Jamie pulled her into a kiss--slow, lingering, passionate. Their tongues danced lazily, in no rush to do anything but enjoy each other’s company. Carefully, Jamie rolled Claire onto her back, positioning himself on top of her. He began to kiss, suckle and roll his tongue across her earlobe, causing her to moan and squeak with pleasure and anticipation. He brought his hand to the space in between her legs, gently stroking the place he knew she wanted him too, caressing the moist folds of her skin, teasing around her entrance with his fingertips. “Jamie” she whispered in his ear, “I want you inside me--please.”

He guided himself inside her in one smooth stroke. Their bodies quickly found a gentle rhythm, synchronizing completely as if they were created to fit together, two halves of the same whole joining. They had started their evening at homecoming, but now they were coming home. Their desire for each other swelled and grew together and the pace of their movements followed. “Don’t stop, Jamie!” Claire cried out, on the edge of her passion.

“I won’t stop, baby.” he panted back to her, nearing his own precipice. Moments later, Claire let out a piercing cry of his name, fingers clawing into his shoulders, her whole body squirming with pleasure. That was more than Jamie needed to bring him toppling over the edge with her, his own pleasure bursting behind his eyes.

He dismounted from her, handing her a box of tissues from the nightstand so they could clean themselves up, and laying on his side next to her, his curly red mop propped up on his large hand, taking in the naked beauty lying beside him. “I’m so glad you’ve come back to me, mo nighean donn.” He gently stroked the skin of her breast.

“I didn’t think you’d miss me after a time, you’re a very attractive man, and there’s a lot of cool chick’s out there. Surely, you could have found someone else.”

“There is only one of you, Sassenach.” he smirked, kissing her curly mane “no one else could compare.”

They continued to lie together in silence. Jamie continued softly caressing Claire’s milky skin, taking in everything inch of her, memorizing her every curve. Eventually Claire broke the silence.

“Jamie?” there was a hint of anxiety in her tone.

“What is it, mo chirde?”

“When are you leaving?” she whimpered.

“Not for another few weeks yet, I’ll help Jenny and Ian with the pumpkin harvest but I have to be back before the end of the month to get my wee tree farm up and running before my own busy season. It seems to be starting earlier each year.” he mused. Jamie ran a Christmas Tree farm on the outskirts of London, something Claire had learned the night they met.

“What happens then? With us?” There was a pleading in her golden eyes as she looked into his.

“Och! A wee ocean isn’t going to stop the way I feel about you.” he insisted, kissing her forehead. “It’ll be different, yes, but I’ll call you every night, and we can visit each other when you have breaks from school, right?”

“That sounds like it could work. I’ll miss this though.” She ran her hand up and down his body, making it clear exactly what she met.

“And I’ll miss this.” He reached around her body, taking a generous handful of her arse. “I swear we’ll make this work, Claire; I never want to be parted from you again.” In truth, he was imagining her joining him in England. Making space for her in his home. Perhaps she would grow a small herb garden behind the kitchen, and they’d laugh together as he washed dishes and she dried in the evenings. Eventually, they’d have a bairn or two running around the place, keeping them on their toes. It was all so beautiful and real in his head, but he knew it was too soon to ask. He knew it would be a huge decision for her and she’d been through so much in the past few months, he didn’t need to throw her a curveball like that. She had only just returned to him, only just been able to open up to him. For now, all he could do was silently vow that someday, he would make that fantasy a reality.

----------

           Jamie and Claire continued kissing, caressing, and humming sweet words into each other’s ears well into the small hours of the night. They enjoyed each other’s company more than they ever had before now that the walls between them had crumbled. Eventually, the week caught up with Claire and she fell asleep before Jamie did, using his shoulder as a pillow.  Jamie stayed awake, taking her in, stroking her soft curls, and imagining their future together.  When he was sure she was asleep, he kissed her cheek softly and whispered in her ear, “I promise that nobody’s gonna love you like me.”

[ladyreapermc]

Fic: Falling (August Walker x Reader)

Summary: angel/demons AU. You’re tired of seeing humans destroying Father’s creation so you decide to help August Walker achieve his goals.

Author’s note: This one was written for the skype prompt.

@hnryycvll @witcherwritings @yoursecretsmutblog @toomanystoriessolittletime @penwieldingdreamer @onceiwasanun

Wordcount: 3790

Warnings: smut (rough sex)

Your nose crinkled with distaste as you walked the streets, making sure to keep enough distance between yourself and the other passersby. The last thing you wanted was one of these filthy humans touching your celestial skin.

Why did Father insist on sending you down to this cesspool of sins that was Earth to watch and report back? You would never understand, but you hated every minute. In your eyes, this generation of humanity was beyond redemption. Corrupted and dirty, only caring about profit and pleasure.

Hedonistic vermin!

They shouldn’t be allowed to exist and continue to taint Father’s creation. Millenia had passed and they have profaned every aspect of this planet. The air was putrid, the earth rotten, the rivers poisoned…

Everything that was once good and beautiful was slowly dying and still, Father refused to let you intervene. He granted humans free will for a reason and they needed to want to be saved.

As you watched them around you, the filth infesting every inch of what was once a paradise, you weren’t all that confident in their ability to repent and turn back to light. And even though Father forbade it, you decided you could just give a little nudge in the right direction. You weren’t disobeying per se, just… facilitating things. Speeding their opportunity to repent for their wrongs.

You took a seat at the coffee shop and to anyone who looked, you were nothing more than a simple tourist savoring some fresh coffee, one of the few things made by humans you actually enjoyed. The Eiffel Tower behind you, illuminated by the bright afternoon sun as you discreetly watched the man sitting three tables away, reading his newspaper.

To you, most humans look the same, varying only in the disgusting rotting of their souls, but even though August Walker had one of the darkest souls you had ever encountered, you could deny he was beautiful.

Tall and thick, his shoulders and torso broad and housing solid and well-defined muscles. His face looked almost as if sculpted in the best of marble, giving him sharp lines and features. His dark hair combed neatly, hid some of the wayward curls that would sometimes fall over his eyes whenever he was doing extraneous activities.

His lips, soft, plush, and pinked by the heat of his beverage, were shaped in a perfect cupid bow that widened beautifully when a stray smile crossed his features. A rare sign that made its apparition even more special. His eyes were the blue hue of deep ocean waters and probably just as cold, his gaze always calculating and assessing his surroundings, the superior intellect obvious in them.

Yes, it was undeniable that August was a fascinating specimen of human and if what you had seen of him in the last six months was any indication, he was just perfect for what you needed. A couple of years ago he had tried to detonate plutonium bombs in an attempt of forcing the world to see the light.

He understood that sometimes to archive peace, some bloodshed must happen. Death brought hope as paradoxical as that seemed. He nearly died in his endeavor, but it seemed to only strengthen his resolve and here he was, ready to try once again and you were more than willing to help.

You couldn’t bring the change yourself, that was against the rules, but it wasn’t uncommon to offer some divine inspiration to some selected few when a situation called for it and that was your plan. To offer August with a little guidance and protection to make sure he succeeded this time around.

Finishing your coffee and setting the money on the table, you stood from your seat intending to find a new advantage position to watch August. Maybe from one of the roofs of the buildings surrounding the café, but you only managed to walk a few streets before a solid body connected to yours, pushing you against the wall. You were so surprised by the audacity of this bug to touch you that you didn’t realize at first that it was August. Not until his mouth brushed against your ear, his breath ghosting your skin.

“Why are you following me?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

His grip on your arm tightened, tugging your wrist higher against your back and forcing your shoulder in an unnatural angle. He pressed you tighter against the wall, the rough brick surface scraping your cheek. If you were a human, it would be painful, but as it was, it was just annoying, and you had to close your eyes to hide the burning celestial fire in them.

“Don’t make me ask again. I’d hate to damage that pretty face.”

You took a deep breath, containing your fury before you dared to open your eyes, glancing sideways to catch a glimpse of August.

“I’m a free agent, much like yourself and I’ve been following you because I think we can help each other.”

“Is that right?” he snorted but let go of your arm, allowing you to turn around and face him, but didn’t step away. Instead, he caged you in, strong arms at each side of your head as he looked down at you, his eyes piercing as he weighed your words. “And how is that?”

For a moment, you couldn’t bring yourself to reply. Now that you were this close, you could detect this strange, but familiar lingering smell. Something that reminded you of home but diluted and disguised by the bouquet of scents of metal and gunpowder, and sin that whiffed off August. Yet, that sweetness was undeniable, like fresh rain in the morning, clean and pure and suddenly you knew why August was so appealing, unlike all the other humans. He wasn’t a human at all.

“Oh.” You breathed out dumbly as you looked at him, noticing the realization coloring his eyes pitch black as his lips drew into a smirk.

“Does Daddy know you’re down here in the slums?”

“What do you think?” This time, you didn’t bother to hide your flames, pushing against August, but it only made him hold you tighter against the wall.

“And you say we can help each other?” he said, one perfect eyebrow raised. “Isn’t protecting humanity the gist of your job description?”

“I’ll be protecting them…” you replied, cocking your head to the side to look at him. “Giving future generations a chance to be better. There cannot be peace without suffering. Isn’t that what you say?”

For a moment, you just stared at each other, sizing one up, making sure if you could trust one another. You were natural enemies after all. You, a celestial angel. Him, a fallen one turned to a demon.

“Why are you doing this?” you asked.

“If the species die, game over,” he replied, his tongue sneaking out to wet his lips and you couldn’t help but follow the motion. “Now where’s the fun in that?”

“Then like I said, we can help each other.” August just nodded, seemingly convinced, but not even remotely inclined to let you go.

“You know what can happen to you if He finds out?” August cast his gaze upwards and you nodded.

“I’m doing His work. Even if He can’t see it.”

Time ticked by slowly as the two of you stared at each other, assessing one another, trying to discover how far you could trust the other if you could trust at all. An angel and a demon working together? Unthinkable was the only thing that came to mind.

Finally, August let you go and against your better judgment, you actually missed his touch. How strange.

He reached in his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper handing it over to you. Hesitant, you glanced at it noticing a name scribbled down in neat and elegant handwriting.

“Who is this?”

“Someone in need of inspiration…” August smirked. “Of the divine kind.”

“Why?” Your thumb brushed over the letters of the name, touching the soft indentations the pen left behind.

“Now, now, birdie, you don’t expect me to just trust you, do you? Leaps of faith are your kind of deal, not mine. Do this and maybe I’ll consider telling you the rest.”

Again, you stared at each other. You hated that tilt of his perfect lips and the dancing glow of wickedness in his eyes. The way they seem to mock you. You wanted to wipe them away somehow. With your fist. Or your lips.

Instead, you unfolded your wings, making August jump back startled as the strong bones and muscles stretched wide, the pearly white feathers glowing in the sun like bright diamonds, blinding and beautiful. You could see the awe in his eyes, and it was your time to smirk as you offered him a hand.

“How long has it been since you flew, August?”

“A few eons,” he stepped closer to you, ignoring your hand and circling your waist with his arms, his embrace tight, his fingers sneaking under your clothing, exploring the juncture of feather and flesh and you couldn’t hide the shiver that ran through your back.

You wrapped your arms around his strong neck, fingers threading through the soft curls on his nape before you looked up, bending your knees and canting your wings so you could take flight with August’s body pressed against yours.

It was a short journey from where you met August to the man’s apartment and you landed on the balcony with a soft thud, both of you cloaked from view by your powers as you walked into the cluttered flat that reeked of chemicals.

The man in question was perched on a stool, peering into a microscope, looking up periodically to make notations on his notepad, before his gaze returned to the equipment.

At each step you took closer to him, it almost felt like you were crossing a wall of his foul smell. It was rancid as if the man that hadn’t showered in days, mixed with the overly sweet and putrid stench of decaying food. You gagged a little and even August seemed bothered by the cloud of odor that stubbornly tried to cling to your skin.

He had better luck than you because he could keep a distance. You needed to move closer, your lips almost brushing against the man’s ear as you let out a heavy exhale, the air billowing from your nose and mouth a solace of purity against the filth.

You watched as the man breathed in deep, his eyes taking the familiar flick of flame, just a pale comparison of yours but his hand moved against the paper, drawing out incomprehensive formulas by instinct. Once he exhaled, his eyes cleared, his hand stopped, and he looked down in awe at his own work, scrambling to find his phone.

Watching over his shoulder you saw him browse through his contacts, finding the name Lark and sending him a short message:

Formula completed. The toxin will be ready in 12 hours.

As soon as he hit send, you heard a noise and turned to see August pulling out his own phone, his lips drawing into a smirk as he met your eyes. Now you knew his plans.

“Where will it be released?” you asked once the two of you left the chemist’s apartment and returned to the café where it all started. This time, sharing a table, the orange rays of sunset surrounding your both, and painting a gorgeous view, reminding once more why you were doing this.

“In every major city of first world countries.” There was a quiet detachment in August’s voice as if he didn’t care one way or the other. “It kills fast and spreads even faster. The economy will crumble in weeks. They’ll have to build it up from the ground. The trial run will be tonight. Here.”

You swirled the black liquid in your cup, watching the spirals forming like a tiny tornado. You did not regret your actions, but there was deep sorrow for the consequences, not because of the humans but because you knew how this would pain Father. He was strangely attached to these vermin that walked the Earth.

“Then it’s done.” You raised to your feet, shielding your eyes with sunglasses. “Our association ends here.”

“Doesn’t have to,” August spoke, his blue eyes swimming with something you didn’t recognize as he raised himself from his own seat, coming to stand too close to you and offering you his hand. “We could… extend this partnership.”

You should turn around and walk away. The things his voice promised were too dangerous to contemplate and you shouldn’t be thinking about them or him. Your mission was done, and you should go back home. Wait for Father’s judgment of your deeds but what would be the point? To see the White City one last time? To be reminded of all you would lose for the rest of your existence? Prolong you suffering?

You took August’s offer, letting him guide you to his hotel. The room’s window panels overlooking the skyline and the lights of the city like twinkling stars in the night as you contemplated the view, imagining them as each one of the humans you were tasked to watch over, shining like little fireflies that soon would have their lights extinguished.

You felt August hovering behind you seconds before you saw his reflection on the window, the warmth of his body seductive and tempting you to just lie back against his chest. He handled you a glass of deep red wine, his thick fingers trailing over your arm as he pulled back, making you shiver.

“Why bother? Alcohol has no effect on us,” you said, tilting your head back to look at him and his lips drew into that familiar smirk.

“Because it tastes good.” He sipped from his drink, the liquid tinting his mouth of blood-red before August’s attention shifted somewhere else, his smirk widening. “It’s starting.”

You looked back out the window wishing you could see the beginning of the ruin. You wanted to walk among the dying pest, watch them desperately claiming the heavens for forgiveness. Maybe later, right now, the way August’s mouth pressed against your neck, soft and teasing as he tasted you demanded all of your attention.

“I never fucked an angel before,” he commented and you turned to watch him.

You had never been with a demon either. Or anyone for that matter. Neither had your vessel. They needed to be pure to contain the power of divinity. And soon enough, you wouldn’t be anything, your destiny beyond your sight might as well try it.

Stepping closer to August’s warmth, you let your free hand move over the soft fabric of his shirt, tracing the shapes of his chest as you watched his eyes, letting him know you accepted his offer. As soon as you did, his mouth was over yours in a hard, demanding kiss, his fingers threading through your hair, pulling closer and laying claim to your mouth.

You had never felt something this. Sure you could access the memories of your vessel and she had kissed before, quick little pecks on the lips or slow, timid kisses, but nothing with this searing passion and you could feel a fire starting deep inside you as August devoured your mouth, rough and biting, throwing his glass aside along with yours so he could touch all of you.

With his now free hand, he explored the plains of your lower back, cupping your ass until your pressed flush against him, feeling his hardness against your lower belly as he guided backward to the couch, taking a seat and just looking at you.

“Take those off,” he ordered, looking at you with dark eyes a certain hunger burning deep in them. You obeyed without a word, stripping for him and letting his gaze run over the small frame of your vessel. “So beautiful, birdie.”

You were surprised by the gentleness of his touch as he led you to his lap, making you straddle his thick legs, your center in full view for his pleasure. This time, when he caught you by your hair, he tugged your head back hard and your scalp burned slightly, making you whimper.

Teeth and lips attacked your neck and jaw leaving sharp, stinging bites and suckles that had you wincing and flinching despite the deep need taking hold inside you. How strange were humans? They possessed such soft flesh but enjoyed inflicting and receiving so much pain

His other hand cupped and squeezed your breasts, fingers pinching and pulling your nipples until you were arching and rocking against the bulge in his pants, steady flow of moans and incomprehensible pleas coming from your mouth almost against your will, your center hot, wet and throbbing as if summoning something to complete it.

“Let me see them,” August growled against your neck, his beard scratching your skin, leaving bright red marks to accompany the purple ones that were beginning to form.

You unfolded your wings, spreading them wide and they nearly occupied the entire length of the room. August ran his fingers over the feather covering the strong muscle, descending to the juncture of your back almost in awe.

“You’re going to miss them,” he said, meeting your eyes. “Sometimes, it will feel like they are there again and you can just soar free but when you look back, there’s nothing but burnt stumps.”

You let your hands move down his chest, undoing his buttons and pushing the dark shirt over his shoulders, but when your curious fingers moved down his shoulder blades, August caught your wrists, tightening to the point of pain before bringing them down to his lap and over his hard and pulsing shaft.

“If you want to touch something, touch this.”

You obeyed, rubbing him through his slacks, watching as August leaned his head back, lips drawn into a smug smile. Especially when you moved to your knees between his open legs, undoing his zipper and buttons so you could free his cock.

“Isn’t this a lovely sight?” his voice was laced with amusement as he looked at you. “How many demons have ever brought angels to their knees?”

“Don’t make me regret this,” you warned, hand exploring the thick hardness of his cock, feeling the skin velvety and hot, the veins pulsing as you stroked him.

“A little too late for that, birdie,” August scoffed, grabbing you by the hair and tugging hard enough to bring tears to your eyes as he pushed his length past your lips, making you choke. “You have already sinned, might as well enjoy the ride.”

He used your mouth to his pleasure, shoving his cock down your throat until you were gagging and spluttering, unable to breathe. Strangely enough, his treatment of you seemed to only ignite the burning heat inside you, making you moan and tremble, your arousal running down your thighs as you pressed them together to relieve some of the burning emptiness of your cunt.

This shouldn’t feel this good. It was like every second that passed, August’s touches became scorched in your skin, vibrant and bright, making that exhilarating fire run through your veins, urging your body to welcome his claim, receive his thrusts like they were the bridge to your new paradise. His grunts and growls, your heavenly music.

You nearly cried when he pulled back from your mouth, the only connection between you two became the string of spit and precum clear under the iridescent lights of the room.

“You enjoyed that, birdie?” he asked with a smirk, bending down to kiss you as he brought you back to his lap, his cock hard and twitching against your waiting cunt. “You enjoy how I use you?”

“Yes.” You confessed, sighing as his rough fingertips trailed up your thigh, finding your soaked center to play and explore. “Please, don’t stop.”

“I wasn’t planning to,” August declared pushing two fingers inside you, making you hiss and buck, pleasure like sharp shards cutting you open against your will, revealing that hidden need within. “So fucking tight.”

There was nothing gentle about his touch. It wasn’t about you or your pleasure. That was an unintended consequence that you embraced and succumbed to, rolling your body against the fingers penetrating you, his thumb rubbing and swirling your clit to make you wide and wet enough for him.

As August felt satisfied with his preparation, he pulled his fingers back, making you whimper at the loss but soon enough he was guiding your hips up, lining you with his cock and pushing inside you, making you nearly scream as he invaded you so deeply, not stopping until he was sheathed completely inside you.

“Feels perfect, love,” he grinned, licking the salt of your stray tears from your cheeks before he kissed your eyes and smacked your ass to make you move.

You started slowly, grinding on his lap and sending sparks of pleasure up both of your spines. You could see August’s smile widening at the thrill of your walls hugging and squeezing him as you rolled your hips, dragging out the feel of his thick cock pressing against your walls.

Soon, you picked up your pace, lifting yourself with the help of his hands on your hips and bouncing down on his cock. Never in your existence, you had felt this full and completed. Never you felt your body burn with such bright heat, sweat slicking down your skin as wave after wave of unimaginable bliss surged through you as if you were a little, fragile boat trying to endure a storm that threatened to claim you.

The faster you moved, the faster the feeling grew, and it became almost like a tide once August started meeting your movements, thrusting up every time you bounced down in perfect synchronicity. Before you were ready, you were swallowed by pleasure, the fire inside you erupted and consumed you.

You arched and cried out to the skies, your vision blacking out and the heat spreading. You felt it devouring your wings and the searing pain mingled with your ecstasy, occupying every inch of your conscience.

Through all, August didn’t stop moving, didn’t stop thrusting into you as if his pleasure only increased from your own disgrace and it wasn’t until your wings were completely consumed that he finally stilled beneath you, spilling his seed hot and thick inside you, his groans muffled against the crook of your neck.

“Welcome to the fallen, birdie,” his whispered once he caught his breath, his kisses against you jaw almost caring. “You’re one of us now.”

xxx

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[kae-karo]

"how will you survive" and kaeya!

i am so sorry this prompted SO much angst asdkljsdjklfjkls (send me one of these prompts and a genshin character!)

--

hands of fate - T - 2k

tags: zhongli & kaeya enemies to allies, introspection, mentions of killing but nobody dies, lots of guilt, lil bit of tartali mention

[read on ao3]

--

In all his time on Teyvat since that dark night, Zhongli has not encountered a descendant of Khaenri’ah. Perhaps fate skewed heavily in his favor, or perhaps fate is not so kind a force to give him that reprieve when it intends only to return for him, to bring him to his knees.

He wishes - and perhaps it is a naive, belated thing to wish - that he had ventured a little farther from the borders of Liyue before today. That he had happened upon the famed winery some ten or so years ago, that he’d encountered the child of Khaenri’ah that stands before him now.

That bares his teeth in a smirk that does not feel lighthearted. And could not be, he chides himself - a child of Khaenri’ah, one that grew up in its festering remains, that was taught the truth about the archons. A child steeped in resentment - how could he be anything but burdened?

Zhongli cannot blame him.

“You were there,” he says, too casual. Kaeya, a Khaenri’ahn name. Zhongli dips his head.

“I was.”

“And you did nothing.” Not a question.

“I was bound by my gnosis.” An excuse. Behind his eyes, Khaenri’ah burns, a destruction wrought upon thousands of innocent people for the act of few, and still an act that did not warrant such merciless slaughter. Zhongli does not deserve excuses.

“You chose your path,” Kaeya says, as cool as the ice he’s used to freeze Zhongli here, on his knees. He could break free, of course. Kaeya does not hold the same power that he does - but is it fair of him to deny fate? To deny Kaeya what he so very righteously deserves?

Perhaps his contract was never with the Tsaritsa. Never something so small, so minute in the face of the hands of fate. Perhaps his contract has always been far larger than that, far more sinister. Far more binding than a gnosis, than the promise of the powers of Celestia at his fingertips.

Cool metal tips Zhongli’s chin up, and he lifts his gaze to meet Kaeya’s - one blue eye, one black, entirely corrupted by the Abyss that has long since consumed Khaenri’ah. Would he be anything different, if Zhongli had found him? How many times can he shift the hands of fate to his bidding, to his selfish desires?

Never enough, he knows. They will always find a way back to him.

“I should kill you for what you did.” He sounds bored as he speaks, and Zhongli wants to know, rather suddenly: is his emotionless tone borne from years of coping with that anger, that hatred for the gods who abandoned him? Or is it borne of something deeper, something far more sinister?

Would it matter, in the end? If there was a time that Zhongli might’ve stepped outside Liyue’s borders, that he might’ve happened upon Kaeya living in Mondstadt, could he have changed this outcome?

Would he have? It is not in his nature to involve himself heavily, even in Liyue. To do so in another archon’s territory would have certainly been a breach of well-established boundaries.

“I would not begrudge you that decision,” Zhongli says carefully, and holds Kaeya’s stare. Feels again the press of cool metal under his chin. It’s grown warmer over time, as the ice holding him captive begins to creep under his skin.

Kaeya huffs out a breath, lowers his sword.

“You’re certainly taking all the fun out of this,” he grumbles, more to himself than to Zhongli, and Zhongli tips his head. Thinks of Childe, and lets that spark warm his chest for a moment. Hopes a distant hope that Childe is safe, that he is not in danger at the moment. Or, rather, that he is in a danger he can handle, for Zhongli would never dare to underestimate him.

“I apologize.”

“Why?” A scoff, and Kaeya tips his head in Zhongli’s direction. “It’s far too late for an apology to make much of a difference. Won’t bring anyone back.”

“I am aware.” What he does not say: I watched thousands die at the hands of angry gods. Thousands of your people, and I stood aside and did nothing to stop it. Did not even fight the control that held me still, though it could not force me to partake in the slaughter.

Kaeya huffs out an irritated breath, and Zhongli inhales as much as the rigid ice will allow. He is no stranger to death, though he’s gone quite a while without its presence hovering nearby. And yet, he cannot blame Kaeya for this anger, for this hatred. How to mourn a culture torn from Teyvat before he’d even been born? How to grieve for thousands dead when he had not been there to see their slaughter?

Perhaps it was inevitable, the hands of fate guiding them to this moment. For Zhongli can grieve, can mourn in a way that Kaeya cannot, and Kaeya in a way that Zhongli cannot. Fate that drew them together, so that their sorrow might mean something more.

“I expected an eons-old god to beg for his life,” Kaeya adds aloud, but quieter. Less of this show he’s been putting on, and Zhongli sees the pain beneath the surface - the true pain, the kind of hurt he’s borne through his life, not the distant kind for people he never knew himself.

What a lonely existence, to be the last of one’s kind. To be set so thoroughly apart from all others, what a burden to bear. To find no home, to feel out of place even in the home built for oneself. Zhongli does not want to take away from the right that Kaeya has to experience his pain, but a part of Zhongli’s heart goes out, calls out for him to say that he understands.

That he feels the same, in so very many ways.

“I have lived a very long time, but I do not think the world would stop turning if I no longer walked Teyvat.” He chooses his words carefully, and does not think of broken contracts sworn to those he holds dearest.

I will see you again. A promise to Childe sworn in shared breaths under warm covers.

I will always protect you. Another, to Xiao, dear Xiao, his ever-vigilant yaksha.

It pains Zhongli to think that they might suffer for his absence, that they might grieve. The world may not cease its turning, but the ache in his heart for their sadness…

But they are not alone any longer - Zhongli has watched them find others to depend upon, others to share in their sorrows should something irreversible happen tonight. And he has been afforded an opportunity he might not otherwise see: to give Kaeya some peace, to bring a kind of amends to the very last of Khaenri’ah. It is not the worst way to leave the world behind.

“Well, that dulls the revenge aspect of this quite a bit, doesn’t it,” Kaeya says, quiet and- and rather lackluster, for all his earlier enthusiasm. Pain flickers through his features with each movement, cracks in the glacial ice of his expression, and Zhongli exhales slowly.

“You watched the destruction of an entire civilization,” Kaeya hisses under his breath, low and forceful, and Zhongli dips his head. Wonders at this repetition - is it for Zhongli, now, or for himself? Which of them does he wish to remind of the atrocities that Zhongli was complicit in?

“And there is nothing I will ever be able to do to atone for the pain I enabled.” He lets his eyes drift shut, sees the ruins of Khaenri’ah, hears the screams and wails and feels the tears that’d fallen unbidden from his eyes even as he stood utterly still, even as he did not fight to protect the innocent.

So very long...for so very long, Zhongli fought through the Archon war for a promised peace. Perhaps some might’ve called him soft for how his heart ached in those horrible, horrible hours of Khaenri’ah’s massacre. Perhaps he is not the rigid, unfeeling stone he once was.

His eyes flick open at the clattering of metal on wood, surprised to find Kaeya’s hand limp at his side, his sword at his feet. Surprised more to feel the drip of water against his skin, the gradual loosening of the ice’s hold on his body.

It melts away around him, and the weight of his body returns without the ice supporting it. The weight of his heart drags him further, though, and he slumps, bows over with the ache of it in his chest. His hands press into the wood, unfeeling for the ice that’d encased them. He sees blood that is not there, blood of thousands upon thousands, and does not feel the sick warmth of it.

“You can help.”

Kaeya’s voice is quiet, broken. Zhongli knows without asking what his words truly mean, what he requests of Zhongli.

“I am nothing in the face of Celestia,” he says quickly - not out of fear, but out of warning. He will not be the asset that Kaeya hopes him to be. “But if it will bring you peace-”

“It won’t.” Kaeya’s back remains turned, but his words cut through as sharply as his sword. When he finally faces Zhongli again, a bitter smile touches his lips. “But I have no one else left, and I would rather not die alone.”

Ah, a feeling that Zhongli knows well. And yet, he considers with a strange spark of amusement, he has not yet come face to face with his final end.

Inside his head, Childe grins at him. Demands another fight, for he is ever the insatiable warrior. Xiao dips his head to Zhongli, but never so low as that first time. When he lifts it, a smile touches the corner of his lips. Something like hope glows in Zhongli’s chest - if fate demands his life, he will fight it tooth and nail. Force it to give him one more chance to see those he loves so dearly.

“I owe you and your people far more than my life could repay-” This he knows with grave certainty. “But,” he adds as he stands - on shaking legs, with frozen limbs - “I have made promises I cannot break, and so I will fight with you against Celestia itself.”

Kaeya’s brows furrow minutely.

“You made me no such promise.” His tone speaks of caution, and Zhongli cannot blame him. He wonders, too, if Kaeya wishes to reach for his sword.

But he remains still, and Zhongli’s lip ticks up at the corner as he exhales a short breath - on another day, in another life, it might be amusement that sparks his reaction, but now, it is only a desperate kind of hope.

“No, but I promised others that I would return,” Kaeya’s brows lift, “and return I must, for what is a god of contracts if he cannot keep his word?”

“That’s rather bold, when you couldn’t manage to stand up to Celestia the last time,” Kaeya says with a quirked brow, now, and he crosses his arms over his chest. “What was it you just said? That you’re nothing in the face of Celestia?”

A bitter, stinging sort of dread worms its way through Zhongli’s chest. A fear he hasn’t felt in many years, fear that he might not escape this battle alive. Fear that he will leave Childe and Xiao behind with no warning. That he will break their hearts.

“How will you survive?” Kaeya asks, but his voice is not so harsh this time. His gaze looks distant, too, and Zhongli wonders if he is not as alone as he claims.

“I will do whatever it takes, as I presume you will.” He will rely on every tactic he has left untouched for eons, will fight bitterly and without remorse. Will be selfish for the sake of others - for Kaeya, for Khaenri’ah, and for Childe and Xiao. For his own heart, and for theirs.

Kaeya’s eyes narrow at him, and Zhongli holds his stare.

“Very well, god of contracts.” Kaeya extends a hand, and Zhongli reaches out in turn. Finds Kaeya’s palm warm in spite of the ice that he wields. “I believe we have a deal.”

[bitter-sweet-farmgirl]

Romance in the Snow

Snow falls in Mirkwood for the first time in centuries, and Enyalie takes Thranduil out to go ice-skating, even when he has different plans.

MASTERLIST

OC Used:  Enyalie

Word Count: 1,609

Warning(s):  Insinuations, naughty words and implications.  Vague nudity.

Translation(s): Muin nin:  My dear

Ellon:  Elf man

~~~~

I let out a lazy sigh, pulling the covers tighter around my body as a draft swept over my bare shoulder.  Keeping my eyes closed against the harsh morning light, I nuzzled my face into the crook of my husband's neck, humming softly in contentment.

"Good morning, Muin nin..."  Thranduil's rich, sleepy tones broke the silence as he snaked an arm around my waist to drew me nearer to his firm chest.  

"Morning, Melleth nin."  I groaned, reaching a hand out to tangle my fingers in his silvery locks.  My drowsy words elicited a soft laugh from Thranduil as he shifted positions next to me.  The next thing I knew, his soft, tender lips were pressing gentle kisses to the oh-so-sensitive curve of my shoulder.

"You should open your stunning eyes to see the vision that awaits us this morning..."  Thranduil murmured against my trembling skin; hot breath skimming comfortingly against it as he spoke.

His words awoke an ember of curiosity within me, and I rolled over, opening bleary blue eyes as I raised myself on an elbow to look out through the glass of our balcony doors.  

All I could see was white; glaringly bright white that threatened to burn my tired gaze.  As I blinked in an attempt to see more clearly through my sleep-induced haze, Thranduil rested his chin on my shoulder, a warm hand splayed across my abdomen.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"  He murmured, kissing my cheek as his hand glided upwards; fingers gently tracing the swell of my breasts and sending an involuntary shiver of pleasure to run down my spine.  "It has been many a century since Mirkwood has seen snow."  

I nodded slowly, turning to look over my shoulder into Thranduil's handsome face.  "That is true...  I last remember it snowing on the night of our marriage, but that was thousands of years ago."  I said quietly, making a smile tug at the corner of Thranduil's mouth.

"That was a night to remember, was it not, my love?"  He said softly, and I smiled, remembering the awkward atmosphere that accompanied us that night.

"Quite.  It was strange to share a bed with an ellon I had only met a few weeks earlier.  But that soon passed as we became friends..."  I recalled, and Thranduil nodded, leaning down to press a long kiss to my lips, leaving me breathless at the intensity.

"We should stay in bed a bit longer...  There are no pressing matters requiring my attention today, Enyalie."  He said, cerulean blue eyes sparkling at me.  

Laughing, I drew away from his embrace, getting out of bed and slipping on my velvet robe to cover my barely clothed form.

"Your offer is tempting, Melleth nin, but I have a different idea.  Have you ever been ice-skating?"  I asked with my back towards the bed.

"Never."  Thranduil said, and I turned around to look at him with raised eyebrows.  How could he have never gone ice-skating in his long eons of life?

"How is that possible?!"  I exclaimed in disbelief, "I'm going to have to teach you!  By the Valar, this is a serious matter, Thranduil--don't start laughing at me!"

Thranduil had dissolved into paroxysms of laughter at my shock over his inexperience at ice-skating.  He drew his lanky frame out of bed and walked over to me, snagging his own velvet robe that had hung beside mine.

"I apologize, Melleth Nin."  He said quietly, reaching out to hold me close against his chest.  "I just found your disbelief amusing."  

Laying my cheek on his broad shoulder, I closed my eyes as I breathed in the familiar, comforting smell of the man I loved as much as life itself.  "Get dressed, Thranduil.  We're going to go ice-skating."  I said in a soft voice, drawing away from Thranduil with a smile.  "You have no idea what you've been missing out on."

Raising an eyebrow, he looked at me for a moment before raising his gaze heavenward; turning from me to go dress himself.

Still smiling to myself, I moved towards my own wardrobe.  Today would call for something a bit different than a dress...

~~~

Once we had both dressed ourselves, I grabbed Thranduil's hand and began to lead him out of our chambers and down the halls before he could comment on my change in clothing style.  It wasn't often he saw me in trousers, but from the way his pupils had dilated slightly, I knew he wasn't disgusted by it.

"Why the rush, Enyalie?"  He questioned as I hurried him through the hallways and through the wide double doors that led outside to the palace gardens.  

Not bothering to answer his question, I just tugged harder on his hand, only stopping my rapid pace once we reached the once trickling stream that wound through the gardens.  The cooler temperatures had rapidly iced it over, resulting in the perfect ice-skating rink.

"Follow my lead."  I murmured, letting go of Thranduil's hand and walking towards the ice.  

"Enyalie?  My love?"  Thranduil's worried tones followed me, but I ignored him, stepping out onto the edge of the stream, carefully testing the ice to make sure it was solid.  But before I could walk out farther, Thranduil grabbed my arm and pulled me back.

"What are you doing?"  I asked, annoyed at his over-protective behavior.  "I'm trying to test the ice!"

Thranduil's cerulean blue eyes shone with fear as he looked down at me, gently framing my cheek with a hand.  "Meleth nin, it's too dangerous for you to do so.  You could fall in and be swept away from me."  He murmured worriedly, making me laugh softly.

"Trust me, Thranduil, that won't happen.  Now, come."  

Slipping my hand into Thranduil's, I squeezed it gently as I led him out onto the ice.  It was sturdy and held our weight without any groaning or shifting.

Even though it had been many eons since I had last been able to ice-skate, it still felt as natural as walking.  Just push with your foot and glide.

Thranduil on the other hand, wobbled precariously as he struggled to maintain his balance.  The sight had me smothering a smile behind my hand.  On the battlefield, he looked as though he was engaging in a graceful, deadly dance.  But put him on ice and he looked like a young elfling just learning to walk.

"How are doing this so easily?"  He asked incredulously, watching as I glided swiftly past his struggling form.  

Shrugging my shoulders, I shot him a mischievous smile.  "My natural grace I suppose?"  I teased, making him laugh in disbelief.

"What natural grace, my love?  I always seem to be catching you as you trip over your skirts!"  He exclaimed, and I didn't bother to deny his words; not when they were the truth.

Just then, he stumbled over something, and pitched forward, his hands shooting out to break his fall onto the unforgiving ice.

"Thranduil!"  I cried in concern and quickly skated over to him, kneeling by his side.  "Are you alright?"  

Thranduil groaned, pushing himself upwards into a kneeling position with a grimace on his face.  "I believe so.  But I think my pride has been mortally wounded."  He muttered, opening his eyes to look at me.

I shook my head, unable to help the laughter bubbling up within me at his joking.  "I think I have remedy for that, my love."  I giggled, getting to my feet and reaching out a hand to help him up.  

"And what might that be, oh talented one?"  Thranduil asked with a sly smile, taking my hand and using it to try and hoist himself to his feet.

But his weight was a bit too much for my slim frame and I ended up toppling over; right onto his chest as he fell backwards.

"Oh Eru..."  Thranduil groaned from beneath me.  "I think a bit more than my pride has been injured now."  

"I'm sorry, Meleth nin.  Did I hurt you?"  I asked worriedly; trying to get up off his chest.  But Thranduil reached out an arm to snag my waist, pulling me snug against his torso.

"Nothing that your touch couldn't heal."  He murmured seductively, and I smiled down at him.  "Care to accompany me back to our chambers so you can work your magic?"  He asked, and I just laughed in response.

"Are you really that desperate to get me back in bed with you, my love?  Do you not recall what happened just last night?"  

Thranduil's chest vibrated beneath mine as he chuckled; cerulean blue irises twinkling slyly.  "I remember every detail vividly, which is why I wish to recreate it once more."  He said in a low voice, relaxing his grip around my waist to allow me to shrug out of it and rise to my feet.

"Perhaps..."  I said nonchalantly, shooting a glance at Thranduil as he sat up, "but only if you are able to walk off the ice."  

He nodded to me, "done."

Grinning, I watched as he staggered to his feet, slipping more than once as he followed me off the ice and back onto the snow covered ground.  Quickly catching up to me, he wrapped an arm around my waist, dropping a tender kiss onto my shoulder as he drew me close to his side.

"Have I ever told you how clingy you are?"  I murmured, making him chuckle.

"Many a time, dear one, but you love it anyways."  He said, and I shook my head, tilting my head upwards to elicit another kiss from Thranduil.  He was impossible.

[pigeontheoneandonly]

For your WIP list: Childhood Friends AU and Collateral Damage?

Thank you!!

Childhood Friends AU answered here.

Collateral Damage is a one-shot fic about Nathaly’s first real deployment after training, on a planet called Aonia, which was mutually claimed by both the Alliance and the Hegemony.  Their two colonies were separated by an open battlefield, and locked in a stalemate.  (Laine is her C.O., which is how they got to know each other well, though they met in N1.) 

Shepard, who is still enlisted at this point, but working her way towards being admitted to OCS, eventually comes up with an idea to break the stalemate, based on exploiting a tactic the batarians have used to great effect on other battlefronts.  The Alliance is victorious, and are in the process of mopping up batarians, when the batarians learn who orchestrated their demise-- and that it was a lowly corporal.  Furious, they decide to take revenge.

The story is told after the fact, as Shepard relays it to Anderson.  It came out of a challenge to write a story backwards, and became a key part of her backstory.

(It’s also how Nathaly caused Laine to lose his leg, if you remember that little anecdote from one of the early flashbacks in Labyrinth-- he got hit by a grenade during the action, and he playfully blames her because it was her idea.)

Excerpt:

Shepard plunked the cigarette between her lips.  Her lighter flared against the twilight.  She inhaled, to convince the flame to catch, and blew out smoke.  “Where the hell is Cheng?”

Private Brill scratched under the neck of his hardsuit.  “Only thing less likely than us getting daylight patrols again is Cheng strutting out on schedule.”

The fourth member of their squad, Kozlow, snorted a laugh and stubbed out his own cigarette, grinding it into the Aonian dust.  The trees carpeting the Relagris river valley undulated in the light breeze. The wind was welcome; local high summer at this latitude usually meant steaming flat days that left even the water too hot to offer any relief.  Body armor only made it worse.

Shepard took another drag.  “Last time we had a daylight, three guys got shipped back to Arcturus with missing bits. The colony brass may be thick but they’d never be that stupid.”

“Never say never. You are talking about the guys who backed the L.T.’s crazy-ass plan to get at the batarian base.”  Brill paused.  “I’ll grant you it worked, though I don’t know that Lieutenant Laine’s too happy about sitting tight for a few months growing out the new leg.”

Shepard buried the flinch of guilt, and tapped off the cigarette.  “Cheng had better get her ass in gear.  Bravo Squad left more than ten minutes ago.  If I have to order a hold there’ll be hell to pay.”

Private Cheng emerged breathless from the barracks, slapping together the last pieces of her grenade launcher.  Shepard rolled her eyes.  “If you bothered to oil that thing once in a while, it might not take eons to assemble.”

“Fuck off.”

“I wouldn’t want to encroach on your specialization.”

“At least I’m not some bitch who thinks she’s an officer ‘cause she got some kind of probationary MOS change to N.  They give you little spec ops training wheels with that?”

Shepard regarded her evenly.  “Keep talking, and I’ll show you just how much of an officer I’m not.”

Cheng held her eyes a brief moment, and glanced off.  Shepard drew her rifle.  “This patrol won’t walk itself.  We’re due for rendezvous at Checkpoint Delta by 2100, so let’s move it.”

At approximately 2015, Shepard ordered a halt.  Two months after putting boots on the ground, the navy built a bridge over the river.  Since then, the batarians had blown it up three times.  The bridge was currently in its “intact” phase, and after the beating their main base recently took, Shepard doubted the batarians had the appetite to try again.  But it remained a choke point, albeit one she’d traversed a hundred times, and tonight something about it made her uneasy.

Kozlow’s brow furrowed.  “Shepard, what—”

“Shut up.” She took a few steps forward and raised her gun.  The wrongness was an itch at the back of her neck.  The bridge wasn’t much to look at— a cheap composite span three marines wide, no railing, maybe thirty meters long.  Thick shrubs clustered near the riverbank.  Further back, where they stood, trees rose up, their roots nibbling at the path and the thick march of trunks obscuring line-of-sight.

Cheng hiked her pack up higher on her shoulders and made a sound of exasperation.  “The longer we stand here the more my boots hurt.”

A puddle sat near the edge of the span.  This time of year, the river ran low and sluggish.  She could smell the algae bloom from here.  “Why is the bridge wet?”

Shots exploded out of the bushes on the far bank.  There was a pop as her shields collapsed.  She dove for the trees and plastered her back to a trunk.  A quick scan showed her team likewise positioned, all still standing, returning fire.  Her hand pressed to her ear, activating her comm.  “Alpha squad taking fire by the bridge!  Requesting backup!”

She knew full well this would be over before help arrived.  Shepard snuck a look over her shoulder.  Batarians pounded across the span.  It shook with every step, drumming the water up around their knees.  One slipped.  His comrades leapt over him and kept charging.

She angled her rifle low and let off a stream of shots at knee-height.  There was no aiming, just as many bullets as her weapon could supply, enough to overwhelm their shields and do some damage.  They were outnumbered two-to-one.  “Cheng!”

“Working on it!” The private couldn’t leave cover for even the few seconds it took to set the grenade launcher and light them up.

Another batarian collapsed, a victim of Shepard’s kneecapping.  Her cooling indicator slid towards the red.  She cursed, and switched to targeted shots, quick bursts to avoid overheating and losing the weapon entirely.  A lucky shot to the head took out a third.  Almost at even odds.

Cheng took a breath, swung out of cover, and sunk to one knee to brace herself, bringing the launcher up to her shoulder as she moved.  Even this economy of motion was too slow.  She fell back with a scream, her grenade launching high into the air.

Shepard never saw it explode.  A bag dropped over her head.  She whirled in place, wielding the rifle like a club at anything in range, felt it connect and heard a grunt.  But then other hands had her arms.  Something wet and foul pressed against the bag, over her face.  The fight disappeared, and though she started to fall, she never felt the impact of the ground.

Velvet black. Fuzzy pinpricks of white light. Blink.  Stars.  Sour stench— slime on her face, vomit— and the acrid tang of scorched grass.  Murmuring voices.  Alien. Batarian.  

The urgent realization was a shot of adrenaline.  She blinked again, trying to clear her head, trying to ascertain even a little of what was going on.

She came back to herself flat on her back, in a small clearing she didn’t recognize, with no sense of time at all beyond “later”.  Much later, judging by the darkness.  The bag was gone.  Someone had zip-tied her hands and feet.  Shadows moved in the meager moonlight, none of them paying her any mind at all.  Her translator was useless at these volumes. After eighteen months on this rock, she’d picked up a decent amount Dherak— the Hegemony state language— but not enough to catch much meaning from whispers.  

Somewhere to her left, she heard the low hum of a shuttle.  Her heart’s pounding accelerated.  She wriggled her hands, but found no slack in her bonds.  Shepard could get her feet under her and stand, she was certain of it, but hopping away would never work.  If she could reach her knife…

She rolled onto her side, ignored the nauseous lurch in her stomach, and curled into a ball so her hands could reach her boot.  She could have died of relief when her fingers brushed the haft.  But the position was awkward, trying to grip it with her arms lashed behind her, and she fumbled it into the grass.  Shepard sucked in a breath and wriggled in a circle, searching.

“Stupid bitch,” said a voice from across the clearing, loud enough for her translator to pick up.  Not that she needed it for curses.  Everyone learned those first.

She scrabbled at the ground.  If she could just get her legs free before he reached her—

Her fingers closed around the handle.  She bent backwards, slashing at her bonds, not caring whether she stabbed herself, because that was better than staying here and much better than being packed onto that shuttle.  Footsteps stomping towards her.  The blade stuck in the dirt.  She tried again—

A hand grabbed her wrist, none too gently, and jerked the knife away.  Shepard stared up at him with eyes that could burn holes through steel.  He turned the knife over in his hands.  “Clever. I won’t ask where you hid it.”

She spat at him, but lacked the necessary projection.  It fell on her shoulder.  He chuckled.  “You won’t make a fool of me twice, little girl.  You’ll get what’s coming to you.”

“Moon’s just about set,” said a second batarian.  “We need to move.”

“First things first.”  He shoved her shoulder, hard and without warning, pushing her onto her stomach. Before she could roll any further, his knee crushed into her spine with all his weight behind it.  The air went out of her.  She couldn’t move.

“Fuck you,” she wheezed.

That he ignored. His burly hand gripped the back of her head, holding it still.  “Can’t have your pesky Alliance tracking you.”

She felt cold steel press against her ear and had barely a moment to comprehend what was about to happen before he began to cut.  Her body bucked with all its might, as much a reaction to the searing fire engulfing the right side of her head as a fight for survival.  He grunted his irritation and increased his grip.  “Blame your navy for wiring you with an internal comm.”

Blood spilled down her face, filling her mouth with hot iron.  She made a second, feebler attempt to throw him off.  

This time, he lifted her head by her scalp and slammed it full force into the ground. Her nose splattered.  An odd ringing filled her head, and she found she couldn’t focus her eyes, or string even half a thought together.

“Stop squirming,” he said.

She lay still, too dazed to offer even a curse, as he resumed his work.  At some point she blacked out, and the second time she came around, she was bundled on the floor of the shuttle, staring at batarian legs.

They’d wrapped wire about her, an improvised rope to prevent all but the smallest movements. She took some grudging pride in that. Her ear and nose still hurt terribly, but that had gone on awhile now, and she found she could think past it.  A similar, less urgent pain in her forearm suggested they took her omni-tool as well.  And she was dressed in only her thin undersuit.  Her hardsuit, and its biomonitoring suite that was perhaps her last hope of being quickly located, was nowhere to be seen.

The same batarian spoke a few sentences, to general laughter.  She caught maybe a third of it, her translator gone with the rest— something about a woman, her, and something about not being dead.  

Shepard concentrated on counting her breaths.  Once they got wherever they were going, when they had to move her again, she’d find an opportunity.  She just had to hold together until then.