#it was such a rush. me and the other desperate hungry starving dogs.

[spinecurlingmice]

i love being drowned in ship content so much but nothing ever compares to the fucking High i got when gustholomule would stand next to eachother in an episode

[humanpurposes]

Can I Be Yours? - Nightblooms II

Aemond returns to the pleasure house after the battle of Rook's Rest // Main Masterlist

Aemond x unnamed female character

Warnings: 18+, smut, dub-con, angst, sex work, unresolved childhood trauma, implied underage and non-con (not explicitly depicted), mentions of war, violence and death, ambiguous ending

Words: 3k

Each day she arrives at the market shortly after sunrise. She has the coin to pay for the usual cheap cuts of meat, for fats and vegetables to make into something edible, but there is nothing to buy; most of the vendors have sold the last of their wares. Summer is at an end, there are less crops coming from the Reach and the sea is still cut off with no end in sight to the blockade. 

King’s Landing has never been a place where she feels at ease but as the season shifts and the war goes on, families are starving and people are getting desperate, fighting over what they can get their hands on. They’ve all been reduced to dogs, clawing at each other over scraps while carts of livestock and fresh produce trundle through the streets towards the Red Keep, guarded by men in Hightower green.

She manages to buy some crabs and vegetables she’ll have to cut the mould from. They have a store of grain in the kitchens to make flatbread, though they have to use less and less each day, anticipating when they’ll be able to find more.

She eats less of her share so the younger girls won’t have to go hungry. Besides, she hasn’t had much of an appetite for days.

She had spent hours trying to rinse herself clean of the King and his companions after they’d had their way with her– after Aemond had left her to their mercy. That night she scrubbed at her skin with salt, then a cloth, then a bristled brush. That feeling was still there, like sweat sticking to her skin, like her body was not her own. She heard their voices and their cold laughter with the rush of water past her ears. She scrubbed harder and harder until she tinted the water pink with her blood.

One morning, one of the girls returns to the pleasure house, unsuccessful in finding a cure for her babe’s fever, but startled by something else.

The Hightower army has returned from a battle, dragging the head of a dragon on a cart through the city.

“It’s monstrous,” the girl says, trying to measure the scale of the head with her arms. “It had black blood, and gods, the smell, like charred meat!”

Sylvi hovers over her shoulder. “Slain by your favourite, I wonder?”

Favourite? Clearly she was not so favoured by Prince Aemond.

Men are led by their desires. That’s why, even as the city is starving, they find the money to come here and seek their pleasure. They are fickle, easily satiated and have no loyalties but to themselves, to their own preservation.

Sylvi huffs when she does not react to her teasing. “Seven above, do try to look less miserable, girl.”

She’s been trying for days, but she can’t force a pleasant demeanour when she feels so hollow.

The returning soldiers come to the Street of Silk that night, newly paid and come to bask in their victory. Her gown is a deep shade of blue and Sylvi has given her some of her jewellery, sapphire earrings and a heavy gold necklace that feels like a collar, to cover the bruises on her neck left by the King.

She catches the eye of a soldier in the main chamber. He takes her by the waist and drags her onto his thigh.

He moves clumsily, trying to drag her core against his leg or the bulge in his breeches, she cannot tell and she does not care. 

Look less miserable, it’s only a motion of the body.

Look less miserable, men want a woman who is warm, who smiles.

Look less miserable, but has he noticed her fallen face and the empty look in her eyes? Likely not.

Her body feels numb again.

“Look at me,” the man demands.

She turns her head towards him but her eyes are down, elsewhere completely. She pictures candlelight, a veil around the edges of a bed so the bodies around her are like shadows. She feels a weight on her chest and stomach, limbs intertwined with hers, long, loose hair spilling over her bare skin. A voice is just out of reach.

Look at me, look at me, look at me–

“My Prince!”

Her senses come back to her as quickly as a match takes to flame. Her head darts to where the soldier is looking, to the man standing before them, dark leathers, silver hair, an eyepatch over his face and a sword hanging from his hip.

Aemond tilts his head, his one eye intent on her. 

“Apologies, Prince Regent,” the soldier says, and shoves her off his lap so he can stand.

She stumbles but holds her ground. Her eyes are on the floor but imagining his face frowning in displeasure, the sight of his scar, the lines of his muscles under his skin. She cannot bear to truly look upon him, but he’s watching her.

Why come now? Why her, when she has already proved worthless to him?

“Come,” Aemond says without reaching for her, without waiting for her to match his gaze. She follows, if only to escape the wanton soldier.

Aemond takes her to the same chamber, standing at the foot of the same bed where they used to lay together.

She stands before him with her eyes lowered.

He towers over her and lifts her chin to match his gaze with a gloved hand. The leather against her skin is unnatural, cold, disturbing her very being like ripples through a peaceful surface of water. The sight of him only brings her pain, as does the separation from him. Fear and admiration twist together and writhe in her gut.

He reaches to remove the necklace first, letting it fall to the floor. “An ugly thing,” he mutters, “do not wear this again, I find it distracting.” It bares her bruises. He traces his gloved fingers over the flushes of red and purple in her skin.

Next he undoes her dress, another gown designed to fall away from one clasp. She does not remove the rest to bare herself, so he tugs the gown away himself, pulling her forward by her wrists to make her step away from where it pools on the floor.

Without any further preamble he surges into her, cupping her jaw with his hands and kissing her passionately. He demands reception with his lips, tongue and teeth, but she will not give it to him. She remains as steadfast as she can.

He pauses, kissing her again, then again.

“What’s the matter?” His voice is subtle and as soft as the edge of a knife. Gently, he takes a hold of her neck. It is tender, but not quite a comfort. Her pulse beats furiously against his fingers. “You are angry with me, is that it?”

Has he thought of her these last few days? Does he blame himself for the bruises on her neck? 

She says nothing.

“I’ll not fuck an unwilling whore.”

“No,” it falls from her lips like a breath.

Aemond tuts and tilts his head. “No?”

She parts her lips but she cannot speak.

His one-eyed stare darkens. He will take her silence for defiance, and that is not what he pays for.

If all he seeks is carnal desire she will grant him this. She tears away the layers of him, his gloves, the buckles on his jerkin, her fingers fumbling in her determination.

Aemond grunts as she pushes the sleeves from his shoulders, the leather landing with a heavy thud on the floor. His face is perplexed but he does not resist.

She tugs at the strings of his undershirt and pulls it over his head. When his chest is bare she puts her hands on his shoulders and pulls herself in, crashing her lips into his. Everything becomes a single feeling, a fire in her chest, hurt and rage and— she’s not naive enough to call it love, but it’s an urge that spurns her to be close to him. Their teeth clash. She loses her focus and her lips graze over his cheek. She finds him again, drawing her tongue against his, dragging her teeth over his lip–

“Fuck!” Aemond hisses, snatching himself away from her. He dabs his fingertips to his lip, checking for blood that isn’t there. 

His eye is wide but gleaming, excited at the challenge. 

Her heart leaps when Aemond grasps her jaw. He drags her chin up, fingertips pressing into the bone. “I find your insolence tiresome,” he snarls.

The edge of his nose brushes against hers. She feels his breath, how his chest rises and falls against her body, how his heart beats as frantically as hers.

She shakes her head. “I am yours, my Prince.”

He lays her on the bed, pushing her thighs apart and holding them down as he kneels.

He sighs at the sight of her.

Each drag of his tongue is divine, circling and pressing at the places he has come to know will please her the most. She tries to chase the friction with her hips but he holds her firmly in place.

She reaches for his hair, slipping the eyepatch from his face so she can see all of him. He looks up at her as she does, his lips glistening with her arousal while his sapphire consumes the golden light of the candles. 

Between the movements of his mouth he mutters to himself, words she has heard before but does not know the meaning to. His voice is heavy and breathless and she adores it. 

Her peak comes suddenly, a wave of warmth and weightlessness that lingers after Aemond has drawn his mouth away from her.

He’s just out of her reach, standing over the bed and slowly pulling on the strings of his breeches. 

She brings herself to sit, only to be thrown down again and roughly turned onto her front.

“Aemond?”

His hands pull her up by her hips. His thumb glides in circles over her entrance and she stutters into compliance. There’s a ruffle of fabric before he replaces his digit with the head of his cock. He teases her as he rocks back and forth. The pleasure is sparse, a delicious kind of torture. She grips at the linens and sinks her teeth into her lip.

On one motion of his hips, Aemond slips inside of her. She sighs at the stretch of it. He stills for a moment to let her adjust, pushing himself to the hilt and slowly drawing back. She feels how his fingertips dig into her flesh, marks that will stay for days. She can picture the look in his eye, his resolve melting away.

She props herself up on her hands, turning over her shoulder. He meets her, pressing his nose against her cheek, teasing his lips over her skin.

“Do you still find me insolent?” she whispers.

Aemond hums. 

He draws back, only to snap his hips harshly into her rear. It knocks the breath from her lungs and he holds his arm around her to hold her close to him, his palm pressing into her stomach as he fucks her roughly and without reprieve.

This is the Prince she has only ever seen glimpses of. She’s heard the workings of his mind and his regrets, but she’s never seen him unleash himself, a dragonrider, a warrior, now a demanding lover.

Each kiss of his cock at her sweet spot aches and drives her towards bliss. She grasps at his hand, leaning her head into his. His sweat drips onto her brow. His moans fall upon the shell of her ear.

She feels another peak edging closer when Aemond pushes her torso down against the bed. He keeps his hands on her shoulders. Her own moans are muffled against the mattress and she cannot move. She can only take what she is given, fast fucking and brutal precision. 

He comes with a unrestrained groan, spilling himself deep within her cunt. His weight falls against her back and he nestles his face into her neck, whispering some appraisal in an ancient language, gently fucking his seed deeper.

She whines as she catches her breath, letting herself settle with him on top of her. They stay like this for a time. Before he finally moves, Aemond presses a delicate kiss to her brow.

They lay amongst linen and silk, his head on her chest, his arms wrapped around her ribs, moving with her as she breathes. 

He tells her of Rook’s Rest, of his plan to attack during the daylight and bait their enemy into sending a dragon, then he would lead Vhagar into an ambush. He had not expected Aegon to join the battle, and when the smoke cleared, only Aemond and Vhagar remained unscathed.

“Perhaps I should have been more forgiving, but he got in my way.”

What did you do? She wonders, but cannot bring herself to give a voice to her question. 

That soldier had named Aemond as Regent. Not the title he wants, but it is a brutal reminder that only one life stands between him and the throne he pursues. 

“And even when he is… incapacitated, my victory is named as his. It was meant to be mine.”

The dragon head was his doing after all. 

Tears run freely down her cheeks, not that he will see.

He takes a breath and waits. She’s done this enough times by now to know he’s waiting for her to say something. He needs her to say something.

What loyalty has your brother ever shown you? He knows you were better suited to war, at least now he will not overestimate himself.

She does not wish to think of Aegon. 

“You left me,” she utters.

Aemond tilts his head towards her. She meets his eye. When he sees the tears on her face his own expression softens.

“You left me to entertain those men. You didn’t even look back.”

Aemond swallows thickly, making a soft clicking sound with his tongue. “I had to.”

“Had to?”

“You would not understand.”

“I understand perfectly. You are a Prince. To you, I am nothing but a body to be used.”

“I’ve never said that.”

“You do not need to say it. It is the nature of the world we live in.” 

He shifts himself to lay beside her, face-to-face. His thumb strokes over her cheek and at the corner of her mouth. “I’ve only ever admired you,” he says. “You came to me when I felt alone.”

Back when they were children, when she was innocent enough to think the gods favoured those who were kind, merciful, good. 

“You looked lost. I was the same the first time…” the first time Sylvi brought her into a room with a strange man. When she sees girls of the same age, she wants to take them into her arms and shield them from strangers, from the people who promise to care for them and do not. “I knew how it felt to be used and then discarded, like none of it mattered. But it did. It mattered to me.” 

Aemond’s eye shimmers like glass.

“I needed you, do you understand that? I needed your protection,” she says.

He blinks and a tear falls from his eye. 

“You taunt me with this,” she says, wiping it away with her thumb.

He holds her hand against his jaw. “I’m not trying to taunt you,” he pleads. “You are the only one, the only one I can speak my mind to.”

She has seen his pride, his remorse, his shame, but she has never seen fear in Aemond. She does now. He clasps onto her hand like she’ll fade away.

“I try. I know my place in my family. I know what they need of me. I try, but I am not always strong enough.”

Jaehaerys, the little Prince who lost his head. He has a sister and a mother grieving his loss, what of them?

What of Aegon?

“I’ll protect you,” he says, kissing the heel of her palm, the inside of her wrist.

How will he do that? Before morning he will leave a purse of gold in her hand and return to his Keep. While he plots his war and demands taxes and tithes from the people of the Crownlands, she will endure in a city that is slowly starving to death.

And when the war of dragons comes to the skies over King’s Landing? Will he pick her out from the masses atop Vhagar? Will he find a way to spare her from the fire and the bloodshed?

It does not bear thinking about. She holds him and tries to forget anything other than this feeling, his weight and warmth, his hair between her fingertips, the points in his bones, his legs intertwined with hers. Everything about him that is cold and cruel. Everything about him that is quietly beautiful.

I've kinda given up on taglists <3

[unfortunately-obsessed]

What Is Wrong With Us (3/3)

( Previous )

Pairing: Batman x Reader

Word count: +7.7K | AO3 Link

It takes a while to see Batman again.

You didn't expect to see him again.

But the Narrow's are hungry.

Hungry dog, is what this is. It's angry because its starving.

Coming back home after a 24-hour shift, which had been mind-numbing boredom for the first half and absolute hell for the last, you're exhausted.

Your shift felt longer than two days, you're just imagining yourself getting home and hitting the showers, eating your bodyweight of food and sleeping winter away.

The place hadn't done you wrong, not worse than Gotham would to one of its own.

Four in the morning reads on your wristwatch. A chilly breeze against you, after a flight of stairs, you find your keys fast.

The apartment is dark. Other buildings and clouds didn't let any moonlight pass through.

It's a habit, simple routine. Closing the door behind you and fumbling in the dark a little, holding the keys in your finger, trying to find the lightswitch.

Your mind is clouded with exhaustion.

It's slow, sinking, like most of your days.

It isn't a choice you consciously make.

The same way the sun descends. It wasn't an option, a decision.

You take off your coat. You take a step forward and–

Outlined by an orange streetlight, light barely illuminates the living room.

A dark, towering figure stands mere feet from you.

In silence, only the silhouette highlighted and–

Your first bet is to scream.

Fast, there's leathery grip placed firmly against your mouth. You don't get a chance to weep, colliding against the very door you just closed.

The impact makes your wound hurt. You hunch against the intruder, groaning in furious pain.

Your keys fall to the ground.

In a fear-ridden mind, you try to fight against it.

Trying to find something to push, you recognize the cold metal you're fighting and– the grip is not iron-strong.

As you start to catch your breath, realizing he's not doing anything besides pressing you against the door, trying to focus and identify what is pressing you into the door, you hear a frustrated groan from the intruder.

It's easy to let go, too.

His hand is still on your mouth, terrified of you screaming so loud it awakes the whole building but– but you're eye-level with the symbol, a bat, his chest plate.

He's pressing you against the door, not to intimidate you. He's actually leaning his bodyweight into the door because he can't keep himself up.

Between your lashes, you find piercing anesthetized eyes staring you back.

Anesthetized?

Batman is towering over you awkwardly.

Your hands, hungry and desperate, do search for something. On his whole torso, searching in the armor. You can hear his breathing, shaky and shallow.

Cold panic instill over you when your hands, starving, come back wet with red.

"You're injuried," you say, like this is your turn of playing the game. But your tone is not proud, fair from it, you're terrified Batman is going to die on your living room.

He grunts. An absurdly frustrated confirmation.

"Okay," you say, more to yourself than to him. Your mind rushes with things to do. "Okay."

No way you can manhandle this mountain of a man anywhere.

You hold his elbow, no time to be tender as you shoulder his weight.

He almost pancakes you into the floor while at it. Your hand finds the edge of a wall to support you two, and you feel your thumb almost cracking up with the impact.

"Hey," you agonize flatly, lungs burning with fury, "don't do that again."

Air hisses through your teeth as you carry him to the couch, you two limping on a stiff walk.

Batman doesn't react. He falls to your couch and, this cheap furniture you decided to buy, makes a creaking sound. You normally would laugh.

His eyes are shut, he is making a face. You search for where you previously found a wound.

The fact he is not fighting you says enough of a consent.

Material shattered, below his ribcage. The armor wrecked open due impact.

"Didn't know you liked me," you joke mindlessly, humor quickly overpowered by the sight of blood.

He grunts again. You snarled too, leaning closer to look at the injury. A gunshot wound that already started to heal, a week-or-so-old. Stitches busted open by a contusion.

It's nasty.

"I was trying to hide," he says.

"Oh." You notice you're not using gloves. "Didn't know it was my house then?"

He grunts. A yes.

You almost smile at his discontent – it's funny seeing this pile of Kevlar so frustrated – but the heartstrings tugging on your ribcage won't let you.

Realizing you don't fear him is scariest than finding him in your house. This man is officially the GCPD most wanted.

(You and Gordon didn't talk about Batman, that day on the hospital. There's some things that go unsaid.)

"Don't make me feel forgettable," you smile at him, letting his half-closed eyes see your hands, "it's gonna make me sad."

This is the devastating truth. You make it sound like a lighthearted joke as your voice doesn't wave, but it's true.

He's staining all your couch. It's going to be a pain to clean his blood off.

"I don't know if you're very lucky or..." and the words die on your throat. The wound is bad. You want a whole ambulance, a well stocked one, so you can treat him.

Or a hospital. Too bad he wouldn't willing set a foot in one.

The blood is free-flowing from him, hot. The nearest cloth, your scarf, is pressed at it by your hands. You take his hand, too, and make him hold it. He knows what to do without you saying it.

"I'm going to get some things to help you out," you say, straighten up, forming a plan.

There's a emergency kit on your bedroom, below the bed. Not nearly stocked like it should but. This is Gotham, you need one. Anything is good enough.

A black stain is sitting on your couch, bleeding all over the cheap fabric. He's watching you like a hawk. Over your shoulder, you look back at him too.

You were mid-step when you remembered what is Batman so famous for.

And your hands are hungry. It's so simple because even him, of all people, gets to look vulnerable bleeding like this.

His cowl. You wonder what his face look like.

But not even your hands are this hungry.

You feel like scolding him for being reckless. "Don't disappear," you say instead.

You are quick to do so, going straight to your bedroom.

It's a mess, clothes everywhere. Fortunately you don't have the time to care about it. You throw yourself to the end of the bed, reaching fast for the bag.

Needles, threads, iron supplements. "Any allergies to opioids?" you question, marching to the kitchen while holding blue latex gloves.

He's still there, you can see as your kitchen is open.

Batman grunts. The only language he speaks. You wonder, very briefly and unprofessionally, where his mind is going.

You elected to bring the whole kit with you. Placing it in the balcony, you open the fridge. One bottle of mineral water and three beers. Nice.

What were you planning to do when you got home? That timeline suddenly feels distant.

Getting the bottle of water, tying your hair, washing your hands meticulously. When you return, he is exactly how you left him.

You allow yourself a second; his eyes are closed. Hands hungry when you put on gloves, burning this view into your memory, cracking your ribcage open and your heart–

"I'm going to remove those stitches," you start to search for the things you need on the bag. A suture kit you borrowed from the ER. "No painkiller for you?"

He open his eyes. Everytime he does you see a different color, now a pain exploding inside him while he keeps himself collected and numb.

You scan him, head to toes, noticing how there's no place where you could possibly stick an IV, all his arms and neck covered by armor.

His face doesn't have no laceration or bruise, and you can't find any other dent in his armor. Which is good.

"Just stop the bleeding," he groans.

This man could open your ribcage and take your heart raw, but he just wants you to stop the bleeding.

"I though so," you whisper, kneeling by him, holding a medical penlight. "My working space here is too little, y'know?"

He watches you between eyelashes, almost closing it. You force your left hand on his chest plate, making him lean back more.

His armor is grazed, a vicious red soaked your scarf, which is now heavy. The influx of blood decreased.

Batman barely left out any sound when you tried to take a better look by touching, examining if there's any debris. The stitches are holding together the better it could.

You know he felt pain. He's feeling it now.

You don't want him to.

"Will you have a stroke if I ask to you lay down?" His jaw clenches. "At least take off this part of the armor," you say as if it's better, gently knocking his chest plate with thump thump.

An impact this strong, able to crack his armor, definitely can break ribs. This time, you will show him how appropriately take care of broken ribs–

He blinks heavy at you. Haunting eyes.

You look at him, examining a way to undress him. (Another very strange statement.)

His hand is slow, moving up. You wonder what he's planning to do, getting increasingly exasperated as it starts to move on your direction, and– to the side, he unfasten something.

It's a like a military vest, you realize. You know how those work, and you're fast to help him on this crusade before he–

"Don't exhaust yourself," you order him, independently of what he represents, stopping him to get the whole four pounds of armor off the way and tossing it to the couch.

You wonder desperately how many layers he has on when you are caught with another fabric under his suit. You don't wait for consent, cutting it with shears.

Batman stares at you and you're back at school, the same pressure a instructor on your shoulder has as you practice stitches.

This time your hands don't wave, you know exactly what to do. Wiping around with a alcohol wipe, using tweezers to get the busted stitches out, a little blood still oozing.

The pain shouldn't be extreme at this step. It should be tolerable. He isn't flinching so you take it as something good.

But his eyes, always his eyes. You don't want him to feel pain. "You can look away, I'm not going to hurt you."

You're already hurting him.

His jaw clenched, you fear he's going to break a teeth or two with the pressure he's putting there.

You force yourself back to work, even under his scrutinity.

"I'm going to irrigate the wound now," you explain, cracking open the bottle of mineral water. "I don't have any saline solution so I'll use this."

His eyes flicker. "You have opioids but you don't have–"

Your chuckle cuts him. Yeah, it does sound funny. You would actually give him some of your pain meds for the cracked ribs, your cracked ribs, but– you start to irrigate the wound. Some things go unsaid.

He almost flinches at the cold water. Almost. You just want to help.

Your couch goes to the point beyond salvation.

"Y'know, I thought you were more bulletproof." You put the bottle by your side, tapping him dry with a gauze.

His shoulders don't relax at your attempts of lighten the situation. Needle holder, forceps, the needle and the thread. It's going to hurt and burn without anesthesia.

In fact, he doesn't look away. As you touch him, getting a better view of the wound, making sure there's nothing in there, he stiffens. You expect him to pry your touch away, say he's going to toughen this one up back home.

He doesn't. Eyes stained with black paint. It makes you curious when he stares you in a way it burns you. Bottomless. His eyes, like the blue goes on forever, that isn't nothing like cold impartiality.

He remains static and steady as stone. "I normally am."

You snort, steading your hand. "Gosh, Batman has sense of humor."

And you even see a tiny, tiny smirk on his face.

Humans are like sponges. Social creatures, always mimicking those around them. You have to keep your breathing steady, just in case he mimicks you.

But it's hard. "I'm going to make an interrupted suture. About six stitches."

You look back to him, for any sign you should leave him alone. He doesn't say no. You start before he might do.

Batman gives up a pained breath. Makes you chew your bottom lip, mumbling, attempting in a distraction, "Are you up to date with your tetanus vaccines?"

One stitch is finished. He grunts. You're not sure if it's a confirmation or not.

You proceed. Second stitch, flicking your pulse to do it right. You need to do it right.

He claws your scarf by his side, hardly letting out any sound. Clenched teeth, holding out a scream. Batman can't brute-force this one out, neither.

His skin in a fury of fire and the needle diving through. Head tilts back with blood-loss and pain-related fuzziness.

You're trying to make it fast, to end it quickly. All his color gone away. Your knees hurt in a position like this.

"I'm almost finishing," you promise with gritted teeth. A tremble goes through you, but not your hands, you can't afford to tremble them.

You can't kill hope. Of all things, there's something bigger than you two on your hands.

The cowl might be boiling hot on his head. He's sweating.

The Narrows are hungry. Like a starving dog, it bites and hurts those around, because it doesn't understand the concept of help, or the concept of trying to help.

Batman is a surprisingly easy patient. "You're doing so well," you say from the heart. Your finger brush around the wound as you cut the excess thread.

Hungry, your hands. Too much. He falls a little more easy on the breathing.

His skin is so hot. You're hoping he isn't feverish. Faintly, lazily, he looks back at you.

Last stitch. The Narrows are hungry and you grew up on its stomach. Your wristwatch read dangerously close to 5 AM.

Batman's eyes could freeze you dead. It's almost doing so.

You're holding your breath.

Last knot. It wasn't so bad, right?

You don't have enough strength to joke.

"I finished."

He exhales, slowly, and so do you.

You reach for the bag, a little pile of things blemished with his blood, gauze and your scarf, by it. "I'm going to put some antiseptic on, and then cover it with a sterile adhesive to prevent further contamination."

He grunts, wanting to get up and leave. "It seems excessive."

"I don't want you to die."

Neither of you say something about what just came out of your mouth. You play it as something you would say to any other patient.

One antiseptic and adhesive after, you're standing up over him. Observing. Again, burning him into your vision.

"Can I see if you have a broken rib?"

"I don't have–"

Before he gets to finish, you were already touching the ribcage side, the same side of his wound, examining quickly so he doesn't get upset at you.

Clicking your tongue in sympathy, you're actually very content there's no other damage your eyes, or hands, can catch on. But, your heart hurts, seeing some white strips across his skin, old and new scars, along one more injury to the list.

Your eyes goes back to his. "About the tetanic shot–"

He grunts, cutting you off. He doesn't shrug, you couldn't even imagine Batman shrugging.

Your heart beats so strong when he starts to push himself up that it might as well get off your chest.

"Where are you headin'?" you question, feeling your throat hurt with only the thought of him getting anywhere where you can't see, scrambling to hold his shoulder.

He stops, barely resisting, looking up to you with stubbornness. "I'm not staying."

The way he says it, so casually and almost angered, makes you both livid and anxious. "Humour me. Did you think I was doing this for nothing?"

Your heart keeps missing beats, you keep being unable to keep your hands to yourself.

You can't see if one of his eyebrows rose, certainly though, he isn't content with your adamant and as strong stubbornness.

Undecided, he stays in the same place for a second longer, trying to catch any hesitancy on your face. You're still learning how to deal with him.

"I'll shoot you myself if you open those stitches again tonight," you reprimanded, collecting your hand back to yourself before he can comment on it.

You toss the gloves somewhere, hoping he catches on your playful tone.

Your house is a mess anyway.

Batman frowns at you when you throw yourself by his side. You make sure to keep a respectable distance between you two.

"What you're doing?" There's this strange edge on his voice.

You're not surprised, not at this point, how his voice still so thunder-strong and low. Briefly, your mind wanders to the reality he has gone through worse.

"I'm getting delivery." You get your phone out your pocket, scrolling fast. "What do you want?"

His jaw taunts slightly. No answer.

"You'll heal faster if you eat," you explain. "If you don't say anything I'll get you the most cheap thing and–"

"You shouldn't do that."

"What?"

"Help me out."

Too late–

You frown. "Why?"

Even him struggles to give a good reasoning. He's a good person, believing it or not.

His one-second-long hesitancy gets you smug. Everything hurts, a indigo-soft sunlight starts to come off through your window.

And it's strange, seeing Vengeance given meaning and purpose, sitting by your side. Completely seeing him. Even more strange than the artificial light it's seeing him at the start of the day.

It had been easy to let it happen.

You wouldn't, normally. You're doing a lot a things you wouldn't. Getting delivery is not on your scope of things to do. Normally you would starve until the grocery store is open.

"Do you want me to leave you alone?" you lamented, unable to control your tone, hoping the answer is a clear, direct no.

You won't explain it to him. He must know he needs at least two hours, stay in observation. No fever, no symptoms or–

Or what? What would you even do? You can't get him on an ambulance, much less a hospital.

He does all that for a reason.

And if it makes him more comfortable being left alone–

The Narrows are a hungry dog. Batman keeps getting bitten trying to help it out. You don't want to lose hope, either.

But if he wants to leave, you would be helpless against him.

Batman is furious. Not now, but normally.

Now, he's lost and in pain.

The sensation of being near him, casually so, makes something twitch on your stomach. Like a knife breaking inside you.

He's a chance to Gotham. He's change. Endless being of utter hope and fury. You want him to live.

You almost cry for him to stay.

You don't realize you don't need to.

His shoulder loosen, holding your gaze, steadily. "No."

The smile on your face, against your will, is almost childish.

-------

Next time you see him, neither of you planned.

Which, fairly enough, summarizes pretty much all the times you saw him.

A bomb goes a long way to chaos. A bomb exploding on the Main Street–

You were send as a portion of the transport team, a lot of ambulances and sirens and chaos, stabilizing people to go. Gotham University Hospital was coordinating with General, Firefighters and Search and Rescue teams.

And Batman.

Days turned into weeks, and you were worried.

Both covered in soot, debris and ashes.

You see him far away, talking to Gordon, trying to make order of this situation.

Triage. Walking around and deciding who has the highest priority while directing some other EMS. This one's going to die. This one might survive. This one is already dead.

Most of the corpses are lying around uncovered. You don't have time to spend in unsalvageable cases, but you don't leave anyone that can be helped behind.

You both were busy.

So when you send the patient en-route, an woman who suffered from evisceration after blunt trauma, deciding to stay until some doctor shows up to coordinate the EMS, your heart–

–Always your heart, so weak and dumb.

Your heart have suffered heavier things.

You make your way to him nevertheless.

When no one's looking, no one needs either of you.

Patiently, at the right time. Your hand touches his ribs, where he was shot some weeks ago.

Through the armor, he shouldn't even be able to feel you by how light was your fingers.

Following him to rubble, seeing clear destruction. But he stops, looking at you back.

"You're okay?"

As in, is it hurting still? Do you need me?

He doesn't look surprised, looking at you like this. It didn't break you, but almost– "Yes."

"Okay." The silence crosses your mouth as mercy. You smile, playfully then, gently knocking his chestplate in a soft clack. "Don't die tonight."

His eyes bore into you, lips twitching like he's trying not to smile.

Batman watches you go back to work for a little longer than he needed.

-------

Weeks turn into almost a month.

You suppose you have no right to be sad about it. Gotham is already bitter enough for you.

Cold, in vain, terribly alone. The only thing the warm your hands is the tea. You were always like this, always in this situation, why does it feel different now?

For the last years of your career, there was too little things you could keep as habit. But the door of the rooftop opens the same way it did since you moved here.

Gotham, the Narrows, are pretty. Especially at night. There is beautifulness even in the ugly part of the city, of people, of rubble.

Your apartment building is not very high, but it still gives you a pretty view of it all. Close to the ledge, falling from there is no less terrifying. But, by now, you're used to the chilling shivers.

You take the time before your shift, to drink your tea and appreciate it. Gotham is not so bad, you need to remember yourself of this.

A thermal bottle on your hands. The wristwatch reads 2 AM on it, you have a little more than 20 minutes to get on the train. It's undoubtedly cold, as Gotham is, you're packed on coats.

Steam gets out of your mouth. Your heart pounding, a longing you had no way of fighting against.

"What are you doing in here?"

If the voice was from anyone you didn't recognize, you would jump, scared of not being alone.

But you do recognize this voice. A growling bass. Right behind your back, materializing out of thin air as he do.

Turning to his direction, you find a shadow standing by the other edge, hard to make out of his silhouette for how dark Gotham's night is.

Still, you can't help but smile.

The same way your face is burned by the cold, Batman, the Boogeyman itself, has pinky cheeks.

"Can't I?"

Batman grunts. You determine, now masterfully, he isn't truly discontent with your presence. As is the same for you.

He holds your gaze for a few minutes, not saying anything. Hunger strikes, on your teeth and hands, disaster that propels your nowhere but his eyes.

You see him analyzing you, too close for you not to see, too far away to understand what he's thinking.

His eyes fall into your tea.

"Do you want some?" You offer him the cap you've been using as cup, half-filled. "It's a herbal mix, good for immunity."

Batman steps closer, lighted by the moon. Made of hard edges, where you can easily cut yourself.

Life goes on without him. The moon, burning for the sun; the sun, burning for the moon. You're burning too, but you refuse to say for what.

Batman gets closer. You see his jaw, a little bruised, remember rather clinically how he operates from the 9 PM to 4 AM. So he's in the middle of his night when you're just starting it.

"I'm not trying to roofie you," you chuckle, watching how suspiciously he stares at the cap. You take a sip, to demonstrate. "See?"

He hums, contented.

You didn't think he would actually accept it. He does, surprising you forever.

"Are you busy?" he asks.

You raised a brow, letting some vapor out your mouth. "I'm not on duty."

It's as simple as you say; you're off duty, you're not busy, while on duty equals being busy. Is it the same for him?

Seeing him, tangible and touchable, feeling everything that hurts cold into your bones.

Batman is unreadable, but only a little less than before. You don't know why he decided to stay, this time, as he doesn't need to. He's not stuck with you but he's drinking your tea.

A expectancy builds on your chest, as if your world is going to fall to crumbles if he's doesn't like it. "Good?"

He answer by taking another sip, nodding slowly.

And your smile slips a little bigger. "Just don't burn your tongue."

He asses you for longer than he needs to, reading your smile.

Why would anyone be worried about clocking in time if Batman is studying one like this?

You would pour more tea to him, if he lets you. "Are you healing okay?"

He looks to you, destroying your ribcage bone by bone. "It's better."

You don't want to laugh, you don't find it funny. Even then, you smirk. "You are ninety percent painkillers."

(You don't want him to feel pain. This desire will be your death.)

He drinks a little more, retrieving you an empty cup. And longing – attachment or fondness – is a highway with no way out.

"You know I trust you," he says, regarding the tea, and the fact he knows you wouldn't drug him for the sake of causing harm.

But the fact he says it, Batman of all people, makes your throat so full of surprise any other word hardly gets out. You don't even try.

You meant to bury your fingers there, in every wound, to stain your finger with his soaking blood. Everytime you smile, your teeth and tongue reveal more than you need.

Nothing is more frightening, to you, than looking and wanting what you see. It's awfully true, without thought or regard.

You may have to break some ribs, restart your own heart. This is worth it.

Gravity is worth the fall.

"I do know," you answer, getting some tea for you too.

Today you starve for tomorrow.

---------

Dispatch hurried you so much you the place your driver almost crashed on the way.

By the address you knew two things: the person that called was unreasonably rich, and you were never so glad about working where the administration can't hunt you.

You didn't care about the fact half of Gotham's police was on the apartment. You cared about the fact they were on the way.

The penthouse was very much colder than outside was, makes you wonder what happened to the heating. The news were talking about it, reporters and policeman crowding.

You make sure your badge is visible and walk around purposefully, fast, trying to understand why were the EMS called so desperately.

Double height ceilings, ornate and impressive.

The chaos is so much no one seem to notice the EMS, you and your partner, arrived.

You do see some familiar faces, Gordon and Mayor Reál, for instance. Doesn't make you stop to hear their conversation. It only makes you more exasperated when you discern the Mayor's tone as despair.

An police officer, Martinez you read on the nametag, guides you, finally.

By the end of a hall, some seconds navigating into the luxurious penthouse. A bathroom, bigger than your whole apartment altogether.

"He was dead when we arrived," another officer reports.

You look at him. A child, a boy tied down to the bathroom filled with ice and water. Not older than eleven. He's purple, submerged. A victim of a failed hostage situation.

Why didn't they call EMS before?

Corruption in Gotham goes as far as–

A kid. Dead.

A message.

The golden lighting and crystal don't make the scene lighter. "For how long?"

The officer, you look at him better, gripping your kit with your partner right beside you. He's the same officer of the police car when you were arrested, middle-aged ginger. "What?"

You hate when people hesitate on duty, like they're not making life or death decisions.

"For how long him has been there?" you bark.

"About 10 minutes," Martinez answer, chiming in.

Okay.

Your legs move, feeling cold into your bones, which hurts, soaks, when you step into the bathtub, cutting the boy free with a handy pocketknife.

No one dies tonight.

"What are you doing?" The older officer practically screeches like you were refusing to save a life, a vein popping on his forehead.

You don't give him the privilege of an answer. Your partner don't question you either, a break on protocol but you're this stubborn.

"I want epinephrine and body warmers," you grunt, striving in not falling from the bathtub and getting the boy out at the same time. "What's his name?"

"Alex," Martinez has his eyes wide. "He is the Mayor's nephew."

You carry the boy to the ground, barely humming to acknowledge Martinez. The world turn muffled around you, your partner making a dozen of protocol questions in the background, nothing else matters but the kid.

You had seen worse. You had seem worse.

Worse than the corpse of a child–

And you knew what the human body could go through. You check his airways, scan him for any bleeding and–

Your partner place the body warmers, hook he up on the monitor, getting the soaked clothes off Alex while you draw 1 cc into the syringe, flicking the needle once.

A crowd around you, that you aren't even aware off. Murmuring. But it doesn't matter.

You watch the boy's face carefully, injecting the dose into his tight and beginning chest compressions.

Is actually incredible what the human body is able to do.

You grunt, eager for it, to be right. You've seen worse but it is not a guarantee everything is going to go smoothly this time.

What could this kid possibly have done that he deserves to die? You don't want him to die.

His ribs break under your hands, will make you lose sleep.

The blue tinge on the boy's cheeks leaves you uneasy, desperate.

It burns, as always, on your shoulder, on your back. Now, because your most recent injury, you feel like breathing in fire too.

But you don't stop. You want Alex to live.

You never felt more happy for someone throwing up on your clothes, letting he expel all the water in his lungs on you.

He starts to breath 10 minutes into chest compression.

Alex cries in pain.

You shush him, rubbing circles on his back as the crowd grows more noisy. Alex reaches out to you, gripping you strong as he screams.

"It's going to be okay," you say, soothingly. "The worst part is over."

Bella Reál barges in as pale as the boy previously was. You let her hug him, briefly instructing to not hug too tight, but your voice probably go unheard.

Now you're soaked.

When you get out of the bathroom, back to the hallway, you walk unnoticed.

"Say the hospital the boy needs a MRI, a CT and ECG upon arrival," you say to a EMT that arrived after your unit. "He came back after 20 minutes of not breathing."

You watch as other two EMS rush with the boy on a stretcher, a maks of oxygen on him and some morphine, Bella Reál following close behind. It's strange how what kills you might as well save you; the boy is only alive because of the cold.

Will probably not have any permanent damage, either. Crying is a good sign in situations like these.

Your lungs burn, trying to regulate your breathing, drenched in so much; body fluids, water, your own sweat.

The EMS go. You were about to follow them when a dark figure gets your attention, standing by the corner.

The smile is inevitable, a tension on your shoulder alleviating. You look around, briefly, when no one's is paying attention to either of you.

"He's going to be fine," you explain unrequitedly, knowing he wants to know.

He scrunches his eyebrows, his best answer.

"You'll take care of this?" you gesticulate to everything around.

Batman nods.

You sigh, looking at your wristwatch. "Shame," you dramatically leans back. "I'm basically off duty now."

A fury, vengeance on his eyes, burning strong. You smile, and you know what he needs to do. It's easy to feel safe when he is so determined.

You softly knocks into his chestplate, in the symbol. "Don't die tonight."

Because nothing makes me sadder than imagining myself not seeing you again.

Because this is the best I can do, instead of saying goodbye.

He looks at you. Really, really looks at you, unmaking you into pieces. There was something terrible on him that he's been putting to good use.

It still remains untamed, unnamed; the need to touch and be close.

----------

"Why did you choose this?"

Batman asks you.

He has been opening up little by little. Letting you stitch another gunshot wound.

This, you think, is being a paramedic.

A job where you are paid less than a pre-school teacher, where the line-of-duty death rate is the same as firefighters, where the suicide and substance abuse is far too high comparing with the general population.

You pass the thread through his skin, he grunts at the newest assault against his person.

"For the same reason you do all this."

To save lives?

No. You don't save as many lives you want to.

You do it because there's something wrong with you.

Fundamentally wrong.

Because you need something to fill the gap on your chest, to ease the hunger.

He stays silent.

----------

Batman keeps coming back to your house, injuried.

You don't know why.

"You don't need to do this," he urges, sitting on your couch where he can see the windows and doors, very careful about vantage points.

He, again, stained all your couch with his blood.

"Do what?" You absently scrolls through the several options of food.

It's almost morning, most places are not open yet. The space between you two is named madness, few inches now, humming in the early rays of light.

Then it clicks into your mind.

"What? You don't want me to spend money on you?"

He doesn't say anything, looking away. Is kind of a sweet how he is human enough to stumble.

"Then spend your money on me." You smile when he stares back to you scandalously, sharp shimmering blue eyes, like he could make a hole through your head. "What, aren't you a rich boy?"

You knocks lightly his chest, pointing at all his undoubtedly expensive gadgets.

(How can he scare anyone with those shining eyes?)

Didn't expect him to smile, soft blue light painting the still air. "Inviting me?"

Even him, of all those people, adrenaline junkie like you, doesn't risk finishing the phrase.

You play it cool, heart drumming and singing on your chest. "Inviting myself," you correct. "And i want a vanilla milkshake."

He isn't pretending nothing. You don't think you're pretending something, either.

But neither mention this again.

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

"This isn't fair."

Your voice cuts the air to him. Gotham is getting warmer.

From his tea, he looks up to you, a silent what? Ready to break bones of what is making you discontent.

You sigh, early in the midnight. It should be disturbing, especially to you, especially to him, to be so known.

The rooftop and the tea. He keeps coming back even not bleeding, and it starts to feel like routine.

But nothing else in your routine make you feel like this.

"You have all the ways to contact me." You hardly see any stars from your rooftop, but they still burn fire even if you can't see. "Me, however..."

Batman sips his tea. It warms you both. He's soft, gentle, kind.

He almost smirks, proud. "Asking for my number?"

You sniff.

Looking at him, reciprocated. He's steering the story himself, making change.

It's destroying your face, your hands, your heart. Propels you anywhere but back to him.

You hold his jaw, protecting his face from the cold. He let you, breathing hot against your skin. This type of touch has become natural. The sky has never has been so wide and endless.

You're close but not close enough. "Don't get silly."

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

There are scars that can't be seen.

But you want to touch them all. Hands willing, starving.

You do know why he keeps coming back.

Sitting by his side, on his car. There's no sight of the blood you had once spilled there.

You wonder, incessantly, what was the drive-thru's employee's face when you asked for vanilla milkshake from inside Batman's car, going hard on the girlie voice.

Batman has the heater on for you.

Rambling about theories, again. Like you're his friend. That's what you do when he's having a slow night and you're off duty.

You're turning even more like a creature of the night. Now, all your time off is spent when it's dark.

"Who said I wasn't mad?" you blurt out, halfway through the milkshake.

He was the one touching the subject. You did left it die, before, not wanting to revive something long dead.

But you realize, late, you just admitted something you shouldn't have.

Batman lets a long pause in the air. His lips twitch in poorly-concealed agitation. As strange it is to want a cold desert while its winter, or being wrongly accused of murder, Batman is strange when he's so uneasy.

A gloved hand slides on the wheel, uncomfortable. His eyes burn, adamantly angry.

You decide to save his mind a little peace. "Oh, what do you mean Batman doesn't visit every victim on the hospital?" you gasped, dramatically. "I thought you would show up with flowers and–"

"Stop," he growls.

The only thing keeping him from actually saying something further was the urge to make you stop downplaying your own emotions. Simply, and fearful at it.

(And he hates how you fill your mouth with his name. That's not a name, that's what he's trying to be.)

Your eyebrows scrunch together. You don't smile, your lips actually curve down.

A hollow on your chest. It stains you in the mouth, jaw, chest, teeth, until you're the primary evidence of his crime.

You hate that you can't salvage something. There are scars that can't be seen.

His blood on your hands, not gentle at all, you. Dirt, possessive; slow and sinking.

You want. How awful is that?

Dancing between embrace and constraint, you want.

You two make this dance smooth.

The pain loses its edge.

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

"Do you have a concussion?" you bark to him, following him like you're the plage.

It's the same tone people use on a dog chewing some unknown thing.

Probably louder than you needed to, too, especially when you're in a crime scene full of policeman. And a corpse, somewhere. You didn't find it yet.

Anger blinds you, you can only see red and him.

Everybody focus on you two, most confused on why you, a paramedic that should have left the scene three minutes ago, is pursuing Batman around. More importantly, why is he running away?

"I don't have a concussion," he reply, slow and low, walking faster.

A dopey look on his face is the reason he is religiously not letting you see his eyes.

"You do have a concussion," you argue, chasing him. "Come back here."

He walks even faster.

Gordon shakes his head.

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

You got shot.

Nothing new. You were on duty and someone with a finger on the trigger got mad at you. Not even close to the worst you had gone through.

(A job where the line-of-duty death rate is the same as firefighters.)

You almost died from blood-loss, again, though.

This time there was no prince using a Kevlar armor to save you. You can't hope he's going to be there everytime to scoop you out and gift you a cold desert.

When you open your eyes, it's night. The hospital lights are off and the clean blue-dim light of other building are the only thing lighting your room.

Shifting uncomfortably on the hospital bed, you caught a figure standing by your side.

It's the first time you see him out of costume. Using a leather jacket and a helmet, carefully protecting his own identity but here. How did even get there using a helmet? It doesn't matter.

He's here. By your side.

You don't even need his eyes, or voice, to know it's him.

And nothing is more frightening to you than looking and wanting what you see. It's awfully true, without thought or regard, that you want.

It goes unnamed, you both refusing to say something.

His hand is bare, skin warm and you must've been anesthetized because all you can focus is the way his hand touches your face, almost afraid of breaking you.

It goes unnamed: the problem with you two. He's leaving a trial of fire everywhere he touches, careful on your neck and face and hair, trying to comfort.

So badly he wants to say his not worth any of this; how you look at him, how you smile immediately after seeing him.

So badly he doesn't want you to feel pain; he might not even know what he's doing to you now.

He wants you to say his name.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, trying hard to hide how he's alarmed about your paleness. It's funny how now you're able to read him by body language alone.

Your throat feels dry. You want to see his eyes, desperately. "I could use a cup of water."

His hands leaves you. He has a mission, purpose for the night, shoulders tensing up.

You don't say you want his hands back.

"Hey," you call as he walks to the door. Batman looks back at you, like a kid's cartoon with that helmet on. "Don't disappear."

You got the Dark Knight wrapped around your little finger.

It has been easy to let happen.

He keeps coming back to you.

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

Batman brings his own cookies next time, on the rooftop.

"Did you make this?" you wonder, dumbfounded with the taste. Soft and sweet, sugar butter cookies. It goes well with the tea.

How funny is it, Batman bringing you cookies before your shift?

He doesn't answer, watching you eat a mouthful of warm cookies. Still warm. Did he rush from his kitchen to your rooftop? You don't know where he lives.

You don't know his name. Or his face.

Even then, you want to crack your ribcage open and let both your hearts merge. Keeping this warmness in your breastbone.

Those days, you've been having the disgusting need to simply talk to him. It's turning into how you measure time: time with him, time without him.

"You never told me."

Flash fire on his eyes, wondering where possibly he could have wronged you. You realized he's terrified of doing so.

He tilt his head. "What?"

One day, you'll stop playing games with him. For now, you need to feel him near.

For now, the only named feeling is yearning.

"How did you clean my name."

Batman can destroy you, and only because you would let him. What a terrible waste of life it would be, to take life in the easier path, to not know him or to fear him.

"I only exposed the truth," Batman says, very simple, "you were innocent."

His simplicity, how much his oath is simple and you want him. He has made a slave out of you.

You've been hoarding his name on your mouth; you know it before he told you; you know it before knowing it.

Batman holds another cookie for you. You don't know how much time you stare at it.

There's too much happening. No cookie in this world will ease this hunger. Too many thoughts, feelings, sensations.

You just need him to stay a little longer, making life so achingly wonderful you want to stay too. He's worth knowing, worth finding.

You take cookie from his gloved hand. A sickening feeling of warmness. The hunger strikes your laughter, filling the air.

You lean back on the edge and he holds your hip, fearing for your life more than you do. Your voice, giggling, echoes briefly.

Keeping his hand on your hip. It's easy– wanting him is as natural as breathing.

Wanting for something that fundamentally can't love you back–

Just the mention makes you lightheaded, dizzy. But isn't it true? Love. It sounds childish for you two.

You want something that doesn't end in heartache. You want him to want you back.

He looks at you, grounding you by the hip. His touch is so tender against your jacket. The sky has never looked so bright during the night.

You gaze back to him, reciprocated. You can't look away.

You can't look at him without burning either.

"Thank you," you say.

"For what?"

"Saving me, of course," you gently knocks on his chestplate. "And for not dying."

And you know he burns for you too.

[blackwidow-bby]

hmu with alcina angst; something like reader getting hurt bad and Alcina realizing how fragile they are. cue Alcina getting massively overbearing and possessive making life for reader a little hellish, but it’s not like they can leave cause they love her after all… feel free to go crazy!

Sorry this took me a minute to get posted, I ended up getting really busy with work and finally got around to being able to post it! Thanks for sending this request<3

No warnings, just reader being a meanie :(

What seemed like a typical stroll amongst the gardens of castle Dimitrescu, quickly turned into a nightmare. Normally the lycans wouldn’t dare step foot on land that they hadn’t been created on. For the most part, Lady Dimitrescu’s land remained free from lesser monsters other than the moroaica that guarded the castle but a couple managed to sneak their way in.

That’s how you found yourself running for dear life, trying desperately to make it to the doors. Hell, at this point you’d be lucky for anyone to simply step in and save you. Your breathing was growing more heavy the more you attempted to duck and weave amongst bushes and tree limbs. Looking for anywhere that would slow them down, but the lycans were ruthless. Easily overcoming every obstacle in their path with unhindered strength and speed. The lycans brainless ferocity didn’t even budge when smashing through multiple bushes and gazebos to get to your soft flesh.

They had to have been starved for this hunt in order to break into the gates and chase you with reckless abandon. Finally, one of the doors came into view even though you weren’t sure if you could make it in time. You had to try. The two massive lycans were gaining. In a last fit of will, you screamed as loud as you could before shoving yourself into the doors. You could hear their sick snarls right behind you as the door was pushed open, gaining quicker than you could enter. Suddenly, a sick mess of maw snapped around your calf. The lycan bit and shook in an attempt to tear the meat from your limb. The horrific cry that fell from your lips was broken in a shriek from the pain in your lower leg. Your heart now threatened to beat from your chest with the anxiety that this would be over for you.

How terrifying that you would not die of natural aging but at the mouths of hungry mindless dog-men who only wanted to fill their bloodlust. But by some incredible twist of fate, just as soon as you felt the bite, it had released. The lady, in all of her grandiose height, held the severed body of the lycan that had bit into you. Her own fangs flashed in a snarl at the other lycan still left standing in a warning for him to back of. The foolish monster didn’t take to the threat at all but instead lunged at the Lady of the castle. What a stupid mistake to have made. Just as quickly it had lunged, the severed, split body fell to the ground and a heap of finely sliced flesh. In the last bit of adrenaline haze you could see the blood drip down Lady Dimitrescu’s blade-like fingers into contrasting pools on the ice white snow. The last thing you saw was your beautiful lover turning to you before the world went dark.

~

With a shattering gasp, you bolted upright. The form you were placed atop was soft like velvet. The sudden waking caused a jolt of pain straight to your leg. The sharp sting made you cry out, falling back to the bed in an attempt to get the pain to go away again but all that was left was the throbbing agony of withering strain. At the sound of your cry, Lady Dimitrescu bursted through the doors to her bedroom, the attack had left her shaken.

The thought of losing her lover whom she had to quite fondly worried her to her core. She wept at the blood, your blood, that coated her dress as she rushed you to her quarters. Calling out frantically to her daughters, anyone really, to help save her love. The Lady had lived many lifetimes with many partners but the thought of losing someone she cared so deeply for never got easier. She was in a panic, desperate to clean the blood from her clothes and stop it from seeping from your cold frail body. Even as her eldest daughter attempted to patch you up completely before your beating heart could cease, the Lady was annoyingly overbearing in making sure you would survive your attack.

“My love, my sweet love, you’re finally awake!”

Lady Dimitrescu rushed to your side placing her larger colder hands upon your burning cheeks. The initial infection was fought but a lingering fever could still be felt.

“M-my lady, the pain…”

Your whimpering tone made Alcina retreat her hands and quickly grab the salve Bela left for your recovery. With gentle touches, the Lady removed the bandages and placed the ointment to your healing wound. Constantly cooing and shushing your cries of hurt to get your body to relax before placing fresh bandages to your gash. You fell exhausted once more after she finished. Falling asleep again with your love running her cool fingers through your sweaty tresses.

~

The following days were unbearable to say the least. Alcina was constantly worrying herself around your life. She had taken it upon herself to carry you everywhere instead of allowing you to walk on the injured limb. Feeding you instead of letting you eat on your own, even lifting your drink to your lips instead of letting you move to get it yourself. Maybe the first couple of days, all of the comfort felt good. You felt cared for and loved, now just made you feel like a child and worthless. She slept less to make sure you slept more. You never went anywhere without your Lady being right there on your heel.

Her overbearing protection started to have a negative impact on your mental state. You internally begged to be able to bathe alone, wanting some peace to soak amongst rose petals and hibiscus, to rest your mind and simply take in the alone time. But she wasn’t backing away. You stood in your shared bathroom staring emotionless into the mirror as you watched her undress you with care. A deep unwavering feeling made your eyebrows draw together in furrow. Will this be your new life? Forever being watched like a child with her fear that you’d be harmed again? Would you ever get to smell to fresh grapes and roses from the gardens again? Would you ever get to be alone? Did you even want to be alone?

“What troubles you, my love?”

Her voice sounded shaky and weak. Like she was pulling her true tone in order to make you feel safe. But her lack of confidence only furthered to annoy you. Was she walking on eggshells now?

“Do you think I might be able to bathe alone tonight?”

Alcina flinched at your request. She looked hurt.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea draga mea. What if you slip? Hmm? What if you can’t reach your towel? How can I help if—”

The suddenness in your turning to face her effectively cut off her schpiel.

“I’m NOT a child, Alcina. I think I know how to take a bath.”

Her eyebrows raised at your tone, mouth falling slightly agape. You had never in your life spoken to her with any harshness.

“M-my love, plea—“

“NO! I’m sick of being treated like a doll! Like I’m some breakable porcelain object that must be coddled and fed and kept close. I can move and eat and bathe all on my own. You haven’t left my side since I woke up. Do you even sleep, Alcina? Do you even see your daughters? Do your work? Do you think me some fragile infant who can’t even work a spoon?! You have been at my side for WEEKS, I can’t even shit without you right by my side ready to wipe! Just GO! AWAY!”

Alcina’s face fell. Her brows drawing in at the middle. She stood now in the bathroom full height, shaken at your outburst. She had only been looking out for you. Making sure you felt cared for and protected. Did she really go too far?

“I-i’m sorry I made you feel helpless. I love you so much, I thought I’d lost you.”

She looked down, single tear falling from her cheek. She didn’t even attempt to hide her sadness.

“I’ll leave alone, my dear. Y-you…know where to find me.”

Lady Dimitrescu quickly dipped out of the bathroom, closing the door behind herself.

You did it, you were finally alone. Able to have that comforting soak in your oils and soaps. Alone. But as her words sank in. The look of contempt on her face as she looked at you before she left. Did you even want that anymore? Did you really want to be alone now? With the state you left your love’s heart?

Was it really worth it?

[introloves]

Hey there Jax! Could you do a drabble imagine/scenario of Hinata coming home to his s/o after coming back from Brazil and he's just starving for them in every way. Hard dom Hinata but he's so praising cuz he missed and loves their s/o so much 🥺❤️

I love all your writings btw! Have a great day and be safe Jax (*＾3＾)/～♡

IM FERAL OVER HIM LOVE BRAZIL HINATA....

— f! reader + hard dom / soft dom! hinata + praise + a very desperate pair of adults who r very horny over each other

wc; 1.5k 😭

it was the sound of something falling that had woken you up. it was shoyo’s day of return and you had planned to take a quick nap in order to stay awake for him but apparently overslept.

you sat up, heart thumping in fear.

“Y/N?” hinata’s voice rang out loud and excited, letting you know he was home.

it was your boyfriend, shoyo was home! making a mad dash to him you responded back with the same enthusiasm.

he caught you in his arms as you ran up, squeezing his arms around you so tightly it almost hurt but you didn’t wanna pull away. he swayed with you back and forth, laughing as he just held you.

tears pooled in your eyes at the happiness.

god you had missed him so much, his warmth, smile, the vibrant colors of his hair and eyes.

“missed you. missed you so bad.” he rasped, eagerly moving his hands to roam down to your ass.

he should have been tired, should have been worn down from the trip, but seeing you and feeling you from behind a soft camisole and tiny sleeping shorts- same shorts he missed moving to the side to fuck you- regenerated him.

he felt like he could run several miles, your shaky breath spreading goosebumps and warmth down his body.

he felt you cry, knowing you missed him just as fiercely.

“it’s okay baby. i’m here.” hinata cooed, letting you cling to him.

“missed you so much.” you whispered, and he laughed.

“not as much as i did angel. c’mon, let me take care of you, yeah?” he questioned, unable and not wanting to depart from you. you nodded, needing the proximity. with warm and rough hands, the trek to your bedroom began.

he laid you down, hands at your waist to grip you tightly. he felt feverish, cheeks reddening as all the blood circulating his body pumped to his crotch.

overexcited like a teenaged boy.

“fuck. i really missed you.” hinata murmured, slotting himself between your legs.

it didn’t take long for your body to respond to the way he was looking down at you, tanned skin looking so good over all the new muscles and thickness he attained during his trip.

he looked like something born from the sun, looked like someone who built those muscles (the ones he used to currently wrap your legs around his waist) from sheer hard work and dutiful repition.

your shoyo was a man.

he was a man hungry for you, overcome with longing from not seeing you for tortuous months.

the first meeting of his hips against you made him hiss, dizzy at the way he could feel you throb.

his hand couldn’t compare to that wet heat he remembered fucking so well. your calls and pictures- videos were the only thing that had kept him sane. he had always came with the thought of you waiting for him when he got back home to you.

“did you miss me baby?” he teased, humping you, trying to find your clit as his cock split your puffy lips, dampening your shorts even more.

you whimpered, the end of it pitching up as he kept his pace fast and desperate.

‘there it is!’ he thought when your knee met his hip, jolting back.

“missed you so much.” you responded, unable to say more before he hastily tugged your shorts off, the movement bringing you down slightly.

“shoyo!” you hissed at the burn of cloth swiping down your legs.

“ah, sorry angel.” he offered a quick apology, panting like a dog once he catches just a glance at your naked pussy.

“fuck. fuck. fuck.” he chanted, hooking his thumbs at his waistband. you mirrored his need when you saw his hard cock spring out, red and already glistening as precum fell freely from the slit. he was so wet he looked like he had already cum and you salivated. you took into notice the once pale skin of his dick matched the equally sun kissed, tanned parts of him.

he could see you clench, hips bucking up into the air at the thoughts swimming in your head, it had to be something you thought up, he wasn’t touching you.

“what’re you thinking about pretty girl.” he wondered, a tight hand pumping his dick in preparation, squeezing what he could from himself to wet his dick, so he wouldn’t hurt you, it was going to be a tight fit.

“you tanned in the nude?” you panted, thinking that it shouldn’t affect you this badly.

“ah, yeah. oikawa ‘nd me hit up a nude beach.” he smiled bashfully.

“god. please fuck me already.” you groaned, eyes rolling back, trying to reach for him.

hinata would have normally complied, but he was filled with so much energy, so happy, so excited to finally be with you again he had to expend some of it in order to not absolutely ruin your poor cunt on the first night back.

the look you give him when he slaps his fat tip against your clit is priceless, the shake of your thighs with each tap has his lips curl up.

“shoyo?” you question, voice trembling.

he doesn’t look up from your pussy, choosing instead to pass a reddened cockhead down to your folds, running up and down till he makes contact with your fluttering hole, pushing in just a little- just enough to make you intake breaths of sharp air.

“g-god please shoyo!” its a desperate plea, you’re so wet its dripping down to your bed, throbbing with pure need.

he sushes you, you dont notice the hard clench of his teeth. don’t notice the heavy breathing leaving his mouth, tense shoulders constricting with a control he just barely had.

angling your hips down, moving with desperation as you press more of him into you is a display of just how hazy your minds gotten with the need to have him fill you.

its something he wasnt ready for by the sounds of him groaning, snapping his teeth down to hiss out filthy words.

there’s a sigh playing on your lips, but it turns into a noise of sharp surprise when he pushes in all the way.

“h-hah!”pained wheezes leave you, the burn he brings is felt all the way up your neck, swirling at the where he’s fit himself.

you’re kicking at him, knees picking up off the bed, but they’re pinned down before he moves to hold your thighs open, moving the fat there as much at it gives.

“wanted to prep you baby, wanted to take you slow c-cause its been such a long time.” hinata hisses, eyes zeroed in on where youre rhythmically clenching down, trying, just trying to adjust to his girth.

“but look at what you did.” he spits. he wants to kiss the tears prickling at your eyes away but it’s obvious the time apart made you forget your place.

“s-sorry i’m sorry.”

youre shaky, still reeling from being that stuffed so soon. but he was right, he was the one who took care of you, made sure to leave you properly fucked out, you just missed him.

your words have him calm down just a little, makes him bend down to kiss your cheek,

“its alright. its going to be okay.” he tells you, and you know it is, even when hes making you cry you know he knows how much you can take.

he doesnt begin until sees you smile, sees the way your eyes form little moons when he entangles both hands into yours, pushing them to rest right above your head.

hes so in love it makes him dizzy, punches air from between his lungs when you start your keening. telling him how much you missed him, how your little fingers don’t compare to the fatness of his dick, they dont bring the same burn or fullness as him.

your words have a fire build right at the pit of his stomach, has him do everything he can to make you cum.

hes missed it, missed your thighs shaking around the trunk of his own, missed the sound of your pussy squelching, missed how sweet his name sounds tumbling from your lips.

“shoyo, shoyo, i’m cumming. i’m cumming.” the words are rushed and all but piercing, he knows you are. you’d been clenching down on him real hard for quite some time now.

and like a good boyfriend he fucks you through it, moving your entangled hands to meet above your head, wrapping your wrist in one of his, letting him press a thumb to your clit.

he wants it all, hinata wants you to beg for him to stop because you can’t take how good it feels.

and you do, the stickiness of your cum agaisnt his still moving hips makes you whimper, rolling your hips side ways to try and calm him down.

“s-stop, ‘s toomuch.” you babble, thanking him for listening when he stops.

he thinks there’s nothing better than how youre still fluttering around him,

“been gone too long.” he states, frowning just a bit when you look up at him with questioning eyes.

“you used to take me longer.”

hes right, you shiver when you realize that he’d just have to fuck you stupid to be able to take the unwavering force of him as he is now, eyes widening when you recall the way he’d have you squirt and gush with every orgasm he’d pull from you when you first started dating.

but you dont shy away, knowing that with his stamina, you wont be able to move tomorrow.

a pain you missed so so so much.

“mhm,” you sigh, feeling the burn of overstimulation fade,

“looks like you got some work to do, shoyo.”

that he does, but you’re made for him, he knows it.

so shoyo picks your legs up, dead set on showing you that you are.

[shini--chan]

OKAY IMAGINE THIS - by some mirracle, s/o get teleported back in time to the pirate era and suddenly just drops from the sky as Antonio and Arthur are battling! Everything comes to a halt because a friggin woman fell from literally nowhere - Arthur is quicker and he captures s/o first, DEMANDING to know where she is from, how did she get here. Poor s/o tries to tell him the truth but it just isn't working. How stupid do you think Arthur is, huh?! He's not buying what you're selling love! (1/?)

Oh blazes, my dear. You’re trying to seduce me into writing a novel for you, correct. Well, not today (sadly) so I’ll be going ahead with my usual mixture of headcanons and snippets. Also, to everybody out there: Requests are still being accepted – I just can’t bring myself to close my ask box.

Also, I wanted to write Arthur’s and Antonio’s lines in an older English, but then I remembered what it was like having to read books from the 19th century for school and decided not to inflict the torture upon you.

Yandere Love Triangle: England vs Spain (Historical Pirate AU!)

As mentioned in the ask, you would be minding your own business, more or less, when you would suddenly be granted two of the wishes many harbour in their hearts: to time travel and have an adventure. Unfortunately for you, that wouldn’t happen with a forewarning and you wouldn’t have any chance to blend in. I wouldn’t say the battle would completely stop – with all the smoke and gunpowder and bangs going on only those close by would have a chance noticing.

Antonio was having a wonderful day. Yes, extremely wonderful. Life on the ship had been very good as of late, supplies running high and spirits even higher. They were reaching their climax now, with Spain showing England the business ends of sword and cutlas and cannon. It was a fitting sort of revenge being able to rob the lilly-livered bastard after he had stolen so much Spanish silver and gold.

The runt in question was baring his teeth and snarling like a cornered dog while their blades were interlocked, when Antonio heard a loud crash from behind England. It was probably just part of the ruckus of a sea battle, yet something – his fantastic intuition most likely – advised him to take a look. Of course, making the other combatant to move just how he wanted proved to be tricky, because Arthur had always been an uncooperative like blight and liked to fight dirty.

Yet he wasn’t a famed duellist for nothing. The sight that caught his attention when he got the opportunity to see it nearly caused him to lose an arm due to inattention. Men of both sides had briefly abandoned the battle to crowd around a failing figure that was desperately trying to free itself from a tangle of nets and torn sails. The onlookers whispered amongst themselves. The chorus of voices only grew louder when a very confused woman.

He found himself remarking: “It seems like you’ve finally started to develop a good taste in bed mates. Say, when did that happen, fishy. I always thought that you’d have luck to get a starved old tramp to warm your bed.”

“Shut up, Anthony!”, came the immediate reply, proving that the island nation wasn’t aware about what he was playing at. “Let’s not get on about you. Or should I tell your precious monarch about what you do in the stables when all the servants are gone?”

Pathetic little weasel. Enraged, Antonio brought the hilt of his sword down on that pale, cruel face and busted a pair of thin lips. “You should guard yourself from spreading lies, English pigdog. Or else the Almighty himself will smite you.”

Naturally, being the cunning demon he was, England used the opening Spain had provided him to barrel into him and send him flying overboard and into the sea.

That action would be quick to turn the tides, especially with so many men coming to aid their captain and help him out of water. This would result in Arthur then discovering you on his ship, probably when his first mate would rush to him and explain that a very strange women in a strange get-up had just suddenly appeared on the ship.

England would go and investigate and discover you surrounded by his crew, each of them having different responses to your presence and hence causing quite a commotion. He too would find you utterly alien – in your attire, in your mannerisms, even in your speech. But Arthur would be ever the pragmatic and reason that there would have to be another explanation to your appearance, one that doesn’t include miracles. But because he wouldn’t have either the time or the head space to deal with you at the moment, he’d have to thrown in the brig with strict orders to leave you alone. That would also be a way for him to torture you and force you to wallow in your worries and terrors.

The brackish water of the brig had long since made your feet wet, cotton soaks completely soaked through and chilling you. The stench it all emitted, and Arthur’s relentless questioning only further enhanced your discomfort.

He was prowling in front of your cage-like cell, like a tiger in the zoo. Only that he didn’t want to break out, rather that he was being continuously tempted to drag you out of your cell and onto the deck to be flogged for your insolence.

“At every turn you say to me that you’re from the future and that you don’t know how you came here”, he rehearsed the main points of your conversation with him. There had been a snarl on his face the whole time throughout the interrogation, his anger only making his voice curl tightly around the vowels and roll the r’s harder until you had to strain to understand him.

Mutely you nodded – you yourself had come to the conclusion that he understood you better when you kept your words simply, underlay them with gestures and expressions and spoke slowly.

In return, England shook his head and spat: “I do not believe you. Going backwards in time is impossible, it only goes forward.”

In any other situation you would have been inclined to agree with him. But you were living proof that there were glaring exceptions to that rule. Having unexpectedly landed in a long-gone era, you had first found yourself desperately grappling with your new reality. You had pinched yourself and read the letters on crates and barrel and closed your eyes and read them again to see if anything had changed – everything to assure yourself that you were dreaming.

You weren’t, nor had you taken any psychedelics, so this was painfully, gruesomely real. A fact that Arthur wasn’t excepting even with evidence right past the tip of his nose.

“Then how do you explain the ripped sails then? How do you explain my strange clothes?”, you questioned him. Then, after a brief pause, you asked: “How do you explain that I know who and what you are?”

You knowing that he was a personification of a budding Empire was a sore spot for him and made him even more suspicious of you. Something that was now backfiring on you.

He waved your words off with evident irritation and countered: “There are more reasonable explanation for all of that. That you’re a spy from a foreign country for example.”

Arthur would never cease with side-eying you and constantly be on the look-out for more logical explanations for your otherness. He would find them as well. Yet there would always be a little voice in the forefront of his mind nagging him that you are telling the truth and that he was wasting the opportunity of the millennia by blowing your words in the wind.

Those doubts would be the main reason he would keep you alive, along with his quest to extract the “truth” from you. However, there would be times when he would be tempted to fetch those thumbscrews from his quarters to see if you’d crack under pressure. Yet he would still restrain himself.

That wouldn’t mean your stay on his ship would be pleasant. You’d constantly be wet and cold, with rats crawling around the brig and your meals being a near inedible gruel that would be set aside for you.

Therefore, it would be an absolute relief when Spain would swoop in to rescue you. It would be an even greater wonder when he would actually listen to you and take into consideration what you would say.

“Tell me if I’ve got this right: In the future, you don’t send letters anymore that take months to reach another country. Instead, you send messages from small machines which the other person can read only after a few seconds, no matter how far away they are”, Antonio summed up what you had just cautiously explained to him.

You had been so shy when he had taken you aboard his vessel, so afraid he would just maltreat you like Arthur had. It had taken its time for him to convey that he was different from that godless brute, that he was civilized and patient. He wouldn’t disregard miracles and let them slip through his fingers. It had taken its own sweet time to coax you into telling the truth, but now you were sitting across him in his quarters, nodding enthusiastically.

“More or less, yes. There is a lot more to that, but that is the start of it”, you affirmed his words. You were relieved that you finally had somebody to talk to in this time were you previously had nobody. The food being served helped you weigh yourself into safety – fresh fruit and other perishable treats, an absolute luxury onboard a ship with a sizable crew. Indeed, you were becoming so comfortable with your host, your lifeline at this point, that you were betraying things about your future that you otherwise wouldn’t have.

And wasn’t yet about detail concretely concerning him, but you would both get there eventually. Spain was sure of that.

Meanwhile you didn’t notice the hungry gleam in his eyes when he purred: “Fascinating, my dear. What else can these things do?”

Being a Catholic, Antonio would be far more inclined to believe you on the time-traveling thing. He would also add two and two together on your strange clothes and their material, not to mention your different attitudes and behaviours and realise that you would be telling the truth. He would treat you kindly as a way of getting you to talk to him, eventually becoming the only person you could trust.

He would guard you jealously and ensure that you would only speak to him – having knowledge of the future would be a right he would reserve for himself alone. It would also cause him to become obsessed with you, keeping you in his quarters or leading you onto the deck at night for short walk. Of course, he would paint the whole isolating thing as he keeping you safe, saying that Arthur was after you.

The argument with Arthur would have far more validity then Antonio would even imagine. The wisdom that you don’t know what you really have until you lose it would be especially true in his case. It would finally dawn upon him that you were telling the truth the whole time and that would lead Arthur to beat himself up over it. A pursuit to recapture you would ensue.

Not to mention that it would make his blood boil to think that Spain would be courting you, persuading you to tell him everything he could ever want to know about the future. Besides  being a threat to his future existence and ongoing success, England would like to have all that knowledge himself and for himself only. Knowledge is power, after all.

Arthur would also miss you for your wit and endurance, fantasizing and dreaming of you to the point of obsession and never quitting his chase for you.

[weneedglitter]

I went through @sunsetcurvecuddles ‘s whole touch-starved willie tag right before class and then wrote this instead of taking notes. Come get y’all soft willex content

read on AO3 here

The thing about being in a bad situation for a long time is that your body and mind go into survival mode. You learn what you can ask for, what you can expect, and cut down to only the most crucial systems. If you go without for long enough, you start to forget anything else was even an option.

The thing about leaving a bad situation is that it doesn’t take long for the unconscious parts of you to notice you’re safe and start making demands.

Willie never wanted for anything with Caleb. He had his skateboard, he had a place to live, he had plenty to eat. Sure, maybe he was a little lonely for companions his own age, but there were tons of people at the club willing to indulge his chatter. Caleb wasn’t the warmest person ever, but he was far from cruel to Willie.

It wasn’t until the mess with Julie’s band had opened Willie’s eyes to the lengths Caleb was willing to go to get what he wanted that Willie realized that “a little lonely” wasn’t the most appropriate term for his time at the club. The few days he spent with Alex shone brighter than the sun in his memory, and every day beside them became inky and lightless in contrast.

But Willie’s not there anymore. He’s still reeling from the knowledge that Alex came back for him, refused to leave him behind after the role, however well-meaning, that Willie had played in bringing the boys to Caleb.

Now every day has Alex, has Luke and Reggie and Flynn and the Molinas. They’re loud and gentle and indecorous and always take the time to make sure Willie’s comfortable.

They also give affection so freely Willie almost doesn’t recognize it for what it is. With Caleb, touching was a direction. If his hand landed on your shoulder, it meant you weren’t where you were supposed to be.

In retrospect, it makes sense why watching Julie drop an absent-minded kiss on Reggie’s temple in thanks for his help with her homework smacks Willie with a wave of yearning so intense he has to escape to the studio.

It doesn’t make sense, Willie thinks, sitting perched on the back of the couch. His new friends are a tactile bunch; it’s inescapable. He knows they’ve been giving him space to settle in, but they’ve welcomed him in with very literal open arms. He’s not starved for the high-fives and hand-holds and hugs they all give out like it’s as easy as breathing.

But he can’t stop replaying the tender press of Julie’s lips to Reggie’s hairline. He remembers the hug Alex gave him on the street the day of the Orpheum show and wraps his arms tightly around himself, trying to recall exactly how it felt.

Like the memory summoned him, Willie hears footsteps on the stone outside, and Alex slips through the door. Willie notes dazedly how at home he looks here.

Alex’s brow is furrowed. “Reg and Julie said you ran out in a hurry, is everything okay?”

“You know it, hot dog. Better now, though.” Willie’s voice doesn’t sound like he’s expecting, misses breezy by a mile and lands closer to desperate. He suddenly becomes aware that every muscle in his body is tense.

Alex raises both eyebrows. “Yeah, I buy that. What’s going on with you?”

Willie shrugs helplessly, or tries to. He’s still tense. “I guess I’m just realizing some stuff.”

“About… the club?” Alex asks, walking a little closer with his hands deep in his pockets. Willie nods, the out-loud acknowledgement that something’s wrong at all making the feeling stronger.

Alex steps up to sit on the back of the couch next to him, the same way the two of them sat on the bench the first day they met. Willie feels sick with how much he wants to lean into his side, rest his head on Alex’s shoulder, but he just wraps his arms tighter around himself. He feels like a coiled spring, muscles taut and ready to – to what? He doesn’t know. He wishes he could relax. His neck aches. He curls in on himself, pulling at the tight knots along his shoulderblades.

Alex moves to sling an arm around Willie, the way he does with the boys, the way Willie’s seen Reggie and Luke do more times than he can count, but Willie’s body registers the motion before his brain does and reacts without his permission. It’s not a flinch, just his muscles ratcheting impossibly tighter, but Alex still clocks it and freezes with his hand halfway through the space between them. His gaze is too intense, too searching, and Willie has to look away, tracing the floorboards with his eyes instead.

Alex slowly lowers his hand so it rests on the couch right beside Willie’s hip. If he moved his pinky an inch, it would make contact with the rough material of Willie’s shorts.

It’s not new. It’s not exciting. Alex is a very physical person, though Willie suspects it’s learned rather than natural. Willie has never been an exception to that rule; he can’t count how many times Alex has wrapped a hand around his arm to get his attention or bumped their knees together in silent communication.

It’s not new, and it’s not exciting, so it doesn’t make sense that Alex’s hand resting next to him has his blood rushing in his ears. He feels unsteady.

“What’s going on?” Alex repeats. Willie can’t seem to open his mouth to explain, but he doesn’t know what he would say even if he could. He doesn’t know what’s going on. “Shit, are you okay?”

Willie doesn’t want to say no, because he doesn’t know what’s wrong, doesn’t know why he’s not okay, but Alex must pick up on the tiniest shake of his head because he hops down from the back of the couch to plant one foot on the ground and the other knee on the cushions. His concern is growing. Willie turns his head to watch him move, stomach churning as he gets farther away but unable to reach for him. “Can I touch you?”

Willie nods vigorously before he can even think about it. Alex grips Willie’s upper arms, just above the elbow, and Willie shudders. His knees, which he didn’t realize were locked, go weak, and he slides uncontrolled down to the couch. Alex guides him to rest more securely on the cushions and sits next to him again, a little distance between them. Something in Willie aches.

“What’s wrong?” Alex asks. “And don’t try to say it’s nothing, it obviously isn’t.”

“Um,” Willie says. He doesn’t want Alex to think he’s ignoring him, but it feels like there’s big blank spaces in the part of his brain where words go. “I don’t know. I don’t know what’s wrong.”

“Well, that makes two of us,” Alex replies. He’s too far away, Willie thinks. It would be easy to reach out. Alex would wrap him up without hesitation. Willie doesn’t move.

“Fortunately, Julie has a checklist for this kind of thing, because she’s a queen,” Alex continues. Willie’s pretty sure he would laugh at that, usually, so he huffs out a breath between dry lips. Alex leans closer again; the motion makes Willie realize his gaze has drifted away from Alex’s face again, fixated on the faded screenprint on his tshirt instead. Willie tries to drag his eyes up, but only makes it as far as Alex’s cheekbone.

“Okay,” Alex mutters. “Are you hungry?” Willie shakes his head. “Thirsty? No, okay. Tired?” He’s definitely a little tired, but that’s not the problem. “Cold?”

Now that Alex says it, his skin feels uncomfortably prickly, like he could start shivering despite the warmth of the air and both arms still clamped around his middle. “Yeah, I think that’s it. I’m too cold.” His voice comes out remarkably steady for how shaky he feels.

“Alright!” Alex says, cheered to have an answer he can take action with. “See, you gotta take care of yourself.” Willie knows Alex is better when there’s a problem with a solution right in front of him, something he can busy his hands with and see results. He looks around the room and locates a pair of blankets, snatching them up from the armchair. He puts one aside and drapes the second around Willie, leaving one arm across Willie’s shoulders. The proximity is dizzying.

“Better?” Alex asks, leaving one arm across Willie’s shoulders.

“Yeah,” Willie gasps, like it was punched from him. Alex’s arm feels searingly hot even through the blanket and Willie’s shirt, his skin sensitive like the start of a fever. Maybe he really is getting sick. “Yeah, that’s better.”

It doesn’t feel better. It feels more, somehow.

Alex sees his ill-disguised discomfort and frowns, starting to pull away and give him space again. Willie almost sobs. A tiny noise escapes anyway, and Alex freezes for a second time. Then he slowly slides his arm back around Willie’s shoulders.

Willie is still so tense, it doesn’t surprise him when he starts trembling, minute shivers all over his body.

Alex wraps his other arm around Willie in a sideways hug. Willie’s teeth start chattering. “Wow,” Alex says, almost admiring, “You’re just all fucked up, huh?”

That makes Willie actually laugh a little. “I think you might be onto something there, hot dog.” He’s starting to feel lightheaded; there’s so much input, so many conflicting signals. He’s almost nauseous with how badly he wants to just slump into Alex’s embrace, let it be easy, leech off his body heat, but his muscles are wound taut on a winch outside of his control and everywhere Alex touches him it’s borderline painful.

He doesn’t know why this is happening. He doesn’t know what he wants. He doesn’t want Alex to leave.

Like the universe is reading his thoughts, trying to find the one clear desire he can form just to yank it away, Alex starts to pull back and climb off the couch. Willie makes a tiny aborted movement to reach out and hold on. Alex still picks up on it, though.

“Hey, I’m just gonna move us around, okay? Just trust me.”

“Of course,” Willie says, too honest through his chattering teeth.

Alex takes the blanket and directs Willie to lie down on his side, spine flush with the back of the couch. He drapes the first blanket over Willie’s legs, tucking him in industriously, then squeezes onto the couch next to him and spreads the second blanket over both of them.

He shifts around so he’s lying fully on his side, facing Willie, pressed together all along their fronts. Willie’s eyes are level with his collarbone. Willie can feel the heat coming off him, the little puffs of his breath against the top of his head. He thinks he’d be dizzy if he wasn’t lying down. With the couch and the blanket and Alex in front of him, taking up his whole field of view, he feels surrounded, held on all sides. It’s so warm. He’s still shivering, muscles still tightly drawn, but the warmth of the safe little cave Alex has made is soaking in.

Alex slips an arm over his side, hand resting on the bare skin of Willie’s lower back where his shirt is riding up. Willie’s whole body trembles involuntarily; it feels impossibly warm, like it should be burning him, like when Alex pulls his hand away it’ll leave a mark, whirls of his fingerprints left behind on Willie’s skin.

“Is this okay?” Alex whispers. Willie nods, not trusting himself to speak with the way his breath catches on each inhale. “Stop me if it’s too much, yeah? Just tap me or something.” Alex slides his hand further around Willie’s back, under his shirt, calluses rough against his skin. He pulls Willie in so they’re pressed even closer together.

Alex’s hand spans wide over his spine, sweeping softly up and down. “It’s okay.”

That’s what does it; the tension releases like a snapping rubber band and Willie melts into Alex’s touch, locked muscles relaxing to send him slumping into Alex’s chest. His knees bend and tangle with Alex’s, forehead resting against his sternum. Alex ducks his chin to press his lips against the top of Willie’s head. “There you go.”

Willie’s breath shudders, caught between his mouth and the thin material of Alex’s tshirt. He squeezes his eyes shut. His throat feels tight, tears stinging at his eyes.

“Is this helping?” Alex asks, always checking in.

“Uh-huh,” Willie chokes out.

Alex hums and keeps lightly rubbing Willie’s back until his breathing evens out a little. Then he says, tone thoughtful, “When I figured out I was gay, I stopped touching the guys for two months.”

Willie looks up in surprise. Alex continues, “Yeah, I know, seems impossible. I just stopped initiating anything, pulled away any time Reggie or Luke were doing their thing, and eventually they stopped trying.” He laughs a little. “It was actually Bobby who talked to me about it. He said I was making Reggie think he did something wrong and I had to either cut it out or have a real good excuse.”

“What did you do?”

“Went back to the studio and sat on them.” The image makes Willie laugh. “I think they figured it out though, cause when I came out the year after I couldn’t get them off me for a week.”

Willie nods. That sounds about right. “What’s the moral of this story?”

Alex taps at his back chastisingly. “Don’t let it get this bad again, okay? You can always ask. I would do anything for you.” The mirror of Willie’s own words makes tears prickle at his eyes again, and he nods.

“Wasn’t on purpose,” Willie tries to explain. “I didn’t get any – any contact at the club, but you’re all so touchy, it should be more than enough.”

“Your tank’s empty,” Alex says. “You’ve been running on fumes for a long time, and we’re still operating at ‘be normal around the new person’ levels. You need what you need, and I can – we can give that to you.”

Alex moves his hand to run even farther up Willie’s back, finding the base of his neck with his arm still pressed hot along his spine. It’s an awkward angle but he gently digs his knuckles into the abused muscles. Willie groans. “Oh my god.”

“God,” Alex echoes. “Seriously, why didn’t you say anything? How long have you been feeling like this?”

“I don’t know,” Willie repeats, truthfully. “I think… I’ve been all fucked up for so long I didn’t even notice anymore.”

Alex moves his knuckles in a steady circle. Willie’s eyes roll up in his head. “Hhholy shit.”

Alex laughs, brushing little strands of Willie’s hair aside with his fingertips. “Willie, can I wash your hair later?”

Just the idea knocks the breath right out of him. “I might actually die.”

Alex laughs, shaking Willie with how tightly they’re pressed together. “That’s all it takes, huh.”

“You know I’m a rulebreaker. I couldn’t stand a conventional death. Here lies Willie, his boyfriend played with his hair and his soul left his mortal body.”

Alex’s hand stills. “Boyfriend?”

Willie tenses for all of a second before Alex digs his thumb back into the base of Willie’s neck and he goes limp again. “I mean – I kind of thought – if you want –”

Alex cuts him off before he can work himself up. “Chill out, you sound like me.” There’s a weird note to his voice, and Willie is startled to realize that Alex is nervous. “Boyfriend, though. I’m, yeah, I’d like that.”

“You’re into that?” Willie asks, nearly teasing.

“I’m into you,” Alex says, and Willie has to press his face into the space between Alex’s body and the couch to hide his smile.

The thing about leaving a bad situation is that you start realizing just how much you’ve been missing out on. Willie, cocooned in Alex’s arms, is learning that the thing about landing in a great situation is that you don’t have to miss out anymore.

[ayellowcurtain]

The Sobbe gamers friends-to-lovers series

So even the prompt request has smut in it so this is a warning! Don’t read after this line!!! And the prompt has some dirty talking

Imagine Robbe and the broerrrs at chipotle or something and Robbe gets a text from sander about how he’s gonna fuck him when they have date night later that evening and so when they get to ordering he lies and says he’s not hungry cuz he doesn’t want to eat a burrito before bottoming and his friends call him out because he was starving minutes ago until he finally says why and Jens breaks out laughing but it takes a while for moyo and Aaron to figure out what he means

“Fuck…” Robbe exhales, leaning against the wall already like it’s too much work to stand on his own, “I’m tired.”

Sander purrs, standing in front of him, playing with his hair, “If I say sorry I won’t mean it…”

This is a nice surprise. Robbe wishes he had it every day: a sudden pull while he was walking out of school, only to find Sander inside the bathroom, smiling so confident, checking every bathroom stall to make sure they were really alone before locking them inside of one, looking at Robbe in surrender while he pushed his bag out of his shoulder and fell on his knees, all at the exact same time.

Robbe blushes a little, holding Sander by the front of his shirt, pulling him even closer because it feels like they’re never close enough “What will my friends say when I tell them I’m suddenly not hungry anymore?”

Sander lifts his eyebrows while looking down, trying to create more space so they can stand flat against each other, he carefully pushes his bag to the back of the stall so it won’t be right under them. Sander has a plan. And he teased Robbe about it every time he would stop what he was doing to give Robbe another piece of the puzzle.

He was going to meet the boys outside when Sander pulled him inside the bathroom all of a sudden. They were going out to eat, and Robbe planned on going home after that, to check if Sander was home from his classes too so they could play a little bit of video game.

Robbe was missing him terribly, spending a week with him was like a small taste of what a perfect life would be. It was almost a daily event: Sander would always fall asleep while lying his head against Robbe’s stomach. He’s one of those that needs a little nap after lunch. He says it doesn’t happen as often when Robbe is not around. The last thing in his mind was that Sander would be here, inside his school, ready to keep his hostage for a few minutes, definitely not long enough to cure how badly Robbe misses him.

“That you’re a lucky guy with an empty stomach.” Sander kisses him softly, creating a line of kisses all the way to his cheek, “That you have someone missing you so desperately much, that this person wants you nice and healthy, not too full because you’ll...need a lot of energy later to spend with them.”

Robbe wraps his arms around Sander’s neck and he’s about to say fuck it, and ask Sander to go home with him already, meet his friends some other time for lunch, go home and introduce him to his mom just so they don’t have to say goodbye now when they could very well start their date night earlier.

“I can skip my classes today...we could play some video-game…” Sander whispers against his ear, biting it lightly, making Robbe close his eyes, scratching the back of Sander’s neck to ask him to keep doing that.

They move like a magnet, meeting in the middle for a sudden and heated kiss, pressing Robbe against the wall that moves a little with how hard Sander pushed him suddenly. The last thing they would do if they changed their plans would be play video games.

“Go see your friends before I keep you here forever. And text me what they think of your lack of hunger.” Sander squeezes his ass and smiles coyly against his lips, “I think it’s cute.”

Robbe pushes him back until Sander hits the wall on the other side, as far away from him as the tiny bathroom lets them be, and he opens the door, grabbing his backpack on the floor and drags it out the small space he has to leave the stall, throwing it over his shoulder once he’s near the sinks, adjusting his hoodie, “If you don’t want me here anymore you can just say it.”

Sander snorts, grabbing Robbe’s arm while he’s trying to escape and he pulls him closer a little too fast, crashing their bodies together again in the middle of the bathroom, not caring if anyone can come in and see it.

“I want you here all the time, me inside of you would be perfect.” He whispers and Robbe sighs, closing his eyes for a second too long.

“Okay...I really should go now.” Robbe kisses his cheek as best as he can while still feeling out of it, thinking about other things, stepping back and Sander holds his hand, his fingertips when he takes another step back, “My friend offered me a room at her place...maybe you could help me with the move next weekend if you’re not too busy...”

Sander smiles, unable to hold Robbe, and he sighs, not very excited to think about moving when they both want to be doing better things right this instant, “It’ll be my pleasure.”

“I’ll text you the address when she sends it to me.”

Sander finally grabs his bag too, opening the door properly so he can step out and join Robbe in the main area of the bathroom, “I’ll bring you a house warming gift…”

Robbe lifts his eyebrows and Sander laughs, “A very comfortable bed.”

“Don’t spend your money on me.”

“I want to.” Sander steps closer, with that hoarse voice and Robbe steps back, stumbling over nothing on the floor.

“Just take your sweet, handsome, sexy body and help me and that’ll be enough.”

“I miss you already.” Robbe rushes to give Sander one last kiss, walking away too fast and Sander can’t hold him, push him inside and lock the door. He can only watch Robbe finally walk away, the old door taking some time to fully close, letting Sander watch Robbe turning his phone back on, looking over his shoulder at Sander and smiling.

-

“Thought the toilet had swallowed you.” Jens complains, and Robbe laughs because someone else did. He adjusts his bag on his shoulder.

“Sorry, I had to take a call…”

Moyo looks at him, really looks at him, frowning as deep as he can, trying to find something that Robbe doesn’t understand.

“Is that a secret code for you to tell us you were sharing a handjob with your boyfriend over the phone?”

“What?! No!”

Jens makes some fake sounds like he’s about to puke, walking around to breath a little bit and Robbe rolls his eyes.

“You’re so horny, bro! I get it!” Aaron nods his head like they’re aren’t talking about handjobs like it’s a mundane sobject.

“I wasn’t doing that! Who do you think I am?”

“A horny dog that now has a boyfriend.”

Robbe shakes his head, trying hard not to think of what he was actually doing.

“I’m not gonna eat but I’ll keep you guys company.”

Now they all look at him, and Robbe knows he won’t be able to pull this one off that well. He can’t bring himself to care that much about it though. Sander is still inside the school, and he’ll meet Robbe later. And they’ll spend the whole night doing far better things than a quick and dirty session in the school bathroom just to get their more desperate hormones out of their way. They’ll take their time, and have to keep each other quiet so his mom won’t hear them and ruin everything.

“You were starving ten minutes ago! Complaining for hours about how you wanted to eat.”

“I know…” He looks around. “But while I was on the phone I had a little snack so I can wait until I get home.”

Moyo rolls his eyes, not caring about his excuses because they are all hungry now. So they start walking to the nearest fast-food place and Jens bumps into Robbe when they’re almost there and Robbe looks at him, noticing how slow Jens is walking suddenly. He changes his pace too and soon they’re a good five, six feet away from Moyo and Aaron, talking loudly about something, always looking like they’re fighting when they’re just talking.

“You had a snack in the bathroom…while on the phone, huh?”

Robbe laughs with the way he says it, and he feels himself blushing, avoiding to meet Jens’ curious eyes, he keeps looking forward.

“Yes…?”

“Sure, Robbe. Yeah. A little snack and a conversation on the phone can really give you that I-just-came face. Yeah, right.”

“What the fuck?! I don’t have an I just came face!”

Jens sighs loudly, and he puts his hand on Robbe’s chest, stopping both of them.

“Bro, you have shit on your pants.”

Robbe freezes, looking down, pulling his jeans everywhere to look for what Jens is talking about. He overheats instantly when he notices there’s nothing there. He didn’t check when he left the bathroom because...Sander was sure to clean everything. With his mouth.

“Now you do have an I just came face.”

Robbe pushes Jens away and starts walking again.

[minijenn]

Keys to the Kingdom Preview

In which Sora realizes you need money to exchange for goods and services and also realizes that he’s got none of that bc the Duck and Dog Dads never let him carry any of their cash around. Also the child is starving. Fun!

***

The third night is the first he goes to sleep hungry. 

Sora leaves that first world not long into the next day, largely for one very simple, yet very important reason. He can’t find a single source of water anywhere, something that soon starts to become a problem when, after only a few hours of wandering under the relentless sun, his rising thirst slowly starts to turn into the first signs of dehydration. He’s already feeling weak and lightheaded when he caves to summon a dark corridor; and, as he’s quickly starting to get used to, he feels even worse after he crosses through it. 

He still doesn’t know how to control where his dark portals lead to, not that the destination really matters as long as it's as far away from either the lights or the Organization as possible. Fortunately, the first thing he sees as soon as he collapses out of the corridor is a river, rushing clear and cool just a few feet away from him. He nearly falls into it, desperately swallowing several mouthfuls of water until he ends up inevitably choking on it. His stomach settles rather quickly this time around, but he’s left with a lingering headache from the short trip through the shadows. He does what he can to ignore it as he splashes some river water onto his face, washing off the thin layer of dust and dirt he hadn’t even realized accumulated on it back in the canyon. 

Upon taking a cursory glance at the rest of his surroundings, he finds the river is bordered by dense trees on either side of it, woods that are more comparable to a jungle than a forest. The air is hot here, but different than it had been in the last world, much more humid and bearable as a symphony of wild sounds sing out from the surrounding trees. But what catches Sora’s attention the most is something he can see from his spot on the riverbank, resting downstream just a short distance away: a village. 

It’s a relatively tiny town, composed of a collection of simple huts and houses that are by most accounts, largely primitive. Still, Sora heads straight for it as soon as he sees it, knowing that where there’s a town, there’s bound to be something else he’s in need of if his rumbling stomach is anything to go off of: food. 

Despite its small size, the village is quite populous, filled with midday hustle and bustle of its humbly-dressed residents going about their usual business. Most of them barely notice Sora as he unceremoniously walks into town, though a few do spare him odd or curious glances as they pass him by. To not arouse any unwanted suspicion or alarm, he keeps his hands tucked into his pockets, his claws out of sight and his head down as he strolls into what appears to be an open air market of sorts. Several stalls have set up shop, pedaling a variety of goods and foods, from fruit to meat to herbs and more. Out of all this, the appetizing scent of freshly baked bread is what draws Sora over to one certain stall, one selling all sorts of loafs, biscuits, and even a handful of cakes. He eyes the impressive display hungrily before picking out a few delectable-looking rolls, as well as a few small, fruit-topped tarts for good measure. He’s still going through the stall’s stock, however, when its owner finally speaks up from her spot on the other side of it. 

“Your eyes certainly seem to be overloading your stomach, boy,” the older woman remarks, her face and tone both quite grouchy and detached. “That doesn’t matter much to me though, as long as you can pay for that stash you’re piling up there. You can afford all that, can’t you?”

“Oh, yeah, no problem,” Sora nods, shifting his potential purchases to rest on one arm. He searches his pockets, checking his jacket first and then his pants, only to quickly reach a very startling discovery: he doesn’t have any money on him to speak of. 

 Before, he’d never really needed to carry money on him. Between the three of them, that had usually been Donald’s job, a job he’d taken away from Sora relatively on into their first adventure together, claiming that he wasn’t “responsible” enough to handle their funds. Sora had playfully brushed the comment off at the time, and over the years, had largely gotten used to either Donald or Goofy keeping track of any money they obtained and what supplies they spent it on in his stead. Only now that he’s on his own without a single cent to his name that he wishes the pair had trusted him just a bit more, at least enough to carry a little of their money around, just in case. 

“Um… so… this is pretty funny, I’m sure you’ll get a good laugh out of it,” he begins, throwing on the most charming, pleading smile he can manage. “But... I don’t really have any money…” he hesitantly tells the shop owner, looking between her and the bread in his arms. “You… don’t happen to give out free samples, do you?” The shopkeeper only responds to his small, hopeful smile with a cross, deadpan look, one that gives Sora an answer that’s every bit as clear as words would have been. “Right…” he sighs in defeat, putting every piece of food right back where he found it. “Didn’t think so…”

He sullenly stuffs his hands back into his pockets as he walks away, trying not to steal a glance at any of the other surrounding food stalls, lest his unsatisfied hunger only continue to rise. He nearly makes it out of the market altogether before spots something he’s hard pressed to pass up: a stall selling several different types of fruit. Among them is his favorite by far, a treat he’d always enjoyed snacking on back on the islands: mangoes. The stall doesn’t carry many of them, in fact its entire stock seems to be rather small and largely unimpressive, but one is really all Sora wants right now. After all, something, even if it's something as small as a simple mango, is bound to suffice after three days of eating basically nothing at all. 

It’d be easy enough to just take one too. The stall’s owner has their back turned, preoccupied with going through the rest of what they have to put out. All he’d have to do is swiftly pass by, pick one up, and shove it into his pocket without anyone seeing. He’s not very keen on the idea of stealing, especially after how much trouble the unsavory act had gotten him into back in Agrabah. But there, he’d stolen a priceless, magical treasure; here, the only thing he intends on making off with is a single, largely inconsequential piece of fruit. And given just how hungry he’s starting to get, how bad could taking just one really be?

He nearly moves in to do exactly that, though stops short only a few feet away from the stall as a small child, no older than 6, suddenly runs out from behind it. “Papa! Papa!” the boy calls, standing on his tiptoes to peer over the edge of the stall. “Can I have one of the mangos? Please?”

The shopkeeper turns, a kindly-looking man, though his eyes are tired as he looks down at his young child. “Oh, I’m sorry, son,” he frowns, shaking his head. “But those are the last few we have. You know the harvest wasn’t good this year, and if we don’t sell those, we won’t have enough to get the materials your Mama needs to make you new clothes.” The shopkeeper smiles a bit as he steps out to hoist his son up into his arms, affectionately ruffling his hair. “You’re growing so fast that it’s getting hard for us to keep up with you.”

The child laughs as his father carries him back behind the stall, his former request for food all but forgotten by now. Neither of them notice that their warm exchange had been watched from afar, and as soon as it's over, Sora instantly feels guilty for even considering the thought of stealing from them. Of taking something from a family that clearly needs it to survive, simply for his own selfish, singular needs. He hangs his head in shame as he briskly walks past the stall, not even sparing it a second thought as he starkly leaves the village behind entirely. 

He finds a place to sleep not too far outside of town, in a well-shaded nook at the near edge of the jungle. It rains that night, and he largely doesn’t sleep, even though he manages to stay relatively dry thanks to the thick canopy of trees overhead. Because the entire night, the most he can really do is lie there, his arms wrapped around his empty, aching stomach, silently pleading for some kind of relief from the starvation he doesn’t know how to stop. Eventually, he somehow falls asleep, dreaming of all of the delicious dishes his mother used to masterfully make for him back home, from freshly steamed salmon, to sweet pineapple cake, to savory vegetable soup. Only to wake up the next morning, still longing for food, longing for his mother, longing for home. 

All while knowing painfully well that he won’t get to see any of those things any time soon. 

[arlathen]

i’m going to love you as i know how

rosanna x adam (2.5k) -- domestic violence mention cw 

They stumble in, giddy, tipsy. Kat doesn’t bother to click on a light, and at the moment, they don’t need one -- they’re not doing much looking, anyway. Kat crowds her against the sofa, lifts her up on the back so Rosanna has to hold onto her to avoid toppling. Her hands are up her skirt, thumbs drifting along the lace panels of her underwear.

The lace is nice, but the fun part’s in back. Straps and things. Uncomfortable for a night out, but worth it for this ideal end to a night out.

Kat’s lips at her neck, and Rosanna lets out a high moan. It’s a little forced, but she’s learned by now that it gets people going. It’s been like holding her breath, these last few months. Denying herself this. Fingers and toys get the job done on a technical level but it is nothing like this -- like having someone starved for you, and being able to serve yourself up to them. Being wanted. Having someone grateful for your presence and everything you do.

And why had she even bothered withholding? Because of something timid and tender and foolish in her, whimpering out that this wasn’t what it wanted? She’d been led astray by that voice before.

Rosanna pulls back, pushes Kat a step away, and then gestures to another sofa, outlined in moonlight. “Sit,” she says. And Kat obeys.

There’s the rush, there’s the flutter. The way Kat’s looking at her: so, so hungry -- so ready for what happens next. This is what she wants.

Rosanna clicks on a little table lamp by the door, finally, and the room is cast in dim creams instead. And then she undresses. Little black velvet mini dress. She tosses it on the floor in a way that is meant to look carefree but is actually quite deliberate. She doesn’t want to have to spend time searching for it when she sneaks out in a few hours. This is an old dance and she knows its steps without thinking about them.

She takes it slow as she makes her way to where Kat’s sitting. Turns in the right way to give her a good view of a very carefully chosen bra-and-pantie ensemble. Then she climbs into her lap, guides her hands to her hips so she can feel the fun bits -- the straps, the lace, the warmth of her skin where it peaks through.

This is what she wants.

Isn’t it?

From the console table by the door where she’d dropped her purse, her phone rings as if on cue. Rosanna straightens. “Let me just make sure that’s nothing important.”

It’s a little awkward, standing in dull silence in a near-stranger’s living room, dressed down to her intimates. The phone stops ringing as she reaches it, and she wakes the screen.

It’s 11:15PM. She has three missed texts and a missed call. All from Adam. And normally she might pull an annoyed face, snort derisively, toss it back into her bag and get back to business. Right now, she just stares at the messages. The last one, the only one the notification shows, reads, “Where are you?”

“Everything okay?” Kat asks, worry and anxiety high notes in her voice.

It isn’t. This isn’t what she wants. She wants it to be. She wants it to be so badly. This love in bite-sized pieces is so easy to swallow. She barely even needs to open her mouth to take it. And she’d been able to subsist on it for so long -- full up on crumbs. Why, now, does the thought of it make her stomach heave?

Rosanna blinks, shakes her head. “It -- I think so, but this does unfortunately need my immediate attention.”

“Oh.”

“I’m really sorry, honey.” She stands between Kat’s knees and tips her chin up to kiss her. “I’m gonna need a rain check.”

“Sure.”

“I’ll make it up to you. Promise.” And she collects her dress, pulls it back on. In a single motion, she collects her purse with one hand and the heels she’d kicked off by the door with the first too fingers of the other hand, and then she breezes out without so much as a pause.

 Wayhaven has largely not changed since she was a teenager. Especially in the dark, where new signage and missing trees are obscured. The smell of cooling concrete and the feel of dewy grass is the same, and the night symphony is the same, and the streetlamps cast the same orange glow. For a while, walking home, she is almost sixteen again. Tender, timid, and foolish.

She’s peeling the seed out of whirlybird when her phone rings again, and she drops the debris into the grass. Answers it with a curt, “What?”

“Rosanna.”

There’s a half-second of tempest in her at the sound of Adam’s voice. Happiness, longing, relief, warmth -- and then disgust, self-hatred, anger. Flickering back and forth, on and off. Puppy-dog joy and repulsion at the fact that she would feel that way about anyone.

She swallows it down, and her voice remains neutral: “What do you want, Adam?”

“Are you safe? Where are you?”

“Walking home.”

“Where?”

She sighs into the receiver. “Uh, approaching the corner of Maple and Church.”

And the line goes dead, so she walks on in silent dread. She wants to see him. She always wants to see him. The world grows a bit quieter when he’s there, everything still and safe. Her heart leaps at the thought of it. Puppy-dog joy. But she’s raw, now. Fragile and red.

She doesn’t think she could take it, being near him. She couldn’t take the drip-drop from the bathtub faucet at Kat’s -- so like hell can she handle a tsunami. Submerged in everything pouring out of him, all that might-be-love, and then grabbed by the scruff of her neck and yanked back up to surface. Might-be -- is-not, could-never-be.

“Jesus Christ, get a hold of yourself,” she whispers, and stops walking, stands in the shadow of a streetlamp with a knuckle pressed to her forehead. This is the voice of the mother she wishes she’d had. This is the woman who picked a scared teenager off the kitchen floor and sat her on the toilet seat and leaned close to the mirror to patch a split lip and smear bruise cream on a swelling cheek.

And she lies. This woman lies, and she’s a very good liar. She lied to nurses and doctors in the emergency room about stairs and car doors and clumsy, silly accidents. She lied to police officers, hiccuping sobs and feigning ignorance. And she lies to herself, sometimes, insisting this is what you want. But beneath the lies, this is the woman who keeps herself safe, even when it’s warm and the frogs in Cherry Park across the street are so loud, just like they used to be, just like summer nights before this Rosanna ever had need to exist.

One moment, she is alone, gazing out over the street lamps that dot the pavement trails crisscrossing the park, looking a little like the lonesome stars of a city sky. One of the last poems she’d ever penned, before she’d lost so much feeling in her heart that no blood came out when she tried to squeeze it over paper, had been about the stars in the city. Maudlin, clumsy verse. There are so many more stars in Wayhaven, with no light to drown them out. Out on full display with no shadow to shrink in to.

One moment, she is alone, and the next Adam is there. Falling in step beside her.

“What’s so urgent?” Rosanna says. Her fingers clench where they’re carrying her shoes by the heels, a proxy for a clenched fist. From the corner of her eye, she can see him examining her. She probably smells like alcohol. She wonders if she smells like Kat’s perfume. She wonders what conclusions he’s drawing.

“What’s urgent? Detective, you were missing for hours. No one knew where you were -- you didn’t answer your phone -- we thought something had happened --”

She holds up a hand to stop him and, surprisingly, he does. They walk on in silence for a moments, and then he exhales a tense sigh. “I say ‘we’ -- I mean ‘I’.”

“We don’t have to do this tonight.” She swallows, then laughs, weakly. “I say ‘we’ -- I mean ‘you’.”

“I don’t catch your meaning.”

“I don’t have it in me right now, Adam. I just deal with it, normally, everything you say and take back -- every time you --” She sniffs, hard, and scolds herself: you are not going to fucking cry in front of him. “But I can’t do it tonight, okay? So if you’ve got to follow me home, can you shut up and stay a foot away from me while you do?”

And, surprisingly, he does. The five minutes back to her townhouse are blessedly silent. The front room lights are on, the door left cracked. When she pushes at it experimentally, she finds it has been forced open, the strike plate torn out of the threshold. And she tenses, preparing herself to deal with having been burglarized, before Adam clears his throat: “I will have it fixed.”

“This was you?”

“I thought -- I was worried. Your car was here and you weren’t answering --”

She brushes her finger over the latch, and shakes her head at the unexpected fondness that overcomes her. Novel, to be worried after.

“I apologize, Rosanna.”

“I’m not upset.”

The silence between them is heavy as she stands in the kitchen and mixes herself a drink. Adam wants to leave desperately, she’s sure of it. Part of her wants him to leave desperately, too. She wants to curl up on the sofa and cry, and she can’t do that while he’s here. Because it would make him uncomfortable, and she loves him, and she doesn’t want to do anything that would make him uncomfortable. Because she doesn’t know what it would mean if he wanted to stay -- because she can’t remember the last time a hand that wasn’t hers has brushed tears from her cheeks.

“I admit, I thought you would be angrier.”

“I’m sure I will be in the morning. I’m just a bit lost in memory tonight.”

“Oh?”

The clink of her spoon against the glass slows a little as she leans against the kitchen island. “The first time things got bad with my husband, I locked myself in the bathroom. I thought I could just wait until he cooled off and then we could talk.” She taps the spoon against the edge of the glass to shake the last drops off, then tosses it in the sink. “But he kicked the door in. We never got it fixed. It was still broken when I sold the house. So it’s funny, to have another man I love break another door open -- just this time it’s because he wants to protect me.”

She glides over to the sofa and curls herself up on it, and her eyes settle on Adam, tense, stock-still. Love. Not a word she’d meant to say. It feels cruel, to heap something so heavy on someone who has told her time and time again that he does not want her. So she smiles, a little watery and wavering, and shakes her head in an attempt to be casual and reassuring. “Sorry. I’m talking too much. You don’t have to stay. I’m just going to finish this and go to bed.”

She’s holding on to herself white-knuckle. Vicious dog on a short leash. Please go, she thinks. Don’t make me let you see me like this.

She looks away then, down at the opaque peach of her drink, waiting for his silhouette to disappear from her periphery.

“Would you like to be alone?” Adam asks.

Would she?

Forever?

Does she have a choice?

No one has ever wanted her as more than a thing in lingerie. And being a thing hurts now. Prying open her mannequin mouth to take crumbs and crumbs and crumbs in exchange for being touched, in exchange for touching, hurts. They go down like hot ash.

She wishes she could want the cinders. She could never earn love, but lust was a fine enough substitute. In the dark, for a few minutes, it feels like love.

But she’s hollow, she thinks. If she were to beat on her chest, it would ring like a bell. Cold and empty and of no substance. A few breadcrumbs tumble over each other, down in her feet, when she walks -- but nothing could fill her up. And now that her molars have grown together, nothing will.

Do you want to be alone? She doesn’t. She desperately doesn’t. She wants to be something worth love. She wants to be a cherished trinket, held in a pocket, kissed for good luck. Warm to the touch, for being clasped in a hand so often. Plastic is still cold after you skim your fingers over it.

She flinches when his hand comes into view, pulling the glass cupped between her fingers with strange delicacy for a man so strong. He moves slowly, as if she would startle. Or maybe to give her time to tell him to stop.

She doesn’t. Hands free, her fingertips mere inches from him where he kneels before the sofa.

She’d once sat at the kitchen table with mascara running down her cheeks, hands trembling, as she made plans to bring about her husband’s death. She had thought at the time, fatalistically, that she might as well do it, because it wasn’t as though things could get any worse.

She finds herself thinking the same thoughts again. He doesn’t love her. He would tell anyone who would listen -- he does not love her. She is not a thing deserving of love. But he’s there before her, anyway, inches from her open palms. The worst that could happen, if she reached for him, is that he would pull away. Doesn’t he already always pull away? It isn’t as though things can get any worse.

So she reaches for him. She rests her fingers against the fabric of his shirt, over his shoulders, close to his neck. And she hardly even has to pull him towards her.

She expects the leash to snap, for the cracks in the dam to burst. Instead she finds the blood rushing in her ears goes quiet, and the world goes still, and all she can think for a moment is: this is what you want.

[ohokimdumb]

Carlos Oliveira Imagine (Desperate Boi) SMUT🙈❤️😜

Request:  Hiya, I'd like to request some Carlos who accidentally ingested an aphrodisiac and now his SO has to deal with it. I love Carlos so much, he's a big puppy dog. Why not get him to act like one in bed?

The pages of your textbook are dimly lit by the lamp on your nightstand. As you try to focus on what you’re reading, Carlos walks in the bedroom.

“Y/n, I wanna cuddle.” Carlos says. You aren’t sure if he’s begging or demanding cuddles. It’s hard to tell since he seems a little off.

“Can we cuddle after I finish reading this chapter for economics?” You ask. He pouts and flops next to you on the bed. You can tell he won’t give up easily. Carlos always respects your wishes and boundaries, but once he pouts...you know he’s desperate.

When you try to find where you left off, Carlos snatches you’re economics textbook. You try to reach for it, but Carlos tosses it across the room. His playful laughter fills the room as he overpowers you.

“Carlos, I really need to study for my exam next week.” You sigh as he places gentle, but hungry kisses all around your neck. As a natural reaction you wrap your arms around his shoulders from behind, as he fits his pelvis perfectly between your thighs.

“You...have...all...week.” Carlos reminds you between each loving kiss against the warm skin of your neck. A part of you wants to study, but you also desire being drowned in his kisses. A quiet moan unexpectedly emits from your lips; Carlos has always had such a strong affect on you. He’s also the kind of man to surprise his lover with affection, but this is unexpected. He was so content earlier cuddling with the new golden retriever you two adopted the other day. How is he so horny all the sudden?

“Are you feeling alright, babe?” You ask him, trying to hold back a moan as he kisses down your tummy.

“Better than ever.” He responds. He never says that. You sit up and startle Carlos when you take a handful of his cock. He’s hard a rock; harder and even bigger than usual. Carlos was born with a big package, but this is massive.

“Keep going.” He’s practically begging as he takes a hold of your wrist, attempting to force you to rub his cock. He’s never sounded so desperate to be touched before.

“Babe, did you...take something?” You curiously ask with an eyebrow raised. He sighs. Embarrassment spreads a bright red across his face as he nods.

“It was an accident, I mistook it for our happy pills.” You giggle as Carlos hides his eyes behind his black, fluffy hair. Setting a finger under his bristled chin, you force him to look in your eyes.

“We don’t want to waste it then.” You tell him and his lips form a devilish smirk. Carlos crashes his hungry lips against yours, forcing his tongue in your mouth. Your tongues play with each other as Carlos gently gropes one of your breasts. The kiss is so deep there’s no breathing room between you two. A low growl emits from his throat as you start to pump his cock through the fabric of his boxers. He doesn’t want to waste anymore time. Carlos wants you now, and he will have you.

Carlos only has to give a certain look and you’re pulling down his tight-fitting boxers down his legs. His large, throbbing cock springs free and you gasp as his size. You try and reach for his cock, but Carlos stops you by grabbing your jaw gently. He gazes into your eyes, a delicate smile spreads across his face. There’s no place you’d rather be knowing Carlos is ready to destroy your insides in the most sadistic way possible.

“You’re mine.” He whispers, placing a loving kiss against your soft, plump lips. You nod in agreement as Carlos gently pushes you back down. Your strong, South American lowers himself into position. Thighs trembling in anticipation, you grab at his neck. You want your bodies as close as they can get when he stuffs his cock deep inside you.

Carlos pumps his cock a few times before lines his cock with your center. He breathes heavy in anticipation, rubbing his cock between your folds. You squirm and Carlos gives you a disciplinary look. You want him more than ever. Your core clenches, in need to be filled by his large shaft. Digging your nails into the skin of his neck, Carlos flinches from the sudden pain. Truthfully it’s only a flea-bite to him, but it’s enough to get him riled up even more than before.

“Prove it.” You taunt Carlos and cocks his head to the side. He accepts your challenge. Carlos crams his cock into your center entirely. You cry out as your walls are spread without warning. Instinctively your nails dig deeper into his neck, a low growl emits from his lips once again. Now you know what an aphrodisiac will do to Carlos; he becomes more dominant and riled up than ever. Each thrust becomes quicker and more sloppy. His thrusts are slow, but still have an aggressive feel to them; your skin smacking together. Sweat seeps from your skin as Carlos takes you with such lust. He’s starving. Hungry for your warm walls, the taste of your delicious skin when he bites down and sucks, and your cries for more of his cock.

In an attempt to fit all of himself inside your walls, Carlos rests your legs over his shoulders so he has better access. He continues with his assertive thrusts, his cock plowing into you completely. Carlos doesn’t plan on showing you mercy. Your head starts to spin from the overwhelming, lustful feeling stirring in your core.

“C-Carlos...” You try to speak, but it feels as if you’re in an unbreakable trance the way Carlos is making your body submit to him. Your breasts start to aggressively bounce as Carlos picks up the pace with his thrusts. He removes your legs from his shoulders; he can tell you’re close to cumming from how your core is tightening around his cock. You whimper when he stops. Carlos smiles and leans down to take a nipple in his mouth; sucking and pinching gently. The ends of Carlos’ soft hair tickle your skin, sending a shiver down your spine while he continues to work at your breast.

“I wanna cum.” You beg, running a hand gently through his hair. A gentle sound emits from his throat as he twirls his tongue around your nipple. He releases his mouth from your nipple, a drizzle of spit connect the two; such a beautiful picture. Carlos flips you over, so you’re resting on your tummy. He kneads at your squishy cheeks before spreading them. Carlos admires the sight and slowly thrusts back into your core. You moan loudly; there’s nothing holding back your voice. Carlos’ muscles tense as your walls clench around his throbbing cock. He holds a strong grip on your hips that will surely leave bruises as he pounds into you. Your back arches as you feel a rush of ecstasy shoot down your spine to your core, leaving a pool of cum on the sheets. Carlos pulls out quickly, squirting his cum onto your stomach before he collapses next to you.

“Fuck...” Carlos says under his breath. You giggle and nudge him.

“Excuse me, but I need something to clean myself with.” You say.

He shakes his head, getting up from the bed. You raise an eyebrow as he pulls you off the bed by your legs. You squeal and he laughs, picking you up.

“We’re due for a shower anyways.” Carlos admits.

[airiat]

The Peasant from Lobinden

i was really inspired to write something that matches the mood of nocturnal forest from the witcher 2 ost. of course, my mind went right to iorveth. also, of course, i had to make this foreboding piece have a little touch of something soft.

if iorveth were to ever fall in love with a human, as unlikely as that is, i imagine it would begin something like this:

You are poor, you are starving, and you are desperate enough to seek the  thousand oren reward for a certain Scoia'tael commander’s capture.  Against every better judgment, you walk into the Flotsam woods to seek him out. If you’re lucky, you’ll even come out of them alive.

[CW: implied amputation, semi-graphic depiction of injury]

READ ON AO3

Twigs, dry and brittle, crackled like thunder underneath your bare feet. The Flotsam woods, with their ancient, towering trees, were a dark hand that wrapped around your throat and squeezed. Moonlight filtered in through the branches, the smothering canopy of leaves, but it was not enough to light your way beyond the dim flame of your candlestick.

You might have turned back, you should have turned back, but the undying symphony of the nighttime insects cloaked all other sounds that might have warned you of what was coming. Yet, their groaning trill was an omen itself. You should have heeded it. That night, however, you were not one who listened.

Never, ever go beyond the fires at the edge of the woods, you had always been told. Never, not even if your life depends on it.

In fact, your life did depend on it. You were poor, from a large family in Lobinden with a few more mouths than your parents could afford to feed, and you were the middlest child, the one most overlooked, the one who went hungry first. Your parents’, your siblings’ gazes would sweep over you as if you were nothing but air to them. It was this invisibility that you counted on as you stumbled through the woods, the pain of your hunger a string that tugged you forward.

You knew whose territory you were intruding in. You saw his face, cruel and unyielding, on the wanted posters plastered all over town. Iorveth, commander of the Scoia’tael, the rebel elves, terrorist to all mankind. But you also saw the promised reward for his capture or death written on those posters: one-thousand Temerian orens. How much bread that would buy you, how much delicate meat and fine cheese--more than you could ever eat. Never, ever would you go hungry again.

All that coin would be yours. All yours. Not your sister’s, your brothers’, your parents'. All of it for you.

You, with your tattered, dirtied clothes, the shoddy bow that once belonged to your grandfather slung over your back, the handful of arrows you fletched yourself in a cracked leather quiver at your waist. You would be the one to capture the legendary commander.

With every step you took deeper into the woods, you watched as the still shadows shuddered to life. Endrega, nekkers…elves. Any sort of monster could have lain beyond the twisted trail you walked. Your head jerked to the right, eyes catching a bare flicker of movement so unlike the rest. Was that the metallic flash of a sword? The silhouette of pointed ears? The blood-red impression of a scarf that hid horror?

You knew what was coming. You knew and you continued forward, gripping your father’s dagger even tighter, right into your doom.

How could you have seen the trap that waited with its jaws open in the middle of your path? You didn’t know these woods. You never strayed past the fires. You were just a simple peasant from Lobinden.

How could you have stopped yourself from screaming as the cold metal clamped around your ankle? You bit down on your lip in an attempt to silence yourself, tasted the blood of your agony. Like the teeth of the neighbor’s dog sinking down into your skin until it reached bone. You remembered how that felt. This pain turned that bite into a caress.

“Not many dh’oine I’ve seen who would walk willingly into these woods. Especially not ones who know they shouldn’t.”

Were you dreaming? Were you dead? If you were, this was a nightmare, this was hell. His voice spoke to you, cold and colored with amusement at your expense. Iorveth, the only hope of your salvation, stepped out of the shadows and into the weak light of your candle.

The elf was shorter, somehow, than you thought he would be. Thinner, less threatening. Somehow.

He was also more beautiful than you could have ever imagined possible. The candlelight cast hollows on his sharp features, made his single eye glitter like moonlight on the river Pontar, illuminated the leaves and branches inked onto his neck.

The wanted posters hadn’t shown any of those things.

Around the gasps of your pain, you whispered, “Was meant to…capture you.”

Iorveth tilted his head, took in the pathetic state of you, all the equipment you now realized was woefully ill-suited to the task you set out for. “You, a peasant from Lobinden, think you can capture me?”

When he spoke the words, you saw it then for the joke that it was.

“A thousand orens good for…so…much food…”

His brow furrowed, lip twitched. “You did this because you’re hungry?”

You swallowed back bile, nodding.

“I know something of that,” Iorveth muttered, reaching for the knife at his chest and unsheathing it.

Your shoulders unwound, a long breath tumbling past your bloody lips. He would kill you now and that would be the end of it all. The end of this torture, of the hunger scraping its vicious claws inside your stomach, of the march towards utter destitution.

But, instead, he bent down and twisted his knife into the mechanism of the trap. It sprang open, releasing you, and you cried out at the sudden rush of fierce pain. When it gave way to a dull sting, your hands fell to your knees, vision mottled with black spots.

Then, you heard the rustling of fabric and a faint thud as Iorveth tossed a hunk of bread down onto the forest floor in front of you. Scrabbling for it greedily, you sank to the ground, saw stars as you bit into the surprising sweetness of its crust.

This was heaven, wasn’t it? Gracious, blessed Melitele.

“You’ll die here, dh’oine,” spoke a soft voice from somewhere above you. “But no need to die starving.”

As you chewed piece after piece of this glorious bounty, you had some vague notion of the bow being lifted from your back, of footsteps retreating. You didn’t care about either thing. The bread clouded your mind with delusions of survival, held tight and fast.

Though numbness took the place of pain, you were aware of the blood that ran steadily from your ankle. You would lose your foot from this. It was a sure thing. That is, if you could even make it back to Lobinden first. Which…he was right. You would die out here.

That very thought sent you into some strange state of primal urgency, offering a last scrap of fortitude as you reached out and pressed your fingers against your wound. Warm, golden light, dazzling and divine, from the palm of your hand embraced the lacerations.

How…? You were not magic, had never even seen magic before. It did not belong to you, a simple peasant from Lobinden. Yet…

You were now someone much more.

Unable to help yourself any longer, you collapsed to the ground, sucking in shallow, haggard breaths. The smell of burning herbs fanned over you, rough leather gloves picked up your hand, and a dark shape blotted out the moon.

Were those pointed ears you saw? Someone's beautiful zefhar bow rising over their shoulder?

You slipped away before you could find the answer.

[valhallasubstitute]

That One

TLKFanFicFest

Based on the prompt: Enemies to Lovers, smut should definitely take place. They have been on opposite sides for years until one day changes everything forever.

@tlkfanficfest - I hope ya’ll enjoy it :)

WARNINGS: SMUT 18+, bondage, rough sex, oral (F receiving), mentions of injury, mentions of violence, unprotected sex - it’s the ninth century, they have an excuse, you don’t

Wc: 1993, super long soz

The ground beneath your feet had already converted to mud, coating your boots and the bottom of your shield as it dug into the earth. You could practically taste the battle to come, the violence, the bloodshed, your Lord’s desperate need for victory. You would not voice it but you did not have much hope for victory, but you were loyal so you stayed.

Unlike the man you had locked eyes on across the field.

You had first met Sihtric years ago, he had walked into your camp and gained your lords trust with reports of the Dane Slayer. Then he had betrayed him, killed him with Uhtred like his time with you had meant nothing. Had the two of you not been friends? Had you not cared for him?

After that each time your paths cross the hostility between you continued to grow, glares had turned into snide comments, insults had turned to the two of you being pulled apart to keep the peace.

A tiny scar on the right side of your neck a constant reminder of your last encounter. Amongst the hot rage you felt towards Sihtric you could still feel the cold press of his dagger against your throat. Your only satisfaction was that a dagger of your own had nicked his arm, deep enough you hoped to leave a matching mark.

‘Which one will you take first Y/N? I think I will have ugly one with the crooked nose.’ You snorted a little, you had fought in many battles and before each Sigrud was by your side, asking you to choose which man was yours to send to Valhalla.

You choice today was simple. Obvious to the others in the way your eyes burned and your voice dripped with venom.

‘That one.’

The path your sword carved was clear, the tip pointing directly at Sihtric.

He had not seen you yet, but he would.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*

You could not see the ground for bodies, bodies of men and women you knew as well as horses and Saxons. All were dead or dying, sent to their heaven or hell.

Or to Valhalla – the thought was almost welcomed. You were tried and defeat seemed inevitable, your lord would not be long for this world. The Dane Slayer may be a man of honour but you knew of men’s kindness, their mercy.

Despite the ache in your bones the sight of Sihtric on the ground, axe hurtling towards him and fear on his face, had you sprinting. He wasn’t meant to die by that oaf’s axe, he was yours.

With a fierce kick the man above him was sent sprawling to the clearing floor.

‘HE IS MINE!’ You spat the words from your mouth like arrows from a bow and your message hit its target, the warrior eyed you but did not protest – he would take another’s life instead, let the she-wolf have her way with the rat, he thought.

Sihtric scrambled from the ground, axe in hand and teeth bared. There was confusion in his wide eyes. You readjusted the grip on your blade, heart hammering as you stepped towards him. Each time the two of you had fought you had been evenly matched. But this wasn’t a alehouse brawl nor a swapping of sharp words – he was yours in this moment and your sword felt impossibly heavy.

You were so caught in the moment, the rush and the fear you almost missed the way his eyes flicked to your left and the raise of his weapon. Your eyes left his as your sword met Saxon steel, another blow following it, and another and the fight you were about to have with Sihtric was over before it begun.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*

You did not see Sihtric again until you were paraded through the courtyard, chains around your ankles and your sword stripped from you along with any sense of dignity you had left.

Your lord’s demise had been laughable, you had heard through taunts that he had fought with as much fire in his belly as a priest. He had been weak in his last moments and the shame would be felt by you and his other warriors until you found a new lord, that is, if you were allowed to live.

The look in Sihtric’s eyes told you that living wasn’t a likely outcome.

They bound you to the wall by your wrists, your hands going numb as the blood rushed from your strung up arms. The room they kept you in was dark and separate from the others.

After what felt like hours you finally heard footsteps coming your way, and despite whatever implications you were desperate for human interaction. That was until Sihtric opened the door.

‘Are you hungry?’  You watched him drink you in, eyes languidly following your form from the shackles that bound you to your boots that barely scraped the floor. At your silence he scoffed and closed the door behind him. It felt wrong to be shut in with him, no one to hold you apart, no one to temper the desire to tear each other apart.

‘Do you need to piss then? Answer me-

‘Or what? What will you do Kjartanson hmm? You’re nothing but the Dane Slayers dog, a lost little puppy.’ The hurt you felt, the memory of his betrayal sharpened your tongue.

‘I am a warrior!’

‘Is that why I found you on your back in the middle of battle, what a threat you must be.’ You knew the mocking would rile him and you smiled with satisfaction as he strode towards you.

‘If I am no threat then why did you spare me, what sort of warrior does that make you?’

‘Release me from these chains and find out.’ His face was inches from yours, hot puffs of breath fanning your face as his eyes bore into yours. There was anger there, danger and challenge. You couldn’t help the way your eyes flicked to his lips, half curled in a snarl but no less inviting.

The desire in your eyes must have been obvious, Sihtric didn’t hesitate to smash his lips into yours. As your tongues danced you fought against your chains, the desire to touch him was overwhelming. His hands where everywhere, gripping, pulling, making life pulse through your veins when hours ago you had been so certain of death.

You pushed your body flush against Sihtric’s and took pleasure in the way he moaned. Despite your restraints you could feel his arousal staining against his breeches. With his hands on your breasts you rubbed yourself against him, groaning against his mouth at the friction.

It was not enough and Sihtric seemed to sense it, his touch becoming more demanding, tugging at your belts . You whined at the loss of his lips and gasped as he yanked your trousers down to your ankles, exposing the part of you that craved him most.

You watched with bated breath as he dropped to his knees, half growling as he pressed his face between your thighs. His hands pushed your legs apart and his tongue lapped at your core as if he was a man starved. The curses that fell from your lips only seemed to spur him on and once he found your clit the only thing that kept you up right were the shackles that chained you to the wall. You could feel your climax building, coming closer and closer with each swipe of Sihtric’s tongue.

He pulled away abruptly and you flailed your arms in protest, the sound of rattling metal merging with a frustrated whine.

He stood before you, chest heaving and eyes set ablaze. As he hands trailed over your exposed skin the question in his look became obvious. The heat and passion and hate melted away and for a moment you could see that it was not hate at all.

But you were still in chains and while you could cry with want, you would not back down from any battle with Sihtric.

‘I would have you beg for it.’ The words were whispered but heavy.

You watched his lips curl into a snarl once more. His eyes darted from your flushed face to his belts as he undid them in haste and then he was picking up and slamming you onto his cock. He filled you completely, stretching you, pushing in and out, giving you no time to adjust.

You wrapped your legs around Sihtric’s waist, digging your heels into his lower back  as he gripped your arse. Each time he pounded into you it was like the anger you felt towards each other came to a head, each threat, each insult all leading to this moment.

You were fighting each other once more, using pleasure as your weapon. The prize was to watch the other fall apart.

His head rested on your shoulder as yours was thrown back, his teeth scraped against your skin and you could feel the coil in your stomach begin to tighten once more. You clenched around him and he …stopped? You groaned and slammed your head against his shoulder, trying your hardest to drag yourself along his length.

You could feel him smile against your neck, his lips coming to brush against your ear.

‘Beg for it…’ He nipped at the shell of your ear before trailing his lips back to yours for a bruising kiss. When you broke apart you were wanton. ‘Beg. For. Me.’ He emphasized each word with a deep thrust.

And you did, as his pace resumed his name fell from your lips like a Saxon prayer. You came undone with a blinding orgasm, the call of Sihtric’s name echoed off the walls and your legs felt weak. Your whole body felt drained and all you needed was to see Sihtric come before you could allow yourself to embrace the bliss.

His face twisted in pleasure, you dared not close your eyes for fear of missing a second of it. He slipped out of you with a sigh, his forehead resting against yours.

‘What happens tomorrow?’ He brought his lips to yours briefly, softly.

‘I don’t know, Uhtred hasn’t said what he plans to do with the prisoners.’ He must have seen your face fall, you hadn’t meant for your fear to show but after feeling so alive, so liberated from the fight and the violence and your own hurt, to die now would be beyond cruel. Even for the Gods. ‘He is a good man.’

‘You know that for sure?’ He smiled at you then, pulling up your breeches and re-lacing them.

‘I do.’

He left then, his gaze lingering before he closed the door.

*-*-*-*-*-*

You slept until morning and at first light your arms were released and your ankles bound once more.

Uhtred and his men stood on one side of the courtyard, they stopped talking as the last of you arrived. You found Sihtric in the crowd, your body still fresh with the memory of him and your heart aching with something you’d never felt before.

Uhtred stepped forward then, his voice demanding every mans attention.

‘Your Lord is dead. He died a coward and a fool…Lucky for you the rest of you fought with bravery and for that I offer you a second chance. Some of you have skill and that makes you valuable. Join me, pledge yourself loyal to Uhtred of Bebbanburg. Your past will be forgiven, your lords shame forgotten and you will be welcomed. All you need to do is step forward.’

He smiled as he finished talking but the tension was heavy and you could feel your men’s eyes falling to you. You were respected, skilled and sound of mind. The weight of their expectation would have crushed a lesser warrior.

It didn’t matter. None of that mattered.

Your eyes had found Sihtric’s and everything else seemed to melt away.

You stepped forward without a second thought.

[katierosefun]

ever in our favor

Summary: Anakin Skywalker liked to think he wasn't afraid of anything.Ahsoka Tano liked to think no one was afraid of her.Obi-Wan Kenobi liked to think he was too smart to be afraid.[or: the Hunger Games/TCW AU. Three different tributes from three different districts. A tech-whiz, a thief, and the son of a Victor who was cast into the Games on purpose. Happy Hunger Games, everyone.]

read on ao3 | read on ff 

wc: 5509

Anakin Skywalker liked to think he wasn’t afraid of anything.

He wasn’t afraid of Peacekeepers, for one thing, not when he could easily outrun any of them. Not that he had had to, not in a long time. He had once had to outrun them when he was little, back when it was easier for his mom to defend him against his stupid little tricks with the electricity or the radio system. He hadn’t meant to mess around with the radios, but he had, and he was pretty sure he somehow transmitted some music from District 11. He had thought it was rather nice, but then Peacekeepers had started looking for him, and his mother had insisted that Anakin was just a “silly little boy” who played with the dials because he had nothing better to do so please, punish me instead—

His mom had been punished that day, in the end. Tied to a post and whipped, and Anakin had screamed himself hoarse, and one of the other women had tugged Anakin aside, forced him to not watch, but Anakin could still hear the whip fall, and he could still hear his mom’s just barely restrained screams. No one had been allowed to touch her even long after the Peacekeeper had finished. Anakin remembered that it was summer, and it was hot, and he remembered being scared only then, even after his mom healed with the help of some of the other men and women in the district.

“Don’t be afraid, Ani,” his mom had said to him later that night, brushing her thumb across his cheek. “Because as soon as you’re afraid, that makes them happy.”

So he decided not to be afraid.

He wouldn’t be afraid—he won’t be afraid, not even if his name had been cast into the lottery more times this year than ever before.

Just twelve times, he thought. Things could be worse. He could have his name put in there nearly forty times, fifty times, which he knew some unlucky folks did for their families. But Anakin just had his mom and himself—no siblings, no dad. Just the two of them. Shmi and Anakin Skywalker.

Just twelve times.

And there weren’t even going to be as many tributes this year—there was only going to be one chosen per district this year for the Third Quarter Quell. Unusual, Anakin knew, but the president had promised that fewer tributes would mean an even more exciting game. Deadlier traps, higher stakes. Draw out the game longer than they had in previous years. Make people more desperate.

“You should eat something,” Shmi said now, pushing bread Anakin’s way.

Anakin looked down and found that it wasn’t the brown, hard stuff that his mom and he had to have most of the time. He found a round, soft roll instead, one without burn marks or mold or anything. Anakin looked back up, surprised.

Shmi smiled. “A gift,” she said. “Our neighbors wish us well.” She pushed the roll a little closer to Anakin. “Now go on, eat.”

He wasn’t really hungry—he wasn’t sure anyone was, not on Reaping Day, but—

Anakin tore the roll in half and pressed one half into his mom’s reluctant hand. “We’ll both need it,” he said, flashing his mom a quick smile. He stood up, forced himself to take a bite. They ate in silence.

The bread seemed to clog itself in Anakin’s throat, and for a moment, he wondered if he wouldn’t be able to swallow—but he eventually did, and then he heard the bells sound across the district.

A quiet gasp—not from himself, but from his mother, who reached over and grabbed his hand in sudden desperation.

“It’s okay,” Anakin said. He squeezed back his mom’s hand. “Nothing’s going to happen to me.” He looked at his mom, smiled again. “What happened to not being afraid?”

A silence passed, and then Shmi gave Anakin a weak smile. “You’re right,” she said after a little while. She lifted a hand, brushed her thumb under his eye like he was a nine-year old again. “I’m not afraid at all.”

“That’s the spirit,” Anakin said. He tugged at his mom’s hands. “Come on,” he said. “After this, we can listen to that music again. The singing, remember?”

Shmi’s face faltered for a moment. “You really should stop…”

“They haven’t caught me yet,” Anakin said with forced lightness. Not since he was nine years old, at least. Seven more years of getting familiar with the technology and goings-on of his district had taught him to be nimbler and smarter with what he did when he did them.

“No,” Shmi said. “I suppose they haven’t.” She squeezed Anakin’s hand again.

And they headed out to greet the rest of District 3.

--

Ahsoka Tano liked to think no one was afraid of her.

She used that to her advantage—she always had, ever since she was a little girl. She was smaller than most of the girls and boys her age, both in height and frame. So that made her forgettable. Peacekeepers were less likely to be suspicious of a small girl, and the others were less likely to point fingers at someone as seemingly innocent as herself. But Ahsoka knew the truth about her own self: she’d known enough about herself to use that appearance to her advantage, starting from when she was old enough to work in the fields. Her baggy clothes made for useful ways to pocket more food and sneak back to her dad and her friends.

And she hadn’t been caught once—the Peacekeepers hadn’t ever noticed, and Ahsoka had always been careful to swipe only enough in haphazard places. The closest she ever got to getting caught was the time she stole a whole loaf of bread from a Peacekeeper, but by the time he had discovered the thieving, Ahsoka and the other field workers had already been long gone, and luckily, the Peacekeeper’s dog had been close enough to be the suspected thief instead.

She got away with those little things easily, and no one ever suspected her. So Ahsoka told herself that if she got chosen, then—

Ahsoka curled her hands over her lap.

But she didn’t want to be chosen—

She couldn’t be chosen. This was only her second year. She only had her name in three times. Her three older brothers—Wolffe, Boost, Sinker, and Comet—all had their names in more times than her, Wolffe with the highest: forty-two pieces of paper with his name would be in the lottery today. Eighteen years old and covering for all five members of their family. And Ahsoka knew that next year, Boost would be the one covering for all of the, and then the year after that, Sinker, and then Comet.

A part of Ahsoka wondered if her dad ever regretted having as many children as he did—they weren’t even technically related, not by blood anyways. But Plo Koon had always been a man with more heart than he probably needed, and there were many starving babies left on porches a decade or so ago, when District 11 got hit with an unexpected frost overnight.

The only real blood relations might be amongst Ahsoka’s brothers—they had been a whole set, Wolffe being the oldest and drifting along with his younger brothers when Plo Koon found them hovering near the market.

As for Ahsoka, she was told that she had just been dropped at Plo Koon’s doorstep in the middle of the night, and that had been that. Ahsoka didn’t try to figure out who her birth parents were—as far as she was considered, Plo Koon was her dad, and that was all that mattered.

Ahsoka curled her hands over her knees. She glanced around her room—really, the whole family’s room, separated only by curtains, but she liked her little space. She fingered the hem of her skirt: a pretty red thing that fell right above her knees. She had only worn it once before, on her birthday. She thought it was fitting that she should wear it on Reaping Day.

The slight brush of a hand against the curtain behind her was what brought Ahsoka’s head up.

“There you are,” Plo Koon said, sitting down next to Ahsoka on her bed. “I figured you might be here.”

Ahsoka smiled. Tried to smile. “Do we need to go?” she asked.

“Not yet,” Plo Koon replied. He turned around, and Ahsoka smelled the flowers before seeing them first. She smiled for real this time as Plo Koon tucked a red-orange flower right into her hair. “Do you know what this is?”

Ahsoka concentrated for a moment, trying to remember, and then she said, “Marigolds. Tagetes patula, to be exact.”

“Correct,” Plo Koon said, his eyes wrinkling a little bit at the corners as he smiled. He leaned back, tilted his head, and suddenly that smile turned sad, and Ahsoka knew what he was thinking, because she was thinking and dreading the same exact thing too.

There was the sound of rushing feet and curtains being batted aside, and suddenly, Wolffe and the others were crowded around Ahsoka’s little space, breathing hard but eyes bright. Ahsoka knew that they had just spent the last few minutes running through the district—they always did, to work off the nerves and, as Sinker once put it, “to piss off the Peacekeepers one last time”—even though all the Peacekeepers were busy with the Reaping Day preparations. (“Don’t,” Wolffe would always groan.)

“Look at you,” Comet was saying, flashing Ahsoka a grin. “Nice flower.”

“Don’t laugh,” Ahsoka said, flicking Comet on the shoulder. She nodded at Plo Koon. “He got some for you guys, too.”

“That’s true,” Plo Koon said. “Come here, boys.”

“Dad—”

“Come on, I think we’ll look pretty, don’t you think?”

Some grumbling and laughter later, and the whole family had flowers tucked behind their ears.

Boost and Sinker looked at each other, snickered, and then bowed their heads, nearly knocking their foreheads together. (“You look lovely, Sinker.” “No, you, I insist—”)

Ahsoka smiled at her family. They would be just fine, she told herself. She looked up at Wolffe last, who was watching their brothers with some restrained amusement. Wolffe caught her staring, and he smiled—rare, coming from him, but Ahsoka figured that they all needed it.

We’ll be fine, she thought again. She adjusted the flower in her hair and looked out the window, where people were already starting to trail out of their homes. They would be just fine.

--

Obi-Wan Kenobi liked to think that he was too smart to be afraid.

Being afraid made people lose focus, made them do stupid things like run or jump without looking where they were heading. That was what he had learned from his time watching countless games, ever since he was a child. He would watch them even when his father wasn’t, because even though his father was one of the many famed Victors of their district, Obi-Wan liked to be prepared.

Which was why he had taken to learning and quietly training on his own when he was little—and then his father had caught him, and instead of reprimanding him, Qui-Gon Jinn had only adjusted Obi-Wan’s grip on the makeshift spear he had made for himself (really nothing more than a large stick that Obi-Wan had sharpened to a point).

And of course, the Peacekeepers, had they seen anything, didn’t argue. Secret training in preparation for the games was commonplace enough in District 1. If anything, it would have been strange if the Victors didn’t train their own children, blood-related or not.

Obi-Wan pushed himself away from the back door of the house—mansion, really, but Obi-Wan always referred to it as a house in his own mind. He stepped across the backyard, looked at the lemon trees that made a semi-circle around the perimeter of the yard. Obi-Wan reached out for one, scratched at the peel. Rolled it between his hands. Wondered if there would be any trees in the arena. One time the games had been a frozen wasteland, which hadn’t been fun—most of the tributes had just froze to death, with lips blue and eyes still open. There had been a desert before too, all dunes of orange and yellow sand, and that had gone poorly as well. Most tributes either went mad with thirst or simply laid down and refused to get back up due to the heat.

“Here again?”

Obi-Wan turned to find Qui-Gon standing at the back door.

Obi-Wan held up the lemon in his hand. “This was about to fall off anyways,” he said, tossing the fruit over to Qui-Gon.

His father caught it one-handed. “So it was,” he said. He looked up at Obi-Wan. “What do you see?”

“Seven lemon trees,” Obi-Wan said. “One of the trees is growing sick. We’ll have to take care of it soon.”

Qui-Gon’s lips twitched. “What else?”

Your shirt’s looser than it was last week, Obi-Wan thought. Dark circles under his father’s eyes, skin paler than normal.

Obi-Wan said as much.

Qui-Gon smiled. “Good observations,” he said.

Obi-Wan didn’t smile back. He took another lemon from the tree, found the grey rot on its underside. He frowned, tucked the lemon in his own pocket to dispose of it properly later. He looked back to his father, found that Qui-Gon’s smile had faded.

“When you go into the arena,” he said, “you’ll have to make sure you’re always observing. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan replied, walking back to the back door. He started to walk past Qui-Gon, but his father caught him by the shoulder.

Obi-Wan looked up at Qui-Gon.

Qui-Gon looked back down at Obi-Wan intently. A moment passed before he said at last, “I’m sorry that it has to come down to this.”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Obi-Wan said. He took out the rotting lemon in his pocket and stepped through the back door. He threw it in the bin, where it landed with a satisfying thunk. The bin had been meters and meters away, but Obi-Wan’s aim had been perfect.

He saw Qui-Gon nod—just the slightest tilt of his head to signal his approval.

Obi-Wan looked at Qui-Gon. “When she calls my name,” he said, “am I supposed to react in any particular way?”

“Don’t look afraid,” Qui-Gon replied.

“I won’t.” Obi-Wan turned to the hall mirror, adjusted his clothes: a white shirt, dark trousers. They didn’t need any actual adjusting, not with the clothes tailored specifically to his size and shape, but still. Obi-Wan made eye-contact with Qui-Gon standing behind him.

“I don’t suppose you have any idea what the other tributes will be like this year,” Obi-Wan said, moreso a statement than a question.

“They’ll be more desperate,” Qui-Gon said.

Everyone was going to be desperate.

Obi-Wan nodded anyways, straightened himself one last time. Then the bells were ringing over the district, signaling everyone to come for the Reaping. A part of Obi-Wan wished that they didn’t all have to gather in one place—really, there was no point, when he knew that he was going to get chosen anyways. Not that anyone else did.

Obi-Wan turned to Qui-Gon.

“I’ll see you on the train,” Qui-Gon said. “And remember: play the part.”

Play the part—be the triumphant, happy Career, son of the Victor that Panem expected. Proud to get a chance to prove to the rest of Panem that he was, in fact, just as much the talented and clever soon-to-be-victor that his own father was.

Obi-Wan nodded.

--

There were too many people clustered in one area, and there wasn’t enough space.

Really, Anakin wished that the Peacekeepers could have chosen someplace else to hold the reaping, but the Hall of Justice had to do, even though the inside hall was too small to fit everyone inside. There were a few children in the roped-off sections outside. Anakin didn’t know why they couldn’t all be outside, with at least more room to breathe, but there was something about apparently the back mural of the Hall of Justice—a ridiculous piece commemorating the Capitol—that was perfectly perfect for the rest of the Capitol audience.

Anakin didn’t like the mural. There were too many bright colors, and the faces looked all wrong.

He turned to find his mom. She was standing at the other end of the hall, where all the other parents were. Shmi caught his eye and smiled weakly, fluttering her fingers over at him.

Anakin smiled back, but then the sound of someone clearing a throat drew everyone’s attention back to the front.

“Welcome!” a man in a ridiculously flashy, ridiculously golden suit smiled blandly at the crowd. Anakin couldn’t help himself: he laughed a little to himself. Everyone knew who Threepio was, the escort well-known for his silly little tirades about nothing in particular. “Ah, there are quite a lot of you, aren’t there—yes, more faces than last year…” An awkward little laugh to himself, which no one responded to.

“Well, yes,” Threepio said, blinking down at them all. “Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds—”

Be ever in your favor, Anakin finished for him.

“Today, we are joined by—ah, yes, Miss Amidala, hello, ma’am, so good to see you today!”

There was a sudden rustling in the crowd as everyone lifted their heads at the name.

Including Anakin’s, as he watched District 3’s sole victor walk across the makeshift stage.

She wasn’t that much older than him—Anakin remembered her own games five years ago, back when she was eighteen and he was thirteen. He couldn’t remember much then, except that he thought she was the most beautiful person in the world, with dark hair and even darker eyes. The other tribute had been his age too. Another thirteen year old boy, who Anakin watched die with a spear in his chest.

“Thank you, Threepio,” Padmé Amidala said now, tilting her head at Threepio. She looked out to the crowd, and Anakin’s breath caught in his throat.

“Now we can begin!” Threepio said in that blandly cheerful voice. He turned to the little crystal ball full of leaflets.

Anakin turned to his mother again.

But Shmi wasn’t looking at him—she was whispering something into a crying woman’s ear, probably reassuring her of whatever was to come.

And then someone jostled into Anakin, and for a moment, all he felt was himself being shoved to the ground—someone had fainted, he realized, and he looked down to shake the person next to him awake, come on, get up, don’t do this now—

The boy—because it had been a boy who had fainted right into Anakin, blinked up at him with glazed eyes. “I don’t wanna go,” he whispered.

“You won’t,” Anakin whispered back. “Just get up, before you create a scene. Okay?”

The boy only whimpered, curled in on himself. He couldn’t have been that much older than twelve. Anakin looked around, wondering if he had any siblings, anyone who could—

“Listen,” Anakin said, looking back down at the boy. “Don’t be afraid. Okay?” He tugged at the boy’s arm, forcing him upright. “Because as soon as you’re afraid, that’s when you make them happy. And we can’t let that happen, can we?”

The boy’s bottom lip wobbled.

“Can we?” Anakin repeated.

The boy shook his head.

“Great,” Anakin said. “Good.” He tugged the boy up to his feet. “So come on. Don’t be scared now—” But then he realized that there were other eyes on him, not just the boy beside him. He could feel the shift in the air, the sudden turn of heads.

Anakin paused, and then he looked up.

“Anakin Skywalker?” Threepio’s voice called. He was craning his neck over the microphone, hand over his eyes. “Is that you over there, boy?”

Anakin stared.

Mom, where’s Mom—

Anakin looked to the side.

He found Shmi staring back at him, her eyes wide and fearful, hand clapped over her mouth because—

Oh, he realized. He hadn’t heard Threepio the first time, because he had been busy with the kid—

“Anakin Skywalker, if you can come up now please—”

Anakin slowly turned back around to the stage. He heard, rather than saw, the others shift around him. People slowly stepping out of his way, creating a straight path between himself and the stage.

Anakin took one step.

Two steps.

And then he was walking across the hall, to the stage.

He climbed up, hoping that his steps were steady. He wasn’t sure if they were.

“Ah, yes,” Threepio said from somewhere in front of him. “Here we are.”

Anakin lifted his eyes. He saw a blur of a face, realized then that there was a hand guiding his back so that he could turn to the crowd. “Our tribute from District 3!”

Anakin looked to the crowd. Mom, where’s Mom—

But he couldn’t see anyone’s faces. The lights were too bright, and there were suddenly so many cameras, and Anakin could only blink at them all. He felt a cold hand wrap around his wrist, hoist it into the air.

Our tribute from District 3—

--

There were too many people clustered in one area, and there wasn’t even a breeze to keep off the heat.

Ahsoka swiped at the sweat dripping down the back of her neck. She was glad that her clothes were relatively light, but still. She looked over at her brothers, who were all lined up together near the back. Ahsoka catches their eyes, and they all make a face at her. The joke is clear: bored already.

Ahsoka stifles a smile and turns to the front, surprised to find that there is a different escort than the one that usually greeted the tributes. Gone was the previous Capitol man with his strange assortment of clothing and wigs, but instead, there was a pale—remarkably pale—woman with long legs and a completely shaved head save for a few elaborate purple tattoos.

“Look alive,” the escort said, bored. There was a little bit of a rustling amongst the crowd at that—look alive hardly seemed like the appropriate greeting, but—

“Ah, yes, and welcome to the Hunger Games, Reaping, et cetera.” The woman’s sharp eyes surveyed the crowd for a full second before adding, “We might as well get started. Our dear victor isn’t able to make an appearance today, caught up with very important matters all relating to the games, of course, and et cetera.”

You already said that, Ahsoka thought.

“So let’s just get this show started, shall we?” The woman reached into the crystal ball faster than Ahsoka anticipated, and something in her lurched because she wasn’t ready for it to be done that quickly—

Ahsoka blindly turned to her brothers again, and they were already waiting for.

Wolffe mouthed something: it’s fine, and then—

“Ahsoka Tano.”

Ahsoka was still looking at her brothers, so she saw the horror on their faces before she felt her own.

And then Wolffe started moving forward, which was how Ahsoka knew that wait, this was happening, and wait, what was Wolffe doing—

“I volunteer,” Wolffe said quickly, stepping out onto the path between the boys and the girls. “In Ahsoka Tano’s place—I volunteer as tribute.”

Ahsoka’s ears rang. Wait, Wolffe, no—

A silence, and then the escort smiled. Ahsoka wasn’t sure how she could be smiling at a time like this, but the escort only lifted up the leaflet bearing Ahsoka’s name. “Sorry, sweetheart,” the woman said, “but president’s orders. No volunteers for this Quarter Quell.”

Another ripple through the crowd at that news.

“Wait—” Wolffe started. “But we didn’t—”

“Of course you didn’t hear it yet,” the woman said, folding the leaflet in her hands with a few deft strokes. “News gets around the districts slow, doesn’t it? But rules are rules.” Her sharp eyes combed through the crowd. “Now, Ahsoka Tano, do come up—we’ve got a long day ahead of us, and the day’s rather hot.”

Ahsoka didn’t feel hot at all. She was cold all over.

Ahsoka looked at her brothers again. They were all staring at her, pained and wide-eyed, and she saw a sudden burst of movement—but then Wolffe was holding them back because the Peacekeepers were suddenly closer now.

It’s fine, Ahsoka thought. She looked at her brothers, gave them a tight nod. I’ll be fine.

She wondered where her dad was. She didn’t know where he went or where he was located here—probably with the other parents, but what was he doing now? She dully hoped that there was someone around to comfort him, because no one could move until she left with her escort.

Ahsoka made her way to the front, hearing only the whispers of some of the other girls as she weaved through them. For a moment, she thought they wouldn’t let her get past. It was almost as though all the other girls were desperately trying to keep her in, keep her from entering the games, and the thought almost made Ahsoka stop walking altogether.

Someone squeezed Ahsoka’s arm. She wasn’t sure who, but then someone else was touching her shoulder, another was brushing the hair from her face, another was readjusting the flower near her ear. And Ahsoka emerged from the crowd with the ghost of touches from the others in her district, and then she was at the front of the stage, looking up at the pale, long-legged woman.

“Well, come on up,” the woman said, jerking her head.

Ahsoka straightened her shoulders. Headed for the stairs. She looked to the back of the stage—thought she saw something moving in the background, but then she was being turned to look at the cameras gathered around her.

A pat on her shoulder from the woman. Her hand was cold.

“Our tribute from District 11,” the woman said flatly to the cameras. She looked down at Ahsoka, nodded her head to the cameras again. “Anything in particular you want to say while the cameras are still rolling, sweetheart? Give a good first impression for all of us?”

Ahsoka stared up at the woman. This wasn’t usually how most reapings went—she wasn’t sure if this new escort was making fun of her or not.

Ahsoka looked to the cameras.

People aren’t afraid of you, a voice whispered at the back of her head. Make them keep thinking that.

So Ahsoka only smiled—her sweetest, most naïve smile, the kind that she only ever gave when she was trying to wheedle her brothers into doing something for her. She twirled a strand of her dark hair around a finger and waved at the camera until her wrist hurt.

--

Obi-Wan didn’t care if there were too many people clustered around the area. He’d be separated from the rest soon enough.

He saw some boys and girls toss curious glances his way. Some sneers, but most just watched him with a wary eye. Obi-Wan already knew most of them were running statistics in their heads: trying to guess whether or not he would be able to get drawn. He was eighteen—his name would have technically only been cast seven times, and he didn’t have any need to cast his name any more than that.

Obi-Wan didn’t bother meeting the stares of those who looked at him. Let them stare, he decided. He would be under the attention of the entire country in just a few minutes anyways, and in just a few days, he would be under the attention of the entire country for hours on end. He might as well get some more practice now.

Not that he hadn’t had practice before. Being the Victor’s son always got him an extra glance or two in school, in the streets. He remembered a boy had once asked him if his father ever told him stories of the games, so Obi-Wan had made one up on the spot, just so the boy could leave him alone.

The truth was Qui-Gon didn’t tell Obi-Wan too much of his own experience in the games. There had been some clips played, of course, during each reaping—clips of his father emerging victorious out of a dense jungle with mud and blood splattered across his face, but he had been standing defiant until the very end.

Obi-Wan figured he wouldn’t get a jungle, not for his games. The game-makers didn’t like repeating themselves, and from what Obi-Wan had watched from the recordings of his own father’s time at the games, he was a little glad he wouldn’t be stuck in a jungle. There had been great bugs that sucked their victims dry of blood, suffocating mists that left their victims choking on their own vomit and spit, vines that came to life and tried strangling their victims to death whenever things got a little too slow. Obi-Wan had watched a clip of his own father use one of those vines to his own advantage, somehow manipulating them into choking one of his pursuers instead.

Qui-Gon had shut off the television after finding Obi-Wan watching that recording.

They hadn’t spoken about it afterwards, and when Obi-Wan went to search for the recording of those games again, he found that they were deleted from the television. He was fairly sure the Capitol didn’t allow such behavior, but he didn’t ask questions, and his father didn’t give him any answers.

Obi-Wan watched some of the clips from the previous games play before him now: shots of his father, and then shots of the other victors from the past in their final moments. Most of the victors were from District 1, District 2, District 4. All of the more favored districts. But there was the occasional victor from the other districts—Mace Windu from District 7, Quinlan Vos from District 5, Luminara Unduli from District 8, and most recently, a young girl named Katooni from District 12. That had been a surprise to all—the girl was no more than twelve years old, and yet everyone had watched her confuse her opponent into falling off the edge of a cliff. There weren’t any other living victors from District 12—Obi-Wan tried to imagine this child now attempting to mentor and get sponsorships for someone who might potentially be older than herself.

And now, finally, the escort—a young, blonde woman who Obi-Wan knew as Satine Kryze, although he couldn’t be sure that was her real name—all the Capitol people made up their own names by the day, it seemed. He had only ever met her a few times, once in his own home. She couldn’t have been that much older than himself, and he remembered being confused why there was a random girl in the hallway, but then she had just given him a quick, appraising look before walking out.

Obi-Wan only found out that he was to be the new escort a few weeks ago, and now, if it hadn’t been for the fact that Qui-Gon had told him that the girl in their home was to be the escort, he wouldn’t have guessed looking at Satine now: she was dressed in a particularly voluminous blue dress, her hair piled atop her head in an elaborate headset.

“Welcome,” Satine said now, nodding at the crowd as though they were all good friends. “And welcome to the 75th Hunger Games. May the odds be ever in your favor.” Her lips curled into a slight smile, as though she knew something that the rest of the district didn’t. For all Obi-Wan knew, she might already know what the game makers were planning. He didn’t put it past the escorts for his district to somehow already have some inside knowledge with the rest of the games.

And beside Satine, Obi-Wan saw his father. Still wearing the same loose shirt, loose pants that was only halfheartedly held up by a belt, but someone had applied enough makeup to reduce the dark circles under his eyes.

“May the odds be ever in your favor,” Satine repeated, and then she dipped her hand into the bowl.

And when she said his name—it didn’t matter if his name wasn’t actually on the leaflet she had pulled, she would say his name anyways, that was the deal, Obi-Wan knew, Obi-Wan pressed through the crowd without a second thought. It wasn’t difficult for him to keep his shoulders back, chin up.

Don’t look afraid, Qui-Gon had told him.

Only idiots get afraid, Obi-Wan thought. He kept his hands at his sides, mounted the stairs to the stage. Satine and Qui-Gon both looked at him, gave him a slight nod as he made his way to the front of the stage.

He looked at the cameras and smiled.

Let the games begin.

[httpjeon]

— 03. bunny blues: insecure | yoongi & jungkook

yoongi/reader/jungkook | angst | hybrid!au

wordcount: 2.2k

― synopsis: feeling insecure in yourself, yoongi picks up on the change in your behavior.

contents: doctor!seokjin, rlly soft concerned caring yoongi, jungkooks still kind of a dick, doctor visits, insecurity, crying, mentions of depressive behavior

note: reader is a bunny hybrid, kook is a dog hybrid, and yoongi is a human!

blog masterlist ɪɴᴅᴇx: 01 | 02 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08

© httpjeon 2019. do not repost, modify, or translate.

It was killing you inside, keeping to yourself. Every time you blew Yoongi off when he wanted to pet your ears or you ignored him holding out his hand for you to take, you pretended not to notice the sad smile he offered you after you rejected him.

He just felt sorry for you and he was indulging you. Once he got used to the new you, he'd be happy.

That's what you thought, what you believed.

It had been over a week since you began working on yourself and to your surprise, Yoongi called you to the living room expressing he had a surprise. When you wandered into the living room, you found him building a vanity for you -- it was white with a big mirror and pretty lights around it.

"How about you go pick a place for this, yeah?" Yoongi grinned, messing with a couple of screws.

Before long it was in your bedroom, nestled beside your window which also allowed for lots of natural light to seep in.

"Do you like it?" He asked, placing his hand on your head.

"Y-Yeah," You ducked to get away from his touch, even though you desperately wanted more.

You missed the fleeting look he gave you as he wandered out of your bedroom with his head hung.

Once he was gone and your door was shut, you took a seat at the vanity on a little stool he had given you. Staring at yourself in the mirror, you heaved a sigh at how sad you looked. You wondered if Yoongi could notice it as well.

Yoongi wandered back into the living room and sat on the couch beside Jungkook, who immediately rested his head on his lap.

"What's the matter, Hyung?" Jungkook asked, smiling when Yoongi began to scratch his ears.

"_____ is acting strange," He sighed, missing the way Jungkook stiffened.

"What do you mean?"

"She's really withdrawn and she won't let me touch her much," Yoongi muttered before suddenly moving forward, making Jungkook whine. "I'm gonna make her an appointment with the doctor,"

"Hyung, she's probably fine don't overreact," Jungkook pouted, making Yoongi pause.

"You think I'm overreacting?" He whispers, carding his fingers through his pup's hair.

"She probably just needs some space, yeah?" Yoongi nodded, finally settling into the couch with a sigh.

When you woke up the next morning, you could hear Yoongi and Jungkook laughing from down the hall. You crept from your bedroom and found your way to Yoongi's bedroom -- a place you hadn't yet ventured into. It didn't feel right to enter his space like that.

Inside, Jungkook was rolling around on the plush, white duvet on Yoongi's bed while he other laughed. Yoongi's grin was beaming, eyes bright as he playfully tugged the hybrid's ear.

He's mine, not yours.

Jungkook's words rang through your head, reminding you that you weren't truly part of this family. Feeling tears prick at your eyes, you scurried back to your bedroom and climbed back into bed to hide from your feelings.

You were awoken again, having fallen back asleep, to soft knocks before Yoongi poked his head inside.

"Hey pumpkin, I made some lunch, you hungry?" He asked softly, not fully entering the room.

"Lunch?" It was lunch time?

"Yeah, I didn't want to wake you for breakfast since you were still sleeping," He explained.

Yeah right, he probably just didn't want you there.

"I-I'm not hungry," You replied, hurt by your own ugly thoughts. This wasn't Yoongi's fault -- it was yours. You couldn't be mad at the kind man who looked after you, who took you in.

"Are you feeling alright?" He asked, finally meandering fully into your room. Your back was to him but you could hear his bare feet on the wood floor as he approached.

"I'm okay," You whispered, rolling onto your back to look up at him.

He was frowning, gazing almost suspiciously down at you. You nearly jumped when his hand found your forehead. He sighed before moving it to cup your cheek.

"You don't have a fever. Do you feel nauseous?"

"I-I...just don't have an appetite..." You whispered, grabbing his wrist to pull his hand away from you. It was almost impossible to muster the courage to do that -- you just wanted to nuzzle into his touch so badly.

"Alright, if you say so," You mentally cringed as you realized he didn't believe you.

You weren't exactly lying, you didn't have an appetite but you also mostly just didn't want to go out there with them. You'd be faced with Jungkook's glare and having to watch them be close as you could only watch from the outside -- never able to get in like you wished to.

He shut the door behind him, leaving you still curled up in bed all alone. He stormed into the kitchen, where Jungkook was.

"I'm calling the doctor," Yoongi said, leaving no room for argument as he walked into the kitchen.

"But--"

"I'm not overreacting, something's wrong. Maybe she's depressed or something, I'm worried," Yoongi huffed, ignoring Jungkook's arguments as he picked up his cell and made the call to Jungkook's doctor, figuring they could use the same one.

You had been to the doctor many times -- during the winter, you frequently got colds and Namjoon would rush you to the doctor at the first sight of a sniffle.

You sat in the waiting room, swinging your feet mindlessly while Jungkook chatted eagerly with Yoongi. You weren't sure what about, you chose to ignore them for the most part.

"_______?" A nurse called out, smiling when Yoongi stood immediately.

"Stay here, Kook. We'll be back in a minute," The pup nodded but the budding smile vanished when Yoongi took your hand. You attempted to pull your hand away but he held on tight until you two entered the examination room.

You both sat in an uncomfortable silence after getting your weight, height, and blood pressure measured by the nurse. She told you that the doctor would be in soon.

"Hello," A handsome man with pretty lips walked in several minutes later, dressed in a white coat. "I'm Kim Seokjin, your doctor, and I understand I have a little bunny who needs to see me,"

You couldn't help but smile at his charismatic attitude. Yoongi patted your head softly but you were too mesmerized by the doctor to react.

"Hi Dr. Kim," Yoongi greeted as the taller man sat down -- elegantly you might add.

"What seems to be the problem with the bun today?" He asked with a pretty smile.

"Well, when I first got her she was really open and really happy but the past week and a half, she's become completely withdrawn," Yoongi explained, and as he continued you sunk deeper against the examination table where you laid.

"I see, and you're worried about the cause of the behavioral change?" Yoongi nodded as the Doctor completed his thoughts. Seokjin stood up, putting his stethoscope to his ears and smiled at you. "I'm going to need you to sit up so I can listen to your heart and your breathing,"

You did as you were asked and with a small warning of the cold metal as he put his hand up the back of your shirt, he pressed it against your bare back. You followed all his instructions, breathing in and out and coughing a couple times. As he listened to your heart, you realized you were enjoying this contact. You really were becoming starved for attention at that point.

"Are you feeling alright, bun?" He asked, finally pulling the stethoscope from his ears and pulling out a little pen light.

"Yes," You answered simply, wanting to keep your answers short in fear you might let something slip.

He checked inside your ears, checked your pupils, and checked your throat. After finding no abnormalities, he sat back down and opened a manila folder he had brought in.

"Well, she seems to be in good health, Mr. Min," Seokjin hummed, looking over the papers. "It says here that you own another hybrid,"

"Uh yes, Jungkook -- he's a dog hybrid," Yoongi explained.

"Have you ever owned a rabbit hybrid before?" The doctor looked up at Yoongi now, who squirmed under the intense stare.

"N-No, she's my first one,"

"Well, bunnies are one of the more...attached hybrids," Seokjin explained, smiling almost fondly over at you.

'Attached is just another word for needy,' you thought.

"They are very loving and absolutely thrive under attention," The doctor continued. "It could be that she feels she's not getting enough attention at home because she has to share you with another hybrid,"

"I-I've been making sure she gets as much of my attention I can give her," Yoongi defended himself. "Kook knows that I need to give her special attention because she's still adjusting to a new home and environment,"

"I see, you haven't had her long?" Seokjin asked, scribbling something down in the folder.

"No...not too long but I thought I was doing good..." Your heart ached at how disappointed Yoongi sounded in himself.

"Is is possible she misses her previous home and owner?"

"I...I guess it's possible, she didn't really want to leave him," Seokjin nodded, writing something down on the papers.

"I suggest maybe having a little personal chat with the two hybrids and see if you can figure out what she's thinking," Yoongi nodded at the advice and stood up, finally signalling for you to get up as well.

"Thank you, Doctor," Yoongi muttered, taking your hand again except this time you didn't fight it.

"No problem," The doctor ruffled your hair and smiled. "There's some lollipops by the desk, you can grab a couple for you and Jungkook, okay?" You nodded.

You were sure to grab two flavors -- watermelon and strawberry. You kept the watermelon to yourself -- it was your favorite flavor. You were also pleasantly surprised that Jungkook took the one your offered him -- thought he didn't extend a thank you at all. You didn't really mind in the end.

You wanted to hide away in your room once you got home but Yoongi practically begged for you to eat something. At the mention of food, you realized you were actually quite hungry. So you sat down and silently ate to yourself, choosing to block out the two men in the room.

"Before you go to sleep," Yoongi caught you by the wrist before you were able to escape after finishing your salad. "Can we have a talk? All of us?"

"I-I...I'm really tired," You whimpered, reaching up to tug at your own ear out of anxiety. "Can't I just go to sleep?"

"I guess you'd be worn out from the doctors, huh?" Yoongi sighed, slowly releasing you.

You stood there for a moment, taking in how sad he looked in front of you. He seemed to have expected you to leave by now because he began to eat once again -- much slower than he had. Jungkook barely paid you any mind, not even looking up from his burger.

He looked happy. Why shouldn't he? He had an owner who adored him and he had a true family. You wished you could feel even an ounce of that but instead you were cursed with the needy, clingy nature of your hybrid. It had cost you a family before and you certainly didn't want it to cost you another one.

Quiet as you could, you scurried out of the kitchen and to your bedroom. You felt safe in there -- with your stuffed animals on your bed and the dim lights from your new vanity casting a gentle glow.

Guilt ate away at you as you thought back to how sad Yoongi had begun to look as the days passed. Did your change in behavior really hurt him or was it pure worry because he didn't want to be known as someone who mistreated their hybrid?

He treated you so nicely, he really did. He bought you so much nice stuff and even built a vanity for you. He told you he even ordered you a new dresser and a rug so you wouldn't be stuck with the hardwood floors you currently had.

He got you the nicest, softest pink sheets and let you have as many pillows as you wanted.

Briefly, you thought back to the way he checked for your fever and that night he gave you a little forehead kiss. You didn't realize you were smiling at the thought and once you did, you shook your head to banish it from your head.

Resolutely, you climbed into your cozy bed with a sigh. It felt like there was a lead weight in your chest.

That night, as you laid in bed you felt like everything finally caught up to you. Every emotion, every negative thought finally poured out of you and instead of sleeping, you cried.

You cried over the fact Namjoon didn't want you. You cried over the fact Jungkook didn't like you. You cried because you didn't want to burden Yoongi and because you feared losing your home again.

You didn't mean to be loud, but as you sputtered and sobbed, you failed to realize the sad puppy-eyes peeking in from the hallway after being awoken by your cries.

Once the door was shut, you couldn't see his head hung and his tail limp behind him as he stood outside.

[subukunojess]

Courage

AO3 Link

Bad Things Happen Bingo @badthingshappenbingo​ Trope/Prompt: Touch Starved Fandom: Courage the Cowardly Dog Main Character: Courage Triggers: Slight mentions of Animal Abuse/mistreatment Word Count: 1,487

My next entry for the angst bingo I signed up for years ago. Hopefully it'll help me with my writing and get me to practice more. When I searched for Touch Starved, it took me a while until I realized that the only character I could think of that could fit that category would be a character from my childhood, Courage the Cowardly Dog. I remembered how the episode "Remembrance of Courage Past" moved me and I wanted to write a short but sweet one shot of that memory in Courage's point of view. I have not written for Courage before and I found it challenging to keep with the prompt while also keeping in character. Hopefully this is okay. Story under the cut:

What did he do?

What did he do?!

The little pink dog scrambled out of the dumpster he was dropped into, his mind and heart racing as he tried to calm down. He found himself in a city alleyway surrounded by brick walls and trash cans. As he stood up in worry, he suddenly froze as he heard a countdown  blaring in his mind and the sound of something big opening nearby. He turned his head to the direction of the sound, only to gasp as the roof of a building opened up and a rocket started blasting off into the sky. 

Now the puppy remembered. 

He was at the Vet's office with his parents after getting his head stuck in a metal fence while playing catch. Everything was normal at first; the veterinarian got his head unstuck and gave him a lollipop, then went to talk to his parents. The puppy, although scared, assumed that the man was going to ask questions about him and give advice before he and his family left for home. That seemed like a normal thing to do when talking to a doctor. 

Until he heard his parents scream. 

The world came to a complete stop when the little dog turned and stared as his parents dangled inside a large net with the vet carrying them behind his back to another room. What was happening? This was supposed to be a veterinarian. A doctor. Someone you trust with your health. How could a person like that kidnap his parents?

He had no time to think. He ran after the human, determined to save his parents no matter what. He went through several doors until he snuck into an office where the veterinarian was taking his family to an actual giant rocket on the other side of a window. The puppy remembered watching rockets on television screens. He had seen scary films about aliens and news reports about people flying to the moon. This man was sending his parents to outer space? Not if the puppy could do anything about it. 

He saw the man throw the two dogs into the rocket, shut the door, then walked back to a control panel when the countdown began. 60. 59. 58...

Quickly, the pink canine rushed towards the rocket and jumped towards the door where he could see his parents through a little window, scared as they were calling for help and looking for a way out. He saw their big worried eyes making contact with his and his heart broke. He tried opening the door. He really did. But there was nor knob or key. 

"Hey, what are you doing there?!" The veterinarian boomed as he entered the room and loomed over the pup. The puppy screamed in terror and ran away in circles, trying desperately to avoid the large intimidating from catching him and throwing him into the rocket as well or something worse. He noticed red arrows pointing to a metal drawer, so he ran and clambered into it, sliding down a chute just as ten gangling fingers almost grabbed him by the waist. 

5. 4. 3. 2. 1.

That was how the pink puppy found himself surrounded by trash as he waved goodbye to his family from beyond the clouds with tears welling up in his eyelids until they trickled out to the rough pavement. 

This wasn't a bad dream he could wake up from. This was a living nightmare. 

This was his punishment for getting into trouble. For not being brave enough. For choosing to survive rather than help his parents or join them so they could still be a family. For not knowing what to do at a time like this. Before, his parents always forgiven him whenever he had made a mistake or got too scared. They would kiss him if he hurt himself and give him big hugs. They would encourage him to do tasks by himself, congratulating him when he did them and reassuring him when he didn't. His father would scratch him behind his ears. His mother would curl up around him with her body when he had a nightmare. His parents always knew what to do. And now they were gone.

The pink dog didn't know how long he was in the alleyway. Minutes? Hours? Days? 

He wanted someone to scoop him up in their arms, hold him close, and tell him that everything was going to be okay. But who could he trust? Anyone could be a monster willing to hurt him. To turn on him and do who knew what. He sat huddled by trash cans as he trembled, squirming around and hugging himself to quell his craving for contact. No family. No home. Cold. Hungry. Guilty.

The puppy wailed at the top of his lungs, almost hoping that his sobs would be loud enough to travel to outer space so that his parents would hear him. For anyone to hear him. 

And someone did. 

"Oh my! What are you doing out here all alone?" A mature feminine voice called out, dripping with concern and an accent. The young dog glanced to see a large woman walking towards him. She had long brown hair and circular glasses on as well as dark boots and a large dark green coat that reached her ankles. He whimpered, trembling as the woman got closer to him. A part of him didn't want to stay. For all he knew, the human would lead him to a secret lair or something. He couldn't trust strangers. And yet, a part of him sensed that the woman was not evil or scary. A part of him wanted comfort no matter the danger. So when the woman loomed over him, he simply stared at her and raised his paws to be scooped up.

Warm plush hands soft as wool held his sides and lifted him into the air. If he weren't so weak and wary, he would have snuggled into her arms or lean closer to her touch. But he couldn't. Any moment now, she would see how pathetic he was and drop him. He stared at her and waited with trembling wide eyes and dried tears.

Instead of a scowl, a tight grip to make his bones pop, or his face smacked against a brick wall, he was met with a soft grin as the woman gasped, "What courage you have!"

Courage? This woman must be mistaken. There was nothing courageous about him. Period. He ran away when his family needed him most. He cried and ran away from anything nearly everyday of his life. 'Coward' was the more appropriate word to describe him. 

And yet, she seemed like an honest woman. Her face looked round and gentle like the fluffiest pillow in the world. Her hair seemed like a mix of chocolate and cotton candy you'd find at a county fair. She smelled of home cooking and blankets sewn by hand with care. Most of all, the eyes that hid behind the protection of her glasses glimmered in truth and positivity. He didn't consider himself a special creature, but at that moment, he knew that his keen senses were telling him to trust her. 

"My name is Muriel." The woman introduced herself, "Would you like to come home with me?"

It was because of her touch and gaze that made the puppy smile as he hugged the closest arm to him. Muriel's smile grew as her arms wrapped around his waist in a firm embrace. 

"I'll call you 'Courage'. We'll have a grand time!" She promised him before heading off to take him home in a green pick-up truck across the street.

Courage let himself get lost at the touch of Muriel's arms, sinking into the warmth even when she got into the truck and gently placed him to her side. He never stopped touching her lap for anything. Although no one could replace his family, this woman was a welcoming close second. He thought about the days he'd spend with his new owner. Perhaps she'll feed him good meals and they do chores or crafts together. Maybe they'll spend their quiet days rocking back and forth with him curled up on her lap. They would grow old together and he'll help her around the house. He'll protect her. If there were monsters out there in the world, he was determined to protect one of the good humans in the world even if it meant his life. But he didn't think too much of it for now.

Courage lifted his head up after a while and watched as acres of sand and dirt zipped right by before his eyes. It was just miles of nothing. He glanced to the front to see a little house and a windmill coming over the horizon. A house in the middle of nowhere away from people? Yes. This was home to Courage.