#it’s fine and it’s only barely visible in the light but i hate it so much

[shoveitevil]

four days

[cinnamon-galaxies]

𝐂𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐧 𝐀𝐢𝐫 - Part 1

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Pairings: Alastor x female reader Summary: During a night out at a club with the hotel crew, you enjoy dancing and drinking with Angel while Alastor remains visibly uncomfortable in the lounge area. Seeking distraction from your conflicted feelings towards him, you connect with another woman, which quickly escalates into an embarrassing situation. This forces you to question not only your emotions but also the true nature of your complicated relationship with Alastor. Warnings/Tags: female reader, mutual pining, alcohol consumption, drunk reader, kissing, reader is bisexual and makes out with another woman, Alastor gets jealous, Alastor is bad at feelings so instead of communicating his jealousy he decides to taunt reader, second hand embarrassment Wordcount: 4.4k A/N: I can’t believe it – I’ve finally managed to write a new story! It has a second part that’s almost finished and will be posted at the end of the month. If you’d like to be tagged when it’s up, just let me know! Fun fact about this story: It includes lore about my OC Mara, as the circumstances under which the reader meets Selena are the same as those in which Mara encounters her best friend in my AU! Comments, Likes and Reblogs are always appreciated!

Masterlist

   The club was packed with bodies and the colorful neon lights flickered in time with the relentless beat of electronic music. Loud chatter and the pounding bass around him formed an unbearable cacophony that made Alastor cringe inwardly. He despised the modern scene and its noise, the crowds and overall lack of refinement. It was far from his idea of a pleasant evening. Oh, how much he hated to be here. Stressed and feeling completely out of place, Alastor sat in the lounge area of one of Pentagram City's most notorious clubs, his grin strained, his ears perked up and a much too sweet cocktail in his hand. If it wasn’t for his gloves, the whitened knuckles from his heavy grip around the glass would’ve been apparent even from afar. He hadn’t intended to come here and would’ve preferred to stay at the hotel, settling himself in front of his fireplace with a good book and fine jazz in the background. Honestly, he would’ve even preferred to clean the entire hotel over being forced to spend his time in this establishment which felt as wrong as a walk through the Vee’s district. It was Angel Dust who had brought up the idea of this excursion, promising a wild night of fun and debauchery to blow off some steam. The other residents had barely hesitated, convinced by the idea of spending a night out together. To Alastor’s biggest disapproval, they had insisted on him to accompany them. Not that they would’ve had the power to convince him to leave the tranquility of the quiet hotel behind for such a cacophony of modern entertainment that could be the product of one of his nightmares – no. It was you who had convinced him in the end. You were just too persistent and persuasive, and he was just too taken with you to refuse after such big eyes begged him to join.

   You, on the other side, enjoyed the evening. You were completely in your element, dressed up in a tight but elegant cocktail dress and exuding confidence as if you owned this place. Together with Angel Dust, you dominated the dance floor with fluid and inhibited movements, your arms held up in the air while you swung your hips to the rhythm of the music. You quickly became the center of attention, especially for Alastor who couldn’t help but watch you from his secluded spot, a mix of admiration and irritation flickering in his otherwise unreadable eyes. How he admired your confidence, your ability to let loose in such an uncomfortable and overstimulating place, reveling in the atmosphere with such vivid enthusiasm. Yet, the feelings he held for you were a secret, cautiously buried beneath the layers of his Radio Demon persona. 

   “Come on, Smiles, loosen up and have some fun,” Angel Dust suddenly interrupted his train of thoughts, and Alastor snapped his head in his direction, raising his eyebrows at the spider demon. When did he leave the dance floor? As Alastor glanced at him, he noticed a small tray with half a dozen shots in his hands. Angel must have left for the bar to get drinks for himself and the others. If he really thought he could convince Alastor to indulge in this kind of modern entertainment, he was delusional.

   Without a word, Alastor rolled his eyes and waved him off, his gaze drifting back to you before he got aware that Angel Dust still stood beside him and turned his attention to the glass in his hand.

   The spider demon let out a deep sigh. “Alright. Haven’t expected anything else,” he murmured and walked on, but not without placing one of the full shot glasses on the small table in front of Alastor and disappearing before Alastor could say something. He watched Angel Dust return to the dance floor, heading directly towards you. Then he stared at the shot glass and raised his eyebrow, clear liquor grinning back at him. With a sigh that was impossible to hear under the loud noise other people dared to call ‘music’, he took it in his hand and downed the substance in one gulp. A spicy burn seared in his throat, making him cough. At least the shot was tolerable…

   You had the time of your afterlife. Increasingly intoxicated after downing one drink after another you danced in the crowd, hips swaying vividly to the music with such unrestrained joy you haven’t felt in a long time. It was a good idea to agree to Angel’s suggestion to go partying. You didn't know that you needed this until you had arrived and he dragged you to the bar almost immediately to get ready for a night of reckless debauchery. You haven’t left the dance floor since you’ve emptied your first longdrink and probably won’t within predictable time because Angel Dust served you with new drinks almost every quarter of an hour.

   You watched your friend worm himself through the crowd, skillfully avoiding contact with any of the other guests, balancing the tray high above his head while he shielded himself from accidental punches with his second set of arms. When he arrived, he placed the tray on a high bar table not far from you. Still entranced by the music you danced your way over to him.

   “Damn, you really want to mess me up, huh?”, you joked as you noticed the amount of shots he got and Angel shrugged his shoulders.

   “Lil’ stock supply will prevent me from fighting myself over to the bar for at least another half an hour,” he responded, handing you a shot glass and taking one for himself.

   A laugh escaped your throat and you praised him for his genius idea with a quick wink. “Then let’s hope no one will spike them when we look away.” With that, you raised your shot glass in a quick toast and downed the clear liquor with high anticipation, a cough escaping you as the spicy alcohol burned down your throat. Dry Ouzo. Tasty, but like fire in the stomach.

   Angel chuckled at your reaction, clearly unaffected due to his regular club nights with Cherri.

   “Hey man, thanks for the drinks!” a random stranger exclaimed over the music, boldly snatching two shots away and disappearing in the crowd as fast as he had appeared.

   “And so the stock runs out,” Angel Dust deadpanned with an annoyed expression, staring with narrowed eyes in the direction the shot thief took their leave.

   You snorted through your nose, erupting in wholehearted laughter at his reaction, and shrugged your shoulders. “Looks like you’ll have to return to the bar sooner than anticipated,” you mocked him with a smirk, patting one of his lower shoulder joints.

   “Hmpf…” Without another word, Angel took another shot and downed it right after.

   You and Angel Dust spend some time just standing at the bar table, chatting with raised voices and watching the other guests while you commented on their dancing styles or played a sheepish game of ‘fuck, marry, kill’ with random strangers you pointed out from the crowd.

   After what was about an hour, you cleared your throat. “I need to go to the bathroom. After that, I’ll head to the bar and get myself a soda,” you informed Angel, and he nodded in acknowledgment. Pushing yourself up from the table, you navigated through the crowds, the effect of almost half a dozen shots clearly affecting your vision and balance. It wasn’t too debilitating because your body could handle large amounts of alcohol easily, but you still felt uncomfortable and needed some time to steady yourself and return to your senses. Some non-alcoholic drinks might work wonders to ease the symptoms. You're bound to face a brutal hangover tomorrow anyway.

   After you returned from the bathrooms you walked over to the bar, ordering a simple soda from the barkeeper. You thanked him as he handed you your non-alcoholic drink and leaned with your back against the bar counter. As you took a few gulps, your gaze wandered around the club and a sigh escaped your throat. It was an awesome evening though different from what you expected. You actually had planned to take it easy and not indulge in such debauchery. But Angel had claimed you as soon as you entered the club, dragging you away from the group and lulling you to loosen up. It’s not that you weren’t eager to go clubbing. You actually liked to partake in such excursions and just forget about the daily stress for an evening full of fun and loud music. And this time, it seemed to be helpful to suppress certain matters of the heart as well…

   Your gaze wandered to the lounge area where you found a certain deer demon sitting on a couch – the seats around him unoccupied because no one dared to sit close to him – and you could feel your heart sink. You were so confident when you convinced him to join your excursion and yet you didn’t dare to spare him a single glance ever since you entered this establishment. You had convinced him to join in a moment of boldness, hoping that maybe, just maybe, this could be an opportunity to bridge the gap between you. But instead you feared that you complicated things even further.

   Alastor was an enigma and that was part of the allure that drew you in. His charm, his charisma, and the old-world chivalry he brought to every interaction caused you to melt every time he was near. He made your heart race with a single glance, his touch – so commanding yet delicate – set your skin on fire, sending thousands of butterflies fluttering in your stomach. He was a force of nature, fierce and unpredictable, with a soft spot only those he chose were privileged to see. And you were one of those people. Yet, you weren’t even sure if you meant anything to him because he held you at a respectable distance, initiating a game of push and pull between you that left you reeling.

   Was it a mistake to bring him here? A part of you thought it was because you knew he never was one for Hell’s modern nightlife and seeing him sit there, a predator among prey with a strained grin plastered on his face and holding onto a drink in his hands, only highlighted the chasm between you two. You couldn’t shake off the feeling that you made things worse by dragging him into an environment where he seemed completely out of place, and where your feelings for him felt more unrequited than ever.

   "Dizzy head?" A female voice disrupted your train of thoughts, and you raised your head to meet the kind face of a beautiful woman leaning against the bar counter. She held a long drink with a tiny paper umbrella in her hand, her lips curled into a soft smile. Her skin had a pale pinkish hue, almost ghostly under the club's dim yet colorful lights, while two horns peeked out from her thick raven hair.

   "A little," you responded, pushing your daunting thoughts away, and took a sip from your soda. "But nothing to worry about. A few minutes of abstinence will do enough," you laughed lightly, trying to shake off the haze.

   The woman laughed along and glanced thoughtfully at the drink in her hands. “I’ll probably do the same after this one.” She shrugged and then turned her gaze back to you. “I’m Selena,” she introduced herself with a bright smile.

   “Y/N!” you returned much more joyfully than you felt.

   “So, your first time here? I’m a regular guest here so I know all of the common faces.”

   You took another sip from your soda. Maybe getting to know someone new would help you feel better. “I actually came here with a group of people. Friends and co-workers, you could say. Just a simple night out to get some distraction from the stress of maintaining the hotel,” you explained with a slight smile on your lips as your gaze quickly wandered around the club. You noticed some of your companions scattered across the establishment.

   Selena tilted her head curiously, clearly intrigued. “The hotel? So, you’re working at that ‘Hazbin Hotel’?” she asked, and soon your casual small talk turned into an extensive conversation. You told her about your job and Charlie’s unusual belief in redemption that barely received any recognition, and Selena listened intently, her curiosity keeping the conversation alive with thoughtful questions. As you talked, a sense of relief washed over you. Slowly, you learned more about Selena, and before long, thoughts of Alastor faded from your mind entirely.

   As the night wore on, you found yourself drawn back into the rhythm of shots and cocktails, and soon enough, Selena dragged you back to the pulsing dance floor. The flashing lights and thumping bass faded into the background as you moved in sync, the world reduced to just the two of you dancing and laughing like old friends. The chemistry between you was palpable. Selena mirrored your enthusiasm and joy with such ease that it felt like you had known each other for years. With every dance move and shared laughter, the bond between you deepened and you were certain that if the night continued on this smoothly and you both remembered each other the next morning, you had found a new friend. 

   The music – a popular pop song from the early 2000’s – filled the air, infusing the atmosphere with nostalgia and energy, and a sense of euphoria washed over you. You danced, drinks raised into the air while you held each other on the shoulders. Each move felt like a release, a moment of being liberated from all worries and constraints as the adrenaline rushed through your veins.

   You exchanged meaningful glances with Selena, unable to ignore the magnetic pull you felt toward her. Was it merely the alcohol heightening your perceptions, or was it genuinely her captivating presence – her allure, infectious personality, and sharp wit – that drew you in? You didn’t know but your mutual attraction pulled you closer until you eventually slipped away, stumbling into a quiet hallway at the back of the club, away from the pounding music and the press of bodies. The alcohol clouded your vision, lowered your senses and your boundaries. And so, you found yourself caught in a passionate embrace with Selena. Your fingers played with her hair as you pressed yourself against her, using the proximity with that alluring woman to your own benefit to forget about the tight squeeze around your heart and all the inner turmoil you felt whenever you thought about him.

   Meanwhile, Alastor still sat in his secluded spot, grateful that his presence was nervously avoided by the other guests. He appreciated not having to endure forced proximity with people – at least most of the time. One time during the evening, Charlie – ever the caring person – had seated herself next to him, expressing her worry about his obviously strained mood and claiming to feel guilty for not allowing him to stay at the hotel. How funny that the princess truly believed she was the reason he joined their little night out; as if she had any authority over him... To his surprise, Alastor had easily managed to brush her off by affirming he was alright all over again. A blatant lie, but preferable over enduring more of her neverending rambling. Of course, she reassured him several times that returning to the hotel would be okay, before she eventually left him alone. And Alastor would have already left hours ago if it wasn’t his primary concern to ensure your safety.

   He felt a migraine coming on, an unpleasant throbbing in his temple caused by the stress this establishment was inflicting upon him. Rising from his seat, he decided to retreat from the main area to seek some respite from the oppressive atmosphere, instructing his shadow to remain vigilant. With his cane tapping against the floor with every step, he walked past the lounge area and the dancefloor, the crowd instinctively parting to make way for him like Moses parting the Red Sea. Thanks to his observant shadow, he already knew that the back of the club led to an outside area that offered a welcome relief from the sensory overload.

   As he walked through the dimly lit hallway, the music became quieter, no longer assaulting his sensitive hearing, and instead, faint giggles reached his ears. He hesitated before rounding the corner and stopped dead in the tracks. There, in front of him, were you, pressed against a wall and your lips locked with another woman in a heated kiss. The scene was intimate, passionate, and entirely unexpected. Your body was entwined with her’s, your hands roaming through her hair while the woman held you in her embrace.

   For a moment, Alastor simply watched, unable to avert his gaze. This revelation caught him completely off-guard and his heart twisted painfully in his chest, an unfamiliar feeling of jealousy and confusion warring inside him. He had known that you were fond of men but this revelation left him reeling. But no matter with whom you were with, seeing you in such an intimate manner with another person was a blow he hadn’t anticipated and that sent a surge of anger through his body. He clenched his fists, torn between storming away and interrupting you, the discomfort palpable in his features while he fought to regain his composure.

   Sensing eyes on you, you broke the kiss and looked up. You startled immediately as your eyes fell on the red deer demon.

   "Alastor!" you exclaimed in shock, instinctively pushing Selena away. She turned her head, her eyes widening immediately, her face paling in shock and fear as she recognized the figure standing before you both. "You– you’re the Radio Demon!" she stammered, her voice shaky.

   You, still breathless from the kiss, clenched your jaws together, feeling just as uncomfortable as Alastor. His grin looked strained for a second but then he returned to his cold, unreadable expression, and your heart sank in your chest.

   “Alastor… this isn’t what it looks like…” you muttered a cheap excuse while you felt the heat rising to your face, turning your already alcohol-induced cheeks to a burning red. Your lips curled into a nervous grin, driven by the rush of embarrassment coursing through your veins, mingled with a heavy, unidentifiable tangle of emotions. Out of all your companions, why did it have to be him who caught you in the middle of the act?

   Alastor raised an eyebrow, his smile now sardonic while his gaze wandered back and forth between you and Selena. His voice carried a heavy static as he responded, “Oh, I think it is exactly what it looks like, my dear.”

   You took in a sharp breath. “I’m sorry you had to see that. I didn’t mean to–,” you tried to explain but Alastor cut you off with a dismissive wave of his clawed hand.

   “Nonsense, my dear,” he laughed his discomfort off, pushing his jealousy aside, though the enhanced static on his voice betrayed his forced facade. “There’s no need to apologize. You’re free to do whatever you want. I am the one who should be apologizing. I didn’t mean to interrupt your…” He wiggled his fingers in a suggestive gesture that implied everything he wanted to say without having to utter a single word.

   You giggled nervously, your heartbeat slowly calming, and glanced at Selena who appeared visibly intimidated by Alastor’s presence, her posture tense and her joyful expression replaced by a mortified grimace, which only made you feel more uneasy.

   “I– I should go,” she eventually said, breaking the uncomfortable silence that lingered in the hallway and attempted to walk off.

   “No, wait!” you tried to stop her, not wanting to be left alone with Alastor, but Selena just forced herself to tighten her lips into a reassuring smile.

   “Don’t worry, I’ll find you later,” she retorted, interpreting your reaction as a worry to not see her again instead of the sheer plea to not be left alone. With that, she walked off, returning to the main part of the club and leaving you alone with Alastor.

   You felt his lingering gaze burning into your side, the faint glow of his crimson eyes in the dim light of the hallway making him appear more dangerous than he was. Well, assuming that Alastor wasn’t dangerous would be utterly naive – he was literally an overlord and one of the most dangerous ones at that. However, he would never harm you, so in that sense, he was harmless.

   “Enjoying yourself, I see,” Alastor eventually commented, his unreadable expression sharpened by a subtle flicker of disapproval in his eyes.

   You still couldn't bring yourself to look at him and that comment only exacerbated your unease. Why did he have to be someone who found pleasure in keeping other people on edge? Could he at least not wallow in your discomfort now? It wasn’t as if you weren’t already suffering enough.

   You sighed and bit your lip, swallowing the clod in your throat before you pulled yourself together to say something. “We were just… oh fuck me…” you mumbled those last words quietly to yourself, “Look, she’s a friend and we got a little too comfortable after drinking so much booze.” While you tried to explain the situation, you asked yourself why you even bothered. He couldn’t care less. You weren’t dating and probably not even friends. Damn, you didn’t even know what you were because everything was just too complicated between the both of you. There were pushes and pulls and every time you felt some tension crackling between you it dissipated again, leaving you clueless and completely confused by Alastor’s unpredictable behavior, his intermittent interest in you, and those random moments that allowed you a fleeting glimpse behind his facade. It was infuriating the least and most of all profoundly frustrating. If it wasn’t for him and your damned feelings for that man, you probably wouldn't even have found yourself in this predicament.

   “Why are you even here?” you asked and eventually dared to look at him. 

   “I was seeking some quiet,” he replied, his voice softer now, the edge gone.

   “And then you stumbled upon us and decided to watch?”

   He let out a humorless laugh. “Oh, come on. I did not watch,” he dismissed your question with a nonchalant throw of his hand, rolling his eyes as if you just asked him the stupidest thing. “But your little rendezvous was attracting quite the attention, dear.”

   You gritted your teeth and decided to push his borders a little. If he could make the situation awkward for you then you could certainly return the favor. Besides, you were still drunk and the alcohol lowered your inhibitions enough to go completely bold in front of him.

   Narrowing your eyes you crossed your arms in front of your chest and relaxed back against the same wall you were just pressed against by Selena mere minutes ago. “Quite the attention or your attention, Alastor?” you asked, pretending to be more confident than you actually were.

   Alastor’s grin grew more strained immediately and you could swear that one of his eyes twitched for a quick second before he regained his composure yet another time. Why was he so tense? Normally, Alastor would’ve just raised an eyebrow and walked past you without further interest. But instead he froze on spot, obviously unable to avert his gaze until you felt his eyes on you.

   He didn’t respond, so your expression grew more smug as you decided to push him just a little bit further. Maybe you could use this situation to your advantage and finally get some answers… “Could it be that it bothered you to catch me with someone else?”

   “Oh, don’t be ridiculous, dear,” he dismissed your question with another throw of his hand, rolling his eyes yet again. “I was merely caught off-guard by seeing you engaging in such frivolities with another woman. I didn’t know you swung both ways.” He tilted his head and chuckled, the static filter on his voice distorting the sound almost unnervingly.

   “Well, there’s a lot about me that you don’t know,” you retorted, your voice coming out sharper than expected.

   One of Alastor’s ears twitched at your aggravated tone. “Is that so?” he asked.

   “It is.” You deadpanned.

   A moment of silence lingered between the two of you until Alastor broke it, “Well, the world is full of surprises, isn’t it? And you, my dear, seem to be full of surprises too.”

   “I don’t know whether to be flattered or offended.”

   “How about both?” He tilted his head once more, casually positioning his cane in front of him and leaning on it the way he usually did when he found himself intrigued by something. The tension that had gripped him so tightly vanished as if it had never been there at all. And there it was: the so-called push and pull that left you reeling for months. 

   You took a deep breath, growing annoyed by this conversation. “If you don’t care then why are you still here?”

   “Curiosity, dear,” he responded casually.

   “Curiosity?” You arched an eyebrow, not quite buying his answer.

   “Indeed,” he affirmed.

   “Curiosity killed the cat,” you deadpanned.

   “And satisfaction brought it back,” he retorted, clearly enjoying the banter.

   You groaned. Why did he have to do this to you…? “Well, if you’re satisfied now… you’ll excuse me, I have somewhere else to be.” You pushed yourself off the wall, ready to return to the dance floor – but not without heading towards the bar beforehand and ordering the strongest booze you could get here.

   You already set off, as Alastor’s voice called after you, “Running away, are we?”

   You stopped in your tracks and closed your eyes, reminding yourself that you were in public and therefore couldn’t just hit his head against a brick. Or…? Well, actually you could. You were in Hell, anyway. But Alastor was much stronger than you, and if you were to attack him, it meant that you couldn't be certain he would no longer be harmless to you. “I am not running away. I just don't see any reason to stay here and be interrogated by you any longer.”

   “Interrogated? My dear, I'm simply making conversation.”

   “This ain’t a simple conversation if you’re prying into my personal life.” With that you straightened your back and headed back to the main room of the club, leaving Alastor alone in the hallway, completely unaware of the hurt expression on his face.

Part 2 will be out at the end of the month. Let me know if you'd like to be tagged!

[autisticlancemcclain]

“No.”

Lance groans loudly, forgoing smacking his face in his hands and going straight for banging his head repeatedly against the elevator doors, which Keith thinks is a touch dramatic. But regardless he crosses his arms over his chest and stubbornly refuses to budge from his position.

“Keith. For the love of God.”

“God is dead and I’m not climbing out of a goddamn ten thousand foot elevator hatch with you.”

Keith admittedly puts a tad too much emphasis on the ‘with you’ part of the sentence. It’s obvious in the way Lance stops and lifts his head up and glares at Keith so icily he doesn’t need to squint to make out Lance’s expression in the low emergency lights; his eyes practically burn a hole through Keith’s forehead. Keith winces but doesn’t say anything.

“You have gone toe to toe with a goddamn zombie dictator,” Lance grinds out, “but you’re too much of a pussy to climb an elevator shaft?”

Keith stiffens. “I’m not — shut up!”

Smirking, now, visibly delighted that he’s managed to press Keith’s buttons (God Keith wants to punch him), Lance leans against the elevator wall, hip cocked, feigning nonchalance.

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” he says, inspecting his nails like it doesn’t matter. “I just never would have thought that the best pilot out of the Garrison and literal pilot of the Red Lion is, you know, a chicken.”

Keith clenches his fists. Lance is frustrated and bored and pushing Keith’s buttons because there’s fuck else to do. He is. Keith knows this.

But he is so goddamn good at it.

“I’m not a fucking chicken, Cargo Pilot.”

‘Cargo Pilot’ is usually a hole-in-one insult that’s guaranteed to make Lance bristle, sure to make him bare his teeth and go bright red and generally lose his absolute shit. Keith is even sparing in his use of the term, careful not to let it lose its potency.

But because the universe hates him and also Lance is the most annoying motherfucker alive, his smirk only widens, and he flexes his fingers, still fucking casual, still not even bothering to look up in Keith’s direction.

I hate you, Keith thinks, with feeling.

“Sure,” Lance says, without. He shrugs. “Prove it.”

For a second Keith thinks he’s so mad that he might. But then he imagines it fully, pictures his bare back pressed against Lance’s, feet planted on the slippery castle walls, lights probably still out, struggling to put one foot in front of the other and drag each other upright. He thinks of how much effort that would take and how easily he would start to sweat, how easily every shift of their muscles would loosen the friction-borne grip between them, how easily his foot could slip. He thinks of how long a ten thousand foot drop would take, how long he would have to accept that he’s going to die before he splats on the pristine floor.

His stomach turns. His face goes green.

Lance’s jaw drops.

“Oh my God, you’re afraid of heights!”

“I am not!” Keith snaps, because he isn’t, he just has a fucking brain. “It’s just — it’s ten thousand fucking feet, Lance!”

“A pilot!” Lance screeches. “A pilot afraid of heights!”

“You are so goddamn extra!” Keith cries.

Lance makes more vague screeching noises. He gestures furiously at Keith, then pauses, then makes a sound in the back of his throat akin to a loudly dying whale, then gestures back at Keith, then at the ceiling, then at the elevator as a whole. Then he lets out one loud, long, final yell, completely wordless and directed at what Keith can only assume is the heavens, and stops, closes his eyes, breathes deeply, and very calmly crawls onto the floor, belly first, and lays perfectly flat with his face pressed to the tiles.

“I hate it here,” he says serenely. He pauses for a minute, thoughtful. “Also, I hate you.”

“Ditto,” Keith mutters, finally giving up and joining him on the floor. He tips his head back until it thumps on the elevator wall and sighs, loud and long, wondering vaguely if this is punishment for the hundreds of times he mocked Shiro for his fear of squirrels. He truly thinks it might be.

All he wanted was twenty goddamn minutes in the pool. That’s all. He’d have even taken ten. He just wanted to swim a few laps, maybe float for a bit, and pretend he was in a lake somewhere without pressing problems such as saving the universe and the fate of every single soul in it.

Eight minutes, really. Seven.

The lights flicker back on. Lance lifts his head, hopeful, then stretches out one ridiculously long leg (seriously what is the deal with that he’s basically a giraffe, it’s too much, Keith should talk to someone about it because since when were legs allowed to be that — long and shapely, or whatever, it’s weird) and presses the closest button with his toe.

It does nothing. Lance stares at it for a few minutes, as if attempting to bring the elevator alive by manifestation alone, but no life is forthcoming. Lance huffs sadly and returns his face to the floor.

“That’s really disgusting,” Keith says, although he has his fair share of Floor Time. “People walk on this floor all the time.”

Lance doesn’t bother looking up, groaning loudly for several minutes before simply rolling away to the opposite side of the elevator.

“Shut up,” he says finally, after so long Keith almost forgets his original comment. “You just —”

Abruptly he straightens up, pulling the towel off his neck and crawling forward to place it in the middle of the elevator. Keith rolls his eyes so hard it actually hurts, a little.

“You and your commentary stay on the loser stinky mullet half of the elevator,” Lance says. “The pretty half that’s not infected with your rancid vibes belongs to me.”

“Were you trained to be this annoying?” Keith ponders, half out of genuine curiosity. “Like, do you do this on purpose?”

“Ignoring you now,” Lance says primly.

Keith scowls. He’s not — Keith isn’t the one who’s too irritating to be around without going insane.

“I’m ignoring you, asshole.”

Lance doesn’t respond. Keith closes one eye and holds up his thumb and forefinger to the approximate shape of Lance’s face, pretending he’s squishing his head. It brings him great peace.

After a while, though, he starts to get restless. His legs starts bouncing, up and down so fast it’s blurry, and then his fingers start to tap, but the feeling of rustling under his skin only gets worse, spinning faster and faster and coil tightening more and more in his stomach until he just — implodes, really, until his brain goes boom and says if you don’t get moving right this second, and Keith says in response to it, believe me I’m on it. He’s scrambling to his feet before he has the conscious thought to do so, hands moving before he tells them to and pushing him upright, bare feet padding rapidly on the floor as he paces, three steps until he hits the wall then pivot then three steps then pivot then three steps again. Over and over and over. His fingers stop tapping but his shoulders get twitchy; itchy under his skin and on it, sweaty because there’s no airflow and this goddamn elevator is sweltering. Or he’s just hot. He usually runs hot. He’s not sure and he doesn’t care to know, because the pool would have been refreshing but instead he’s stuck in a ten by ten by ten cube stuck somewhere on a ten thousand foot tube and to his right his rival-slash-teammate keeps huffing and rubbing his hands on his arms and muttering to himself.

“Could you maybe cut that out,” Keith snaps, which is entirely unfair because his pacing isn’t quiet, but Keith is three seconds away from attempting to climb the walls and it’s Lance, anyway, when are they not arguing, so it doesn’t matter.

Maybe when you’re having a crisis-brought bonding moment, says a voice in his brain. Stuck elevators are kind of a crisis.

Shut up or I’m going to give myself a concussion, Keith responds to it.

“Not my fault it’s goddamn freezing in here,” Lance snaps.

Keith pauses. He looks down at Lance. He frowns.

“Your lips are blue,” he observes, bewildered.

“Eat shit,” Lance responds, predictably. He’s fucking — he’s shivering.

Keith is made astutely aware of the cooling sweat on his back and grimaces.

“Lance,” he says slowly, “it is not cold in here.”

Lance blows out a breath like the goddamn weight of the world is on his shoulders. He flicks his eyes up to meet Keith’s, who is standing behind his head and leaning down, and somehow manages to seem like the more put-together person between them, which is bonkers.

“I’m anaemic, stupid.”

Keith blinks. Suddenly the air feels very solemn, and he shifts uncomfortably, unsure of what to say.

“I didn’t know you had an eating disorder,” he manages eventually.

Lance’s faces scrunches up in confusion for seven whole seconds before it clears, and he looks at Keith like he is the dumbest man alive and then bursts out laughing.

“That’s — anorexic, you idiot! I don’t have enough blood!”

“Oh,” Keith says, face heating. He scowls as Lance continues to laugh way harder than what was called for, clutching his stomach with tears rolling down his face. He pokes Lance aggressively with his toe, and by that he means his kicks him. “Will you stop — it’s not that funny, dickhead!”

“It really is,” Lance wheezes.

Keith scowls harder. His face is as red as his shorts and the flush is starting to spread down his chest and Lance notices and it only makes him laugh more, because he’s a shithead of the worst kind. “I hope you choke.”

Keith flicks his towel over his head and yanks, embarrassed, stomping to the other side of the elevator as if that will somehow make Lance shut up faster. It doesn’t, obviously, and he hears Lance laugh for several minutes until he finally winds down to giggling, then eventually nothing.

Keith harrumphs quietly to himself. He resolves to sticking in his corner like he should have from the very beginning, until the elevator starts moving again or someone on the team comes to save them. At this point he’s so done he wouldn’t even care if it was Shiro, wouldn’t even care if Shiro gloated about it for eternity (Keith saved his ass from government experimentation, anyway, so he wins by default for the rest of time). He faces his corner and pulls his knees to his chest and starts picking at a loose thread in the seam of his shorts to amuse himself.

Several minutes later, he hears Lance shifting. He ignores it. He pulls at the thread until it comes loose, then busies himself with tying the thread into the most complicated and random knot he can.

A few more minutes later, and there’s the sound of fabric rustling and draping, then quiet cursing. Keith untangles and retangles his knot for the fourth time.

After what must be a half hour, Keith hears the sound of teeth chattering.

He sighs. He looks forlornly at his knot.

“I could just ignore him,” he mutters to himself. “He probably won’t die.”

He thinks of how short Lance’s shorts are. He pinches his own towel in his fingertips, so thin he can practically feel his fingerprints. He remembers blue lips and a clenched jaw and raised gooseflesh.

He sighs loudly, more of a groan, and flicks his ball of thread away.

It takes Lance a few seconds to respond to Keith looming over him, which is worrying. But eventually he cracks open one brown eye and flares up at Keith.

“What,” he mutters. His teeth are chattering so bad it sounds like two words.

“You’re freezing,” Keith says. His voice is softer than he expected it to be.

Lance huffs, closing his eye again and curling further into himself. “No shit.”

Keith frowns. “I’m not.”

“Well, rub it in, why dontcha.”

Keith frowns. “You’re not understanding.”

Lance ignores him. Keith has a sudden and vivid memory of the year Shiro and Adam drove him up to Seattle in the winter so he could be more cultured, or whatever (or less of a desert menace, Adam had argued, and perhaps more inclined to stop biting people), and spent the whole car ride lecturing him about hypothermia.

“It doesn’t take very long to set in,” Shiro had said.

“And once you have it you need to warm up or your heart can stop,” Adam had finished, very serious.

Suddenly Keith starts to feel very panicked.

Lukewarm tea, warm blankets, skin to skin contact with someone who’s warm, were Shiro’s instructions. And then possibly hospital.

Well. Keith has one of those things.

Before he can talk himself out of it, he wraps a gentle hand around Lance’s shoulder, tugging him upright, then pulls him forward so his cradled hands are pressed against Keith’s chest and his head is tucked into the junction of Keith’s neck.

Worryingly, it takes Lance almost thirty seconds to start complaining.

“You smell like mullet,” he whines. But he doesn’t move away. In fact, he burrows closer.

Keith swallows down his worry. “Mullets don’t smell like anything, dumbass.” He brings his hands up to press against Lance’s back. Lance groans, curling deeper into Keith’s hold. His nose is icy and burns a trail across Keith’s shoulder, down his collarbone. Keith’s flush from earlier makes an enthusiastic return, because nothing good still exists in the world.

“I still think you’re annoying,” Lance mumbles. Every move of his lip brushes against Keith’s skin.

“Shut up and focus on not freezing to death,” Keith snaps.

Lance snorts. “I’m not gonna freeze to death, doofus. It’s just a dead elevator. Once I fell asleep on the Garrison rooftop in January and only had to spend three days in urgent care, so basically I can withstand anything.”

Keith pauses. He tries to reconcile the Lance who just said that to the Lance who came up with a life saving plan in thirty seconds on the Balmera to the Lance who threatened to stick Keith in a wormhole to the Lance who smiled and said they made a good team before passing out in Keith’s arms.

“You are a very confusing person,” he says when all the reconciling does absolutely nothing.

“Thank you,” Lance says, sounding pleased.

Keith snorts and tightens his hold. Lance sighs and sags a little. Slowly his fingers stop feeling so much like ice blocks, and his breathing doesn’t sound so erratic. Keith doesn’t know how long it’s been. He stopped trying to count somewhere between when Lance’s cheek squished against his chest and his fingers started tracing featherlight patterns across his skin.

Lance yawns. Keith tries to fight his but ends up yawning anyway.

“Is it bad to let a person with hypothermia sleep?” he mumbles, half-slurring his words.

Lance hums. “‘M not hypothermic.”

“Dunno. Could be.”

He sighs again, a puff of air against Keith’s neck, and spreads his palms against Keith’s chest, flat. “‘M not. You’re too warm.” He pauses. “Freak.”

His tone is fond. The corners of Keith’s lips quirk up. “Weirdo.”

“Mhm.”

He falls asleep trying to count Lance’s breaths. It’s — groundbreaking, somehow.

———

(“Oh, my God.”

Keith cracks open bleary eyes, lifting a hand to rub his face. Lance groans from his place on Keith’s chest — in a puddle of drool, why is that not nearly as revolting as it should be — and snatches Keith’s wrist way faster than he should be able to as groggy as he is, placing it back around his waist.

“Oh, my God,” the voice repeats, gleeful.

“Shut up, Shiro,” Keith mutters. “Fuck.”

It takes him a minute.

His eyes fly open at the same time as Lance’s, and they look at each other, and then Keith is being shoved and kicked at the same time somehow and Lance is scrambling backwards at the speed of light, screeching. A loud bang makes Keith look over and he discovers his brother, who is dead to him, collapsed on the floor, laughing so loud Zarkon can probably hear him.

“What — Shiro — go — stop fucking laughing, you piece of shit!”

Lance continues to screech. Keith whips a towel at him.

“You gay pining loser!” Shiro shrieks. “I’m going to tell literally everyone!”

Keith puts his head in his hands and wishes he’d fallen down the goddamn elevator shaft.)

[nataliasquote]

The Price of Perfection | n romanoff

Summary: Natasha will stop at nothing to be perfect, but what will it cost?

Warnings: body dysmorphia, negative self image, toxic thoughts, self hatred, tiny mention of SA

wc: 1k

notes: this is depressing as shit. I wrote it one go (again) and tbh I don’t think it makes sense. I just started writing and didn’t stop. Yeah… vent fic idk. Anyway, enjoy, you angst lovers :)

-⧗-

Mirrors.

A symbol of vanity, casting reflections upon the eyes of the beholder. They’ve seen the most lavish ballgowns and the sleepiest eyes, countless discarded outfits and miniature fashion shows.

Used with friends, with families, with loved ones, a way to see one’s favourite people in the same place. They brought so much happiness without so much as a second thought, so why did she hate them so much?

Whilst the rest of the world crowded to take pictures in the mirror, Natasha had hers concealed away like an antique. A pale sheet usually covered the large reflective glass on her wall, she couldn’t bear the sight.

It wasn’t the mirror itself that caused such repulsion in the Russian’s stomach, no. It was the figure she had staring back at her that left her paralysed in disgust. She avoided all reflections like the plague, far too afraid of what she would find if she looked.

Mirrors hid nothing. They were as raw as could be, every flaw highlighted like the freckles on her pale skin. Natasha never cared for the way her body looked, it served her just fine, but something had shifted lately, something small in her mind triggering an avalanche.

How do you even begin to understand something that has been objectified your entire life? How do you view it as anything more than a way to assist a mission, anything more than something for other people to break at will. The visible scars were one thing, but the invisible marks of the many hands that had slid grotesquely around her waist and pawed at her chest like pieces of meat were what stuck out the most as she obsessed over her reflection.

Perfection was a slippery slope.

And Natasha Romanoff craved perfection.

It was all she knew. But gone were the days of having instructors barking orders to ensure she maintained that divine perfection. She was on her own now, but was that a good thing?

Her self control was impeccable but her eyes told another story. They burned across the expanse of her stomach in the dim bathroom light, slender fingers tugging at the flesh on her hips whilst her jaw was set rigid. The cool air barely raised a hair on her arms as she picked herself apart, falling deeper and deeper into her nightmares as red lines began to form across her limbs and torso.

Where was the perfection she had been told she was?

Was it buried underneath the blanket of snow that coated her homeland in its icy beauty? Or was it simply a ruse, a false pretense, meant only to manipulate her further into the ultimate weapon.

Whatever it was, she couldn’t see it now. Even through blurry eyes filled with tears that warped her reflection further, Natasha still stretched and pulled at her skin, ignoring the burn that ignited just under the surface.

How can someone possibly want to love someone like her? A freak, a mess. Bile rose in her throat the longer she panicked, her eyes frantically darting between countless scars and layers of muscle she only perceived as extra weight.

Where had she gone so wrong?

Her mind, usually her sharpest weapon, unmatched in the face of the enemy, had turned on itself and left her the victim in the lonely battlefield. But who was she fighting, if not the figure who mimicked her every move and felt so familiar yet so horrendously foreign.

She didn’t know who she was anymore. Who did her body belong to, because it certainly wasn’t her. Would anyone want her in this state, or would they be just as repulsed as she was after mere seconds of inspection.

“But you’re beautiful.”

What lies. Her grip on reality may have faltered, like fingers slipping on sodden rocks, but she knew what beauty was. And yet now, face to face with the one so many people had admired, she couldn’t see the so-called beauty.

A breathy laugh escaped her lips, yet her expression did nothing to match it. It wasn’t that of happiness, but of desperation, of insanity, the final parts of her slipping away as dysmorphia finally took its hold.

She would never be beautiful, not to herself. Maybe for a fleeting moment when the sun shone just right and her chest felt a little lighter, but that feeling never lasted. All it took was one glance at her reflection in a window for the clouds to settle back inside her mind, reminding her over and over that she would never look the way she wanted. No matter how much she craved it.

The sheet went back up. Her eyes stayed glued to the sidewalk in fear of catching herself in a shop window, and slowly Natasha felt herself slipping away. Her close circle barely saw her anymore, she didn’t want them to see what she saw, and her fork only pushed her food around her plate instead of allowing her a taste.

She knew the price of perfection was high, but it felt astronomical as she scrambled after it, neglecting her life for a glimpse of that feeling. Yet it seemed the harder she tried, the further it felt, leaving her exhausted day after day.

But she never quit. That wasn’t Natasha Romanoff. If she wanted something, she got it, no matter the sacrifice.

But she was fighting a losing battle. Her clouded mind never once gave way to the idea that she was already perfect. How could it? She wasn’t happy with her body, no matter how much she lost or how far she ran.

To the rest of the world, she was the epitome of perfection.

But to herself, she would never be enough. No matter what.

And no compliment could fix that. Not when her self image was so warped that she couldn’t see straight anymore.

She was, and always would be, the reason for her downfall. No enemy could take her down quite like her own mind could and it was the only thing that gave her a sense of control.

But for the price of perfection, could she give it all up?

[sovya]

like magic

ran haitani x f!reader (with hints of rindou haitani x f!reader)

minors n ageless blogs dni

cw: inc-st, dddne, use of honorifics ("nii-chan/san"), slight manipulation (on ran's part), pet names ("princess" "little girl" "sweetheart" "sweet girl"), D/s dynamics (including having rules), infantilization, slight humiliation, praise, degradation, teasing, hand as a gag (to keep you quiet), piv (mating press), size kink, free use (if you squint)

synopsis: ran, after a long day of work, wants nothing more than to decompress with his favourite girl—but he doesn't want to share. ♡

an: if i forgot any cws, pls let me know ! also srry this is so disgusting lol

wc: 2.5k

"you make it sound so easy..." a loud huff departs from his lips, pink and slick with your saliva and his own.

your whines cut through the heavy atmosphere of your sizeable bedroom, a sound that echoes off the finely decorated walls before seeking purchase in the recesses of ran's mind.

"but i need you... don't you need me?" long eyelashes give shade to your gaze as you look up at him longingly. you can almost see him question if you're asking in good faith or if you're simply trying to rile him up. 

either way, it's working. 

"aw, c'mon princess, you know that i do... nii-chan just hates to hurt his favourite little girl, that's all."

"but 'm tough... i can take it! i've taken you before."

"no, i know... i’m only worried that if you hurt too much, you'll scream and cry and then rindou will wake up. an' if rindou wakes up, he'll want a turn with you… and we both know rindou will be much meaner to you than i am."

your eyes leave his face as you look around the darkened room, just barely visible thanks to the lights of the city. he makes a good point, even though you wish he didn't. as much as you love how rin fucks you, your sleeplacking body might break under his strength alone. your gaze returns to your eldest brother's face, giving him a dejected nod. 

"hey, don't look so sad, little girl... 'm still gonna fuck you." his form hovers over yours rather menacingly, his hands on either side of your head holding himself up.

he looks like a God like this, you think to yourself. his normally perfectly styled hair now falling around his face after his nightly shower, the dark purple strands contrasting against his rather pale skin. the tattoo along the length of his neck bobs as his Adam's apple does, as if intentionally drawing attention to itself—though maybe that was the point of getting it on his neck in the first place. your sights trail further down his body, his work shirt having been discarded hours ago, hung up for dry cleaning the next time the maids come by. despite the strain on visibility, you can make out the distinct markings of his half body tattoo, eyes following the intricate patterns the ink has weaved into his skin. he's too good to be true but he's here and he's real and he's looking at you like he wants to eat you—not whole, but to savour you instead.

"so how are you going to..." your voice trails off, words fleeing into the sound of the fan running on the other side of your room.

"fuck you?" he smirks at your hesitation to use a curse word, something him and rin have agreed is strictly unallowed—only for you though, of course. "'s okay, honey, you can say it just this once. i won't tell rin."

"how are you going to f-fuck me if you don't want me to make loud noises?"

his smirk spreads wider, like a burning wildfire across his face, one he couldn't contain even if he tried.

"i’ll be gentle, sweet. take good care of ya." he shifts his weight to his left hand, using his right to caress your cheek, his thumb smoothing out the plush skin there.

“but… what if it hurts? like you said…”

“hm…” ran starts to look around the bed before reaching for your stuffed rabbit, placing it onto your chest, “hold your bunny, okay? cry into her if you need to cry.”

an involuntary whine escapes you, your arms wrapping around the stuffed animal your brothers bought you many years prior—prior to this moment, prior to them fucking you stupid nearly every night.

reaching his hand down to the waistband of his sweats, he haphazardly pulls them down until the band rests around his muscular thighs, his cock finally springing free.

“see, baby, there you go. just hold onto your bunny an’ nii-chan will be right here, okay?”

“okay…” the utterance comes out much less confident than ran was hoping for, but he’s too hard and his day has been too long to give a fuck.

he gathers the skirt of your nightgown and pushes it further up your hips, his large hands finding their way to your bum as he lifts you slightly, allowing the garment to collect around your body, just below your belly button. he leaves your bottom half completely exposed, your cunt now in full view.

“just as pretty as the first time i saw her…” ran sighs, speaking mostly to himself.

while his left hand remains on your body, touching your side with a gentleness not unfamiliar to you, his right hand pulls back, finding its way to his aching cock. he begins to touch himself, teasingly slow, as his gaze drags up and down your body.

“nii-chan…” whining, you give him a pout and ran can’t help but laugh.

“what?”

“want touches…” your eyes begin to well up as you watch him masturbate above you, knowing that the brothers gave you a rule against touching yourself without their express permission.

“what do you say, then?”

taking in a shaky breath, your brows furrow a little more, “please?”

“please what?”

you can’t totally see his face given the darkness of the room, but you can just tell he’s got a smirk plastered across his face.

“p-please… ran-nii, will you please touch me?”

“touch you where?”

goodness, you feel like sobbing. you feel a painful lump in your throat beginning to form and you swear it’s going to weigh you down into the mattress and leave you there, crying, for an eternity.

“r-ran… please? i need you. need you t-to touch me on my… in my… my…” you struggle desperately to get the words out, wrestling with your mind to just let you say the words—those incredibly humiliating words—you need to say.

“your… what?” his hands go back to your bum, lifting you up as he goes to line himself up with your entrance. afterall, you both know he can’t have you sobbing.

“there! touch me there! please!”

ran places a hand over your mouth, trying to keep you from nearly shouting at him again. the sheer size of it engulfs your face, causing you to clench against him, and he can feel it.

he hisses out a “fuck” when he feels your pulsating cunt against the tip of his cock, the way your arousal is dripping down your slit.

ran simply cannot wait any longer. he needs to feel you wrapped around his cock. his sanity depends on it.

the hand on your face presses harder against your skin, the bones of his digits digging in as he starts to sink himself inside of you. his jaw falls slack, letting a strained groan make its way past his lips. it may be dark in your bedroom, but he can see how your eyes dart around his face in a panic, never having taken him with this little prep before. you’re scared and incredibly pliant, just how he likes you.

you draw in a shaky breath, intense and fraught, like with every inch he presses inside of you, he threatens to knock more air out of your lungs. gripping onto your plushie tighter, you feel tears beginning to pool at your lash line, his cock stretching you with a harsh sting.

“there you go sweet girl… look so pretty like this…” ran whispers as he finally bottoms out, his gaze nothing short of absolutely adoring.

you blink and a tear falls down the side of your face and onto the pillow, “i do?”

ran lets out a breathy laugh, nodding while his hips start with a relaxed pace, “yeah, princess, so fuckin’ pretty.”

smiling up at him, you manage a small giggle, “thank you, ran”

he begins to speed up, the sound of his skin slapping against yours getting louder and more frequent, “that’s not what you call me… you know that…”

starting to sob, you partially hide your face with the head of your bunny plush, “sorry nii-chan… ‘m sorry…”

clenching his jaw, ran groans through his teeth, low and needy—like a man possessed.

“there we go, good girl… that’s what i like to hear.”

his cock stretches you open, keeps you open, as it drags along the gummy walls of your cunt. the feeling is almost agonizing, despite the arousal dripping down and forming a little puddle below you. you feel an intense ache in your core, like he’s threatening to tear you open. and through all of this, you feel so ardent, so eager, so good.

feeling you tighten around him, ran draws in a sharp breath, his fingers gripping at your pillows even harder, “fuck, sweetheart… love when you do that. w-what’s it you’re thinkin’ about in that pretty little head of yours?”

you give him a drawn-out whine, all of a sudden feeling overwhelmingly shy. looking up at him, your brows furrow as you shake your head.

“no? you don’t wanna tell me?”

you can feel yourself tighten around him again, but you repeat your headshake.

“alright, that’s fine.” suddenly, ran stops his movement, causing you to gasp—and you’ve got that precious panic face back on—how cute.

“wait… no. please keep going, ran-nii. i-i’ll tell you, promise,” you do your best to talk quietly, but the possibility of ran stopping is just too much for you to bear.

“you promise?” 

his cock is still buried inside of you, and he’s just as desperate as you are to keep going, but he’s gotta tease you. what else are big brothers for?

sniffling, you nod, opening your mouth to speak, “was just thinking about how you feel…”

ran starts to roll his hips into yours again, a smug look creeping across his face anew, “how i feel?”

“yeah… h-how you’re stretching me out and…”

moving faster, bringing himself back to his previous pace, ran raises an eyebrow at you, “and what?”

“just… how big you are…”

he licks his lips and his eyes grow heavily lidded, the classic haitani stare piercing through your soul, sending the most primal feelings surging through you—feelings you can almost guarantee are rushing through him too.

“how big i am, huh?” his large frame shifts above you, ran’s hands moving off the pillows and to the undersides of your thighs, pinning your legs to your chest.

you let out a squeal and ran’s hand finds its way to your mouth once again, attempting to keep you quiet as the weight of his body keeps your thighs pressed to your torso. a muffled “mhm” leaves your lips but is cut off by your big brother’s palm, causing him to laugh. the low rumble comes from deep in his chest and you can feel his abdominal muscles tensing against the backs of your legs as he chuckles.

he’s so strong, the feel of his muscles like absolute torment to you, causing your cunt to clench around him another time.

“you’re such a naughty girl… getting off on your big brother folding you in half and fucking you like a toy.” ran growls, throwing his head back and moaning. his head comes back down just as quickly so he can look at you while he speaks again, “but that’s okay, you know that… nii-san loves his dirty little girl.”

ran moves his hand from your mouth, pressing his sweaty forehead against your own, gazing into your eyes with so much love.

i love when he does this, you think to yourself. ran can play all the mind games he wants, can be conniving and tease you until you forget where he starts and you end, but the way he looks at you when he’s close gives all of his secrets away.

“i love you s’much, ran-nii.”

before you can register what’s happening, ran’s lips meet your own, capturing you in a kiss. it’s passionate and incredibly comforting all at once, making you dizzy and sending your heart pounding. his soft lips move against yours languidly, a wide contrast to how harshly his cock slams into you.

“nii-chan wants to make you cum, baby… ‘s that okay?” ran practically moans into your mouth, but you know his question is rhetorical. you know it doesn’t matter what you want, not really. that you finishing is all a part of his fun, too.

you nod anyway, lips parted and wet with both of your saliva.

ran snakes a hand down between the two of you, the pads of his middle and ring fingers touching your clit as he begins rubbing fast, tight circles against it.

you can’t help but squeeze your plushie tighter, tears starting to well up and fall, the crystalline droplets catching what little available light peers into your room.

“you’re so beautiful…” ran still speaks against your lips, as if he’s trying to convince you to let go right there underneath him. “the best little sister a guy could ask for.”

whimpering, you dig the back of your head further into your pillow, ran’s lips having no issue following.

“p-please?” although you’re unsure of exactly what you’re begging for, ran takes the cue to keep going. his long fingers continue swiping at your clit as his cock drags against the sweet spot inside of you, your entire body shivering and your eyelashes fluttering as you struggle to maintain eye contact.

your eldest brother ruts into you like an animal, breath catching in his chest with each thrust inside of you. his lips meet yours once more as he feels you starting to spasm and clench around him, desperate to swallow your moans, keeping them all to himself.

a high-pitched mewl escapes from your throat as you finally cum around his cock, your arms and legs trembling as sobs begin to wrack through your body.

ran’s orgasm isn’t far behind yours, his movements stuttering as he wraps his arms around your back, desiring nothing more than to hold you close as he finishes deep inside of you. he looks blissed out and incredibly vulnerable, so unlike the untouchable God you’re used to viewing him as. still, you can’t see him as anything short of perfect.

as the two of you lay there, you do your best to catch your breaths, hearing the sound of ran’s heavy exhaling right next to your ear.

“you okay, princess?” ran’s the first to speak, as always. you guys could have gone for hours and he could be mere moments away from passing out, and he would still check in on you, still do all the aftercare you needed. he’s attentive and sweet like that.

“yeah, ‘m okay… are you?” your voice comes out as a whisper, moving your hands from the plushie you were holding to return ran’s embrace.

he chuckles, maneuvering his head so he’s looking at you again, the warmest smile on his face, “just peachy.”

suddenly, the tender moment is interrupted by the sound of the doorknob to your bedroom jiggling, followed by the harsh light of the hallway as it creeps open.

"aniki... i believe it's my turn now."

[omaano]

SW Hades AU August Update

Links and previous updates: May - June - July, everything else in this AU

In contrast to the July update, I didn't make as much progress in August as I'd intended, but all the same I'm quite happy with what I get to share with you here:

In the previous poll I only promised to get Echo and Fives to lines and flat colours by this (more than a bit belated) update, but thanks to @lesquatrechevrons keeping me company while I was working on them I managed to get the Domino Twins character art to a state of "almost finished". (I had posted them as "finished" but that was before I realized that I'd forgotten to add the little specks of neon colour to them, but oh well, I hate that stage anyway XD)

I also did some brainstorming with the amazing @elwinged about all the characters, as well as the various weapons and their aspects for this AU. They had some great theories and ideas, and also made me actively think about these things, which was real fun!

Before I go into some ramblings about what went into Echo and Fives' art and design (gotta pad this update with something, and some of you seemed to enjoy it with Omega last time), let's have another poll for next month! I've looked over my table of characters and plans, and I came to the delightful realization that I've made far better progress than how it feels on a day-to-day basis. So maybe it's time to work a bit on the boon-giver characters for a change:

Also would anyone be interested in a taglist for these updates, or are you all fine with me just putting these out whenever and let tumblr do its thing in getting them to you? (send me an ask or reply here if yes, I know my tumblr is a mess XD)

Now on to some thoughts on Echo and Fives:

Depicted but not illustrated in its fullest is that Rex has been a constant presence next to Echo and Fives (and to Cody, too, previous to that). It bears repeating that I really wanted to make sure that the clones are the same in size, and share as many colours as possible (so Cody also stood around as moral support when it came to Fives' hair). So you can also see how the shading on their faces are very similar in their shapes, except for the shadows in that part where nose, cheek and mouth meet, because I wanted to make the Dominoes look a bit younger.

Same with how Rex still has that wrinkle in his forehead that I oddly fixate on so much (don't ask), but Echo and Fives very clerly don't. I'll claim that it had been a completely conscious decision, and not just time passing between the two designs - well over half a year - during which I got it into my head that I should depict the clones during wartime as close to their barely-20-ish age as possible.

One thing I didn't commit to enough though (because I chickened out) was to make Fives look a bit more "dead" and ghostly before I put the blue-green soft light adjustment layer on him was the deeper and darker circles under his eyes, and I fully intended to leave out the light reflection from his eyes... but in the end I went back and added a duller shine to them because I'm weak, it's barely visible and he looked too grumpy and mean already T^T I also didn't want to make his cheeks more hollow or anything, because then I would just feel bad and weird about taking away the roundness from their shapes that I've worked so hard to put on them.

As I was working on this piece I've also thought a lot on the style that I've been trying to mimic through this project.

The thing that gave me pause is that I see more and more of my own style slipping into these pieces, I allow my lines to round out more... and I can claim that it is mostly because that's the compromise I can make with the clones, but I open up and look at Hades references less and less, and I just go freely with what's stuck in my brain while I'd tried to wrap my mind around the style when I first went at it.

I've also always had trouble with grouping my shadows and shapes, and this is exactly what I should be pushing more from now on forward. I keep letting myself get distracted by all the tiny details that I so enjoy to put into my work (case in point all that scarring on Echo, and even Fives' hair - as well as Cody's previously, but I didn't know how else to convey the texture of their hair in less and larger shapes). Hades character designs always feel so rich with detail, but at the same time they are a lot more streamlined than what I'd do if i let my own instincts and desires run wild. I'll try to work with that in the future!

Last but not least a few words on Echo's armor:

I'm slowly but surely stretching my artistic muscles a little and going a bit off-model for the characters, so I wanted Echo to wear armor that is a mix of his ARC and Bad Batch commando armor. So he's got the old plates on his arms (where he still has one LOL), all the straps and pouches (and both blasters!) and old kama hanging from his belt, as well as the hand print paint (because that is personally very very important to me that he has it). Then, beause I desperately needed some other colour in my characters that's not blue or black or grey, he's got elements of the red and orange paint he wears later in TBB (I really wanted him to have that orange stripe down the middle of his chest piece too, but I couldn't make it work with the handprint :() I'm real happy with this balance, and particularly with the shades of blue in his worn paint ^^

I also really wanted to give him a hand (I'll never not be frustrated at how Echo was kept literally handicapped with only his left hand to shoot and grab things (and people) with. It's good that he'd been an ARC and trained in dual wielding, but in a world where people keep losing their appendages (and sometimes half of their bodies) as if it was np big deal at all, it couldn't have been too difficult to get him a hand!! ANYWAYS. I'd first learned how to draw mechanical prosthetic hands/arms during my time in the Overwatch fandom, and I don't think I could draw them any other way (especially the fingers and the lights showing through in their joints) than how I'd done for Cole Cassidy way back when he still had a different name XD

I know there is a relatively limited way in how and what parts you can use to build up a hand/forearm, but I just cannot unsee it, and I thought I'd share this tidbit fun fact as well XD

I hope you enjoyed these ramblings, and I promise to try and keep to the normal mid-month-ish schedule for September!

[rockingrobin69]

Want

Malfoy did this thing where he only used a finger and a thumb for crisps. He’d wade through mud without a second thought to retrieve Scorp’s ball from the hissing nettles, he put his arm up to the elbow in cold spaghetti sauce on a dare, he rolled down not one but three different hills with Teddy on their hikes, but when it came to crisps, he was his perfect lordly self. A finger and a thumb going in neat motions, barely even crinkling the bag. A dignified amount of crisps pinched tightly, brought slowly into his mouth. So careful and clean and entirely unintentional. He didn’t even know he was doing it.

Harry did.

Harry noticed everything about him. Hard not to when Malfoy was like this, weird and loud and awkward, pathetic and incredible and everywhere. When Teddy adopted him and Scorp (officially, with a letter he’d hand-written, signed with a drawing of, randomly, a horse); when they moved in, and Malfoy’s pyjamas became a recurring vision, llamas and tiny buttons following even in his dreams; when he found the stray cat, named her Nibbles for no earthly reason; when he was a menace, and Harry adored it. Him. Adored—the whole thing, how their lives suddenly became this, tight and uncomfortable and too warm and perfect.

Teddy was no help. He practically had love-hearts for eyes whenever Malfoy walked in the room. All these ‘Draco, look!’ and ‘Draco, can you—’ and ‘Draco, Draco, come sit next to me!’ that drove Harry spare. And Scorp was such a tiny little thing in all his Molly-made-jumpers, babbling with a look of utter importance and following Teddy around, and cackling with joy whenever he was in Malfoy’s arms. And the cat, fucking, cat, always getting kisses and—

No, Harry wasn’t jealous, that wasn’t quite it. He was… overwhelmed with how gentle it all was. Never really imagined life could be like this, didn’t think he’d want it. Discovered he did with such terrifying intensity, that he yearned for something that wasn’t quite nameable, that he somehow almost had. It kept him up at nights and filled his days with this weird, feverish joy. It was soft and itchy and all his. Almost his. So fucking close to being his.

And Malfoy was right there, sitting across from Harry with his ankle on one knee and the bag of fucking crisps and the way he was eating them, almost—decadently, and utterly, helplessly serious. On the rug, Harry realised he probably loved him.

Stretched, leaned slightly to his side until he was touching Malfoy’s knee. “Hey,” he said, swallowed.

“Hi.” Malfoy offered him the bag. “Want some?”

“You eat crisps funny,” Harry said for an answer. “All cleanly and stuff. It’s funny.”

“Oh. Well. Always happy to amuse you.”

He was so ridiculous, with the little stickers he let Ted and Scorp stick on his socks, on the sliver of his leg that was visible. It would hurt like hell to rip these out, all the fine blond hair caught underneath. Harry couldn’t breathe for a moment, it struck him so hard.

It was the middle of August and a really cold day. All the lights in the living room made it look like… something Harry wanted so badly. Instead of trying to make it into words, he leaned his head against Malfoy. Allowed the fingers threading through his hair. The movement so, so gentle.

“I’m picking Ted early from school tomorrow,” Malfoy announced some time later, in this awful voice he used for Scorp, or when Teddy had a nightmare. “He hates the dentist, so I promised to take him on a walk after. Maybe the hill where we went last month, the one with the waterfall.”

Harry hummed something delighted and heartbroken. Buried his face in Malfoy’s thigh, surrendered to the feeling of his hands, of his warmth.

“Harry… I meant, do you want to come with us? Sorry. That’s not—wasn’t quite clear.”

Buried his face tighter.

“Or—maybe we can go another day? Just us. You and me, I mean. There’s this place I think you would like. If you absolutely insisted, we could take Nibbles along on her lead.”

Brought his head up, pouted at Malfoy’s pretty face. “No, that’s…” stopped when he noticed the smile. When he realised that this thing that he wanted was already his. Pressed a tiny kiss to Malfoy’s shin, to a sticker of a star on his hairy leg. “You are,” Harry said, and meant it from the bottom of his heart. Breathed, breathed. Sat there and grinned to himself.

The bag of crisps crinkled. The afternoon went on, lit and weirdly warm. It was the life Harry didn’t know he wanted, that he ached for, that he had.

(If you enjoyed this, I've recently shared the first part of Wonderful on AO3. Consider checking it out for your pining needs).

[3-2-whump]

It Started with a Gray Hair

<prev next>

After a couple months' worth of balancing two jobs, hardly getting any sleep, and running himself ragged, Khaled finally snaps.

Thanks @whumped-by-glitter and @generic-whumperz for the feedback on this chapter, I've applied your advice and hope you like what I did with it!

TW/CW: emotional angst, emotional whump, defiant whumpee (?) (whumpee loses his last fuck to give), slave whump, captivity whump, alcohol, very briefly mentioned food whump (like it's barely there but I'll tag it anyways), intimate whumper, dub con, hate sex

Khaled noticed it when he was towel-drying his hair in front of the mirror after a shower. He accepted it wasn’t a trick of the light as he blew his hair dry in front of the mirror, and he finally confirmed it was exactly as he feared when he combed through his wild floof. Standing starkly contrasted against the black night of his hair was a single silvery strand, long and twisted and brittle amongst strong sable waves.

There was a sharp rap on the door, accompanied by his master’s complaints. Khaled ignored it, still horrified by the discovery of his first gray hair. It was less about vanity for him more than it was a visible sign of the passage of time, of how much time he’d spent living under this man’s thumb. His hands unscrewed the pomade jar on autopilot. He went through the motions of dipping fingertips into the sticky substance and running them through his hair, thoughts racing all the while. He managed to hide the silvery offender –the only one, as far as he knew, though where there was one, there were probably more, and what was that under his eyes? Lines?

“Sometime today, Khaled!” Thomas yelled through the bathroom door.

“Almost done, Master!” he shouted back as he rinsed the hair product off his hands. He hastily dried them and opened the door, subconsciously straightening out his shirt collar as he righted his posture.

“Everything alright?” It was funny, how he almost sounded concerned.

“Fine,” Khaled lied. As if he was going to complain to a forty-something year old man about his first gray hair.

“Well let’s go! We’re going to be late for the reservation I made!”

The restaurant they drove to overlooked a harbor boasting a panoramic view of the Atlantic Ocean, plus or minus a few barges, with the city skyline largely forgotten behind the vast blue expanse. Regretfully, the outdoor seating was closed for the season, with it already being late fall, so the mob boss and his slave got a table indoors, right next to the wide windows above the balcony.

Whatever hope Khaled had of forgetting about the passage of time was quickly dashed by the first course. “We’ll take the antipasti plate, cured meats on the side, and your 2015 Merlot, two glasses, leave the bottle.”

Khaled cleared his throat, getting Thomas and the waitress’ attention. “Just one glass, please,” he corrected. “I’ll take a water.”

“Are you sure you don’t want any?” Thomas asked. Khaled shook his head. “Best give him a glass anyway,” he whispered not too subtly. The waitress dutifully wrote down their order before leaving them to their complimentary bread basket.

“Ah, 2015,” the boss reminisced with a sigh. “The year my grandfather passed and I became the head of the Costa Family, what a tumultuous year!”

Yeah, 2015, the year I was kidnapped and sold halfway across the world to you, Khaled remembered. He tried to wash away the bitter memory with the water the waitress had given him, but the icy cold drink only numbed the sensation for a moment. He halfheartedly smeared some butter onto a piece of bread and picked at the marinated olives on their shared plate as his master kept reminiscing about how much time they had spent together.

“That was also the year I got you, wasn’t it?” he asked rhetorically. “Do you remember how small you were back then?” Thomas popped a salted almond into his mouth, chewing it only for a second before answering for him. “You were 5’1” and barely 90 lbs, a scrawny little thing. Then, with enough food and shelter and a stable environment-”

Khaled nearly choked on an ice cube.

“-you hit your growth spurt and made up for lost time!” The older man laughed, taking a hearty sip of his wine. “As soon as I bought you clothes that fit, you would need them replaced! You shot up like a weed over those first two years, and now look at you!”

Look at me now, Khaled bitterly echoed. His gaze flitted to the deep ruby liquid in his master’s wine glass, and then to the opaque green bottle set in the middle of their table. If he was going to make it through the rest of this dinner, he might change his mind about the merlot after all.

The man across from him helped himself to a slice of prosciutto from the side plate. “You’re a handsome young man, now twenty-two years old, 5’8”, 138 lbs. You’re built like a whippet, svelte and sexy in all the right places,” he crooned, throwing in a wink. “It has been nothing but a pleasure spending all these years with you.”

The bread on his tongue felt as dry as ashes in Khaled’s mouth. “I think I will take some of that wine, thanks,” he murmured. He leaned over the table to reach for the wine, but Thomas beat him to it.

Their hands touched on the neck of the wine bottle, two sources of warmth meeting on cold slender glass. Khaled shot his master a questioning look, only to receive a cryptically soft gaze in response. “Allow me.” Thomas took the bottle and effortlessly filled the spare wine glass. “Here you are,” he said, passing it to Khaled with a fond smile. Their hands met once again, the older man’s touch lingering just a bit longer than necessary on the neck of the wine glass as he stared into Khaled’s eyes. There was something softening the look in those steely-gray eyes, and it wasn’t just the candlelight ambiance. This look was warm and cozy, almost comforting like a fresh cup of tea; nothing like the fiery and lustful glances that promised Khaled equal measures of pleasure and pain. At least Khaled was used to the latter type of looks. The way Thomas looked at him now was almost as if –but no, Khaled thought, he’s just playing it up because we’re out in public.

“Aren’t you going to eat any more of this?” Thomas asked, waving down toward the sliced cheeses and grapes and nuts. Khaled hated how concerned his master sounded, making it sound like he cared.

“I guess I’m not as hungry as I thought I was,” he replied. He threw back the glass of wine and let the liquid pour down his throat, just to give his mouth anything to do other than talk to the man across from him.

“Oh, come on, Khaled, you know the dietary rules don’t apply on your birthday! At least eat something to absorb all that wine you’re inhaling?”

Brushing uncomfortably past the reminder that today was his birthday –the seventh birthday he had spent in slavery to his master, owner, and abuser –Khaled polished off the rest of his wine, instantly tipping his glass forward in a nonverbal request for more. “Why should you care?” he asked.

“Because maybe I care about you.” Thomas refilled his wine glass. He did that thing with his voice again, using the tone that sounded as if he were genuinely concerned. He was looking at him in that same soft and worrisome way as before. Khaled decided that he hated it. It made sense that the man would be concerned about his $150k asset, but anything vaguely resembling more than that was just …wrong.

He made a show of turning his head all about the restaurant, clocking how few patrons there actually were on a Monday night. “You can drop the act you know,” he murmured. “There is no one within five tables around ours, so you can cut the crap and just be yourself, Master.” The title left his tongue like a bitter epithet.

“Cut the –Khaled, what are you talking about?”

Oh, so he’s going to play dumb? Fine! You want to fuck with me, I’m the King of Dumb –wait, hold on. Khaled tipped back his second glass of wine, not stopping until the whole vessel was drained. Whether it was the insincere gestures of concern, or the accumulation of remarks about how much time had been stolen from him, or whatever the hell these soft and warm looks were, Khaled had decided he’d had enough. “I mean, stop being so goddamn nice to me, stop acting like we’re good friends or boyfriends or whatever lie you told these people when you made our reservations, and please, please, please, stop acting like you care about me beyond what I can do for you in bed!”

A few patrons turned their heads toward their table, since Khaled had raised his voice a little at that last statement. The mob boss glanced around with a flicker of nervousness in those gray eyes. “Khaled, baby, calm down,” he soothed quietly, opting to go for damage control.

Wrong choice of words, fucker! Khaled scoffed loudly, emboldened by the alcohol in his system. “You bought me, at fifteen years old, like an object, and you brought me into your empty, soulless home for what exactly? To leave me chained up and alone to slowly lose my mind for the first year I was imprisoned with you?” He slammed his empty wineglass against the table with enough force to rattle the silverware. “Nobody even treats their dog that badly!” he shouted.

“Khaled, keep your voice down, you’re drawing attention-”

The hypocrisy nearly made Khaled laugh. How dare you care about drawing attention onto us now, of all times! “And then,” Khaled continued, retelling his story as he raised his voice on purpose, “you took me to work with you and kept me on an extremely short leash, while the rest of the mafia treated me like the plague! Do you have any idea what they would say about me when you weren’t there? All the names they called me that I didn’t understand? Well, you made me understand, didn’t you?” His master reached out to hold his hand, but Khaled smacked it away, rising from the table to put even further distance between them. “Four years ago, this very night, the night of my eighteenth birthday, you made me understand, didn’t you?!”

“Khaled, shut up!” Thomas raised himself from the table, his livid eyes narrowed threateningly as he stared the young man down.

“You treated me like a whore –no, worse than a whore! You broke and violated my body nearly every night for years on end! You dolled me up and passed me around to your boys like a party favor until I was thrown away like garbage-” Khaled furiously blinked back the stinging sensation in his eyes “-back into your arms when they’d had their fill!”

A small squeak in their periphery interrupted their intense staring match. “U-um, excuse me, have you gentlemen decided on your entrees yet?” the waitress timidly interrupted. Both men fell silent as they realized the weight of a dozen stares were on their table, with both patrons and staff tensely watching them as they fought.

Thomas composed himself first. “No, thanks, I think we’re done here,” he answered gruffly. He reached into his coat pocket and fished out a few $100 bills. “Sorry for the inconvenience,” he muttered as he pressed the cash into the woman’s hands and strode purposefully towards the exit. Khaled himself muttered a quiet “sorry” before he followed his master out the restaurant, where they both picked up their argument where they had left off as soon as they reached the parking lot.

“What was that?” the mob boss shouted. “Fuck, boy, what is wrong with you tonight?!”

“What’s wrong with me?! I wasn’t the one who went out and bought a teenager to turn into their personal bed warmer!” Khaled screamed. “I wasn’t the one who stripped him of his clothes and wrapped him in silk and pimped him out to strangers he barely knew! I wasn’t the one who tore down everything he loved about himself-” Khaled’s voice broke on a wet sob he couldn’t suppress, “–everything that made him unique, to wring all the hopes and dreams from his broken body, just to build up whatever I wanted from his remains!” He raised an accusatory finger at the man he called his master. “That was you, you did that, that was all you!”

A brief grimace of an unnamed emotion flickered across his master’s face, disappearing before it could even be named. “You’re making it out to be way worse than it was!” he defended himself. He shook his head as he grabbed Khaled’s elbow and started steering him toward the car. “See if I ever let you drink again, fuck,” he muttered.

“Get off me!” Khaled yanked his elbow away from Thomas’ grip. He bit his trembling lip and swiped away the tears in his eyes. Any and all pretense of wanting to appear strong was abandoned as Khaled angrily wept.

“I could have loved you, you know!” He wrapped his arms around himself as his posture crumpled, squeezing himself in a hug as if he were desperately trying to hold his shattered pieces together for a little longer, if only so long as it took him to finish his damning indictment. “You wouldn’t know this, but I don’t have a father, at least not anymore,” he shuddered through ragged breaths, “but for a little bit, I thought I had you. If you had just been a little kinder, a little more understanding, if you had never touched me like that at all, I could have loved you like a father, and I think I was about to! But you didn’t love me, and I know you never did!”

“Hey, that is just not true!” Khaled heard the crunch of gravel under expensive leather shoes. A shadow cast over him as the mob boss leaned over the young man.

“Why didn’t you love me?!” Khaled glared up at him through his mess of tears. “What was it about me that justified pouring out all your wrath and your lust against me?! Why was it so hard to love me?! Am I unlovable, is that it?! Why-”

A rough hand grabbed him by his hair and tugged him forward. Khaled’s rant was smashed against a regrettably familiar pair of warm lips as Thomas brought him in for a kiss. Khaled clawed at the front of the man’s chest, fighting with a fervor he had not had since the early days to try and put the distance back between them. He groaned in protest against those smothering lips as his master maneuvered both their bodies and flipped Khaled back-first onto the hood of a car. Thomas broke the kiss and quickly covered Khaled’s mouth with his hand before the young man could say anything else. “You want me to love you?” he growled. “What does it look like I’ve been doing?!” Khaled thrashed against the hand on his mouth and the body pressing him down inch by inch into the chrome hood of the car. “I have been nothing but sweet with you for months now, but if that’s not what love looks like to you, I could always go back to what I had done before!”

The statement that would’ve struck terror and fear into him before now just made Khaled even more angry. He had finally freed one of his arms from where it had been pinned and scratched at his owner’s face. Thomas recoiled and let go of Khaled’s mouth on instinct to catch Khaled’s wrist in a punishingly tight grip. It wasn’t long before he had both of Khaled’s wrists pinned in one hand in front of him.

Khaled glared at him as he struggled against his master’s hold. “Touch me like that again, and I will scream,” he promised.

His master scowled, but ultimately released him and stepped away, allowing Khaled to peel himself off the hood of the car. They were still in a restaurant parking lot, after all. “At least wait until we’re in the car, you fucking savage!” he muttered.

They had just made it to the back of the boss’ Bentley when Thomas tried to grab Khaled in one hand and open the backseat door with another. Khaled dodged, and as Thomas reached for him to pull him into the car, he pushed into the man’s body and sent him falling backwards. His back met the seat of the backseat with a satisfying thud. Khaled wasted no time in climbing on top of him and closing the car door behind him.

“Cut this shit out!” the older man yelled, trying to sit himself up from where he fell.

“No!” Khaled pushed him down by the sternum. His master, in turn grabbed him by the hair and wrenched his head back to bare his neck. The sudden pull made Khaled gasp. The warm, moist pair of lips kissing at his Adam’s apple made him involuntarily groan. He blindly clawed at his master while his head was craned up to the car roof. The pair of lips against his throat murmured a breathy request against his skin. “Let’s do it, here, now.”

Once the hand in his hair let Khaled go to begin tearing off his shirt, Khaled snapped his head back to stare down at him. “I’ll ride,” he said. Thomas blinked up at him as his hands retreated from Khaled’s waistband. “I’ll ride,” he repeated, his tone assertive and acerbic. His fingers moved over the button and fly of his pants before his brain could keep up with what he had demanded. Thomas mirrored the motions as he undid his pants and quickly whipped out his hardening member. “You have taken so much from me, you can at least allow me this, Master.” He pushed his pants and underwear down to his ankles, taking them off entirely before climbing on top of the dumbstruck man again.

Khaled straddled his master’s hips, splitting himself in half on his master’s cock as he gripped the front passenger seat and the back seat to steady himself. A pair of roughly calloused hands maintained an iron grip on his hips, but Khaled had set the speed on his own, pushing himself up and down the rigid shaft at a brutally masochistic pace. The familiar stinging burning sensation accompanied every movement as he pushed himself to his limits, but Khaled didn’t care. This was the most control he’d ever had –more like the most control he’d been allowed to have with his owner, and as he kept hitting that sweet spot inside of him with every punishing thrust, the repugnant act finally began to feel good.

He wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry. He did both.

“Fuck me!” Khaled looked below, into the eyes of the man he was riding. The mob boss was a mess, with his short blonde hair mussed up, top three shirt buttons undone, and outer suit coat long forgotten. “I don’t know what I did to get you so worked up, but I should do it again if it gets you this eager!”

“Shut up!”

One of the hands let go of Khaled’s hips to slap him across the cheek. “That is no way to talk to your Master!”

Undeterred, Khaled kept riding. After every abuse that he’d endured, there was no way a mere backhand was going to stop him. He felt himself smiling, a dark and twisted little upturn gracing his lips. “Oh, I know you missed this, you sick son of a fuck!” he gloated. “I figured those girls in the whorehouses could only satisfy you for so long! I am your perfect plaything, doing exactly what you have trained me to do!” His pace was becoming erratically frenzied as he sought release from the ever-mounting pleasure. Thomas bucked his hips into Khaled’s, trying to keep up with him as he squeezed the young man’s hips impossibly tight. That’s right, I can’t cum yet, not until he cums at least, I’ve got to get him to cum first, Khaled reminded himself.

“So, so tight –you’re gonna rip my dick off, Khaled!”

“What are you complaining for?! You wanted this!” he screamed. He was close, so close, he just had to hold out a little more-

A strangled mix between a roar and a moan erupted underneath him as a familiar pulse of hot seed injected deep within. Khaled didn’t take much longer to cum after that, spilling himself over imported cotton as he rode through the high of his climax. His grip on the front and back seats slackened, knees and thighs trembling with the effort to keep himself seated on the man’s cock. When Thomas finally let go of his hips to gently guide him down onto his chest –face first into the puddle of his own spend –Khaled went down limply without a fight. He rested his head against his master’s chest, picking up the sound of the older man’s heartbeat and the smell of cologne and sweat and sex radiating off his broad body.

“Holy fuck, Khaled.” Thomas’ voice rumbled in his ribcage as his fingers idly played with Khaled’s hair. “That was kinda hot-”

“Nope,” Khaled cut off, “stop talking. Please.” Fortunately, this time, he listened.

The mob boss and his slave fell into a contemplative silence as they lay against each other. The silence only broke by the fingers in Khaled’s hair, stopping as they twirled a single lock of hair. “Oh my god, is that a gray hair?” the man asked incredulously.

Khaled laughed/cried again.

Le Tag List: @kabie-whump @rainydaywhump @whumped-by-glitter @skittles-the-whumpee @generic-whumperz @bamber344 @there-will-always-be-blood @morning-star-whump @a-la-whump @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees

@defire

[joesanrio]

Hey girl, can I have a Jey uso fic. Like you’re Paul’s daughter and like completely off limits. But he ignores that. It doesn’t have to be exactly like that, that was just the vibe. Lots of smut tho. Only if you’re comfortable. Thank you boo

Hey!!! Omg- I love this bcs I’ve been wanting to write abt Jey for a good while!! 🩷 I hope I didn’t disappoint.

Nobody will know | J.U

Summary: Being the daughter of Paul Heyman comes with its perks, but everyone knows that despite their attraction to you they could never have you…except him.

Pairings: Jey Uso x fem!reader || non-established relationship

Warnings: Secret relationship, teasing, closet!smut, nipple play, oral (m. recieves), asskink!jey, face grabbing, dom!jey, sub!reader, multiple orgasms, p in v (unprotected), creampies, L bombs, etc.

Word count: 2012

Ratings: Smut | 18+

———————————————————

“What’s up little miss untouchable?” Jey asked as he entered the locker room, as much as I pretended to hate the nickname, it always sounded so good coming from him. I smile before rolling my eyes as he sat down on the couch beside me, “I’m fine. Just got done filming.” I say avoiding his gaze. He doesn’t speak, instead he stares at me without even caring about how many people are in the room waiting for his acknowledgement. “You’re riding with me back to the hotel, right?” His voice entering my ears in a low whisper, I nod as he pulls away to talk to the other guys in the room.

Everyone knew that due to my dad’s overbearing presence that I was off-limits, barely getting to hang out with the other stars especially the male ones. Jey was different though; he and my father had this false sense of trust with each other which made him the only person who could even get a hug from me. But as much as my dad is protective, he’s also naïve to what goes on around him.  

“What’s going on with you and Jey?” Natalya asked as I walked down the hall, my neck whipped back quickly as she startled me, “Oh my gosh Nattie! Nothing.” I gasp as her eyebrow rises with an unbelievable expression. “Nothing; is like a simple ‘Hey’ not a nickname and whispering in ear.” She says looking me up and down as I roll my eyes. “Okay! Maybe a little something but you know how my dad is… so it’s always nothing.” I say giving her a stern look as my dad walks down the hall with Roman. “Mm’kay whatever you say.” She turns back around when she spots my father making his way towards us, giving me a quick hug and leaving.

---

“You look gorgeous.” His voice muffled into my neck before sucking a small hickies onto my throat, my head falls back against the wall before my arms wrap around his shoulders. Pulling him closer his sultry breath falls onto my collarbones once his now kisses go farther down, placing a gentle kiss above my cleavage as his hands hold my waist tightly. “S’good.” I moan out softly while his lips are now forming into a smirk on my soft skin, my hands grabbing the hair on the nape of his neck to pull him up. Jey’s lips always fit perfect with mine, the taste of his cherry ChapStick now on my plump lips once his teeth pull softly at my bottom lip.

A loud knock on the door causes us to separate, “I’m on a call, give me a sec.” Jey calls out as his thumb rubs my smeared gloss from the side of my mouth and pecks a quick kiss onto my lips. “My bad, I’ll come back later then.” I hear Kevin from the other side of the door before his footsteps are heard leaving from the door and down the hall. Looking Jey up and down as his print is now visible in his sweats, “We got to go.” I say as fix his hair that’s ruffled up from my grasp.

Leaving the room, the cool air hits my warmed body. “Damn.” Jey says as he sees me in the new lighting while we walk to the parking lot to leave, looking over at him confused he says nothing but almost hits the wall as he admires my face. “Stop being silly and let’s go.” I say as his gaze leaves my eyes to fall onto my now wet and plumped lips, “Want to go back?” He stops and juts his head back towards the hallway. “Jey! Cut it out.” I giggle as he continues walking and opens the door that leads outside.

“So nice.” I say as we walked up onto his rental car, he pops the trunk before putting his luggage in first. He smiles before grabbing my suitcase and placing it in the back, I walk to the passenger door as he unlocks the car, and we get in. “Oh my gosh. It’s so pretty!” I exclaim as I admire the interior, but Jey’s too busy admiring me. “You’re pretty.” He smirks as I look at him unamused while he starts the car.

I can’t help but smile as we finally leave the arena, Jey takes no time as his hand is now resting on my thigh. I stare down at his huge hand before it moves further between my thighs, popping his hand he pulls it back to rest above. “You need to focus on driving.” I scold as his fingers rub little shapes onto my bare leg, “I got this.” He says as he gives me a quick look before focusing back on the road.

---

Jey’s lips fall onto mine as his kisses make my skin burn in lust, his large hands kneed into my waist as he hovers above me. My arms immediately wrapping around his shoulders to pull him down further on my body, his hips grinding eagerly into mine. “More.” I muffle into his now plumped lips, his eyes opening to look at my needy expression. He pulls away from the kiss to remove his shirt, which I follow suit as my red lace bra is on display. Jey bites his lips as his hand cups one of my breasts and his thumb rubbing over my nipple, I moan out softly at his delicate touch.

“I thought you didn’t like lace?” He questions as he lays back in between my thighs to get closer to my breast, “I never said that.” I gasp as his tongue licks down from my collarbone to my sternum. His smirk felt along my chest, as he pulled my bra to the side to suck onto my hardened nipple. Jey’s other hand coming up to play with the other, “Fuck...” I moaned out as his teeth pulled at sensitive bud. His tongue not far behind to soothe the area, he then switches to the other side.

My hands wanting to grab onto something as Jey pleases me, I pull his face up from my chest to kiss him. “You’re so sensitive.” Jey’s lips muffle against mine as I moan into the kiss while my hands now fall onto his biceps. His hips rocking against my core, making my back arch into his hold when his hand leaves from my breast to my waist. “Just fuck me already.” I whine before biting onto his bottom lip, causing a quick slap to make contact with my thigh.

“Fine, but you gotta do all the work since you have no patience.” He said pulling away from the kiss and leaning back onto his knees. A pout forming on my lips as I lift my hips to remove my shorts that I’ve yet to take off, “Fix your face.” Jey says grabbing my chin roughly, making the wet patch on my matching red panties darker. He lets go of my chin before pulling at the strings of his sweats, looking up at him as he pulls his large cock from the restraints of his pants.

We repositioned ourselves, Jey laid back on the pillows with his hands behind his head, his cock standing up as his tip glistens in the dim light. In between his legs, I lean forwards and I wrap my hands around the base of his large cock. Drooling at the sight of the precum leaking from his tip and the small twitches of his cock when I run my finger over the slit. He groans deeply as my lips wrap around the tip, the salty taste of the precum collecting on my tongue as he throws his head back in a bliss. “You’re so big.” I moan before licking from the bottom of the base to the top of his tip, his hands moving from behind his head to fist my hair into a ponytail.

“Put in your mouth baby.” He moans as I relax my jaw to take as much of him into my mouth as possible while I use my hands for the rest. His hips rolling up into my mouth before his tip pushes into my throat, his hips faltering at the tightness. “You like that?” I moan as I pull away from his cock as his eyes close and he nods. “Oh! You’re doing so good!” He praises me as I suck on his tip, his hands pushing my head further down his cock. Feeling his twitch in my mouth, his hips thrusting faster, I hollow my cheeks as he lets out a loud moan.

“Take it Baby, oh fuck- Yeah Just take it.” He moans as he holds my head down while his cum coats the back of my throat. His hands falling from my hair as his head is thrown back onto the pillows with his eyes closed, pulling away from him slowly I swallow the cum. “Swallowed it?” He says deeply as his eyes open for a slight moment when I stick my tongue out for him. “Good girl. Now come ride me.” He speaks breathlessly, as I smile and crawl onto his lap.

Sitting on his lap, the feeling of his warm, wet cock in between my folds as I roll my hips slowly on Jey’s. Moaning out quietly as my damp panties add to the pressure of my clit, “Such a cock slut.” He groans as his hands hold onto my waist. I bite my lip as I grind harder against him, before lifting my hips to pull my panties to the side. Jey’s eyes immediately falling to my glistening folds as the wet sounds of our arousal fills the room, “I love it so much.” I moan before grabbing Jey’s cock to insert into my entrance slowly.

Filling me up as I slide down his cock, my hands pressed against his tattooed chest. “Shit, your pussy is so tight.” He moans as I bottom out onto his cock, “Only for you.” I gasp breathlessly as I wait to adjust to his size. His hands holding on my waist and rubbing as I begin to bounce, “There you go, look at you.” Jey moans as his eyes look up into mine. I toss my head back as my breast bounce in front of me, the soft sounds of my ass slapping back down onto his hips filled the room. Leaning down to capture his lips, his hands moving into the curve of my back.

“You smell amazing.” He smiles on my lips before his tongue enters my mouth once he places small smacks on my ass. Gleaming at his compliment, riding him faster, “You’re always so sweet to me.” I say as kiss his neck. His breathy moans leaving his mouth as I begin to suck a hickey on his neck, pulling away to admire the darkening bruise. His hands now helping me bounce on him, “Oh- I’m gonna cum!” I squeal as Jey’s hips drill up into my core.

His hip randomly stops, making me whine out in disappointment. “You’re going to cum- cut it out.” He flips us over, his cock running in between my folds before enters back in my entrance. Almost cumming immediately, he pounds into me mercifully, “S’good!” I moan out as Jey’s hand grabs my face gently to have me look at him.

“So desperate.” He smirks as I clench onto his cock, “Oh you’re going to cum? Want to cum on my cock.” Jey squishes my face as my eyes are fluttering shut, his thrust never faltering as I cream onto his cock with a shaking orgasm.

“Damn girl.” He smirks before placing a rough kiss onto my lips, he holds my hips down as he fills my core up with his warm cum. “I love you.” I gasp as his fingers find their way to my clit and rubbing small circles, “I love you more baby.” He smiles as we calm down from our intense orgasms.

[aquariitheorchid]

Okay. Trigun headcannon time.

TRISTAMP

Vash gets horrible phantom pains in his missing arm. I don’t think pain killers, or whatever helps phantom pains, would be common in No Man’s Land. Especially for Independents. Brad and Luida make sure he has some for when the pain is bad. It took a lot of trail and error before they figured out what worked for him. (He rarely takes them as a form of self-self harm, thinking that deep down, he deserves the pain.)

Meryl has family in November and is the first in her family to graduate from college. They’re so proud of her but are worried for her.

Wolfwood has horrible depth perception when out of combat. Singling the Punisher is fine, it’s what he trained to do but reaching for a glass? He can mask it somewhat well. It’s from the accelerated growth. He’s not entirely used to his new body, in some manners. He ‘grows’ out of it.

Knives and Vash don’t sweat like humans do. They don’t have BO. If you get close enough to either, they don’t smell at all. Vash uses some very light cologne to mask this occasionally.

Meryl has PTSD after Julai. She gets nightmares here and there but the brunt of it is any bright light, red object, or crater in the sand causes flashbacks. She’s almost crashed the car/trailer here and there. They grew more manageable with time, but the nightmares persist.

Knives, after he cut off Vash’s arm, contemplated if he was really doing the right thing. It was brief, only for a moment. The screams of his sisters, Tesla, and the words of the Plant Technicians that day struck him out of it fast.

Wolfwood canNOT drink beer. This man is a whiskey guy.

Meryl keeps a little bottle of the kind of alcohol Roberto likes in the glovebox. If she has the cash and is in the area, she’ll leave a larger one at the memorial site. (She’s spent more time there than you’d imagine. It was painful at first, but as almost like exposure therapy, she found a thin veil of peace there. It helped her deal with the hallucinations. ‘This is how things are, how they played out. This is where. Those mirages aren’t real’).

Roberto was a lady’s man when he was younger.

Wolfwood is some flavor of trans. Same with Vash.

Zazie learned what pranks are from over hearing humans in the early days. It’s where they also picked up human language. Anyway, Zazie has played a lot of pranks on unsuspecting humans. Some of them on Eye of Micheal members once they became affiliated. No one knows it was them besides Elendira.

Zazie changes appearance here and there, not majorly, just subtle shifts. Staring at them is uncanny at times.

The PLANTs all each have their own personality. If you ask one of the nicer techs, they can tell you a PLANTs specific personality. It’s all from very subtle body language and energy readings.

PLANTs are all connected to the higher plane, they can feel when one of their sisters die. They all also felt Knives be injured and whatever the fuck he was doing during episodes 11-12.

Independent plants have fangs.

Independent Plants have uncanny intuition.

Knives is one of those pretentious music bros. Expect he hates all human music. So it’s all only his composed music. Which all pretentiousness about his own music is internal. He doesn’t speak about it to anyone. (Two sided beef but he’s both sides?)

Legato’s arm plate thing has human skull material somewhere in it. It may not be visible but it’s there.

The Eye of Micheal recruits all of their lackeys and foot men from poor, impoverished areas. They are extremely predatory and manipulative.

The Hopeland orphanage was founded in the early days with no ill intentions but the sinners took it over and later fully branded it to be part of the Eye of Micheal.

Livio/Razlo get an autoimmune condition from the experiments later in life. Idk which one but I’m feeling something with his joints and tendons. The Eye of Micheal could not give a shit about it. As long as he is still useful.

Livio dissociates for days on time. He barely has any hobbies when with the Eye of Micheal. He picks up puzzles once he gets out and starts healing. It’s something for his hands to do.

Tesla haunts the Eye of Micheal facility. You can see very, very faint glimpses of her around corners, in the operating room, or the cells. She’s not too happy with what’s going on.

I’m gonna add more later. This is what I have cooked for now.

[whenthegoldrays]

(just wrong enough to) make it feel right twinkling watermelon, episode 13 word count: 1114 | rating: t

“Once I leave, I can’t ever come back.”

“I know. That’s why I’ll take my time figuring it out.”

I look at him in question.

“That way, I can be with you for a long time,” he explains, and I do believe my heart stops completely. I just stare at him — and then the lights buzz and flicker, and the room goes black again before I can answer.

“… you promise?” I finally ask, so low I’m surprised he hears me.

“I promise.”

I exhale, and it comes out much shakier than I expected. A burning stings the back of my eyes; I try to blink it away. God, what kind of girl cries this easily?

I don’t know if it’s self-consciousness or embarrassment, but some part of me hates the thought of him seeing me crying — again — even in this darkness where all that’s visible is his faint outline in the white streetlight that barely breaks through the curtains.

I sniffle, though I don’t mean to. His voice comes gently in answer: “Se Kyeong, are you al—”

I flinch and reach for him to make him stop — unable to bear the sound of her name on his lips right now. My hand is on his neck, and I can feel his erratic pulse under my palm in the fleeting moment it takes me to close the gap between us.

It’s a clumsy collision — the kind where teeth clash together and lips bruise from the impact, and immediately I feel that I’ve ruined the moment by being so rash.

When I feel his hands on my shoulders I realize it in horror — he’s going to pull back.

I can already imagine the mortification I’ll feel when he rips himself away, complaining about my savagery, so I shut my eyes tighter to make the moment last just a fraction of a second longer.

But… then it doesn’t end.

His lips do separate from mine, for just the length of a breath, but then he resumes the kiss — softer, gentler. Kinder.

… Oh, how I hate him. Turning my impulsive, violent attack on his mouth into this. I kiss him to shut him up, and he holds on. This maddening, mesmerizing man.

And a moment later I’m lost in the kiss, breathing him in, tracing his jawline with my fingertips. I don’t even know at what point his hands end up around my waist, or mine in his hair, but the rush of it is so powerful that all recollection of the last two days is washed away. The chorus of it’s wrong, it’s all wrong, has fallen dead silent — the fact that he isn’t Se Kyeong’s first love, that he’s 28 years older than me… none of it matters right now. There is only him and his words and his arms and his warmth, and kissing him feels like I have a firework show in my stomach.

Minutes, seconds, weeks… years… I lose track of time there with him. Eventually I’m forced to break away, because I’m pretty sure it’s been decades since the last time I last inhaled and I must be blue in the face.

He looks at me, unwavering, as I take a deep breath to steady myself.

The power came back on at some point, so I can see the fairy lights twinkling in his eyes, and with the lack of oxygen to my brain making me a bit dizzy, he looks just a little extra sparkly. I’d hardly recognize the person that was kissing me passionately just second ago; he looks so… innocent. Boyish.

“Are you okay?” he asks me, and I’m not sure I can even find the words to tease him.

“I’m fine,” I assure him. “You’re just so…”

Disarming. Captivating. Intoxicating.

“… annoying.”

His eyebrows shoot up.

“I mean, how can you say those things to a girl? You’re making my heart flutter.”

He appears stunned, but the corners of his mouth begin to twitch into a smile, and the sight makes me giggle. “Honestly! And you have to look at me like that, too?”

He chuckles. “I’m sorry to have flustered you, Se Kyeong-ah.”

There’s her name again. “I— I’m not flustered,” I stammer, and his smile grows.

“Oh, screw you,” I laugh, giving his shoulder a light punch. “You just… do something to me. It’s not fair.”

He’s looking at me like that again. With that softness, that seeming ability to read my mind. His face is so close to mine and he’s smiling softly and I’m staring at him and wow, the temptation to kiss him again is remarkably strong. But I think that if I do that, we’ll be here til morning, caught in an endless cycle of kiss, separate, banter, kiss again.

So I wrap my arms around his shoulders and hug him instead, burying my face in his neck. I guess it takes him by surprise, because he stiffens for a moment, before relaxing and returning the hug.

I smile against his skin. “Thanks. By the way.”

“For?”

“For… being gentle with me.”

“Oh.” He’s quiet for a moment. “No thanks required.”

“You’re even doing it now,” I laugh as I feel his hand gently rubbing my back.

“Oh.” His hand stills. “I guess so.”

“Well, don’t stop. It feels good.”

And it does. It’s not kissing, but it’s just as nice — holding each other — feeling his heartbeat against mine. And well, because I’m basically already there and I can’t resist, I allow myself to leave a kiss on the right side of his neck. He gasps softly when I do. “Whoa.”

I chuckle and gently break away at last. ��All right, the party’s over. Now get out of my house, Ha Eun Gyeol.”

“Oh, your kindness overwhelms me!” he laughs, giving my hand a little squeeze before standing up. “Good night, Se Kyeong-ah.”

“Good night,” I smile, looking up at him. “Get home safely.”

“I will,” he answers, picking up his shirt from the couch. “Sleep well.”

“I certainly will.”

And I do — once I'm done squealing in joy and excitement, feeling like exploding into a million little pink hearts, kicking my legs in the air like a madwoman — I go upstairs, and I shower and I get into bed and I sleep soundly for the first time in ages, warm and glowing and just a little bit in love with Ha Eun Gyeol.

[drarrily-we-row-along]

Apple Pie

Harry was baking when Draco got home.

An apple pie, if Draco had to guess, judging by the smell wafting through the house. He took a slow breath before squaring his shoulders and heading toward the kitchen where his boyfriend was baking. It didn't seem like something that should set Draco's fight or flight responses off but it very much was.

Harry only baked pies when he was upset. And it wasn't that he was afraid of Harry; he wasn't, it was just that he hated how hard that amount of stress was, hated that they couldn't just have a proper fight anymore. Hated that he felt like it was all his fault.

"Hey," he said lightly, settling himself at the island and watching Harry as he tidied.

"Hey," Harry replied, voice equally light, but there was an undercurrent of something else there, something that Draco could feel buzzing in his veins.

He paused, parsing out the words, trying to figure out what to say. Maybe if he could just assure him-

"Don't," Harry said, voice sounding stretched tight, like something was ready to shatter inside of him. "Just leave it alone."

"Harry-" he started.

A vase on the shelf wobbled dangerously for a moment before Harry exhaled and unclenched his fists, "Seriously, Draco," he said. "I need some time."

"Right," he said softly, trying not to escalate either of their emotions, "okay," he said, nodding and heading toward their bedroom and deciding to take a shower.

He spent his time in the shower reminding himself that this was how this always went, ever since the curse. Harry's magic was always heightened when he was upset, Harry always drove him away so that he could calm his body down first so his magic didn't lash out unpredictably and wreck their home, they always got to talk it through later. He forced himself to slow down, to do a hair mask and a face mask, light a candle, and moisturize his skin. He'd finished all of his normal self-care routines and then braided his hair before putting on a pair of sweatpants and one of Harry's jumpers.

When he emerged from the bathroom, Harry was sitting in the chair in their room, elbows rested on his knees, fingers clasped. He wasn't looking at Draco but Draco knew that he was fully aware of his presence.

“Hey,” Draco said, keeping his voice level and calm.

“Sorry,” Harry whispered. “I wanted to be okay by the time you got back but I just...” he shook his head and sighed heavily, looking up at Draco and pinning him with the intensity of his gaze, “Are you alright?”

"Fine," he said lightly, no reason for Harry to know that he'd almost died in the field today.

Harry all but growled at him, "don't lie to me," he said and Draco could feel the way his magic was twitching around Draco, trying to reach out and check him but Harry was visibly restraining himself.

With a sigh, he held out his arms, "I am fine," he muttered a bit petulantly. "Go on then," he said and Harry's magic covered him, touching him everywhere seeking out his bones and organs, checking him for any damage. After a moment his magic retreated a bit but he could still feel it lingering on his skin.

"You had a lot of injuries," Harry said, jaw ticking.

"I'm fine," he repeated.

He looked down and took a deep breath, "Ron told me you were in Mungos," he said, and he really must have done a good job regulating given the way his voice barely trembled.

Draco sat on the floor in front of Harry, sliding closer so that he could catch his eyes, "I am fine," he said softly looking up at him.

Harry's fingers reached out and brushed over his jaw, "I don't know what I'd do if I lost you," he confessed. "Draco, I'm-" he broke off, looking at his hands where his fingers were clenched together, "I'm afraid that I'd burn the world to the ground if something happened."

He reached out and took both of Harry's hands in his, clasping them between his, "I'm okay," he repeated.

"This time," Harry said softly.

He didn't know what to say. "I know my job is hard-"

"No you don't," he said, his voice just a little sharp. "You have no idea what it's like to sit here everyday, waiting and hoping that nothing bad happens to you. You have no idea what it's like to have my magic constantly rushing under my skin wanting to help you-"

"I've told Weasley a thousand times not to fucking send you a patronus for every little injury-"

"It wasn't a little injury!" Harry snapped and a light bulb blew in the bathroom.

He shook his head, "I hear that but there's nothing you can do anyway-"

"That's the point!" Harry shouted and something shattered in the kitchen. "There's nothing that I can ever do. I just sit home and bake fucking pies while you go out and throw yourself in front of everything that will kill you."

"That's rich coming from you," Draco said. "The entire reason your magic is like this is because of the curse you had to throw yourself in front-"

"To protect you!"

"I didn't ask you to protect me!" Draco exclaimed. "How long are you going to keep punishing me for something that you chose?"

"Punishing you?" Harry asked, reeling back like Draco had slapped him, "How is wanting to keep you safe punishing you?"

Draco shook his head, tears filling his eyes, "I don't want to give up my life. Every time something happens," he said, "every time I get hurt, I feel afraid of how you're going to react."

"Draco, I wouldn't hurt you-"

"Not because I'm worried about you hurting me," he said, because that was true. "Because it tears you up and I keep waiting for you to ask me to quit. And I don't want to. Harry-"

"I'm sorry," he said, "shit." He put his head in his hands, "Shit."

"I love you," Draco said, because he did, more than anything. "I love you."

"I know," he said, catching the hand that Draco had pressed to his cheek and turning his face to kiss his palm. "I'm a lot," he said. "This curse is a lot. This is too much-"

"You're not too much for me," Draco inserted quickly because he wanted Harry to understand, "but it feels like I'm too much for you. And I hate the way I make you feel. I hate that we just keep going in this cycle of you getting worried, blowing shit up in our house, then feeling guilty and apologizing."

"Sorry-"

"Stop," he said. "Salazar, Harry!, stop apologizing It should be okay for you to feel worried. Why are we always trying to cap it?"

"Because my magic destroys things," he said like Draco had lost the plot.

"And?" Draco asked. "So what? We can fix it. Let's just," he shook his head, "please," he said. "Please, can we just have a fight. Or can you just let yourself feel your fucking feelings and we'll repair anything that's broken. Because I hate feeling like I'm constantly breaking you."

"What if it hurts you?"

"It won't," Draco said, "because you would never."

"There's a lot in there," he said softly. "A lot of things that I've worked really hard at not experiencing in their fullness."

He nodded, "I know, love. Just," he shrugged, "let it out."

Harry stared at him, "What if I'm too much?" he whispered.

Draco brushed his thumb over his cheek, "impossible."

"Outside?" Harry asked. "Maybe in the back garden? If we put up some shield charms?"

"Yeah," Draco said, leaning up to press a soft kiss to Harry's lips, "yes."

"I don't actually want to fight with you," Harry said, "but it might be nice to let myself feel," he added like a confession. He looked at Draco, "I don't actually want you to quit, I just-"

"Hate feeling helpless," Draco said softly for him.

Harry nodded.

"Come on," he said, standing and pulling Harry to his feet, tugging him outside.

For a long moment, Harry just stood there, letting Draco put up stronger wards and shields to protect the perimeter of their property. As he watched, Harry closed his eyes, his toes burying themselves in the grass and dirt. Draco watched, waiting, and nothing happened.

Until it did.

He'd been expecting things to shatter, rocks to break, their flower garden to get torn up. Instead, the sky itself turned dark and it opened up and started to pour.

Rain drenched everything in seconds. Everything except Draco.

He looked at Harry, watched the tears streaming down his face mixing with the rain. Then Harry started to talk, "I am so afraid," he said over the pounding of the rain. "So afraid that I'm going to lose you, you have no idea. And it just," he shook his head, "the grief and fear weigh so heavily on my heart, all the time." Thunder cracked overhead, lightning striking the ground. "And I can't do anything. I want to be able to help, to be able to protect you, and it eats me up inside that I can't."

The rain turned to partial hail but Draco remained completely dry, even as Harry's clothes started to cling to his body in all of the wet.

"And I'm so frustrated about being trapped in our house. Frustrated that they haven't found the counter-curse. Frustrated that I can't help you or anyone else. But especially you." he said, still not looking at Draco, his eyes still closed as the storm raged on.

Draco waited, he just waited, wanting to give Harry all of the space that he needed to say whatever he wanted to say.

"I feel like I just keep failing you, over and over," he sobbed. "I promised, in our vows," he continued, "I promised to protect and cherish you and it's a promise that I break every fucking day."

"Harry," Draco said, moving toward him and stepping into the rain and ice that was still pelting his beloved. "Harry, look at me," he murmured and the other man opened his eyes.

"How can you even stand to look at me?" he asked, voice raw as the wind whipped around them.

"You haven't failed me," he said. And Harry started to shake his head but he continued, "You haven't," he insisted. "Because you can't. You protect my heart, you protect our home, you layer me with protective spells every single day before I leave; don't think I don't feel them settling over me like a mantle."

"I-"

"I love you. I want you," he added. "I want this life, with you. We promised each other the rest of our lives and I want all of yours. I want you to feel your feelings; to be afraid, or angry, or frustrated, or anything else. I want you to be you. Completely and totally you." He shook his head, leaning in and kissing him hard, "Circe, I've missed you these past two months."

"I haven't gone anywhere," Harry said, brushing the long wet strands of hair that had fallen out of his braid off Draco's face.

He nodded, "But you've been such a shell of yourself, so timid and," he shrugged helplessly, "not you."

"Draco," he breathed, tears falling all the harder, even as the rain started to ease slightly.

"Please stop hiding from me," he begged.

Harry tucked his face in Draco's neck and he cupped the back of his head, threading his fingers through Harry's curls.

"I want all of you," he said softly. "All of the anger, the hurt, the frustration. Give me all of you."

"Okay," Harry whispered, the rain slowing around them to a light drizzle. "Okay."

He wrapped Harry tighter in his arms, squeezing him as the rain stopped and the sun poked back out. "There," he said softly, "feel better?"

Harry nodded, pulling Draco closer, holding him tighter than he had since the curse happened.

"There you are," Draco murmured, holding him tighter in return, "Fuck," he whispered as their bodies seemed to come back intune with one another. "There you are," he repeated.

"Don't leave," Harry whispered, voice cracking.

"Hey," he said, "hey. I'm not leaving, love. I'm not going anywhere. Why would I-"

"My brain knows that," Harry said, "but my heart just-" he broke off. "I'm afraid."

"Listen to me," Draco said, pressing a kiss to his temple, "I'm not leaving. I love you. And I am always happy to tell you."

"It's stupid," Harry whispered.

He shook his head, "Nothing you're feeling is stupid. It's okay to be afraid, it's okay to need reassurance. We're going through something really hard, I'm happy to reassure you."

"Thanks."

He hummed, "do you think you're ready to go back inside, maybe put some dry clothes on and watch a movie?" he offered. "I was told to take two days of medical leave, so we can have a couple of days with just us?" he hedged.

Harry pulled back so that he could look him in the eyes, "I'd like that."

"Me too."

He sighed and scuffed his foot on the ground, "Thanks for letting my feelings be really big."

"I'm always happy to let you take up space," Draco promised. "Always."

And even once they found the counter-curse six months later, they found that they both were better at communicating their emotions and expressing their needs with less trepidation.

They were both surprised to find that the curse had actually been a blessing in disguise.

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

Read more of my fics here.

[dr-trafalgar-law]

Trafalgar Law X CisFem Reader

8

How were you always turning the tables on him? It wasn't fair to go from insanely opposed to blind loyalty.

It was confusing.

He hated how his stomach churned when you said it. He hated how he couldn't help but watch your lips form the words.

This was truly punishment. It made his chest tight, like his heart wasn't pumping properly.

The door vibrated against his back.

"Uhm," ugh - your voice was so small, he hated that too, "a-are you alright?"

Law paused taking a deep breath, "Yeah," he  opened the door just a smidge, "I'll be out in moment."

He needed a break from you. 

Enough light had hit his face through the small opening of the door for you to see how pale he'd gone. His appearance was a bit alarming as his silver irises had bloomed guiding attention to tight fixed pupils. The crescent dark patches under his eyes had deepened.

"I-I don't think you're ok," you asserted.

"I said I'm fine, F/N." your fiance snapped.

Your concerned face wasn't helping.

It was as if a hand crept up his chest and gripped the base of his throat. A sharp gasp passed his lips while tattooed fingers clawed at the imaginary threat. Muscles contracted which had him stumbling back barely landing on the edge of bed.

Quickly you entered the room without his permission, rushing to lay him on his left side, just as he had done with you. Taking the space beside him you tipped his chin up to open his airway before placing your hand over his, attempting to calm him. His short nails had already left red marks on his neck and collar.

"There's nothing there, shh," you murmured gently pulling his wrists to rest on the bed in the space between you, "look at me and try to match my breath."

His gaze struggled to focus on your face while his ears searched for the sound of your calming breaths. He took a moment to realize that your fingers were combing through his hair.

"I'm here," you murmured, "you're alright."

The dark blur that had rolled in like a fog and threatened his vision suddenly ebbed. His trmbling body started to ease into the mattress as his grip on your shirt became an understood sensation to his previously numb fingertips.

You made sure to focus solely on him. It was such an easy quick switch to nurture you had to wounder if you were helping. Your poor fiance had certainly never experienced this side of you.

"It must've been really hard to be that vulnerable." you continued warmly messaging his scalp.

That wasn't it.

He could only manage a huff.

"I'll make sure you're more comfortable next time."

That wasn't it at all.

Law nodded feebly and rasped out, "It's fine, thanks."

He closed his eyes to distract himself from your soft expression as you continued to comb through his hair and hum. There was still an uncomfortable tightness in his chest that kept him from taking a full breath, but his extremities were finally starting to relax.

As the tension in his jaw faded you let out a quiet chuckle, "I don't suppose I can carry you to the bath tub."

One slate iris suddenly became visible while peeped up at you incredulously, "No."

"But you're covered in sweat and it'll help you relax more." you urged.

He pulled away stiffly, "F/N-ya - "

"Doctors really are bad patients." you interrupted his protest and stood, "How about you don't have an option? I know I am the last person who should say this, especially to a health care professional but, stop letting yourself be miserable."

"You're right," he replied dryly, "you shouldn't say that to anyone."

"Alright," you held up your hands, "I did that to myself. Anyway, you're going to relax while I draw you a bath."

Before he could reply you'd stepped into the bathroom and turned on the water.

Law felt like he was in the twilight zone. He honestly didn't know you could be so warm and comforting. It just reminded him that he didn't know you.

Shakily he sat up in the bed and removed his shirt before making an attempt to stand. When you rounded the corner Law was leaning against the dresser with a towel around his waist. Your gaze trailed over the large tattoo you'd never seen before. It seemed to match the ones on his forearms. As he turned revealing even more undiscovered ink you felt your face warm up.

"I - uh have some eucalyptus oil in my room you can use." Averting your eyes you excused yourself. 

Law didn't have time to react before you skittered away, so he shuffled into the bathroom with a sigh and eased into the tub before you returned. When you reentered his bathroom the towel was neatly folded and placed on the lidded toilet. You placed the small vile of aroma oil on the side of the bathtub.

"This seems to help me relax." you murmured taking a seat after moving the towel to the sink.

His tattooed hand appeared pushing the shower curtain back just enough to see his chest up. He took the vile and poured a cap full into the steaming water.

"Thanks." he breathed resting his head against the tiled wall.

"I guess sitting in an apartment tub isn't very comfortable for someone your height." you fiddled with the hem of your shirt.

"It's not so bad." he shrugged, "I have to say I didn't expect this to happen. You don't have to stay, there's like a two percent chance I'll drown."

"That's still a chance." you retorted.

He sighed as his steely eyes rolled in your direction, "I only meant you don't have to waste your time in here."

"I'm not wasting my time," you pouted, "but if you want me to go I can. I just wanted to make sure you're alright."

His chest felt tight again for a brief moment, "It's fine. You can stay."

You nodded while he closed his eyes again. The color was slowly coming back to his face which gave you some comfort. Taking the opportunity, you let your gaze sway over his sharp features. He really was attractive, it was shameful that you hadn't noticed before.

"You know it's rude to stare." his eyes were closed but a smirk curved his lips.

"H-how are you feeling now?" you looked down at the floor and breezed passed his comment.

"As calm as I can feel at this point, I suppose." he muttered, "The eucalyptus is nice, we'll have to get more."

"Sure, I have lavender and neroli blossom too, but I thought that might be a bit too girly."

"I don't think scents are gender specific - if it's nice it's nice." he brought his hand out of the water and ran it through his hair slicking it back.

"I suppose," you fidgeted.

A comfortable quiet settled in while you fiddled with your shirt. Eventually Law closed the curtain completely and stood at which point you excused yourself and went into the kitchen.

Law entered with his hair still damp, just as you turned holding his mug filled with steaming herbal tea.

"Thanks." he murmured, fingers overlapping yours as he accepted the hot drink.

"You're welcome."

Both of you sat at the small table, like you did on mornings before going your separate ways for work.

"So," you both spoke at once and glanced up at each other.

"Go ahead." you tucked your hair behind your ear.

He nodded, "What's your schedule like on Sunday?"

"The shop is closed so I usually just go in from nine to noon to clean and make sure orders are organized for the week. Why?"

He sighed and kept his eyes on the mug in front of him, "There's a place I'd like to take you."

[beastimusprojects]

Lets try this one more time.

Going back and rewriting some stuff because I'm not fond of the direction I was going. Specifically, we had a really weird distribution of character time, and just chapters that didn't really do anything. And I ended up with a situation where I didn't have a way to do the stuff I wanted to do without just doing a bunch of talking scenes in a row.

So here's the first 2 chapters, again. I'll try to get chapter 3 done today, but it's where the major rewrites need to start.

Chapter 1: A Beautiful night.

______________________________________________________________

               Phoenix finally relaxed.

               As she watched the moon slide over the sun, she relished the fact that she was now, truly, wonderfully alone. More alone than anyone has been in a long time I think.

               There are, of course, ways to be alone not requiring physical distance, and ways of being together that overcome any distance. But it had been a decade since Phoenix had been together in any of those ways, barring a few times, but those had turned out to be false.

               Physically though, I’m as alone as anyone could be, sitting here 30 miles from the nearest other person. By all rights, trying to get to me now would be like trying to contact the spirits of the dead. She clutched at her necklace, as she always did when she felt lonely. That’s good. Solitude is safety. It’s been a long time. She let out a long breath as she steeled herself up for the thought. A decade, exactly.

               I’m seventeen now, an adult. She looked around at the island. A second chance, I guess, to build something new. A new life. Safe. Out here.

               We can’t do that alone. Its barely more than a barren rock.

               Ok, that’s fine, we’ll have to go into town for a while, but that’s a small risk, we can mitigate those.

               That’s the name of the game, small risks, small contact, don’t get attached to anyone and return to safety quickly. It won’t happen again like last time. She put her head between her knees. I hate you Karol.

               As Phoenix looked up to seen that the moon had finished its arc, leaving only a ring of fire visible in the newly night sky, a feeling washed over her. Not happiness, and not really peace either, but determination. No, it won’t happen again. In mere hours her first scar would twinge, and many more in the coming weeks, reminding her of the worst moments in her life. This time, I won’t just survive.

               She looked for a place to sleep as she breathed in the crisp, cool air of what was ordained to be the first night of her new life.

            And what a beautiful night it would be.

______________________________________________________________

               It was of course, a beautiful night, but even from his perch on top of the headquarters of the Hunters, Orwen saw very little of it. He ignored the brilliant ring of light around the moon, its glimmering reflection in the lake, and he did not notice the glittering swath of stars, like diamonds above. Instead, he looked deeply into a small handheld mirror as he ran his finger across his scar.

               A letter lay at his feet, opened and read, a Condemnation, a sanction for public execution. As a Hunter, this was all he needed. If it had not come that evening, maybe he would have forgotten, no, not forgotten, but moved on. Duty is always to be the driving force of a Hunter. That was rule three, petty vengeance was beneath him, but now, the order was set, Phoenix Alkaryl was to be his next mark. And the hunt would be sweet. He would prove once more that he was the best of the Hunters, that he deserved the title of Nitehawk.

               You know, it’s kind of funny, the Hunter’s Mark is supposed to only fall on the best, but this one is the only evidence that I am not the best, my only failure. “You mean nothing” he told himself he was talking to the scar “until I find her.”

               He was not there in the morning.

______________________________________________________________

               “Dere, I can see you!” Hywel had been sent out to collect the demon again. Ever since he’d been moved to Seeker Headquarters, the thing had been frustrating the living daylights out of him. He shot an arrow up to the top of the wall. I’m sure that my magic is the only reason they brought me here. He was on top of the wall in a second, his arrow in his right hand.

               His left hand was on Dere’s scruff, he always took the shape of a cat, trying to seem cute to distract people. It worked, but only marginally.

                    “Would you believe I was just out for a walk? It’s a very nice night!” Dere exclaimed. It curled up to try to seem cuter. It would be dropping the act as soon as it didn’t think it improved its chances.

               “No, I don’t believe the words of demons, especially not ones who I catch trying to escape.”

               “Oh, you’re always so serious, I was just out for a bit of fun.”

               Hywel took only a little bit of pleasure in stuffing Dere into the carrying cage as he said “oh, and I see that your idea of fun is tormenting people.”

               “There’s nothing else to do in this god-forsaken place.”

               “You see, you say things like that to try to get people to take pity on you, but then we have to remind ourselves that if you were free, your idea of fun would be to grow a thousand feet tall and bat villagers around until they pass out from the pain, when you would then eat them.”

               “”

               “Oh, nothing to say to that do you?”

               “I am not a demon of lies, I’m a demon of greed, it does me no good deny that you just described exactly my idea of fun.”

               After this moment of bluntness, Dere took to screaming profanities for the rest of the duration of the walk back to its cell.

______________________________________________________________

               Chapter 2: And a Wonderful Morning. ______________________________________________________________

               There’s nothing. Here. But. Blackberries! Phoenix was kind of mad about that fact, so mad in fact that she lit the nearest bush on fire with a clap of her hands.

               She took a few breaths, it’s fine, it’s fine, I wanted some meat, but I won’t starve. She walked back to her gondola and rustled around in her bags a little, coming up with some potatoes, onions, carrots, and a head of cabbage. You see, it won’t be that bad once we fry these up a little. She gathered some firewood, there were in fact, trees, so she could get enough wood to make a fire at least. I wish I’d had the sense to get an axe, if we have to build a house, we’re going to need one. Such concerns were, for the moment, however, pushed to the back of her mind as she started chopping vegetables.

               Cooking was one of the things Phoenix enjoyed the most. Fire had always fascinated her, mostly due to her powers. It engrossed her in a way that most things didn’t. Fire, used to make, and not unmake, it hearkens back to a simpler, more complex time, one of less violence, of more love, that is to say, the future, which if we do not make it, will be forever within our hearts. Her father had said that line many times, though she’d never understood, cooking was one of the first things he had taught her.

               Once the vegetables had been sliced, Phoenix roasted them over the fire in her pan.

               I’m going to have to go into town tomorrow, I need to buy more food if nothing else. But if I can get a few sheep and some chickens, I can probably stay here for a while and not have to go back. I really don’t want to go to town right now though.

               She watched the fire and put those thoughts away for now.

______________________________________________________________

               Orwen was known for being fast, but right now he was mostly just frustrated. He had tracked slippery prey before, but Phoenix Alkaryl was one of a kind. A night and a day and he could still only narrow her location to about a quarter of The Sky, a pitiful performance by The Nitehawk.

               Doesn’t matter how long it takes. I will find her.

            He was pouring over a map (the mirror laid just north of Levias) as he sat on the 11:45 ferry from Nerestar and Dorsinli, a convenient service which, 6 months ago, when Nerestar had been in Alliance territory, he couldn’t have used. He was glad the Free Cities were winning the war, if for no other reason than it made his job easier, the Alliance had made it clear they would not sanction Hunter activity in their territory. Now, Phoenix couldn’t be anywhere in Alliance territory, ever since he had killed his last mark, Scout the Seeker, the Alliance had closed their borders to all travel, Phoenix was supposed to be a good navigator, but no one got past Alliance gusters. So at least one thing was in his favor.

               If she’s this far off the map, she probably wanted to disappear. So, she went outward. If she made it all the way to the Outer Rim she could be on any number of islands.

               Oh, we’re here, I’d never thought they were that close.

               As he left the boat, he caught a glimpse down a dark alley of something he’d never seen before. A tall woman, wearing golden chainmail, one side of her face covered in burns, with three of her limbs replaced with prosthetics. Their eyes met, and she smiled with one half of her face. A Valkyrie, they were all supposed to be on the Levian front, the war was picking up steam there too over some drama about the missing prince. He tried to walk quickly away, but as he turned a corner, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

               “Excuse me, you are the Nitehawk, yes? You’re looking for a girl named Phoenix, right? The one who gave you The mark?”

“Indeed.”

“I know where to find her.”

No way, even if they did, why would they know? But if they did know, they wouldn’t tell me. No harm in asking about it though.

“Where?”

“Asera.” Makes as much sense as anywhere else, but no way it’s that easy.

“Why do you know that?”

“We have an interest in her, we’ve been tracking her for a while.”

“And why tell me?”

“You ask a lot of questions.” She raised her eyebrow.

“There is no trust, only favorable circumstance.” Rule 7

The Valkyrie frowned “We can’t catch her without your speed.”

Transparency or an attempt to play to my ego? Well, it wouldn't work anyway.

“Thank you for the information.” He turned to go but felt her hand on his shoulder.

“You misunderstand, I am to accompany you.” That’s not good.

“All right, we leave at once then.”

She shook her head “I have a few matters to attend to beforehand. Meet me by the northern gate.”

Probably don’t want to piss off a Valkyrie, I’ll play along for now, but if anything seems off, I’ll ditch her. “Ok.”

______________________________________________________________

            Guarding Dere was hell, and Hywel had been booked for a full week of it, some sort of hazing ritual he guessed. In every way, the thing was pure evil, you could almost feel badness radiating off it. Even just sitting close to it made you numb, like all the feeling was being sucked out of you. If you met its eyes, they weren’t really eyes at all, just pools of infinite empty blackness, more than just nothing themselves, also threatening to make you into nothing. And its smile was dreadful, you knew it was happy with itself, and when you saw it smiling, you couldn’t even hate it, the hate would drain away before you could replenish it. All you could feel was nothing. A vile creature.

               And then there was its voice. It didn’t make any sound; you heard it in your head. It didn’t say anything of any consequence, but it seemed to know everything about you. Or sometimes it would say the most utterly outrageous things, but that was the trouble, after a while of hearing, you sometimes wouldn’t know the difference.

            It was evil. In its most concentrated and loathsome form. Precisely what the Seekers were out to eradicate. Or so they say. Seems like they mostly are just fighting the war. Capturing and killing things like Dere was what Hywel had signed up for. Though the job mostly consisted of long guarding of the one that had already been captured. He longed to be out with one of the capture teams, or even out fighting in the war, something where he was doing something for someone, where he felt like he was helping.

Sometimes I hate this job.

               We aren’t that different you know. We’re both just stuck here, powerless to really go anywhere. It’s the worst feeling. I know you wish you had the power to go out and help people. You could. All you’d have to do is say the word.

               I’m gonna stop you right there, Dere. You aren’t wrong, we are both kinda trapped here, but we’re here for opposite reasons. You had to be dragged here, because if you were out, you’d go on a murder rampage. I’m here by choice because I want to stop things like you. You are fundamentally evil, and I will never make a deal with you, because I’m not that kind of person.

______________________________________________________________

@brokendarkfairyempressforever

@hijabi-flavored-nerd

Bear with me.

[galacticgraffiti]

☾✧ Blacklit Night ✧☽

Rating: Mature (for heavy themes) Summary: Astarion meets Sebastian. You know how this ends. Wordcount: 5k TW: angst, vampiric compulsion/Cazador's compulsion on Astarion, references to past abuse and torture, memories of past NonCon, verbal abuse.

Author's Note: This contains spoilers for Act 3 of BG3, specifically Astarion's companion quest. As always - don't like don't read. Even though there are no explicit sexual themes, I would prefer minors did not interact with this post or my blog.

Masterlist ⋆ If you prefer AO3

• :•: • :•: • ☾ ☼ ☽ • :•: • :•: •

Blacklit Night

The night is dark, and the sparse light of the stars speaks of violence, not peace.

One would think that a city like Baldur’s Gate never sleeps, but it does. There is a moment, when all the fishermen have come back from sea, when the workers have returned to their homes and their children, where the lords and ladies of the upper crust stare silently at each other from across long dinner tables. That moment is the holding of breath before the first death of the night:

The sun still shines just barely, dark creatures lurking in the safety of the darkness, not yet able to step out of the shadows. Warm lights begin to glow from windows as the sun sets, as families have their hearty meals, as the nobles retreat to quietly behold each other, to joke about the peasants or hate their rich counterparts in peace. The world breathes one last breath of golden sun, the sea turns red, and the last of the light fades.

The nightlife begins: Taverns grow loud with song and fun, drinks are poured, first one, then two, then one too many. The hardship of the day is washed away, travellers finally arrive at their destinations - slipped in at last light, we got so lucky - and dutiful students of the Society sneak out of their bedroom windows to get high on mushrooms from the Underdark and kiss beneath the pale moonlight.

The life of daylight is one Astarion barely remembers. It has not been long, a few months, maybe a year or two. Who can tell these days? It’s always dark and there is always pain. When he is not allowed to leave the palace, time passes differently. Godey tells him weeks have passed, but Godey lies. Astarion does not dare ask his siblings. He makes notches on the wall behind a rotting coffin, but the only marker to go by is hunger, and the hunger is eternal. 

Yes, it has not been so long since the life of daylight - his life, a life that belonged to him - was taken from Astarion. Even if he can’t tell exactly how long, that much he can say. On the nights he is allowed to go out - to hunt for prey - he can see that the fashions haven’t changed much. He can tell that the bartenders have not aged (not visibly at least), nor been replaced with someone younger and better looking. There is still the same elven girl behind the bar, with the blue hair and the brown eyes who always smiles at him when he orders a drink he carries around all night to look like he belongs. He never smiles back, afraid to reveal his fangs on accident, afraid he would scare her much more than he ever could by being stand-offish and rude.

Astarion misses the daylight more than he misses anything else about his old life. He misses the sun burning his skin that was pale even before death took him. He misses the warmth of it- a kind of warmth that can not be imitated by anything else, a warmth that seeps into your bones and makes you feel like soothing embers glow inside your bones. Nowadays, he is always so cold. Cold in the way a forgotten graveyard is, devoid of life and devoid of comfort.

Astarion pulls his cloak tighter. It is finely embroidered with black and silver peacocks, complimenting his own silver hair and his pale complexion - or so Leon tells him. Mirrors do not show Astarion’s image anymore. The cloak is finely woven, just good enough to make it seem like he might have a little more money than he lets on, but not so garish as to catch the attention of heaps of thieves and robbers. Attracting prey is a delicate game, and Cazador has perfected it. Not that he ever needs to do the dirty work himself, of course. 

No, it’s Astarion’s hands that will be bloody, Astarion’s lips that will feel numb, Astarion’s skin that will burn at the memory of a loving touch unwanted, and Astarion’s mind that will be burdened with the knowledge of what their face looked like in the moment of betrayal. How their eyes begged for mercy that he does not have the power to grant.

Cazador loves it when they arrive scared to death. Cazador drains the pain and the fear and the suffering from the air to swallow it whole, to gorge himself on it until he bursts. He strokes Astarion’s silver hair, he tells him that he gets better at it every time, but this one still is not good enough.

“At least you are trying to make yourself useful the only way you can,” Cazador says, as if Astarion had any choice, any say in the matter. “At least I won’t have to tell Godey to have to punish you again. It really is a shame, bruises heal so slowly on your delicate skin. Although the screams make it nearly worth it, don’t you agree? Come now, boy. Won’t you dine with us?”

The memory of Cazador’s rotten voice seeps into Astarion’s bones when he turns around a corner and nearly trips. His tongue tastes the blood of putrid rats a hundred times over, and it’s all Astarion can do not to retch. He closes his eyes for a second to breathe, stumbling for just a second.

A warm hand wraps around his upper arm before he can catch himself.

“My gods, have you been walking long? You are freezing!”

“I’m fine, I just have-” Astarion’s words die on his tongue when he looks up at the man who caught him. 

Maybe man is not the right word - still nearly a boy, with long hair and a deep voice that won’t rightly fit his delicate features. His lips are full and his eyes are dark, and the fingers wrapped around Astarion’s wiry arm have a strength to them that one would not expect. He makes Astarion wish his heart could still race just to get high off that feeling once more.

Astarion stiffens and pulls back from the stranger’s grasp, cursing his mind for being so soft and so stupid even after everything that has happened.

You are just a silly boy. This behaviour must be corrected. You will learn to obey. Obey.

“I am fine. I can handle myself.” Astarion says again, straightening his collar, his voice cold. He rips his arm from the boy’s warm grasp impatiently. If he is too nice to him, the boy will follow, the boy will ask-

“Would you like to join me for a drink? I was just about to go in.”

No.

Panic rises like bile in Astarion’s throat.

You will learn. Never let it be you inviting them. Make them think it’s their idea - lull them in safety, spin a web around them while they bask in your beauty and attention. Make them think they have caught you, not the other way around. Find me the most beautiful of them, and bring them to me. Godey will have a wonderful time breaking your bones if you don’t. Find the ones that make your heart ache and betray them. Bring them to me. Obey.

Astarion opens his mouth to decline, tries to deny the seed the Cazador’s commands have planted inside his chest. He can’t do it- he never can.

“Of course. Tell me about yourself.” A pleasant smile settles in the corners of Astarion’s mouth, plastered on by Cazador’s words. Bring me the most beautiful of them. Never decline the offer of a drink.

The stranger holds the door of the tavern open for Astarion, his frame taller and broader than Astarion’s own. His face has not the shadow of a beard and his hair shimmers in the golden light. His eyes are kind. He does not look like he comes from a noble family. There is too much excitement, too much of a need to prove himself worthy. The only thing that could have saved him- gone.

No noblemen. Never noblemen, never their children. They will bring unwanted attention.

Astarion closes his eyes for a moment. There must be something that can save him- there must be something he can do-

The stranger leads him to an empty table in a low lit corner. With the darkness gone, he looks a little older now- his features less soft, his nose stronger. And still…

“I’m passing through town,” he explains with a gentle voice. His hands lay on the table, open and inviting. “I am a jeweller, and I heard there is good trade to be made in the city proper. I had some… complications on the road. I- my name is Sebastian.”

Sebastian.

Astarion hates it when they tell him their names. He can never forget them, they carve themselves into his dead heart and burn him with the acid of his betrayal each day like snake venom dripping down his throat.

Sebastian. Each letter a drop of poison.

Press your lips together, maybe the words won’t slip out. Maybe it’s not too late to save him, maybe-

“My name’s Astarion,” says his treacherous tongue. “I’m a magistrate in the city.”

Sebastian’s eyes light up.

“Astarion… my first acquaintance in the big city, and he is named after a star. I must immortalise our meeting in a piece of my work- a necklace maybe, or a ring…” His voice drifts off when he realises that Astarion’s hand is gripping the table so tightly his knuckles are white with pain. “Oh, I- I am sorry. I have been told I can come on a little strong. All I meant was- what a lucky coincidence to have stumbled upon someone who knows the city so well! How lucky for you to have accepted my invitation!”

Astarion’s unbeating heart aches at the excitement in Sebastian’s voice.

“How lucky indeed,” he says, Cazador’s eternal smile making his lips ache. Never stop smiling. Make them feel like they are wanted- like they are the only thing you have wanted all night. “I was already on my way back home- I had given up on the night somewhat, you see. To have stumbled into such a dashing stranger- it was me who got lucky.”

His words weep the false sweetness of a lie, but Sebastian seems not to notice that Astarion’s throat burns like acid.

“You flatter me,” he mumbles. “I know I- you don’t have to be nice to me if you would rather wish to go home. I would not blame you.”

Everything in Astarion’s body screams, every muscle fighting against the inevitable command, every nerve alight with panic and hatred: Hatred against Cazador, and against his own weakness. Astarion watches with wide eyes as his own pale hand moves across the table to cover Sebastian’s. He cannot stop it, just like he cannot unhear Cazador’s whisper in the dark. Find out what they like and give it to them. No matter what it is. Most of all - make sure it is you.

“Nonsense,” say Astarion’s numb lips. “There is nowhere I would rather be than here. Why, your company is much better than the silence of my bedchamber.”

Sebastian smiles a tentative smile, his eyes lighting up at the touch of Astarion’s hand on his.

“So you have nobody… waiting for you?” His voice shakes a little even as his fingers glide across Astarion’s smooth, pale skin. He has never done this before. Astarion can tell. “Nobody to get home to?”

The question makes Astarion’s head spin. The bond won’t allow him to talk about Cazador. When they ask you where you live, where you are going - lie. Lie convincingly.

“Some of my siblings live around here,” Astarion mumbles. “I stay with them when I am in the district.”

“Ah.” Sebastian’s voice is an odd mixture of relief and disappointment. “You know, I-”

They are interrupted by a barmaid asking for their order. Astarion breathes, digging his nails into his palm until he draws blood. He can’t do it, not with this one. He is too sweet, too innocent. All he wants is a taste of the excitement of the city.

Give him that taste.

No.

Yes. He wants it. You provide.

Conversation with Sebastian is so easy. As the wine flows, his hands wander, drumming on the table, tugging at his shirtsleeves, playing with a family ring. He is never still, and Astarion is enraptured by it. Sebastian’s whole life story could probably fit on two pages, but Astarion always finds new questions to ask him.

Show interest. Make them feel wanted.

No. Astarion asks for his own sake. He begs Cazador’s command to let him care about Sebastian, this sweet stranger. To drink the wine, to joke and show interest just because he wants to. Just this once.

Sebastian does not notice. Sebastian talks and smiles and laughs, his hands in the air, on Astarion’s shoulder; then on his thigh when Astarion places them there. And Astarion finds himself not minding to be touched. Not by him. Sebastian’s touches are not one of hunger or desire, they speak of interest and intimacy in ways Astarion had forgotten.

With some time, even the compulsion of Cazador’s voice fades into the background. Astarion’s attentions are fully focused on the delicate man with the strong hands across from him. Sebastian’s voice is gentle and deep as he tells of his journey from his village through the wilderness. He passed by Moonrise - so far away from the city, where Astarion has never been! He tells tales of his family and growing up in a small village, of his childhood helping out on a farm and of the smith that took him on as an apprentice years ago. He speaks of his work with a deep reverence, and Astarion’s pretend-interest soon turns into real fascination.

The way Sebastian describes his work is almost magical. How the metals come alive beneath his hands - it’s like Astarion can see it now, the heavy swing of a hammer, the delicate touch of fine tools and strong fingers to fit precious stones and bend any material to their will.

Enchanted by the other’s presence, soon their fingers intertwine, their heads so close together they can taste each other’s breath, smelling of honeyed wine as the other patrons fade away into the background. It’s only the two of them, in their own little corner of the world, lit by candlelight and sweet attention.

“I’ve never met anyone like you,” Sebastian whispers, his breath warm on Astarion’s face. Warm in the way the sun is. How much he has missed it.

“I could say the same.” They are the first genuine words Astarion has uttered in a long time. “I have met many travellers, but none of them have been like you.”

Sebastian’s eyes darken for a moment, his fingers playing with Astarion’s paler ones.

“None of them?”

Astarion grits his teeth, pressing out a truth that terrifies him.

“None of them have made me want to protect them the way you do. I’ve barely known you one night, and I cannot bear the thought of your suffering.”

Sebastian laughs the easy giggle of someone who has never known real pain.

“Why would I suffer? I am here. And… I’ve found you. A little star among mere mortals.”

No! You didn't find me. I found you, Astarion wants to scream. Run. Run while you still can.

Cazador’s frigid voice seeps back into his skull like the cold embrace of death, and Astarion’s happiness leaks out of his heart and drains away through the creaky floorboards of the tavern when his Master’s compulsion grips him tight once more.

Give them what they want. Then bring them to me.

He doesn’t want to. He tries to shut his mouth, tries to pull his hands away, but he can’t do any of it. Sebastian smiles at him, his eyes only speaking of newly found adoration and interest. Astarion wants to shove him away, but the closest he can get is pressing out a few words, as close to the truth as he can manage, though his body barely allows those.

“Oh darling, I think it’s me that found you.” Astarion’s smile burns on his lips. “You should lea-”

The words burn in his throat like bile, and as much as Astarion tries to get them out, there is nothing in all the hells and all of this world that could overcome Cazador’s command. Astarion chokes, then clears his throat and wipes away Sebastian’s concerned hand on his face, holding the sun-warmth of his hand gently. He is so full of life.

“I’m fine, my love. Just a bit of… wine stuck in my throat. Do forgive me.”

Sebastian smiles softly, his hand settling on Astarion’s pale arm, restlessly drawing intricate patterns.

“What is there to forgive? Do you need anything? Do you want me to get you something, a cup of water perhaps? Let me help you.”

“A drink would be lovely.” Astarion is desperate. Never has his heart seized like this in the face of his prey, never has he wanted to get away from a target as much as this one. Never has he hoped to forget a name as desperately.

Please, just this once.

He would beg on his knees, he would give up the last of his dignity if he had any left at all. Not this one. Not Sebastian, with his gentle eyes and his sweet smile and his delicate hands. Not Sebastian who has never done anything wrong in his life other than come to Baldur’s Gate and try to help a stranger. Not him. Anyone else, but not him.

Astarion stares after Sebastian when he gets up from his seat. A soft touch of the shoulder and Sebastian vanishes into the crowd filling the tavern, on his mission to help Astarion. If only he could be helped. If only a glass of water could fix what is broken inside him.

Astarion tries to get up, he really does. If he can leave, maybe Sebastian won’t find him, and Cazador will never have to know. Better to be bruised and beat up and hungry for an eternity, better to be degraded and burned and starved for months than to see the look on Sebastian’s face as he realises that Astarion has betrayed him. Better to let Godey break all of his bones a hundred times over than to know that Sebastian is dead because of him.

It does not help. Astarion’s fingers prickle with hatred when he digs them into the table, trying to will himself to get back up, to leave and never return. To hope that Sebastian is gone by the time Cazador lets Astarion leave the palace again. Even to be dead and buried would be better than betrayed and drained. It’s all Astarion’s fault. He should never have let it get this far, should have run the second he saw the kindness in Sebastian’s eyes.

It’s all for naught. Astarion’s skull is pounding with Cazador’s compulsion when Sebastian returns to the table, a cup of water in his hand.

Someone who makes your heart ache. Bring me them so I can make you watch, make you scream and cry and beg for their life. You know nothing you say could ever move me to let them go, but oh, how sweet it will be to hear you sing and pray to me for their release. And pray you will, boy.

Astarion smiles at Sebastian and hates himself for it.

“What are your plans for tomorrow?” he asks, even if the venom nearly clogs his throat - knowing that tomorrow will never come, not for Sebastian. He will die tonight with Cazador’s fangs in his neck, going limp like a doll as the sunlight of his life is drained from him. And Astarion will have one more name to carve into his heart.

“I’m going to the market!” Sebastian is vibrating with excitement. His hair shimmers in the low light when he bends closer. “I brought some pieces with me, and I want to see if I can get a licence to sell them, maybe down at the market by the docks. I heard there is a forge near here, I might try to find that as well. I just… I want to see as much of the city as I can before life catches up and I have to return to work.”

Astarion digs his nails into the roughed up wood of the table, but not even that pain can keep the next words from slipping over his traitorous lips.

“To the market, hm? That’s exciting, my darling. Quite the journey from here though if you want to get there early enough to ask for a trading licence. Do you know where you will stay tonight?”

His heart shatters into a million pieces at the look on Sebastian’s face: surprise that quickly changes into tentative excitement, like he can’t fully believe what Astarion is implying. He can see the flush that creeps into Sebastian’s cheeks, smell the treat that has been forbidden to him ever since he has craved it. Not even the hunger hurts as much as the inevitable pain of losing this beautiful stranger to Cazador’s greed and bloodlust.

“I was hoping I could rent a room here. But you are right, maybe it is a little far from the market,” Sebastian says, his eyes now lingering on Astarion’s lips, on his exposed neck. His heartbeat betrays him: fast and uneven, stumbling with desire Astarion was hoping would never bloom.

Take the room, he wants to say. Take it and don’t leave it until the sun is up and creatures like me have crawled back to where we came from and can’t hurt you anymore.

What he says instead makes the tips of Sebastian’s ears go flushed and rosy.

“This place is not exactly known for its trustworthy clientele either. I know… someone in the city. I’m staying at his place - if you come with me, I promise we won’t be disturbed.”

The smile on Sebastian’s face is tinted with tentative lust, his eyes wandering where he has not let himself look. Astarion curses himself as an alluring smile appears on his own lips. All he wants is to slip out of his skin and leave behind a beautiful shell, empty and void of any trace of him. Anything not to have to feel like this anymore. Dirty and used, an instrument to another’s thirst for power.

Sebastian leans in closer, his breath mingling with Astarion’s own. He smells sweet, like honeyed wine and thyme.

“What exactly are you planning to do with me if you have to make sure we won’t be disturbed?” He sounds genuinely curious in a way that makes Astarion’s breath stutter.

Another man would ask the same question, already knowing the answer, relishing the implications, the innuendo. Another man would already have his hands on Astarion’s thigh without being invited to, would already be kissing his neck without even paying attention to the telltale scars on his throat. Another man would never have taken the time to try and get to know him, would not have invited him for a drink in the tavern but shoved him up against a wall and had his way in the dark of the alley. Another man would have let his hands wander where they don’t belong, Cazador’s words stopping Astarion from doing anything about it as unwanted fingers cling to his thighs, and unwanted lips caress his chest. Another man would have deserved death. Sebastian is not another man. He deserves better, and Astarion cannot give it to him. The moment Sebastian laid eyes on him was the moment he died.

Astarion tries to find terrible solace in that as he leads Sebastian outside, their fingers interlaced as they wander through the quiet alleys of the lower city.

“Where does this friend of yours live?” Sebastian asks, his eyes full of wonder as he takes in the view of the city in the moonlight. “I- I need to paint all this tomorrow night, it’s beautiful.”

Astarion does not answer, but his fingers squeeze Sebastian’s for a second. It’s enough to make the other man turn to him. Sebastian’s face goes soft, a smile tugging at his lips.

“It’s not only the night that is beautiful. So are you,” he whispers, stepping closer, cupping Astarion’s jaw in one large hand. “If anyone could inspire me, it would be you. How did I get so lucky- my first night in the city, and I find the most beautiful man I have ever laid eyes on. I have never… no one has ever caught my attention the way you did. Not even at home- there was never anyone-”

He is rambling now, and yet all Astarion can hear is his heartbeat, so fast and excited, so nervous as he moves closer. Astarion wishes he had the strength to stop him, but even if there was any way to resist Cazador’s compulsion, his body is weak. It always has been. It has always betrayed him.

“What I mean to say is…” Sebastian hesitates. He cocks his head, unsure of how to proceed. His heartbeat is so fast Astarion thinks he can feel it in his own chest, and his hand on Astarion’s chest is warmer than the sun. “I… I have no experience in these things. Nobody has ever- well… taken me home with them. I don’t- what I mean is- will you kiss me?”

Astarion freezes, and his whole self shatters at the sweet question that nothing could have prepared him for. Sebastian’s words are extinguished by Cazador’s cold voice in the back of Astarion’s mind.

Make sure it is you they want.

Astarion is good at what he does. Better than he wants to be. They all want him. None of them ever ask if they are what he wants as well.

Sebastian’s lips are soft when Astarion’s own meet them. He is warm, so warm he seems to glow from the inside. His hands are careful, not greedy, and if Astarion could let himself, he would shatter beneath their touch. The kiss is not much more than a gentle touch of lips, not driven by hunger or desire. Sebastian’s only desire is to be known, to be tasted. It is the only wish Astarion can fulfil before he leads him to his death.

Sebastian’s breath is staggered when Astarion pulls away from him, his hands tangled in Astarion’s silvery hair. He closes his eyes and shudders, reaching out to pull Astarion against him as his back hits the wall.

“Again. Please.”

Astarion trembles. How could he say no?

He kisses Sebastian with all the desperation of someone with everything to lose.

Notice, he begs silently. Notice that something is off- wrap your hands around my neck and feel the scars- tell me how cold my skin is, see how my eyes glow in the dark- run, and I will try to let you get away.

Sebastian makes a noise in the back of his throat and parts his lips to let Astarion in, and he is lost. Astarion closes his eyes and lets it happen. There is nothing he can do, and he is so tired of fighting the inevitable.

They are both breathing hard when they break apart, Sebastian’s hands on Astarion’s waist, Astarion’s fingers digging into his shoulders as he pulls him in when all he wants to do is push him away.

“You’re incredible,” Sebastian whispers. “Astarion-”

“Sebastian,” he breathes, and that one word holds more reverence than all his prayers ever did. “Sebastian, you have to g-”

The night air changes, and all the warmth Sebastian’s presence has brought to Astarion’s bones vanishes in an instant. The cold creeps back in like iced water, and it is the coldness only death brings.

“Astarion, who have you brought me tonight?”

Astarion closes his eyes. Not here. Not now- they were supposed to have a moment more- never outside, Cazador never comes outside. He waits in his chambers like a cat waits for the mouse. Long fingers pull at his shoulders, and he can’t do anything but limply let go of Sebastian. Sebastian, whose voice is still gentle, but also scared and confused. Sebastian, who slips away as Cazador commands Astarion to leave.

When before, all Astarion wanted to do was tell him to run, he knows now that it is too late. And he wished for the impossible: To die by Sebastian’s side.

“I- what? Astarion, what is-” Sebastian’s voice is rough with terror, and Astarion can’t look at him. Cazador’s fingers dig into his skin.

“Did you think you had found the love of your life? Did you think he would save you?” The world sinks into darkness as Astarion is dragged away. Cazador hisses the words, and there is no telling whether he is speaking to him or Sebastian. “Oh, come now, boy. You should know better than that. He is not your saviour- he is your ruin.”

The sharp hand lets go of Astarion, and suddenly, cold lips are near his ear, whispering words addressed only to him.

“Keep your eyes open. I want you to watch.”

There is a fraction of a second where Astarion can scream, but it’s too late already. Sharp fangs sink into Sebastian’s neck, and Astarion watches, wide-eyed. His throat burns with words he wishes he could have spoken before, and his cheeks are suddenly wet with tears.

“Sebastian!” Astarion does not recognise his own voice, broken and bizarre in the face of this impossibility he knew was coming. “Sebastian, I’m so-”

The last thing Astarion sees is the hatred in Sebastian’s eyes that burns like a thousand dying suns. Then, Cazador’s staff comes down and the world goes dark.

The return of Angstarion. I hope this concept consumes you all as much as it has consumed me.

@purgetrooperfox @ashotofspotchka @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @ulchabhangorm @samspenandsword @rescuethewretched @pinkiemme @baba-fett @witchklng @ladykatakuri @certified-anakinfucker @fanfiction-i-llike @voidinfernal @foxferret02 @rosieofcorona @savagemickey03 @perseny @margoisthemoon2 @shiiunn @saucyhedgehog @tonysoffice @pupshr00m @supercalifragilisticprincess @palpipeen @silly-gooseastarion @mila-bee @shit-i-say-throughout-the-day @idkwhatsgoingonwithme @aeryntheofficial @jekasha @gub @nogitsune-the @solarrexplosion @hexqueensupreme @unofficialavenger90 @frankiesghost @curtaincaramba @kimiheartblade @niqhtfell @campfull-of-weirdos

Extra special mention to @babygirljoelmiller for being so brave and finishing Cazador's palace.

[lady-wallace]

Whumptober Day 21: Body Horror

Big Thanks to my friend Lucky @carryingstarlightinherwake for letting me play with her Were!Abba AU for today's @whumptober prompt! Perfect for Halloween season!

Prompt: Body Horror Fandom: JoJo's Bizarre Adventure Character: Abbacchio

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Read on Ao3

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Howl

It’s the night of the full moon and Trish is determined to keep her werewolf body guard company during his transformation. (from carryingstarlightinherwake’s Were!Abba AU)

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“You don’t have to worry about me. Just lock me in my room and get out of the house for the night.”

Trish glowered at Abbacchio, arms folded over her chest. “We’ve been through this before, Abbacchio, I don’t feel right about leaving you here alone. I’m not going to lock you up! You’re not some animal—”

She bit her tongue as the older man snorted wryly.

“Except I am, at least during a full moon.” Abbacchio also folded his arms over his chest, trying to look as intimidating as possible, gold and lavender eyes glowering down at Trish. “Just because I haven’t hurt you during a transformation yet, doesn’t mean it can’t happen. I never know what I’m going to do when I turn. And it’s a super moon tonight. It will be even worse than usual.”

He looked exhausted underneath the front he was putting up. Trish knew he didn’t get much sleep during the week of the full moon. Last night, the first night of his transformation had been bad enough and everyone had been here to help calm him down. Now an urgent mission had taken all of the others away, leaving Trish to watch over their resident werewolf.

“Even more reason for me to be here by your side,” Trish told him firmly.

Abbacchio’s fists clenched. “Trish, please, I am begging you to leave. Remember what happened last month?”

“What? You broke a flimsy coffee table and an expensive vase—so what? We all agreed that vase was ugly anyway.” She was trying to get him to smile but he was obviously not going to play along. The tension in his body made it look like someone had cranked his muscles tight.

“You could be the one I lash out at tonight.”

“Abbacchio…”

“You know I don’t like you guys seeing me like that,” he protested.

“You’re the only one,” Trish pointed out. “Look, of course we hate seeing how much pain you go through during the transformation, but we don’t love you any less just because you’re in your werewolf form. I think you’re pretty cool, actually.”

Abbacchio’s glower deepened, unimpressed. “So, you refuse to respect my wishes?”

“If that’s the way you insist on looking at it, then yeah, I do,” Trish retorted.

Abbacchio clenched his jaw, his glower deepening before he finally threw up his hands. “Fine. But if I swing at you, promise me you’ll run or use Spice Girl or something, okay? I promise you won’t do much damage to me in that form, so look after yourself first. If you’re going to be so infernally stubborn.”

He spun on his heel and went off to sulk in his room.

Trish felt proud and a little relieved for getting her way. She knew how hard it was for Abbacchio to show that side of himself, the side he counted as a weakness, but she was determined to help him feel a lot less self-conscious about it.

She started to prepare for the night ahead, finding the items she wanted and arranging some things in the living room. She was determined to make Abbacchio as comfortable as possible

***

Abbacchio paced restlessly as Trish watched. She had tried to get him to sit down and watch TV with her until the transformation started but the rising of the moon was already wearing on him.

She watched warily as he started to scratch at his skin, light patches of hair were already starting to break out on the backs of his hands and arms, visible with the old tank-top and sweat pants he wore. Abbacchio bared his teeth in a quiet growl, eyes squeezing shut.

“You should try to sit down,” Trish urged him.

“I can’t, he snapped, voice slightly deeper. “It feels like my skin is going to crawl off of my body. I can’t sit still right now.”

His jaw clenched and he gritted his teeth as his nails started to lengthen, strengthening into claws. He hunched slightly and Trish could already see his muscles rippling under his skin, twitching and shifting.

“How long does it usually take?” she asked, trying to keep him distracted.

“A while,” Abbacchio growled. “Longest on the full moon.”

His shoulders hunched and he suddenly reached out to grab the back of a chair, digging his nails into it.

“Hey,” Trish snapped, throwing an old pillow at him that she had dug out of the closet. “Tear this up instead.”

Abbacchio caught the pillow and held it to his chest, sinking his claws into it.

He continued pacing, his motions quickly becoming more erratic. Fur was spreading over his face, his teeth longer. There were soft clicks every time he stepped now, as his toenails turned to claws as well.

The first muscle spasm took them both by surprise. Abbacchio cried out, collapsing suddenly on his knees, shaking.

Trish was on her feet, taking a step toward him. “Abbacchio?”

“Stay back,” Abbacchio snapped. “For now.” He cried out again, voice ending in a growl as he doubled over, his back and shoulders broadening. He panted, and as the next spasm took him, he tore the pillow open, batting spilling out as he curled toward the ground, forehead pressed to the floor.

Trish got up and went to kneel beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder, feeling the trembling and the soft fur spouting under her hand. “It’s okay. You’re all right,” she murmured.

Another, more violent spasm ripped through Abbacchio’s body and he let out a strangled cry that ended in a dog-like whimper. He jerked away and staggered to his feet, throwing the remnants of the pillow away.

Trish got up the instant she saw Abbacchio going for the lamp on the side table.

“Careful!” she said, snatching the lamp away as Abbacchio swiped, knocking a couple books to the floor instead.

He snarled in response, doubling over again as his shoulders rippled, growing in size. Trish could hear the creaks of his bones and tendons as his body shifted, straining against his tank top. Abbacchio was letting out ragged breaths as he buried his face in his hands, pained whimpers escaping.

Another violent spasm went through him and he was back on his knees, an agonized howl ripped from his throat.

“Abbacchio come lay down so you don’t hurt yourself,” Trish told him, trying to get through. He had said that saying his name during transformation could help, so she was going to try to keep him grounded as much as she could.

He didn’t seem to hear her so she reached out to touch his shoulder again.

Abbacchio’s head whipped up with a snarl. Trish startled slightly, not having expected his face to have changed already into its wolfish form, but she schooled herself soon enough. She had already seen him like this on a couple of occasions. It wasn’t actually that scary. Not when she realized he had the same eyes as he always did.

A bit of blood sat in the corner of his mouth where he had bitten his lip and Trish felt a pang of sympathy for the obvious agony he was going through.

“Come on, Abbacchio. Not much longer now, right?”

He let out a whimper, curling into himself again as his back arched and twisted. His shirt and pants were starting to tear from the strain of his body shifting, getting bigger. His claws dug into the floor, leaving a few scratches.

“Here.” Trish pointed to the pile of blankets and pillows she had made in the middle of the floor. “Come here.”

Abbacchio crawled in that direction before he collapsed on his elbows and knees again with a howl. His tail had sprouted, swishing back and forth a few times before he righted himself again and crawled into the pile of blankets, balling them up with his clawed hands, sinking his teeth into them as the transformation continued, the cracks of bones and tendons becoming more violent and sudden as the turning came to its peak.

An end finally seemed to be in sight as Abbacchio’s body tensed, his head rolled back, and he let out a wolf’s howl.

Trish watched as he finally slumped, body trembling from the fatigue. The figure who was now more wolf than man, covered in pale silver fur with lavender patches.

She knelt, placing a hand carefully on his back. “Abbacchio?”

He flinched, head coming up, eyes meeting her own.

Trish offered a smile. “Hey.”

Abbacchio let out a soft rumble and sat back on his haunches, catching his breath. He looked wrecked.

Trish rearranged the blankets and pillows in the center of the living room floor, forming it back into a cozy nest.

Abbacchio stared at it for a long moment before he crawled into the center of it and collapsed, flopping like a dog.

Trish couldn’t quite manage to hide a smile, watching his tail twitch back and forth in contentment.

“Comfortable?”

He let out a soft whine then reached out.

Trish inhaled as his claws caught in her sweater though were careful not to catch against her skin. Abbacchio tugged her in until she was forced into the pillow nest as well.

Trish huffed, curling up in the pillows and blankets as her werewolf bodyguard decided to curl around her, chin resting on top of her head.

“Fine, fine, I’ll stay here then. It’s safer to sleep like a pack, isn’t it?” She said with a giggle, reaching up to scratch behind Abbacchio’s ears.

His ears twitched and he growled in warning, shaking away her fingers, but he settled soon after, falling into a deep, exhausted sleep.

Trish felt safe curled up against the furry flank of her ‘pack mate’ and closed her eyes as well.

“Sleep well, Abba,” she said quietly before she too drifted off to the low rumble of wolf snores.