#its carnal at this point its alarming

[cutemeat]

i need Sunny’s women like i need blood in my veins

[unholyhelbig]

Natasha Angst pls !!!

Title: Hail Hydra

Ship: Female!Reader x Natasha Romanov/Romanoff

Word Count: 6062

Warnings: Mentions of torture, mentions of mind control, gunshot wound, visions of drowning, general angst, and horrible spelling because I never proofread, angst with an eventual happy ending. Sort of.

Summary: Reader is sent into the Framework, an alternate world where her biggest regret is remedied. What happens when she realizes that this might be a better reality?

[A/n: Do you need to know anything about Agent of Shield to read? No, but you're depriving yourself of the brillance that is the Framework arch if you don't. Seriously some of the best acting in the Marvel Tv universe.]

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The bedroom had a coolness to it that was interrupted by the slats of white light streaming through the window. You’d kicked the heavy duvet from your feet to compensate for the rise in temperature, but still found yourself sweating through your shirt.

The apartment that you rented in Lower Manhattan faced away from the sun. You relied on your natural clock and the blaring alarm to rouse you from sleep- never the sun. You breathed in the floral scent of laundry detergent, hugging the cool side of the pillow close. You’d never felt more content, and squeezed your eyes shut until you saw stars, willing sleep to envelope you once more.

It was when the bed shifted next to you, and the weight of an arm around your midsection tightened, did you finally open your eyes. The ceiling was a light gray color, a fan whirring with a dull hum in its center. A cold nose that certainly didn’t belong to your dog pressed behind your ear.

As far as you were concerned, you had fallen asleep alone last night. Not only that, but you had succumbed to the day's exhaustions in your own home. Not the SHIELD base. Your heart pounded in your chest, fingers gripping listlessly at the thousand count sheets that were too soft to be your own.

A raspy groan rumbled against your skin, formed into tired words. “You’re awake.”

Your body tensed even further, if possible, eyes darting frantically to the woman next to you. Natasha Romanoff. The Black Widow. SHIELD’s ultimate weapon and your on and off fling for the past seven years. She’d never stayed the night past hot tangles of limbs and bitten exclamations of ecstasy. Even that had stopped two years ago- your relationship, or lack thereof, turned strictly professional.

You, a high ranking SHIELD agent, and her an Avenger that did more press than missions at this point. Your paths barely crossed and when they did, she would offer you a huff of indignance, but never a smile. She’d made you question your abilities in bed. But, it was nearly impossible to be a good lay for something like Natasha. Someone so sensual and carnal.

Her fingers dug into your ribs painlessly, heat overwhelming on your bare skin where her touch had traveled. There was a coolness of a wedding band there, and your thumb swiped against your own ring finger, meeting the edge of gold. Your breath caught entirely, and this caused the trained spy to pull her head from the crook of your neck and level you with a sleepy, adorable, pout of concern.

“What’s wrong?” She asked, prying her hand from your midsection and pressing the back of her fingers to your head. She was taking your temperature. “Are you feeling alright?”

You blinked at her ripe green eyes. You had to say something but Natasha was not known for her displays of affection, nor had she ever asked if you were okay, outside of the realm of your usual consents and safewords. Of course- she’d never stayed the night either.

“I’m fine,” Her eyes narrowed at you and she shifted on her elbow, pulling the blanket up to her chest. You struggled to soothe her with something more genuine. “I might be coming down with a cold.”

“Mm, your throat sounds a little scratchy.”

She kissed your temple and you fought back another wave of stiffness that threatened to overtake you. This was all so strange. This room was not your own, and it had too many personal effects to be Natasha’s. There was a wedding band on your finger, and as your eyes moved across the dresser, there were multiple photos of the two of you together. Then- there were three.

“You can take today, I’m sure Leo won’t mind. He’d rather you better than forcing yourself to go into work.”

Leo. He never used his first name at the office. He was Agent Fitz, he was Fitzsimmons, he was a loveable and brilliant man who divulged his hatred for his namesake over half a pack of Miller Lights.

“No, no. I’ll be alright, really.”

She shot you another skeptical look but didn’t push the matter further as she rose from the warmth of the bed and started towards the bathroom. You watched her toned figure as she made her way to the sink and flicked on the water.

You sat up, head swimming. Your body ached as if you actually did have a cold. But you forced yourself to the dresser, picked up a photo that was propped up next to a glass dish filled with silver rings and jewelry.

A nice family photo of both you and Natasha, and a young teenager that had the Black Widow’s eyes and the slope of your nose. Your heart seized and then warmed. The two of you had a daughter? God- you really must have hit your head to cause this level of delusion.

“I know you miss her,” Natasha sighed out. She leaned against the doorframe, toothpaste frothing at the corners of her mouth. You breathed in the sharpness of the mint that accompanied her, running your thumb over the textured frame. “But, I’m sure she’s having an amazing time at the Barton farm. We can video chat tonight.”

You felt the corner of your lip pull up in affection for this stranger. “I’d like that.”

Natasha’s eyes crinkled into a smile that made your world tint. You’d seen her experience bliss before, but this was something different. This was something you wanted to pull out of her any chance you got. The light in her eyes was unmatched.

She slapped your ass hard enough to pull you out of your own head. “Well then, Malyshka, if you’re that intent on going to work today then you better get a move on.”

apprehensively, you did as you were told and started to rifle through the drawers until you found an acceptable pair of pants and a shirt. You were thankful that Natasha had retreated back into the bathroom so she couldn’t see your confused attempts at figuring out what drawer was what.

When she did emerge, she was in a silk black button down and a pair of pants that hugged her curves perfectly. Bouts of red hair fell over her shoulders and a standard issue gun was attached at her hip. Your mouth went dry as she closed the distance between you both and ran her fingers under your own collar, smoothing it down.

“Something’s missing,” Natasha purred, your stare snapping up to hers in a silent, and despite plea for mercy. She was a dangerous creature, one that could snap your neck in a moment if you gave her cause.

Kid be damned. Happy married life be damned.

“That so?”

“You almost forgot your badge. I’m not turning around on the freeway again, baby.”

A nervous chuckle escaped you, one saturated in relief. Natasha held up the simple identification and the noise died in your throat. Agent Y/L/N. Level Seven. Hydra. The gangly tentacles stretched its suction cups towards the edges of the plastic, hollow skeletal eyes stared back at you as you struggled to school your expression. Natasha’s eyebrow lifted.

“I’ve just realized, that is a horrible photo of me.”

She scoffed, shoulders pitching low “Everyone knows you can get a better picture at the DMV. I don’t hold it against you. But I will if we’re late.”

Kate’s hands were bound behind her back. She looked stiff, uncomfortable in the lone metal chair that was in the center of the interrogation room. Her hair was springing in different directions from her ponytail, shoulders rolling back ever so often to quell the pounding in her spine.

Her eyes found yours through the two-way glass, almost as if she sought out your presence. That gray and stormy stare bore into you. It took everything in you not to look away, to cower in the face of her pain and suffering.

Natasha frowned at the file open in her hands. “How can such a brilliant girl with a family like the Bishops sympathize with the likes of SHIELD? With a mother like Eleanor, you’d figure something good would translate.”

Good. The establishment you had wandered into like a ghost without chains made your stomach clench in fear. There was nothing good about this place. The scent of blood and the lack of light in every stare was telling enough. None of it seemed to bother Natasha, so you threw your chin up and made sure it didn’t bother you too.

“She’s not talking.” Yelena took a long, slow sip of her coffee. The hazelnut scent coated your lungs. She leaned against the wall, staring at the woman as if she’d never set eyes on her in her life. “Are you feeling up for some fun?”

You glanced at Natasha, and it was clear that she wanted an answer from you as well. There was a reason you were Level Seven- you figured. People didn’t make eye contact with you as you

walked through the white halls. They turned the other way and scrambled from the elevator the second you appeared. How naive of you to think that the Black Widow herself was the only catalyst.

“How much fun?” You sounded out.

“As much as you want. Just keep her tongue in her mouth and keep her alive. Leo wants to speak with her, and she can’t very well provide answers if she’s choking on her own blood.”

You made a small noise at the back of your throat and ran your finger over the cool metal pin that was tacked to the lapel of your shirt. Another thing that Natasha swore you forgot. The same logo on your badge that had granted you entry to the Hydra Headquarters was embossed into the golden broach.

Natasha and Yelena wore the same ones. So did every single person that you had passed on your way here. Everyone but Kate.

“You are not excited?” Yelena took another sip, stare boring into you behind her cup.

“She’s not feeling well.” Natasha waved her hand dismissively. “I tried to get her to stay home but she must have gotten wind of the prisoner. She’s been wanting to let off some steam.”

Yelena seemed satisfied enough with Natasha’s answer and you pushed through the door into the interrogation room before they had a chance to question you further. One Romanoff sister was enough, you couldn’t grapple with the suspicions of two.

A look of relief washed over Kate’s eyes for only a moment, a flash that was too quick to catch through the two-way glass. You willed her silence. Her heels dug into the floor and pushed her further back into her chair.

You knew exactly what you were capable of, and it burned at your fingertips. Coulson, you knew, had taken you in years ago after you’d escaped from the very organization that swarmed around you now. You had two choices: Remain one of Hydra’s most feared interrogators, war criminal and enforcer, or give it all up to pledge loyalty to SHIELD.

This world- you had learned- was backwards. More than Natasha Romanoff being your wife. The two of you had a child together, but the two of you served the evil that you had torn yourself away from.

The sweat dripping from the tip of Kate’s nose into the cloying heat that was used as a torture tactic confirmed that your reputation proceeded you. In this world, you hadn’t said yes to Coulson. In this world, you were positive you spit in his face before pilling the trigger.

You got close, used your hand to tip back the chair that Kate was sitting in. She yelped, your other hand reaching up and lilting her chin up to meet your eyes. Kate was trembling and the sight alone was enough to break your heart. You gritted your teeth.

“Where the hell are we?” You whispered to her, so low it came out as an exhale that only you could hear. Her gaze betrayed shock, so you yanked her forward, exclaiming louder. “Look at me!”

“You’re Hydra.” She gritted.

“You’re not. You’ve made that abundantly clear.”

All the while, you pleaded with your eyes. Kate was a smart girl. She was quick to put the pieces together. The two of you were not of this universe. She still had the soft pink scar across her nose from the first mission the two of you had together. The same need for comfort in her gaze.

When she did nothing but blink slowly at you, you reached for the small tray of weapons by her side. Almost on instinct, your fingers wrapped around the sharpest, serrated blade. You willed your hand not to shake as you pressed the tip right under her ear. Again, you made sure you were loud enough to appeal to the Romanoff’s excitement when it came to torture.

“Yelena told me that you have to keep your tongue. But she never said anything about that innocent face of yours.” You moved behind her, lowering your voice to nothing but a murmur. “You can trust me, but I might have to hurt you.”

“You bastard!” Kate pulled on her restraints, jerking forward. “I’d rather die than serve Hydra.”

You grabbed her hair, pulling until she was staring up at you, tears forming against her slate stare. Your stare was hard, nearly unforgiving. Being this close, being back in an interrogation room with a blade pressed ever so slightly to soft skin made you fight back cravings for violence that had been engraved in you since day one.

“Tell me, who sent you?”

Again, you were met with silence. You pushed a scoff from your lips and returned the blade to its rightful place on the tray. Instead, picking up a set of iron knuckles that were already speckled with little spots of rust, pools that had been from previous victims.

You gave Kate an apologetic look, your back to the window, before you used a good portion of your strength to slam into Kate’s ribs. She grunted, falling forward, her chin dipping into your collarbone. You’d heard a dull pop, felt the dampness of a cough of blood. You hadn’t meant to hit that hard, really.

“Aida,” Kate whispered against you “Framework. It’s not real.”

“It feels real.” You shoved her back and she spit to the side, a mixture of spit and blood. Strings webbed from her lips as she leveled you with a glare. You grabbed her chin again. “I’ll get us out of here, but you have to trust me.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “You’re Hydra, y/n.”

The words were unspoken, besotted in her throat. But they were there all the same. ‘Something tells me you like it here.’ In your world- in the one not manufactured by a robot that had gained sentience, you were hard to trust. This version of you fit like a glove, and maybe you did miss it. But the pain in Kate’s stare would haunt you for months, years, perhaps forever.

“Don’t fight them,” You purred “give them what they want.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Leo might have better luck,” you said at a normal volume, straightening up and wiping her blood on her shirt. “I suggest you speak to him unless you want to puncture a lung.”

Kate leveled you with a dark look, one that rang with understanding, and fear. One more hit to the temple and she slumped in her seat, unconscious. A bloom of blood dripped down the side of her face and joined the stream at the corner of her mouth, soaking into her collarbone.

You’d learned long ago that Hydra waited for their prisoners to gain consciousness to continue their assault, their conditioning. Kate succumbing to darkness, if only for a bit, would buy you more time. You quieted for a moment, clenched your eyes shut before you threw yet another punch.

A storm brewed just north, the leaves on large oak trees showing their pale, soft underbellies. It was a sign that rain would fall hard and fast. Your mother taught you to breathe deep on the damp soil. You rolled down the window, letting the water-logged air clear your senses and cool your cheeks.

Natasha glanced at you worriedly and you supposed that you’d never get used to the gesture. It was the one thing in this world that didn’t make sense. The torture, the pain that you caused was expected of you. The love that she showed shook you to your core. It would be easy to stay, to love her back.

You’d paid apt attention to the route that connected your innocent suburban home to Hyda’s base. This was certainly not the way back, but you held your tongue, squeezed it between your molars until you felt the sting prickle at your eyes.

“You don’t have to pretend with me, darling.”

“I know. I should have stayed home today.” you murmured, feeling the soreness of your jaw.

Natasha let out an exhale and pulled over to the side of the road. You took stock of your situation. You were far into the country, the lush green grass and empty highway seemed like as good a place as any to die.

If you were to die in the Framework, would you perish in life too? There was a good chance that even this parallel world had a cruel sense of humor.

Natasha put the car into park and turned in her seat. The sun was just starting to set, turning the sky a toxic shade of orange that reflected off her skin, making her glow ethereally. Even if you wanted to, you couldn’t take your eyes off hers. You could drown in the deep fern pools.

When she reached for you, you flinched, burrowing deeper into the passenger seat. A word wasn’t uttered as she reached and gently unclipped the pin that was on your collar. Ever so subtly, she placed it in the center console, giving you much of the same look that Kate had earlier. Pleading.

“I know what’ll make you feel better.” Her voice had dropped a few octaves, nimble hands working at her own pin. She set it not far from yours and lifted her chin towards the door.

“Public indecency, Nat.”

“When has that stopped us before?”

You huffed, and pushed yourself from the car and took a few steps towards the tree line. Gray clouds pockmarked the sky, looking as if they were ready to burst. You knew better than to turn your back on the Black Widow, made-up universe or not.

A glare had etched itself onto her features, and you couldn’t tell if it was sexual or predatory or both. You backed up with each step until your spine hit bark. You could smell the rain now, the honeysuckle from the small yellow flowers intertwined with poison ivy. Sweet with a deadly bite.

She let out a shaky breath. You didn’t move when she pulled the gun from the small space between her back and her jeans. You’d expected the tip of it to be placed between your brows, a quick and easy kill. But, instead, she shoved it into your collarbone.

“Coulson, he said that there was hope for you. That eventually, everything that you stood for would click as the wrong thing.”

“Nat, I don’t understand.”

And you didn’t- not entirely. You could hear the rolling thunder to your left, feel the electricity in the air. When she glanced at the ground, a tear slid down her cheek and she was quick to wipe it away before you had the chance. You heard the shift in the gun, the almost pull of the trigger.

“Every relationship has its flaws, you know? You being Hydra, you living and breathing, and dying for Hydra despite everything that they’ve done was something I could overlook until I saw what you did to Kate today.”  

“You’re a double agent.”

She sniffed, “yeah, baby. I figured you deserved to know the truth before… What you did in there. If you could do that to Kate, then what’s stopping you from doing it to Milla. Our Milla.”

Natasha was sobbing now, swallowing back the noises that threatened to bubble up in her chest. The warm rain had begun to fall in a distant trickle, hitting the leaves with little patters that rivaled your own heartbeat.

“I would never hurt her,”

Your voice cracked. This, you knew to be true. The warmth that flooded you as you gripped the picture frame that morning had bonded you to a stranger. You’d let your fear ebb away at everything else, following Natasha like a sick puppy around the Hydra compound. The gun started to ache against your chest.

Natasha whimpered, closing her eyes and pushing ever so slightly on the trigger. She didn’t believe you. How could she? You still had dried specks of Kate’s blood on your shirt, splattered across your jawline.

“I want to believe you, love. But you’ve been pulling away from me for years now. They’ve gotten into your head, they’ve taken you from me and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to get you back.”

You swallowed hard. She’d moved the gun from your chest down to your abdomen, pressing hard enough to make your ribs ache viciously. You muffled your own sorrow, swallowing back the cry that threatened to escape you.

“The day that Milla was born was the happiest day of my life. She was so small, so precious in your arms. When you looked down at her and her fingers wrapped around your own, I saw a glimpse of your humanity. Your love for her, for me. But that’s gone.”

“No, no it’s not. Nat, baby, you have to listen to me.”

“I don’t!” yelled, shoving the tip of her gun further into you. “I’ve waited long enough, y/n. I thought there was a gray area between SHIELD and Hydra and I hoped that you resided in it. You can’t talk your way out of this. Not this time.”

She swiped at her tears, frowning at you. Your shoulders dropped. Her version of you had given her nothing, had pulled away and leaned into the organization that tormented them both. They’d been in love once, you knew.

Natasha Romanoff was a fantastic shot.

You would have two lead slugs in your stomach before you twitched a finger. What was it Jemma said about staying alive in the Framework? Everything was becoming blurry, married with emotion. You could feel the anger, the malice, in this worlds version of you.

“I’m sorry,” you said, throat constricting. “For everything, Natasha. Be careful, for Milla’s sake.”

You shut your eyes, breathing in the electricity in the air, drops of rain soaking into the warm soil under your feet. You curled your fingers into your palms, paying attention to the sting of your nails in moldable flesh. You waited for her to pull the trigger.

The gun had gone off point-blank against your abdomen, filling your mouth with the acrid taste of copper. Doctor Arnmin Zola was a fan of submerging you in ice water when you’d resisted his programming. You’d refused to panic at first, instead, holding your breath until your lungs screamed for solace. But he had grown bored of your game and resorted to other techniques like a serrated blade to the tendons in your shoulder, in your leg.

It was impossible not to simulate drowning when your body naturally wailed in pain. You knew what it felt like to drown, and as you were pulled from unconsciousness with a surplus of warm blood muddying your throat, you recalled that it would do you no good to panic.

You coughed, your lungs crackling and stomach pulsing in pain as your muscles tried to compensate for your adrenaline. A table, you were strapped to a table, and the leather cuffs around your wrists began to tear with your struggle.

“Y/n!”

You could recognize Jemma’s voice, even through the static in your mind. Your world was pulsing, black dots swimming against your vision. There were wires attached to your temples, adhesive pulling uncomfortably at your skin. A strong, familiar hand pressed down on the center of your chest.

“Jemma, what’s happening?”

“She must be going into shock. I can’t see where the blood is coming from.”

Ever the calm doctor you heard the rip of fabric and felt the assault of sterile, cold air against your skin. You knew exactly the source, the wound in the center of your stomach where Natasha- Framework Natasha- had unloaded her clip.

“You have to do something!”

There were traces of worry in the other voice, the one you refused to pin down. It was raspy, familiar, but nothing compared to the pain that choked you mercilessly. You were screaming, wailing as if you were haunting an abandoned mansion. It took you a few barely-lucid seconds to understand the noise was coming from you.

“I’m nowhere near well-equipped. I’d need sedative, and nothing here is sterile!”

“You’re SHIELD, Jemma. You work with what you have. Figure it out. I can’t lose her.” 

Your vision was swimming in darkness, taking away what little clarity of your surrounds you had. It was if that one word, that one person, knew exactly what you needed to hear. Your mind stopped fighting so hard to utilize its adrenaline. You could rest, give in to the quiet, because it was SHIELD.

It was SHIELD.

The dry, metallic taste in your mouth was nearly gone the next time you stirred. Though, you craved a glass of water that would soothe the rest of your discomfort. Your head was pounding, the pinch of an IV had replaced the receptors attached to your temples.

A huge, freezing breath was drawn in with a gasp. You weren’t strapped to a table anymore, no bright and dehumanizing lights above your head. The ones in the room had been dimmed. This was an unfamiliar medical bay, but you had a blanket, and that was more than you’d been offered during your last bout of lucidity.

Jemma stirred in the chair that was positioned next to your bed. Her hair had been combed through with her fingers, glasses on the center of her nose. There were bags under her eyes and out of instinct, she felt across your throat to check the strength of your pulse, despite the machines in her presence.

“Oh, thank goodness. You must be thirsty.” She seemed to read your mind, “I’m afraid you’re not allowed liquids right now. But I sent Agent Romanoff for some ice chips.”

You stiffened at her name, opened your mouth to say something, and then snapped it shut when you realized your body would protest more than you were ready to counteract. Agent Romanoff was here? The last you’d seen of the real her was on a balcony in Amsterdam. She’d slipped out of your room as steadily as she’d slipped in. 

Jemma had shifted onto the corner of your bed. “We weren’t expecting you to get pushed out of the Framework. It’s nearly unheard of.”

“Pushed… out?”

“With Aida’s meticulous planning, she’s accounted for every contingency within the Framework. She’s manipulated Fitz into doing her bidding, and Daisy too. I suppose she wanted to add you to her ever growing list of prisoners but you weren’t as susceptible.”

“She kicked you out.”

Natasha was leaning against the doorframe, her head tilted to the side. There was a glass mug in her hand, most-likely overfilling with ice that you longed for. Still, you tensed at her presence, pushed yourself further into the plastic headboard out of apprehension. She certainly had the upper-hand now.

Jemma noticed the change in your demeanor, the palness that washed over your skin. “Are you in pain?”

Well, yes, but it was more of an impossible longing for that brief moment of domestic bliss that you had with the Black Widow herself. Of course you didn’t regret your choice to defect from Hydra. Your biggest regret was letting Natasha slip through your fingers.

“I’m alright, really. Everything just felt so real.”

She looked at you sympathetically and patted your knee. “We’re still monitoring Kate. She’s given us a few scares.”

“You need to pull her out,” You tried to sit up further but the bullet wound in your stomach had other ideas. Your fingers brushed against the wrapped bandages. You’d broken a few ribs yourself.

“Agent y/l/n we don’t know if that’s safe.”

“Kate being in there isn’t safe. The Framework is built around Aida, and Aida wants to lead Hydra. Kate she’s not- she didn’t wake up in the same situation as me. She woke up a traitor and if we don’t pull her out soon, she’s not going to make it at all.”

Jemma frowned and considered your words, smoothing her hand over your knee before she stood. There was guilt in her posture. The two of you had agreed to be sent in, but she was the one who had done it. You wanted to assuage her worries, but she had shifted into a different vein of thinking; a productive one that left no room for feelings of regret.

She excused herself, leaving you in an uncomfortable silence with Natasha, save for the constant whirring and beeping of the machines around you. She took a few steps into the room, but didn’t get closer.

“What did you wake up to?”

The question hung in the air like a blade positioned over your jugular, it’s own sharpness a reason for your ultimate demise. When you didn’t answer, averting your gaze, Natasha took Jemma’s place on the hospital bed. Her warmth was domineering. She smelled like Framework Natasha, sweet with an acidic bite.

Subtly, you pushed yourself closer to the headboard once more. Of course, with someone like the Black Widow, nothing was ever subtle. It was her job to read and decipher your body language. Even if you weren’t an open book, she still scanned the pages shamelessly.

She scoffed, “I’m not going to bite, y/n.”

“Perhaps not, but will you shoot?”

Her hand tightened on the Styrofoam cup and it produced a small scream of pain that made your ears ring. She stared down at your fingers flush against the gauze, slowly soaking with a horrid red color.

“I did that? In the Framework?”

“I really didn’t give you much of a choice.” You laughed bitterly, wincing at the pain. “I was Hydra and you were pretending to be. I guess even in the perfect world, your pension for doing the right thing will outweigh the wrong. I can’t fault you for that.”

“I would never hurt you.”

The sincerity of her words tilted your world. There was a quiet warmth to them that filled you with the positives of the Framework. Your wife. The mother of your child. She sat in front of you now, being neither of those things.

Natasha picked up a chip of ice and silently begged to scoot closer, you gave her the slightest of nods, let her press the ice against your lips. You were flooded with instant relief. The dryness on your tongue evaporating. You very well could have done this yourself- but there was something intimate about her offer that you didn’t refuse.

“When Simmons told me that you were going into the Framework, I tried to get here with enough time to stop you. But I was off world and when I got here, so were you.” She frowned, placed the ice in your mouth. You bit down on it with a satisfying crunch. “Going in there was foolish.”

“I wanted to save them.”

“You can’t save everyone, y/n. You work for an organization teeming with agents that have a martyr complex as strong, if not stronger, than your own. Yet, you throw yourself into a world where everything is worse.”

“Not everything.”

She drew in a breath and stared down at the cup. The question she wanted to ask was dancing on the tip of her tongue. But she was stubborn, and for anyone but her, so were you. You swallowed, dampening the coolness that coated your throat.

“The two of us, we were married. We lived together in the suburbs and had a daughter… I didn’t get to see her past a family photo because she was at the Barton farmhouse. But she existed, and we existed.”

She blinked at you, and you couldn’t read her emotions. The last time you’d dared to have a conversation with her about being more, she rushed out of the motel queen sized bed with itchy sheets and put her pants on inside-out, just to avoid the implication of an actual date. You’d never asked again, content to repress it for moments of strung-out bliss that she was so good at providing.

“It’s selfish to even think that I was better off there. Everyone else was unhappy, giving in to the darkest parts of themselves. But it was different for us, I think. Because we already give in to the darkness. It’s not having the light that we regret.”

Silence enveloped you both, and you took a sudden interest in the frayed blanket that warmed you. The fabric touching your skin was starting to feel like too much, but you didn’t dare move.

“What’s her name?”

“Hm?” You hummed, glancing up at the woman in front of you who suddenly seemed so small. She had a light rosy blush to her cheeks and was chewing on her bottom lip. “Oh, uh, Milla.”

“Was she… did you like her?”

“I loved her, I’m sure of it. She was my world. Framework you shot me before we made it to Clints farmhouse, but shit, Nat, even looking at a picture of her was earthshattering.”

She let out a watery chuckle and reached out, taking your hand. You stiffened under her touch, so familiar, yet so foreign. Soon, you relaxed, her thumb brushing over the sore bruising on your knuckles.

“I’ve always wanted a life like that, you know? Save for being sleeper Hydra agents. But the white picket fence, and the PTA meetings, a dog, and family vacations to Niagara falls. I wanted it all.”

You whispered. “Wanted?”

“It’s not in the card for people like us, is it?” She used the base of her palm to brush a tear away before it hit the stiff blanket. “Even in a world that’s meant to be perfect, one of us always ends up hurt.”

Her hand was grounding you. You didn’t want to let her go, and she didn’t make a move to pull away. The two of you drank each other in, she smelled like the storm that you were ripped from, and you wanted more of it, you wanted to tuck your head under her chin and pull her close, despite the risk of tearing stitches.

“I’ve avoided you for years, because I’m afraid that if I don’t, you’ll charm me into giving things a shot.” She laughed bitterly, shaking her head. “But watching you nearly die today sobered me up. I can’t lose you, I can’t handle losing you.”

“You won’t, Nat. If we can just give this a shot, give us a try, maybe we can have both.” You gave her hand a squeeze. “One date. I promise, I won’t propose, and I certainly won’t ask you to buy a house in the suburbs with me.”

“You want to go on a date after I shot you?” She scoffed.

“You didn’t shoot me. You got me ice, and that might as well be a ring.” Natasha giggled and the sound made heat rush from your stomach and up to your neck. You were thankful for the thin hospital gowns now. “we won’t know until we try, right? If we could make it work as Hydra and SHIELD, I think we could make it work on the same side too.”

“And if I hurt you?” She asked, “if I get scared and pull away?”

“I’ll pull you right back.” You smiled weekly, “if you’ll let me.”

[lanasblood]

VIVID DREAMS | neteyam x reader

dedicated to @andraga12​ just because she’s el amor de mi vida who always inspires me to be better, and I wanted to give back some of the love she generously spreads in this fandom with her personality and her writing! 

neteyam artwork by my talented @cinetrix​ (click here to see more) 

pairing: neteyam x female reader (wc: 1.2k)

summary: what do you call the phenomenon, where you cannot control the longing in your eyes or the fire in your loins, where you consistently fall in love with someone every time you see them? as for neteyam, this someone is you. (proceed with caution, his thoughts are unhinged, 18+ mdni)

Being the son of the clan leader had its benefits, but it also came with its downsides. There was immense pressure to be the best in everything, pressure he put on himself, so much that for quite some time — too long for him to admit — he was accompanied by intense stress and sleepless nights. The days blended together, no longer offering a sense of overview, no longer dividing day and night for him. He was a breathing, working mess, alive but barely living, like the remnants of a walking corpse, whose reflexes still functioned. His body was accustomed to it, his strong physique, sculpted by years of discipline, was used to worse actually, but slowly the burden was taking its toll on his mind for he began to see things, hallucinating, as Lo'ak had called it. It had reached such dimensions that his father had sent him on forced leave, a decision that was infuriating in such critical times, but protest was not tolerated, because deep down Neteyam knew his father was right; some days — the most exhausting ones — it was difficult for him to distinguish his dreams from reality as it all blended together, and that was the last alarming sign for him to know he had to fix his work-life-balance, especially when it came to you.

she's a celestial inferno in his mind  the flames consuming him cannot be denied   as every carnal desire burning his skin  raw illusions rise, awakening divine 

The mere thought of you already numbed his senses, consumed him whole, so looking at you right now how you danced along with your friends, your body effortlessly swayed to the rhythm, accompanied by the traditional instruments, did things to him he did not dare to say out loud. There was an undeniable connection; he was longing for you, needing you in ways that couldn't be described. 

Watching you from afar as he leaned against a rock, originally trying to avoid the festivities following the victorious war party he hadn't been allowed to participate in, it was mesmerizing to him how you moved your hips with such sensuality, it took his mind to places. His eyes aglow like molten gold, were glued to your body, followed your every move, refused to leave your enchanting features even for a fleeting moment. The forest immediately dissolved around him into a big blur of dark green, slowly fading into a hushed background, leaving only you as the focal point of his existence, as if completely bewitched by your presence. And for the first time in his life, despite the unyielding strength he commanded in battle, he found himself powerless, absolutely disarmed and vulnerable against the allure you possessed.

He couldn't control the vivid imagines that flooded his mind in the next second when you bend down to gather the empty bottles from the ground so that no one would trip on them, his hidden wants messing with his reality in an instant. His hands on your waist, the rhythm of your bodies in perfect synchrony, the rolling motion of your hips against his, skin on skin, teeth clinking, lips smacking with each hungry kiss. He couldn't help but picture the way you'd respond to his touch, your soft flesh yielding by the firmness of his grip, your head thrown back in ecstasy, your eyes rolling in pleasure, the breathy moans escaping your lips like a siren's call, pulling him closer to you, deeper and deeper into the depths of desire. 

Wishful thinking. 

He knew that he couldn't resist the gravity of his passion any longer. With every breath, every beat of his heart, he discovered a truth — he was falling, falling, falling, and he couldn't deny it.

Neteyam's breath quickened even more when you met his eyes, only for a second before you quickly looked away, his heart pounded in his chest like the loud drums next to the table with drinks, as he fought to control the raw desire that surged within him. The fire in his loins burned brighter as he felt the energy radiating from you, a magnetic pull even, that defied reason, defied control, defied the chaos raging within him, that became a force he could not contain. And even if the yearning in his blood vessels and the longing in his eyes spoke volumes, his lips remained silent for he had not once dared to confess.

That was however until he heard your laugh a second later when one of your friends said something to you; the combination of eye contact and your melodic laugh gave him the courage to approach you, start a conversation, he had done it many times before, so he could do it again, he was good at small talk, he was Neteyam, it was nothing but child's play for him, he would talk to you and— 

"Does Neteyam have any idea how ridiculously gorgeous he is?"

His heart skipped a beat as he overheard your words, spoken with a touch of wonder and followed by a dreamy sigh. The corners of his mouth curled into a soft smile, and his cheeks felt warm as he chuckled to himself, shaking his head slightly. He had never imagined that you would see him in such a light, let alone voice it aloud. It filled him with pride, and he couldn't help but feel a mix of joy and disbelief that he quickly hid with his newfound confidence as he walked the last steps to approach you.

"Well," he said with a playful smile on his lips, "I wouldn't say ridiculously gorgeous, but I do try my best."

Immediately, your eyes grew wide as you opened your mouth to say something but then closed it again, and he thoroughly enjoyed observing the play of expressions on your face. He felt great, his self-doubt vanished in an instant, it was as if a veil had been lifted, revealing a version of himself he had never fully embraced before. With his arms crossed in front of his chest and a smug grin on his face, he watched your every move, every flick of your gaze, every tremble of your finger, the color of your cheeks slightly darker than the rest of your skin, every subtle gesture teased his imagination, fueling his fantasies, like your eyes, big and beautiful, a mix of innocence and surprise in them, he couldn't help but imagine the taste of your lips as you nervously licked over them, those lips, oh, those lips looking as sweet and plump as… he gulped and reminded himself to get it together.

And when you turned around, away from him, without any word, quickly leaving the celebrations, vanishing between the thick leaves of pandora's flora, he kept staring at that place and he smiled, accepting the truth that could not be denied any longer: He was consumed by an insatiable hunger for you, a hunger that only you could satisfy, and he swore to himself, in that exact moment, that he would do anything — no matter the time and costs, even if it meant to put the night sky into chains and conquer all the stars — to make you his, for you were his star, his very personal wishing star.

note: thank you for reading, my loves, please don’t forget to leave feedback (I appreciate any form of it, be it likes, comments, reblogs, or just an anonymous message in my inbox) to let me know you enjoyed this 💕

[broodcore]

lurid little oneshot i did a while back where heimdall gives birth alone on the wall [ft. some piss; morning sickness/emeto]

~~~

Being pregnant fucking sucked, though as much as Heimdall would have been glad for the ordeal to almost be over, he still feared the inevitable crescendo he would have to go through. Because there was only one outcome to this, either way. He was going to have to agonizingly squeeze a whole human being out of himself. The only thing his foresight wouldn't let him see was the time, or the circumstances.

This was the caveat to his powers; the lack of context, the flexible nature of fate. He knew labor was coming weeks before his stomach dropped, to the point that the first braxton-hicks made him panic. He knew he was going to experience a painful, bloody, humiliating ordeal, and unlike ninety nine percent of every other foreseen pain, it would be unavoidable.

So, Heimdall spent his ninth month of pregnancy in a state of perpetual, slow cooking anxiety. Which, wasn't too far off from how he usually was, but this time it came with a lot more morning sickness.

The Allfather still expected him to patrol the wall until he physically couldn't. This was fine for the introverted Aesir, who was on his last nerve with everyone's varied responses to his condition. Odin was quietly disappointed, Sif was was smugly coddling out of spite, and his lovers... Well, he didn't expect them to care much after he had their ill begotten child and lost the round and fecund form they lavished their carnal attentions on.

On the wall, at least, he could at least find peace. Sometimes even solace in a time where his powers were at their most overwhelming. It was another day where that nagging divine premonition of his impending labor hounded him to the point of sickness, and at this point he was just tired. Luckily, atop the wall no one was around to watch him dry heave over the edge of it.

The muted alarm of his foresight didn't dissipate when he let his morning sickness run its course, like it tended to after his stomach settled. No matter. This would surely be another day of monotonous discomfort. He would surely know more clearly once it was well and truly close, right?

A flash of the near future made the pregnant Aesir dizzy. The weighty child within him stirred and protested; every bit of an unpleasant little prick as he was, judging by how often they tried to bruise his insides. He rubbed the side of his lopsided dome of a stomach, and tried to gently ease his child back into position. The unborn bastard practically headbutted against the cervix they had been pointed towards for the better part of a week. The flash of foresight alerting Heimdall to his waters rupturing distracted him again. His thighs clenched together.

"You better fucking not, you little shit." Heimdall glared at his belly, so carefully covered and downplayed by the strategic positioning of his kilt and belt. "If you don't at least wait until after my shift, I swear..."

It was easy to sound hard and mean to a child that wasn't even technically here yet. Heimdall felt better getting to vent his frustrations to them - or at least, to the idea of them - though he did wonder if that would have any side effects. Was it possible to give a child a complex before it was even born?

The weight of the baby sitting so low over his pelvis was making Heimdall nervous. He already felt the foreseen sensations of his baby moving down and through him, and he didn't like how similar this felt to it. Maybe it was time to cut this patrol short. Surely the Allfather would understand if it was due to labor, right?

Oh, who was he kidding. If it ended up being another false alarm, he would get another long, uncomfortably detailed recount of what his father did to push him out, back in the day. That almost sounded as unpleasant as labor it self.

Speaking of...

The All too familiar spike of anxiety made Heimdall waddle a little faster towards the lift, holding his stomach like it would up and pop at any moment. He was getting twinges here and there, but frankly pregnancy in itself came with so many aches and pains that he let them just melt into the background of his life. That is, until he noticed the intermittent nature of the cramping sensation that radiated around his midsection.

It had to be the practice pains Sif had reassured him of, surely. Surely.

The nausea returned when he felt his stomach harden under his hands.

"No you don't. No you. Fucking. Don't." Heimdall swore at his kid through clenched, gilded teeth. He was already starting to break out in a cold sweat, the dread catching up to him as both his divine perception and his body tried to warn what his mind stubbornly tried to ignore.

It was going to happen. It was going to happen and there was nothing he could do about it.

Heimdall nearly threw up again, his reflexes acting in time to keep him from spewing bile over himself and swallow it back down. His unborn child lurched and kicked against his ribs, enjoying this just as little as him. That's one thing they already had in common.

He needed to get off the wall, now. The lift was a short waddle away, as he could see, but the dreadful feeling of being too late struck him, stopped him in his tracks, and gave him only enough warning to cry out before his stomach seized.

"Fuck!" Heimdall tried to clench every muscle in his lower body he had out of defiance of the inevitable. A sharp pain coursed through the root of him, followed by a distinct, messy release. A deluge of fluids spilled out of him, spraying through the material of his pants in excess as it soaked through, covering his legs and darkening the limestone chunk he stood on.

The remainder of his waters continued to drip from him for a tense and breathless moment, as the reality of the situation started to truly sink in.

"N-not now. Please." Heimdall whimpered, to nobody in particular. "Please, I'm not ready."

His baby, as much of a little cunt as he was, eased lower into his pelvis as if to spite his pleas.

It was more difficult to waddle in this state, between feeling a solid mass grinding against his cervix and the miserable discomfort of his broken waters turning his pants into a sopping, heavy, cold torture device. The lift was so close. The lift was so close.

He sensed a contraction before it could grip him, making his steps falter and catching him even more off guard when it did squeeze through him. The overwhelmed Aesir sobbed, panic setting in. He wasn't going to make it. He spent too much time mistaking his real labor pains with his foreseen ones, and now things had progressed to a critical point.

He endeavored to stagger onto the lift dock as his stomach clenched and deformed under his sweaty hands. The meager few steps to get onto the platform felt like a marathon to get through, as lifting his legs in any increment made it feel like the baby was threatening to slip right out of him. God, if only it were that simple.

It was a double edged relief to stumble onto the lift and grab onto the wooden railing. On one hand: progress! On the other hand: now he just had to keep this fucker in him through the entire slow, agonizing ride down.

And then continue to keep it in through the trip through town, to get to the midwife. But at this point, that objective sounded too lofty for his circumstances. He could settle for making it to the ground long enough to scream for help so someone was there when he pushed it out.

Hopefully, it wasn't going to come to that. The idea of someone finding him in such a state was almost as terrifying as what he went through now, but only one of these nightmare scenarios was happening at this exact moment.

Heimdall powered through the pain and pressure to pull the the lever. He sobbed at the small relief of hearing the lift mechanism creak to life. He was going to make it.

His foresight, ever the bearer of bad news, politely reminded him of the most likely outcome that he was not going to make it. He felt hopelessness and despair course through him before he could experience the reason for the feedback. The pulley system of the lift groaned, old and finicky, and threatened to stall. Heimdall sobbed anew.

"Fucks sake."

Things were going so bad it was almost funny. Would he be amused, if this was happening to Anybody else? That's a stupid question; of course he would. Especially if it was either of his other partners. Let them fucking go through this and see how they like it. That would teach them not to listen to him every time he begged them to cum inside.

Were he not in the state he was, he could reach up and fiddle with the old mechanism until it unstalled. For now, that seemed like an impossibility. - both from the risk it posed, and the fact that he hadn't been able to get out of his miserly, hunched over position over the railing since he got on the lift.

All Heimdall could do was cry, curse, and ineffectually scream for help. The winds at this height all but drowned him out, for better or worse. As loath as he was to be seen in this moment of extreme vulnerability, at this point he would have been grateful for anyone to find him now. Please, don't have him do this alone. He should be at the midwife's infirmary by now, in her most comfortable bed. Surrounded by the best physicians and most experienced mothers and two insufferable idiots that would be congratulating themselves the entire time. Probably pouring each other drinks, and taking bets on whether he was going to shit himself.

That outcome had long since passed, and now there was only one inevitable end to this. He needed to give birth, by himself, suspended a quarter mile in the air. Heimdall made a pitiful sniffling gasp as he tried to keep his breathing steady. 

"I'm not gonna make it." He sobbed deliriously to himself. " I nuh- I cant- guhhh-" another squeeze, another few agonizing centimeters that felt like he was pushing his payload through several feet of a nebulous, neverending canal. The reality was much shorter of a distance, and he could feel that distance keenly as his contractions forced his unborn child out of his womb and into his birth canal.

Despite himself, the sensation of being filled in such a way drew a throaty, broken moan from his lips. His pussy twitched, preemptively opening up as it prepared for the impending birth. Heimdall's hand shot down between his legs.

"No. No. God, no, please-" his begging was cut short by another lurch. He wanted desperately to keep his thighs tightly clenched together, but with each passing moment he found himself spreading them wide in a low squat. The wet, warm crotch of his pants was slowly, subtly starting to bulge against his hand.

"Don't. Don't come out. I'm not ready." Heimdall begged to an uncaring child and an uncaring universe. The urge to bear down mounted. He was supposed to push by now, his midwife's instructions on the process told him. He resisted the urge, ever stubborn, ever in denial that this was what fate had in store for him.

He felt his pussy flutter the more it filled from the inside with the solid, unyielding mass that had been growing within him for the past nine months. It was more pressure than pain at this point, in the brief moment between squeezing it out of his cervix and the moment it would crown. He felt it behind his lips, threatening to part them. The need to push gripped him, and even if he still fought against the instinct, his body still did it's best to force it out without him.

This was really, genuinely happening. Not a flash of an outcome, or the contextless information of clairvoyance. This was the here and now, and he needed to do this whether he liked it or not.

Heimdall braced himself, held his breath, and strained until he was red in the face. The solid bulge he palmed between his legs rounded out, his pussy opening incrementally around the head. Progress, infinitesimal.

It was then that he realized that he still had his fucking pants on. Instead of a defiant stream of curses, the laboring Aesir just let out a pathetic sob.

In his state, and in the awkward half-bent-over squat he found himself in, the simple task of pulling down his trousers sounded herculean. He was a god, not a miracle worker. Still, the need to get the ordeal over with had him summon up his last functional, rational braincell to hook one hand into his pants and tug. His other hand gripped the railing, and provided a space to bury his face and cry into when the contractions peaked. He struggled to ease the soaked pants farther than his mid thighs, but it still freed his cunt from it's confines. That's all he really needed.

Without the restraining material impending progress, he could feel exactly how much of the head struggled to escape from his body; pulling his unprepared lips out with it as they caught around the sheer breadth. His passage was still too tight, too unprepared for the inevitable. The pain of his cunt being stretched from the inside out seared through him.

It was enough that fresh, hot tears started to pour down the drying stains running down his cheeks. A certain familiar clenching and a sense of warmth followed the release of his overtaxed bladder, splattering onto the soiled wooden platform. Through the excruciating pain, he felt himself clench around the mass filling him utterly. The stream of piss stuttered to end in a pressurized squirt from his body's visceral response to giving birth - it was hard to call it an orgasm, but the aftershocks that left him clenching and trembling were similar enough.

He dreaded having to push, wasting a contraction hoping that his tight entrance would begin to stretch around the crowning head. His trembling fingers traced around the stretched-taut ring, and he groaned when he realized how small it still was compared to the solid round bulge pushing outwards from his perineum.

His body was getting too desperate to wait for him, as his stomach sunk in with a powerful contraction. His stretched out hole burned horribly around what was being forced out of him. Heimdall could owe it to his divine nature that he didn't tear, though it certainly felt like he was going to turn all three of his holes down there into one big one. When the contractions let up, Heimdall nearly collapsed against the railing, strength ebbing from him. He cried through the feeling of futility, though his foresight found no grim or tragic end to his struggles. He can. - and will - do this. He just needed to put in the work.

This time he pushed, even if it felt like he was ripping to shreds down there, even if he wondered if his whole cunt was going to fall out along with the baby. He dented his golden teeth on his studded braces, lest he chew through his lip, and allowed himself to be as loud, messy, and pathetic as the situation called for.

With a burst of blood and other fluids, the head shot out into his waiting palm. This time, his warbling sob was one of triumph. With his last scrap of rational thought, he checked to make sure there was no cord around the neck, and that he didn't just completely blow out his pussy. When both concerns were addressed and proven wrong, he steeled himself for the final leg of the ordeal.

Heimdall breathed hard through his nose, his blotchy red face sticky with snot and tears as it scrunched up with another grunt of effort. The shoulders weren't as bad, as they came out one after another as the baby turned into position. It wasn't until he stopped pushing that he felt something give way, and with a surprised yelp he felt with visceral detail the entire body passing through him. 

He fumbled the wet, slippery child with trembling hands. Primal instinct urged him to hold it close before the rest of him could catch onto the reality that he just successfully gave birth. Panting like he ran a marathon, Heimdall stared into the middle distance as he draped the squirming, squalling infant against his chest. Very, very carefully, he repositioned himself to collapse back against the railing.

Beyond the slowly dulling agony in his cunt, the aching of his entire body, and the hammering of his head, Heimdall felt two heartbeats. The baby didn't cry for long before settling into intermittent, mildly upset whines, as their newly-minted father distantly tried to soothe them. He had foreseen this moment. He knew it was inevitable. But more than anything else, this didn't feel real.

And if he looked at it, that would make it real, and he wasn't sure if he was ready for that.

The sticky little whole entire person resting against his collarbone squirmed in his grasp, finally prompting Heimdall to look down confirm this was real. It was a little olive-skinned boy. Who knew who the father was - he was hideous enough in that grody, fresh baby way that it could have been either of them. Heimdall didn't care either way; let them fight over it themselves.

Upon hearing another dry, dusty old creak, Heimdall groaned from the irony of the lift beginning to move again.

[sserpente]

Raw Desire

Synopsis: Something is wrong with him. Something none of the Avengers, including Thor, understand. When Loki turns into his Jötun form unwillingly and begins to act in a very primal and aggressive way, their solution for the problem is to lock him up in a cell below the compound until it’s all over. It’s a disease, perhaps, one which only Frost Giants can develop. Only Loki is not sick. Loki is in heat--and his Jötun body will not rest until his most carnal desires have been satisfied...

Words: 9176 Warnings: Jötun!Loki, smut, fluff, symptoms of addiction

A/N: You wanted some Jötun!Loki, I wanted some Jötun!Loki... so here we go. Enjoy, everyone! 😏

Additional NSFW Warnings: breeding kink (a little bit, anyway), Loki is in heat (kind of, duh), lack of aftercare (at first...)

-

His antagonising scream tore through the entire compound. You flinched, alarmed. Loki. The heart-breaking sound of pain tugging at your nerves was followed by a loud thump—like a heavy metal door falling shut, locked for good. It had come from the cellar, where the Avengers stored weaponry and ammunition; along with provisory but secure prison cells of Wakandan technology for criminals until they could be handed over to the authorities.

When you reached the source of the rousing noise, you almost knocked straight into Thor. His muscly back resembled a thick fleshy wall that would break your bones if you collided with him with too much force and speed.

“What happened?” Out of breath, you moved around him—facing the culprit of the commotion. The eerie flickering camera right outside the cell door showed Loki knocking his fists repeatedly against the metal door. His knuckles were already bloody from the repeated impact, yet the door would not budge. Much more concerning, however, was his appearance. Loki’s skin—every inch revealed to the naked eye anyway—was blue, his otherwise enchanting blue eyes sparkling with mischief of a deep blood-red. Countless, unique and fleshy lines formed a complex pattern on his arms and the back of his hands, even his face and neck. Your lips parted, both in shock and surprise at what your eyesight had revealed to you.

“He’s losing his fucking mind.” Tony responded for Thor before the Thunderer could even open his mouth in defence. He came tramping into the room as mad as you had never experienced him, tapping away on a tablet in the process. “I told you it was bad idea to bring him back here, Point Break! What were you thinking?”

“Can anybody tell me what is going on?! Why is he… like this? Is he in pain?”

“In pain?! He almost killed Nat. If Wanda hadn’t interfered…” Tony did not finish the sentence—regardless, the threat of what consequences there would have been for the God of Mischief was clearly audible.

“This was unlike him. He had no reason to…”

“No? He pounced on her like a… like a…”

“Beast?” Bruce added matter-of-factly. His hands were in his pocket when he approached the scene and patted Thor on the back in an attempt of providing comfort.

“Maybe… maybe this isn’t his fault, Stark. I know my brother, he’s never acted like this before!” The God of Thunder roared in defence, his arms crossed.

“Yeah,” Tony retorted sarcastically. “You know your brother so well he even tried to kill us all. Three times. No. This man is evil. Look at him!”

Petrified, you risked another peek. Loki was downright animalistic, his fists still working the metal cell door. He was getting weaker, worn out—like the fire in his red eyes was slowly being extinguished to make way for weariness. There was something primal in his behaviour; something raw. You would be ignorant to deny it scared you.

“Tony,” you began, forcing your voice to cease the shaking, “What happened? Why did he attack Natasha? Was he hurt?” Your sudden concern for him was going to give you away. No, not sudden. It had always been there, hidden just beneath the surface of your heart. You had only kept it a secret because… because what?

Loki did not know you had been harbouring romantic feelings for him for a significant amount of time now. Dark, tall and mysterious, he matched not only your type but had hopelessly captured you with his melancholic and lonely nature, the grief in his stunning blue eyes. You refused to believe that Loki was evil, that he had ever truly wanted to harm his brother; and you were desperate to be his friend… and even more than that. But the God of Mischief had hidden his heart behind such a hard shell that you were worried you might never get him to open up to you.

You would by no means describe yourself as an altruistic person—but there was a both enamoured and depraved part of you which desired, longed, for him to like you back.

“Talk to me.” You stated, tilting your head when he flung his dagger at one of the battered punching bags in the training room.

“What?” He sounded almost scornful when he spun around to gift you an incredulous look.

“Talk to me, Loki. I want to know what’s going on in your mind. I thought I was… you are always so distant. You disappear in here every other night, you snap at everyone trying to speak to you. You look nervous, like something is trying to break out of you.” Like you are trying to get rid of monstrous amounts of bottled up energy, you added silently. “You seem so restless. What’s wrong?”

“What concern is that of yours?” He spat.

“See! That is exactly what I meant.”

Loki growled. “What do you want from me, (Y/N)?” You flinched when he used your full name as opposed to the nickname everyone called you by.

“Why? Why are you screaming at me, I’m just trying to help! Don’t you get it, Loki? I care about you. And I care about what you think, even if I am probably the only one in this bloody compound who does.” Now that was unfair. But it was also the truth. “Why are you pushing me away? Let me in…”

Desperately, you moved forward in an attempt to reach up and cup his face, only for him to grab your wrists and pull them away harshly.

“Let you in? All I have ever received in return for ‘letting someone in’ was hurt and hatred. Give me one good reason for why I should open up to you,” he mocked, releasing your hands as if they would burn his fingers if they lingered on your skin for too long. “Tell you about my sorrows.” Sorrows. He had sorrows.

“I am not them.” You simply said. “Not any of them. I am not Odin, not Thor, none of the Avengers.”

Blinking, you snapped out of your memory. You had had this tragic conversation only two nights ago. No matter what you had said, he would not tell you what was on his mind. Now you knew.

“Something is wrong with him.” You interrupted the discussion, one you had not paid any attention to, by silencing them with a loud and determined voice.

“You don’t say?”

“No, Tony, you don’t understand… Loki is… he is Jötun. Thor, has he ever voluntarily turned into his Jötun form?”

The God of Thunder thought about it for a moment—then, he shook his head. “No.” You gave him a meaningful look. “So… you think it has something to do with his species?”

You nodded slowly and swallowed.

“Then we keep him in here until he is better.” He concluded. Your eyes widened.

“What? Thor, no… you can’t keep him locked up in there! What if he doesn’t get better on his own? Are you going to incarcerate him forever?”

“That would be an improvement.” Tony tossed in bitterly.

“We have to help him.”

“We? (Y/N)…” Bruce remarked almost tauntingly.

“You’ll find us upstairs. We need to let the others know about… whatever this is.” Tony added. You gnashed your teeth when he and Bruce turned to leave. For an awkward moment, it was eerily still—right until another one of Loki’s screams tore through the uncomfortable silence. You flinched once more. He was howling in pain.

“You think it might be a disease only Frost Giants can get?” Thor asked with concern in his deep voice at last.

You shrugged apologetically. “Maybe…”

“Loki and I were going to return to Asgard next week. I shall ask around, one of the healers should be familiar with Jötun diseases.”

“Go as soon as you can. Your brother is in pain, Thor, can’t you hear that?”

The God of Thunder nodded absentmindedly. But if no one was going to do something about Loki’s suffering—whatever it was—immediately, you would do it alone. So you did what Loki would do first. You dug up his books.

-

Loki’s room was neat, tidy. The green bed had been made—there was not a single wrinkle in the fabric and the desk was all clean, not giving thin layers of dust only visible in the direct sunlight a chance. The books he had brought from Asgard, old, thick, yellowed and heavy, he had stored on a bookshelf higher than you could reach.

Sucking in a determined breath, you moved the desk chair in front of it. The polished wooden floor to your feet complained with an ear-piercing shriek as you did. Determined, you climbed up to study the titles. All of them were written in Nordic Runes, making you realise that your research would end up being a lot harder than you had initially assumed. You could not speak a word of Old Norse, let alone read those Runes. Never mind that… you needed answers—and Loki needed your help.

It took you two hours to go through the titles and have them translated via a website you had had to pay for (using Tony’s credit card details—desperate times called for desperate measures) to use its allegedly reliable services.

Then, finally, after what felt like half an eternity, you found a suitable page-turner. It was titled Mythical Creatures and Species across Yggdrasil—at least, that was what the website you used told you.

Eagerly, you opened the book searching frantically for the chapter on Frost Giants and began sucking up all the information you could get. The more you read… and the more you compared Loki’s symptoms to the described behaviour of Jötuns in the book, the more aghast you became. One thing was for sure. Loki was not sick. Loki was aroused.

Terror-stricken, you bookmarked the page, grabbed your phone and jumped to your feet, abandoning the pile of books on Loki’s floor. You needed to speak to Thor right now.

He was about to enter the bathroom when you found him, once again almost knocking into his broad form.

“I… I found something.” You choked out.

“What?”

“I found something… about Loki. Thor… he is not ill, not really, he is…” Biting your lower lip, you pushed the God of Thunder into the bathroom, shut the door behind you and sat down on the edge of the bathtub. “He is… aroused.”

“What?” He roared, blushing. “What do you mean he is aroused?”

“Look… I found this book, I…”

“You speak Old Norse?”

“No! I used… I used a translator. Thor, listen, please. It says here that to ensure their continued existence, male Frost Giants, every one-thousand years, experience the primal urge to copulate with females of their kind. Much like wolves or elves, this ‘heat’ usually begins with restlessness, extremely aggressive and possessive behaviour, unusual amounts of pent-up energy as well as an extreme hunger and loss of appetite at the very same time. Loki hasn’t showed up for lunch, dinner or breakfast and… he has been spending extraordinary times in the training room downstairs in the middle of the night lately. He barely sleeps, it seems.”

“Go on…”

“How old is Loki, Thor?”

“He is a little over one-thousand years… old.” He looked up in shock when he realised.

“That’s why he is in his Jötun form, Thor. He can’t control it, it’s not his fault, it’s… in his nature. God…” You had read it all, yet you were still working on processing it.

“This… it would explain why he tried to attack Nat. So… he is not in danger then?” Thor probed.

“No, not necessarily but—“

“So we can just wait until it is over.”

You frowned. “Until what is over?”

“His heat! If what you are saying is true and Loki’s behaviour derives from his heritage… if he cannot control his reactions, we have to keep him locked up and wait. We can’t have him ravish all the females in the compound.”

“But… he is in pain.”

An urgent knock on the bathroom door interrupted you.

“Hey, are you having a soap party in there? Other people need to use the bathroom too!” Closing the heavy book shut again, you rolled your eyes.

“There are at least three other bathrooms in this compound, Tony!”

“What are you two doing in here anyway?” He asked as he opened the door and leaned against the threshold when he spotted you two sitting on the edge of the bathtub.

“(Y/N) found out that Loki is… uh… in heat.”

“In heat?!” Tony repeated. “Like a cat?”

“No! It… has something to do with the procreation cycle of Jötuns. It… is in his nature.”

“Fuck…”

“Hey… language.” If you hadn’t recognised his voice, you would know it was Steve who joined your heated discussion. “What’s going on here?”

“Loki is in heat, like a cat.” Steve frowned.

“No, he isn’t! Not like a cat, this is…” Thor stood again before you could finish your sentence.

“It’s for the best, (Y/N). Down there, he’ll be save from getting himself into trouble.”

“Thor, wait! Loki is suffering! Soon, he will…”

“We can’t risk it, (Y/N)! He almost raped Natasha!” Tony barked. “And if you go near him, I’ll lock you up too. I’ve seen what he’s capable of, (Y/N). I will not let him hurt you.”

“He… he wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t.” You chirped. No. Loki would never deliberately take a woman against her will. If he did… no! Loki had in incredible amount of self-control and composure; and you knew how much he despised his own heritage. He would fight this—for as long as he could.

“Besides…” Tony added. “It wouldn’t be so bad if he got a taste of his own medicine.”

“Stop blaming Loki for your PTSD, Tony. That was Thanos’ doing and you know that.” You growled darkly. The billionaire paused for a moment.

“He is staying where he is,” he concluded then. “Until he’s gone back to normal.”

-

But you did not want to wait. You couldn’t. You had read about the symptoms in detail. In the book it said that moodiness and aggression were only the beginning. If Loki did not act on what his Jötun body demanded from him and… released, then soon, excruciating pain would torment his loins. Masturbation appeared to be out of the picture. You nibbled on your lower lip. This thought of yours invaded his privacy on a truly shameful level, yet you were certain that if sexual arousal had already been plaguing him for a significant amount of time before this outbreak of his, he would have tried to lay hand on himself already and learned it did not provide the necessary relief.

Sooner or later, he would no longer be able to suppress his erection—and it would not disappear until he… sheathed himself inside a female to fill her with his seed. Under different circumstances, the idea of him claiming a woman… you, in such a possessive manner would have aroused you tremendously yourself. As of right now, however, Loki was in agony. The pain, if ignored for too long, would only get worse—it could last up to months and even then the denial of sexual release could result in permanent damage to his loins and even his potency.

But there was no cure either. No potion or spell to contain a male Jötun’s heat which Thor could have forwarded to Asgardian healers.

It was past midnight when you stopped reading and translating—too appalled by how much more Loki would have to suffer if nothing was done about his… condition. The only way to make it stop… was to act on it.

Your lips parted in realisation. You liked him, very much so—and you found Loki incredibly attractive, dreaming of his hands on your body, even. Perhaps you could help him after all. You were not Jötun but… would his body really make a difference? This most primal part of him wished to mate with a female—and although you had never seen a female Jötun, you doubted they looked much different than you did down there.

-

You had to wait another thirty minutes until the lights in Tony’s lab finally went out and you could sneak through the compound and downstairs to the cells—and once you had made sure that Vision was nowhere to be found, you switched off the security camera for Loki’s cell and approached the thick metal door.

It was quiet. He had stopped screaming. There was no banging against the walls either. Yet when you unlocked the door and slipped inside, his appearance, cowering on the floor and leaning against the cool wall with bare feet, startled you to the core. Loki’s raven hair was completely dishevelled, his knuckles bruised and covered in dry blood. His Jötun appearance was downright intimidating and close up, even more fascinating. He was breathing heavily, the thin shirt he had been wearing underneath all of his armour torn in several places, revealing blue skin and in his dark leather trousers… there was a remarkable bulge.

You shivered slightly when his red eyes met yours. Slowly, he tilted his head. “What are you doing here?” He growled hoarsely but weakly.

“I… I want to help you.”

The God of Mischief snorted. “You cannot help me.”

Mutely, you shook your head. “I can. Loki… I… I know what’s happening with you.”

He snorted once more. “So do I.”

“Let me help you.” Taking a deep breath, you moved closer to him. He reacted immediately. Loki jerked, greedily, as if to grab you and pull you on his lap. He could barely stop himself. Yet you were convinced that he would not hurt you in this state… much. A wave of courage rolled over you—you were doing this for him; and you wouldn’t be doing it if you did not like him in this way. Regardless of what he thought of you after, if he could even imagine being with a mortal like that… you longed to stop his pain.

“Leave.” He said quickly when you kneeled down next to him, timidly resting your palms on his thighs. “No… I said… leave… while you still can.” You did not. In fact, you ignored his rather sincere warning. Slowly, to not tickle the sleeping dragon, you reached for the buttons of his leather trousers and began undoing them until he grabbed a hold of your wrists to stop you. He was ice cold.

“Have you… lost your mind?” Loki was cut off by a loud hiss escaping his lips when your fingertips brushed against his erection. He was large—much larger than he would be in his Aesir form, you presumed, and his cock too was blue and covered in dozens of ridges.

“It won’t go away on its own,” you whispered. “You know it won’t. It’s okay.”

Braver this time, you stroked him again, creating more skin on skin contact. Loki was still holding on to you tightly but made no move to stop you. The touch of a female… it must have been bringing some sort of relief already. Coming here had been the right decision.

“Loki…” You murmured. Finally, your hand closed around his incredibly hard cock entirely and you began to jerk him off—gently at first, only to pick up speed when his breathing grew even heavier than it already was. Defeated, he dropped his head against the wall, revealing his blue neck to you. “Please let me help you.” You repeated. “It’s okay. I trust you.” Upon those words, Loki’s eyes widened barely noticeably. Perhaps it was all he had needed to hear to lose his self-control and composure entirely.

Growling like a wild animal, he suddenly started at you, pushing you back firmly so you lost your balance like a beetle on its back, wrapped his ice cold hands around your ankles and pulled you into him. Your back collided with the floor, knocking all air out of your lungs. You gasped for air all the while Loki busied himself with your clothes. Any layer of fabric was too much. He wanted you naked for him. His sheer strength petrified you when he tore at your pyjamas and ripped them to pieces until they were scattered all over the cell. You trembled—but it wasn’t the icy temperature of his blue skin that made your limbs shake so much. It was, so you realised when your widened eyes fell on his massive erection, now fully springing free from his tight trousers, your own arousal growing into dizzying heights. This, whatever it was, excited you—maybe even way more than it should.

Once more, the God of Mischief grabbed your ankles, forcing your legs open. Your heart skipped a beat when he laid his blood-red eyes upon your bare pussy. Your lower lips must have been glistening with your juices in the artificial light of the cell. Loki growled, his long and cold fingers gripping your ankles so tightly you could already feel the bruises forming. Eagerly, he positioned himself between your legs, the tip of his hard and ice cold cock teasing your clit. A moan escaped your lips, urging him on. The fire in his eyes had returned, like your body had set his ablaze.

He spread you even further for him, your nails digging into the metal floor beneath you—and then he claimed you for his own. Inch by antagonising inch, he split you apart, sheathing himself so deep inside of you all air was knocked from your lungs yet again. He was ice cold and he was much larger than the average man; and you were beginning to understand that yes, female Jötuns were anatomically different than humans. Human women were not made for taking such long cocks… so why did every single powerful thrust of his feel so good?

Loki pulled out almost completely, with only the tip remaining inside of you, only to plunge back inside only the fraction of a second later, fucking you furiously. Your tight and wet walls appeared to mould around his manhood, gripping him tightly, asking for more despite the almost unbearable coldness against your most intimate parts. No longer were you in control of your arms. They reached up, palms gliding over his bare chest and enjoying the coldness under your fingertips. Fascinated and aroused at the very same time, you traced every single ridge on Loki’s body while he was fucking you senseless, until your eyes rolled to the back of your head, unable to take the pleasure. His long manhood his spots inside of you which you had never known even existed. He leaned down, at last letting go of your ankles, instead taking a hold of your wrists to pin them both down right above your head and pressing his body so tightly against yours that your clit kept rubbing against his pelvis with every single stroke. You moaned, stricken by ecstasy, and arched your back as you kept moving your hips up to meet his thrusts.

Aroused, you looked down, watching how his blue cock kept sliding in and out of you, spreading your lips as they enveloped him welcomingly.

Loki groaned, his attention steering towards your breasts as they bounced with each of his rough thrusts. Hungrily, he lowered his face, his cold breath ghosting over your mounts, and sucked your right nipple into his mouth—hard. He nibbled, suckled pulled and bit until the already hardened nub was throbbing with pleasure and need and he repeated the same blissful procedure with your left nipple all the while he kept rutting into you uncontrollably.

“Loki…” You wondered if, in his current state, he would be able to speak. As of right now, he indeed reminded you of a wolf who would annihilate anything standing between him and his subject of desire, his prey—you.

Your toes curled, the promising and numbing sensation growing in your lower abdomen having you scream his name over and over again. You could already feel yourself clenching around him, your body urging him on to mark you with his seed and impregnate you and when he finally released himself into you, burying his cock as deep inside of you as was physically possible and coating your walls with his load, he triggered your own release.

You came with a loud moan, feeling him twitch against you as your pussy contracted around him again and again until you collapsed underneath him, spent and tired from his vigorous fucking. Loki, on the other hand, didn’t even think about letting you be. Unceremoniously, he pulled you on his lap so you came to snuggle up against his cold and naked chest, your face hidden in his neck. He supported himself by leaning against the metal wall, his cock still resting deep inside of you.

“How… are you… feeling?” You breathed out, barely able to keep your eyes open. Being taken thoroughly by a Frost Giant had been a lot more exhausting than you had initially assumed.

He was panting, his eyes almost shut. His erection inside you, however, was still very prominent and nowhere near ebbing down.

“Better… soon.” He growled into your ear. Soon? A high-pitched scream escaped your lips when he sank his teeth into your neck and bit down hard enough to make you squirm on his lap. You could still feel his ice cold sperm dribbling out of you and coating his own cock when he grabbed your arse and began moving you up and down his cold rut, forcing you to ride him.

“Oh… fuck…” You choked out. You were tender already, sensitive to the touch. This was too much, too soon. Yet Loki was too caught up in his pleasure and urges to give you a break. He took you several more times that night, eliciting orgasm after orgasm after orgasm from you—until you were on the verge of passing out.

-

You awoke with a hunger unlike one you had never experienced before. Irritated, you crawled out of bed—using the toilet but skipping your morning routine to get to the kitchen to prepare some breakfast. It was only seven. Loki had not… released you until half past six. There was no way your body could have drawn enough rest from this meagre hour of sleep.

Be that as it may—for now, you were hungry. Quietly, you tiptoed into the kitchen, ignoring the sweet ache and tenderness between your legs and resisting the urge to cup yourself through your pyjama bottoms. The white and bright light of the fridge blinded you when you opened it and reached for a package of juice and one of those pre-packed turkey sandwiches Tony kept buying. Unceremoniously, you then closed the fridge with your butt and sat down at the kitchen table to eat. And you kept returning to the fridge until Steve joined you in the kitchen to have a cup of coffee and then go for a run. When had you ever been this hungry before? Was it because of the aggressive sex you had had with Loki? Jesus…

You blushed when Steve asked you how you had slept—and you were rather grateful you had been smart enough to switch off the security cameras before… helping Loki out. He had still been in his Jötun form when you left at long last but he had looked content and… satisfied, in the most carnal manner possible. You would wait until the rest of the Avengers were up to check on him, to not raise any suspicion.

So when Thor staggered into the kitchen with a shit-eating grin on his face, you nearly jumped from your seat.

“Good morning!” He yelled—clearly in a very good mood. He managed to scarf down an entire package of fruit loops before you couldn’t take it anymore and aggressively scratched your fork over your empty plate until the room went awkwardly quiet.

“Didn’t you forget something?” You asked him heatedly. The God of Thunder frowned.

“No! I did flush the toilet this morning, (Y/N).”

Rolling your eyes, you stood.

“Loki. Loki is still one level below you, locked up in a cell, in pain, while you are enjoying your breakfast.” You hoped though, sincerely, that he was no longer in pain.

“(Y/N)… we spoke about this, there is nothing we can do. Down there, he can’t hurt himself or anyone else. I told you I’m going to Asgard soon, I will speak to—”

It was in this moment that your plate broke in half. You had, subconsciously, used your fork to stab it so forcefully it fell apart like a rotten apple. Eyes widening, you mumbled an apology.

“Sorry… I just… no one should be suffering like this. You all heard him last night.”

Bruce gave you a gentle smile. “You’ve always had a big heart for everyone, huh?” You nodded quickly. They did not need to know about your feelings… or the arousing ache between your legs. Your heart was racing. You took a deep breath, hurrying out of the kitchen without cleaning up behind you. Instead, you immediately locked yourself in the bathroom and turned on the tap to splash some cold water on your face. The icy temperature calmed you once it came in contact with your skin, reminding you of him—if only for a moment.

You were shaking. What on Earth was wrong with you? You took a quick shower to wind down, threw on an oversized sweater and then headed downstairs to the prison cells. A glance at the monitor of the security camera made you let out a relieved breath. Loki had indeed gone back to his Aesir form—and he did no longer seem to be in pain. It was, so you wondered, very unusual, however, to not complain and wreak havoc so the Avengers would let him out but then again… would they truly believe him if he told them he had overcome his heat?

With another deep breath, you opened the cell door and slipped inside.

“You were not supposed to see me like this last night. No one was.” He said quietly before you could even open your mouth, not bothering to make eye contact with you.

“Did you know? What was happening to you?”

“Yes.” He snorted, a bitter smile spreading on his thin lips. “I believed I would be able to control it.” Finally, he looked up, his blue eyes locking with yours. “Did I hurt you?” Your lips parted in surprise. Slowly, you shook your head.

“No… I mean… it was quite pleasurable… for me as well… actually.” You choked out sheepishly.

“Hmm… that I could tell,” Loki gave you a light smirk. “Thank you.” He said then—and for the first time since you had met him, you sensed true honesty and sincerity in his smooth voice.

“I’ll leave the door open.” You returned his smile; the planes in your belly flying loops.

“We are… keeping this between us, are we not?” He hastened to ask when you turned around.

“Of course.” After all, no one needed to know you had let Loki mate with you to regain control over his loins.

-

It was five days after your intimate encounter with Loki when your constant shaking became worse enough for him to notice—and if that wasn’t bad enough already, your body had begun to sweat; a lot. Day in and out, you had to change your sheets as if your bed was your personal sauna—or your personal hell.

You felt like you had been hit by a bus, like an extremely nasty form of the flu had you in its steel grip tightly, unwilling to let you go. Sleep, however, to get some rest and recover, would not come either. Two hours per night at most, three if you got lucky. And instead of getting better, it became worse.

He had been restless ever since. It could not be. After all, it had also never… or had it? Growling to himself, he locked the door to his room, enjoying the quietness and most of all, utter privacy.

Not a soul in the nine realms was aware he was still in the possession of the Tesseract. So when he produced it out of thin air—his large hand momentarily surrounded by a green mist—he made sure to hurry and quickly teleported himself back to Asgard. Heimdall would never open the Bifrost for him if he wasn’t accompanied by Thor.

He was worried about you and his surprise about these particular circumstances was remarkably low. When he closed his eyes, he could still taste your hard nipples on his tongue from when he had suckled on them. He remembered how warm your body felt against his when he had cradled you in his lap and the thought of your tight cunt around his throbbing cock stirred arousal in his leather trousers if only he indulged in reminiscences for too long. Most of all, however, he was unable to forget the sincere smile on your face when you had freed him from the cell the next day… and the mesmerised gaze you had met him with when he had ravished your sweet quim over and over again.

With another deep breath, he disappeared in an ice cold cloud of smoke.

-

Sneaking past the guards and into the palace library—the one place he had spent hours on end in growing up here, hiding away from Thor, his friends and the world, reading and hoarding knowledge—was pathetically easy. He knew exactly what to look for, what lecture would confirm his worrying suspicions. Once he found what he had been searching, he sat down on the windowsill—another usual spot he found comfort in—and began his research. He had known about the impact of a male Jötun’s seed on his female counterpart, of course; for even though he despised his own race, he, as opposed to Thor, had paid attention during their private tutoring lessons as children. The heavy book in his hands, however, made him, the God of Mischief and Trickery, hold his breath. What Loki had not known was that the repercussion of a male Jötun’s seed did not just occur in Jötun females. It applied to any species—including humans. However, the chances of survival for weaker lifeforms were alarmingly low.

Abandoning the book, he hurried out of the library and into the city. There was someone he needed to speak to.

-

“With all due respect, my prince but you are not welcome here.” Loki rolled his eyes. He knew it would not be fun, exactly, to seek out his ex-partners and ask about their well-being long after he had left them. The man opening him when he knocked on Sigyn’s door, a woman he had been engaged with for several years in his youth, was about as tall as Thor—his right hand decorated with a golden ring. Husband. Just great. And, judging by his obvious dismay of finding him on his doorstep, she must have told him about their shared past.

“I need to speak to your wife. Urgently. That is an order.” Sigyn’s husband growled, clenching his fists but stepped aside regardless. Loki made sure not to pay any attention to the furniture and his surroundings. Toys were scattered all across the living room, hinting that Sigyn had become both wife and mother in his absence. Her face fell when she spotted Loki standing in the middle of the small room—truly like he would even have preferred Helheim over being here of all places—as pale as a ghost.

“Loki… I mean… your highness. What… brings you here?”

“I need to ask you a few questions.”

“Um… by all means. Sit down. Would you like some ale?”

“No.” Sigyn pointed at the rectangular kitchen table and then sat down opposite of him. Her hands were folded on the surface of the polished wood.

“It is good to see you.”

“Likewise… Now this will sound odd,” he began unceremoniously, ignoring her husband towering above him with his arms crossed. “But I have to know how you fared after we separated. Not… emotionally. Physically.” He emphasised.

“Physically? That is indeed odd. Oh, I… um… let me see, it’s been such a long time. I had quite an appetite after you left,” she laughed, clearly uncomfortable with his presence. Loki sighed.

“An appetite. What more than that?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary. Except… yes, of course! I fell ill a few days after. The healers never found out what my body was rebelling against. It lasted for a few months. Tiredness, insomnia, attacks of sweat and I could not stop shaking. Why do you ask? Did you… did you experience it too?”

“No,” he replied quickly, a nauseous feeling spreading in his guts. You were showing the exact same symptoms. Symptoms of addiction. “You said it lasted for a few months?”

“I am sorry, your highness but is there a point to this interrogation? My wife has to feed the baby.”

“We’re almost done.” He barked, glaring at Sigyn’s husband from the corner of his eye.

“It did,” Sigyn confirmed. “But then it never returned.”

“Thank you. That will be all.” Loki took a deep breath and stood, resisting the urge to massage the bridge of his nose to clear his thoughts. It was only when he turned on his heel to leave this way too harmonic place that he noticed Sigyn’s husband had left the door open for him. He rolled his eyes.

“Loki! I-I mean, your highness…”

“Loki is fine, Sigyn. We have seen each other naked, after all.” Beside him, he could practically hear her husband gnashing his teeth. He smirked.

“I understand you do not wish to share with me what troubles you but whatever it is, I hope everything will turn out to be alright.”

Loki gave her a smile. It was as honest as he could muster in this tense situation. Sigyn had always known when he was being plagued by dark sorrows, even before he learned about his true parentage. Much like you. You too had been able to tell he had been unwell, both physically and mentally. He swallowed thickly.

“Thank you, Sigyn.”

He had to see Amora, too. They had not exactly gone separate ways peacefully but if she had experienced the same symptoms as Sigyn after their break-up, he had to get back to you immediately. And he had to tell you. The truth, a luxury given his nature, was the very least you deserved.

-

“Where have you been?” Thor roared as soon as he entered the kitchen to pick up one of those cold drinking chocolates you had introduced him to a while back—the ridiculous amount of sugar would help you, if only for a moment. The presence of Tony, Nat, Bucky, Steve and Thor, leaning against the counter or sitting at the kitchen table, he ignored as best as he could. He would have preferred to be alone now.

Loki quirked his eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “Asgard, given that you were unwilling to get help yourself.”

“How? Heimdall wouldn’t…”

“There is a lot Heimdall does not know, brother.” Thor grumbled something he did not understand but it sounded awfully like a curse word in Old Norse.

“Whatever. Have you seen (Y/N)? Her room is down the same hallways as yours, has she left her room lately?” Tony barked at him.

“As far as I am concerned, she has Vision bring her excessive amounts of food, for she is too weak to come to the kitchen herself. No. I have not seen her around.” He replied nonchalantly, with false disinterest. This time, so it seemed, however, his choice of tone, equalled shooting himself in the foot.

“We need to get her to the hospital. None of the medicines I gave her worked even a little bit—and I contacted the best doctors I know.” Loki suppressed a scoff. As if a hospital full of human ‘doctors’ would be able to help you. The only one who could… was he.

“For Fuck’s sake, she has been feeling ill ever since…” Tony’s face fell. “Ever since we locked up your brother.” Belligerently, his gaze wandered over to Loki again. “Okay, Reindeer Games, what did you do to her and don’t even try to lie to me!”

“You do assume, automatically, that I have something to do with it?” He mocked. Tony clenched his fists.

“Loki,” Thor added calmly. “Do you… know something?” The God of Mischief sighed. If he told them, what little trust they had in his capabilities as an Avenger would vaporise like smoke. It mattered not. In fact, he could not care less if any of those self-proclaimed heroes even liked him. Yet if he spoke the truth… surely they would do anything in their power to keep you away from him—which was exactly what they could not do if they wanted you to survive and feel better again as much as he did. He could just take care of the problem on his own… sooner or later, however, they were bound to find out about their intimate encounters, and he was beyond keeping secrets like that. If he wanted to make love to you, then he would, may the Norns help him.

“It is… my seed.” He choked out reluctantly.

“Your… what!? Your… yeah, no, I can’t say that out loud without throwing up… is making her sick!?”

“The seed of a male Jötun is causing… an addiction. Withdrawal will make her weak and ill.” Loki looked up grimly. “Frost Giants live in strictly monogamous relationships.”

“What, like penguins? How did she even come in contact with… did you… did you rape her? I swear to God, I will kill you.”

“I did not lay a finger on her.” Loki replied darkly.

Tony threw his hands up in the air. “So how did your happy juice get inside of her in the first place then!? How did that happen, I wonder?”

“She came to me voluntarily, Stark!”

“But you knew? If you knew it would make her sick, why didn’t you stop her, you selfish asshole!?”

“How!? How, Stark!? Resisting the urge to mate in heat is like attempting to suppress a sneeze. It’s impossible. Don’t bother your pathetic human mind with things you do not understand.”

“Loki…” Thor began warningly. The God of Mischief ignored him with a hostile growl.

“(Y/N) would never do that.” Tony said then.

“Perhaps you do not know her as well as you thought you do.”

“You little shit, I will…” Tony jumped from his chair as if stung by an adder, prompting Loki to draw one of his daggers seemingly out of nowhere when he started at him. Both Natasha and Steve barely managed to hold him back.

“Leave it, Tony. This is Loki. He is just trying to provoke you.” Nat appeased.

Just this one time, however, they were wrong. Loki did, in fact, care about you. It was just he had not realised that until you had willingly offered your body to him when he had been in pain. Glaring at them darkly, he rose from his chair.

“I am going to fix this.” He spat. It almost sounded like a threat. “Not for you. I could watch you drop dead to my feet without so much as blinking. But for her.” Fuming, he stormed out, his right fist still clutching at his dagger in a desperate attempt to calm himself down. And as of right now, Thor knew better than to stop him.

He needed to see you. Remorse and guilt were eating him up from the inside out—and it wasn’t just the fact you had helped him in spite of everything he had done to Midgard only a few years back. It was… you were… Loki closed his eyes for a brief moment. You were his.

When he knocked on your door, there was no response. Now there was a chance you were asleep, yet he somehow knew better than to leave and try again later as to not startle you. After all… he was going to make you feel better.

He slipped inside, locking the door behind him with magic so you would not be disturbed. The sight of you almost broke his heart. You were trembling, buried under a pile of blankets, pale and weak.

“(Y/N)…” He spoke with a quiet voice, approaching you slowly. Your eyes opened when you heard his voice, your weak body barely managing to turn over to look at him. A cough escaped your lips before you could answer him.

“Hey…”

“How are you feeling?”

“Terrible.” You tried for a laugh but could only manage another cough. With a straight face, he sat down on the edge of the bed so he was able to bring his palm to your forehead. You were incredibly warm, yet the sweat made your skin cold to the touch. His heart skipped a beat. Suddenly, he was worried you only had a few weeks left until your body gave up fighting the withdrawal. He would not, ever let this happen.

“I brought you some cold drinking chocolate.”

“Oh…” You chuckled weakly. “Thank you. Is that the only reason you came?”

“No,” he laughed. “I came to check on you.”

“An eye for an eye, huh?” Your eyes fell shut when you smiled.

“Hmm… I’m afraid it is a little more complicated than that.” He purred. You never noticed how his eyes fell on your crotch, even if it was covered by a bunch of blankets. Slowly but determined, he slid his left hand under the layers of fabric until he found what he was searching for. With skilled fingers, he began to massage your clit until he felt you responding to his attentive touches. You arched your back, your sex growing wetter and wetter fast—like your body knew exactly what would follow. Licking his lips, he scooped some of it up to spread all over your quim and create even more friction. You were squirming by the time he removed the blankets entirely and positioned himself between your legs, careful not to shift all of his body weight onto you.

Was he going to… did he… could he possibly… reciprocate your feelings? Your heart skipped a beat, butterflies awakening in your belly. If only you could…

“Loki… Loki, I… I really want to do this again too but… not now, I’m… I really don’t feel well.”

“Shhh…” He would ponder over your words later. You wanted to do this again too? Had it not just be compassion and pity that had driven you to offer him your most intimate parts for relief? And what if you refused him now? You had to trust him. So he shut you up by pressing his lips against yours, capturing them in a passionate kiss and then, once again slowly but determined, removed the blankets and peeled your pyjama from you until he had you naked—fine, he had helped with magic; and he was certainly too impatient to remove his own clothes, so instead contented himself with freeing his growing erection from his trousers only.

A whimper escaped your lips when you caught sight of his arousal, his tip—not blue but the colour of flesh this time—pressing against your entrance. He slid inside you to the hilt with almost no resistance, your warm pussy welcoming him in. Loki moaned when your walls gripped him tightly; it was like your body already knew his release would make it feel better. Only this time, he was in control. This time, he would take his time and make gentle love to you—right until you began to tremble underneath him for entirely different reasons.

Your eyes fell shut when Loki started moving, retreating almost completely only to plunge back deep inside of you fast and passionately. You were too weak to buck your hips, as much as you would have loved to. And despite your weariness, he felt incredible. You were unable to decide which form of his you liked better.

You kissed him again when his nose brushed against yours and his breath tickled your lips, bathing in the intimacy between you. But when he slid his hand down to where your bodies were united to pamper your clit all the while speeding up, hungry for his release, you stopped him, albeit gently.

“I… I don’t think I can, I’m too… but I… it’s okay.” You murmured. “Cum.”

It was a request he could not resist, not any longer. Thrusting forward a few more times, his release was beginning to overwhelm him. He groaned into your ear, his hot breath brushing against your cheek, and let his climax consume him. He was throbbing against your walls, his seed—surprisingly warm and not as cold as it had been the first time—filling you to the brim and until you could feel it dribbling out of you again. Loki stilled, turning you over so you both rested on the mattress on your sides, with his slowly softening cock still inside of you and one of your legs draped over his hips. One heartbeat passed, then another and another. And just like that… you felt like you had been reborn.

“How… I feel so much better.” Loki kept silent. Remorse was sparkling in his blue eyes. Avoiding your curious gaze, he looked down, with a start fascinated with the blue roses on your bed sheets.

“Loki?”

“You did fail to read all of it, did you not?” He stated quietly.

“What… what do you mean?”

“The book you took from my shelf. I looked it up when you got worse. It wasn’t until I left for Asgard that I realised why our… sexual encounter is making you ill.”

“I… wait… Does that mean you believe it has something to do with you? I mean… what we did? Is it… I’m not pregnant, am I!?”

“No. You are not.” He smirked at you weakly. “That, I would have sensed already. No… I’m afraid it is a little more complicated. Frost Giants live in strictly monogamous relationships. They never… switch their partners once they mated during their first heat. If they do…” Loki took a deep breath. “It appears that the seed of a Frost Giant triggers some sort of… addiction for their female partner. They develop a carnal craving for their seed which forces them to keep returning for… more.”

Biologically speaking, this was a downright bulletproof way of ensuring the survival of a species—the Jötuns’ own bodies turning against them and demanding sex. The gravity of his words, however, hit you only a moment later. So this was why you had been feeling so sick lately. You were showing signs of… addiction. Your body had become addicted to Loki’s seed. You swallowed thickly.

“I-is there… is there a way to stop this?”

“I went to speak to my former partners back on Asgard—which, to be frank, does not just sound like a disaster. But I needed to know if they experienced any symptoms similar to yours when we… separated.” You ignored the painful sting in your heart when he said ‘former partners’. Of course Loki had had sex before, had perhaps even been in love. He did not strike you as the type of Norse God who was unexperienced in the art of love making. After all, he had more than just proved this to you. It mattered not, not now.

“And… did they?” You probed nervously.

Loki nodded seriously. “They were both bedridden for months, plagued by uncontrollable trembling and sweating. Their appetite increased, they ate twice as much than they usually would without ever feeling truly full… and they barely slept anymore, tossing and turning for most of the night. Amora added she became increasingly violent as well. They, of course, believed it was a virus which would pass, eventually.” Terrified, you remembered how you had broken your plate in the kitchen the night after your lovemaking. It all made sense now.

But you did not dare ask what this meant. When dreaming of having a relationship with Loki, you had not imaged a partnership out of physical and sexual necessity which would feel like a chore to him; like an obligation now that you had helped him out, after all.

“But they were Asgardian.” He suddenly said, pausing to let his words sink in. “You are human. You are mortal. I am uncertain you would survive…” If I stopped having sex with you. Is that what he had meant to say before he stopped himself abruptly?

Taking a deep and shaky breath, you gathered all of your courage, as weak as it may be.

“This is all my own fault, Loki.”

“It is not—“

“N-no, let me speak. It’s my fault. You couldn’t help it. And I came to you on my own accord. But…” You swallowed. “Even if I had known, I still would have helped you.”

The God of Mischief frowned when you reached for his hand and held it—but it was a downright vulnerable expression.

“Loki… I’m not going to expect you to keep having sex with me if you don’t… I mean…” It was then he began to smirk cheekily.

“And if I do?” Loki had truthfully speaking always been a puzzle—always keeping his deepest thoughts and feelings all to himself. Until now. So he did reciprocate your feelings.

“Y-you do?” His smirk widened.

“It… does get better after a while, once the pair is more acquainted to each other’s bodies,” he continued. “And they are then able to spend more time apart without any signs of withdrawal showing. Ultimately, however, once the male Jötun claimed her, the female is bound to him… if he decides to keep her.”

Despite your weakness, you raised an eyebrow. “That sounds pretty sexist, Lokes.” Loki looked up. His heart jumped when you gave him a nickname.

“Sexist? No. Dominant? Yes.” He growled darkly.

“You’re right. It’s probably not sexist given that male Frost Giants go into heat.” You giggled in response. Loki tickled your sides for that remark, making you wriggle around on the bed. If your hunch was not deceiving your love-drunken mind, then the God of Mischief had just begun to court you.

“Loki?” You mused, raising your voice in a shy manner.

“Hmm?”

“I think I feel fit enough now to have an orgasm.”

The God of Mischief laughed—as heartily as you had never heard him laugh before. “Do you now?”

Next thing you knew he was already on top of you again, covering your naked body with tender kisses.

-

A/N: Check out my blog to find more Imagines and take a glimpse at my first (to be) published novel! If you enjoyed this story, I would appreciate it so much if you supported me on Kofi! ko-fi.com/sserpente ♥  

[chil2de]

Hii! It's me again, the "teasing mom's broyfriend" anon. I just- you about killed me with that sequel. Hot doesn't even begin to describe it, really 🥵🥵

I have more :))

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

Megumi knows. He knows what a slut you are, knows you've been fucking his father behind his and your mom's back. He knows you only got with him to provoque his father. He knows all of that. And yet, he can't let go of you. He won't do his father this favour.

He avoids going to your mom's house with you as best he can, bc he just can't stand the two of you doing this to her, the poor woman doesn't deserve it. He never touches you when you come back from your mom's, bc he just knows you've been with him. There is, however, an exception. The only thing that can make him help you tease his dad is when they fight.

When it happens, Megumi goes visit your mom with you, and whenever she can't see it, he makes it a point to touch you a little more than would be appropriate in front of Toji. The mix of Megumi's hands all over you and Toji's warning glare could probably make you cum right then and there. Once, when your mom was out doing grocery shopping and Toji stayed behind with the two of you, Megs was all to eager to fuck you, make you scream his name, all for Toji's benefit.

Oh, you do so love it when they fight. You know you should hope for peace and harmony between father and son, but you have much more fun when they are at each other's throat.

You wonder what you would have to do to have both of them filling you up at the same time...

ugh okay sorry if this post is just a massive wall of text i had to cut down on spacing because i kept reaching tumblr’s limit on characters, and uh... incase you couldn’t tell, shit’s about to get serious if i wrote this much LOL this probably looks so clunkyyy :(( i apologise but i have like a line left or two? so i’ll compress everything by saying a massive thank you because this would not have been possible without your sexy ass intellect. i was seriouly fucking dying writing this, it might be the first or second piece i’m genuinely proud of and i thank you :) i hope you enjoy it as much as i did writing it

this piece makes sense as a standalone, but works a lot better if you read the previous piece! read my disclaimer here if you’re new <3

w.c: 2.8k / characters: 15k (incl spaces) and a special thank you to my beloved anonie. couldn’t have done it without you ❤️

day and night: two.

your bedroom door shuts with a quiet ring. you can only slump down against it, knees held into your chest. your thighs are still quivering like a poor little lamb.

as you move to type out a text for megumi to not come over, there’s a faint knock at the window. your heart burns, throat clogged and knees weak.

you don’t know if you can get up. hell, you don’t know if you should get up. there’s another few delicate rips against the glass and you manage to stumble over in fear of attracting toji’s attention.

“megumi?!” you mouth his name in alarm, dismay crawling onto your features.

your boyfriend gives you a dead once over, noting your matted hair, smeared mascara and weak posture.

of course he knows.

you can discern it clearly from the way he refuses to meet your gaze.

“can you just let me in?” he whispers, tone flat as his index motions over to the lock of the window.

you don’t know what to do.

after all, you’ve still got toji’s cum flowing inside you from earlier.

you fumble backwards, moving to allow his lanky figure to slip inside. megumi manages to hoist his leg up and over, squeezing inside with ease. he closes the window shut behind him, pulling the curtains.

“m-megumi? what are you doing he-“

he doesn’t have time to waste.

megumi knocks the wind out of your lungs as his cold hands seize the sides of your head, stealing your lips for a kiss. he tugs at your bottom lip, tongue drinking you in for a couple of moments like you’re the last meal he’ll ever eat.

“shit.” he hisses, pulling his face back and screwing his eyebrows in mutiny.

oh, but if you didn’t love the way he looked at you like you were pure filth.

“you taste like him. it’s disgusting.” he spits, wiping his delicate lips with the back of his hand.

he knew, but there was always a part of him that wished you wouldn’t submit yourself to the likes of toji. he just had to see it for himself.

“come on, megumi-chan~ thats no way to talk to your girlfriend, is it?

your mother doesn’t deserve this. megumi doesn’t deserve the heartache, either.

megumi can’t see anything but the spitting image of his father all over your body, licking and fondling all the same crevices that he has. but he can’t get enough of you. he can’t stop, can’t turn away from you. he knows that at the end of the day you're spoon-feeding him phrases he wants to hear.

but you’re so good to him.

your pussy fits him like a glove. your hand intertwines with his perfectly. your head is the perfect size to cuddle onto his chest.

there’s something about you that makes you more addicting than nicotine.

bony and slender fingertips ghost over your thighs. you can’t help the squeak that hiccups from you. megumi raises an eyebrow in scepticism before flipping the hem of your miniskirt up.

he scoffs, slicking his long middle finger against your hot cunt.

“don’t hold it in.” he reprimands you, flashing a grimace as you squabble with him.

“b-but toji-“

“but what? am i not good enough for you?”

you swallow thickly, chanting a small prayer before allowing toji’s cum to drip out of your pussy. you shiver, goosebumps licking your skin when you can feel the warmth of his seed ooze and coat your soft thighs. you can’t avoid the burn of megumi’s regard as he watches the cum slowly flow out of you.

he’ll make you want him.

megumi can’t fully comprehend why you keep running back to his father instead of him, why you choose toji over him. like father like son, it evokes a bubble of magma in the form of competition and jealousy.

he’ll make you beg for him. that’s for sure.

“get on the bed.” he whispers, tone cold and even. there’s no warmth to his voice, even with his usual monotonous tendencies you can tell you struck a nerve. it makes your stomach churn, butterflies swooping in and adorning your vital organs.

like a moth drawn to a flame, as though you have no mind of your own, you step backwards until the back of your knees kiss the metal frame of your bed. megumi towers over you, pushing you backwards as he crawls in between your thighs.

the crisp ring of his zipper sliding down clashes against the room. why should he undress himself properly for the likes of someone like you?

“there’s no point in prepping you. i think you know that.” megumi sighs, relieving his twitching cock from the confines of his painfully tight boxers.

you can feel the avarice swirl in your abdomen, cold fear stilling in your veins at the mere thought that you could get caught by toji at any second. it makes your fingertips tingle and stomach churn. when you wail a needy whimper, megumi only shakes his head before plastering his icy cool hand against your wet lips.

a part of megumi wants to let all hell break loose. if he allows you to moan as you please, it won’t be just toji hearing your cries of ecstasy. knowing your mother, perhaps she’d be a little glad to know that your boyfriend is meeting your needs sufficiently. whereas toji?

it puts him in a predicament. from a bystanders point of view, toji has no right to storm in here and to shriek at megumi for blowing your brains out.

why?

because he’s not your dad.

he’s not a paternal figure in your life. there’s no right for him to say what you can and cannot do. he won’t hold that kind of reign over you like your mother does. and megumi likes that. he relishes the idea of toji being forced to listen to you babble megumi’s name, to mewl and cry for him to hit it deeper whilst he can’t do anything but complain.

it’s not like you haven’t heard your mother with other men plenty of times. it’s only natural, right? hell, she’ll probably gossip with you about it.

a carnal desire glosses over megumi’s steel blue gaze. like a wolf waiting to pounce onto a hare. he can see the way your thighs squeeze, how you gulp before him with those doe eyes of yours. you’re practically purring underneath him. for once, megumi gathers the reasoning to understand why his father finds you so intriguing. there’s nothing better than having your own toy melt and oblige under every command.

your boyfriend’s hand finds its way to your chest, where he rests the palm flat underneath your breasts. he steadies himself, using you as leverage as he guides his dick through the cum stained mess of your cunt. your heart pounds in anticipation, drool coating the back of your tongue as your pussy throbs around him. he manages to fit his tip in, dragging the enlarged and sensitive muscle against your walls. your ankles flutter around megumi’s waist, lower body strength trembling as you attempt to pull him in further.

“m-megs- please..”

“what?” he screws his eyebrows, staring you down. you can’t find the words in you to plead for him.

“what the hell? why act all coy now?“

“that’s not how we do things around here, is it? so spit it out. i won’t get what you’re trying to say otherwise.”

megumi slips his dick out, grinding against your clit as his torso flushes against yours. he pulls you in for a quick kiss, enough to relinquish his appetite, but not enough to taste the filth that corrupts your sweet and innocent lips.

“those cute little whines of yours won’t help you, either.” his breath flickers against your skin, sticky tongue licking trails as he works to mark up your neck. you can feel the tears prick your eyes already. you’re suddenly hyper aware of your heartbeat pounding in your ears, how it throbs against your cunt and the droplets of perspiration trickling along your skin. you can feel megumi’s pulse heavy against your clit, the way his dick twitches as he smears the tip through the folds of your slick. it’s slowly driving him insane. but that’s okay. even through the static that bounces around in his skull- he knows that you hate it more.

after all, your boyfriend knows best.

your fingernails soar around to megumi’s back. you want to scratch him, but you can’t access his toned skin through the layers of his jacket. instead, you’re left fumbling and scrunching the fabric like a feline with an insatiable desire to itch its claws.

“megumi- please, it’s too much-“ you huff through laboured breaths, peering up at him through tear stained eyelashes.

it’s almost enough to make him melt. almost.

“what is?”

“this?”

he shifts himself back up, grabbing his dick and slipping only the tip in once more. he allows you a few centimetres extra before dipping back out and repeating the process again. megumi’s gaze locks with yours, as though he’s asking ‘is this what you want?’

“s-stop teasing me.. just put it in alreadyy~” you choke out a groan of frustration, ready to slam your hips down onto the full length of his shaft.

“why should i?”

“megumi, i swear to god- if you don’t fuck me right now-“

“-or what? you’ll go to my dad? good luck, when you couldn’t even fulfill your duties as being his toy.”

so fucking humiliating.

the way megumi instantly stands up and proceeds to stuff his still hard and leaking dick back into his boxers.

he’ll deal with it later.

you’re left stuttering, unable to form any coherent words, thoughts or insults to spew back at him. legs wide open, cunt empty and glistening in the blue tint of the moonlight.

he leans over, swiping some of your excess drool with his thumb before dipping it into your mouth. he half expects you to lick at his thumb, convince him to stay a little longer, but his skin sits in your mouth like a forgotten thermometer for a couple of seconds.

“if only you could see your face right now.” he hums, tone flat with a certain mockery.

sometimes, as the days pass, you can notice his resemblance growing closer and closer to toji.

-

the following day

you haven’t left the quarters of your room for the entire day. you’re stuck in bed, face mushed into the confines of your pillow. you’ve always held high regards of the fact that your libido isn’t necessarily extremely high, but when you’re promised dick just to be neglected of it? shit feels like you’re in heat. you can’t go to toji, because you’re mother’s home. not only that, but he’d be sure to teach you one of his lessons. you’re already shivering thinking of the conversation with him, how you’d even try to dig out of that hole you were already so deep in.

you can’t call megumi either… at least not for now. you sigh wistfully into the pillow, kicking your legs about on your bed as you hiss a groan of turmoil.

there’s a sudden knock at the door that snaps you out of your haze. it leaves you pumped, blood coursing through your veins and you shoot up like an attentive little puppy about to be taken for a walk.

“it’s open!” you clear your throat, humming.

the disappointment rocks your features so clearly that it’s embarrassing. it’s just your mother.

“you okay? thought you died in here, baby. lunch is ready, and your lovely megumi-kun came to say hello.”

what?

“megumi? that’s nice. did he leave a message or anything? like he just dropped by to say hello or-“

“hm? oh, no. he’s having lunch with us.”

“is everything okay, dear?”

“yeah! yeah, i’m good. sorry, i spaced out a little bit. small headache, that’s all. i’ll change clothes and i’ll come out to eat.” you dismiss your mother, keeping in the hyperventilation you’re about to undergo. she gives you a small glance of concern before returning to the dining room to serve her guests.

“(y/n)! we were just talking about you!” your mother hums, gifting you a smile of warmth and radiance as she pours drinks into some cups.

you can feel toji’s mocking stare dig holes into your skin.

you can fucking feel it.

you can imagine him saying it.

“slut.”

at the six chaired table, you scurry to sit the furthest away from megumi and toji. your mother shoots you a sideways glance, motioning for the seat between toji and megumi. you swallow thickly, awkwardly striding over to take a seat.

your knee accidentally knocks into toji’s and you instantly utter an apology.

“you should be.” he mutters underneath his breath, disguising the words as a sigh.

“so? you said you were talking about me?” you straighten yourself, perking up a semblance of cheerfulness and perfect innocence.

“oh, right! toji was just telling me how stuffed you were yesterday!”

your lids flicker in shock and you abruptly stare at toji, whose half lidded jade green eyes slowly land on yours before locking to meet your attention for a few seconds.

“sorry, what?” you stutter, finding it difficult to believe the situation.

“you know, the food? are you sure you’re alright, honey? you’ve been acting strange since this morning.”

“i’m fine, i swear. just some painkillers would be nice.”

when your mother turns around to rummage for some painkillers, she emits a squeak of alarm at the lack of them.

please. you’ll do anything to get out of this predicament.

“are we out? i can go grab some-“

“-no, that’s okay. i’ll head out. i need to grab a few extra things for dinner anyway. you three, make nice with each other!”

sure.

when the door shuts, you realise you’re out of options.

you can’t run away.

“so, megumi. how’s eating up after my leftovers feel?”

“leftovers? because one woman wasn’t enough for you?” megumi scoffs, averting his gaze.

“it’s not my problem that your woman came running to me. doesn’t that say something about you?”

“like what?”

“like, you can’t fuck her properly?”

“i can’t fuck her properly? but you’re telling her to keep your cum inside her? don’t you care what’ll happen if she gets pregnant?”

“see, megumi. she’s on birth control. you didn’t know that? and besides, if i didn’t know any better-“

toji finally allows you his undivided attention, staring right through to your soul.

“-i’d think your little girlfriend here likes walking around with my cum inside her.”

you’d be able to run a butter knife through the tension hanging in the air. the room holds its breath, and as do you in compliment of trying not to set things off into a piping hot mess.

“isn’t that right-“

“-princess?”

your fight or flight response kicks in at the malicious tone that coats toji’s tongue. you swallow thickly, throat parched and lips cracked.

but fuck.

if it isn’t the most arousing thing- the two of them squabbling over you.

toji screws his face at you, features lighting in a mix of awe and delight.

“really? you’re seriously enjoying this?” toji hums with mockery, eyebrows perking at your unusual behaviour. he can smell the sweet nectar of your arousal slicking against your underwear.

you abruptly stand up, ready to leave.

megumi’s hand curls around your wrist. he slings your hand behind your back, slamming you over the table. some silverware and plates clatter and dash against the hardwood floor.

“answer the question, (y/n).” he hisses.

you whimper a soft whine. there’s no way you’re answering that.

“get your fucking hands off of her.” toji barks, kicking his chair back.

“try me.”

something washes over you. a premonition, say. that if you don’t speak up, someone will end up seriously injured.

“i can’t choose between you two. i just can’t. so i think it’s the best option if we just stop this completely.” you sigh, prying megumi off of you. his stance relaxes and you wince at the pain in your spine. you rub your wrists in slight agony, refusing to meet either of their gazes.

“it’s been fun, but i think it’s time to draw the line-“

“no.” toji remarks offhandedly.

“huh?” you contort your face in offence. there’s something thick on megumi’s face, too. it almost looks like determination?

“i said no.” toji reiterates, taking a stride towards you.

his index and thumb caress your chin, tilting your jaw up to look at him.

“i don’t care how long it takes. whether it’s me or him-“

“-i’m making you choose.”

[lord-explosion-baku]

Compromise

Yandere Alpha!Aizawa x omega!reader

Warnings: omegaverse fuckery, yandere, dark themes, very slight daddy kink, very slight breeding kink, PiNk NiPpLeS

A/N: I wrote this for a friend and that friend is me. Entirely self indulgent which is wack because usually when I write AOB shit I have the shield of it being a request up. Usually I try to stray away from describing things about skin and bodies for self-inserts, but I did a little bit for this one. Anyways, have some nasty trash

(DO NOT REPOST MY WORK ANYWHERE WITHOUT ASKING FOR MY PERMISSION)

Aizawa was a patient and experienced man. He was no stranger to having a cat he rescued off the street become reclusive in his domain— only making appearances when they needed to eat, drink, and relieve themselves, so it was not too alarming when he brought you, a criminal vigilante, back to his home and you had reacted similarly. He wasn’t worried. He figured that as an omega, he’d find you deprived and wanton sooner or later.

He understood that you needed your space. It surely had to be a bit of a culture shock to you for the first couple of days or weeks, and he certainly knew that you’d need your time to cool off after being plucked so suddenly off the streets like you were. The last thing Aizawa wanted was for you to hate him, so at first he had repressed his need to claim you immediately in order to help you acclimate to your new environment. He was fervently against forcing himself on you, even if his nature told him that it was his right.

Before you became a suitable partner, you had to be his pet. You had to be his comfortable pet.

So he left you alone in the room he’d set up for you, only hoping that you’d come out to visit him on your own accord before you fell into your first heat in your new home. Your stubborn heart never showed its face, but that wasn’t a dealbreaker for the erasure hero. If anything, your petulance stirred him. It beckoned him.

The day finally came when you had your first heat, and he would be lying if he said that he wasn’t looking forward to it. It was only natural for Aizawa to be drawn to your room when he caught a whiff of that delectable scent, that musty aroma that was so indisputably you, that it got him hard as a rock instantaneously. Like a moth to a flame, he found and rescued you from your own aching turmoil. The alpha claimed you, and marked you, and fucked you, and loved you, until you were nothing but a messy pile of satisfied lust melded into the guest room sheets, panting and writhing and thanking him for taking very good care of you. You were soft and warm and you fit around him perfectly. You were heaven on earth, crying into his shoulder, clawing at his back, begging for him to give more, more, more, and he did, and you wailed and came for him over and over until you inevitably passed out— splayed on the bed all cute and tuckered out and his. He had been elated.

He had hoped that after the first time he mated with you, you’d be more personable. However, after the fifth heat, Aizawa had to admit that your indomitability would not be broken so easily. He figured that he was spoiling you— letting you stay hidden and alone for as long as you wanted until your heat broke and you could use him for the one thing you’d value him for as an omega. That was the thing. He was letting you use him, and though that may have made you his comfortable pet, that didn’t further your advancement into becoming a suitable partner; it just made you a spoiled princess. He just had to let you know that though a princess you may be, you were his. He’d spoil you on his own terms, and that was only after you learned who held the reigns under his roof.

Six hours had passed since he first caught your scent. You were early this month, which was a pleasant surprise. That could’ve been because of your change in diet; Aizawa had been feeding you lean meat rather than packaged protein in hopes of getting you to act a little more congenial, but that hadn’t changed your mood much. You still glared and recoiled whenever he entered the room, which was nothing compared to the storm of swears you had whirled at him while trying to claw his eyes out when he first brought you to the condo. Still, he’d prefer that you at least thanked him for feeding you and making sure you had plenty of blankets to sleep with at night.

But now that you were in heat— now that you were needy, and desperate, and hungry for an alpha, Aizawa knew that dealing with your less-than-pleasant mood would be worth it. However, this month, he would not come to your aid when he caught the first signs of you torture. He’d have you wait for however long he could stomach it

Aizawa was surprised when you finally came out to the living room.

What Aizawa was expecting was an insolent omega with a potent glower on her face— that consistent brat’s disposition. What he wasn’t expecting was that the brat was going to be wearing one of his long sleeved shirts with nothing but her panties underneath, and he didn’t expect it to be so fucking cute. Did you miss his scent? Was his shirt some sort of comfort object to you?

You were becoming such a good girl.

A sheen of your own need coated your thighs and your potent aroma wafted around the living room. It was nearly unbearable. Aizawa didn’t bother to hide the raging tent in his pants. He wanted you to know that he smelled you, that he wanted you, and that it was no mistake that you had been neglected for hours. You were being punished and you should know. He lifted a singular brow, prompting you to speak.

Instead of begging for him immediately like he expected you to, you surprised him for the second time with an accusation:

“You are being cruel.”

Your voice was hoarse, as if you’d been crying, or moaning, or both, and Aizawa loved it. The corner of his mouth twitched up and he extended his arm out, beckoning you to climb into his lap, and like an obedient little bitch, you did.

Your knees were on either side of one of his thick thighs, one of your hands were pulling pathetically at the shoulder of his shirt while the other pressed lightly to his neck. Shouta felt a shudder climb up his spine when you squeezed your legs together and he gave his own leg and experimental bump, just to watch you clench your teeth together and hiss.

You burrowed your face into the crook of his neck. Aizawa took you in, pressing his nose to your hair, relishing the mixed aroma of your shampoo, your sweat, and your pheromone. You gave out a wanton little whimper when he pressed his hand lightly to the small of your back. Aizawa bumped his leg again, and you shuddered against him, letting out the smallest sigh. Noisy baby girl.

You were everything lovely in this world— his little rose.

“Sadist,” you accused, slowly rolling your hips as you began riding his thigh. Your nails dug into his shoulder when he gave you another bump. You growled, but it was no more threatening than a hiss of a kitten.

Aizawa smirked against your hair. Even the loveliest of roses had their thorns.

“How do you figure?” He asked in a slightly mocking tone, because his true nature when he got intimate was no secret to him nor you— not that you objected to it… in the moment. “I haven’t laid a finger on you.”

He slid his large hands down your waist to your smooth, bare thighs. Your body flushed with warmth, and Aizawa could tell that you felt his cock pulsate against your leg by how your cheeks burned a deeper shade of lustful red.

“You’re… neglecting me,” you murmured into his chest.

Aizawa tutted at you and you hummed against him. It was baffling how similar you were to an actual pampered cat.

“Neglecting,” he echoed, baleful and bemused while still oddly roused by how you were trying to appeal to his alpha ethos. “Do I not bring you food when you are hungry? Water when you’re thirsty? Have I not invited you to stay with me in a loving home that you’re free to roam on your own accord only to leave you be when you choose to stay shut away in the lonely room?”

You peeled your head away and scowled down at him. Your plush lips pursed in a way that thrilled Aizawa. His eyelids grew heavy as he imagined pushing his fingers between your them while his cock plunged deep into your soaking, needy, little omega cunt. God, how he missed feeling your walls tighten around him. He thought about what it was like being inside you all the damn time, and it was torture knowing that you were a only a room away from him, and that he could have you at any time so easily, but you’d never be able to love him like he wanted you to if he commanded you to fuck him. Even now, waiting this long while he knew you’d let him in easily, but knowing he had a point to prove, was absolute torture. If patience was a virtue, Aizawa was a goddamn saint.

Trembling, you said, “you kidnapped me, actually. That’s not as loving as you might think, Eraser.”

“No, sweetheart.” Aizawa brought his hand up to your face. His thumb caressed your lips, and they parted readily for him. Your mouth wrapped around him as you hummed tentatively around his thumb. You suckled on him with buzzing warmth, trying to sway him away from having a serious conversation, because it was obvious that right now, you did not want to talk about your ‘kidnapping’; you wanted Aizawa to rut you. “I saved you.”

Aizawa pulled his thumb out of your mouth with a pop! and with the same hand, he proceeded to squeeze your cheeks together. “And you’ve not been very gracious.”

Aizawa could see a fire building up in your eyes. The carnal side of him wanted you to lash out, just so he could push you onto the floor, head down, ass up, and teach you some goddamn manners, but he had to tell himself that you needed to learn. This thought waged war against the sudden realization that his thigh was warm and wet with your lust, and that was quickly pushing the limits of his resolve. He didn’t think that you even knew you were scenting him, which might’ve made that all the more hot.

You’re hurting, he thought to himself. You’re hurting and you want him. You want to be pumped full of his seed, to be bred like a blue ribbon bitch. You want him to use you.

Aizawa could feel his blood rushing while you reached around his head to pull his hair tie out, letting his messy black mop drape over his face. Your lovely hands softly grasped his wrist and with a voice too damn sweet for your own damn good, you asked, “what do you want?”

“For you to be a good girl.”

“I— I’m here, aren’t I?” You asked, as if that would suffice. In retrospect, it would, but Aizawa wanted to be greedy with you. He wanted much more.

So he lied. “That’s not enough, princess.”

“God, please, tell me what I need to do for you to… to fuck me. This is excruciating!”

“Oh. Is my little kitten in heat?” Aizawa moved his hand from your cheeks, down to your warm neck and squeezed. “Is that why she’s finally crawled out of her hideaway?”

Aizawa grabbed the back of your head and you gasped. Your hands slid down to below your stomach, but Aizawa yanked on your hair, causing you to cry out and grasp at his arms before you could dip your treacherous hands into your ptanties. He watched as your nipples hardened harshly through his shirt that really did fit you well.

You whispered out a cute little, “yes,” as Aizawa pushed the shirt up to reveal the tender, pink tits he’d been missing for weeks. Licking his lips, Aizawa experimentally pinched one of your swollen buds between his middle and index fingers as he palmed your sore, swollen breasts. You moaned as you rubbed yourself harder onto his thigh, as if that would be enough to get you off, though it clearly wasn’t by your hushed pleas for any kind of relief. Aizawa ached. He could feel his own pre-cum dribbling out of his cock every time you barely brushed against him.

“Poor baby,” Aizawa cooed before wrapping his lips around one of your nipples. Your body shook while his tongue swirled around you. You placed your hands on the top of his head and began kneading your fingertips through your hair. Aizawa groaned, the reverberations in his chest deepening, the edges of his teeth teasing your sensitive bud.

“Eraser,” you mewled, because you were a vigilante criminal first and foremost, then with another tug, you warbled out a, “daddy,” because you wanted to stir him on a crueler, more personal level, and to tip the bucket over, you knitted your fingers into the back of his head, and pleaded, “alphaahhah.”

Aizawa pulled back and growled, ripping his shirt up and off your shoulders. In nothing but your panties, your entire body flushed in either embarrassment or asoursal— possibly both. Aizawa wanted to worship every inch of you.

You tried to kiss him then, but Aizawa wasn’t having it— jerking his head away just enough so your lips were a hair away from his. You groaned defiantly, then pushed your face past his so his nose was lodged against your neck, below your scent glands. Since Aizawa was having a fine time teasing you, he rolled his tongue up your neck, just to hear your voice catch in a pathetic squeak that set every single nerve ending in his entire body aflame. This was sadomasochism in its prime. Aizawa enjoyed it immensely.

“I’ll come out more— a couple times a week.” You promised desperately, catching that Aizawa wanted to bargain with you.

“Not enough,” his gruff whisper against your skin sent ripples of goosebumps across your arms. “Though I love looking at my little pet, I want to be able to touch her, to hold her, to hear about her day. I’m going to need more from her. Do you understand?”

You paused. Mirthless. Shaken. His. “Yes.”

“Yes, what?” He asked, before giving you another long lick.

“Yes-“ of all the names he’d like to hear from you— sir, alpha, Shouta, Eraserhead, you chose, “- daddy.” While in this state, your lustful, breathy sighs was the only air he needed for his lungs and hearing you call him daddy woke up something covertly instinctual in him. Your name was his heartbeat.

Baby girl. Baby girl.

“I can… join you for breakfast or dinner on the weekends… when you have time.”

“-I can make the time,” Aizawa cut in, murmuring against your skin. “Go on.”

You groaned in frustration. “I don’t know what the hell you want, Eraser! I can’t be your little housewife!”

Aizawa didn’t miss a beat. He was used to your outbursts, even when they were a bit too sudden. He also knew that when he bit down on the junction of your neck and shoulders, you would moan and pull in his hair. When you did, all he had to do was grab your wrists, hold them above your shoulders, and watch you become a panting mess.

Housewife? As if Aizawa wanted you to be so tame. Someone to cook and clean for him? The concept was cute, but that wasn’t on brand with the woman he loved. Aizawa knew who you were, and that was not a doting slave, although the thought of you in an apron and nothing else besides that apron was an exciting concept.

“I don’t want a housewife, kitten. I want a mate.”

Your face flushed. Aizawa’s cock throbbed between your wet thighs. He wanted you. He wanted you. He wanted you, and you kept pushing yourself against him, and god could he not wait another agonizing second of not being inside of you. He was about to let up— give in, give you what you both wanted, and then try again the next time you were desperate for him. He was about to, but then you hit him with a deal.

A myriad of promises escaped your lips, each richer than the last. Some of them were cute, domesticated bullshit that tickled Aizawa’s interest: movie nights, a kiss in the morning, brushing teeth together. Others tickled Aizawa in a different way: massages, surprise blowjobs, something concerning a collar and a leash.

Before he knew it, Aizawa was grinning. He couldn’t say that any of the ideas you spouted in your time of need, but in all honesty, the promise to try was really all he needed.

“I think we might be in business,” he said, and his grin turned into a kiss, and that kiss turned into his tongue brushing against yours, and his enjoying the taste of your moan turned into him ridding himself of the sweats that kept him from you.

The head of Aizawa’s cock twitched and glistened, wet with urgent desire. His stomach tightened when he grasped his throbbing base. You gave him a hungry look. “You wanna prove to me you'll be my good girl?” he purred, appraising you. You bit your lip and nodded attentively, ready to take any request he sent your way. “Then why don’t you ride daddy’s cock?.”

You laughed then. It was a sort of short, relieved kind of laugh that was more of a thank you than anything else— a yes, sir, anything you say, grateful for this opportunity, sir sort of noise.

You pulled your soaking panties to the side and formed a gyre with your hips, moving in circles, coating Aizawa’s cock in your slick. You licked your lips as his cock head teased your saturated slit. You hummed, practically quivering from the idea of having his cock push into you and it took everything out of Aizawa not to grab on to your hips and force you down on him. He needed to enjoy the show before being brute.

You dipped down onto him. Your mouth fell open, but no noise came out. Aizawa flexed his jaw, trying hard to hold onto the last remaining thread of his restraint. You locked your hand onto the back of his neck and eased yourself off of him— you hadn’t gotten even half of his length inside of you, but still your face tensed in pained pleasure as you rolled back down his shaft.

“Fuck. Sho. I can’t-!”

“What is it, baby girl? Is daddy’s cock too big for you to work with on your own?”

You gave him a withering look. You locked your fingers into his hair and forced your lips back on his. He chuckled lowly against your kiss, palming your breasts as you began to ride him.

Aizawa groaned inwardly because fuck, you felt so good rhythmically sliding up and down his cock— so warm, so sloppy, so tight— fuck, so tight that you couldn’t fit all of him in you. You moved your ass so well that Aizawa was surprised he hadn’t made you ride him before. Of course, every time the two of you had gotten intimate (intimate being being Aizawa’s word of choice because he loved you too damn much) in the past, it's always been rushed, carnal, and desperate. It didn’t help that Aizawa liked to take the reigns, and that fact battled with Aizawa’s desire to watch you move so fluently, so sensuously on top of him. You were a marvel to witness, and if he could, he’d savor this moment forever, but his corporal instincts took over.

Aizawa gripped onto your hips. Your pupils dilated.

Aizawa pulled you down onto him and when your mouth fell open this time, a high yip rang out from the back of your throat. He bucked his hips up, hitting you hard and deep each time you came down on him. You whimpered and mewled, digging your nails into his skin as your lust and need rolled down onto his thighs.

“Such pretty noises, kitten.“ he pulled your head back to him so his lips were against your ear. “I’m gonna ruin your little cunt, baby girl. How do you like that idea?”

“Hnngggg. Yes, daddy, please, please.”

Aizawa smirked. Good girl.

He bit your neck and you squeezed around him. He wrapped his arms around your body and stood up, moving you to the arm of the couch. You wrapped your legs around him, locking them around his hips with a grin Aizawa didn’t think you knew you had on. Fingers pulled on skin as he pistoned his hips, slapping into your fast and hard, filling the room with slaps and squelching and the sounds of you hissing and moaning and pleading for more. His skin turned red where you scraped your nails across, hopelessly trying to pull him more into you, and so he did.

He pushed himself to his hilt and watched your eyes roll into the back of your head. Your mouth formed an ‘o’ shape and Jesus Christ if you weren’t the most enchanting fucking creature on this plain earth. Aizawa pushed your shoulders back so you laid flat on your back with your legs hanging off the couch. He admired your stomach as his cock pressed against it, hitting your spot again and again, eliciting sweet music from his precious fucktoy.

Your pussy fluttered as your sputtered out nonsensensical praises for your alpha— the only man that could take care of you, the only man that would ever touch you again.

“Feel good, baby?” Aizawa hissed through gritted teeth as the base of his cock began to inflate. “You like it when I take care of you?”

You were lost to your words, only able to whimper back at him, clutching at the couch cushions with trembling fingers.

“C’mon girl, I know you can handle much more than this.”

“Shooutah,” you managed, squeezing your eyes shut as two thick tears rolled off your cheeks. “Pleaaase.”

“What is it, little kitty? Use your words.”

“I wanna make you a daddy,” you cried, your toes curling, your body shaking. Aizawa growled, his vision sharpening, his cock pulsating. You crooned, “I wanna have your baby. Please— please! ”

Aizawa couldn’t believe his ears. His perfect little mate playing with his instincts like that, just for a good fuck? Naughty kitten. He hunched over the couch, hand wrapping around your neck, squeezing lightly, forcing you to look at your mate. You squeaked, brows furrowing, breath faltering. You were giving him such a pretty and pathetic look. He couldn’t stand it.

Aizawa felt his knot swell all the way up when his lips once again collided with yours. You spasmed around him, and the added sensation of the sweet reverberations of your moans against his lips blew him away.

Aizawa could forgive you for making empty promises every now and again, but if you were going to say something so dangerous while he rutted into you, he might have to teach you to choose your worlds a little more carefully his way.

His knot locked you into place. His cock throbbed intensely as ropes of thick, hot cum lined your quivering cunt walls. Aizawa groaned when you howled, the two of you harmonized and synced, bonded to each other once again. Elation coursed through his veins, and he could tell by the beautiful euphoric look on your face, he could tell you were feeling the same way.

Trapped in each other’s daze, Aizawa couldn’t be happier stuck to you like this. He wove his fingers through your sweaty hair and kissed your neck, your jaw, your cheeks, and your lips.

“I love you,” he whispered, because he couldn’t lie to you like this. You said nothing back, because you couldn’t lie either. It bothered Aizawa, but not enough to ruin his good mood. You didn’t love him yet because you didn’t know him. If you were true to your word and spent more time with him, letting him show you that the two of you were each other’s perfect mates, that could change. It would change.

At least when the swelling went down, and Aizawa could lay back on the couch, you curled against him and let him play with your hair. The two of you laid entwined together for a long while. Aizawa was content having you in his arms, but when your breathing grew heavier and he knew you were asleep, he was glad to be carrying you back to bed, his bed, where you’d be sleeping in from now on.

TAGS FOR EVERYTHING: @ayeputita @yandere-inamorata @dee-madwriter @unboundbnha @rizamendoza808, @rubycubix @smbody-stole-mycar-radio @zellllyyyy @sarcastictextstuck @kpanime @captain-sin-allmight-queen @psionicsnow @wickedlewicked @ghost-of-todoroki @kattariapenn @im-an-adult-sometimes @bnhya @local-senpai @eggpienutbuttercroissant @usernamekate94 @reyvenclaww @hi-ho-and-hello 

[levis-little-nuggie]

How the brothers would react to catching f!MC riding a suction-cupped dildo on the communal HOL washing machine

I didn't think through how much I hate this idea, but I fuckin ran with it so here we are and I'm not apologizing. However the title is still a work in progress. I am accepting ideas.

This first one is Lucifer's reaction.

Warnings: little bit of blood (in a sexy way), he calls MC some vulgar names >:( but he apologizes so I guess it's okay, fem!MC because I was feeling self-indulgent.

Rating: explicit 😌

Word count (so far): 2,628

Carrying the weight of the hamper on her hip, MC closed the laundry room for behind her and padded over to the oversized washing machine. It was laundry day for her and living in a mansion with seven demon brothers didn't make this any easier. Their keen sense of smell had her on edge about keeping certain articles of clothing cleaner, washing them more frequently than when she lived in the human world.

She threw in her load of pajamas, towels, and underwear, including the pair she had been currently wearing, leaving her in an oversized shirt she'd "borrowed" from Beel. MC mixed in the detergent and fabric softener, and started the cycle. As the hot water started pouring into the bin, MC double-checked that the door was closed before pulling out the suction-cup dildo she'd hidden in the laundry bin and stuck it to the top of the washer. MC nudged the step stool closer to the machine, applied a generous amount of lube to the toy, clambered on top of the washer, and positioned herself over the dildo.

Thanks to previous instances in the laundry room, MC was fully aware of both the machine's durability to hold her weight comfortably, and its vigorous shaking when loads were unbalanced. Asmo had winked at her when she came running to him for help for taming the large appliance. "You could say, with a bit of creativity, it'd be the next best thing to sitting on my face, hon."

He'd been right. Unfortunately, this also meant that Asmo knew what laundry day meant to MC and she already felt mortified sharing this dirty secret with Asmo so MC tried her best to schedule her trip to the laundry room for whenever he wasn't home. Luckily enough, it seemed the rest of the brothers were completely unaware of her sinful indulgence and this activity quickly became addicting.

Having already been wet from the excitement, MC's fingers slid into her, pumping and scissoring to stretch herself open. She pressed the tip of the toy against her opening, biting her lip to stifle the noises she wanted to make as her fingers moved to circle over her clit, squeezing her eyes shut as her hips lowered onto the toy. Taking a few moments to breathe from the size of the dildo filling her up, MC maneuvered her legs to shift from her kneeling position sitting on the machine, toy fully sheathed inside, her ass against the lid, and legs hanging over the top.

Her hands trembled from both the excitement and the warmth that stirred in her lower abdomen as she reached for her phone; the machine would be still for awhile as the clothes soaked, but MC loved to fantasize she was cock-warming any one of the brothers until they both gave in and he fucked her mercilessly.

Lazily circling her hips to feel the toy move around inside her, MC mindlessly nibbled on her thumb while flicking thru Devilgram. Scrolling down the feed, she stopped to watch a video Mammon had posted, the audio flowing through the DDD's speakers a teaser for an upcoming song he was releasing. Turning up the volume on her device, MC let the video repeat as she felt herself getting hyped for the track to release. After double-tapping to like the post and leaving an energetic comment, MC opened the music app on her DDD and shuffled the playlist she made of the brothers' songs to stream while she opened a game on her phone to complete the daily task while waiting for the washer cycle to start.

The above set-up will be the same for all the brothers. Below this point will be Lucifer's reaction.

Another prank from the Lucifer You S*ck team left the eldest with some ruffled feathers and an ever-growing coffee stain on his RAD uniform. A vein pulsed on his forehead as he sauntered to the laundry room.

What he wasn't expecting, however, was to hear MC singing along to Satan's song behind the laundry room door. The eldest brother hesitated, his grip tightening on the doorknob as he debated waiting for her laundry to finish but found his brows furrowing as she stopped singing, the machine started its spin cycle, and the faintest of moans floated through the door.

"What in Diavolo's name-" Lucifer opened the door to investigate but halted as he took in the scene before him. MC's eyes had widened, staring directly at Lucifer in a way that perfectly explained the human idiom "like a deer stuck in the headlights." Her mouth was agape but quickly snapped shut as she tried to stifle her panting, legs crossing themselves in an attempt to look innocent, but her white-knuckle grip on the edge of the washer had him feeling alarmed.

"MC, what's going on? Are you feeling unwell?" The machine had started rocking as it began its spin cycle, but Lucifer couldn't figure out why MC was sitting on top of the washer. Was she feeling ill? Her forehead had a sheen of sweat, did she have a fever? Lucifer dropped his clean uniform and crossed the room so he was directly infront of MC, reaching out to feel her heated face, completely disregarding her feeble attempts to assure him she was fine.

'Lucifer! I'm fine, just doing some laundry' was what she wanted to say. However, with the machine rocking, the dildo was rubbing right up against her g-spot and she was fighting the urge to grind her hips. She managed to sound out the first half of his name, but the way his gorgeous, ruby eyes looked into hers with concern, his facial features that were carved by God himself, and a single thrust against that spot had her shivering, finishing the rest of his name in a sultry moan.

The Avatar of Pride blinked as the cogs in his brain stuttered trying to piece together what was happening, his hand froze in mid-air as he had been reaching out to feel the temperature of her skin. The machine continued to rock and MC couldn't find the strength to pretend she wasn't riding a dildo on the communal washing machine and felt her control starting to slip. MC couldn't read the expression on his face and averted her gaze, trying to deny that him watching her like this was turning her on even more.

Seeing his hand stretched out, MC leaned forward the small distance to press her cheek against his palm, biting her lip as she stole a glance at the demon. His eyes remained transfixed, dazed, but he didn't pull his hand away and MC was feeling a little more daring than usual. Tilting her head, she pressed his thumb against her lip, her eyes flickering again to his own for barely half a second, and closed her lips around the tip of his thumb, running her tongue along the seam of the leather. His lack of response coaxed MC on to keep going. Her tongue drew the digit in further, lips gliding over the leather, the material fueling new fantasies she'd previously overlooked.

As the dildo continued its steady rocking, MC felt her control melting away and frustration slowly started to build. Why hadn't he moved? Surely it'd be better if the eldest had scoffed in disgust and turned away than to have him just staring at her like this. She swirled her tongue around his thumb, lips hollowing as she sucked, trying to illicit some sort of response from the demon.

However, he remanded unmoving. MC felt an array of emotions ranging from frustration, shame, embarrassment, anger, all mixed with the sexual desire raging thru her, MC felt tears prick her eyes. She released the thumb from between her lips with an audible pop and faced Lucifer with a snarl; which he found endearing and as threatening as the chihuahua.

"I don't do live performances. Either touch me or leave." MC made a show or grabbing her breast from under her shirt, letting the pleasure from the toy fill her senses and began grounding her hips against the toy as the spin cycle picked up speed. Getting ready to bark at him again, MC yelped as the shirt was torn open and a pair of hands gripped her hips keeping her still but the dildo continued moving with the machine.

"I didn't realize our little human was such a naughty slut. Really. Sticking a toy on our washing machine? Are you that desperate to be fucked?" Nails bit into her flesh as his voice called out her sins, all traces of her bravado gone, replaced with an overwhelming sense of embarrassment and shame. MC tried hiding her face but he still saw the tears that threatened to spill over before crawl down her face and cooed.

"There's nothing to feel ashamed over, my dove. I apologize if I was too vulgar." Lucifer lifted her hips and she squirmed, not ready for him to see the full extent of the situation; the idea of the dildo coated in her juices waving about on top of the poor washing machine only intensified her embarrassment. However, before she could speak out, Lucifer dropped her hips causing her to slam herself back down on the toy. Stars erupted across her vision as the demon repeated the action, drinking in her reactions and felt his erection strain against his pants.

"This carnal desire is human nature. If anything, it's our own fault for not considering such a basic need." His fingers trailed along her neck, tapping against her pulse as if in thought. The hum of the washer broke through the moment and Lucifer clicked his tongue behind his teeth. He reached behind her to turn off the machine and lifted MC off the machine, and the dildo.

MC didn't get a chance to wince from the manhandling as her lips were immediately covered with his own and she felt him pulling her close to him, his hands urging her to wrap her legs around him. She couldn't match the fire he was pouring into her fast enough and he growled, simultaneously smacking her ass and grinding his erection against her folds. This new side of the prideful demon caught her off guard, but the smack brought her back with a fervor.

Her hands fumbled with the buttons on his collar and he kneaded where he spanked her, causing MC to mewl into the kiss. One of his hands moved up to hold the back of her neck as he walked to pin her against a wall. Her legs squeezed his hips tighter and he reached up to break open the collar of his shirt, shedding the clothing haphazardly somewhere else in the room. Meanwhile, MC moved to undo his pants, reaching into his trousers to palm his erection. Lucifer hissed and grabbed her wrists, pinning them to her stomach with one hand.

Releasing her lips, Lucifer latched onto her throat, biting down on the skin above her pulse and positioned himself at her entrance, hesitating for only a moment to allow her the chance to back out. Her nails dug into his shoulders as she braced herself, kissing the side of his head, and granting him permission with a soft, "please." Her voice turned into a wanton cry as he pushed himself into her. His tongue lapped at her throat, sucking against her skin as a feeble distraction to keep himself from fucking her before she was ready but the way her body was receiving him was making the demon tremble.

"Lu, please, I need you to fuck me," all shyness and mortification was gone and all that remained was the sexual desire and a sense of urgency.

"Do you know what you're asking of me, my dear? Do not underestimate me."

"Lucifer, fuck me or else I will invoke our pact and make you-" the rest of MC's threat was lost, replaced by a sob as Lucifer's restraint snapped and began thrusting wildly into MC. It didn't take long for him to readjust his position, turning them away from the wall. With his hands on her hips, the eldest brother moved her against his thrusts, bouncing her on his cock and slamming back into her. His rhythm would change randomly between fast and shallow to deep thrusts where he'd pull out to the tip and snap his hips to fully sheath himself. He'd felt her muscles constrict around him a few times, keeping a tally of how many orgasms he pulled from her, but he wanted her to make a mess and to make a mess of her.

Bending MC backwards, he continued drilling into her as he held her hips in-front of him. Her voice cried out in a scream as he relentlessly thrusted against that spot and she felt a wave building.

"Lu s-st, wait, I'm, you're gonna make, h-hold on-"

"I know MC, it's okay. Let go."

With Lucifer's words of encouragement, MC felt herself relax, giving in to the impending wave that continued to build. Reaching out, her hands found a shelf to stabilize herself, her mouth open in a silent scream as the dam broke and ecstasy filled her senses. The way she clamped down on his cock had Lucifer's hips stuttering through his own orgasm, filling her with his seed quicker than he had intended; the intensity of her orgasm having coaxed his to follow suit.

As the fog cleared in his mind, Lucifer's fingers twitched and he noticed the array of bruises littering her hips. MC lifted her head to look up at him, but the rest of her body was limp. She smiled sheepishly causing Lucifer to roll his eyes but his lips turned to shape a playful smile and MC giggled as he pulled her up. They winced as he pulled out of her, but she kissed his cheek and he brushed his nose against hers, humming as they basked in their afterglow together.

Lucifer grabbed a blanket to wrap around them and turned to leave the laundry room when he caught sight of the glittery purple dildo still mounted to the lid of the washing machine. He snorted and walked over to it. Having curled into the demon, MC had to turn to see why he'd stopped walking and groaned.

"Don't you dare."

"Hmm?

"You're going to say something really condescending and I don't want to hear it." MC snuggled closer into Lucifer's chest, pulling the blanket over her head in protest.

"I don't know about 'condescending,' but-"

"Lucifer, don't you fuckin do it."

"This had to been Asmo's idea."

"..."

"It just reeks of desperation and wanting to get caught."

"Lucifer!"

"Now if you had been a good human, and come to me with your situation sooner, all of this could have been avoided. But now, there's a big mess to clean up." Having lived with the demon brothers long enough and sitting thru many a famous Lucifer lecture, MC could hear the smirk in his voice. In retaliation, MC pinched the Avatar of Pride's nipple earning her a grunt and a thump on the back of her head. She hissed like a cat from behind the blanket and Lucifer sighed from the absurdity of the whole thing.

"Do you want to go get cleaned up?"

"....yes."

"Do you need me to keep carrying you?"

"...yes."

"Then be a good girl and hold this." MC pulled the blanket away from her head, curiosity having piqued her interest, but groaned when Lucifer handed her the aforementioned dildo. "I don't want the others seeing this in case the room isn't cleaned up by the time they come back from their classes."

Damn him for making perfect, logical sense.

"Besides, I might want to use it on you later."

"...I hate you."

"I know."

[theunchainedmelody]

The Second Shinobi- A Fem Ronin x Tamaki/Fake Toshio fic. Part 2 of 2.

Note: This Part 2 of the fic. This is an explicit lemon so be warned! Click here for Part One!

Fifteen minutes later, Akane was sauntering into her new room. The grime and other stains upon her flesh were all washed away, leaving her feeling completely refreshed. She hadn’t felt this renewed since the hot bathwater provided to her in the Baron’s mansion, although perhaps it was the fox’s “personal” services that gave her such contentment at the memory. At the moment, Akane’s ragged men’s kimono was rather loose, as were her bandages. There was no point tightening them when she’d be tossing them off in a few minutes’ time. As for her rowdy ponytail, it was no more. Her hair hung freely for once, reaching her lower back. Her gray eyes opened to find Tamaki standing by the doorway to their bedchambers, arms crossed leisurely. She giggled lightly. He certainly struck a swoon-worthy pose. To her further amusement, he was unable to maintain such an image as his eyes ran up and down her curvy frame and then hurriedly evaded her sight entirely. That was when she knew her night would be an enjoyable one.

___________________________________

 Not more than a few minutes later, Akane found herself sprawled out atop the shinobi, already completely naked but for her bandages. Her hands were rubbing at Tamaki’s bare chest before making their way delicately to the hardness of his shoulders and arms. He was a fine specimen of a man, as good looking in the face as everywhere else, his body toned from endless hours of vigorous training in the ninja arts. Despite the frozen air of the north, she found her body heating up as if she were beside a fire. As their eyes met, Akane was greatly alarmed for she found herself gazing upon was no longer Tamaki. It was her beloved Toshio. It was raining in his eyes, just as always. She wanted to kiss his lips and make it better.

Already, Akane felt him at full mast as something speared between her ass cheeks, begging for permission to enter, to impregnate the infamous killer. It made her heart race, and her cheeks turn scarlet. Always, she had wanted to do this with Toshio…

No… This isn’t right.

None of this was right. Toshio would be hurt if she fucked another man the moment they went their separate ways. Even worse, it wasn’t fair to the poor shinobi she had at her mercy. He deserved to be seen by her. Shaking away the image of Toshio, she again realized that Tamaki was quite handsome in his own right. As Akane slid off his frame, her lover sat somewhat upright, seeming almost worried about what she would do to him. Akane wondered if he suspected of her being an assassin sent to slaughter him. It would be a wise suspicion, but Akane was never one for such methods. True, she was an assassin, but killing a man she had been intimate with seemed too sad a thought. Even the Baron’s death pained her for that reason.

Inspecting him closely, the manslayer realized that Tamaki’s eyes were awfully soft and he was blushing madly. In fact, he smelled of inexperience. A virgin… No doubt he had always been too busy to enjoy a second of carnal pleasure. The thought alone excited her, the thought of devouring him. Of leaving her mark and being his first. Of pleasuring him so good no other woman would do. Of completely and utterly ruining him.

Akane now grinned evilly, the gesture causing Tamaki’s muscles to tighten. He saw her unraveling her length of bandages. In doing so, she freed her ample breasts and they bounced about, hard nipples longing for a man’s lips. Akane now seized the bottle of saké, its shell still full to the brim with rice wine. She then reached around the shinobi’s head of soft hair and pulled him up so that his lips were practically kissing her tits. She felt his length of hair tickling her fingers. The manslayer began to wickedly pour out the saké and let it flow down her chest. The saké streamed down off her nipples and Tamaki eagerly lapped it up. Swiftly, he took to drinking it directly from her nubs, as if he were hungry for milk. His lips sucked voraciously on one nipple, guzzling down on the sweet saké she offered him so graciously. His spare hand began to lustfully grope at her second breast. All the while, Akane was panting and letting out small moans and gasps. The pleasure was welcome, both for the loneliness and for the weariness of her travels.

Once she ceased pouring the bottle out, Tamaki looked up at the seductress nervously.

He asked, “What should…. What should I do now, Akane-dono?”

She smiled warmly and petted the top of his head saying, “Why don’t you taste me down here?”

The wanderer spread apart her long legs and ripped off her bandages. This gave him a view of her womanhood, already well soaked from his teasing. His lips now floated over her waist as he sent hot gusts of air onto it. It made her nails dig into the tatami flooring. Akane felt the ninja slide his tongue over her, its wet touch striking right between her lower lips again and again. Knowing she had cleaned especially well down there, Akane now lazily reclined and enjoyed his services. For a virgin, he sure was spoiling her. His lips sucked hungrily as if he were a traveler dying of thirst. Akane’s breathing became ragged as his tongue slipped inside, flickering about like a serpent as he tasted her juices. After a few more minutes, Tamaki’s mouth wandered over the nub atop her womanhood, and his tongue flickered hungrily at it. It was enough to make her grit her teeth.

“Fuck!” she cursed as she splashed her wines onto the man’s face.

Coolheaded Toshio’s eyes were wide with surprise.

She said, “Mmmnn. Sorry for that.”

“I don’t mind at all,” he said gently.

It was so easy with him. Akane knew he wouldn’t flee in the middle of their lovemaking, stopping just as it was getting good. He was completely at her mercy.

As Tamaki took down a swig of saké to wash away the taste, Akane sprawled over him and lay kisses on his neck and shoulders. She smothered him in her breasts while she clung to his masculine form. Those fine muscled arms wrapped around her so desperately as he licked her breasts like they were covered in honey. His steamy breath… His gentle voice… Toshio was everything she imagined…

Hungrily, the temptress sat up onto her knees and slithered backwards so she was free to tug aside his fundoshi. She slid off his loincloth so as to gaze upon what she craved the most, a hard, throbbing cock staring back up at her. Her finger slid down the trail of hair on his stomach until she reached scandalously low. Akane reveled in how his muscles contorted as her finger slid over the top of the shaft and pressed teasingly on the tip. The ronin lowered herself onto all fours, her tongue washing over his testicles before taking one into her mouth gently. Once they were glistening, she turned her attention upwards. Her tongue was swirling around the head of his erection, tasting every inch of its heat. Akane’s lips soon followed, tightening to suck and taste. Inch by inch of his boiling flesh slid over her tongue as she took him in. At last, she popped it out of her mouth and licked her lips.

“Let me show off my skills,” she said arrogantly.

Akane dropped her breasts around his shaft and squeezed them together tightly. Her chest was gifted enough that only his erection’s head was visible when sandwiched between her cleavage, leaving him bewildered and utterly at her mercy. While his hardness was being thoroughly massaged, Akane let her tongue flicker over the tip. She poked at it with her nipples, so that their bodies were kissing. Tamaki was wide eyed, clearly finding her techniques dangerously foreign. He was throbbing and leaking for her, as she reduced the hardened shinobi into a puddle. He was swiftly growing sensitive. After another minute, the veteran ninja groaned as he fired his boiling-hot load over her face.

“I am so sorry!” he said desperately.

However, if Akane was angry, she certainly wasn’t showing it. She was giggling as she slid a finger down her face to lap up his offering. Without hesitation, she took it into her mouth lustfully. This sinful act caused Tamaki to blush furiously. He watched in horror as she gulped it down, taking down every last drop of her meal.

For Akane, it was too addicting… Men were more bitter and more sweet than any saké, and right now Toshio was just what she needed to forget everything. To forget how she had failed the village… How she had hurt her friends all for a chance at felling General Shatao… How Ige had been slain right before her eyes because of her weakness. Even slaying General Shatao in a fury of feathers and clashing blades did nothing to heal her wounded ego, to stitch together her severed confidence. Without the Jigoku, what use was she to them? Wouldn’t Toshio just leave in the end? Whether it was her mission’s completion or its failure, Toshio would return to his beloved Emperor, to whom he silently pined for. Was that why she left first?

“Toshio…”

Akane froze in horror. The name had slipped out unexpectedly. Gazing down, she saw the hurt in Tamaki’s eyes.

Even so, he whispered, “It’s okay… I’m happy that I can fill your heart if just for a moment.”

Akane’s mouth parted. It might have been easier if he had cursed her in anger and stormed off in a moment of justified indignation. Instead, his kindness stabbed her through the stomach, eliciting a familiar pain where Jun had carved his name. Wasn’t it bad enough she had to fight back seeing Jun’s face when she made love? Now she was seeing Toshio?

Damn it all!

She shook her head and answered, “I’m so sorry. I’m-I’ve been ill in the head for some time. I… see things. People I left behind.”

“I know…” he said, “I’ve seen it before. Assassins as stoic or as bloodthirsty as they come, only to shatter along with their katanas… To see ghosts… But Toshio never was one to fall for assassins. Nor anyone. He loved only one person, I think. And yet if you feel so about him, it means he showed you the warmth he hid away from the world.”

Akane’s eyes wavered at his words as she cupped his feverish cheek in her hand.

Tamaki continued, “I understand why he fell for you… I know it’s selfish but I’m a bit jealous of hi-“

The shinobi’s sentence would remain unfinished for Akane had furiously kissed him. Her kiss was passionate and desperate, as one might kiss a lover before seeing them off to battle. His black irises shimmered in surprise before settling into bliss. Her own were veiled the same, long lashes fluttering as both their lips crashed into one another. She was heatedly straddling him now, motioning her rear to cradle his spent form as it returned to a more excited state.

“What stamina!” she said with a wicked grin.

Once he was ready, she positioned herself directly over his erection. Akane eased herself down onto it, stifling a moan as she willingly impaled herself on his most dangerous blade. Inch by inch, she let it violate her until he had filled her entirely and utterly. She arched her back and let out a satisfied moan, tongue hanging out as she was able to think of nothing but his cock. The manslayer began now to move her hips rhythmically, sliding up and down upon him. Tamaki was stifling his voice and his teeth snapped together, likely trying to hold himself back from releasing his seed in the heat of the moment.

She said, “Ara ara, aren’t you cute? Just hold it a moment longer so I can bring us both to heaven.”

Akane’s hands pressed hard down on his flat pecs for support, enjoying their tautness and heat. She began now to bounce atop him, her ass cheeks jiggling madly as she was impaled again and again. He let out a groan of desperation and wrapped his powerful hands around her back. His hard calloused fingers ran down the dip of her spine before seizing her ass cheeks. Akane squealed as he squeezed hold of one and then slapped it. He repeated the gesture on the other side and then both cheeks at once. The clap echoed through the inn, escaping the sealed shoji doors. He continued to spank her and enter her with a newfound aggression. It was obvious he had been corrupted, and now sought control. In utter bliss, she pulled back her neck and gazed up at the ceiling. Tamaki’s lower half contorted as he gave in. Hot seed rushed into her now, filling her up to the brim.

“Ah!” Tamaki let out, “Akane-dono!”

She loved when they screamed her name.

“Ooh,” she moaned as she felt him leaking out of her.

Her sinful eyes fell down upon his attractive face, eyes weak and yet hungry for her. Akane took him into a deep kiss until their tongues were ravishing one another. A few more motions of her hips would milk out the last few drops from the shinobi.

Suddenly, the sliding door flew open, and in walked the Uesugi clansmen from before. Their eyes widened in disbelief, and they turned red as they witnessed the reliable Tamaki with the naked female ronin from earlier gently bouncing atop his shaft. She grinned at the sight of being caught by more men, but Tamaki was ready to faint from embarrassment.

Manabu said, “T-This is… unexpected. Well, finish up and get some clothes on, you two love birds. We leave for our hunt in fifteen minutes.”

Akane’s playful eyes suddenly fell cold, and Tamaki felt a chill run down his spine.

She uttered silently, “Juu-kun.”

Her eyes then turned back to the downed shinobi and her gaze grew affectionate. After seeing his warmth and feeling it within her, Akane felt all the more torn with her mission. These men would die tonight in pursuit of the most dangerous game. Confessing Jun’s identity would do little to change that. It would simply implicate her as well. And yet she did not wish for Tamaki-kun to die. She was only now seeing him as his own man, and he was a fine one at that.

 As the snickering Usuegi left, Akane slid off the spent and ragged form of Tamaki. She rubbed a hand through his hair while gazing down at him thoughtfully.

“Listen, Tamaki,” she said softly, “Please don’t go with the others tonight.”

“What? Why not?”

“I believe that demon you are hunting is a man. A manslayer like me… Not even with a dozen trained samurai could you defeat him. You heard of how he matched General Shatao effortlessly. He slew armored samurai. Please… Retreat. I doubt he will kill any more, not in this valley at least. But if you approach his… his territory… It will not end well for any of you!”

“You know him?”

Akane said nothing.

He sighed and continued, “I will tell Lord Jun. I will not speak of your connection with this demon. However, I know my master. He will pursue this regardless to give himself an edge over Ichiro. And I am his to command. I’d never be able to look Toshio in the eye if I abandoned a mission.”

“I know.”

In the end, there was no escaping heartache. It followed Akane like an old friend.

———————————————————————-

 “Jun… You were never this cruel.”

That was what Akane thought as the man she loved began to carve his way through samurai, his eyes laden with an accursed yellow glow. She turned momentarily to gaze at Tamaki and the others. It was difficult to make them out in the darkness of night, amidst a blinding flurry. Even so, she knew Tamaki was alive.

For the moment.

“Shit! We need to retreat!” she roared.

Fake Jun said, “Nonsense. Follow me, men. I-”

The men ahead of him were being split into pieces like cuts of meat. A black blur was carving through them. Two were dead in the same second. The third was split horizontally through his midsection. The golden-eyed killer peered through splintering pieces of his victim to catch a glimpse of his next meal. Akane’s trembling hands began to grow still as she fell into the rhythms of manslayer. Even if unable to summon the Jigoku, she was no novice with the blade. She merely needed to survive his hell release long enough until its wielder gave into weakness. Everyone needed to breathe eventually. Yet every second seemed to stretch into a minute. A whirlwind of death was spinning around, its sword screaming for blood. It carved a dozen slashes into a samurai in an instant. Years of Uesugi training were meaningless here.

Blood.

Blood was raining down on Akane’s face.

___________________________________

 At the moment, Tamaki had managed to survive the demon’s onslaught. He had taken to retreating behind a large tree. In his arms, he held his companion, trying to quiet his screams born of pain from a severed limb. Witnessing his comrades being butchered, Tamaki had pleaded with his master to strategically retreat, but his arrogant sire would not so much as entertain the thought. And so, what was a man to do but fight? He would not abandon Lord Jun nor his comrades. He would not abandon the woman he had shared a kiss with not an hour before. Not after seeing her cry tenderly. Not after witnessing how such a killer selflessly plunged into an ice-capped lake to save Hidenobu from a frozen grave. What a shame it would all be in vain. Tamaki’s eyes wavered as he slid his kunai over the man’s throat, easing his passing.

“You have served with honor. May you find peace in the next life, Yamayoshi-san.”

Their tragedy was interrupted as the wolf caught their scent. Tamaki’s body nearly froze as he saw the demon dashing at him. He drew out his wakizashi and prepared to duel, only to realize the yellow-eyed demon had crossed the tundra in an instant. His executioner had already reached him, with his katana poised in a downward strike that would hew him in half. It was then the female ronin sprang into his sight, her sword blocking that of her foe. She seemed to simply appear in the same moment the ninja blinked. The speed of these manslayers was beyond human.

The shinobi gazed in awe upon the shower of sparks born as iron collided, screaming loud enough to drown out the howl of the snowstorm. Akane took on the killer that was Jun, relying on every ounce of skill to survive him. Their swords were clashing and parrying rapidly, twisting and slashing at an unnatural speed that Tamaki’s trained eyes struggled to comprehend. How was she facing him? He was clearly physically stronger, and she was on the defensive. Jun’s bare chest muscles and biceps bulged madly as he sent Gensai’s cursed sword crashing down on her, hard enough to split open the earth below. Yellow fire poured out from his eyes. And she met him in battle all the same, even if deprived of his accursed power. Akane’s blade had blocked his hellish blow, and her feet were positioned perfectly as to not stumble from his might. It was time for her counter. Her katana’s pommel rolled in her hand elegantly as she slashed upwards fiercely, sending Jun’s blade backwards. Her mighty swing sent the foul wind fleeing even if the wolf proved more persistent.

Another Uesugi now leapt into the fray. This was a mistake. Jun immediately evaded his swing and retaliated with a thrust that launched him forward like an arrow, nailing his victim to a tree. Meanwhile, Akane shuffled backwards to Tamaki, panting as she massaged her wrist. Her body was aching and winded, as if a horse had crashed into her.

With a gash in his own leg, Tamaki stood up courageously and uttered, “There is no escape from this. Not for me. Akane-dono.”

The way he said her name so tenderly... It broke her heart.

He continued, “Please, I will hold off this beast while you escape with Lord Jun!”

“Idiot!” she said, “There’s no chance in hell I’d let you die in vain. I’ll get us all out of here. You included, Tamaki!”

“So, you remembered my name. I’m glad,” he said gently.

“Of course, I did! How could I ever forget you? Now don’t you dare die on me!”

It was then that Fake Jun ran to her with Hidenobu trailing after him. The samurai nodded at Tamaki, as if sharing a silent message. As Akane searched keenly for her old lover, his imitation began to shake her shoulders vigorously.

“Ronin, get me out of here!”

“Let go of me! Where did Tamaki go?”

Her eyes searched the dark for what remained of the Uesugi’s hire.

It was in this darkness that Tamaki and Hidenobu made their final stand against Jun. Hidenobu was already wounded as he traded swings with the demon’s sword. In this same moment, Tamaki flanked them speedily from behind, his feet tossing up a flurry of snow. Timing his ambush for the moment the demon crossed blades with his comrade, Tamaki did the impossible and wrapped a cloth around Jun’s head. This rag was laced in the drug he often used to subdue his targets: opium.

The mighty Jun now grabbed him effortlessly by the throat and held him in his grip. Tamaki reached for a kunai and tossed it, but Jun caught it in his teeth, clamping down and shattering it as if his jaws were made of steel. The shinobi now experienced something he hadn’t felt in years. Fear. Hidenobu slashed wildly at the distracted manslayer, desperate to save his friend. He was rewarded wtih Gensai’s katana sticking through his eye socket. Tamaki used the distraction to send a brunt kick onto the heavily-drugged demon before him. As the drug weakened his mind, it was enough to release the monstrous grip on the shinobi’s throat. The moment his feet reached the snow, Tamaki threw himself forward at Jun with his kunai in hand. Yet even a drugged Jun was a threat. The manslayer seized his foe’s weapon and began to crush the shinobi’s fingers as they wrestled viciously.

It was in this moment that Akane reached them both and before her, lay an opening of mere seconds. She saw Tamaki slip a second kunai out of his sleeve as Jun faltered from the drug onto one knee, preoccupied with snapping his victim’s wrist. It was then she realized the truth. Her old lover might die here.

Jun…

“Now! Akane-dono!” shouted Tamaki, “Kill him!”

A memory returned of a teenage Jun huddling Akane in the dojo as it rained outside, using his body’s furnace to warm her slender frame. She found solace in his broad shoulders, in his kind eyes. He had told her to sleep soundly that night for he would protect her from all nightmares.

The wind of the present was howling. Akane drew back her right foot and slipped her ragged blade back into its sheath. The stance was of one of a sword master, used to gather up all power and speed before unleashing it in a quickdraw dash. Every tendon and muscle in her body sprang forward. She passed like a ghost through Jun and her blade was already back in the sheath. Tamaki felt his body overtaken by pain as he fell onto his stomach, body broken by her strike and mind shattered by her betrayal.

“W-Why?”

And yet he knew the answer. He lay helplessly in a grave of snow as Jun drew up his foot to smash the man’s skull into paste beneath his heel. The lady ronin began to hold him back, her hand catching his sword-bearing arm.

“That’s enough, Jun! I’m here. It’s me, your Akane-chan!”

They were dueling again.

Embracing.

Kissing.

How cruel….

The fallen shinobi felt his mind slipping from the world…

___________________________________

 When Tamaki awoke, he found himself alone in the wilds. Daybreak had only just arrived. The body of his master was nowhere to be found and he would later learn that Lord Jun had fled the battlefield. And as he searched about the graveyard, he realized he was terribly close to the same dojo from earlier. Around him, his comrades lay slain in pools of their own blood, melting through the pure white snowfield. Most of their corpses were dismembered at the limb or neck. His heart grew heavy as he recalled their deaths, even heavier as he recalled how Akane had betrayed him. It was then he ripped open his kimono, so desperate to understand why he was alive. To his surprise, his chest was without wound nor blood. At last, Tamaki understood the strange mercy he had been shown. She had hit him with the back of her blade. Akane had crushed his ribs and terribly bruised him, but he would live.

Carefully, Tamaki peaked up ahead to the far-off dojo. Yet not a living soul remained here. Had Akane and this demon fled? He drew closer to the building. As he figured, this small building was completely deserted. To his surprise, it did not look like a killer’s den but a properly tended dojo. Save for one area of blemish. Upon one corner, he spotted marks showing a struggle. Yet no blood. And there was a sinful fluid staining the ground. His eyes looked away in pain.

In the end, he struggled to understand her, perhaps as she struggled to understand herself.

The last survivor of the hunting party headed back towards Hokusei to locate his missing lord. However, he soon halted in his steps. Tamaki was utterly broken, no longer able to serve a coward nor able to behave bravely himself. It was not as if he was an Uesugi himself, merely a mercenary of these parts. His forehead protector fell to the ground. Something told him that if he pursued Akane and the demon further, her earlier mercy would have been wasted. Instead, he would return to the capital to search for Toshio, to complete his training so as to silence the fear in his heart. All the while, he thought of the woman who had seduced, betrayed, and saved him. Perhaps one day he would win her over and save her from her eternal heartache, from the burns inflicted by her old flames.

The End

Part One | Fem. Ronin x  Bashō

[the-slasher-files]

Hit us with some Micheal Myers smut, maybe with some rougher stuff? Pls bby

YAY! I love me some rough Michael smut... Now for a while, I’ve been toying with the idea of Michael being an asshole and pulling orgasm denial or catching his s/o masturbating so I hope this fits what you wanted... Also this doesn’t include everything ;) but pls let me know if you want the full thing.. enjoy 💕🔪

MASTERLIST

MICHAEL CATCHING HIS S/O MASTURBATING

“fuck” you moaned as you bit into your sweatshirt, trying to stifle your noise. Rubbing and teasing your entrance with your slick fingers creating your own world of bliss.

Michael had been gone for about two days now which wasn’t uncommon, sometimes the world and even yourself was too much for him. He was probably at his childhood home just getting away from everything; the man lived alone in a sanatorium most of his life, sometimes having a person around him constantly was all too much. That you understood. Michael was like a wild animal who needed his freedom, needed to run and chase his blood lust. God help the person who tries to tame and control him.

At this moment you craved him, you could never get enough of him but tried to never show him that or else you would be a dead man walking; he would exploit it and he would fuck you until you were broken every day. You know he could.

Images of Michael floated through your head as you picked up your pace, circling the swollen bud of nerves, closing your eyes; the way he choked you, his ravenousness lips, his massive muscular body towering over you and manhandling you. You needed him.

“Michael” whining around the fabric in your watering mouth, now fingers slowly moving in and out of your heat, you were close, so close. Blissfully unaware of your surroundings, something lurked in the shadows just beyond the doorway to the bedroom. A man full of carnal desires and fury all topped off with a sinister smirk behind his mask. Hearing his name in your sweet mouth was an earned right to him, you had earned nothing. Nothing yet.

Your back arched as your walls began to quiver before clamping down on your fingers. You didn’t get that chance. No, no. A large burning hand grabbed your throat pushing you into the mattress, while another hand jerked your fingers harshly out of yourself.

Panicked eyes shot open seeing the man towering over you. Your brain screamed danger! danger! as an alarm, you were just prey to an apex predator at this point. Your heavy breathing slowed and you released the sweatshirt from your teeth.

You didn’t dare try to explain yourself or coax him to release you gently, you knew it was suicide, fuck, you knew that you were poking the bear when you started pleasuring yourself.

“Stay” he gruffly ordered, you would be insane to disobey. The shape disappeared into the dark for a moment as you coughed and gasped for air, getting as much as possible before the impending affliction. When he came back you could hear the assaulting sound of duct tape ripping and tearing. Fuck.

Michael roughly sat you up, stripping you of any remaining clothing and he gathered both of your small wrists bounding them together behind your back uncomfortably. You didn’t complain however, this was probably the mildest pain you would feel tonight.

Standing before you he tore away the pale mask carelessly tossing it to the floor, letting you see his stone-cold gaze, his eyes practically devouring you. Stepping towards you Michael pushed you down on your back and bound arms, slowly he ran his thick fingers down your inner thighs, leaving little goosebumps behind, he was being strangely gentle, taking his time with you. That was never a good sign.

All you could do was stare at him like a deer in the headlights as he sank to his knees on the hardwood, your sex bared right in front him, you felt like a beaten dog who has shown its belly in submission. Michael’s hot breath slowly comes closer making you quiver and shake, then his tongue lazily laps up your juices and flicks your clit. A loud moan built in your throat as he repeated the process, teasing you, he was too good with his mouth and he knew it.

Lips suddenly sucked at your clit and he started to hum making you writhe but his large hand pressed firmly on your core telling you to stay still, he made it really fucking difficult but you had no choice.

The hot coil in your stomach built and built as Michael nipped, sucked and licked then suddenly plowed two harsh fingers inside you threatening to snap that coil, but he removed his lips and moved to nip at your thighs, his fingers now torturously slow, the burning coil faded out. You whined and cried like a helpless puppy, you wanted to pull his head back down but your hands were constricted, now you understood the punishment, you got too handsy with yourself for his liking so you had no right to touch him tonight, no matter how much you begged.

His eyes shot to yours, reeling in the state he had put you in. You were a moaning mess struggling to compose yourself, a little dribble of drool flowed down your lip and to your chin, tears brimmed in your eyes from the overstimulation.

Oh, but he was far from done with you tonight.

[dwellordream]

“Much of Victorian girlhood can be explained in the context of a lowering age of menarche among daughters of the urban bourgeoisie. Adults often denied the earlier maturing of their daughters, or worried about it and attempted to fend it off obliquely with a prolonged campaign against precociousness, leaving girls ignorant and alarmed at the arrival of menarche.

The pioneer woman physician Elizabeth Blackwell in 1852 was an early and unusually outspoken observer of the trend toward the earlier maturing of girls. In the middle of a long tract advocating more vigorous physical education for girls, Blackwell buried an empirical observation about the different ages at which menarche was occurring: ‘‘The growth of the generative organs is greatly influenced by the place of residence, whether town or country, and by the habits of different classes of society.’’

She noted the earliest arrival of menarche ‘‘in the wealthy classes,’’ followed by those ‘‘amongst the laboring population of towns,’’ with the lowest rate of all to be found ‘‘amongst the inhabitants of the mountain districts.’’ Blackwell’s demographic observation came to a point: ‘‘It was observed in the same city, that in the children of the wealthy classes, this period was more than a year in advance of the lower classes.’’ Blackwell’s impressionistic observation that wealthy girls were menstruating as much as a year before the working class remained just that for much of the rest of the century. Her insight was reflected in oblique debates about precociousness as a defining and disturbing trait of the modern girl.

Nearly a half-century later, Helen P. Kennedy interviewed 125 high school girls as part of a study of the effects of education on reproductive health, providing some data to substantiate Blackwell’s hunch. In asking her sample about their menstrual histories, she discovered a discrepancy between her findings and medical wisdom. She noted that among her population of high school girls (then seventeen years old) the average age of first menstruation was 13.72 years of age. She observed, ‘‘This is nearly a year younger than the age given by Playfair, Lusk and other obstetricians,’’ which was closer to fifteen.

Late-century physicians did not have the empirical evidence to keep up with the declining age of menarche resulting from improved standards of living. When they did offer advice they were off by at least a year. Historians have estimated that age at menarche declined at the rapid rate of one year every thirty years over the late nineteenth century, a trend which would accord with Blackwell’s observation and Kennedy’s findings. Extrapolating back from trends in the United States, one might conjecture that just past the age of fifteen was normative for 1850, fourteen for 1880, and thirteen for 1910.

(Despite recent attention in the press, the trend has virtually stopped over the past few decades as prosperity is distributed more broadly through all socio- economic groups.) Some parents maintained an ideal of sixteen for the age of puberty through the late nineteenth century, however, while physicians announced a mean of fifteen. In fact, the daughters of the bourgeoisie were likely to reach menarche at the age of fourteen and younger—and to confront that fact with little preparation.

This scientific confusion about the age of menarche both reflected and fed an anxiety about what it might mean that girls were maturing earlier, and especially that urban girls with advantages were growing up fastest of all. Elizabeth Blackwell decried the declining age of menarche, arguing that it was a ‘‘premature development’’ resulting from ‘‘rich food, luxurious habits, mental stimulus, novel reading, late hours, and over-heated apartments.’’ She urged families to throw their influence against the tide of precociousness, a phenomenon that Blackwell felt was reversible.

Her proposed solution was exercise, in which she early elaborated an insight known today to athletes around the world: ‘‘The physical education of the body, its perfectly healthy development, delays the period of puberty, and . . . a true education in which all the bodily powers were strengthened as well as the mental and moral ones, would be the most effectual means of outrooting this evil.’’ She argued that the evil of early menarche resulted from ‘‘a diseased mind in a diseased body.’’ When Helen Kennedy discovered that girls were maturing a year earlier than the doctors were predicting, she too knew just what had to be responsible: city life. She noted that ‘‘the mode of life’’ brought about early menstruation ‘‘appearing earlier in girls living in cities than those living in the country.’’ Commentators observed that modernity was responsible for the moral crisis represented by early menstruation.

Fears of precocious sexuality in girls often made parents and advisers reluctant to broach the subject of menarche until it was too late. When they did get around to discussing reproductive physiology, they presented the subject in the rhetoric of romantic mystification. As scientific moderns, we blame Victorian mothers and advice givers for their failure to provide straight talk to girls. Yet the Victorian romanticization of the female body conveyed significantly more respect, if not more information, than often misogynist premodern visions of the female body. Especially in contrast to earlier notions of the differences between women and men, which saw women as inferior and imperfectly developed men, the nineteenth-century’s romantic explanations of female physiology had much to recommend them.

Enlightenment, scientific and popular thought in western Europe agreed that men and women represented different stages in development along a similar trajectory. Female reproductive anatomy, with organs inside the pelvic area, were simply less advanced than male reproductive organs, which had descended outside. The difference between the two sexes was a difference not in kind but in evolution. (Indeed, medical drawings of the different sexes virtually mirror each other.) In this ‘‘one-sex’’ model, women and men shared sexual appetite, and the sexual climax of both was necessary for conception to take place. As befit the more primitive sex, women lacked reason, strength, and self-control. In this premodern vision, women’s sexual anatomy and reproductive function marked their incompleteness. Menstruation was a shameful marker of that imperfection.

The empiricism of the Enlightenment broke down cosmic and scientific typologies of all kinds, including the notion of men and women’s reproductive similarity. Revolutionary thinking of the late eighteenth century introduced a new model of sex difference which argued ‘‘incommensurability’’— that men and women were fundamentally different, that there were not only two sexes but two different orders of being. Women’s greater attendance at church and special responsibility for family life allowed for a new understanding of sex differences which celebrated not only differences of physiology but differences of temperament and morality. Women’s moral superiority came coupled with new ideas about female sexuality. Women were no longer defined by their carnality, their inability to control their passions, but rather by their relative ‘‘passionlessness.’’

The discovery that female orgasm was not necessary for conception meant that women might be different beings than men, less subject to impulse and desire rather than more so. Under this new two-sex model, women were men’s equals but occupied a separate sphere, defined by their moral and spiritual superiority, though not their intellectual preeminence. The language with which advisers attempted to explain puberty to American girls adopted a reverence deriving from this relatively new notion of the sacredness of female reproduction.

…In a maternalist culture, which raised daughters to be wives and mothers, there seems to have been considerable silence and indirection between mothers and daughters on the central facts of puberty. Such anecdotal and social science evidence as we have documents that ignorance. The British physician Edward Tilt, writing of the late nineteenth century, noted that a quarter of his female patients had been left totally ignorant of the menstrual cycle so that ‘‘when their first menstruation occurred, many were frightened, screamed, or even went into fits. Some thought themselves wounded and frantically tried to wash the blood away.’’

The statistics of Kennedy’s interviews suggest that a similar percentage of American girls confronted menstruation with no preparation. Kennedy was shocked at the ignorance which she discovered, a finding she expressed in the language of Victorianism. Thirty-six of her population she said ‘‘had passed into womanhood with no knowledge whatever, from a proper source, of all that makes them women.’’ This group had received no instruction from their mothers at all, and another thirty-nine indicated they had not ‘‘talked fully.’’ Fewer than half of her sample had talked ‘‘freely,’’ a finding which Kennedy described as ‘‘criminal ignorance.’’ (About a half had fully discussed the issue, and another quarter had ‘‘talked in a constrained way.’’) Looking at this same period, the historian Joan Jacobs Brumberg has concluded that girls’ knowledge about menstruation declined in the late nineteenth century before going up again in the twentieth century in response to new mandates to scientific mothering.

This is not to say that girls were well instructed in less-privileged circumstances with less domestic privacy. There’s evidence that in rural America and on the frontier, too, in the nineteenth century, parents went to some lengths to conceal the details of childbirth, for one, from daughters. Robert Clark’s depiction of farm girl Ada Harris’s 1873 diary when she was thirteen records her responses to her mother’s morning sickness before the birth of her last child. ‘‘We were all scart,’’ Ada’s diary reported. Clark observes: ‘‘The part of her that was still a child did not know, and none of the grown-ups told her, that her mother was pregnant with the last of her babies, who would be born in July.’’

Similarly, Mabel Barbee Lee’s account of growing up on the frontier includes a wrenching banishment from home upon her mother’s mysterious ‘‘sickness’’; only after the fact did she discover that her departure had allowed for the birth of her brother. Farm life likely did not make parents more com- municative and direct with children. Yet it may well have allowed for the kind of informal education by observation that over the centuries has inculcated children into ‘‘the way things are.’’

In the bourgeois home of the city, animal functions moved behind doors in conjunction with a new imperative to communicate within the Enlightenment family. The need to talk in an uplifting manner about a shameful subject produced a rhetoric of excruciating indirection on the ‘‘facts of life.’’ Elias notes the increasing intensity of familial relations themselves as both incentive and impediment to open communication. Increasing social constraints on discussions of sexuality in the public world (as represented by the passage in 1873 of the Comstock laws barring ‘‘obscenity’’ in the U.S. mails) made it the parents’ responsibility to provide sex education; yet in Elias’s words, ‘‘the manifold love relationships between mother, father and child tend to increase resistance to speaking about these questions.’’

The indirection began with the advice writers. Marion Harland (aka Mary Virginia Terhune) endorsed the reverential language which contributed to the mystification of the subject. She sensibly urged mothers to teach their daughters not to hate their sex, ‘‘but to reverence ‘The Temple of the Body,’’’ and offered her book as a remedy for all women, whom she described as ‘‘a mighty class of human beings.’’ She urged them not to consider ‘‘the holiest mysteries of their natures an unclean thing,’’ nor to hold ‘‘carelessly the sublimest possibilities of their kind.’’ Yet when it came right down to it, she could do scarcely better than anyone else. ‘‘When Mamie approaches you with the inevitable—and, I submit, perfectly natural and proper—questionings about the Unknown Country peopled by unborn infants, tell her that God sends them to the earth in charge of His holy angels; that since babies must have fathers to work for them abroad, and mothers to tend them at home, He waits until after marriage before He gives them.’’

Perhaps realizing how unsatisfactory an explanation this might seem, she suggested a posture of finality so as to discourage further questions: ‘‘Say it so simply and solemnly as to calm curiosity.’’ A few pages on, she returned to the ‘‘facts of life,’’ this time providing a more biological accounting with medical terminology. She suggested that parents literally begin with a treatise on botany—‘‘I know of none better than Gray’s ‘How Plants Grow,’—and read with her of the beautiful laws of fructification and reproduction.’’ She then recommended a fairly straightforward accounting of ovarian function, with reference to ‘‘periodical flow,’’ and so on.

Even Mary Virginia Terhune balked at the next step, though. After urging her pupils not to be afraid to thus label ova or eggs, she proceeded to reveal her own sticking point. How did this explain life? ‘‘From these, by some mysterious law of the loving oneness of the married state, are evolved the germs of living human beings.’’ After this brave foray, she proceeded to congratu- late herself—and her class of maternal tutees. ‘‘That is the plain truth—and all of it! What a thing of purity is it beside the trickeries of ribald-mongers, the meretricious maunderings of sensational fiction; the phantoms created in the imaginations of timid school-children by hints and double-entendre, and midnight confabulation upon themes which any girl who cherishes a spark of moral decency would blush to speak of by daylight!’’ This bravest of declarations left ‘‘mysterious law’’ and ‘‘loving oneness’’ at the heart of the matter.

…If Victorians were loath to anticipate and educate girls about the particulars of sexuality and reproduction, they were not so hesitant to spell out the appropriate conduct for a girl once her ‘‘monthlies’’ had begun. Good health demanded regular exercise before and after—though not during—menstrual periods. It was Annie Winsor’s father, a country physician, to whom she addressed her questions about menstrual health in writing when she was away from home. (Presumably her father represented ‘‘the age of science’’ she would refer to in contrast to her mystifying mother.) Earlier, such knowledge would undoubtedly have been the province of women rather than doctors.

Frederick Winsor’s instructions to ‘‘My Nannie girl’’ included reassurance about sleeping posture (‘‘suit yourself’’) and washing. (In suggesting sponging during the menses itself, he was modifying—slightly—a myth that girls should not bathe during their periods.) Following the concerns of the time about prolapsed uterus, he instructed his daughter that if she jumped from a fence with knees bent ‘‘so that they may ‘give’ a little and not [inflict] a shock stiffly to the trunk, [it] will do the pelvic organs no harm,’’ while cautioning, ‘‘Of course at the time of monthly illness . . . you will not be climbing fences etc.’’

Annie wrote to her father again, perhaps the next year, about mountain climbing (protecting her letter from her home family’s reading with the heading ‘‘Professional private’’). She had hiked up ‘‘Mt. Willard on the fifth day of my monthly turn when I generally do as I like.’’ She noted that the flow picked up a bit but assured him, ‘‘I felt all the better for my walk.’’ She then asked for advice on her plan to climb the more demanding Mount Lafayette. This seemed extreme to her father, who advised against the climb ‘‘unless you are assured that it is not severe for a woman.’’ Frederick Winsor, like the other physicians of the era, assumed authority over the subject of girls’ menstruation, and counseled in particular against jarring, sudden motion as threatening to the organs’ delicate maturation.

Thus Sally Dana reported having been told by a doctor that ‘‘I must not run up stairs fast because . . . it was bad for girls of my age but that I might run down stairs as fast as I wanted to.’’ Ohio school boards too worried about sending high school girls up and down stairs ‘‘as a menace to normal functional development’’ and proposed installing elevators or building schools no more than two stories high. Girls were warned off tennis but encouraged to play ‘‘baddledore’’ (akin to badminton), ‘‘a very nice game for girls.’’ The protective sentiments of Victorian experts were perhaps best embodied in the publication in 1904 of G. Stanley Hall’s magnum opus Adolescence, in which this important psychologist and theorist extended Victorian thinking about the needs of the maturing girl.

Hall imagined an ideal calendar in which maturing girls would follow their own biological clock, ideally ‘‘lying fallow’’ for about a quarter of the time. In urging girls to regard their fecundity with reverence, he commended the practice of isolation during menarche, as practiced by other cultures in the tepee or the grot. His corollary for Western society was the Sabbath. ‘‘The time may come when we must even change the divisions of Sabbaths per year for woman, leaving to man his week and giving to her the same number of Sabbaths per year, but in groups of four successive days per month.’’ This plan he promoted as a strategy for helping menstrual cycles to be ‘‘well established and normal.’’

…When Helen Kennedy interviewed students in 1896, there seemed to be less ‘‘lying fallow,’’ at least among eighteen-year-olds. About two-thirds of the students she interviewed ‘‘made no change in their habits,’’ with the remain- ing third keeping ‘‘quieter, avoiding all violent exercise, and taking rest the first day or two if it were possible.’’ Going to high school sometimes made such rest impossible, but Kennedy was pleased to report the general health of her cohort. Kennedy did raise one cause for concern. She observed disapprovingly that one-half of her sample recklessly took ‘‘violent exercise’’ during menstruation—dancing, riding horseback, or skating, ‘‘as if nothing unusual were the matter.’’”

- Jane H. Hunter, “Interiors: Bodies, Souls, Moods.” in How Young Ladies Became Girls: The Victorian Origins of American Girlhood

[kpoptrashlord-007]

The Punishment;; LHB

Word Count;; 1.4k

Genre;; Suggestive

Pairing;; Hongbin x Reader

Summary;; “It’s my understanding you want to be punished, correct?”

~~~

A little birthday fic for our Hongbinnie while we wait for him to return and start streaming once more. 

Notes;; Not my best but I miss him too much not to write something.

My Masterlist

   "Don't come here! Just go!"

   Sparing a brief glance at your boyfriend, you shook your head at his outburst. It wasn't the first and it wouldn't be the last. His mood remained playful and he was still up to his usual antics which was great for his viewers but not so great for you. Most of his Twitch streams lasted for a few hours and your current position left you stranded just outside the webcam view.

   A deep, devious chuckle brought your attention back to Hongbin. Clad in a loose white shirt and armed with a large water bottle, he was without a doubt causing trouble in whichever virtual world was unfortunate enough to host him. His black hair should have looked a mess as he had rolled straight out of bed and onto his gaming chair but instead it resembled silk, smooth and shiny without effort. With nary a blemish and minimal black rings under his eyes, it pleased you to see that last night had left him well-rested.

   "You cannot pass," he spoke into his headset, a sing-song lilt in his tone. "Ah, let me give you an express ticket out of the server."

   From your position on the bed, you were too far away from the screen to catch a glimpse of the game he was playing and with his earphones plugged in, you couldn't even hear anything. All you could do was stare at him and his animated reactions. Most of the time he laughed, clearly planning something mischievous, with the occasion irritated groan sprinkled in. He was having fun and this was enough to entertain you… well, at least for about twenty-five minutes until you realised your phone wasn't where you had left it on the nightstand. Even you had your limits and that limit was met when you saw your screen light up out of the webcam's view on the other side of the room.

   It was a form of silent punishment and the reason behind it was pointless. As far as you had known, he hadn't any plans for the morning and you wanted to sleep in. What's the crime in resting for a little longer? So you might have snoozed the alarm that was his gentle nudges three times too many but that didn't mean you should have to wait here for him to take mercy on you and turn the stream off. He could easily spend eight hours gaming - did he really expect you to stay quiet that whole time? At this rate you wouldn't even last an hour.

   After another playful outburst of jabs at his opponents, it was time to make your move. You had no intention of waiting any longer so you stood tall and signalled for his attention. Maintaining a poker face, he continued with his game. Needing to do something more drastic, you opted to wave your hands over your head. Still no response. Adding a little more enthusiasm, you started to jump on the spot. Doing your best to land without a sound proved detrimental when you bumped backwards into the bed and slipped on the sheets, falling flat against the wall.

   Only a fool would have thought the incident could go unnoticed by not only Hongbin but his viewers as well. The very wall itself had shaken from the impact, the tremor passing through to his computer monitor as it wobbled like a leaf in the wind. Snapping your head in his direction fast enough to crack your neck, you met his gaze for a mere second before he refocused on the game… which was now a black screen with a message that indicated defeat.

   Had that glance been enough to lose the game? Was it your fault? More importantly, had he expected to win that match and how irritated would he now be at the sudden defeat? By the way he gripped his water bottle until his knuckles turned white while guzzling down several gulps, there was a good chance you had cost him a victory.

   All evidence of agitation vanished, however, once the drink was placed back on the table. There was a light smile on his lips as he scanned through some comments. He laughed here and there at the remarks about his noisy neighbours and how he should request compensation for the loss. On the surface, he seemed to have moved on but you knew better.

   He was seething.

   "Should I complain to them?" He laughed again, the sound tighter than before. "Aish, I need a quick break. I'll restart the stream in half an hour."

   With that he yanked out his earphones. Disconnecting from Twitch and turning the game off, he turned to you. Sitting on the bed with your hands in your lap, you flashed him an apologetic smile. All he offered in return was an eye roll before standing to stretch. Mimicking his actions, you swayed from side to side in an attempt to work out the tension building in your neck. When he switched to bending and flicking his fingers to increase circulation and prevent cramping, you followed his lead.

   He sighed. "Are you okay? You hit the wall hard."

   "Oh, you noticed that?"

   "Hard not to notice a mini earthquake."

   "Shut up," you scoffed, throwing a pillow at him, halting his brief walk to stand in front of you. He caught it with one hand and shook his head, pointing an accusatory finger at you.

   "Me? You're the one being noisy while other people are working."

   "'Working'."

   The pillow landed back in its rightful spot at the top of the bed. Before you had a chance to blink, Hongbin occupied the space in front of you. A mischievous glint shone within his dark eyes as he ran his fingers down the length of your arm. Smirking at the way you shivered in direct response to his light caresses, he inched forward until your legs met the edge of the bed. Falling back against the plush bed, you gasped when he dropped down to hover above you. Encaging you back on the bed, he brushed his lips against your collarbone.

   "Did you miss me?"

   "I missed my phone."

   "Why?"

   "What do you mean, 'why'? I was bored."

   "Bored? I thought you wanted to sleep."

   Your retort died in your throat when you felt his teeth bear down on your shoulder. Lowering his body against yours, his hips jutted against yours upon hearing your gasp, a mix of pain and pleasure contorting the sound into a moan. Soft kisses contrasted the harsh nips he littered your skin with in his pursuit of your lips. Further exposing the sensitive expanse of your neck, you turned your head from him.

   "And I thought you wanted to punish me."

   "I would never," he teased, emphasizing his point once more with a sharp thrust. His nails dragged down your sides leaving a visible trail in their wake before his fingers found purchase on your hips, digging into the supple flesh until crescents bloomed. He took advantage of the growing desire fogging your mind to tilt your head back to center. Chaste kisses marked the sweet side of his affection before he dived right back into his carnal side, pulling your bottom lip between his teeth until the haze lifted from your eyes and you refocused on him.

   His hand cradled your cheek. There was warmth in his touch and you felt yourself melt into his hold. For the first time since you had woken, he wore his million dollar smile. It was genuine and dazzling. A thousand words could be exchanged with that single smile.

   It was your turn to chase but even with your hands interlocked around his neck, his lips evaded yours. When you lifted to meet him halfway, he chose to bypass your awaiting kiss and instead leaned down toward your ear. Warm air tickled your earlobe. Suspicion began to fester where hot anticipation once coiled deep inside the pit of your stomach. Before he even spoke you knew he was up to something.

   "Time to get back to the stream."

   "Huh?"

   Pushing himself off the bed, he smirked as he looked down toward you. The teasing sparkle in his eyes fueled your loud protests, all of which fell against indifferent ears. "Your phone is next to mine. You can grab it on the way out-" he nodded toward the door before kneeling in front of you, "-unless you plan on staying. It's my understanding that you want to be punished, correct?"

[blahblahwritings]

You Owe Me.

A/N: I wrote most of this sitting next to my mum and her partner on the couch and they had no idea. I live life on the edge.

Words: 3227 oops.

Warnings: Smut and a little angst. Fluff at the end.

You told him this was a bad idea. A terrible idea, actually. But, that was Poe Dameron; reckless and absolutely mad. Then again, what did that make you? You who would follow the man into fire and destruction head first, risking your life in the process? At this point, with blasters firing at you and explosions coming from all directions, you were entirely sure it made you a fucking idiot. He’d decided to go straight through the front door of the stormtrooper base on a planet you had very little to no intelligence on with even less insight into the layout, guard shifts or manpower they had available.

Yet here you were, right alongside him.

“We can’t take much more of this, Poe. We need to retreat.” You shouted over the sirens into your commlink. A red blaster shot whizzed past your ear as you fell back against the metal crate granting you some reprieve from the oncoming fire. “Fuck.” Peeking out from behind your cover, you aimed with both weapons and took out two troopers in quick succession. You had already lost a member of the team. You weren’t prepared for this mission and you certainly weren’t prepared to lose Poe.

���Just a little further, if we can get to the control room we can bring this whole place to its knees.” Poe replied. “Move up.” He ordered. With a growl you sprang forwards, shooting down another foe before rounding the next corner.

A trooper with a rifle aimed and fired before you could retaliate. The searing pain flooded your leg causing you to fall to the ground with a howl, blasters clattering against the metal grating. Poe took him out before landing right beside you, for a split second he looked scared but it disappeared as he checked you over. The good news was that the shot cauterized the wound immediately the bad news was there was another team of them advancing on you and fast.

You tore a frag from his belt, tossing it straight for the group. Pushing him and yourself back around the corner and ignoring the throbbing in your thigh, you both turned to shield your faces. The detonation sent debris flying past you both. A glance into the corridor revealed a pile of corpses and you sighed in relief, falling back against Poe. He sucked in a breath to speak but you clenched your jaw and stood despite the agony.

You were beyond furious with him.

Limping onward, you found the control room as a chorus of marching footsteps could be heard down the next hallway. Poe stood at the entryway to lay down some cover fire as you worked your magic, hacking into the system and bringing the base to a complete lockdown. Doors slammed shut, power to the important areas of the base went out and the alarms stopped blaring. Mission complete. Poe shot the last remaining troopers and called in the rest of the team to clean out the now-prisoners that were left.

-

Once back at the rebel base, you’d went straight to the medbay not giving Poe the satisfaction of a conversation, ignoring him the whole trip back. He’d been like a puppy, trying to make sure you were alright and offering you food, water and rest but you’d just glared at him. He even thanked you for going ahead with his plan which only pissed you off further because he didn’t admit that it was outright stupid and far too dangerous to carry out in the first place.

So you sat with the medical droid as it patched you up, and gulped down painkillers like they were candy, still shaking from the come down of the adrenaline and rage. The hiss of the door let you know someone had come in and you knew just by the presence who it was. His booted footsteps made their way over to you as the droid finished its work and disappeared into the adjoined room, you thanked it for its work as it beeped happily.

Looking down at the floor, his legs and feet invaded your view, but you refused to look at him. His forefinger and thumb pinched your chin, tilting your head up to meet his eyes. They were full of emotion, voids of unspoken apologies and fear. Your resolve began to crumble, as tears swelled in your own eyes.

“I’m so sorry, you were right we should’ve retreat- no we shouldn’t have even gone there until we had a better idea of what we were walking into. I put you and the team in danger and I take full responsibility for that. We lost a good man today and for a second I thought I’d lost you too and I just- I- I don’t know what I would’ve done. My judgement was clouded by pride and a hatred towards our enemy and I swear to you I won’t let it happen again. I don’t expect you to forgive me anytime soon but I promise I’ll make it up to you.” He finished. You scrunched your nose, clenched your jaw and furrowed your brows as the tears spilled over. Looking away you shook your head and Poe's shoulders slouched in defeat, hand falling from your face.

“Goddamn it. God fucking damn it Poe, I told you, I fucking told you.” You started sniffling as trails of salty droplets rolled down your cheeks, the anger, the fear, the pain all coming out at once. His own eyes became glassy, his breathing ragged as he tried to hold it all in. You took his hand, threading your fingers through his own. “But how am I supposed to stay angry at you with an apology like that.” You scoffed and looked at his face. Hope filled his expression as his eyes flickered between yours. “Don’t think you’re off the hook, I’m still furious but I do forgive you. I think I forgave you before we even landed back here because I’m the one that went with your plan. I’m the one that would follow you to hell and back but don’t you dare use that for this shit again.” You ended with gritted teeth.

He nodded, lips in a tight thin line as he apologised again. You brought your mouth to his in a bittersweet kiss and it was then that you realised you weren’t wearing any pants since the droid fixed you up. His hands found the sides of your face, still wet from the tears and deepened the kiss as his fingers found the back of your head, tangling in the hair at the nape of your neck. The other hand trailed down to your hips, pulling you flush with his chest where you sat on the medical table. Your bare legs wrapped around his as you pulled away from him, biting his lip as you moved back. This earned a buck of his hips against your center, a throaty moan leaving his parted, swollen lips.

“Easy there, Commander.” You chuckled, smirking at how his demeanour changed. Looking down at you he huffed out an amused breath at the title, eyes filled with a need for you. You knew what it did to him. Pushing him back, you found your pants, pulling them on and grabbing his hand, leading him back to your shared quarters.

The door to your room slammed behind you as he pinned you against it, the emotions of the day taking over in an entirely different way. The need to be close to one another, the residual energy and adrenaline mixing together into a new carnal hunger that could only be satiated by this one simple act. His hands shot to your shirt, tearing it from your torso and allowing his fingers to explore you. You captured his mouth in a fervent kiss, teeth nipping and tongues dancing. His shirt found its way to the floor alongside his boots and pants.

Pushing him back, his legs hit the bed and he fell onto the mattress. You kicked off your pants, the dull throb in your thigh making you wince only barely. Poe watched you closely leaning up on his elbows as you straddled him, a devilish grin painted on your features. All that separated the two of you was your underwear. You shoved him flat on the bed by his shoulders and intertwined your fingers with his. Pinning his hands above his head, you started sucking and biting at his stubbled jaw, then his neck, then his collarbones, leaving behind a trail of marks on his soft skin.

The sounds he was making were music to your ears, soaking your panties and you pulled back to watch his face as you ground your core against him through his boxers. His jaw clenched shut and his eyes rolled closed as his throat bobbed up and down. The thick curls of hair behind his head framed his pleasured expression like a sinful renaissance painting. You found a slow, tantalising rhythm, circling your hips over his clothed cock. He was hard and thick beneath you, a damp spot forming on the material of his shorts by the tip.

“Fuck, baby just - keep going.” He panted, bucking his hips to match your rhythm. You let go of his wrists and his hands instantly gripped your hips, forcing you to move faster. A dark chuckle left you and you stood. His eyes opened, confusion and desire swirling around his dilated pupils but then he saw you. Unclasping your bra, you dragged it down your shoulders, watching his eyes follow its path as you slowly took it off. Before you revealed your chest to him, you turned your back and then tossed the piece of fabric to the side. You hooked your thumbs through the top of your panties and bent fully over as you pushed them from you, giving him the full view of your ass. They quickly joined the rest of your clothes.

There was a drawn out groan from behind you as you raised back up. You shot a wink from over your shoulder, seeing him sat at the bottom of your bed, a sizable tent in his pre-cum stained underwear. Turning, you revealed your naked form to him and saw him twitch through the last remaining bit of clothing. You walked to him accentuating the movement of your hips as you did and, cupping his jaw, you made him look into your eyes. A bead of sweat trickled from his neck down to his chest and you followed its trail with your tongue, swishing it gently over his erect nipple before kissing further down until you knelt between his legs.

Looking up at him through your lashes, your hands found his thighs, featherlight touches gliding up and up, then you dug your nails in, raking them back towards his knees. You thought he would break any moment, take you by your waist and fuck you right then and there but he just whined, knuckles turning white as he gripped the sheets beneath him. You pulled the material down and he lifted his hips slightly so you could take them off fully. His cock stood tall and thick, pouring with pre-cum, the vein on the underside pulsating with need. You moved forward, kitten licking the tip. A whimper. You grinned like a cheshire cat. Another lick, this time up the protruding vein right to the slit. Then, you took as much of him into your mouth as you could, sucking and swirling your tongue around him and using a hand to grip what couldn’t fit as he hit the back of your throat. The feeling of his thighs quaking either side of you sent a wave of pride through you, knowing he was already close despite such a limited amount of stimulation. You bobbed up and down slowly, teasing him as another hand played with his balls. His grasp found your scalp and pulled at your hair making you groan around him. The vibrations had him twitching in your mouth, so, so close to the edge but you pulled away fully, licking the slick from your lips and fingers.

His breathing was coming out in fast uneven breaths, hands trembling against your head as he looked down at you. “Shit, why did you stop?” He asked, voice breaking.

“You owe me, remember?” You replied, rising up from the floor. At this, he stood quickly, taking your hips and switching positions so you were pushed back on the bed and he was on the floor, your cunt open and soaked for him. He sucked in a breath and his eyes rolled back at the scent of you. His fingers traced patterns from your ankles as he hooked them over his shoulders all the way up to your inner thighs and your breath hitched.

A gasp tumbled from your lips and your head fell to the plush blankets adorning the mattress as he dragged the flat of his tongue through your folds, collecting the taste of you from entrance to clit. He pulled your nub into his mouth and drew lazy circles around it, growling as he did so. The tremor sent waves of pleasure through you and you tangled your fingers in his curls, pulling him into you. He teased your hole with a single digit, gathering wetness before leisurely pushing it into you. Your back arched off the bed.

He began pumping his finger in and out, in and out, his tongue massaging your clit at varying pressures until you were a panting, squirming mess. He added a second finger, stretching your cunt blissfully. He watched your face from between your legs, the sight of you losing it against his tongue enough to make him finish there but he painfully held back. Your thighs shook, nails scraping his scalp as your legs pushed his face harder against you. You were almost there. The tight knot in your lower abdomen building and building. Then he curled his fingers reaching the spot that made you see stars, his pace faster now, hitting it in quick succession. That was it, you fell apart on his fingers, fucking yourself against his face and hand desperately as your muscles clenched around him, screaming. Your whole body shook, contorting as you came. He continued his ministrations as you rode out your high against him.

As you came down, he removed his fingers, replacing them with his tongue, nose brushing against your sensitive bundle of nerves. Lapping up the juices, he parted from your dripping center, lips shining with your cum. You let out a wanton moan at the sight of him, hair ruffled, lips swollen and parted, covered in your slick. Half lidded eyes found yours as his mouth curled up at the corner in a smirk between your still shaking thighs.

He gently removed your legs from his shoulders and crawled up to meet your lips, kissing and licking as he went, the cold metal of the ring around his neck sending shivers up and down your spine. Taking a nipple into his mouth he bit down ever so lightly, scraping your sensitive peak as he toyed with the other between his dexterous fingers. Maneuvering further up, he nuzzled your neck and jaw until he was right by your ear.

“Do I get to fuck you senseless now, Sweetheart?” He cooed, lips tracing the shell and nibbling your lobe. Your reply came in the form of a whimper, hips rising to meet his own. He licked his lips, lowering to kiss you hungrily. You grew impatient and switched your positions so you were on top. He looked as if he was about to protest but you lined him up and sunk down until he was fully sheathed inside you. Mouth falling open, head dropping against the pillows, he was on cloud nine inside you. You stayed still, your walls clenching around him as you adjusted. His hands rubbed up and down your thighs, careful not to upset your injury, with slurred compliments clumsily spewing from his mouth.

You looked at him, blissed out, eyes full of adoration for only you. His lips fell into a half cocked smile as you started to ride him. He moved his grip to your hips, letting you set your own pace but desperately needing to hold on to something. Taking his hand, you brought it to your face, kissing the inside of his palm as you gasped and whined while his cock slid in and out of you. He cupped your jaw, thumb rubbing against your bottom lip. You dipped your head ever so slightly taking it into your mouth, maintaining eye contact the entire time.

Tilting your hips, you picked up the pace and he began to meet you halfway, his fingers dug into your flesh surely leaving bruises. He hissed as your walls hugged him and you braced yourself with a hand on his chest. Your thigh began to throb again, the pain making its way to your face and he quickly flipped the two of you, making sure you landed without hurting you.

“I got you.” He continued with a harsh pace, holding your hips at an angle so he hit that spot again and again. With his free hand he began relentlessly circling your clit and you felt another climax building quick. The sound of both your ragged breaths and the slapping of skin against skin created a sickening chorus that sent you wild. You latched onto his bicep, feeling his strength and grasped at the sheets with the other hand. He knew you were close, he could see the muscles in your abdomen beginning to twitch and that look in your eye.

A few short pumps later and you came undone, Poe following close behind, he leant down, capturing you in a languid kiss. His hips still thrust into you as you both rode it out, spilling into you as you milked him. Your arms wrapped around his back, feeling the muscles contract. He panted slowing his movements, hot breath fanning over your face as you looked into each other's eyes. Pulling out of you, he moved from the bed and into the refresher, returning a few moments later with a warm towel. He parted your legs gently, cleaning you up, kissing your knee and thigh as he did. You pulled him up, bringing his lips to yours in a soft, loving kiss. He lay beside you, bringing your head to lie on his chest.

“I love you, you know that?” He whispered, voice rough. His fingers traced patterns on your shoulder as he kissed the top of your head. “You mean more to me than anything in the universe and I was scared today..” His other hand thumbed the ring around his neck, his mother’s ring. “I said I’d make things up to you and I meant that, and if you’ll have me…” He yanked the chain, freeing the band. “I’d be perfectly elated to make it up to you for the rest of my life.” 

His proposal was met with soft snores. You’d fallen fast asleep before he’d even started talking. ‘Of course you did’ he thought with a smile. Instead, he placed the ring on your finger, careful not to wake you and leant back against the pillows, content with the fact that you’d one day be his wife.

[tawakkull]

ISLAM 101: Spirituality in Islam: Part 135

Khawf and Khashya (Fear and Reverence)

In Sufism, fear denotes abstaining not only from all that is forbidden, but also from those deeds from which it is advisable to refrain. It also signifies, as the opposite of hope or expectation, that a traveler on the path to Truth does not feel secure against deviation and thereby incurring Divine punishment in the Hereafter. As a result, the traveler refrains from conceit and self-praise.

According to Al-Qushayri, fear forces a traveler on the spiritual path to hold back and refrain from displeasing God. As such, it pertains to the future. Fear arises from one’s apprehension of being subjected to something displeasing, or uneasiness over not obtaining what is desired. In that sense also, fear pertains to the future. In many verses, the Qur’an points out the future results of one’s deeds and actions, and thereby seeks to establish a world embracing the future, one in which it is possible to discern the future with both its good and bad elements.

Implanting fear concerning their end or whether they will die as believing Muslims in the hearts of its followers, the Qur’an warns them to be steadfast in their belief and practice of Islam. Many verses cause hearts to tremble with fear, and are like threads with which to knit the lace of life. For example: Something will appear before them which they had never anticipated (39:47); and Say: Shall We tell you who will be the greatest losers by their works? Those whose efforts have been wasted in the life of the world while they thought they were doing good (18:103-4). How happy and prosperous are those who knit the laces of their lives with these threads! With such warnings, the Qur’an orients us toward the Hereafter and encourages us to consider it more important than anything else.

In His luminous Speech, God Almighty uses fear as a whip to force us to His Presence and honor us with His company. Like a mother’s reproofs to her child that draws him or her to her warm, affectionate arms, this whip attracts the believer toward the depths of Divine Mercy and enriches him or her with God’s blessings and bounties that He compels humanity to deserve and receive out of His Mercy and Graciousness. For this reason, every decree and command mentioned in the Qur’an and forced upon humanity originates in Divine Mercy and uplifts souls, in addition to its being alarming and threatening.

One whose heart is full of fear and awe for the Almighty cannot be afraid of others, and is therefore freed from all useless and suffocating fear. In His luminous, hope-giving Speech, the Almighty tells people not to fear anything or anyone other than Him: Have no fear of them. Fear Me, if you are true believers (3:175); exhorts them not to suffer groundless phobias: Fear Me alone (2:40) and: They fear their Lord, overseeing them from high, and they do all that they are commanded (16:50); and praises those hearts that fear and hold only Him in awe: They forsake their beds to cry unto their Lord in fear and hope (32:16).

He praises them because those who design their lives according to their fear of God use their willpower carefully and strive to avoid sins. Such sensitive and careful souls fly in the heavens of God’s approval and pleasure. The following is an appropriate saying by the author of Lujja:

If you are fearful of God’s wrath, be steadfast in religion, For a tree holds fast to earth with its roots against violent storms.

The lowest degree of fear is that required by belief: Fear Me, if you are (true) believers (3:175). A somewhat higher degree of fear is that arising from knowledge or learning: Among His servants the learned alone fear God truly (35:28). The highest degree of fear is that combined with awe and arising from one’s knowledge of God: God orders you to fear Him in awe (3:28).

Some Sufis divide fear into two categories: awe and reverence. Although very close in meaning, awe connotes the feeling that leads an initiate to flee toward God, while reverence causes an initiate to take refuge in Him. An initiate who continuously feels awe thinks of fleeing, while one seeking shelter strives to take refuge in Him. Those choosing to flee make progress on the path difficult for themselves, for they live an ascetic life and suffer the pains of separation from the Almighty. However, those holding Him in reverence drink the sweet, enlivening water of nearness, which comes from taking refuge in Him.

Perfect reverence was a characteristic of all Prophets. When in this state, the Prophets nearly fell down dead, as if they had heard the Trumpet of Israfil and were brought before the full Majesty and Grandeur of the Truth. They were always conscious of the meaning of: When His Lord revealed (His) glory to the mountain He sent it crashing down, and Moses fell down in a swoon (7:143). Among those brought near to God, the one nearest to Him and the master of reverence, upon him be peace and blessings, said: I see what you do not see and hear what you do not hear. If only you knew that the heavens creaked and groaned. In fact, they had to do so, for there is no space of even four fingers’ breadth in the heavens where angels do not prostrate themselves. I swear by God that if you knew what I know (with respect to God’s Grandeur), you would laugh little but weep much. You would avoid lying with your wives and cry out prayers unto God in fields and mountains.

Here, the Prophet reveals his reverence that leads him to take refuge in God, and describes the awe of others that causes them to flee. Abu Dharr expresses this attitude of fleeing in his addition to this Prophetic Tradition: I wish I had been a tree pulled out by the roots and cut into pieces.

One whose soul is full of reverence and awe of God does not commit sins, even if he does not seem to feel fear. Suhayb was one of those overcome with awe of God. God’s Messenger, upon him be peace and blessings, praised him, saying: What an excellent servant Suhayb is! Even if he did not fear God, he would not commit sins.

One who fears God sometimes sighs and sometimes weeps, especially when alone, in an attempt to extinguish the pain of being separate from Him as well as the fire of Hell, which is the greatest distance between him and God. As stated in the Tradition: A man who weeps for fear of God will not enter Hell until the milk drawn (from a mammal) is put back into the breasts (from which it was drawn), shedding tears is the most effective way of putting out the fires of Hell. A believer sometimes confuses what he or she has done with what he or she has not done and, fearing that the action has arisen from his or her fancy or carnal self due to a personal failure to resist temptation, feels great regret and seeks refuge in God. The description of such souls is found in the following Tradition:

When the verse: Those who give what they give while their hearts are in awe, because they are to return to their Lord (23:60) was revealed, ‘A’isha, the Prophet’s wife, asked the Prophet, upon him be peace and blessings: Are those (who are in awe because they are to return to their Lord) those who commit such major sins as fornication, theft, and drinking alcohol? The Prophet, the Glory of Mankind, answered: No, ‘A’isha. Those mentioned in the verse are those who, although they perform the prescribed prayers, fast, and give alms, tremble with fear that such acts of worship may not be accepted by God.

Abu Sulayman Darani says that although a servant must always be fearful (that God may not be pleased and therefore punish him or her) and hopeful (that God may be pleased), it is safer for one’s heart to beat with fear and reverence. Sharing the view of Darani, Shaykh Ghalib expresses his feelings of fear: Open the eyes of my soul with a thousand-fold fear!

[pengychan]

[Good Omens] Winging It - Luke 24:38

Summary: Shockingly, attempting to destroy an angel without consulting God first comes with consequences. There is more than one way to fall, and a thousand more ways to inconvenience an angel and a demon who just wanted to be left in peace. Characters: Gabriel, Crowley, Aziraphale, Beelzebub, Michael, Uriel, Sandalphon Rating: T  

Prologue and all chapters are tagged as ‘winging it’ on my blog.

A/N: Getting relationship advice is kind of hard when you have to omit that the relationship in question is with a Prince of Hell.

***

“... And so, this friend of yours ghosted you?”

“Yes. I don’t think I did anything wrong - they were about to fall on their face and so I caught them, what else was I meant to do? I just tried to help, for Heaven’s sake!”

“Right.”

“It’s been a week and they haven’t showed up again. I don’t understand. They usually appear at my place every other day - or night - usually night--”

“Oh, you gave them the keys to your flat? Sounds serious, then.”

“What? No, they don’t need the ke-- I mean-- yes. Right.” Gabriel cleared this throat, still pacing back and forth, reminding himself that mortals would find it quite odd that this friend of his could, quite literally, appear in his bedroom in a burst of flames that would probably set off the fire alarm sooner or later.

If Beelzebub was ever going to appear again in a burst of flames or otherwise, of course. They may never do so again. And the notion grated him. “They… do have the keys,” he muttered. The problem with his human friends was that there was a lot he couldn’t tell them, but the notion of talking about this with the other archangels… well. It was awkward to put it mildly. “But the point is, they’re not showing up anymore and I think I am owed an explanation, don’t you think?”

“Hu-uh,” Fabrizio said through his mouthful of sandwich. 

Gabriel turned on his heel, starting another round across the break room just as Łukasz spoke. 

“All right, I have to ask - is grabbing them before they fell really all you did?” he asked, causing Gabriel to blink, looking up.

“What?”

“I don’t know, maybe your hand slipped, and it was. You know, inappropriate?”

Hey, get a room!, the boy had yelled, right before the wheels of his bike mysteriously caught fire and sent him crashing into the pond. Gabriel hadn’t paid it much attention, but it made it back to his mind now and he’d spent too much time on Earth not to have grasped what it meant, however dim his concept of carnal desire was - a thing he knew existed, but which had never been of his concern. It still was none of his concern. 

Right?

“What-- no!” Gabriel sputtered, face suddenly aflame. “If you’re suggesting I’d do anything inappropriate, I never--!”

“Whoa, all right, calm down! I told you, as an accident!” Łukasz held up his hands. “Are you really sure there isn’t anything else that happened? Because storming off for being caught before falling is kind of… well…”

“An overreaction,” Fabrizio said, once again through a mouthful of his lunch. Łukasz raised an eyebrow at him. 

“Yes, that. Bit rich coming from you, though. You announced I’m going to Hell for putting cream in carbonara, you dramatic ass.”

“He is right, actually, and you should stop,” Gabriel informed him, matter-of-factly, causing Łukasz to throw his hands in the air with an exasperated noise and Fabrizio to laugh hard enough he almost choked on a sundried tomato.

“You’re the worst and I wish Daniel were still here to agree with me,” Łukasz lamented. “Look, are you sure nothing else happened?”

“Well…” Gabriel stopped pacing, hesitating a moment. “... We did have a disagreement, I suppose. Over, uh. An old job.”

“What, you were colleagues?”

“A very long time ago. We were both very different people then. They were fired long before I was, and at the time I agreed with--” divine judgment “--the management.”

A scoff from Fabrizio. “And they fired you anyway. Typical. I have yet to work a job where the management knows the first thing about what they’re doing.”

“It’s… complicated. It’s more that they handed in their notice, only the terms they got were not favorable. But the management they’re under now is arguably worse.” A pause. “I pointed that out. They didn’t like that.”

This insult will not stand! You take it back right now!

“See? Maybe that was it, not just grabbing them.”

Unhand me right now!

“... They didn’t like me catching them, either.”

“What did they want you to do, let them fall?”

Why not? I did before.

The thought was a sudden stab of pain somewhere in his chest, and Gabriel chased away the thought. No, he hadn’t let them fall - he had tried to reach out. Both had tried to reach out for the other, neither had taken the other’s hand, and what had happened next was entirely out of Gabriel’s hands. In the end, he sighed. 

“I don’t know,” Gabriel muttered, just as the timer on his watch went off. Ah, there it was, the end of lunch break. As Fabrizio seemingly unhinged his jaw like a boa to swallow the rest of his frankly oversized sandwich, in a move Crowley would be proud to witness, Łukasz shrugged.

“Have you tried calling them?”

“Calling?”

“Or sending a message. You’ve got their number, no?”

He did, as a matter of fact, although he saw little point to it when he could quite literally call their name to see them materializing before him. That was an option, but at the same time it grated his nerves - the idea of calling out for them while they didn’t bother to get in touch at all. He frowned. “I am not desperate yet.”

“Yet?” Łukasz repeated innocently, causing Gabriel’s frown to deepen and Fabrizio to guwaff.

“Hah! Look, I tried to do the aloof thing with my girlfriend too, and you know how it went? I don’t have a girlfriend. Zero out of ten, would not recommend.”

“What…?” Gabriel blinked, taken aback, and stated at him like he’d just grown antlers. Wait, what was he thinking? “This is not-- they are not even remotely my girlfriend, it’s not like that--”

“Ah, right, sorry. Significant other, in this case,” he cut him off, entirely misunderstanding what Gabriel’s correction had been really about. “Anyway, call them.”

“No, they’re not my significant anything-- we-- it was them to storm off, I have no obligation--”

“Guys! Lunch break is over! Get your asses over here so I can have mine!”

Fabrizio shrugged, patting his shoulder. “All right, you do you. Just don’t complain once you’re single,” he said, and walked out, leaving Gabriel to stare at his retreating back, opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water. 

“... You all right?” Łukasz’s voice came from very far away. Gabriel recoiled, and shook his head. 

“Yes. I’m fine,” he muttered, and walked past him, doing his utmost to push that nonsense in the back of his mind and think no more of it.

He had about as much success as he’d had trying to talk the Antichrist into bringing forth the end of times.

***

For the eighteen-hundred and thirty-second time, the mug shattered in a hundred pieces on the stone floor. For the eighteen-hundred and thirty-second time the pieces came together again, leaving the mug unscathed. For the eighteen-hundred and thirty-second time Beelzebub, Prince of Hell and Lord of the Flies, picked it up and stared at it as though expecting to see some kind of great secret revealed on its surface.

On the side of the mug, the Titanic remained still, halfway into the water. After a few moments of silence, the mug was thrown on the floor to shatter for the eighteen-hundred and thirty-third time. For the eighteen-hundred and thirty-third time, it came back together and Beelzebub picked it up to stare some more at the ship printed on it.

At this point, Dagon had questions.

Questions were among the things that had landed them in not-really-metaphorical hot water a very long time ago, and truth be told they were not the safest thing to ask in Hell, either. She was, however, trusted enough by Lord Beelzebub to speak her mind. Most of her mind. Most of the time. “Is something the matter, Lord Beelzebub?”

The Lord of the Flies took their eyes off the mug to give her a look which let her know, in no uncertain terms, that they found the question amazingly stupid for how obvious it was that something was indeed the matter. She was not ordered to be silent, at any rate, which made her bold enough to speak again. “I couldn’t help but notice you seem displeased.”

“Mph,” was the reply as the mug was thrown to crash on the floor for the  eighteen-hundred and thirty-fourth time. “This stupid mug displeases me. The imbecile who gave it to me like it would be even remotely enough to win my favor displeases me.” The mug in question came back together for the eighteen-hundred and thirty-fourth time. 

Maybe Dagon should just stop counting.

“I assume you’re referring to your attempt at getting a hold of the soul of the former archangel? Surely it is a good sign that he has given you a, uh… mug. As a… token of his loyalty?” she faltered a little, not really knowing what else that mug was supposed to be. If Beelzebub’s snort as they picked up the mug once more was anything to go by, ‘token of loyalty’ was not it.

“This pathetic thing is no token and there is no loyalty involved. It is a gift of sorts.” 

Dagon blinked. “A gift?”

“Yes. And the imbecile probably even scored a good deed in getting it for me, to add insult to injury.” The Prince of Hell’s scowl deepened, and the mug crashed on the floor for the… upteenth time.

“... So it is some kind of plan from his part to thwart you?”

“The idiot cannot plan to save his miserable mortal life,” Beelzebub snapped, glaring down at the mug as it fixed itself once more. “He only ever followed one plan his entire existence, someone else’s. Now he has none - all he can do is spew out the most obnoxious nonsense!”

“I understand,” Dagon said, not understanding at all. She just watched as Beelzebub slammed the mug on the table beside their throne, this time without shattering it but still glaring death at it all the while. Finally, they stood. 

“I will have his soul. It is a matter of principle.”

“Of course.”

“He spent his existence serving someone who threw him out at the first failure - who does he think he is, to just start lecturing--” they trailed off with a scoff, waving a hand. “Neither of us could bring about the Apocalypse, neither of us could punish the traitor, but I am Prince of Hell still. My loyalty was recognized - and where has his loyalty landed him?”

“In Soho,” said Dagon, who was not the sharpest knife in the drawer when it came to figures of speech. Not that Beelzebub minded the rather literal nature of their reply. 

“Exactly! Some thanks he got for his eons of work, doing everything by the book - and now he thinks he can question Satan, of all beings!”

The notion of questioning Satan was unthinkable enough to make Dagon visibly shudder, clasping her hands behind her back. “If you win-- I mean, when you win his soul, he’d better learn his place quckly, or he will not last as a demon.”

“Of course he wouldn’t last! He thinks it was bad being cast out! Hah! There is no being cast out of Hell. Questioning Satan means destruction for any of us, and--” they trailed off, suddenly, and to Dagon’s confusion their expression went from frustration to astonishment, like something mind-blowing had just occurred to them. It wasn’t often they were so fazed and Dagon might have asked, if not for the fact the Lord of the Flies’ features twisted into fury once again the next moment. 

“He’ll learn better, or face the consequences,” they buzzed furiously. “You’re dismissed.”

“Huh. My Lord, I am here concerning the filing system upgrade you reque--”

“GET OUT!” Beelzebub’s shout was underlined by a burst of flames and furiously buzzing flies, which told Dagon in no uncertain terms that was the right moment to take her leave.

Questioning Satan was unthinkable, but questioning Beelzebub was not a very bright idea either.

***

“I certainly hope I have not taken you from important duties by calling you here - duties which I’d rather know as little about as possible,” Gabriel said. He managed a smile, passing the mug from one hand to the other. “You must have been busy. I must say, I have been busy myself. Time flew by. I just now realized we haven’t met in a couple of weeks.” 

A pause. 

“... Not that I was actively thinking of it, of course, but I just happened to pass by a store, and they had this mug on display. Since you seem to like mugs, I figured it would be right up your alley. I understand if not, I purchased it just in case - I could use a new mug myself, I could keep it. That was the idea, actually. That you might like it was more of an afterthought, but either wa-”

“Sir.” Gabriel’s little speech to the wall was cut off, and he turned to see a rather exhausted-looking clerk staring at him, and then down at the mug in his hands. 

“It’s closing time. Do you want to purchase either of those?” he asked. Witnessing a client talking to the wall for several minutes while holding mugs didn’t really seem to faze him.

Closing time already? He must have been standing there longer than he thought. About an hour longer than he thought. “Ah,” Gabriel said, and looked down at the mugs he’d picked up. One read ‘Boss From Hell’ printed in back letters and surrounded by flames, while the other read ‘Tears Of My Employees’. He tried to make himself pick one in the following five seconds, failed, and sighed. 

“I’ll buy both.”

“We have a discount, that would be ten pounds. Twelve if you buy a third.”

“Oh. In that case…” Gabriel turned and grabbed what had been his third choice, ‘Bitter As Hell’. “I’ll take this one as well.”

It didn’t occur to him that trying to claim he had just so happened to buy three mugs Beelzebub might like, entirely incidentally, might not be an easy lie to sell.

***

“Why rebel to the absolute authority of God to pass absolute the absolute authority of Satan,” he’d said. 

“It was God’s Great Plan you were fulfilling,” he’d said.

“I didn’t mean to grab you,” he’s said. 

There was absolutely not one aspect of their last conversation that did not make Beelzebub want to burn down a planet or two or twenty before returning to Earth to choke him with the very mug he had foolishly gifted them. First of all because he deserved it and, secondly, because he had a point and it was the single most infuriating thing Beelzebub had to admit to themselves in the past several millennia. 

There had been a similar conversation before, hadn’t there? Only that the roles were reversed, then.

“We do all the work, no? God has done nothing but give orders in eons,” Ba’al had said, a very long time ago.

The ruler keeping away, not really talking to anyone, giving instructions that are not always exactly clear or giving none.

“Don’t you dare say such a thing! None of us is above--” 

This insult will not stand!

Overall that seed of extremely uncomfortable doubt was the most worrying thing, and therefore Beelzebub made what seemed the most logical move: ignored it entirely hoping it’d die off like an unwatered plant, and focused on the other infuriating thing about their latest exchange. 

He’d picked them up. He had dared pick them up, just like that, presuming he was allowed to touch them - that was the infuriating part. The worrying part, though not as worrying as an attempt at questioning the very foundation of their existence, was that outrage hadn’t arrived immediately after the surprise faded. Something else had, which Ba’al may have felt once but not Beelzebub, not ever, not since the Fall that forged them into what they were now.

They’d ordered Gabriel to unhand him without knowing exactly what they would have done if he had not, and try as they might there was no denying a pang of something that felt suspiciously like disappointment when he had, indeed, unhanded them. And that stupid look on his face...

Hey, get a room!

Ridiculous suggestion, ridiculous idea. They were not even human, and were not among the demons who ever held any interest in carnal matters. Gabriel may be human now, but surely neither would he. And if he did-- no. No, it was ludicrous.  

Everything about this is ludicrous. I should have burned that mortal to a crisp. Should have burned Gabriel to a crisp when I found him, let his soul go wherever, and forgotten about it. 

But they hadn’t and now they were stuck, because getting his soul was a matter of pride and they really should go back on Earth to make sure he wasn’t behaving too well and earning himself access to Heaven. If he did, and returned there as a mortal soul in the lower spheres after death, it would mean defeat… and never seeing him again, because mortal souls couldn’t leave Heaven any more than demons could enter it. 

Either I win his soul, or the end of his laughable lifespan will be the last I see of him. And I am losing that fight.

“Well, good riddance,” Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies and Prince of Hell, told the empty room. Empty words. Empty lie. 

And keeping up willful ignorance was getting difficult, more and more unwise by the day.

***

“Uh, angel?”

“Yes?”

“Since when you have pornography books?”

“Oh, a good while now,” Aziraphale replied, as casually as he might have informed him that it was mildly breezy outside. “They’re all first editions.”

“Ah.” Crowley cleared his throat, skimming through it. It was illustrated, showing men in various interesting as well as rather indelicate positions. Some of which had to be bullshit, because there was no way a human being’s skeletal structure may allow for such flexibility. “Not very holy, I have to say,” he said, choosing not to comment on the fact it was right next to a first edition of the King James Bible.

“They’re collectibles. I acquired that one in a discreet gentlemen’s club, one of the patrons - a grandson of Queen Victoria, I believe - was selling it.”

“A discreet gentlemen’s club.”

"Yes, in the 1880s. The Hundred Guineas Club.”

���The-- wait, that club? In Portland Place?”

“Yes, you heard of it?”

He had and, considering it was the most exclusive gay club in London at the time, so had plenty others. His eyebrows went up almost to his hairline. Surely he had not… no, not Aziraphale, he couldn’t imagine it. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. “... I heard it mentioned once or twice.”

“It was a nice place, I was quite put off when they shut down. I learned to dance the gavotte there."

“The gavotte.”

“You know, the dance?”

“You went to the Hundred Guineas Club and learned the gavotte.”

Still focused on the books he was cataloguing - apparently, moving books from one bookcase to the other was… more complicated than just grabbing them and moving into another bookcase - Aziraphale shrugged. “Well, it was more convenient than going all the way to France,” he said, like he had not taken a trip to France in the midst of the Revolution, dressed as a nobleman, to eat some crêpes. 

“... Fair,” Crowley muttered, putting the book down and stepping closer to the shelves. In the end, they had elected to only move some of Aziraphale’s most prized books in the cottage and leave the rest in the bookstore. After all, with a door now miraculously connecting them, it would be a simple matter of stepping through it. “How’d Gabriel even know you had this sort of book?”

“Oh, I don’t think he did. I have no idea what that was all about, in all honesty. It did cause some awkwardness when a customer present returned asking to see the books I have in the back of the store. I had to turn him down - they’re not for sale,” he added, stepping back from the bookcase to admire how the books looked in it. He seemed satisfied. 

“Heh. If Gabriel shows up again asking for pornography, you should show him this.”

“That would be most inappropriate,” Aziraphale replied, somehow managing a tone that said he disapproved as well as a look that hinted he was at least amused by the notion. “Which he is now aware of, thank God, so unless he loses his mind he is unlikely to come to me asking for pornography,” he added, and both of them forgot something rather important he should have learned long ago.

Unlikely was not impossible.

***

“What’s the meaning of this?”

“What-- there is no meaning. It’s just mugs.”

“You summoned me to show me mugs? Are you mocking me?”

“No! I just bought these for myself, and I figured you might… er…” Gabriel paused, unsure. It finally occurred to him that the claim was… a little less than believable, and he may be better off telling the Prince of Hell something a bit closer to the actual truth. “I bought them as… apology.”

Beelzebub turned to look at him, clearly taken aback for a moment before they narrowed their eyes. “And pray tell, what are you apologizing for?”

Gabriel shifted his weight from one foot to the other, a little taken aback by the question. “For-- grabbing you?”

“... Yes, I suppose I am owed an apology for that too.”

Ah. Right. “If it’s about what I said about you letting Satan have absolute power after rebelling against absolute power--”

“Yes. Apologize.”

Gabriel frowned a little. “You know I have a point.”

“You do not.”

“You wouldn’t be so cross about it if you didn’t know that I do,” Gabriel remarked. 

Beelzebub’s expression soured, but they didn’t try to argue that point. Instead, they turned to look at the mugs. “An appropriate payment for your insolence would be your soul, but for now, these will do just as well.”

As much as the statement should have relieved him, something about it rubbed him the wrong way. “Wait, is that what my soul is worth? Twelve pounds?”

“I said for now, mortal.”

“Oh. I mean, good. I was starting to feel insulted,” Gabriel managed to joke, smiling. Beelzebub raised an eyebrow at him.

“Also, while I am not an expert in human etiquette when it comes to… gifts, I am fairly sure you are not supposed to disclose the price paid for it to the recipient.

Gabriel’s smile went out like a burned-out lightbulb. “Ah. Fuck,” was the brilliant reply. For the briefest moment, the corners of Beelzebub’s lips seemed to quirk upwards before their gaze turned inquisitive. Which was… probably not a good sign. 

“You are a mortal now.”

“... I am aware?”

“And a great many mortals have desires. The carnal sort.”

Gabriel opened his mouth, sputtered, and felt his face catch fire. 

Hey, get a room!

“Yes, I-- I suppose-- they do,” he muttered. It had been simply a fact he had been vaguely aware of for a long time, of absolutely no relevance to him. He still was of no relevance to him, or so he had thought until very, very recently. 

When the Prince of Hell had suddenly been in his arms, the weight and warmth of them, the closeness, the grip on his shirt right over a fast-beating heart he couldn’t entirely blame on jogging. How right it had felt. How reluctant he was to let go. 

Beelzebub stared, expression unreadable; only the clearing of their throat revealed the barest trace of discomfort. “Well. Do you?” they asked, their gaze resting on just about everything in the room except Gabriel, who was beginning to wish God would smite him where he stood.

“No, I--” he paused, trying with very little success to recollect his thoughts. Not that he’d precisely had carnal desires - or at least he didn’t think he did - he knew very little of what those would entail. It was not something he’d looked into. Perhaps he should seek advice. “I don’t… think I do?”

Beelzebub turned away, too quick for Gabriel to gauge their expression, and grabbed the mugs. “I see,” they said, their voice entirely flat. “Well then. Your boon and apology are accepted.”

“Ah. Good.” Gabriel cleared his throat, trying to recover some semblance of control. “Well, if you are not busy this evening, I was wondering if you’d--” 

There was a burst of flames, louder and taller than usual, followed by the wail of the fire alarm that had, at long last, detected the presence of hellfire. Gabriel ignored it, just staring in silence at the spot where Beelzebub had stood only a moment earlier, feeling a lot like he had just failed a test he did not understand.

***

"And He said to them, 'Why are you troubled? And why do doubts arise in your hearts?'" -- Luke 24:38

***

[Back]

[Next]

[rise-above-the-grave]

beware stained glass shards

for @dekusmynamecryingsmygame​. you said angst was fine, so uhhhh have some mf-ing erasermic angst I guess. please note that a) I am brand new to this fandom and am still figuring out headcanons and characterizations. hopefully I didn’t screw anything up too bad in that regard...but if I did, please at least be gentle in your critique :’)... b) I wrote this in...about 4 hours, all completely after midnight. it’s not gonna be my best work :/ but I did my best! and I wanted to get this up asap so you could see and read it sooner rather than later.

tw for: canon-typical injuries, hospitals (and everything that goes along with hospitals like doctors, nurses, surgeries, etc.), some implied (it’s only implied!! and it’s super duper uber vague) nsfw stuff, and an off-screen (debatable; maybe-it-was, maybe-it-wasn’t) suicide attempt. (was it a suicide attempt or a villain attack? I don’t even know myself! - at least not yet. read it however you wanna read it. I purposefully leave it open for interpretation.)

and if you don’t wanna read it because of that even potential suicide attempt, lemme know and I’ll write you something else, Peachy... alkdsjflkjdsf unfortunately I have a bad case of “I didn’t think this through” after midnight, and I didn’t even think of that possibility until I was basically done writing it. at that point I was like “It’s 5:30 and I need to sleep, I might as well post this on the off chance they do want to read it...” if you don’t wanna read it tho lemme know and again, I’ll write ya something else tomorrow <3

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

He falls.

There is lightning, there is thunder, there is rain—and for an instant (a second, a heartbeat, a breath), he is a swallow, a sparrow, a falcon. He flies with invisible wings, the air is caught beneath him and above him and before him, the world spreads out into infinity below the raindrops hanging suspended in the air. The lightning gilds his dark hair in quicksilver, the thunder that follows an instant later shakes his bones, and the rain that drives him to the earth soaks his clothes into a second skin.

He falls, the asphalt of the alley that runs beneath the comet of his body rising nearer and nearer in a rapid sequence that he thinks, distantly, should be alarming.

I should be afraid, he thinks.

This is going to hurt, he thinks.

Hizashi—

And then there is pain, and there is fear, and there is darkness gilt by lightning, silence shrouded by thunder, blood watered by rain.

---

Yamada Hizashi is 22, desperate, and dangerous.

He is older than he thought he would ever be. When he was young, he had imagined himself living to the infinite age of 50. He would look at himself in the mirror hanging in the bathroom, fingers combing through hair he imagined going silver, palms smearing smooth skin he imagined going wrinkled and weather worn. He would pluck at the band t-shirts he’d wear under too-hot, too-heavy jackets with fidgety hands, wondering what he’d wear then.

I’m gonna be a hero! he’d told his moms, and when they laughed and hugged him and told him, You’re going to be the best hero there is!, he believed himself immortal, invincible, inevitable.

And he was. He was immortal, invincible, inevitable. He could be hurt, he could be beaten, he could be knocked down. But no matter what—no matter the pain, the struggle, the difficulty—he healed, and he fought until he was victorious, and he stood back up. No one could keep him down. No one could diminish him. No one could threaten his impenetrable view of the future.

And then—and then Oboro. And it had all crashed down around him, like so many shards of shattered stained glass.

With Oboro goes his heart. His future. His eternity. He is taught, with the sharpness of stone, with the heaviness of rubble, with the choking taste of dust, that death lurks in the most innocent of shadows, that pain waits in the wings of the theater, that certainty is a lodestone chained around your neck.

Nothing is certain. Not everything can heal. No one is invincible.

He stops thinking he’ll live to 50.

He stops thinking he’ll live past 20.

“Fuck you,” he spat, and Shouta flinched as if he’d been struck, the Happy birthday that had been on his lips dying a silent, painful death. “Fuck everything.” Without warning—without even fully processing what he intended to do; he just hurt, and he needed something, someone, to hurt with him—Hizashi threw his tumbler against the wall behind the bar. The shelf the tumbler hit broke, and a cascade of bottles and liquor crashed to the floor in so many shard of glass and fragments of dreams and spreading rivers of blood.

There was a shout, and then Hizashi felt Tensei’s and Nemuri’s hands on his shoulders, heard Shouta’s voice sounding unusually placating and apologetic as he spoke to the bartender who had rushed over.

“Get him out of here,” Shouta snapped a few seconds later, turning and looking straight at him with death in his eyes. For an instant, Hizashi almost felt guilty. Then Tensei and Nemuri were dragging him away from the counter, away from the gathering crowd, away from the bar.

“Idiot,” Tensei muttered as Hizashi listed against him in the alley behind the bar, all at once too drunk and too sober to function.

“Idiot,” Nemuri sighed, guiding him into the cab, buckling the seatbelt across his chest and waist and then letting him collapse against her shoulder.

“Idiot,” Shouta hissed at him as he undressed him and shoved him unkindly into bed.

He stops thinking he’ll live—and so he stops caring. He drinks too much. Eats too little. Throws himself into his work with a single-minded mania.

His relationship with Shouta suffers. They grate, like two broken ends of a once-whole bone, the nerve that is Oboro’s death still laid bare between them. Shouta can’t sleep without Hizashi in his bed; Hizashi can’t sleep unless he’s alone. Hizashi drinks to drown his memories, his emotions, his pain; Shouta tries to starve his out. They argue about it, until Shouta erases Hizashi’s quirk and Hizashi throws a punch—about Shouta’s energy pouches, about Hizashi’s whiskey. About the lights Hizashi wants to leave on at night. About the socks on the floor inside the door. About the uncapped toothpaste left by the bathroom sink. About the half-eaten takeout sitting in the fridge. About the nights Shouta will disappear without warning, without a trace. About—

Hizashi wonders if it is his fault the day Shouta walks out, slamming the door behind him.

Shouta doesn’t come back.

Hizashi drinks more. Eats less. Works harder. Does anything, anything to distract himself from the event horizon opening inside his chest.

I’ve lost my best friend, he thinks, curled up alone and unable to sleep in a bed that had once held two.

For the first time in years, he wishes someone was sleeping beside him.

It is dangerous. He knows this—knows the risks, knows that the rewards are negligible compared to the ruin it could bring him. His career is on the line. His future hangs by a thread.

Hizashi doesn’t care.

He isn’t going to live past 21 anyway.

Only a few of his partners know who he is. Those that do keep silent. It is never wise to paint a target on your back, and Hizashi makes it clear that he doesn’t want a relationship, isn’t looking for a connection—that there is no reason for them to think there is anything between them but drunken carnality.

He learns fast how to duck cameras—and how to attract them. He learns how to avoid reporters, except when he wants to talk. He learns how to sidetrack paparazzi with glamour shots. He finds he is good at this game of chess, of Russian Roulette, of cards built into fragile palaces. He is good with people, good with crowds, good with playing the symphony’s strings.

I’d make a damn good villain, he thinks one night before he drifts off to sleep, a cute blond whose name he can’t remember already asleep beside him.

And then he thinks of Shouta—of Eraserhead—and the guilt he’d swallowed eight months before, when Shouta had walked out and left nothing but empty shadows where he’d been, threatens to choke him. He barely makes it to the bathroom before he vomits, bile tasting of too-much alcohol and too-little food, of regret and shame.

What am I doing? he thinks, leaning his forehead against cool porcelain.

“Are you okay?” the cute blond asks. He stands in the door to the bathroom and looks down at Hizashi with concern in his pale eyes.

“Get out,” Hizashi says, not looking up.

“But—”

“Just—just go.” And then, softly, voice breaking halfway through the only syllable that matters, “Please.”

The cute blond leaves, and Hizashi is left totally, utterly alone.

---

“You’re listed as his emergency contact.”

Hizashi stares at the window overlooking the city and sees nothing but smears of too-bright light against a stormy night. Sees nothing but the unknown caller ID flashing up on his phone screen after its ringing had woken him. Sees nothing but the memory of Shouta’s face just before he’d turned away and stalked out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him.

What had they even been fighting about? Hizashi can’t remember.

“I’ll be right there,” Hizashi says, unsticking his throat just long enough to remember what he’s supposed to say.

The line clicks dead, and Hizashi stumbles blindly out of bed and into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. He throws on a jacket, a pair of boots, a set of headphones. Ties his hair up in a bun to keep it out of his face and, hopefully, dry once he pulls the hood of his jacket over his head.

The trip to the hospital is spent in a haze of emotion, fear, and dread. He can’t parse any of it, though. Can’t understand it, give voice to it, give structure to it. All he knows is that he is feeling, and that he is afraid, and that he is certain that the scythe has finally fallen once again—only once again it hasn’t come to reap his life.

The hospital is bright against the rain-swept night, clean and sharp and stinging. Hizashi feels bad about the mud he tracks in, feels bad about the water he drips on the floor, feels bad about the lingering scent of gel and hairspray that seems to hang around him no matter what shampoo he uses.

He tells them who he is, who he is here to see. The nurse helping him looks at Hizashi with a curious expression that he is too strung out to try to interpret, and then leads him down a maze of white corridors that he knows he will never remember. They stop outside a door in the ICU, and the woman rests a hand on his forearm and says something Hizashi does not hear. Then she opens the door, and Hizashi steps into the room.

Shouta is unconscious on a bed, surrounded by machines. His chest rises and falls with intubated breath, and two IVs are hooked into the backs of his hands. His eyes are closed beneath the purple and black bruising shadowing his face, and Hizashi can just see more bruising peering out above the bandages swathing his chest.

“How—” He chokes, unable to form the words that he needs to say.

“We don’t know,” the nurse says. “He was found in an alley by a couple of drunk college students. We think he fell.”

“Fell?” Hizashi repeats dumbly. “But he never falls.”

The nurse is silent. Whatever she is thinking, she does not share with Hizashi.

For that, Hizashi is grateful.

“Is he going to make it?”

“We don’t know,” the nurse admits. “He has to stabilize before we can use any healing on him. If he survives the night, his prognosis will be good—but it’s a big “if”.” She hesitates, then says, “It’s a good thing you came.”

Hizashi moves to sit in the chair pulled up to Shouta’s bedside and sinks into it. He does not see the nurse watch him with concern—does not hear her pager go off a few minutes later. He does not even notice when she disappears through the door, or when the door clicks shut behind her.

For a long time, Hizashi is silent. There is too much to say—too much he needs to say, too much he wants to say, too much he can’t say. The words sit heavy on his tongue, in his throat, behind his teeth. They are stones in his stomach, glass in his lungs, thorns in his heart.

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

He laughs weakly.

“You always did have a way of leaving me speechless, Sho,” he says at last. His voice is a clap of thunder in the silence of the room.

Hizashi sighs and buries his face in his hands.

“Please wake up,” he whispers through his fingers. “There’s so much I have to tell you. So much you have to know. Like, you have to know that I—I’m sorry. For…for everything.”

He swallows. His throat constricts, and his breath comes in shaky gasps.

“I can’t lose you too,” he says to his palms, because looking at Shouta is too much. His voice is hoarse and barely audible and pleading. “Please, Sho…”

The machines beep. The vents rattle. Shouta’s false breath hisses.

And Shouta doesn’t wake, even when Hizashi begins to cry.

---

Hizashi is asleep when the doctor comes in, just after dawn. He startles awake at the sound of the door closing, blinking blearily and turning his head to stare at the tall, dark man. The doctor smiles at him, and goes to check on Shouta.

He had survived the night. That much, at least, is a relief.

“We still don’t know,” the doctor warns Hizashi. “But we can start to be hopeful.”

They take him away for another surgery. This time, they promise Hizashi, a healer will be involved.

Hizashi stands, stretches, and goes in search of food. He finds the cafeteria, and buys a meager breakfast that smells bad and tastes worse. When he looks at his phone, he sees that he has missed calls from both Tensei and Nemuri. He shuts it off and shoves his phone back into his pocket to deal with later.

He’s going to have to call his agency soon, too, but he has a few minutes until that call is critical.

He spends a quarter of an hour sitting at the hard, plastic table in the cafeteria, staring out of the window at the overcast morning and thinking. He thinks about what he is going to say if—when—Shouta wakes up. He thinks about what he is going to say to Nemuri and Tensei. He thinks about his choices, and about the certainty of death, and about the possibility of life.

He thinks about Oboro, and about Shouta, and about how he lost one and how he might lose the other.

Hizashi stands, shoving his chair back so hard it topples onto the floor with a bang. What few others are in the cafeteria stare at him with varying degrees of irritation and wariness, until he rights the chair and walks away with a casual wave of apology.

He calls Tensei.

Tenya is running around in the background, laughing maniacally, and Tensei is distracted during the call in spite of his concern. He promises to come by the hospital when he can, though, and tells Hizashi to call Nemuri. Hizashi promises he will, and hangs up.

Nemuri is unusually quiet as Hizashi tells her what he knows of what happened, and while he tells her that Shouta is back in surgery. When at last she speaks, she only says, “You were still his emergency contact.” It is not a question. It is barely an observation. More than anything, it is a revelation.

“I guess so,” Hizashi says, cradling the phone between his ear and his shoulder as he feeds a bill into one of the vending machines. His breakfast had been bland, and he wants sugar.

They talk for another few minutes about nothing in particular, and as Hizashi unwraps his candy bar and begins to eat, he is struck with the notion that Nemuri is just trying to distract him. He appreciates it. Before long, though, she hangs up with a quick goodbye, and a promise to come to the hospital after her last patrol.

Hizashi crumples the empty wrapper and tosses it into a trash bin, and wanders his way back toward Shouta’s room.

He calls his agency once he is seated by Shouta’s still-empty bed. He tells them there was a family emergency, and that he will not be able to patrol today. They are surprisingly accepting of his feeble excuses, and Hizashi wonders if someone else had already contacted them. Probably Tensei, he decides. That was always the kind of thing Tensei thought of.

His phone calls made, Hizashi settles uncomfortably into the hard, plastic chair to wait for Shouta to be brought back. He tries not to think. He mostly fails.

He thinks of Shouta. He thinks of Oboro. He thinks of invincibility, and of shattered stained glass, and of birthdays. He thinks of a broken shelf of liquor bottles. He thinks of screaming at Shouta in their apartment, so angry he’s lost control, and of Shouta silencing him with a red-eyed stare. He thinks of broken promises, and broken hopes, and broken dreams.

They bring Shouta back in sometime around noon. He is still unconscious, but he looks a little better than he had the night before. The bruising is lighter—more red and purple than black and purple—and he is breathing on his own. Some of his color has returned as well, though he was never anything but pale.

The nurses leave again, after telling Hizashi things he does not hear, his attention fixed on Shouta to the exclusion of all else. He wonders, vaguely, as he feels them leave the room, if they had figured that out, or if they had just finished telling him what they had to say.

The seconds drag into minutes as Hizashi waits, the minutes into hours. Hizashi sits, stiff and sore, in the chair by Shouta’s bedside, watching his chest move beneath the bandaging, watching his eyes flicker beneath his eyelids. He wonders what Shouta dreams of.

The doctor comes in again. Leaves again. Hizashi ignores him.

Nemuri comes, but does not stay long. She talks, and Hizashi listens with half an hear, saying nothing as she tells him about her day, about her night, about everything but her worry over Shouta. It’s there, though, lurking beneath every strained story, every forced laugh, every brittle word.

Nemuri is older than him and Shouta and Tensei—but, like Tensei, she had found them adrift in the wake of Oboro’s death, and like Tensei she had decided, “These are mine, now.” Hizashi is grateful for it most days.

It is only after Nemuri stands and presses a kiss to Hizashi’s cheek in farewell that he speaks.

“They think he fell,” Hizashi says, not looking anywhere but Shouta’s face. Nemuri freezes.

“But he never falls.”

“I know.”

“Do you think—”

“I don’t know what I think,” Hizashi says, short and sharp. “And neither do you.”

Nemuri hesitates. Then says simply, “Okay.” She leaves without another word.

---

Tensei visits for an hour, and when he leaves he promises to return later in the evening so that Hizashi can run home to shower and change clothes. Hizashi agrees without really knowing what he’s agreeing to.

Night has just well and truly fallen when Shouta’s eyes flicker, then open. He looks around, taking in the lights and the ceiling and walls—and then his eyes fall on Hizashi, and he freezes.

“Hey,” Hizashi says.

Shouta turns his eyes away and stares up at the ceiling.

“Uh,” Hizashi says, feeling suddenly awkward and tongue-tied. “Thanks for leaving me as your emergency contact.”

Shouta grunts. Hizashi wonders if he can even talk right now, or if it’s too painful.

“Look, Sho…” Hizashi grimaces. “Shouta,” he corrects.

Shouta looks at him again, eyes flicking over to his face. Hizashi rubs the back of his neck, and tries to figure out how to say what he wants to say.

“I know this is a bad time,” he says finally. “But I have to say this before the doctors come rushing in, and before you get up the strength to kick me out.” Shouta’s eyes narrow at him, but Hizashi isn’t looking at him anymore—is staring, instead, at the edge of the bed.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out. “For…” He takes a deep breath. “For everything.”

Shouta looks back at the ceiling, and does not speak.

Hizashi calls the nurses. They come quickly, and Hizashi excuses himself from the room so that they can fuss over Shouta in peace. By the time they are done, Tensei is back, and Hizashi finds himself kicked out of the hospital until he has showered, changed, and eaten a full meal. He agrees to the terms grudgingly, but only because the memory of Shouta not even being willing to look at him is still fresh in his mind.

It haunts him as he showers, as he changes, as he walks to a small take-out restaurant a few blocks from his apartment and places his order. He wonders if he should even go back to the hospital, or if Shouta would prefer it to just be Tensei there.

He almost decides he would.

Tensei calls him just as he’s finishing his dinner, though.

“You on your way back?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Hizashi says, because he can’t quite bring himself to be selfless enough to say no.

---

Shouta is still awake when Hizashi walks into the room again. He looks at Hizashi when he opens the door and steps inside, then looks away again before he can close it. Tensei notices the silent exchange with a pensive look, but says nothing.

“Well,” he says, standing, “I have to go. I’m babysitting Tenya again tomorrow morning, and that little monster drains more out of me than twenty villains.” The soft smile on his lips belies the cutting words, though, and Hizashi knows that Tensei would give the world to his little brother if given the chance.

“Thanks,” Hizashi says, and claims the chair Tensei had just vacated.

Silence fills the room in the wake of Tensei’s departure, heavy and awkward and uncomfortable. Hizashi looks everywhere but at Shouta. Shouta stares at the ceiling.

“I…” Hizashi begins at last, entirely uncertain where he means to go with his next sentence but knowing he can’t bear the silence any longer.

A sigh cuts him off. Then, abruptly, in a ragged voice, Shouta says, “I’m sorry.”

Hizashi finally looks at him, startled. “For what?”

“For…everything,” Shouta says. “For walking out. For not being there for you. For ignoring you when you needed me.”

“Shouta, I…” Hizashi swallows hard. “I dug my own grave. I don’t expect you to dig me out. I never have.”

“Maybe that’s your problem,” Shouta whispers. “Our problem.”

Hizashi frowns. “What happened, Sho?” he asks suddenly. “How did you fall?”

“Someone pushed me,” Shouta says without hesitation. “I didn’t see them until it was too late.”

For the first time in seven years, Hizashi isn’t sure if Shouta is lying.

“Okay.” The word tastes like ash on Hizashi’s tongue, but there is nothing else he can say. Not now, anyway. Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

Shouta is silent again, but it is a different kind of silence. Hizashi waits, knowing he is preparing to say something. At last, after a few heavy moments of pregnant waiting, Shouta says, “Can we start over?”

Hizashi looks at him, surprised. “I���m not sure that’s going to be possible,” he tells Shouta.

“Maybe,” Shouta agrees. “But…try again, then.”

For the first time in over a day, Hizashi smiles. “Yeah,” he says. Then, again, “Yeah. I’d…like that. I’d like that a lot.”

Shouta nods, just a little, against the pillow behind his head. He closes his eyes.

“Will you be here?” he asks, voice already thick with sleep.

“Yeah,” Hizashi says, knowing what he’s asking. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Shouta nods again, eyes still closed, and in seconds his breathing evens out into a soft, sleepy cadence.

Hizashi settles back into his uncomfortable chair, preparing for another long night of half-conscious sleep. It’ll be worth it, though, he thinks. Anything is worth having my best friend back.

And for the first time since the stained glass of his invincibility shattered, Hizashi thinks that maybe, just maybe—if Shouta is at his side—he’ll see his 25th birthday. Maybe even his 30th.

Maybe even his 50th.