#its probably a line from prod but-

[hannahshoh]

“as a bb super fan, i know downgrade is a bad thing”

[carbonfiction]

Line to cross

Summary: When DBF!oldman!Logan catches you in a compromising position.. You should probably tell him to stop, should hold the fabric tigher in your fingers, be less calm, put up more of a fight.. He's your dads friend, a taboo line you really shouldnt want to cross..

Warnings?: 18+themes, basically PWP, smut, female masturbation, caught masturbating, mentions of dildos, swearing, nipple play, f!reciving oral, slightly forced orgasm? Tiny bit of overstim? Lotta Praise, nicknames (princess and babydoll mostly) , just oldman!Logan's mouth being a warning of its own really..

Gotta admit i wrote this with nothing more than horny brain. Old man logan just.. Hits the spot yk.. Pun not fully intented..

Masterlist words: just under 2.5k

"Now.. What do we have here?" Logan rumbles as he stands heavy against your doorway, arms crossed with a smirk tugging at his lips.

You shriek and scramble, like ice water has been pushed through your veins, rushing to cover yourself from his gaze. Practically naked and beyond mortified as you stutter biwildered whilst trying to tug your top back over your breasts. “w-what the fuck are you doing?! How long have you been stood there?”

“..what am I doing? I think I should be the one asking you that, princess.”

He ignores the second part of your question and you feel yourself try to shrink to no avail, so you repete; voice breathlessly unsteady and not quite sure if you truly want the answer. “How fucking long Logan..”

there’s bite to your tone but not in the way you’d like, it comes out less aggressive and more meek; unsure and utterly mortified

“long enough” Logan simply shrugs, notchulantly stepping forward into the expanse of your room, clicking the door shut behind him. “wasn’t exactly planning on dropping in, figured you were out.. but then I heard you from downstairs, called my name sounded desperate.. so I assumed something was wrong..” he trails off with a motion of his hands.

Shame swirls In your gut that you hadn’t only been thinking of him, but had fucking moaned out his name..and done so loud enough that (even without his hightend senses) he’d heard you.

“looks like i was the one wrong. Hadn't expected to come up here and see daddies little angel fuckin herself stupid on some plastic cock.”

“W-wasn’t, Logan i-“ it’s a futile defense, pointless really considering what you think he’s seen of you.

“You weren’t what hm? Weren't whimpering my name? Weren't splitting that pretty pussy open to the though of me, trying to make yourself feel good?" Logans hand laces with yours, as he bares down on the matress to sit, a calloused thumb ghosting over your knuckles in an attempt at comfort despite the mockery of his tone. "S’okay princess, don’t have to hide it”

heat spreads from the tips of your ears down your neck, darkening the already hot flush of your cheeks. “Logan I- I swear I didn’t mean-“

“Didnt mean what? To fuck yourself stupid or for me to catch you? Cause babydoll it looks like you failed at both”

A sound bubbles from your throat at that. shame, embarrassment, horror, arousal.. All knotting together in a potent mix deep in your stomach.

Your legs subconsciously close tighter under the thin sheet, a move that doesn't go unnoticed under logans perception.

its also a move that further jostles the dildo still tucked inside you, the blunt head prodding against a spot that has your eyes rolling before you can stop them.

You whimper a panicked little sound at the humiliation; at the lack of friction, the pleasure still festering in your gut. The words that fall so mockingly from logans lips.

He doesnt need his senses to feel the shameful arousal that radiates from your haistily hidden body and it has him huffing in amusement; whilst you scold yourself further for not removing the toy in your panic.

"Cmon, open up.. let me help" he murmurs, his large free hand grasping and pulling at the blanket covering you. It slips down further, covering only your waist- You should probably tell him to stop, should hold the fabric tigher in your fingers, be less calm, put up more of a fight.. He's your dads friend, a taboo line you really shouldnt want to cross..

And yet, you do. You want- need- to cross it with carelessness; with arousal burning your skin inside out.

You let him slip the fabric down past your hips. Past your clenched thighs, your knees, ankles. Until it sits in a discarded heap at the end of your bed.

Its the cool air of the room paired with the feeling of his calloused palm snaking its way back up your left leg that rouses you. "B-but logan, my dad is-"

"-Is gone. work called." he interups, his fingers kneading at the soft skin of your outer thigh. "Trust me s’okay.. S' just us. Me 'n you babydoll."

And with that said, a small reassured nod shaking your frame, his large hands pry your legs appart. Your body shuffles with his following, right leg coming to sit over the broad expance of his shirt clad shoulder, the bed creaking under the weight.

A scratchy kiss is planted just above each of your knees, logans beard rubbing as he shifts with you, coming to rest between your thighs.

The sounds of your heavy breath is the only thing filling the room until logan groans, deep and loud at the sight of your bare pussy still stuffed full of the the toy. "Fuckin lookatcha, already drooling.. such a needy little thing”

You keen at the feeling of his heavy hands touching your body, one sitting heavy on your lower stomach and the other resting against the base of the toy, careful not to move it just yet. You can tell by the way hes looking at you he's taking in the sight of your slick stuffed cunt.

"Want ya to show me what feels good, how you like to be touched.. show me what you were doin before i caught you" his words are quiet, mumbled against your thigh, yet demanding as his eyes find yours for that extra confirmation.

Your head moves in a nod but he tuts disapproving at the action. "Words princess, need ya to use em okay?"

"Y-yeah.. okay"

Wordlessly your hands drift back to your top, slipping it back to rest just below your collar bones, nipples perky and sensitive. It draws an exhale from your body as one hand comes up to your mouth, spit covering two fingers as you suck at them.

Once sufficiently wet they slip back against your left nipple, slick and shiney as you circle teasingly at the bud while your free hand gropes at the flesh on the other side, before moving to mirror the movements on the right. this time palm fondling against the swell of the left.

Your eyes fall closed at the sensations, quiet sounds falling from your lips; steady yet shy. Logan simply watches on, silent and enamored with every move you make.

Then your hand drifts once more, down your tummy and over the hand of his resting there, your touch soft and warm.

Theres a breathy sigh as you wrap your fingers around his on the base of the dildo as you push and pull back and forth. Alternating between the feeling of the silicon balls deep and the tip sitting bearly inside until it slips out with a thoroughly wet pop.

It's this time however logan cant muffle his groans at the sight; of you dragging his hand with the toy cock up and down your dripping slit. It further hardens his own cock sitting behind the denim of his jeans.

Logan lets go under your grip, using it to push your legs open wider as you slide the toy back inside; maintaining a steady pace. palm hitting your swolen clit with the force of your own thrusts. It feels good, fucking yourself like this with his eyes hungrily on you. It has you whining and keening, small uh uh uhs the longer you play but its not enough, not really.

Not when logan is laying between your legs with the knowledge of how to really get you off.

"L-logan, please.. Cant.. Doesnt feel as good myself" you huff and whine sounding akin to a petulant child not getting what she wants.. But in a cruel way you find thats true; while you aren't anywhere near a child anymore, you aren't getting what you really want.

The heavy hand that rests on your tummy moves down, until Logan's thumb presses on the hood of your clit. He tugs the swollen flesh back carefully and then smirks. He spits and you gasp. Yet he makes no moves, just watches it dribble down.

It has the need burning inside of you igniting further and under his touch you find any past embarrassment dissipating.

So you plead again, feeble and quiet, almost defeated. "P-please do something.. Need you to do it." you beg for the smallest movements, for anything he's willing to give.

And to your surprise... He does just that. He gives. The hand that opened your legs moving to shove away the fingers that wrap around the end of the silicon. Its done with an indignant shush when you whine; the dildo once again moving back and forth against your gummy walls. "Shh shh, s'okay I'll do it, you wanna fuck a plastic cock you've gotta at least do it properly princess”

The room fills with wet plap, plap, plaps, as logan keeps his quickened pace. Thrusting the toy steady as his eyes watch each motion hungrily.

"F-feels good.." you mumble squeezing at the meat of your tits, a hand coming down your stomach until it wraps tight around his thick forearm. Your nails dig in and he grunts at the sting of the crescent shapes denting his marred skin, but his movements never faulter.

Your eyes flutter and roll once more at a full thrust. The blunted bulbous tip prodding experimentally at that one spot again; slick and sticky silicone balls pressed flush against your ass as your hips try to buck for friction.

“ooh, there. we. go." logan huffs against your trembling thigh atop his shoulder, punctuating his words with three rougher thrusts. plunging the silicone dildo so deep you swear you feel it in your belly. "that’s the spot huh baby”

"M-mhm.. Close" You mumble through quiet moans. nodding quickly, lip bitten beneath your teeth as the pleasure builds faster and faster. Theres a tremble in your legs that grows the longer your body keens; back arching and hips writhing.

A condecenting chuckle slips from logan, dark and deep as he somehow manages to plunge the dildo faster and harder inside you.

The force makes your body jolt up the bed and you dont know if your scrambling towards or away from whats happening between your thighs. But you do find yourself greatful as your head hits the soft pillows; It happens the very same moment logans thumb finally, finally begins circling the pulsing bud of your clit.

Mindlessly you cry out, fingers pressing harder into your breast and logans forearm. "S-so close.. pleasepleaseplease"

His thumb moves faster, the rough pad slick and wet as you throb beneath his touch. Your body writhes as you moan out obscenities, the pleasure filled coil in your belly twisting tighter with every second that passes.

"Need you to do it babydoll, need to see you make a mess f'me." he growls, commanding.

Moments later you do just that. You cum with a such a visceral sob of his name that it wracks the entirety of your body; head thrown to the pillows and back arched so high it almost looks painful. White hot pleasure running through your veins as your stomach muscles heave.

Yet logan doesnt stop, doesnt let up his movements with his thumb or the now soaking toy cock, thrusting it with loud lewd noises of your cunt as it coats creamy with your release.

He simply coos out concoctions of praise; versions of 'that's it, Atta girl' and 'look so pretty when you cum' with his head pressed against your trembling thigh. Eyes dark and watching the way your slickend holes greadily clench.

He's hard, painfully so, but he knows this is a sight that he'll dream about later; his own slick cock in hand in the confines of his bedroom.

Overstimulation quickly threads its way into what was once overwhelming pleasure, turning the shocks into sparks. You writhe and moan under his hands, begging desperately as your hips buck frantic. "L-logan.. Im done- f-fuck s' too much, too much!"

"Ah ah" he tuts. "Your done when i say your done, need'a see you gush one more time" your eyes roll at that, the stimulation and the way his chapped lips press the words into your pubic bone.

Your eyes screw shut, brows furrowed as you struggle though the pain that with each movement winds your belly tighter. By now tears stream down your cheeks, hands grasping tight to anywhere you can reach of him; To push him away or pull him closer you still dont know.

The rubbing of his thumb on your pulsing clit ceases monetarily at the broken sounds you make and for a second you think hes letting up, going easy on you.

However the feeling of his hot mouth wrapping around the sensitive bud changes your mind. You squeal, loud and panicked, eyes flying open as your legs desperately try to shut around his head.

"N-nno no no" desperate hiccuped sobs falling from you as he laps and sucks, dildo still pushing into you, drawing you to the very edge of the burning pleasure pain in your gut.

"Do it princess, fuckin do it. Know you wanna" he mumbles wetly into your weeping pussy, tongue flicking in quick back and forths.

Your hips thump at his nose, coating the greying in his beard as you cum again. It's filled with a pain that drives the feeling of orgasm higher. your scream is silent, mouth opening and closing in wordless 'o' motions, brain so clouded your words fail.

The motions of the his mouth and the dildo slow until Logan's pulling off you. The sensitivity drawing a whine from your throat, while the the creamy coated sight of the silicone makes him groan loudly as he throw it somewhere on the bed.

For a while you lie there completely boneless, panting as your legs continue to tremble with the aftershocks, logan still resting between your thighs cooing softly. Hardly noticing the way he shuffles his way up your body until his spit soaked lips find your forehead.

"Good girl.. My good girl, Did so good f'me babydoll" he murmers softly against your skin between kisses, a contrast to his previous domineering tone.

You feel him gather your frame into him, the buttons of his shirt pressing into your skin as he lifts you from the bed bridal style. You smile up at him gently, meeting his gaze as your lashes flutter sleepily. His scent comforting as you wrap your arms around his neck, snuggling your head deeper into his chest; trying to burrow your own space inside.

His quiet chuckle is felt before you hear it, rumbing deep from his lungs as he pulls you tigher to him; heading for the bathroom. "Cute babydoll.. Real cute"

you whine at that, an exhausted but happy little sound as he leans his head down to kiss your hair before mumbling "lets getcha cleaned up hm? Ill take care of the sheets"

Eee- this has gotta be one of my favorite pieces I've ever written!! Lemme know whatchu think!! 🫶

[rodolfoparras]

A Helping Hand (Or two, or three..)

Thinking about Somnophila with monster!reader, having your boyfriend dead asleep after a long work week, stripped naked and laying face down on the sheets, practically leaving his ass for your taking

God he looks so pretty like this, you think as you reach out with a tentacle to caress the exposed skin. Usually you’d try to keep your hands to yourself, not wanting to wake him up after such a long week but he looks absolutely delectable like this with the sheets only covering his upper half and laying in such position that would make it so easy for him to take your cock.

So you allow your tentacle to trace the bottom of his spine, hearing the hitch of his breath as the cold wet tentacle brushes right below his birth mark, and watching it leave a wet trail behind as it works its way to his thighs, the slim limb gingerly pulling his legs apart til all you can see is the puckered ring of muscles.

“Oh fuck,” you breathe out, feeling the blood pool to your lower half and you watch as your tentacle takes the liberty to go further with its touch.

Despite the cold wet feeling grazing his skin, he’s receptive as ever to it: fully allowing the wet sticky limb to cup his cheeks, letting it squeeze and grope the skin like his ass belongs to it, watching him buck his hips as the tentacle tugs and taunts his puckered him and hearing it pulling sweet sweet sweet sounds out of him.

You can’t help but be surprised at his reaction since you’ve never touched him like this before, let alone showed him your tentacles, fearing it would have him running out the door. However looking at him now he doesn’t seem to mind them at all.

For a moment you think that in his sleep induced state he must believe that it’s you, his boyfriend, touching him like this, that’s why he must be so comfortable with it but you can see the furrow in his brow, can hear the choked “who” “what” almost as if he’s still trying to comprehend who- what is touching him right now

While you’re lost in your thoughts the tentacle manages to line itself up with his puckered rim, the slimy limb teasingly circling his clenching hole before it starts to slowly sink inside him.

It’s wet enough to easily slink inside and a bit bigger than the size of your fingers or tongue but he takes it oh so easily, allows the tentacle to slowly stretch him out without much resistance.

It’s almost like it knows his body better than you do as it takes him apart bit by bit, prodding and poking at the wall of nervous and leaving him quaking on the sheet; slowly erasing the furrow in his brow and replacing it with a look of pleasure, and silencing any questions with long hard thrusts til he’s only able to only utter sounds of pleasure.

“Mpfh! Fuck! Sir please!” He blabbers out and you can only watch in surprise as your boyfriend addresses you- it by a title you’ve never heard him use before, seemingly uncaring about who or what is fucking him anymore, matter of fact he seems all too eager at the thought of it being someone else other than you.

It’s like his words seem to fuel it on as another tentacle spurts from your chest and buries itself deep inside of him.

This time a loud scream escapes the other man, and you watch him jerk on the mattress probably having been woken up from his deep slumber by now but he still keeps his head down, wildly panting into the mattress “huh- what-wh-”

He doesn’t manage to get another word out as both of the tentacles ram into him, the force of the thrusts sending him forward as another scream escapes his lips. “Fuck oh - oh fuck!”

You can only watch as the tentacles continue to ram into your boyfriend, obscene squelching sound mingle with his scream and you watch his hole practically gaping every time they momentarily slip out of him.

You’re only brought out your trance when you feel a third tentacle wrap itself around your poor weeping dick, the wet limb softly stroking you from rot to tip as you watch your boyfriend get fucked by the other two limbs.

Slowly but surely the man inches closer to the edge and you watch him practically humping the sheets as the tentacles continue to fuck him “fuck fuck fuck, going to cum-“ he manages to splutter out and just as the words leave his mouth you watch him freeze up before he cums,“oh- oh god”

You’re quick to follow along, cumming right on his ass, and watching the tentacles eagerly clean it up.

The man before you slumps back onto the sheets as the tentacles pull out of him, and by the soft snores escaping his lips you can tell he’s already asleep. The limbs are quick to retract to your chest and you spend a couple of moments catching your breath.

Once he’s back to conscious, he turns to you with a lazy smile on his voice, sounding raspy as ever when he says “I had the strangest dream babe”

[so-much-for-the-seashells]

ur writing is so yummy!! i had a rlly hot idea idk tho lol

Logan holding the reader in a headlock and absolutely ravaging them 🤤

YUMMY?? Anon this is a compliment that simply makes me want to be at your beck and call 😘 and that, my dear (gn), is a very hot idea indeed. Thank you for the ask!! I’m sorry it took me like five years to finish it 😅 (also, its not the best, I’m sorry for that too 😭) but like life is… 😀😀💪💪💀💀

Anyways.

Minors, do NOT interact.

-ps: imagine any Logan you’d like! Also, comments are highly appreciated!! Beyond that, if you have a request of your own, please fire away!

Warnings: erm, I think the request has that one covered- but smut, piv, mentions of multiple positions, overstimulation, dirty talk, slight degrading?, sweet!logan even though he’s very rough, safe words. Afab reader.

————————————————————————

As far as sex with you went, Logan had one very important rule for himself: “don’t be rough.”

For as much as a part of him wanted bend your cute little self over a table and fuck you senseless until you had nothing on your mind other than his name, he knew he shouldn’t. He was worried he would break you. Genuinely worried. After all, it might be fun in the moment but the bruises from his adamantium skeleton? You probably wouldn’t be able to sit right or walk right for a week, and that’s not an exaggeration.

That’s not to say that the sex isn’t already fantastic. He’ll thrust into you with slow yet powerful thrusts that leave you shaking with every orgasm. He’ll put you in strenuous positions- time to join up with yoga!- and set every single nerve ending on fire.

But like him, you couldn’t help but want to see him let the animal out. You’d been having wet dreams about it recently, begging him to be rough with you.

Eventually he gave in, saying that this was to be a one time thing. This took SO much convincing, and it had to be on a night where you both had nowhere to be for the next couple days. Once that was settled, he finally, begrudgingly said ok, telling you that you would have to tell him to stop if you needed to. You agreed, and that’s how you landed in your bed, already on your third orgasm simply from him roughly stretching you out with his fingers and tongue.

God does he love the way your face screws up into that pleasure filled smile with your eyes closed tight. The way your head nestles into the pillows as you try to get away from him, not because you don’t like but because it just feels too good.

“L-Logan,” you whine, clutching at his hair. He groans into your cunt at the tugging, not relenting. Your legs have been quivering since your second orgasm, and show no signs of stopping.

“Gotta get you ready for me, sweetheart. Said you wanted it rough,” he mutters, before moving away from you and settling on top of you. You whine at the loss of contact even though you’re extremely excited for what’s to come.

“You know your safe word, right?” his eyes are black with lush. You nod. “Can you tell it to me, baby?” he prods. You oblige.

“Good girl,” he mutters, stroking himself a few times before lining up with your entrance. “My good girl.”

You’re positively soaked, so it’s no surprise that Logan’s able to slip in without any resistance, immediately hitting the deepest parts inside of you. You moan loudly, already on cloud nine.

“You like that, sweet girl? Well you ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” he smirks, and that’s the last thing he says before pulling out all the way and slamming back into you, making you yelp his name with delight.

He takes you so many ways- missionary, doggy, mating press, screwdriver, the works, until finally…

He wrestles you so that your back is against his broad chest, his cock splitting you from behind as you’re forced to look in the mirror. And then one of his beautiful, muscular arms flexes, forcing you in a headlock for support but all it does is pour gasoline on the flame of pleasure he had been stoking within you.

“I love your arms, Logan,” you tell him stupidly as he thrusts up into you. You couldn’t even tell how many times you or he had come, and you’re so out of it that you can barely register your mixed releases seeping out of your tight hole.

“I know you do,” he teases through a grunt. “I seen you looking at them all the time. Thought you might like this.”

It’s the fact that he actually thinks about what you might like before doing it that makes you come yet again, and he chucked, holding you close but his pace unfaltering.

“Makin’ so many messes, dolly. That good?” he says right in your ear before nipping at its lobe.

“Yes,” you cry, overstimulated but feeling as though you’re on cloud nine.

You see your fucked out self in the mirror, but you’re far more focused on Logan. Logan who’s face is scrunched up with determination, his jaw clenched as he brings your hips down to meet his every thrust. Logan, who’s cock is visibly stretching you open with every single hard, fast, deep thrust.

It gets to the point where you don’t think you can take it anymore because it just feels too good. Your head is lulling against his chest, relying on his arm to support it. A dumb, fucked out smile rests on it. But then he starts rubbing in your puffy clit, and you cry. “Logannnn I can’t- I- it’s too much,” you pout, but he just chuckles right into your ear.

“Whats the matter? You been begging for this for so long and now you can’t take it? Poor baby,” he coos mockingly, his pace never faltering.

“Logan!” you whine, clenching on him as hard as you can. He grunts.

“You need your safe word, baby?”

“No!”

“Then shut the fuck up and take it,” he scolds, somehow maneuvering you so that you’re on your hands and knees, his arm still around your neck as he snaps his hips against your. You think your legs are going to give out, but you don’t care because it just feels too good. You’re whining his name over and over again, your cheek smug against his strong arm as he abuses your cunt.

“We should do this more often, huh? Let me fuck into you like you’re a dirty whore,” he grins, impossibly picking up the pace. You clench at his words. “You really are a slut for me, huh, baby?”

“Yes!” you gasp, your eyes screwing shut as he brings you to the edge again. You’re past the point of overstimulation, your limp body unable to fight back as he bruises your hips with his own.

“Good girl,” he praises, making you whimper again by pressing his fingers to your pathetic clit. He expertly maneuvers his deft fingers against it, and you cry, unable to keep the tears of pleasure at bay any more. He tuts, speeding up his pace in response and all you can do is lie back and take it, powerless to say or do anything. A few minute more and you come again with a weak groan, your legs fully numb. He follows suit, finishing and stilling inside of you.

“You okay, sweets?” he asks after taking a moment to catch his breath. Your brain is still fuzzy, your body limp against his. You’re barely conscious enough to register the soreness between your legs, much less his rumbled words.

“Baby?” he asks, obviously concerned.

“Mmm,” you acknowledge him. Tears are still slipping from your eyes, residuals from how good he was making you feel.

“There she is,” you can all but feel his smile. He slips out of you and you whine, your cunt weeping for him, leaking what is definitely too much cum.

“What a gorgeous sight,” he meets your eyes in the mirror in front of your bed.

“Mhm,” you agree. He moves to stand, knowing that you need to rest, but naturally you pout as he gets off of the bed. “Need to get you cleaned up, sweet girl,” he says gently, brushing your sweaty hair off of your forehead.

“Kiss?” you ask sweetly, your watery eyes impossible to say no to.

“Where d’you want a kiss?” he teases, kissing your forehead. “Here?” You pout, tilting your head up toward his lips. “Oh, I see. Here?” he kisses your nose. You make an annoyed noise, and he takes pity on you. “Ohh, here,” he says, kissing you sweetly on the lips.

Because even though Logan has that power to be rough, when he loves on you, it’ll always be sweet.

[winter-doggo]

A post about things I found out while prodding at DGS/The Great Ace Attorney character models

Ryunosuke's eyeballs are this weird shape. I've generally found that, with ripped 3d models from other games I've looked at, any seperately modelled eyeballs underneath people's eyelids are probably pleasant half-spheres. now i'm seeing something that's not that and it feels very strange. Sir your eyes are oblong

There are a bunch of little differences between Kazuma's uniform and everybody else's. Definitely on account of being the star student and local coolest guy

Some more under the cut, starting with differences between Ryunosuke, Kazuma and Ryutaro's outfits that I found interesting:

There is a subtle "shape" on the back of each uniform. Kazuma's looks sorta like a star (like the University pin). The shape the other two have is a little more like a triangle.

Ryunosuke and Ryutaro wear their armbands on their right arm. Kazuma wears his on his left.

Ryunosuke and Ryutaro have two buttons on their sleeves. Kazuma has three.

Kazuma has an extra five-pointed star pin on his collar that the other two do not.

Kazuma has the sword at his left hip connected to a belt thing that probably has a proper name but I'm calling it a belt. When this sword is in Ryunosuke's care, Kazuma's headband is tied around its sheath, and it stays at the left hip but has no such belt. I have no choice but to conclude that Kazuma's headband is enchanted to create gravity defiance at all times.

(I have a lot of feelings on that headband being attached the sword like that. I'm not crying, you are)

Kazuma has nice boots

Ryutaro obviously has the cool hat and cloak that the other two only get to wear in cutscenes/artwork. There is nothing under Ryutaro's hat.

I have no idea what that thing on Ryunosuke's left hand is

While most of the outlines in Ace Attorney are done with a slightly bigger version of the character model and backface culling, various characters have nose lines that are pretty much "drawn on" with meshes (that are flipped based on the needs of the camera angle). Here I haven't moved them so it's easier to see. Neat to see the sort of methods they use to do this stuff

I checked back at the DD models to see if they'd done this before and the answer is "yes but with a bit weirder implementation".

Van Zieks' wine seems to be only half red?

With the power of BONES i can cause.... mischief >:3c

And also make the partners hold hands. enrichment in my enclosure

Thank you for reading, I will use my power responsibly

[zepskies]

The Honorable Choice - Part 1

Pairing: Dean Winchester x OFC 

Summary: June 1872. Captain Dean Winchester of the U.S. Cavalry is tasked with one job: break a wild mustang. He just didn’t expect the woman who infiltrates his camp, intent on freeing her tribe’s horse.

AN: I got inspired after a recent rewatch of Spirit: The Stallion of the Cimarron (literally a perfect movie), as well as having Yellowstone in the back of my brain. I thought this idea might be a good fit for this @jacklesversebingo prompt.

Disclaimer: I’ve done extensive research for this one, both on the American Indian Lakota tribe, and on American history during this time in the late 1800s (AKA: the Old West, during the American Indian Wars and the Sioux Wars). Of course, one of my main goals is to avoid inaccuracies, both historical and cultural.

Jacklesverse Bingo24 Prompt: Western AU

Song Inspo: The Spirit Soundtrack

Word Count: 4.6K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only to be safe. Racism/racial slurs, attempted sexual assault (not successful), protective Dean, angst, some violence and some action.

🐎 Series Masterlist || Bingo Masterlist

🎙️ Listen to the podfic version here!

Part 1: Pride & Prejudice

June 1872

Dean hears some of his men shouting, along with the telltale cracking of bone that would make a less seasoned soldier wince. He spares a look to Benny, his Lieutenant, and sets down his glass of whiskey.

Dean’s path takes him brusquely out of his office and toward the stables. He grabs his gun and his hat on the way there, setting the latter on his head.

Is it too much to ask for one night where he can drink in peace?

Dean comes to find a young woman being detained by two of his men, Kline and Novak. Roman sports a bloody nose and his eye is already beginning to swell. The woman fights against their hold.

Even under the pale moonlight, Dean notes the way she’s dressed: a deer skin dress cinched at the waist, over thin pants and shoes. He surveys her tan skin, her black hair that blends into the night, twisted into a long braid, and the anger in her dark eyes.

“What have we got here?” Dean says. He stows his gun in its holster as he approaches her, resting his hands at his belt.

“I caught her breaking into the stables, Captain,” Roman says. He prods with a hiss at his busted nose while trying to stem the bleeding. That’s going to be a bad break.

She remains tight lipped, stubborn. 

“Probably doesn’t even understand English. Savage bitch,” he says. Dean shoots him an impassive look to cover up his annoyance.

“Put a cork in it, Roman,” he orders. Then, he focuses back on her. “You’re a Lakota, aren’t you?”

Aside from their main mission here in the Dakota Territory, the Colonel has been fixed on fighting back against the Lakota Indians, especially after they sabotaged the supply line last month.

The proud tilt of the woman’s chin is her only answer to Dean’s question. Her gaze drags down his form with disdain, like he’s the savage. His mouth twitches mirthlessly. 

“The Lakota rear up their own horses pretty damn well. Why would you want to steal one of ours?” he asks.

She glances away from him, first at her feet, then over at the camp’s latest “guest.” Dean, Benny, and a few of his men wrangled up a horse a few days ago. He’s a beautiful Kiger mustang with a nasty mean streak. He barely got through a trim this afternoon, and almost took a chunk out of Rufus when he tried to brand the horse.

The Colonel ordered them to tie the horse up to a post just outside the corral—no food or water for three days. He’d turned to Dean with a firm set to his face and issued a single order.

“Break him.”

Now, Dean catches the furtive look the Lakota woman gives the horse, who flicks his tail. The animal stares right at her, as if into her eyes.

“Oh, don’t tell me you here for him,” Dean says with a chuckle. “That thing’s a little too much for you, sweetheart.”

That earns her attention, steely and unimpressed.

“He is too much for you,” she says. Her voice is smooth, and would even be pleasant, if not for the circumstances. “He is one of ours. You will never break him.”

Dean's eyes widen a fraction. He glances back at the mustang.

So that's why she's here, he thinks. She's trying to mount a rescue. Dean feels a twinge deep inside, but he can't allow himself to care about that. They've collected a strong horse that will be a good support for their objectives here, once he's broken.

“Ah, well see,” Dean says, tipping his Stetson up to meet her gaze. “That’s kind of our specialty.”

“Sir, should we take her to the stockade?” Novak asks. He seems reluctant to do so to a woman, even an Indian, but he’s always been good at following orders.

Dean opens his mouth to reply, but another voice cuts him off. Colonel Asmodeus Sanderson steps out and takes a look at their captive.

“Not the stockade,” he says, with that Southern drawl that betrays his Kentucky roots. “Not yet.”

He approaches her with a slow, calculated gait. His hands gather behind his back. Dean gives her credit for looking Sanderson in the eye. She seems rightly wary, but not afraid.

“We won’t hurt you. I give you my word,” the Colonel says, “if you’ll lead us to your people’s camp.”

He takes a hold of her chin, turning her face this way and that, like he’s examining a dirty animal, and all that he’ll have to do to make it clean. She spits in his face.

Dean bites the inside of his lip against a smile. She’s got as much fight in her as the mustang. However, he has to school his face back into stoicism when Sanderson rears back in anger.

The harsh smack rings out in the clearing, along with the woman’s cry. Dean doesn’t allow himself to outwardly react, but inside, his spine tightens as he fights his instincts.

Only Kline and Novak’s hold on her arms keeps her upright. She pants for breath, but again, she meets the Colonel with a face that doesn’t give away anything, despite the reddening mark on her cheek.

“The post,” he barks. “Three days. No food or water.”

Dean is kept busy by his duties. He makes sure the camp is running in order, accepting shipments of supplies and ammunition, among other things. Cas Novak is in charge of the stables, caring for the horses and putting them through their training. Jack Kline is young and strong and a good assistant, along with others in his unit.

Right now, Dean and Benny are going over the plans with Colonel Sanderson for continuing construction on the railroad, from here to the Black Hills. It’s a path that cuts straight through Sioux territory—the bands of Dakota and Lakota Indians that occupy the land.

“The natives are fightin’ us tooth and nail,” Sanderson says. “But maybe our guest will be able to help us…negotiate.”

Dean remains quiet, ignoring yet another uneasy twinge in his gut. He didn’t join the army to fight the Indians. He doesn’t always understand their way of doing things, but he understands why they fight—to protect their land, and to protect their own. It’s the same reason Dean fights, when he has to.

He joined the army because…well, it felt like the right thing to do at the time. His father had been a Cavalry Major, and he’d died an honorable death, now about a decade past.

Has it really been ten years? Christ.

Dean wipes his brow. Even with the windows open, the office is humid and smells like ass. He glances outside, where both the mustang and the woman are tied to their posts under a sweltering sun at high noon.

Not for the first time, Dean wonders what his dad would think of him now. 

After the meeting, Dean and Benny fall into step together to inspect the camp. The summer sun shines hot on their blue uniforms, and occasionally they raise their hats to mop the sweat from their brows.

Things are running as usual, but many of the men’s eyes occasionally turn to the posts. Dean’s attention wanders there too without him realizing, catching on the woman’s dark hair. It shines even blacker in the sunlight, like a raven’s wing. He knows the shade because his dad used to have a feather kept in his journal, like a bookmark.

“You okay, brother?” Benny asks. Dean realizes what he’s doing, and his attention returns to the task at hand. Get it together.

Always forward, never backward.

“Just fine,” Dean replies. Benny gives him a knowing look.

“A bit unsavory, ain’t it?” he says. “Keeping her chained up without even a lick of water.”

“The Indians are getting smarter, bolder. They’re ambushing our men, going after our supply lines, and now, stealing our horses,” Dean says. “This is strategy.”

Benny shrugs slightly, making a sound of agreement. Dean hesitates, his gloved fingers flexing against his sides.

“If she was a man, you guys wouldn’t give a shit about putting a bullet through her head,” Dean says.

Benny’s gaze shifts downward. He doesn’t reply, but he concedes the point all the same.

They continue their route, and Dean keeps the rest of the conversation on the work at hand.

Mila has gone far longer without drink, but the sun is particularly unforgiving today. She’s prayed and prayed for even one cloud to glide overhead and shield her for a while. It’s not much better for her companion. He paces in place, occasionally tugging his head against the rope that binds him to his post.

She makes a clicking sound at the horse, getting his attention. She calls him by his name, and his ears flicker in her direction. He offers her a short whinny in response.

“I see you, Mato. I am with you,” she says in her native tongue. She hopes the sound of her voice will soothe him. He looks tired and hungry, but his eyes flick hard and untrusting on any man who comes near him. His spirit isn’t broken.

“Hey! Shut the hell up over there,” Roman shouts at her from where he and Cas are taking a short lunch break. Cas gives him a certain look, crossed mostly with annoyance.

Mila resists the urge to roll her eyes. Instead, she closes them and tilts her face back to the sun. In a way, it feels cleansing. Maybe it can wash away the stench of the White Men’s hands on her body, manhandling her, checking her for weapons.

She spends the rest of the day watching the camp. One of their leaders, the Green Eyed One, called this a fort. It does look fortified, with tall walls made of thick wood constructed to form a cage—whether to keep others out, or to keep the men and horses in.

She identifies the Colonel as their chief, of a kind. Green Eyes is second in command, followed by the Bearded One with a strange voice. Even the scruffy Blue Eyed One has some authority, mostly over the Child Faced One. There are too many others to rank them all, but she knows the Loud Mouthed One is arrogant, even after she broke his nose. The way he carries himself, he clearly thinks he has more power than he actually has.

In her mind, Mila conjures up different plans of escape. All of them fall short in some way. The men didn’t find all of her weapons; a small knife is hidden deep in her boot. She could saw at her binds within an hour, but even with Mato to carry her out and away, the problem is escaping this camp without alerting the men. Without getting shot.

She has three days to think.

That night, the moon refuses to give her clarity. Her stomach is too empty, her throat too dry, her tongue thick in her mouth. Her attention shifts in and out of consciousness, until the sound of boots crunching in the dirt trills unease down her spine. More alert, she sits up straighter.

The Loud Mouthed One. The one they call Roman comes to taunt her, offering her water, then drinking for himself instead. He comes closer to examine her. He has a small bind over his broken nose.

“You know, you’re a pretty one,” he says, taking another cold sip as his gaze drags over her form. “For a wild thing.”

His face nears hers, clean shaven, though his thin smile reminds her of a rattlesnake. Dread and repulsion churn at odds in her stomach as she realizes what he's really here for. It doesn't matter if he truly wants her, or just wants to pay her back for his face. Either way, he means to take her here in the dirt.

She looks away, not wanting to let him see her fear, or the dread tightening her stomach, rising into her throat. He winds long fingers into her hair. At first the hold is gentle, deceptive. Then it's tight against her scalp. She hisses in pain when he tugs her head back and forces her to look at him. Her breathing quickens as she tries to pull away.

He draws in close to try and claim her in a kiss, but she head-butts him, hard.

He cries out and stumbles back, his flask falling to the ground.

He angrily grabs her and hauls her up to her feet. He pushes her hard against the post and unbuckles his belt, just to stuff it in her mouth. With his free hand, he begins to undo his pants.

She refuses to cry out, even though she spits out his belt and fights him, trying to kick out his knees.

Suddenly, the man’s body is ripped away from her. Mila loses her footing and falls to the dusty ground, sliding against the wooden beam she’s tied to. The wind is knocked out of her, but when she raises her head, she watches with wide eyes as the Green Eyed One beats the other man into the dirt. It doesn’t take much, just a few well-placed fists.

Roman lies there catching his breath, and he spits a wad of phlegm and blood. His left eye will match his nose, that’s for sure.

Green Eyes looks angry and disgusted. He huffs and puffs while staring down at his subordinate. He pushes back his short brown hair and points an ungloved hand at Roman.

“Get back to the goddamn barracks. You’re gonna be mucking out stalls until shit’s coming out of your ears,” he growls.

Roman doesn’t argue, though it’s obvious that he wants to. He just picks himself up, makes a show of straightening up his open uniform jacket while catching his breath. He walks past Green Eyes with a resentful, angry look. Green Eyes watches him until he disappears inside.

Then, he turns to her. His gaze softens somewhat, but it’s still unreadable. He crouches down in front of her, resting his arms on his thighs. Mila’s gaze briefly falls to his hands. They’re calloused, the hands of a laboring man. He carries himself like a warrior.

“Sorry about that,” he says.

It’s not what she expected. Mila eyes him warily when he moves closer. She presses her back against the post until it hurts her spine. He raises up his hands placatingly.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he says.

“That is what your Colonel said,” she says. Her voice cracks with dryness. “I didn’t believe him either.”

His lips flicker at a rueful smile. It wrinkles crow’s feet around his eyes, breaking his stony face.

“Fair enough.”

He reaches for his belt and retrieves a flask, similar to the one his subordinate carried. He extends it out to her.

“It’s water, unless you prefer whiskey. I know I do,” he says.

She raises a brow at him, but hearing the sloshing inside the flask, her thirst takes over her wariness, and even her pride. She tentatively leans forward. He brings it closer so she can press her lips to the opening. Despite his Colonel’s orders, he lets her drink as much water as she’s able. When she’s done, he pockets the flask and sighs, running a hand through his hair.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

That, she will not give him. Names are sacred to her people, and this man, while seeming to have a shred of honor, isn’t worthy.

“Don’t wanna even tell me your name?” he says. He nods slightly. “Okay, well, I’m Dean. Captain Winchester, to this band of delinquents.”

He gestures around the camp with a dismissive hand. Mila only watches him. She’s never seen a White act like this, breaking his leader’s rules, being…kind.

What a strange man.

But if he had any real convictions, he would untie her and let her go, along with Mato. She won’t hold her breath.

Dean’s brows raise up toward his hairline, and his full lips form a pout. Realizing he’s not going to get anything more from her, he lets out a tired huff and straightens up.

“Well, goodnight,” he says.

He finally leaves her alone, but she can’t help but follow the swaggering path of his bowed legs and heavy boots. They carry him away and back indoors.  

A strange man.

By the morning of the third day, Dean is ready to do what he does best. Or at least, one thing he does best.

He’s no stranger to horses. He grew up on a farm in Lawrence, Kansas, where he and his brother would help take care of the animals. Dean was older, so he helped his father till the land and train the horses. Sometimes he and Sam would sneak off and race their favorite ones, until their mom called them back for dinner.

In fact, part of what earned Dean his rank in the U.S. Cavalry was how well he could command a horse. His own is resting in the stables.

Today, he’s getting in the ring with the mustang.

…Well, not right away. He lets a few of his guys go first to tire him out. Even after three days of no food or water, the horse is living up to his bad attitude. He bucks each of them off after just a few seconds in the corral. Dean can tell it’s becoming a kind of game for the horse. His dun-colored coat shines in the sun, his brown socked legs kicking up dust and manure as he brays angrily at whoever tries to mount him.

Dean notices the Lakota woman watching with an amused smile on her face while she sits with her hands tied to her post. She’s enjoying the show, like she knew this would happen. It seems to give her energy every time another man is thrown off the horse and limps out of the ring.

Dean shakes his head. Pitiful.

He puts two gloved fingers to his mouth and whistles the entire clearing to attention. He saves Kline the chance to bruise his spine and pats him on the shoulder. Dean steps into the corral and positions himself into the stirrups, wrapping the reins around his hand. The horse is breathing hard, but he’s not done. He’s still got fight in him. Dean sees it in his brown eyes.

“All right, mustang. You’re big and bad. I get it,” Dean says lowly. “But I don’t scare easy. Gimme your best damn shot.”

Cas and Benny give him wary looks from where they stand outside the gate.

“Hold onto your hat, Cap,” Benny mutters.

Dean adjusts his hat and rests his gun on the post for safe keeping. He wants to feel as natural as possible, like it’s just him and this horse, out back in his family farm. He holds on tight to the reins. He’s fully prepared for how the mustang takes off at a galloping clip around the ring. He twists and bucks, but Dean claps his thighs tight and holds on for the ride.

The horse gets smarter.

He runs for the water trough just outside the ring. He slams Dean against the side of it once, twice—and manages to throw him off, with Dean landing right in the water trough.

He bursts out from the dirty water, sopping wet and spluttering in anger. He looks over at the horse trotting around, whinnying and tossing his head like he’s laughing. Dean can’t help it. His anger fades, and he smiles.

This guy’s got some brass balls, I’ll give him that.

The Lakota woman laughs. Dean hears it and his head swivels toward her. She bites her lip, but she knows she’s been caught. Despite his injured pride, Dean’s lips curve with a smirk. Just gonna laugh at me, huh?

“I see things are going well,” comes a familiar drawl.

Dean’s face falls as he looks up and finds Colonel Sanderson. Dean pulls himself out of the trough and tries to squeeze some water out of his uniform. He clears his throat.

“Well, uh, it’s going, sir. Just gonna take a little more time than I thought,” Dean says. He quickly reclaims his hat from the ring, giving the mustang a smart berth. After he climbs back out, he goes over to the post where he left his pistol.

“Hold him steady,” Sanderson barks out the order, but not at Dean. The other men wrangle the horse back into the pen, where Sanderson climbs up and mounts the horse himself.

To his credit, he stays on longer than even Dean thought he would. The mustang gallops and circles. He tries slamming Sanderson on the sides of the corral, tries bucking him and bucking him, but the man clings on, even when his hat falls into the dirt.

The horse is exhausted. He eventually stops in the middle of the ring, panting for breath, his legs shaking slightly. Dean straightens at attention.

So does the Lakota woman, he notices. She looks worried, her brows furrowing.

Sanderson swipes a hand over his graying hair and moustache to collect himself. He raises his head with an arrogant smile.

“You see, gentlemen. Any horse can be broken,” he says. He kicks the horse with his spur. “Move along, mustang.”

To everyone’s amazement, the horse obeys him. He moves forward at a slow clip. All the men applaud, even Dean, belatedly.

“There are those in Washington who believe the West will never be settled,” Sanderson continues. “The Northern Pacific Railroad will never breach Nebraska.”

His gaze draws over to the woman. Her eyes are filled with tears as she watches the Colonel makes his rounds.

“A hostile Lakota,” he says in derision, “will never submit to providence.”

She stares back at him with steel in her watery eyes.

Dean doesn’t realize his jaw is clenched tight until he feels the strain in his jaw. He forces himself to relax, with his hand on his dampened belt.

“And it’s that kind of small thinking that would say this horse would never be broken,” Sanderson says. “Discipline, time, and patience. That’s all you need to level a wild thing.”

Just then, the horse stops abruptly.

“Mustang?” Sanderson asks in warning.

Dean tenses. He knows what’s about to happen.

“Sir!” he calls out.

But it’s too late.

The stallion revs and charges, bucking even wilder than before. He swings his head and rears back high on his hind legs with a powerful bray. Sanderson yells in fear and strain, but he stays on the creature’s back.

The horse’s angry eyes take on a darker shade of conviction. When all four of his hooves hit the ground, he finally bucks hard enough to get the Colonel off his back, though he still clings to the reins near the animal’s head. He comes face to face with the horse’s crazed eyes. His own are wide and full of terror.

Hot breath heats Sanderson’s face. Then the horse swings his head and tosses the man out of the ring. In the process, the horse falls on his side and shatters a section of the wooden beams that fenced him in.

While he shakes his head and gets his hooves under him, Dean and Benny help the Colonel up to his feet. His uniform is a wreck, and now, with a bruised body and likely a couple of broken ribs, the man is fuming.

Kline and Roman wrangle the horse’s reins and keep him more or less in place. The Colonel shoves Dean and Benny off of him. He reaches for his gun at his belt and aims it at the mustang. Dean goes rigid in shock, but he knows he can’t interfere. If he does, it could warrant some major discipline.

The Colonel pulls the hammer back on the revolver, but before he can pull the trigger, the sound of cutting rope and a feminine yell breaks the silence in the clearing. The Lakota woman pulls the Colonel’s arms down, and the gun goes off into the ground. Her elbow comes up quick to strike the man between the eyes. He careens back into Benny, who catches him.

Meanwhile, the woman swings up onto the mustang. She grabs a stronghold by the neck and barks something in her native language. It spurs the horse onward, and he breaks through the crowd of men at a gallop.

Dean watches with widening eyes and furrowing brows. “Shit!”

He runs to the stables where he finds Baby waiting for him. Her black coat ripples as she stamps impatiently.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he beckons. He leads the mare out of the stable, and after grabbing a coil of rope from the supply bench, he mounts her smoothly. With a subtle kick of his heel, she picks up speed to follow the mustang and his rider.

They’re already approaching the gate where the men are quickly trying to close it. There’s still a window of opportunity for escape, but not only is Dean on their heels, Roman also stands on a pile of crates filled with iron parts that are due to be shipped out in the morning for continued construction on the railroad. Roman holds a rifle. He trains his weapon on the woman, taking deadly aim.

Dean’s jaw clenches and his brows furrow. He knows then, in the breadth of a few seconds, that he has to make a choice. If he does nothing, both she and the horse are as good as dead.

Sam used to call him reckless, stubborn as the horses he spent long hours taming.

Right about now, his brother is probably right.

Dean reaches for his gun, aims, and shoots within the span of those seconds. Roman goes down before he even knows what hits him. His chest plumes with blood after he slides down the crates and flops heavy to the ground. His eyes stare unseeing at the crisp blue sky.

The mustang tears through the narrow opening in the gate, and Dean isn’t far behind. The woman is an excellent rider, far better than he expected her to be. She clings to the horse’s neck and mane, and she doesn’t even use the stirrups. She clings on when the horse leaps over rocks, and when she notices Dean tailing her, she urges the horse at an even faster gallop.

Dean’s face furrows with determination. Baby is built for speed too.

He gives her a little kick with his heel. “Come on, Baby. Go!”

He’s able to keep up with the mustang just a few yards behind, even when they reach rougher terrain, going further up and into a canyon. He follows them through every curve and dip, guiding his horse just as much as she's guiding him.

Dean takes his rope in hand and turns it above his head, but his attempt to lasso the mustang's neck fails; the woman saws straight through the rope with her knife.

"Damn it!" Dean mutters.

He's forced to let go of his frayed rope when he and Baby nearly careen off the edge of a cliff. His heart settles high in his throat as he grits his teeth, but he pulls back on the reins hard and leans in the opposite direction. Baby's able to bank left, saving them from a long way down to certain death.

They continue up the narrow path the mustang has trod ahead. It carves around and through the mountain.

Dean mentally grasps for a plan, aside from just keeping up. Without even a bit of rope, he doesn’t know how he’s going to slow the woman down without hurting her or the horse. He doesn’t want to have to use his gun.

Eventually, the canyon breaks into a patch of desert, and then, grassy plains and tall forest trees. The mustang begins to tire and slow to a stop. His rider murmurs soothing things to him, stroking his neck. She turns back to look at Dean over her shoulder in dismay. She knows she’s caught.

“All right, sweetheart. That’s enough,” Dean says.

He sidles up next to her and intends to grab the mustang’s reins.

That’s when her swift kick comes, dead in his forehead.

AN: And here we go! 😅 Feels right that November is Native American Indian Heritage Month. 🫶🏽 For that reason especially I've done my best to do the Lakota people justice, even in this little series and complete work of fiction.

There's a lot packed in this first chapter, and yep, I did borrow a bit of scene from one of the best scenes in Spirit as an homage. From here on out, we're literally going off road...

Next Time:

Dean falls out of his saddle with a yell, landing hard in the grass. The impact knocks the air out of his chest and his hat off his head, not to mention the pain that rattles down his back.

“Son of a bitch,” he wheezes, while trying to get back up.

The woman jumps down from the mustang’s back and all but leaps on Dean. Straddling his waist and grabbing a fistful of his collar, she lets out a battle cry and raises a small knife at him. It��s probably no more than two inches long.

Dean may be on the ground with a smarting forehead, but he’s still got the upper hand. He grabs her knife-wielding arm and whips out his pistol from his belt. Her eyes widen, and she stills above him. The gun lies between them, aimed for her chest. They’re both breathing hard.

Dean has a problem.

Looking into her eyes, soulful and brown, the slope of her nose and her full lips, parted with shock… 

▶️ Keep Reading: PART 2

Join Patreon 🌟 For early access to new stories, bonus content, first looks at upcoming stories, send me requests, and more!

Series Masterlist

Jacklesverse Bingo Masterlist

Dean Winchester Series List

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Series Tag List (Part 1):

@hobby27 @kazsrm67 @letheatheodore @agothwithheavysetmakeup @jacklesbrainworms

@foxyjwls007 @wincastifer @iamsapphine @roseblue373 @this-is-me19

@emily-winchester @spnexploration @deans-spinster-witch @deans-baby-momma @iprobablyshipit91

@sanscas @sleepyqueerenergy @wayward-lost-and-never-found @kaleldobrev @spnwoman

@thewritersaddictions @just-levyy @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @pieandmonsters @globetrotter28

@adoringanakin @theonlymaninthesky @teehxk @midnightmadwoman @brianochka

@chevroletdean @agalliasi @venicesem @chriszgirl92 @lyarr24

@ladysparkles78 @solariklees @deansbbyx @candy-coated-misery0731 @curlycarley

@sarahgracej @bagpussjocken @deanfreakingwinchester @chernayawidow @mimaria420

@fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like @waywardxwords @waynes-multiverse @twinkleinadiamondsky @ajjustice

[shuastar]

ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴛᴡɪɴᴇᴅ -- ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ɪɴ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ (JWW)

ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴛᴡɪɴᴇᴅ -- ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ɪɴ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ᴡɪɴᴛᴇʀ ꜱᴘᴇᴄɪᴀʟ

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ᴀʀᴄʜᴅᴜᴋᴇ!ᴡᴏɴᴡᴏᴏ x ᴀʀᴄʜᴅᴜᴄʜᴇꜱꜱ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ᴡᴄ: 8.2k (swear it doesnt get any shorter....) ᴀ/ɴ: ᴏᴍɢ ɪ ʟɪᴛᴇʀᴀʟʟʏ ꜱᴀɪᴅ ɪ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴘᴏꜱᴛ ᴛʜɪꜱ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ ᴅᴀʏꜱ ᴀɢᴏ ꜱᴏʀʀʏ ㅠㅠ ᴀɴʏᴡᴀʏꜱ ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴇ 1ꜱᴛ ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ (ʟᴏɴɢ) ᴡᴏɴᴡᴏᴏ ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ,,, ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴɴᴀ ʙᴇ ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ ᴘʟꜱ ʟᴏᴏᴋ ᴀᴛ ᴍʏ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ <3 ꜱᴏ ᴇxᴄɪᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ꜰɪɴᴀʟʟʏ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ ᴜᴘ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴜɴɴɪɴ

ᴘʀᴇᴠɪᴏᴜꜱ ; ɴᴇxᴛ (ᴘᴀʀᴛ 2)

The honeyed spring air only proved to prod at your deep, growing, carnal fury at the scene in front of you. The wooden stilts of your fan dug further and further into the expensive lace of your thin sheer gloves, leaving bright red lines in its wake. As you stared at the traitorous scene in front of you, you felt as if your entire being was thrown into a wall. 

You should’ve known, really, that it was going to end like this. You should’ve known when the greasy money-tainted rat of your soon-to-be ex-fiance crawled out of his cave and to the royal palace, rubbing his hands together in faux prayer as he asked about your dowry. You were sure Seungcheol told him too – all fifteen million won of it. You could imagine how Lord Paree’s eyes would have seen the backs of his skull at the number — how he probably left the gilded royal palace in sheer bliss at the thought of receiving the monetary sum of three city estates just for a single marriage. Maggot, you thought, nails almost digging through the lace. Money-drunken parasite. 

A high-pitched dolphin giggle and a snap! of a fan slapped you out of your red-seeing stupor. 

Right. Yes. 

Dealing with (yet another) failed engagement was more important than the consequences that would follow. You could almost hear the concerned jabberings of Seungcheol, fur-wrapped on his stupid golden throne in the palace, as you stood in front of him. 

“Your highness, you aren’t married either,” you would point out, like you always do. 

Seungcheol would sigh and pout, “I know, y/n. That seems to be the problem.” Then, he would scan you up and down before clapping, jumping out of his throne and meandering his way down to where you were standing with a grin. “What kind of guardian,” he offered you his arm as he led you out of the throne room, “would I be if I got married before I saw you get married?” He pinched your cheek lightly, letting out a loud laugh at your severely disgruntled expression. “Don’t you agree, Duchess Park?” 

You would close your eyes with a long sigh, pretending like this conversation wasn’t one of Seungcheol’s only topics of interest since her debut into Society. “Of course, your highness,” you would mumble, muttering a few more colorful adjectives under your breath as you were led unwillingly to your fifth courtship date request of the month. 

If you knew then that your fourth engagement – in one and a half years, mind you – would end up shattered shambles yet again, you wouldn’t have even let Seungcheol drag you to the royal garden’s mezzanine for afternoon tea with that bastard in the first place. 

Really, you weren’t quite sure whether you were more angry at the fact that the idle-headed useless block of skin tissue or at the all gracious, ever-knowing royal highness for setting you two up together in a future cheating scandal. That was true. Yet fucking again. 

You were so tired of snatching the tea pot off of the wire-frame tables and throwing it at the girl (like it was the poor lady’s fault) before bitch-slapping your ex fiance with as much malice as you could muster at the time. Genuinely. You were so sick of walking into the next ball with no one by your side, save your secretary and personal guard, yet again. You were going to throw up if you heard your name with the words cheating, scandal, and shame in a Society gathering again. But most importantly, you were so sick of the look he would give you from across the ballroom and during your dances. 

“I heard about you and Lord Paree.” 

A step into a waltz.

“So has the rest of the fucking country, apparently.” 

A stifled cough let out due to your unexpectedly colorful language. 

“I wouldn’t say the entire nation, y/n.” 

“Hm, I fear I will have to disagree, your grace, as I heard even Duke Hong’s footmen murmur among themselves regarding my unfortunate turn of events.” 

A falter in his soft smile. 

“Forget him. I’ve always thought of him as an undeserving bastard anyways.”

You laugh, head thrown back – the most joyous you have been since last week. 

“Shall I be glad that you’ve thought so, your grace?” 

Wonwoo shrugs, twirling you around in tight circles. You feel almost lightheaded from his cologne, mingling in with the gentle puffs of breath from the waltz. 

“Think of it however you want,” he hums, dipping you ever so slightly against the sudden base of the cello. You swallow a surprised gasp as his hand, originally on your upper back, dips dangerously low – for a moment, sitting gently against the hem of your corset. 

The two of you come to a halt near the edge of the ballroom floor. You hate how you can feel a flush coming on the apples of your cheeks the longer Wonwoo stares at you, an odd mixture of pity and something else swimming in his eyes behind the metal-frame glasses. 

You bow, one hand on your chest. You know you don’t have to – he is of the same societal position as you. You know you don’t have to, but it feels almost second nature to go low into a curtsy of some kind in front of a man. 

“Thank you, your grace, for this dance,” you murmur, lifting your head back up. Wonwoo stays quiet for a good moment, before he blinks. 

“Find yourself another date for your second dance, yes? Someone better than that cheating bastard,” he hums. You think he’s about to reach for your gloved hand but his hands stay at his side – the only indicator of movement a slight twitch in his fingers. You force down your disappointment. 

Instead, you smile. There is nothing else for you to do, anyways. Seungcheol, although good of heart, would have another engagement for you lined up in no time. And with that, you would need to forget. Forgive and forget. You realize you’ve spent too much time in front of the Archduke’s son when you feel the presence of your guard behind you. 

“I will see you soon,” you greet, before you turn and leave. If you had stayed to hear his response, you feel like you would have stayed with Wonwoo for the entire night. And that was not very ladylike.

Wonwoo

“Wonwoo, one day you’re going to have to live for something else.” 

Seungcheol’s breaths came out in heaving pants as the two took a brief break from their sparring session in the royal palace’s courtyard. 

Wonwoo just raised a brow, wiping sweat off of his brow with his discarded shirt. “What do you mean by that, your majesty?” 

Seungcheol waved away the title. “Drop the pretense, friend. What I mean is,” Seungcheol dropped his empty water jug on the wooden bench, before bringing his sword up to his face, “one day you’re gonna realize you have more to live for than just this.” Seungcheol gestured vaguely towards the desolate sparring grounds. 

Wonwoo rolled his eyes, brushing dusts of sand off of his glinting blade. His fingers flexed on the leather grip. “I don’t live for just this, Coups. I know my responsibilities more than you think I do,” he sighed.

Seungcheol raised a questioning brow, stepping back into the sparring grounds with a twirl of his sword. “You sure?” his voice echoed, which was followed by unfamiliar click-clacks of a woman’s heels. Seungcheol cocked his head and grinned, canines showing, as he squatted down low, flicking his fingers at Wonwoo. “Then why are you asking to go out to fight? You might die.” 

Wonwoo cracked his neck before running at the young king, Their swords clashed in the middle of the sparring grounds, flickers of their manas bursting outwards. Smoky tendrils of black gravitated and fogged the ground near Wonwoo’s feet, curling themselves around his chest and slowly inching up his neck, before blending in with his hair. 

Wonwoo grunted in exertion, pushing Seungcheol back with the help of his mana. The king slammed into the back wall before landing back on his feet. Wonwoo stood over him, panting. Sweat dripped down his temples and his mana curled itself around his bare arms, against the contours of the muscles that laid there. 

“It is the only thing I am good for,” Wonwoo stated. His words came out soft, almost a whisper, as his hand stretched out towards Seungcheol. 

Seungcheol took a second more in his position, staring into Wonwoo’s despairing eyes. The dark browns looked more conflicted than Seungcheol had ever known. His own eyes darted towards the figure that stood in the opening archway of the courtyard. He could barely make out the face, under the layers of shadows, but he knew. He had called her here anyway. Not here as in the courtyard but here as in the palace. It was though, of course, purely coincidental that she had walked to the courtyard of her own volition. 

Seungcheol grasped Wonwoo’s hand, hauling himself off of the sandy ground. 

“You’re willing to leave your duchy? Your Society life?” Seungcheol stood in front of Wonwoo with his sword at his side. He gave the young archduke a knowing look. “Even the duchess?” 

Wonwoo stiffened at Seungcheol’s ending words, his hand stilling, hovering the tip of his sword at the entrance of its sheath. He swallowed. The sword dropped with a loud CLANG into its home in the sheath. He looked up at the king, who looked almost expectant. 

“Yes,” was his answer. He straightened, brushing sweaty strands of his black hair out of his eyes. “Yes, I am.” 

Before Seungcheol, with furrowed brows and disappointment flurrying in his eyes, could open his mouth, a quiet scoff rang out, ripping the silence between the two men into shreds. 

Wonwoo’s head snapped to the archway where the sound had echoed from, fingers curling around the grip of his sword. His other arm pushed Seungcheol behind him, which earned him a noise of protest from the older man. 

“Won-”

“There’s someone there,” was what Wonwoo said, before he stepped closer, into the shadows of the archway. The face that met him left him unable to breathe – as if his lungs had been squeezed out of oxygen from the inside; as if his entire being was wringed; as if someone had, one by one, cut the tendons of his muscles, rendering him absolutely useless. 

“I have been delusioned,” a cold, shaking voice started, “of our relationship, your grace.” You bowed deeply, silken hair falling over your shoulders, petals of the flowers in your hair dancing in the soft breeze, hand tight-fisted on your chest. “I ask for your apology in my,” a deafening pause, “assuming nature.” 

BANG

The sword fell out of Wonwoo’s limp hand. He rushed forward, almost tripping over his own feet and forgetting his look of indecency, leaving Seungcheol long forgotten in the edges of the sparring grounds. 

“Y/n,” he breathed, hands gently holding your upper arms. “Y/n, you misunderstand,” he hurried, forcing you to stand properly. The sight afterwards almost made him wish he let you stay in your bow. 

Your crystalline eyes were glassy and he could make out the glistening pools of unshed tears that poked against your charcoal waterline. Your lips stretched thin over your teeth in an attempt at a reassuring smile. But he knew you better than that – he knew more than half of the emotions that swirled behind your watery eyes and he knew what the tremblings of the corners of your lips meant. What it meant for you, for him, for the two of you. 

You shook your head, shuffling back against the rough grounds. A small laugh escaped your mouth. Your glossy pink lips curled up in a practiced smile – too robotic, too mirror-practiced, too Society for him to comprehend. It sent his mind reeling. It sent his mind reeling because you had heard what he shouldn’t have said. Because he was so used to seeing your dimpled smile in his embrace.

“No,” you responded, pushing his hands off of your lace-covered arms with trembling fingers. Your touch was soft but firm – a boundary that was unfamiliar in his realm. “I apologize for intruding, your grace, your highness,” another bow – this time at Seungcheol, who just waved her off from his position picking up the strewn wooden swords, “I will take my leave now.” 

A noncommittal noise rose from the back of Wonwoo’s throat and his hand wrapped around your wrist habitually, only to be shaken off without a single backwards look and a shuddering sigh as you walked away, head held high and hands shaking by your side. 

Wonwoo wasn’t stupid. He knew when to take a hint. 

“I’m not sure if you started a problem or made an existing problem worse.” 

Wonwoo shot a glare towards Seungcheol. “Thank you for your wise words, your highness. They are so helpful in my current situation,” he muttered, running a frustrated hand through his hair. 

Seungcheol sighed, shrugging as he dumped the wooden swords inside of a crate. “Look at it this way,” he pointed out, “now you are free to go do your battling. Without any ties.” 

Seungcheol handed Wonwoo his discarded sword, eyebrows raised. 

“Right?” 

Wonwoo gave him no answer, only staring at your shadowed retreating form that walked now in the sunlight past the archway. He only stared as you, with a curt nod to a footman, entered the main palace halls again. 

“Wonwoo?” Seungcheol repeated. “You there?” 

Wonwoo blindly nodded, fidgeting with the loose ends of his sheath. “Yes. Yes, maybe,” was his vague answer, mumbled softly under his breath. And all through Seungcheol’s next set of rants about Society politics and the ongoing problems around the Northern border of Obella, the only thing Wonwoo could think of was the alien tightening of his chest – so much so that his lungs felt off and his heart hurt to breathe. 

Wonwoo was sick and tired of the stench of blood and rusting iron. He was sick and tired of the habitual curl of his fingers around the hilt of his battle-worn sword at every small crack in the woods. And he was sick and tired of being away – away from the Capitol, away from his duchy, away from her. 

So when, one morning, his best friend and commanding officer Soonyoung, came into his tent with a cream-colored envelope with a familiar crest stamped on the front, it felt like a weight had lifted off of his shoulders.

His tent flap fluttered as a head of blonde ducked in Wonwoo’s sleep tent. 

“Guess what a little birdie flew in with this pleasantly fine morning?” Soonyoung grinned, leaning against one of the poles of the tent, arms crossed.

Wonwoo looked up from his place sitting on his chair, sharpening his sword. His glasses hung low on his nose and his naked back rippled with aching muscles. He deadpanned, recognizing the crest as the royal crest. “What?” he hummed, standing up and setting his sword and whetting stone down. “Another commission from our dear king?” he scoffed, unwilling bitterness seeping into his words. 

Of course, he did not blame King Seungcheol for his current predicament. Actually, he did, just a little bit. But of course, not all of the situation. Around three fifths was because of himself – because he was greedy and ambitious and begged to be sent to the National Academy and rose to the top of his Weapons class. It was his fault, was what he told himself, that he was on his third year out in the battlefields in the north, fighting the royal battles for a king that presented himself to be one of Wonwoo’s closest friends. Of course an inconspicuous bitterness would form. 

Hoshi laughed, his own bare torso glinting in the early morning sunlight. He handed Wonwoo the letter. “Oh, you wish, Wonwoo,” Hoshi said, clapping his friend on the back. He squeezed as Wonwoo’s eyes skimmed over its contents. He could almost feel Hoshi’s smile from behind him. 

“Congratulations, my friend,” Hoshi laughed, “You have officially been reinvited to Society!” 

Wonwoo’s face crumpled into an off mixture of disappointment, relief, and boredom. Society? That was what Seungcheol was pulling him out of these battles for? Out of everything, Society? 

“Society?” he scoffed. The hollow, fakeness of The Capitol’s Society was what awaited him outside of the violent woods? His fingers tightened on the thick parchment. 

The fact that it was Society wasn’t the aspect that pissed him off down to his bones. It was the fact that Seungcheol knew why he gave up Society to begin with. 

Suddenly, Hoshi’s squinted eyes filled Wonwoo’s vision. His blonde-bleached eyebrows were furrowed on his face. “Why do I feel like you’re not happy to be going back?” 

Wonwoo let out a deep sigh, his eyes closing ever so slightly. His chest felt tight. “Because, Hoshi,” he grumbled, ripping up the letter and tossing it into his lantern flame, “I fucking hate Society.” 

Wonwoo watched as the tattered pieces of the ripped parchment crumble into the orange-red flames. It was his fault, he guessed. Going back to Society, to the Capitol, was something he knew he had to face, once his reign among the knights was over. Three years, even for a man like him, was a long time to not show your face even once in a public Society event. He guessed this was Seungcheol’s passive reminder: get to your duties. He could almost hear it in his head. 

Hoshi shook his head in faux disappointment, tsking. “Thought you knew better than that, Archduke Jeon. You nobility need to perform part of your duties, after all.” Hoshi’s grin makes Wonwoo’s lips stretch into a slight smile. “What? Has the battlefield ridden you of your noble blood, your grace?” Hoshi asked with an eyebrow raise. 

Wonwoo just shook his head with a small smile and a sigh. But he couldn’t shake off the uncomfortable feeling of being called an archduke. Being called your grace. Those were titles he was used to seeing his father carry – his father, who was a charismatic ruler, his father, who loved deeply and truly, and his father, who lay cold and lifeless in the Jeon Family cemetery next to his mother for two years. 

Hoshi was not wrong, he knew. He knew there would be a time he would have to return to the very thing he hated the most about staying in the Capitol, about being a noble; whether or not he returned by his own volition was the question. And apparently Seungcheol had deemed three years, three years too much. The churning in his stomach could not be described as anything else but uncertainty. 

As Hoshi talked animatedly, with flailing arms, about the night before, when the soldiers had broken out crates of rum and beer to celebrate the strengthening of the Northern borders from the “evil spirits,” as they had called them, Wonwoo stared into the crackling lantern flame. If he returned to Society, as per the royal decree and as per his friend’s request, he would have to face the portraits that hung on his Capitol estate’s portrait hall. He would have to walk through the halls of his own home that had once been full of deeper, older, wiser, laughter of his parents without them. He would have to face the claustrophobia-inducing, over crowded ballrooms of the private high society gatherings, attend meaningless hunting outings, and present himself to the greater nobility public like some sort of relic or trophy to be garnished with wreaths and golden medals of bravery after the three year battle. 

But, of course, that was not all of the Society he had left behind. He had left behind a deeper, lovelier Society as well. Something – someone, he should say – that if he had any say in, he would keep hidden in the deepest parts of his heart. Someone, if he returned, who would – no, could – never be his again. She was not someone who waited around – especially if they had left like he did. 

But perhaps…

No. 

No, no, no. 

He shook his head. 

He could not bring his hopes up for nothing. He had a duty – to his duchy, to his family, to the legacy his father left behind, and to his country. 

“I don’t know if I’m ready,” Wonwoo mumbles. Mostly to himself, yet Hoshi quietens in his rant at his friend’s words. 

Hoshi drags a wooden chair over, swinging his legs around it to sit – chest against its back. “For Society or…” Hoshi does not need to finish his question for Wonwoo to understand. It is implied, as it always had been between the two of them. 

Wonwoo sighed, burying his head in his hands. The balls of his palm rub into his battle-weary eyes. “For everything. My responsibilities, Society, the entry celebrations, and…” Now Wonwoo poses the discarded ending. Hoshi knows, he decides for himself. He knows already. Wonwoo could tell from his knowing glance out the tent flap. 

“You’ve had responsibilities out on the battlefield, Woo. I believe your archducal duties are of a similar hierarchy?” Hoshi twirled a quill in his hand. The commander veers out of the way of the silent topic with a quick glance that promises Wonwoo another conversation – preferably over a glass of wine – in another time. 

Wonwoo let out a tired laugh. “You jest. I fear my archducal duties far outrank the simple hierarchy of my responsibilities on the battlefield.” 

Hoshi shrugged. “It is what you believe, sir.” 

“It is what I believe,” Wonwoo murmured to himself. A hand slid down his face as he slouched down in his chair, a tired sigh escaping the battle-worn caverns of his lungs. “Fuck.” 

One of King Seungcheol’s infamous re-entry balls was decided to be held in honor of Archduke Jeon returning to the Capitol, signifying his re-entrance into Society’s cluster of feathers and prim-propers from his years in the battlefields. 

“Do you know how uncomfortable wearing this cape is?” Wonwoo complains for the fourth time, tugging at the golden lapels that hold the thick fabric to his shoulders. He huffs in apparent annoyance as the golden tips of the royal palace’s towers loom overhead when the carriage rattles to a slow trot and then a stop. 

Hoshi, from his seat across Wonwoo, rolls his eyes, his own body decorated with the uniform of the royal knights, and a long gleaming sword hanging off of his hip. “Oh boo hoo,” he mutters, stepping out of the carriage as soon as the door opens. He dusts his white pants with a concluding groan as Wonwoo mutters something under his breath. 

“What?” Wonwoo snaps, “When has it changed so that a man cannot simply complain about his uncomfortable and ill-fit dressings for a ball?” Wonwoo retorts. A strand of hair fell in his face as he crossed his arms. His tight military uniform – decorated diligently with captain stars, rings of honor, and golden medals of bravery – strains against his biceps. He stands next to Hoshi, adjusting his formal tie with a displeased wince of discomfort. “I would have much rather preferred-”

“-Wonwoo!” Hoshi interjects, a rough hand coming down harshly against Wonwoo’s back. One look in Hoshi’s eyes and Wonwoo hesitates to finish his sentence. “My friend, please, for the love of God, shut the fuck up. You look fine,” Hoshi groaned, walking up to the palace doors with Wonwoo in tow. “You should have expected this anyways,” he continues, giving a curt nod to the footmen that open the doors, “This is a ball held in your honor,” a familiar turn into a wider hallway, “Remember?” Hoshi’s neat uniform is pin-straight as he walks down the marbled halls. “And we’re already late. Do you want to get passive aggressively eaten alive by Society the first day back in noble action?” he throws Wonwoo’s way with a quick glance over his shoulder with a teasing grin.

Wonwoo sighs, following Hoshi through the gilded halls of the too-familiar palace. He could almost picture his younger self – five years old – running through the very halls, with Prince Mingyu and (then) Prince Seungcheol hot on his heels, all three of them giggling about something for another. He could picture the two of them, laughing – him with his head thrown back and her with her fan over her pretty pink lips – during the boring parts of each and every palace ball. The gilded palace was gilded – but not just in gold. 

y/n

You were very confused. 

And confusion never was something any noble wanted during a ball, nevermind the King’s re-entry ball, no matter how close your family’s ties ran. 

Of course, you were not confused about who it was for. It was obvious. The Capitol’s newspapers (and most likely every other newspaper business in the nation), had spent the entire past week dedicating their front covers to the headlines that included, but were not limited to, one of the five following words: Archduke, Jeon, Return, Battle, Ball. 

It was as if the entirety of noble society had decided to come together for this one re-entry event, which apparently had people jittery at the edges of their seats because the most eligible bachelor of any season, really, was back on the market. The one high noble who could pay off even the most expensive dowries, who could save a breaking family from complete, utter, desolate ruin, whose dark hooded eyes had enticed so many of the daughters from the highest noble classes, was back. He, on orders and grounds unknown, was returning from his three-year-long disappearance from Society and out into the vicious battlefields of the north. 

And you were absolutely, jaw-droppingly so confused as to why both King Seungcheol and Prince Mingyu (mostly Seungcheol, though Mingyu posed no help), held you (almost) hostage at their sides, rambling and fluttering on about how you should stay with them until the entrance of the “main character.” 

“Your highness, may I ask why?” you ask. Behind your proprietary fan covering the bottom half of your face, your lips curl in distaste. If it was wholly up to you, you would have been in a silken nightgown, getting ready for bed. 

“Is brother still holding you here against your will?” Prince Mingyu’s laughing voice reaches your ears. You turn, meeting his broad frame. His one-shoulder cape glints at the top with a pure-gold cap, in dazzling contrast with his cream-white suit. In his hands are two flutes of bubbling champagne. He outstretches his arm, tipping one flute towards you with a grin, canines pushing down against his bottom lip. “For you, my lady,” he teases, slipping the flute into your gloved fingers. He gives you a cheesy wink, before breaking into a dimpled smile. 

You roll your eyes, habituated with the prince’s oftentimes off-handed flirty remarks. “You ask that as if you have not been doing the exact same thing, your highness,” you huff, but you don’t reject the champagne flute, taking a sip of the bubbling liquid with a satisfied sigh. You clear your throat before turning to both Mingyu and Seungcheol, who is surveying the crowd. “Now I ask the both of you the same question.” 

Mingyu throws an arm around Seungcheol, who stands still, staring at the entrance door to the ballroom with an impatient-tapping foot. “You know why.” He leans his head against Seungcheol, lightly stepping on his older brother’s furious foot with a mutter of maintaining a mask of patience. Seungcheol responds with a simple furrow of his thick eyebrows.

You tilt your head. Mingyu’s lack-luster responses and Seungcheol’s decision to blatantly ignore your words are doing absolutely nothing to quell your curiosity, let alone your confusion. 

Usually, if this was like any other royal-hosted ball, Seungcheol would only keep you for a brief moment. That would frequently consist of introductions to any new or unfamiliar royal cabinet members. And then, he would let you go, which usually meant, for you, going to the closest empty table with a chair and sitting down for the rest of the night. At least until you deemed you had spent enough time brooding in peace in your despairing corner, that it was respectable enough towards both you and the royal family, to leave the ball and return to your estate. 

Of course, you were not unapproachable. You were born and raised in Society. One of the first classes you remember taking with your grandmother was ballroom dance. Before (or many times during) your brooding solitary peace, either Mingyu, Seungcheol, or Duke Hong would leisurely make their way towards you and offer you your dance of the night. 

Those times, when the familiar strings of the orchestra and the notes of the hired singer flowed through the crowded ballroom, you let yourself be guided. After all, it was your job. 

“The lady is always supposed to be guided,” your grandmother used to say, “If a man, especially of high standing, does not guide a lady through a simple waltz, he is not a man. He is a coward not ready to face even the simplest of pleasures.” 

“Save your first dance, y/n,” Seungcheol suddenly says, turning to her. His words seem oddly like an order, and you would not put it below him for it to actually be an order. His grin matches his younger brother’s. The furs of his dress stick out against his dark hair. And his entire being seems that much more irking in your eyes. 

If he has another fucking suitor lined up already, I’ll kill him. To hell with the monarchy.

From next to him, Mingyu chuckles, as if he (they) knew something you did not. Which is usually the case, actually. You need to stop being so surprised. 

“Why?” Your nose scrunches. Your fan is forgotten at your sides.  

Seungcheol sighs, shaking his head slowly like you’re some under-developed child who could not get the full picture. “You’ll see.” 

You snap your fan shut, crossing your arms. “Sometime soon, I hope?” A jolt of pain waves over your ankle, a testament to how long you’ve been standing in one place. You force down your wince.

Mingyu pokes your puffed cheeks with his white-gloved hand and a laugh. “Impatient much, duchess?” 

You swat away his hand with a glance. Your head swivels as you say, “I have been waiting with much patience, thank you very much.” A lick of annoyance flickers in you when you catch at least seven pairs of eyes and gossiping mouths staring at you and the royal brothers. “It seems as though the Archduke is late,” you add, glancing at the giant clock on top of the entrance doorway. 

Mingyu, now arm over your shoulder, tugs at your dress sleeves. “Awfully interested, aren’t you?” he grinned, a small bout of laughter ensuing at your barely concealed tick of anger. Not only at his words but also at his careless touches. He should be glad all of high society knew of your close family relations, or else his actions would have had dire consequences.

You push him away lightly, flicking your fan open again as you gently fan yourself, covering your mouth. “Awfully not, your highness,” you snap. Mingyu knew not to talk about that. You try to ignore the fact that the wound you had once thought was fully stitched up and closed, still hurts when poked. “If I can-”

BANG

“ANNOUNCING ARCHDUKE JEON AND THE COMMANDER OF THE ROYAL KNIGHTS, SIR KWON!” The herald’s voice echoed through the ballroom. 

It was as if the entire ballroom was on a brief pause – the gossiping groups of ladies, the loud laughter of the business men, the rolling children, and even the orchestra. The violinists, cellists, and singer all paused, craning their heads to see through the throng of people who awaited the arrival of the main character – the battle-won most eligible bachelor of all the seasons: Archduke Jeon Wonwoo. 

And all you wanted to do was to never see his face again. 

And of course you prepared yourself. You prepared yourself the moment you had received Seungcheol’s and Mingyu’s separate request letters of your presence at tonight’s ball as part of the royal cabinet. You prepared yourself throughout the time Nai, your maid, rubbed oils into your skin, braided and twisted your silken hair, and pulled your corset tight against your straining ribs. Yet nothing, absolutely nothing compared to the real thing. The thing that was not born out of your imagination that had severely overworked itself over three years. 

Because not only does Wonwoo look the part of the most eligible bachelor, he looks the part of a successful military commander, with his dark military uniform, draping cape, and glinting golden medals. It feels as if the entire ballroom moves towards him, like he has his own gravitational force, as if everyone is attracted to something in the man. You can already see the cliques of the younger ladies fan themselves lightly as their eyes glaze over his wide shoulders and chiseled face. The military uniform does nothing to hide his physique. 

Your fan slowly rises to your face. 

Your corset feels especially restricting when you see Wonwoo’s sharp eyes scan the ballroom. If this were any other situation, you would find the way Wonwoo leans down briefly to Soonyoung to whisper something with a confused furrow and Soonyoung breaking out into a shit-eating grin and tossing a wink towards the general crowd, exponentially more amusing. That had more fans fanning quickly towards the ladies’ face. 

The entire scene reminded you briefly of when you were seventeen, when you had first been introduced to Society, standing almost in the same position as you were currently – next to the two princes who flanked you protectively with crossed arms – and Soongyoung, who was fresh into the Corps of Royal Knights then, and Wonwoo, who had just graduated from the National Academy, striding into your debutante ball late. The small waves and winks Soonyoung sends now towards the various gaggle of young, single ladies of Society reminds you, rather nostalgically, of when you, Soonyoung, Wonwoo, Seungcheol, and Mingyu had all spread out in Mingyu’s foyer on a wintry December day, and all you had talked about were the numerous engagement offers Soonyoung was getting from noble families. 

“What is this? Your thirteenth?” Seungcheol huffed, looking up briefly from Mingyu’s wide oak desk. He dropped his quill in the golden holder. “You’re gonna take away all the ladies from us at this rate, friend,” he laughed. 

You missed, in a small part of your heart, the times when Seungcheol had not been pressed to marry, find his match, continue the legacy. Now, his smile never crinkled his eyes when breeching on the topic of marriage and engagements. 

Soonyoung shrugged, legs dangling off of the couch’s arm rest as he flipped through a newspaper from last week. “Don’t know. You can have all of them, if you want, Coups,” he says, looking up from the tiny print. He gives a sideways look towards Mingyu. “And you too. Don’t want any of them. Not right now, anyways.” 

Seungcheol and Mingyu both grumble about the unfairness of knightly and royal duties as Soonyoung goes off on a separate tangent about the recent addition of a tiger to the park zoo. 

From the corner of your eyes, you see Wonwoo and Mingyu exchange an exasperated look. To be honest, you think it’s kind of cute – Soonyoung’s obsession with tigers, that is. It gives the man something childish in him. God knows he’ll need it in the battlefields one day. 

Suddenly, from the open window, the winter wind blasts through Mingyu’s parlor, wiping papers off of the low tables and out of your hands. 

You shiver, arms crossing around your torso. You rub against your thinly-clothed arms. 

“Sorry,” Mingyu apologizes sheepishly, quickly glancing over at you. “Should’ve closed that thing.” 

You wave him off, about to say something, when suddenly, a thick fabric is draped over your bare shoulders. You flinch at the sudden contact on your skin. From in front of you, Soonyoung’s eyes are wide, which looks rather comical when you see it in his entire position – upside down, legs spread around the backrest, black hair flapping. 

“I told you to close it.” Wonwoo’s tone is almost chastising as he moves from behind you to back to his original spot next to you. He gives Mingyu an almost-glare that has the prince sheepishly standing. Wonwoo picks up his book again, shaking his head ever so slightly. 

Mingyu gives Seungcheol a passive look before he sits down as well, eyeing the coat around your shoulders. 

One quick glance down at the lapel, and you find what you were looking for. The Jeon Duchy’s coat of arms glints up at you, the house crest shining proudly under the chandelier lights. Your cheeks heat when you recognize the expensive cologne that fills your nose. When you turn towards Wonwoo, he’s back in his book, absorbed, apparently, in the tiny printed words on the page. Your previously scattered papers are neat on the table in front of you. 

Wonwoo suddenly looks up from his book, catching your zoned-out stare. 

Your eyes widen. 

Wonwoo just gives you a small smile, before leaning forward and grabbing your papers. He lays his book face-down on his lap. “Do you need a quill?” he asks, handing you your papers. 

He catches you so off guard (as if you were only staring at his face, not listening to what he was saying), that you almost stumble over your own tongue trying to respond casually. 

“Er- Um- I mean, no. No, no, that’s fine,” you mumble, snatching the papers from his hand and scooting towards the other side of the long couch. “Thank you, though.” 

It feels like Wonwoo’s smile grows at your words. If you looked a little bit closer, you would have seen the tips of his ears turn a blush red when you glance down, fiddling with the academic medals on his lapel. 

“Anything for you,” he breathes, like it's a secret shared between you two. 

Mingyu and Soonyoung stare at the whole interaction with a mixture of forced disgust, confusion, and awkwardness, and you don’t miss how Soonyoung pretends to gag, Mingyu following suit, before the two of them go back to their lengthy tangents.

From next to you, you miss Mingyu’s quick glance down at your movements and the knowing glance he and Seungcheol share. 

Whispers break out as the two men – vastly different in the charismas they exude – stride towards the two royal family members. 

And you realize they are heading towards you before you remember you are standing with the royal brothers. And everything suddenly clicks into place. Why the two, more Seungcheol than Mingyu, wanted you to stay for so long – until the “main character arrives.” There is a bubbling pot of the sudden innate need to whack the king over the head with your fan. But of course. That would be terribly unladylike. Nothing a woman in your station should be doing, let alone thinking about doing. 

And it seems as if Wonwoo is as surprised at your presence on the royal platform because his dark eyes widen behind his glasses as he and Soonyoung stop in front of the raised platform you, Mingyu, and Seungcheol were standing on. 

You feel horribly awkward. And Soonyoung’s gaze flitting between you and Wonwoo before bowing his head, trying to conceal his laughter, is doing nothing to make the situation better. 

Seungcheol throws his arms out at the same time Wonwoo drops into a one-knee bow, Soonyoung in tow moments later behind him. At his sudden show of veneration, the crowd gasps softly and you shuffle backwards, only to hit Mingyu’s broad chest that blocks you from leaving the platform. You swallow. 

You need to get off this stupid fucking platform. 

But when you open and shut your fan, looking back at Mingyu, he seems awfully interested in exchanging eye contact with the ballroom’s chandelier. You know he heard your fan shut. The same, familiar spike of rage bubbles in your chest. 

These fucking brothers. 

“Success to your highness and peace to the nation.” Wonwoo’s deep voice, the one you had tried so desperately to forget, to lose in your discarded memories, to rip apart to shreds and feed to the dogs, echoes out against the quiet ballroom. If you strain your ears, you can hear, though, the stuttered gasps of the younger ladies and chaperones, on the verge of swooning at his first nine words. Resentfully, your brain conjures itself to the years when you were the same – fanning yourself to catch a handsome man’s attention.  

You wish you had the courage to laugh. To elegantly step off this damning platform. To get away (run away) from the man in front of the king.

You feel Mingyu moving ever so slightly behind you until you stand perfectly in between him and Seungcheol. Then, in the softest hiss of a whisper he is capable of, he mumbles, “Stay still. You’re sitting with us now.” 

You scoff quietly, raising your fan to your left cheek. The tips of the wooden stilts tickle your painted cheek.

From the corners of your eyes, you can see Mingyu pout. “Oh come on, duchess,” he whines. “I’m degraded down to fan talk?” His fingers wrap around your fan, pulling it down.

You’re glad you and Mingyu stand slightly off to the side because you don’t think you would be able to handle any more whisperings of your relationship with the men in your life Society has to cruelly offer. 

“You read right? The Archduchies are part of the direct royal council, now.” 

That makes you whip your head towards Mingyu’s. He is still facing forward with a practiced smile on his lips and hands in his pockets like this moment was the most relaxing all night. 

You, however, probably look slightly insane. Any fan etiquette goes flying out of the ballroom door at Mingyu’s words. You? On the royal council? Of course, on the surface, it is a great honor. You would be the first non-married matriarch to hold some semblance of power in the royal courts. But you could stitch together the gist of how Society would react to this. And based on Mingyu’s decision to tell you this late into Society’s winter season, you could land a (very accurate) educated guess that Seungcheol was going to announce in the next twenty minutes. 

“Are you crazy?” You whisper furiously, turning back to face the crowd. You can already see eyes slowly turn to the two of you, noticing your, now, not-so-subtle interaction. 

Mingyu just grins, bumping his shoulder with yours. And you don’t even get a chance to hear what he says because Seungcheol suddenly says, “Of course! Of course!” with the most excited tone of voice you had ever heard him use. Apparently Mingyu thinks the same because his head follows yours in staring at Seungcheol. Both of you, but mostly you because Mingyu is still surveying the crowd with a bright, confident, blazing smile that has the ladies of the court drowning in his eyes, are too embarrassed to look confused at what his words mean because you had zoned out of his rather one-sided conversation with Soonyoung and Wonwoo a long time ago. 

You can only stand stiffly in your place sandwiched between Seungcheol and Mingyu as both Soonyoung and Wonwoo rise slowly, giving Seungcheol a curt bow before turning to you and Mingyu. Your fan trembles with your hand as Wonwoo steps closer. 

You had forgotten how it feels to know nothing of what was to come. Especially when it pertained to him.

Your heart stills momentarily when his eyes land on you, moving up to your face and holding you in your place for a split second. You can’t even describe it. The feeling of seeing him so up close after all these years. After you had promised yourself to forget him. After you had spent hours crying in your bathtub, Nia rubbing your back soothingly. After you had fallen asleep, at least in the first weeks, on top of your duvet, letters he had once sent you crowding half of your bed, fresh tear stains ruining the expensive ink and paper. 

He looks so familiar it pulls at some part in your heart that you had thought was buried three years ago at a sparring ground. You observe him as he and Soonyoung pay their respects to Mingyu, who looks a pinch uncomfortable when his friends kneel in front of him. 

Black strands of his hair fall in front of his eyes and crowd his forehead. His military cape pulls your attention to his shoulders, which look broader than you remember them to be. And you can’t help but admit that his tight military top does nothing to hide his worked physique. His family crests glints at the connecting junction of his cape and his uniform, and his sheath, hand-crafted as a gift for his seventeenth birthday, holding his sword, rests against his hips. He looks regal, noble, eligible – so much so that it almost shakes the foundations of the walls you had built. 

Then he turns to you, those piercing eyes refocusing onto yours that don’t know where to land. His eyes? His lips? His chest? His shoulders? The crowd? A shadow of a smile paints itself onto his lips and you swallow. 

Your mouth feels dry. 

This can’t be real. 

When you had imagined the re-entry ball, meeting Wonwoo, nevermind seeing him so personally, had never once crossed your mind. 

Your fan slowly traced its path up to your right ear. 

From behind Wonwoo, Soonyoung grins, teeth flashing and eyes crinkling at your fan movement. Your own lips curl up in your practiced way. 

For the crowd, you tell yourself. 

The entire ballroom seems to watch the two of you in your silence, which was turning more awkward by the second. Wonwoo’s eyes carve a road up and down your figure. It makes your hands clench your fan tightly. 

You glance at Seungcheol, who nods, urging you to speak. You let out a small cough, averting your eyes briefly before your smile paints itself onto your lips again. Your fan falls. 

“It seems the battlefield has treated you well, Archduke Jeon,” you smiled, opening your arm briefly in a practiced welcome. 

It seems as if Wonwoo had not expected you to speak first, and for a second, he stands frozen, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, and hands still next to his body. At Soonyoung’s small embarrassed cough, he blinks rapidly, following your smile in suit. Except his looks too genuine, it tugs at your heart strings. And you berate your traitorous heart in wanting to pull him into a warm embrace. 

Remember how he left you. He doesn’t want you. 

The corners of your lips tremble. 

Instead, you feign indifference, lifting your chin. 

Wonwoo bows deeply first, followed by Soonyoung. He rises. 

“I see Society has welcomed you back with open arms,” he replies, his voice a pinch above a whisper. His small smile offers it as a jest but his words stab a knife into your gut. He has absolutely no right in jesting about your failed engagements. Not after everything. 

From behind him, you can see Soonyoung pinch his nose bridge, shaking his head ever so slightly, mouthing an apology to you. 

Wonwoo’s eyes linger a moment too long on you, before reaching for your hand. Out of pure etiquette that has burned itself into your entire being, you offer him your hand, and his head is bowed, lips hovering mere centimeters over your lacy knuckles before you realize what you are doing. And by then, it’s too late to retract your offered hand. 

Wonwoo’s lips meet the back of your hand. 

His own gloved fingers hold your hand like you are made out of the most delicate of china, his touch barely-there. 

And just as quick his lips are on your hand, it disappears from your skin. 

“May tonight bring you as much warmth as your presence brings to it,” he murmurs, so softly that you have to strain your ears to hear it. But it’s there.

Wonwoo rises before you have a chance to process his greeting words that were murmured into your hand. You almost miss the way the tips of his ears are blush-red between strands of his hair. 

Before you can say something else, Soonyoung is in front of you, bowing over your outstretched hand, pressing a light, airy kiss. You can feel him grin against your skin. 

When he looks up, he has a teasing grin painted on his face, and you have to force yourself to not roll your eyes at how he wiggles his eyebrows up and down. 

“Success and love for the Archduchess.” Soonyoung’s words echo across the ballroom, unlike Wonwoo’s. 

Too busy retracting your hand from Soonyoung’s grip, you miss the way Wonwoo’s jaw clenches, face hardening at Soonyoung’s words. 

: ̗̀➛ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴛᴡɪɴᴇᴅ -- ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ɪɴ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ @syluslittlecrows @gaslysainz @meowmeowminnie @luvjichang @peachytokki @nicoleparadas @haneulparadx @mj-szaa @lilylikesthat @ppaia @ameliamirabela @tearsdntfall617

[izzabela]

based on a very real text from my very real boyfriend...

pregnant!reader x price

reader probably in the second trimester

MDNI: smut, graphic descriptions of sex, p-in-v, pregnant sex, pregnant!reader, f!reader = f!genitalia, prone-bone? (yeah i think so), we are rawdogging tonight! is breeding still possible while pregnant...? (if so, then breeding),

Price is just a guy

a chill guy who loves his pregnant wife

maybe a little too much...

because when you came to him with the announcement, the blue lines a heaven-sent message from the God he didn't believe existed, everything about his brain chemistry changed

you smelled so nice, lovely in fact. intoxicating, sickeningly sweet that he put in paid paternity leave much earlier than the intended date he was supposed to. you giggled every time you felt Price's scruff over your shoulder, arm, legs- any body part that Price could get his hands on

"darling!" you'd squeal, voice pitched in ticklish joy every time his thick hairs brushed over your skin.

he didn't want to leave you, not now and certainly not in the near future.

you're so soft too. maybe it was the bundle of joy in the middle of its creation in your belly, or maybe it was the constant massages that Price gave you whenever your back hurts. whatever it was, Price's calloused hands from war meeting his angel's, it the closest thing he has to purification.

"your hands...." you'd coo at his scarred limbs. "have you been using the healing cream i gifted you?"

cream? the only ointment he needs was your supple body- his holy grail

but the thing that did it for Price, the thing that made him go insane was the obvious sign of your pregnancy- the lil' bump that showed God's immaculate gift of a woman

for every cuddle session, Price's hands swarmed your belly with feathery touches. his lips would whisper the softest promises into your plush and growing belly. "papa'll show you the world" was your favorite

for every outing you and Price had, a hand always found your belly still! touchy thing, he is, because he would not stop talking about the little pumpkin you and Price were growing together

and for every night in bed...

"mmm, honey..." you writhed in his warmth, your back against his chest. if his stubbly beard rubbing the nape of your neck was one point of bodily irritation, then your back was tingling on fire with the fine hairs of his chest

"'s nothin' love," Price mumbles against your skin, leaving little kisses that were slowly going lower and lower. "Jus' checkin' on the baby, makin' sure she's healthy."

you felt rough hands scale your body, one resting over your mouth to muzzle you, and the other slithering down before making its home over your damp underwear. if your cunt was the magic lamp, then your muffled moans were his wishes come true

"stay quiet fo' me, love," he murmurs into your ear, nibbling a little bit in the process. compliance was a new thing for you, and you were damned that listening to him made you feel... real damn good

"there's a love...." he practically growled, swiping your panty to the side and easing his fat digits into your cunt

"h-honey, the doc said-" you tried to reason with him, but a quick grip to your jaw and you were reminded about the law of your darling husband. without saying anything more, you melt into Price, letting him make work in your aching pussy

how is it possible that you were so much softer inside? so much more wet? practically coating his fingers in slick as he pumped, pumped, and pumped, his nubs in you

shaking his hand off your mouth, you looked over your shoulder with those eyes he could never say no to, and the magic word

"inside?" you plea. and who is he to deny you the pleasure?

switching positions, he lays you on your tummy (with copious blankets and pillows to support you). of course, the fucking tease makes sure to irritate you by prodding his cock at your entrance, his head kissing your sopping folds down there. you mewl, whining for him to stop playing games with you

"sorry, dove," he leans over to kiss your cheek. "was 'at mean? oh, don't cry love," he hushes you some more, before a little smile peaks through and his number one girl is back

your lips lock with his like animals in heat, like you haven't seen him in years, like it's the first time in a long time since he's had you in his arms. and as your tongues dance, his cock finally makes its home inside of you, nestling nicely in your warm, gummy walls. in fact, you're certain his mushroomy head is just touching your cervix

he doesn't fuck slow, he fucks intentionally (that's how you're carrying his future in the first place...). after getting used to your insides, his hips buck in and out, a steady, constant pace that hits every. single. spot. and his cock, oh his that lovely cock of his, stretching you out until you're crying (again) out of pleasure and wanting

"greedy lil' thing, aren't'cha wife?" his voice low and gravelly in your ear. one of his hands is over your mouth, two digits in your mouth to gag and choke, while the other arm holds your little hands in place

"y'wan' anotha one? hm? wan' another baby inside? givin' 'm a lil brother o' sister?" he teases, cock practically engraving itself in you for your walls to memorize

he does everything in his power to not cum inside, even though his words have you drooling for more. but when you squeeze him, tightening around him as he's about to pull out, his chest is on your back again as he drives himself to his own finish

"playin' dirty, lil' girl," he snarls, and you can't help but lick over his fingers in response

you can't speak with his fingers gagging you, but your mind roared with "more, more, more" and "fill me, fill me, fill me" like a mantra

and isn't the best way to thank God through worship and prayer?

your finish is visceral, flashes of white clouding your vision as you feel your thighs and legs shake. you pussy is no better, slick leaving and coating your sheets

Price is practically there, hips smashing into your round ass, hearing his flesh collide with your to create the symphony of his dreams- bonus points for your cunt adding even more music

"ah, fuck, honey i'm-!" but there's no point for Price to finish his sentence when the rest of it filled you up

you melted at the feeling of his spunk coating your walls, filling you to the brim, the fatigue of sex finally caught up to you as you began to doze off

"c'mon love," he chuckled, a little rough in his throat as he tried to keep you awake. "gotta 'elp me to not hurt our lil' one..."

you weakly flip over back onto your left side, but there's no point in fighting the sleepiness when you've already drifted into the land of subconscious. Price can only sigh at the sight, but who's he to complain? you're growing his little pumpkin

as you dreamed of your baby, images of your baby all grown, Price was tending to his garden. after all, how can she create more if not taken care of properly?

[dimmadoome]

Listening to Zevlor's voice lines all the way through is so interesting....and enlightening. Because this is a proud man whose confidence in himself is shattered, but he's still proud none the less.

Zevlor threatens you if you punch him. Just straight out says, I WILL kill you if you do that again. He punches Aradin if he spews slurs. He asks you to kill khaga, he asks you to kill the goblin leaders. No hesitation on any of that. Just ..hey buddy you wanna do a couple of murders since I am currently incapable of doing those murders. But he also fights if you ask him to, defends his people through everything. And he won't beg you to do any of that yourself if you reject him. If you don't say yes, he respects it and respects your decision...though he does get snippy as hell about it. If you do turn on him, he'll call you a coward, but he will not beg because once again. Zevlor is proud.

Zevlor is also possessive. You can hear it in the way he says MY people. Sure that could just be the way he speaks because they elected him leader, but he was a commander before that. He was a man who spent his life fighting to have that position of power and respect. Plus he almost sells his soul to the absolute to keep them, both the people and the power. As he says....those people are HIS. His to look after, his to care for his to protect. There's gotta be something in there, deep inside of him that clutches at these people like a dragon does their gold. They are his after all. They're all he has left of the life he once lived. He would rather die than give them up to anyone. Even when the absolute pushes into his mind, it offers him power to keep them safe, plays at his devotion to his oath and his people....and his pride which.....as we've established...is not an insignificant part of him.

He is also protective and caring. That obviously comes with the territory of becoming a paladin of helm, a hellrider and taking the oath of devotion. From what he does for his people to what he's done with his life ...well.....nothing more really needs to be said about that. Its his most prevalent trait and his most commendable.

Zevlor also curses a lot. He is very quick to anger, though he tries to keep himself from flying off the handle and can be reeled back in. He still throws punches and threatens lives with very little prodding. Which, once again, harkens back to his pride. Its quite entertaining to hear every other line be a curse or a shout or some growling threat. Sweetheart where? That man is FERAL.

Another thing is that Zevlor definitely respects you if you are a selfless Tav/Durge/Origin. I think he tries so hard to be selfless as well. Sees it as a good trait to have, but he isn't. Not really. Not where he thinks it counts. Its probably what he percieves as a fatal flaw, which I would guess comes from living in holier than thou Elturel where you basically sign your life away to "protect" the city. I personally don't think total selflessness is a fantastic trait to have, but I could see where Zevlor could pick that up as the Ideal trait for a paladin to have.

Throughout the game, you see this man crack under insurmountable pressure. You see the chips in the facade that he puts up but if you look, you can see the good and the bad trapped underneath those chips. It tends to be frustrating that people only see the cracks and not what's underneath of them and I think thats what annoys me the most. He's a fun character. He's a strong, powerful man who has shattered like iron under pressure but at the end of it all he IS a good man and a menace and a half with such an interesting mindset and backstory that I can't help but wonder if anyone who sees the character, sees him at all.

In summation.

I love him, Your Honor. 10/10 would let him go feral and smite my ass for talking back to him.

[take-it-on-the-run]

The End

Wally Clark x Reader

Two people died on September 23rd, 1983. One laid out on a football field before hundreds of people, and the other left behind on the cold floor of the boy's locker room.

Word Count: 1.7k

Tags: Sexual assault, semi-graphic depictions of SA, including: almost direct aftermath, reader is naked in the beginning, mentions of blood, and implied loss of virginity via SA, flashback to SA; death, reader's death is overlooked, ANGST

Characters: Wally Clark, Reader, Dalton (OC)

Read it on AO3!

A/N: The Doors title. Hey ya'll. I cannot believe the love I've been getting on this page, and it's driving me past my writer's block more than anything. With school starting, I can feel the academic anxiety kicking in, but I use my writing as a coping method when I can. This story has very intense topics (as stated in the tags) and is not meant to idealize any topics in any way. This was inspired by @general-fanfiction's Hopes and Fears series (GO READ IT RN), and @whoopsyeahokay's October Sun series (ALSO GO READ IT RN). If this story is well received, or I just feel the urge to, I'll probably turn it into a series (bc this sucks as a one-shot). As always, please heed the warnings, and read only if you're comfortable.

Part 1 | Part 2

Wally Clark Masterlist | School Spirits Masterlist | Main Page Masterlist

Blood was everywhere.

It slid down your legs and dribbled onto the cold floor of the locker room. Every inch of your skin felt like it was too tight for your bones, and all you wanted to do was reach down your throat and rip out your heart.

Copper flooded your mouth. The tang brushed against the back of your chattering teeth, and all you could think about was how you wanted to crawl to the nearby shower and let it run until one of the coaches found you and dragged you out.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Move. You told yourself. All of your limbs ached. Nothing felt real.

You didn’t want this to be real.

It was supposed to be kind. Gentle. An act out of pure love.

Standing up proved to be hard, and it was like no one was able to hear you screaming out for help. Filtered out by the people flooding the halls, hustling to the big homecoming game going on that night.

The tiled walls provided little help as you brought yourself to a standing position, walking slowly as you felt your feet brush against the pile of your shoes, pants, and underwear on the floor. The touch stopped your heart, breaking a new tier of hate and regret across your body.

He said he loved me.

You turned on the shower, cranking the knob to the hottest setting, knowing that the water wouldn’t get anywhere near warm. Water slid harshly over your body, and you felt it pelt against spots of dried blood on your thighs.

You wished you never come to this stupid football game.

You wished you weren’t as ignorant, or as gullible, or as love-blind as you had been in the past three months.

You wished you never met him.

His face felt bitter and sharp in your head, poking and prodding, as if trying to stick the memory of his hands on you for eternity.

Time passed irregularly, no one came in or out of the locker room, and you were sure that the football game had to have reached its end by all of the cheering and yelling you heard outside.

After using all of the hot water in the gym wing, you slowly walked to the lines of lockers, trying even glimpsing in the direction of your clothes. tried to open every locker until one popped open, revealing a pair of grey sweatpants, a sweatshirt, a muscle tank, blue gym shorts, and a matching varsity jacket with #57 stitched on the arm.

You grabbed the matching sweatsuit, balling it in your arms and silently apologizing to the boy you’d never return the clothing to.

He probably won’t even notice, you told yourself.

You turned the corner around a line of lockers and you could swear you were going crazy. A bare foot poked out from behind the last line of lockers, limply tilted against your pile of clothes, painted a chipped wine red.

You blinked hard, looking down at your own chipped wine-red toes, and you clutched the clothing you stole to your naked body. The cotton was soft compared to the cold tile bracing against your feet, and you brought your eyes to look back to the pile of clothing on the floor.

Bile pooled at the back of your mouth as you hesitantly stepped closer to the foot that hadn’t disappeared. You’re going crazy, you told yourself, but the more and more you stared at the limp, pale body - your limp, pale body - whose features were more of a brutal mass than a face, the less it was going away.

You barely made it past the urinals and into an open stall before you dry-heaved into a toilet.

You were dead.

You couldn’t be.

As you zipped up the stolen hoodie and sweatpants, you tried to remember it all. Kissing under the bleachers before the game, him asking you to come with him while he grabbed something from his gym locker.

Every agonizing second you asked him to stop, to stop pressing you into the lockers because one of the locks was digging into your back; his decrepit hands sliding at your waistline, pushing and prodding past the fabric of your clothes.

Nothing would come up from your stomach.

Could ghosts vomit? You asked yourself, slowly standing to your feet and walking back over to your dead body.

Conversations started to flood the hallway, every muscle in your body coming briefly to attention before you flew out the door and screamed into the rushing crowd of students.

“Hello?” You called out, reaching your arm into the crowd, only to watch it get run through like something out of Star Wars.

Your body became hot, and even though you knew deep down that no one could see you, you pushed your tears back down your choking throat and felt your cheeks heat up with shame.

You walked into the crowd, who was thinning out the further you got from the hallway. Your body tensed for a moment, seeing the lights of police cars and ambulances pulling up to the school. Expecting to see the paramedics rushing toward your body, you waited for them to split the crowd, to start heading toward the school, but they were bolting the other way.

Straight toward the football field.

This school has to be fucking cursed.

One of the players was splayed out on the field, his head gently being lifted as paramedics were tugging his helmet off his head. The football team from whatever school yours was playing against was sitting on the bench, whispering and pointing to another one of their players who was talking to a police officer further down the field.

57.

The number sewn on the jacket hanging among the clothes you stole stood out against the dark blue of the player’s helmet. People gasped and a woman cried out as the paramedic set the helmet aside, revealing the face of the school’s resident golden boy; a dark bruise crawled up his neck, and his mouth guard slid between his lips as his limp head hung unnaturally over his shoulder.

You walked closer, straight through the forming line of police officers, and looked into the field. At the edge of the bleachers, waving his arms around and yelling into a silent group of people, stood Wally Clark.

Wally Clark is dead.

Just like I am.

You took off running, the activity coming easier to you when you were alive.

Alive.

“Wally!” You called out, and the football player snapped his body to your voice, his eyes wide and seeming relieved that someone was talking to him.

You stopped, resting your hands on your hips as he hopped down from the bleachers.

“What’s happening? Why- why is no one talking to me? What did I do?” He asked, skipping the formalities. He came to stand on the field before you, the football gear he was wearing sending a rush of debilitating shame through your body.

You faltered for a moment, his face flashing in your eyes before you rubbed your face back to reality.

“You didn’t do anything, Wally.” You managed to push out, pushing your eyes anywhere but on him.

“Then what is happening? I feel like I’m going crazy, one minute I’m running with the ball, and boom- I’m at the bleachers, trying to get my mother to talk to me and she won’t even look up at me. I know she’s pissed at me about going on the bench, but I mean I got back in the game, and now I’m guessing coach is pissed at me on insisting to get back in and-”

“You’re dead.” You cut off his rambling, forcing yourself to meet his face without looking away after a second, “I mean, I think we’re both dead.”

First, he smiled. Like what you said was some kind of joke. After you said nothing, he started toward the sidewalk, where his mother was now alongside a stretcher being lifted into an ambulance. You could see the tears on her face from where you were, each step you followed Wally, the easier it was to see her sorrow.

Then, as he was following his mother, he suddenly was gone, like he was plucked off the Earth by God himself.

That was until you turned to see him standing on the football field, right where his body was previously lying, tugging at the roots of his hair.

You hovered your foot, leveraging that if you stood on the sidewalk, you would be slingshotted back to the men’s locker room.

You decided to trust your gut and instead talked to Wally.

“I can’t be dead, I mean, that would mean you’re dead, and I literally saw you in the hallway this morning,” Wally said as he paced in a small area before you, “and I know for sure that I saw you because you were hanging around Dalton’s locker, which was weird because everyone on the team thought he had some college girl or something he was hanging out with-”

You didn’t register some of the words he was saying, instead you tried to control your thoughts from ripping you back to your last moments on earth at his name.

“-I mean, do you even know how crazy this sounds?”

You took in a shaky breath, wiping your hands over your face to poorly conceal any emotions that unwillingly spread onto your features, “Yeah, but that’s the thing, Wally. I am dead.”

Saying you were dead for the first time out loud was a lot heavier than you thought it would be.

You’re pretty sure that if the insanity of Wally being killed hadn’t overridden your brain, you would be somewhere huddled up and screaming for some greater power to give you eternal rest.

“What? That’s not possible, I mean, the people you were here with would’ve noticed you were gone. Dalton would’ve noticed you were gone.”

You didn’t want to give his name as much power as you did, but your body tightened up hearing it. You didn’t correct him, instead opting to stare at the dark woods on the far end of the field, your eyes burning once more.

“Y/N,” you were a little surprised that he knew your name, and even more when he stood in front of you with the most gentle expression you’d ever seen, “what happened after school? How did you die?”

[currentfandomkick]

Skulker, unwilling witness to a halfa custody battle

Masterlist Here

Hi. It took forever to get back to this as work upped my hours and i was exhausted. Enjoy the crazy building for my personal blend of how the Ghost Zone works with the DC afterlives (minor spoiler: if afterlife divinities don’t want anything to do with you, they just. Make you the Ghost Zone’s problem)

—

Skulker couldn’t help but wonder when the issues regarding the Unshed Whelp would end.

Sampson grew more nervous as the doctors and nurses prodded him.

“And are you sure this isn’t further down his reincarnation line, just a second life not a fifth or one in the hundreds?” Amira repeated.

childHurt?Sampson inquired, still holding her ghostling.

“Now, its just to know how bad the hurt is—further back a soul goes, worse the cause of regression and higher on the priorities list we get for IRFP.”

At Sampson’s ? Skulker clarified.

“Infinite Realms Fright Protections, they specialize in younger ghosts, disabled ghosts, and liminals like you and specialty cases like the whelp.”

Sampson frowned.

“Think a lot of healers, protectors and parents working together to help uh,” he switched gears as Sampson moved to her full height. “think your zookeepers but they listen to you.”

That settled her down at least. For the moment.

“Well, it looks like maybe a second life, which may be why he’s been difficult to skin on top of his halfa status. Liminals tend to flee too—honestly they need a good scrub now and then to take out the dirty layers—Speaking of which, Sampson, are you still using the scrubs to help with the excess aggression?”

Sampson nodded, offering her arm for inspection if needed.

“Great, we may need something like that or a bit stronger to help your son lessen his reversions.”

“But not stop,” Skulker noted.

“Until we got the stressor down and managed? Not a way to do that even if he’s skinned properly. And liminals tend to take to attempts poorly—Carbon side has Opinions on it and the Ecto is all for it. Best not to confuse the poor dear more than he is.”

Sampson shuffled in place.

The whelp kept hiding in her fur, tail flailing or flaring out with his other fins on occasion.

“Now, is he still in contact with any relatives from any other lifetimes of his?” The doctor asked while checking the whelps’s scales, grabbing a sample from what flaked off.

“Not that myself or Sampson have identified,” he translated.

“Well, give us a bit and we can have this,” the doctor gestured to the plastic container with the scale samples. “Run for a any familial matches in our systems and see if any of the other lives can give some insight into his actions.”

“He did die young both times,” Skulker admitted, examining the merform more now. There are countless subspecies and variations for adult merfolk, but the whelp had an infant’s face, build and lack of a sternum and proper elbows.

He… he had a feeling that if the whelp’s death was not accidental, and the perpetrator was alive… it would not be impossible to let the more wrathful, rage riddled protector spirits have a go at them. Especially if he just. Pointed them in the right direction.

The nurse shrugged. “Could have been an auto-reincarnation.”

Sampson grumbled something at that.

The whelp stayed quiet and rested as they waited for the results.

With any luck, he’d have relatives in the Realms rather than the End Points… The rulers there were vexing on a good day without stakes.

With stakes they made it a point to be as insufferable as possible.

“Okay, there’s only one direct match in the Realms, a former king of something or other named Deildi of Atlantis… I think? He’s using his grave name, rather than his death name.”

Skulker looked to the ceiling, as Sampson continued to soothe the fussy whelp.

He would demand pelting rights for this—Sampson would hardly oppose the treatment once the whelp’s stress lowered. Just in sections on his primary ghost form, nothing deeper than the surface layer… probably a good idea to see if he has ecto-preferences outside of the Far Frozen’s for his recovery…

A royal. Likely assassinated young enough to qualify for automatic reincarnation, sans cultural attachments.

…he’d offer the whelp a shark-like blob ghost as a support. If his… semi-stray dog got along with them…

Or make the pain that is Cujo choose the small shark-blob for the whelp.

Sampson would accept it easily enough as additional protection from the overeager ectopus.

babyOldfamilyHelp?

“Not his old parents, relatives to them, a ‘leader’ it seems.”

Sampson’s scrunched face told them all her opinion loud and clear.

“Its not uncommon for them to watch over the living, hopefully he can be helpful,” one of the newer nurses suggested while trying (and failing) to convince Sampson to The whelp in a tank.

—

Deildi threw open the door to examine his descendant. One not brought to him upon death like the others.

Silvers and blacks made up the bulk of the tail and fins, while the babe’s human flesh handled the rest of his coloring. Craftsmanship and strength made sense for one of his kin. Artistic leaning probably, and if the boy had time to grow into it, he didnt doubt a knack for magic with shifting states of matter would have been on the table. Death draping its colors on him made equal sense. Perhaps it was because his descendants’ strength lay in his spirit rather than body that even death didnt truly beat this one the second time around?

“And he chose Danny Phantom?” Deildi repeated, eyeing the merchild warily. Why the guppy would choose to emphasize his death as a spirit, he couldn’t fathom.

Even moreso, how the child destined to be such a successful sorcerer king died as an infant was beyond him. Were his abilities sealed before? Had that blasted portal unlocked them?

“Yes,” the sentient automaton answered. “The whelp enjoys word play.”

Why the merchild chose a liminal gorilla as his ghost parent further perplexed him—however he was growing to understand the babe as a living paradox.

ChildmineSafewithME and helpExplainillnessInquiryslewed off the gorilla to an alarming degree.

“I tend to watch them after their first sparks of magic emerge,” he began absently. “He’s still got a strong soul for sorcery when he’s ready.”

“That doesn’t explain the soul regression, sir,” the medic interrupted.

Deildi slowly exhaled at the interruption. “And this is merely his second life. All reversions will end with him in this form. He is likely seeking safety and comfort given the uphill battle this life has proven.”

He waved a finger before the guppy, and smiled as the child chased the shimmers in his wake.

“Uphill battle?” The medic prompted uncertainly.

Deildi pressed his lips together as his jaw tightened recalling how often his young descendant nearly became another automatic reincarnation.

“He has almost died around saturnalia every year. Often during harvest festivals as well. This red coated figure? Causes far too many and too involved arguments. He almost died last year when the noodles he tried to make from scratch hit ecto-infused water and spouted their own sentience and desire to end him. I presume his parents haven’t dismantled their fortress’ traps and they’ve begun to spring on him, correct?”

The automaton nodded mutely, eyeing his descendant more than he’d prefer.

The gorilla grumped UpsetAngry and ChildRefusesToStayHere/Home wafting off her cloyingly.

Deildi wrinkled his nose at sensation.

“If permitted, I can see to it he is given a proper childhood as a Neverborn or act as a foster parent for his times in the Realms. Naturally his door will be moved to my palace and accommodations made for his chosen parent.”

The medics shared a look with the automaton and the gorilla.

“He’s a halfa,” one medic began.

Deildi hated how only the slur survived in texts outside his kingdom. So many of his subjects began as Veilborn and only the Purger’s propaganda and slander remained of their origin.

“the situation is…” the other medic trailed off, staring at the automaton.

“Delicate,” the metal man stated. “He refuses a proper pelting.”

Deildi hummed, gently offering his fingers for the boy to nip at while running a more clawed hand gently against a spotty patch long since ready for peeling.

The babe giggled while he did.

“Scale sheddings are more effective for ecto-carbons,” Deildi murmured, grntly scrapping the excess, old and illness-inducing ecto off the babe where the child allowed.

The automaton scowled at him.

“I predate Pariah’s Purge. Veilborn and their care was as common as greens and blues back then.”

The medics looked at him with newfound interest.

“The records were kept at the Far Frozen. I believe they still have untouched copies if you need more information… has he been given a proper memorial yet? I haven’t seen anything in the times I checked in.”

The silence was damning.

“… do inform the mortals aware of his condition that a memorial will help anchor him to his current death form, not leave him listless to his prior form.”

The automaton nodded along.

The gorilla was lost for a proper response.

—

Okay was in drafts for forever (Deildi was not having it until I worked out the ilness or let him take over treatments so #*%@) but done. Also not nearly as many former atlantian kings as i figured there would be, so congrats you get an OC.

Let me know if you want me to pick this series back up, and if you want videos of mer danny to be leaked (possibly with Deildi hovering on the night cameras and playing with him as a more semi-transparent DC ghost (man is not here for an obsession he’s here to Step Up on parenting this apparent descendant that continues to get the short end of the stick. possibly co-mentor with Frostbite as Magic kicks in)

Tags: @skulld3mort-1fan @theizzyof3malec3 @brattysleepyreader @sebas-nights @elidaweirdotaku0520 @bianca-hooks123 @the-autistic-spider @laurcad123 @just-lurking-here-dont-mind-meh @atinygracie @stars-obsession-pit t @wanderwithwings @aibhilin-atibeka @lovelesslittleloser @shadowkatt99 @pastelpigeonparadise @gloriousporpois

[majoryeager104]

Hi! I see your requests are open :)

I have this headcanon where the reader is crushing hard on Dabi. It's very obvious to everyone and the other villains constantly tease about it. So naturally Dabi goes out of his way to avoid reader (with much attitude cuz he doesn't have time for all that). Dabi takes off for days doing whatever tf it is he does, and the reader finds out Dabi is responding to everyone's texts but theirs. When Dabi returns reader is being petty and decides to completely avoid him. Now Dabi reacts. He doesn't like it and that bothers him. Reader also decides to take a few days off to clear their head (this crush is an irritating distraction). When reader returns to the hideout, they find most of their belongings semi-burned in a pile of ash on the carpet. Enter smug-looking Dabi with the audacity "What the hell you avoiding me for?"

-♡♡♡

omg this is so fun yes <3 sorry it took a while I added a lil smau tho hehe

Touya/Dabi x gn!reader

warnings: language

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

“You’re staring again”

Himiko’s voice shook you from your thoughts as you finally blinked, glancing between her, and what had previously caught your eye, or rather who. There sat Dabi, relaxing on a couch in the bar next to Spinner. It didn’t seem like he’d noticed your eyes on him, which for some reason made you feel relieved and yet worse at the same time. You groaned in frustration, slumping against the counter in defeat. What was wrong with you?

Toga hummed, patting your back as she got up. “Oh come on! Don’t be so down! I’m sure he knows and might even feel the same way!” She smiled hopefully, her eyes gleaming with hope for you, her good friend. You sighed, shaking your head. “Doubt it…honestly who knows what he’s thinking” you grumbled against the counter, not noticing how quiet Himiko had become. Until..

“Who’re ya talkin about, huh?”

that familiar gruff voice almost had you falling out of your chair as you looked for its source. There, standing over you, unblinking, with a big fat grin on his face, stood the very man you’d hoped wouldn’t notice your predicament. Dabi himself. Toga giggled, deciding to herself to leave you here to ‘have a moment’ I suppose, although deep down you watched her go rather frantically.

Still, Dabi stared, eyes never wavering. you felt his gaze practically burning through your skull, like his line of vision was affected by that quirk of his. You felt hot all over, embarrassed and blushing, but you sat up straighter, trying to brush it off as you finally spoke up. “…no one in particular..” you grumbled.

He hummed, his smile growing impossibly wider, the staples across his face tugging on his cheeks as he did so, pulling back his skin to reveal a devious, taunting smile. God, why did you find that so attractive? You shook away the thought. No, he was probably here to tease you like everyone else did. “Really? No one important? Close? Maybe a coworker” he prodded, that wide, Cheshire Cat grin never leaving his face. He was absolutely loving this.

“What? You hoping it’s you or something?”

Shigaraki’s voice came from the doorway as he entered, hands in the pockets of the hoodie he was wearing. Everyone seemed to laugh at this, Toga especially, knowing what she knew, hell, even Kurogiri seemed to find the tease amusing. But you only blushed further with embarrassment, and Dabi only sneered, backing away. “Whatever.” He grumbled, hands in his pockets as he sulked towards the door past Shigaraki. If he was in a bad mood before, he certainly was now. And he stayed gloomy, but more specifically, he began to stay away from you.

——

You sighed, glancing between the sidewalk and your phone as you headed back to the hideout. You hadn’t seen him in a few days at this point, and it had become…worrying. What made matters worse was that everyone else had seen him. He was solely avoiding you, and you had no clue why. You reluctantly decided to text him again, hoping he’d reply, despite the gnawing in your gut saying otherwise.

Now you were just mad. Why would he be so adamant on ignoring you that he’d block you for it?? Your worry mixed with frustration as you scoured over your memories of the past few days. Had you said something to upset him? You knew you wouldn’t get an answer out of him, and as you approached hideout you realized no one was there, either.

And yet, you’d decided otherwise. Blocking him really wouldn’t do much to help, Magne was right. Instead, you decided to play his game. Why not?

——

it was a few days till Dabi returned to the hideout, and when he did, his eyes lingered on a seat by the counter with toga that was usually taken. Something wasn’t there, or rather someone.

“where’s y/n?”

he asked from the door, the rest of the group blinking up at him. “Is that really the first thing you ask after ignoring y/n for a week?” Shigaraki spoke bluntly from the couche where he sat with Spinner, a rather calm but annoyed look on his face, as if he had much more he wanted to say but wouldn’t. At that, Dabi bristled, scoffing as he pulled out his phone. “Fine” he said, exasperated as he unblocked you and sent you a message, only to find you didn’t answer back. He scoffed again, sliding his phone back in his pocket as he decided to look for you.

He checked all around the hideout- your room, togas room, hell, he checked the roof. He even went by your favorite restaurant- nothing. He’d actually begun to get worried, and it was already frustrating enough for him that he realized he missed you.

By the time he finally decided to text you again, it had been days since you’d left, and since then he was experiencing the same thing you did- he was the only one in the league that couldn’t get in contact with you.

——

You’d checked your phone only to see his texts after a few hours of wandering around town. You’d seen him when he came into the hideout, and snuck out the back door hours ago. You were only just now coming back to your room when you noticed a burning smell. Was someone smoking down the hall? No, it was coming from under your door, you could even see the smoke. Oh no, it wasn’t on fire was it?

But you opened your door to find something even worse.

A stuffed animal Himiko had won for you in a claw machine, a few cardigans and coats, and a pair of gloves, burnt up in the middle of the floor. You walked over, pulling the stuffed animal out first. It wasn’t too badly damaged, it seemed like whatever happened, the fire didn’t burn long. But really, you knew what happened the moment you saw it. It was just the gravity of the situation only set in at the familiar sound of boots stopping in your doorway.

“so…what the hell are you ignoring me for, huh?”

you turned and stood to see Dabi leaning against your doorframe, a smug look on his face, like he was pleased with himself. It almost made you want to slap him, but you stayed put.

“what the hell? Why’d you burn all this?”

“Ignoring my questions too? Damn, that’s awfully rude”

“…I only ignored you because you ignored me first.”

the moment it left your mouth, his eyes flickered in a manner that made you realize how childish you sounded, and you couldn’t help but sulk your shoulders as a smile grew wider on his face.

“Really now? I did your job for you and this is what I get?” He teased, stepping closer as his boots thudded on your floor. “You wouldn’t text me back” you said, backing up and away from him, a blush creeping on your face. Dammit. “I was busy” he said gruffly, continuing to get closer to you. “But you texted the others?” “Only to get em to shut up.” He said simply, and at this point you were against the wall, watching quietly as he stepped over the burnt remains of your belongings. “You blocked me” “needed you to shut up too.” He said, stopping in front of you, his narrow eyes scanning you for a moment before he spoke again. “Don’t ignore me again. Got it?”

the way he spoke made it sound almost like a threat, but his eyes didn’t hold any sort of anger. He leaned in closer, a smirk growing on his face. “Well?” He said expectantly, tilting his head. “…got it” you said softly, the small blush that had crawled across your cheeks had become much brighter by this point, surely it was impossible that he didn’t know your feelings by now.

but instead of pointing it out, or teasing you, he merely stared at you up close for a second before leaning away to stand straight again, sighing. “Good. See ya later, we got a job together again tonight.” And with that he walked to the door, once again carefully stepping over your things before stopping in the doorway to look at you. “Nice room by the way.” And with that, he shut the door.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

[endursent]

- God Shattering Star

【 content; morax | rex lapis x reader , slow burn , mutual pining , multi-chapter , archon war period , afab!reader 】

【 summary; You have always been sensitive to the foul miasma left behind by dead gods, the terrible energy that seeps into the earth and poisons any living creature that comes into prolonged contact with it. You've made a living of cleansing and purifying these energies from humans and fields in small villages in exchange for food, places to sleep and clothing, you had just settled in a particularly affected village when you are suddenly summoned to the palace of the gods of this land and have no choice but to accept.

Through corruption and war, Morax can only hope the stones of the earth are steadier than your fate, plagued by a sudden misfortune that threatens your balance on solid ground. 】

【 note; this is an ongoing fic i've been posting on ao3 and decided to post it here too. please keep in mind that this is a multi-chapter slow burn, this is the first chapter, and i'll be posting the others over the next days to not clog the tags. read it here on ao3 if you're impatient, it might also be a good idea to look at the tags while you're there. 】

【 word count; 5.322 | next chapter | masterlist 】

- Chapter 1 - Left in the Woods

“Please… stay still,” you practically plead with the small boy, he’s barely a child and is currently wailing and pulling on your sleeve as you try to cure his ailment. His mother is on the other side of the bed, prying his small hands off of your clothes to let you work, but the loud crying makes it difficult to focus.

 “I’m sorry, he doesn’t usually cry like this, Si Leng is a polite boy,” his mother apologises, holding the boy’s hands gently, her greying hair is disheveled and sticks to her forehead as she tries to calm her son down with soothing strokes of her thumbs over his small hands.

 You shake your head but say nothing, you don’t have much time to extract the miasma from the boy’s skin before it seeps deeper. His mother had barged into your home holding him as he wailed and cried, a dead bird in his dirty hands–you had instantly sensed the foul energies clinging to the bird, and now seeped into Si Leng’s body. His skin is pale and the dark taint visibly wriggles under his skin, having wormed its way into a cut on his knee he got from playing this morning after having held the bird for so long. How the bird came to near seep with corruption was something you intended to find out after finishing your first task.

 The corruption is spreading from his knee, prodding at his skin, you judge the distance both by Si Leng’s increase in crying–it really isn’t helping your focus, but you can’t blame him–as well as the way his skin softens where the area is affected, like poking pudding. You reach for a small cart next to you and bring out an old bell, the bottom is rusted and chipped, but it works better than any newly crafted bell the village chief has gifted you. The chime causes the darkened slithers of the corruption to jolt back, then return their advance, and jolt back as it chimes again. Si Leng’s hands fly to his ears as it chimes, it sounds short and unimpressive to your and his mother’s ears, but the taint in his body increases his sensitivity fourfold, especially to blessed tools.

 As the darkness jolts and twitches, you dip your brush in the ink next to where the bell had been, and utter under your breath as you paint intricate lines over his thigh and calf, in the middle of an uncompleted circle around his leg, you drag the brush into a character that seals the circle. The corruption touches the ink, but doesn’t progress, it’s confined to the area of his knee, and just a bit above and below.

 Si Leng’s mother watches carefully, relief in her dark eyes as the spread halts. “Ah, thank you, it’s–”

 “It’s not done, please be quiet,” you don’t mean to sound harsh, but the extraction requires a lot of focus and having someone talk to you is probably the largest distraction you face when cleansing. “Hold him tightly, he will squirm and thrash,” you warn, setting your brush aside and taking a jar from the same cart. Holding your palm over his knee, you close your eyes and take a breath, searching the energy in his body, trailing the lines down to his knee–there, you fist your hand and Si Leng’s wail turns to a scream.

 “W-why!?” his mother cries, holding him into a sitting position so she can encircle his torso better, the little boy’s hands clutching at his mother once more and tighter than before. “Why is he screaming?”

 The extraction takes your utmost focus, so you don’t reply–or really listen, anticipating questions. You usually purify or extract such miasma from objects or fields of wheat, not people, thus there never been a mouth to scream with and the sound is difficult to adjust to… a scream as a result of your work makes every nerve in your body twitch and demand you stop, but you press on regardless, stopping in the middle of a cleansing would only make the spread worse. Dark tendrils akin to thick mist flow from the deep scratch on his knee and into the jar, it takes almost eight minutes of focus and careful extraction to pull the last of the taint from his leg and as soon as the last is out, you shut the jar and slap a paper talisman over it–it’s a temporary solution, dispersing it will come later.

 Si Leng doesn’t stop crying–he does stop screaming–but seems more aware of his surroundings, enough to cling to his mother like a lifeline. It’s not unsurprising the poor boy still cries, all he knows is that it hurt and the lady at the end of the street made it hurt more before it was finally gone. You wouldn’t be surprised if he bolts away after seeing you on the street for a few weeks.

 You let out a breath, feeling as if you had just run five laps around the village and took a dip in the cold springs down the hill… but it was done. You set the jar aside and stood to set your hands in a basket of water, rinsing them before drying as Si Ling’s mother calmed him down, he fell asleep in only a few minutes. “Thank you,” his mother lifted him up and held against her chest, his head pressed into her shoulder. “I’ll fetch payment straight away, I don’t know how this happened, he was just playing in the woods with his brother–they never go further than the stream.”

 You walk to the burning incense on the table, set up to cleanse the air and ensure the corruption couldn’t escape if anything went wrong before the extraction could begin, but now that it was over it only made the house feels stuffed, the thick smell of the incense made your nose tickle if it stayed for too long, you place the burning end in the small bowl of sand next to it and open a window, waving your hand slightly to usher it out. “Could you ask your oldest son where they went? I need to investigate what happened to ensure it doesn’t happen again.”

 “Of course! I’ll be back momentarily!” she nodded and bowed thrice before hurrying out of your home, you stepped outside and meant to tell her the recovery process… but if she’s coming right back, there’s no need to rush after her.

 Closing the door behind you, your eye catches the deceased bird laying on your kitchen table–it was practically reeking darkness and foul energies, surely it didn’t gain all of this from around here? Your village is small and tucked against a tall mountain south inside the Guili Assembly, just a two day trek to the “disputed” border to the next territory. Every few weeks the Millelith Brigade would pass by either coming to or leaving the border, it was a line of tall mountains, and every so often either side would inch over the top and gain the higher ground, ensuring their position until the next storm drove them off and the other would regain it. They would occasionally come to your village for small things that the village could afford, they even brought two strange artifacts to you once that were steeped with corruption–the amount of mora plopped in your hands after cleansing them was enough to let you travel east and shop in the larger town closer to the ocean for produce that wasn’t readily available in your small village.

 Could the bird have flown from there? The situation wasn’t particularly perilous at the moment, or so you’ve heard in passing, so why would such dark energies gather there? Perhaps it came from somewhere else…

 As you consider where it must have come from and try to ignore the exhaustion that pulls your muscles downwards–as if it wants to pull you into the earth–you prod at it’s body and examine the flow of the corruption, you were about to reach for your bell when a knock comes from the door. Expecting it to be Si Leng’s mother–you never quite got her name, she lives alone with her two boys and primarily sews… she even has a small box you can put your clothing into with your name on a wooden slab wrapped inside and she’ll have her sons bring it back when she’s done–you don’t make a move to turn around, merely calling for them to enter.

 “I apologise for the intrusion… but is this the village exorcist’s home?” an unfamiliar voice says, you turn and see a man in your doorway. He has slicked back brown hair and wears common travel clothes, a bamboo box on his back and a hat of the same material on top of it, there also seems to be a faintly green streak in his hair on the left side.

 “Ah, yes, that would be me, can I help you?” you moved to stand in front of the bird… it would be quite strange that you just have a dead bird on your kitchen table–it clearly hadn’t been prepared enough to eat, you would usually at least pull the feathers outside.

 The man stepped further inside, it was difficult to read his expression… but he didn’t seem to be in a bad mood, your village doesn’t get many visitors so your introductory skills are lacking. “My name is Houzhang, I was trekking further south in search of a specific herb when I began to feel ill… I already saw a doctor at the Millelith camp by the border but they couldn’t find anything, I fear lingering miasma from the recent battle may be affecting me and they sent me here.”

 You put a hand on your chin, inclining your head to the side as you looked him up and down… he wasn’t particularly pale, there was a healthy tan to his skin and his face didn’t indicate any discomfort, it indicated very little in fact. “Okay, let’s have a look, come sit,” you gestured to the table where Si Leng had been before and moved to clean your hands again, you didn’t want to touch a potentially tainted person with hands that just prodded at a dead bird. Approaching the man as he sat down, you slowed your breath to focus, you had always had a keen affinity for sensing fouler energies, ones of corruption and death. The war between gods had reigned for many human generations now and every time a god perished, they released a terrible amount of miasma into the earth, dark energies that seep into the soil and poison the land and creatures around it. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the only circumstance this taint could appear under. Immense despair, pain or grief can breed it as well, though it requires either a powerful being or a large collective to do so.

 The man sat patiently under your scrutinising gaze. Surprisingly, you did sense a thick gathering of dark energies in his body–his left hip specifically. “Were you injured?” you asked. The miasma would only gather like this in one specific spot if there was a terrible injury there, if it was exposure by being close to lingering energies, the entire body would seem to have a heavy blanket of it over it.

 “No, but I was directly under the mountain for three days,” Houzhang said.

 “…” your eyebrows furrowed, no sign of sweating either… you counted his breaths and they had a normal frequency. “Hm, please lie down.” he did as you asked and you brought your little cart of tools over, less intimidating than that of a doctor’s though. You poked and prodded at his torso, asking if any specific place hurt or felt numb–he had probably already been asked this by an actual doctor, but you were doing it for a different reason and thus the answer would gain different results. He always said no and you began to doubt there was really anything wrong with this guy, if it weren’t for that condensed spot.

 You poked at the corrupt spot with two fingers… and it moved… you blinked.

 You poked again, and it seemed to fall down his side.

 “…”

 “…”

 He pulled out a small wooden doll from inside his robes, it was round and carved like a furry forest creature. “It was this,” he didn’t sound surprised at all, and he held it towards you. “Can you cleanse it?”

 Why didn’t he just lead with that? What was with making her examine him? Is he a weirdo of some sort? You sighed and took the doll. “Sure, please be patient.” You stood and brought it to a table next to the bed, you had already extracted the taint from a human today, so this would absolutely drain you, but you kind of wanted this guy out of your house because of the weird… display, and interaction. Doing the same as you always do, you lit the incense on the table and closed the windows, you lit the two candles on each end of the table and took out a talisman to lay on to the table. Houzhang watched you work in silence, eyes following every single move you made. Eventually, the doll was clear of the foul energies clinging to it and you handed it back to the man.

 You honestly felt as though every movement you made was akin to wading through stomach-high water.

 He examined the doll carefully and then nodded. “Very good.”

 Very good? Are you being graded?

 “This one apologises for deceiving you,” Houzhang said. “The doll being corrupted was intentional, one did not want to waste your time.” He stands up and hands you the doll back. You’re not entirely sure what to do with it, or why he handed it to you, so you just hold it. “Please come to the capital, we have need of a cleanser, if half-skilled.”

 The capital? Half-skilled ?

 You handed the doll back to him, and he took it to your surprise. “The capital? Who is ‘we’? The capital isn’t exactly close by, and this village is high-risk when it comes to taint and corruption due to its proximity to the southern mountains. Who is going to take care of things here?”

 Houzhang didn’t seem particularly pleased with your questions, it seemed that he expected you to simply say yes and trot along. “The nearby Millelith Brigade will protect it, if they have problems they can’t fix, they can travel to the capital.”

 “You make it sound like a day trip,” you said, slightly exasperated… after two cleansings, you really just want him to leave and let you sleep until midnight. “Do you ride on a cloud or something?”

 He blinked at your question. “No, this one travels normally.” How vague. “It is only a twelve hour journey.”

 Twelve hours? It took you four days every single time that you have gone there, what are this guy’s legs made of? Even by cart it would take two days at best. “You’re lying.”

 “This one doesn’t lie,” he insists, clearly offended that you would suggest such a thing.

 “Okay,” you waved your hand vaguely, why had he changed his speech a minute ago? “But do you expect me to come along with you just because you said so? I’d need some–” you were cut off by a scroll being thrust into your hands. You looked down at it with bewilderment.

 The outside had an intricate golden pattern over a deep brown cover that protected the paper, it was bound with a blue silk streaked with a pale grey pattern that was different to the golden one and a small white ore attached to the end of the silk. Oh… this is a scroll from the palace, where the two gods of this land reside. From them.

 You stared at Houzhang as if he had grown two heads, he simply folded his arms over his chest and waited.

 Opening the scroll, you carefully set it out on the table after moving some blank papers aside. ‘We ask that you travel to the capital of the Guili Assembly to provide cleansing services to the palace. Travel safely.’

 Who wrote this? It’s not exactly what you expected of a godly summon, you were expecting more… grandiose? Something like ‘By mandate of the heavens and the will of the gods, you are hereby summoned…’? Though, the calligraphy was absolutely beautiful… you write a lot for your talismans and seals, but whoever wrote this could write poems and have the characters convey it equally in writing and art.

 Houzhang seemed impatient with your dumb staring and spoke. “Well? Let us depart.”

 Snapped out of your thoughts, you nearly clapped the scroll shut. “How long will this take?”

 “There are a lot of people in need of cleansing,” was his only answer.

 You can only help two people in one day, tops, at your skill and energy level… you’ll need to work hard. It’s not like you can say no to the palace of the land’s gods, and you can safely assume this man works in the palace at the very least–honestly, this guy is so weird you would almost think he was one of the gods in the palace.

 Houzhang stood and waited as you tossed some clothes in a basket, he took the bamboo box from his back and set it down, telling you to use it as well… there were three corrupt dolls on the bottom of the basket, so you declined, you’d rather like your clothes to be clear of foul energies. After packing your tools at last, you looked around… there might be a while until you come back home. It hasn’t been your home for a very long time, only a few years… but it’s quiet and peaceful, it’s been nice and it feels a bit bad to leave, like there’s a small force trying to keep you tethered to it. You moved here only three years ago to assist the village with its frequent corruptions, you had set up barriers and cleansed the farms, but it always seemed to slip through the cracks, no matter how tightly you sealed it. You just hope they’ll be alright, they’re a hard-working bunch.

 As you and Houzhang leave, Si Lang’s mother was just about to knock on the door. “Oh…” she looks at the basket on your back. “Where are you going?”

 You give a small smile, it’s almost sheepish, like you were caught doing something you shouldn’t–and you probably shouldn’t leave without warning, but goodbyes are hard and you suspect Houzhang won’t wait patiently while some villagers ask you to stay, or try and bribe you with their rice dishes (you would cave). “Ah, I’ll be going to the capital for a while, but I’ll be back soon.” you decided not to delve into too many details, but you do hope you will return relatively soon.

 “Ah,” she seemed surprised, but then set a heavy robe in your hands. “Then, this might help! Yu Ming gave me this, saying she didn’t need it anymore, and… it was a bit torn, but I fixed it and it’s too small for me,” it was a heavy travel robe, perfect for colder months and coloured a deep blue with brown fur lining, though it’s freshly spring so it wouldn’t exactly come in handy at the moment. Either way, you knew better than to reject a payment, you gave her a smile and thanked her as she saw you off. You made sure to double-check the seal protecting the village and ensured it would hold for a good while… it should be fine for almost a year if nothing catastrophic happens.

 After walking for a while, the robe was getting very heavy in your hands, and your basket was stuffed… Houzhang took it from you and set it in the basket on his back wordlessly, as soon as he had convinced you to go, he seemed to have lost interest in talking, as if he only had done so to begin with because he had to.

 Despite that, he did speak about two and a half hours into the trip. “This one deceived you twice, one is not named Houzhang. Now that we are away from the village and you have agreed to come, you can call this one Moon Carver.”

 You stared at him.

 Why does he say that so casually? As if you have never heard that name before? “No way. You’re not. You’re deceiving me for the third time.”

 He immediately seemed both offended and annoyed at that. “Believe what you want, it won’t affect your surroundings.”

 “Prove it,” you insisted. “There’s no way, Moon Carver isn’t just some guy,” you looked him up and down, he was entirely normal, there was not a thing that stood out except perhaps for the green streak in his hair.

 “This one doesn’t need to prove anything,” he folded his arms, gaze forward… and thus, he began to ignore you. No matter what you said or did, he didn’t reply nor even look at you, it was entirely annoying as well as slightly amusing. If he really was Moon Carver, one of the adepti at Rex Lapis’ side that has saved countless people and villages, felled beasts and gods… it was rather funny how easily frustrated he got–but perhaps it was best not to intentionally get on his bad side… just in case he wasn’t lying. It would be a rather bold lie, if he was caught lying it surely wouldn’t be hidden for so long.

 After passing a stream, you stepped off the path causing ‘Moon Carver’ to halt, he watched as you took our a small jar, the one you had used earlier to contain the miasma extracted from Si Leng, and dissipated it into the wind gliding above the water, making sure it didn’t enter the water.

 Three hours later, you stepped off the path again, this time to dispose of the bird, pressing a more advanced seal to its body and burying it into the ground, it will slowly erode the miasma and the ground will claim the corpse. You don’t have the energy to cleanse another thing today, so this is the next best thing, though not an immediate solution.

 It’s almost a straight walk north towards the capital, it’s mostly hills and plains, flanked by high mountains that shield the cool winds from the eastern ocean. There is a brief period of woods on the last day of walking, but you would need to sleep under the open sky for two nights. Before the forest is a small village that makes most of its mora housing travelers and Millelith making the trek between the capital and the southern border.

 In silence, you and ‘Moon Carver’ continue walking towards the capital, as you had said, it was indeed not a twelve hour trip and the alleged Adeptus was very unhappy with the slow progress. You set a blanket on the ground as the two of you took a break for the first night–you had to almost plead to stop and rest, maybe this guy really is who he says he is, he wasn’t at all bothered with the trek… meanwhile you are dead on your feet from the events of the day and an eight hour walk. “You know, if you really are Moon Carver, why can’t I just ride on your back to the capital? Then it would only take a few hours.”

 He didn’t even consider it. “No, not just anyone can ride on this one’s back, one is not a form of transport,” he crossed his arms again, his robes would gain permanent wrinkles if he didn’t keep them uncrossed for more than five minutes at a time.

 The walk took four days, but you arrived earlier than usual on the fourth day, just before noon—you had always arrived at the capital after dark and seen the way the lights lit up the large city, after everyone had retired and the streets were relatively empty.

 Today, it was the opposite.

 The crowd was so large that you thought every single person in the Guili Assembly had just gathered here today, the gates were wide open and you could barely hear yourself or ‘Moon Carver’ (you still don’t entirely believe him, he certainly made it more difficult by refusing to prove it, it’s a game at this point) as you walked the streets. “What’s going on today?” you called to him, almost walking into three different people just to enter through the massive gates to the city. You don’t recall there being a specific holiday.

 ‘Moon Carver’ leaned closer so that you could hear him better. “When the oceans warm with the spring, the oceanic gods slumber for three weeks to adjust to the temperature, allowing fishing further from shore–the first batch of seafood has arrived and culminates in a festival of foods.”

 The village you left, as well as your birth village aren’t within appropriate distance for the villagers themselves to fish in the ocean and thus it wasn’t celebrated there, but you do recall that the fish bought from traveling merchants always seems larger halfway through spring.

 After a while of practically wading through the crowd like you would a swamp, ‘Moon Carver’ suddenly tells you that he must see to a task that will only take a short while, and that you should wait exactly where you are for him to return. Thankful for the breather–there are a lot of steps up to the palaces and the peak of the capital–you find a good rock to sit on that reaches about to your knees and decide to rest and observe the festival.

 The capital is huge, larger than any other village or town in the Guili Assembly, built over several human generations under the rule of the same two gods, two gods… that you kind of hope you won’t have to directly face, surely the scroll you were sent was penned by some civil official? Perhaps a doctor or some kind of supervisor in the palace? Though there are technically two palaces at the peak of the capital, one belonging to Rex Lapis, and the other to the Lord of Dust, there are several connecting buildings between them that make them appear as a single palace with two large buildings on opposite sides. The thought of standing before the gods of the land is nerve wracking, especially since they requested your specific help.

 You’re far from the only exorcist or cleanser in this land, but you like to think you’re alright at it… or ‘half-skilled’ as ‘Moon Carver’ so eloquently put it. Now that you’re in the capital, directly under the gods’ gazes… you’re starting to think he was probably not lying, which is a bit embarrassing–but can you be blamed for being doubtful? Who would believe you if you said an adeptus came to your house, played a trick on you and gave you a scroll that summoned you to the gods’ palace!?

 Now deep in thought as the festival continued around you, you barely noticed your rumbling stomach, it wasn’t until it stung that you realised how hungry you are. Considering this is a festival celebrating food, why not try it out? If you can get through the crowd, that is.

 Elbowing yourself through some people–and being elbowed thrice–just standing around in the middle of the street, you manage to observe some stalls. Most of the food was a type of seafood, predictably. Fish cooked in all possible ways from grilled to boiled, squids to prawns, crab to jellyfish. A lot of the options were both curious and enticing, there was a lot of foods cooked in ways you hadn’t tried before, but you were hungry and needed something filling that you knew you wouldn’t dislike, you’re sure the festival goes on for a few days, you can come back and try some new things later. You purchased three large steamed buns, two for eating and one for saving for later, they were stuffed with smoked salmon and vegetables and you hoped it would taste just as good as it smelled.

 Returning to your little rock, you saw that your spot had been stolen, you were certain it was a safe spot to use as respite as it was directly under the sun and had no cover, most people sitting around did so under some shade or next to trees lining the wide streets. You stuffed your buns into your sleeve and approached the rock… what kind of creature is this?

 It was small but long, it had brown scales that shimmered and reflected under the sun, giving it a strangely golden shine that didn’t take away from the earthly colour. It had a thick mane leading from it’s head and down slightly below it’s faintly glowing antlers, and after that did lighter fur take its place, lining the spine of the creature all the way down to the tuft at the end, twitching faintly as it stares at you without blinking once.

 You had never seen anything like it before, it was too skinny to be a cat, and cats don’t generally have antlers like this, or scales… but it was similar in size… you stared down at the creature for a while, unsure if just to give up your spot or try and scoop it away. You have no idea how long it will take Moon Carver to return, and you don’t want to sit on the ground, maybe this little thing will accept sharing? If you share first, you assume.

 So, you take forth one of the buns in your sleeve and crouch in front of the strange creature. “Hey… you,” you hold the bun to its small nose. Its nose twitches as the creature sniffs the bun and its two long whiskers sway. “You kind of took my spot, and I need to wait a while… will you scoot if I give you one of my buns?”

 The creature’s eyes are so… almost aggressively noticeable, the glowing amber burning holes in your own eyes before it turns its snout up and away… that’s a no, then. Your shoulders slump slightly. “Please? You can sit with me? I’ll pet you?”

 It’s head turned further up, so far you thought it might fall backwards and roll off the stone.

 “What are you doing?” you heard a voice behind you and looked over your shoulder, Moon Carver stood behind you, looking at you as if he wished he wasn’t there at the moment.

 You turned back to the rock to see the small creature gone, maybe Moon Carver’s presence scared it away, or it took the opportunity to leave before you could just simply pick it up and move it off the rock. Well, since Moon Carver is here there’s no need to sit on the rock anyway so you stand up and straighten your clothes. “Nothing, I just saw a little creature here, I’ve never seen one like it before.”

 “Creature? Bugs are hardly creatures,” he says simply.

 “No, it was a long creature, it had scales and antlers, it didn’t want my bun as a bargain,” you explained, making a gesture with your hands as to circa how long the creature had been. “Brown with sun-orange eyes?”

 Moon Carver only stares as you try to explain, to a point you thought you might have hallucinated the encounter. You gave up and lowered your hands, it doesn’t seem like he believed you. And why would he believe you? Is he supposed to believe that the esteemed Rex Lapis was lounging around on a rock on a random street as a miniature version of himself? Absolutely not.

[le-chevalier-au-lion]

cannot dream of returning to dust: marcnaia [m]

Marc dabs the corner of his mouth. It’s blood—stark, rusting, red.

He looks at Pecco. Startles after a disjointed moment like an old, whirring computer, too little hardware to contain the leaden software of his racing instincts and the bike data. And his soul too, but Pecco isn’t one for theatrics as much as he is for punishment.

“You alright?” He prods clumsily. He can’t not.

Marc shrugs—a disquieting thing to watch. Everything is half a second off, and his body jerks unevenly. “’s fine,” he spits, sharp, all at once. “Long day. But it is good.”

It was, technically.

He won.

Pecco doesn’t know how, exactly, but surely he’s long past asking that. Staring at Marc’s data is like staring at that little phial of fresh, millennia-old blood in the Naples Cathedral. And worse yet, if they tear the wiring out of Marc’s veins, Pecco thinks he’d still be Marc. Miraculous, except their kind isn’t in the business for that.

It’s not flattering. Being close to him at all isn’t flattering.

Marc keeps watching him. The whites of his eyes are too white. His fingers—carbon fiber, dented, dusted—spasm at his side, with a staticky hiss. There’s old blood on his upper lip.

“Here,” Pecco says, automatic. Hands him the towel wrapped around his neck.

One day, it won’t rake its nails through his nerves and sensors, the sheer fucking suffocating awkwardness of existing close him. Marc picks it up warily, wipes down his face twice. Pecco wants to twitch. The hardware embedded in his flesh feels like it’s groaning, overwhelmed, overheating.

“Thanks,” Marc mutters. Then: “I'm fine. You don't have to worry.”

Probably not. And probably impossible. Pecco huffs out a noise that can pass as a snort—reedy as it sounds. “Ok.”

It doesn’t settle anything.

Marc’s motorhome seems three sizes too small for them. Walls scraping against his shoulders, the ceiling too low, Marc everywhere he looks. Marc, Marc, Marc—distrusting, cagey like a kicked dog down to the hard line of his shoulders. Pecco picks at his cuticles until they bleed. The tips of his fingers ache, swollen.

The podium champagne is heavy in his stomach. He feels nauseous—faintly. Maybe they downloaded nervous puking along with his first riding augmentations.

Pecco crumbles on Marc’s sofa. He feels gritty, slow. Like there’s circuit rot in the hollow of his chest, melting his wires together and getting the signals to blur. Marc follows. Sits so close he might hear semantic errors piling up, the stutter of ram processors in overdrive.

He’s a pitiless thing through that—grabs Pecco’s hand and puts it on the crook of his elbow. The flesh one. When Pecco runs his fingers over the skin there, fragile, there’s only the faint knob of a sensor port, as familiar as the shape of his bones.

It’s too much, suddenly.

“You are excited for Sachsenring,” Pecco says. An abrupt, lumbering way out. Next weekend, more racing, easy stuff.

Marc barks out a laugh. Light, airy. “Of course.”

Of course.

“King of the ring. Right.”

It comes out—strained, maybe. Settles all under his skin with a red-hot kind of humiliation, of awe. The fans in this frenzied delirium. Ducati whispering among itself, that he’ll be splendid, glorious, like Pecco hadn’t been winning for them. As much as he humanly could, even.

The problem is that Marc might not be human—Valentino said it first, he remembers. After Argentina. That Marc is too much chromium and stainless steel and copper wirings and doesn’t care for the rest of them. There was a hanged cardboard robot in one of the Misanos, once.

Or he’s too human. The last great thing of real meat and real talent. A modern rider Agostini can admire. A rider from before the current, palatable bikes and the seamless lines of seamless implants.

“Pecco,” Marc says, urgent, gravelly.

When Pecco turns his head, Marc is right there, blinking up at him, looking miserable—pale, wan, cheeks gaunt—and handsome about it.

They’re both very good at miserable. In opposite directions.

Pecco doesn’t see it happening. It’s like an overtake—he only breathes out when it’s done and doesn’t ask questions. He curls his palm around the back of Marc’s head and kisses him. Chases the coppery bite pooling on his tongue with his own.

Marc makes a noise, hard, wanting. Then he’s on Pecco’s lap, wrangling him like a Ducati on the corners, all ten fingers digging into his shoulders. Those little flashes of pain scramble his thoughts, makes his systems fumble in every direction, frizzing.

“Can you,” Marc trails off, sighing against his mouth.

“Yeah, yeah,” Pecco mutters, halfway to delirious, the taste of blood and naked wires clinging to the insides of his cheeks.

He flips them around, presses Marc against the couch, boxing him with his knees. He knows what Marc wants—and doesn’t want to say why he knows. This is a terrible idea, but it was a terrible idea the last ten, eleven times too.

Pecco splays his thumb on the sharp cut of Marc’s cheek. He grins, waggles his eyebrows. It’s ridiculous. Doesn’t make it any less devastating when he turns his head to the side and sucks his finger into his mouth.

He tries to not think about spraying champagne on his face. Fails. Tries to not think about Marc, on his knees, lips spit shiny, and—

Fails too.

So Pecco kisses him again to stop himself, reckless, feverish, and Marc’s hands go under his shirt, the horrible red of it. He fucking hates it. The heat of Marc’s touch, how it flays him open. The mortification and amazement sizzling in his throat. The jealousy.

That Marc gets to be a mechanical haunting and still—still win. That he got bishops calling him a freak, and the Pope pleading sports to cease their fiddling into God’s own most beloved creatures, and Valentino branding him an enemy, and he just keeps going. Keeps winning. Godless twice over, and yet.

That Pecco—sleek carbon fiber, updated processors, the new deal—can replaced by an ugly, bleeding Frankenstein of wrong parts and outdated code.

“You are thinking,” Marc hums, face flushed pink and lovely, the bite of his prosthetic fingers unyielding on Pecco’s waist. It lilts like a question. “Francesco.”

“Hmmm,” he manages to pry out. He hates it a little less now. “About you.”

Marc laughs. “All bad things, I hope.”

And so Pecco laughs too—almost unwillingly. Chokes on it when Marc rocks up, grinds their cocks together.

That close to him, Pecco is washed out. Perfect, passionless.

But at least Marc is also less. There’s an electric hiss, and his entire body jolts. He’s in pain, probably. Parts two generations ahead of him and ancient wires misbehaving together.

If Pecco opened the panel on his back, he’d get to see what massacre of limits stripped and repeating signals is acting up, he thinks. What is hurting him.

Marc clings to pain like he’d cling to a naked razor, though—all maniac glee. When Pecco hesitates, hovering above him, he surges up for the kill. Bites down on his bottom lip, licks hotly into his open mouth. He’s fumbling—greedy and insistent—with his jeans.

“Marc,” Pecco tries protesting, tries slowing him.

The name breaks into a groan. Marc flattens his palm against his cock, eyebrows scrunched in concentration, his tongue between his teeth, sweat gathering along his forehead.

Fine.

Fucking fine.

He has to be in pain, and Pecco is—wired and nauseous and waiting for the moment when the spiral over second place will sharpen him. They are—it has been said—very good at their own types of torment.

Pecco gets to work on Marc’s pants, shoves his own down unceremoniously. He spits on his own palm and wraps it around both of them. It’s smooth, the good synth stuff over his ports and sensors—and, ha, isn’t that a win.

Marc relaxes a fraction. Lets out this tiny, breathy sound. He buries his face against the hollow of Pecco’s neck, his nose brushing against the small, closed panel there. His hips sway in odd lurches, rub them together anyway.

It’s good. Pecco would like to say he’s above liking it, but he isn’t. Can’t lie.

Christ.

His tongue is plastered to the roof of his mouth. He tightens his fist, sinks into the sensation of the head of his cock rubbing against the patch of rough hair between Marc’s legs. Into the absurdity of this, Marc quiet and wanting and greedy under him. Wide-eyed.

“Pecco,” he whispers, clumsily, and then cuts himself off. Kisses the wild flutter of his pulse on his neck rather than speaking.

“It’s fine,” Pecco shushes him, runs his thumb over the vein on Marc’s cock so he stops talking. He has no idea what else this could be.

Proof that they’re human, maybe. They act outside their code and don’t grind to a halt.

[etirabys]

the author of this slaughterhouse book I'm reading their coworkers agree the job where you semi-kill a semi-immobilized cow with a bolt through its head is the most traumatizing one

Back in the chutes, Fernando asks, “Why you out there doing that? You want to be the knocker?” When I say maybe, he responds, “No, you don’t want to do that. I don’t want to do that. Nobody wants to do that. You’ll have bad dreams.” ... When I tell Tyler I shot three animals with the knocking gun the day before, he urges me to stop. “Man, that will mess you up. Knockers have to see a psychologist or a psychiatrist or whatever they’re called every three months.” “Really? Why?” “Because, man, that’s killing,” he says; “that shit will fuck you up for real.”

but honestly, of the various roles the author tries out, the one that sounds most traumatizing on paper is the one where the cows are mobile, you're ushering them along a passageway, and you could do it without an electric prod except this is slightly slower and your coworkers will get mad at you and pressure you to do the crueler thing. I feel like that would twist me up inside worse

Without the electric prods, the momentum of the line of animals is sufficient to move the cattle through the opening in the slaughterhouse wall into the knocking box, but not at the pace that the chute workers want. When shocked, the animals jump into the box, moving the line more quickly and reducing the probability of an animal’s balking and holding up the line behind it. Once, when the line moves too slowly for Fernando’s liking, he sprints up the walkway from the squeeze pen, grabs the plastic paddle out of my hand, and shoves the electric prod into it. “You motherfucking pussy!” he yells. "Do your job and use the fucking hotshot!”

[magniloquent-raven]

I am once again plagued with thoughts that aren't 100% coherent so imma just ramble for a bit, pls gather 'round for some stuff about Billy and body image issues cuz I'm in my feels rn.

Billy spends a lot of time staring at Nancy.

Enough that Tommy's noticed and he starts ribbing him about it. "That's one thing of Steve's you might want to stay away from," bitter and pointed. Enough that Jonathan Byers gives him the stink eye whenever he's within glaring distance. Enough that a handful of the more desperate chicks still high off the fumes of his New Kid smell have started dressing like fucking librarians in hopes of catching his eye.

He doesn't give a shit about any of it, if anything the rumour mill is helping him out for once. Less work involved in keeping up appearances if everyone just assumes he isn't sleeping around because he's too busy sniffing Wheeler's granny panties.

As long as no one guesses the real reason, it's fine. It's fucking peachy. It's one silver lining in this shitstorm of a situation.

He's so tired of his eyes inevitably being drawn to her barely-there tits and tiny waist. Every time he's bored at lunch, his gaze wanders. When he's in the library pretending to study, there she fucking is, even smaller when she's hunched over a pile of cue cards.

The longer he looks at her the more sure he is that Steve will never really want him.

Steve's slept with plenty of girls. A variety of girls. He probably couldn't afford to be too picky in this shitty little town. But he's only fallen in love once. One time. The only time it mattered what he was sticking his dick in was when it was in Nancy Wheeler.

And Billy...will never be her. Not even close.

He'll only ever be a warm mouth and a convenient hand, he'll never matter.

She's flat, and thin. Willowy, narrow-shouldered. Petite. Inches shorter than him and nearly half as broad. Thin fingers and delicate wrists. She fit comfortably under Steve's arm, she could nestle safely into his side.

And it was all so fucking easy for her. She never had to try.

She never had to piss off her dad so she'd be forced to skip meals. She never did laps around her neighbourhood until she was lightheaded and doubled over, dry-heaving in someone's hedge. She was never forced to sign up for baseball as a child, poked and prodded and guilted into it because a couple shirts were starting to get tight across the stomach, and being a momma's boy was bad enough, being a fat, lazy piece of shit too was unacceptable.

He used to think he'd done well, maintaining the physique he has. He's worked hard for it. Scraping together his savings for a weight set and keeping careful track of his calorie intake and never skipping a single fucking day of exercise, hangovers and broken bones be damned. And it's fucking useful, truth be told. More than keeping away the echo of old insults bouncing around in his head, it's made flirting that much easier.

But the more he looks at Nancy Wheeler, the more he hates the things he can't change. It gets into his head. Digs in deep, leaving scars on its way down.

He thinks Steve might've noticed.

He knows Steve has heard the stupid rumours about Wheeler, and probably chalked it up to Billy being an asshole, as usual. But it's harder to explain away his sudden tendency to go extremely still whenever Steve puts his hands anywhere on his torso. A palm pressed to his chest, slipped under his shirt, or fingertips digging into his back, or a casual fucking pat on the shoulder—whatever it is, he can't help freezing up, if only for a second, a sick feeling twisting his stomach, cold and shameful and clawing at his lungs.

And then, eventually, they argue.

It's over nothing. And everything. Billy can't explain what his fucking damage is, and Steve can't stop needling in the wrong places. They scream at each other until their throats are raw and Billy leaves when his knuckles start to itch.

He cries all the way home and doesn't eat for four days. Not on purpose. Not consciously. He's just. Fucking. Busy. He's busy. He's always gotta drive Max somewhere or dodge Neil's thinly veiled threats or lock himself in his room when bile starts to bubble up in the back of his throat and his head pounds and he doesn't think about why he's snapping at everyone constantly, he just pounds back a couple beers and goes to sleep. And then it's four days later, and he's flying off the handle at Neil, too sluggish and lightheaded to see the hit coming, and...

Steve comes to see him at the hospital. He hasn't told anyone anything but they've got him hooked up to a banana bag and the nurses keep making sad eyes at him when they come to check his stitches.

He hates it, sitting around doing nothing, being closely monitored every fucking second, it make his skin crawl, and he hates it even more when Steve's standing in the doorway looking at him.

Not for the first time, he's overwhelmed wondering what exactly Steve sees.

He's a fucking mess right now. Greasy hair tangled at the back, bruises peeking out from under the collar of his gross papery hospital gown, one eye swollen shut and a dark tangle of thread holding his eyebrow together. It feels stupid to get stressed about all the shit that usually bothers him when there's so many other things to worry about, but he still finds himself shifting in place, hunching his shoulders, hiding his hands in the crooks of his elbows.

It's sort of a disaster. Worse than last time they saw each other. Billy's not in the mood for Steve's apologies and Steve's at a loss for what else to say.

They don't see each other again for months. Steve graduates. Billy avoids anywhere he thinks Steve might be, and lies awake at night haunted by stolen touches.

He catches a glimpse of Steve through the red haze of storm clouds and cold lightning, tears blurring his vision, the Mind Flayer wearing him like a suit. Their cars collide, and everything whites out for a second.

He's in the hospital again when they finally talk. Billy rolls his eyes at "We've gotta stop meeting like this," and tries not to think about last time he was here. Steve seems more than willing to ignore it. Move forward. Guess demonic possession puts some things into a different perspective.

When Billy's released from the hospital he's seventeen pounds heavier than he was a few months ago. Every time the nurses did their check-ups and put him on the scale they'd pat his elbow, smiling encouragingly, telling him how good he was doing while he watched his stomach get softer, his biceps get less defined, watched himself disappear beneath a layer of fat.

The first thing he does when he gets home is throw up.

He doesn't make it happen. It just happens. And he blames it on the meds they have him on. It's a plausible enough reason, and it means he doesn't have to interrogate the tiny spark of satisfaction he got from losing his lunch.

His second day back home Neil asks him when he's going to start exercising again. His expression is pinched. Cold. His eyes are ice chips freezing Billy's skin wherever they touch, lingering on the softness under his chin, and where the hem of his sleeve pinches his skin.

He pushes his dinner away and grits out an answer from between clenched teeth.

He doesn't need the reminder that he's gotten weak while he was trapped in a hospital bed, but Neil gives it to him anyways. Tells him all about everything he should do to get things back to normal. Push past the pain. Work harder. He tunes it out after a while, and watches grease congeal on his meatloaf.

Eddie Munson is the first person to bring up the things Billy's never known how to talk about.

They started hanging out after Billy's most recent brush with death. Billy's not sure exactly how the got here, from buying the occasional painkiller and letting the guy wax poetic about his dumb band, to spending weekends getting high together at the trailer park. But as weird things in his life go, it's barely worth questioning.

This particular conversation starts with Chrissy Cunningham.

Specifically, Eddie's massive boner for her.

Billy's been noticing it for a while. He hasn't been letting it bother him.

He hasn't.

Maybe he likes the way Eddie smiles at him when they pass a joint back and forth, lazily stretched out and wearing three less layers than usual, and maybe he thinks about closing the distance between them when Eddie offers to shotgun, but it doesn't fucking matter. Just like it doesn't matter that Steve hasn't touched him since before the Mind Flayer and things are fucking weird now that they're on speaking terms again. None of it matters, he's just a fucking idiot.

Because Steve and his new best friend Robin are attached at the hip lately and everyone can see where that's going, and Eddie won't stop talking about tiny, pretty, perfect fucking Chrissy and her stupid ponytail.

And Billy...Billy gets winded walking up the porch steps at his house now. And he pulled a muscle in his back trying to lift half the weight he used to press. And last week he burned three pairs of jeans in the backyard because he kept grabbing them out of his laundry pile, not realizing they don't fit anymore until he was struggling to pull them up past his knees.

He's lost the one thing people used to actually like about him. Never the people he wanted, he was never enough for that, but it was something. Now he's just...

Now he's just listening to a guy he likes talk about some goddamn cheerleader like she personally hung the moon just for him.

And he's drunk. They're both drunk. Eddie in a soppy, embarrassing way, with a sparkle in his eye and a flush on his cheeks, an arm across the back of the couch, outstretched far enough that the tips of his fingers almost brush Billy's shoulder.

He wants to move closer. Thinks about shuffling into Eddie's space, curling into the warmth at his side. But it twists in his guts, sours, sickens—he couldn't, he can't. And he hates himself for wanting to.

"What do you see in her?" spills out of his mouth, bitter on his tongue and sharpened by anger he has no right to feel.

She's pretty. He expects it. She's pretty, she's perfect. She's a fucking angel even though her and Eddie only know each other because she buys drugs off of him. But she can do no wrong because she looks like a little china doll with sad eyes and everyone would be devastated if a single hair on her tiny delicate head was harmed.

Eddie only looks thrown off for a second. A moment. But he shrugs it off, leans his head back against the couch cushions and grins at the ceiling. "She likes my music."

Since fucking when.

"So, what, it's just an ego stroking thing then."

"Nah, man. I mean. Like. She's got this whole good-girl thing going on, but you should see her when I pull out my guitar, it's fuckin'...magic. When she lets herself just. Live." He wiggles his fingers in the air, arms spread, then drops them back down.

Billy's heart clenches, squeezes. It hurts and he doesn't know why. "Bullshit."

"Nah, nah. Seriously. The guy she's dating is a fucking asshole. And her mom..." he trails off, and rubs his eye. "She's just got all this pressure to be perfect, act a certain way, look a certain way, be a certain way, and I hate seeing what it does to her, man. I hate it. No one should have to deal with all that. So. I dunno. I like helping her cut loose. Sorta, find herself, I guess." He cracks a crooked smile, casting a glance in Billy's direction.

And his smile drops.

"Billy?" He sits up, cautious, eyebrows up and his eyes wide.

Billy turns away, shocked into motion, wiping at his face with his sleeve. "I'm fine. Fuck off."

He didn't notice he was crying until Eddie looked at him like he'd seen a ghost.

"Yeah, obviously."

"Fuck you."

Eddie doesn't get much more out of him that night. But he starts watching Billy like a hawk after that. Checking in on him at random. Calling if they haven't seen each other in a few days. It should be irritating as fuck, and he acts like it is, but he still basks in the attention.

Doesn't hurt that it seems to annoy Steve to no end.

Especially doesn't hurt when, in a fit of apparent jealousy, Steve shoves Billy into a wall and kisses him like his life depends on it.

The hurt comes when Steve starts to unbutton Billy's shirt and Billy reflexively shoves him away, when he wants to keep going but wants it to stop and can't tell Steve either of those things because he doesn't have the words.

So he gets angry. At Steve, for pushing it, crossing lines he can't even see. But mostly at himself, because it might be easier than standing there heartbroken but he knows it's the worst thing he could do.

And at Steve, again, when the he doesn't respond the way he should. Doesn't punish Billy for doing the wrong thing, reacting wrong, being wrong. He doesn't withdraw and save himself, he tries to understand, tries to talk it out, like this is something Billy can just say out loud and it'll all be fixed.

He doesn't explain. Not that day. But he lets Steve hold him while he cries, ugly gasping sobs into the front of Steve's shirt, curled up in his lap, collapsed on the floor and tangled together. Because despite everything he's told himself, he does fit comfortably in Steve's arms.

💜tag list ppl💜 @spreckle @growup-thatbeautiful @prettyboy-like-you @suddenlyinlove