#like you can see it’s bones through the blue parts of skin. either as a threat display or courtship

[puppyeared]

Big cat

[ceilidho]

fear of god

prompt: There's someone outside the spacecraft. You don't remember them being part of the crew. Part 4 masterlist

-

At the quantum level, an electron can behave as both a wave and a particle. It is the act of observing it that confines it to a single form. The electron that once could’ve passed through multiple openings at once is forced to choose a single path when observed. 

Because what the eye sees becomes—

“—real,” you whisper, staring up at the face hovering in the window beside your bed. His smile doesn’t waver. “You can’t be real.”

“Sorry about the other day,” he says, instead of answering. “I got a bit lost after you left.”

Again, you pinch the soft skin of your thigh to wake yourself up and twitch when the pain sets in. The reassurance that you’re still awake doesn’t go a long way towards reassuring you. 

“This isn’t real,” you repeat to yourself, squeezing your eyes shut and breathing heavily out through your mouth. “This isn’t real.”

Your words are met with a silence so profound that it almost feels as though you’ve plugged your ears, until you open your eyes and he’s still there, waiting right outside the window.

The blue lights around the inside of the window glow soft against his dark skin. You can make out the finer details of his face up close—the smoothness of his skin; the faint scar on his cheek; the fine grooves in his plush bottom lip. Too beautiful to have spent the last several days without food or water or sleep or fresh oxygen. You, with access to all of those resources, feel grimy; gritty. Skin tight against the bone, and hollowed.

“Was that you? Before?” you ask, thinking of the astronaut you saw drifting out in the distance, so lifeless and limp that you imagined the body within it long expired. 

He nods. The motion is slow, deliberate; still that sluggishness analogous with zero gravity. 

You wait for him to volunteer more information, but he just smiles wordlessly at you. It’s difficult to know where to begin. You’ve always been the kind to break a problem down into smaller, more manageable parts, but with this you don’t even know where to start. Its bigness is all you can focus on. The enormity of it. 

“Where did you go?” you ask instead. “You weren’t—…you were gone when I came back. We couldn’t find you.”

He blinks. “Elsewhere.”

“You can…move around out there?” 

“I can.”

His deliberate evasiveness frustrates you. Ostensibly one-dimensional with his glib charm and easy smile, but with an unplumbed depth. His response provokes more questions than it answers, and you can tell that it’s intentional. 

But again you’re prescribing an internal locus of control to an apparition that has been proven to exist only in your head. It can only supply you with information that you already have. 

And that’s the real quandary, isn’t it? The thing that has you whispering softly to yourself oh no oh no oh no oh no in the quiet of your room. Your body knows that the front door of your mind lies on its side, ripped from the hinges, dirt mounds blackening the entryway. And now outside stands a man, waiting to be let in. 

“How am I able to hear you?”

He smiles. “You must just want to listen.”

You huff out a breath through your nose. There it is again. 

“Who are you?” you ask, and you know that his answer won't matter. It won't matter because it won't be real. Because it's just you in your head and the words are too loud and whatever sickness is in your mind has crystallized in the body of a man that stares at you with a gaze too intense, too penetrating for what he is.

“You can call me Gaz,” he says simply, teeth peeking out from behind his lips when he enunciates the name. Glinting sharp like bone in the blue light. 

His answer makes you blink. It doesn’t seem like a name that you would come up with, but the mind works in mysterious ways. You didn’t think it could conjure up a person either, and now look at what’s happening to you. And it is happening to you, of that you’re sure. 

“Are you going to let me in?” he asks before you can open your mouth again.

He presses his gloved hand to the window. The folds in the fabric spread with his fingers, the pads of his fingers flecked with dust and grime, worn from years of use. 

You give a curt shake of your head. 

“Love…” Gaz says warningly. 

In the few days since he first appeared in the window, you’ve never heard him use that tone. You’re not too proud to say it frightens you. Whether he’s real or just in your head, so far Gaz has been perfectly affable, and you’re not sure you’re willing to face the implication that he might not always be that way. 

“I need to sleep,” you plead. “T-tomorrow—I’ll…I’ll think about it tomorrow.”

You press a button on the wall that drops a panel over the window with a quiet shunk, blocking Gaz from view.

When he knocks again, a shiver ripples down your spine. Guilt twists your insides up in knots. All you can do is pull the comforter over your head and block your ears. 

By morning, the temperature in your room has dropped a degree. You bundle up in a thicker sweatshirt and boots before going for your morning cup of coffee, but for the first time since takeoff all those months ago, you head for your work station instead of sipping your coffee in the cockpit. 

You start to hear him no matter where you are on the ship, a window no longer necessary. Always it comes after two solid raps against the hull of the ship, the sound jolting your heart into a frantic beat, pulse fluttering wildly under your skin. And then his voice, muffled through the layers of aluminum and titanium alloys, but intelligible despite the impossibility of it all. 

Sometimes, you respond. Just a few words to acknowledge his existence, even when the wall separating the two of you is impermeable, only his voice accessible to you. 

That makes it worse somehow though. Displaces his voice from his body, forcing you to reckon with his presence like a symptom of a bicameral mind, your own thoughts projected from you into the world. What difference is there between his voice and an audio hallucination? You should know better than to indulge in it. 

You’re beginning to understand the real root of the problem. The crux of it all. There’s a box in your mind labeled psychosis, and in the months of prolonged isolation and discomfort, you’ve inadvertently unshelved it, pulled it out of its storage space and peeled the lid open, all of its contents now released into the world. 

The thought is terrifying. You wonder if you can even trust your own mind, if everything is now compromised. Can you even trust what you see in front of you, or have you made it up as well? The thought is so disturbing that it paralyzes you in your bed at night. 

You’ve taken to sleeping in the medbay because it’s one of the few rooms without access to any exterior walls. Several other crew quarters separate it from the hull, while the main corridor runs along the other side. It’s the only place where you’re able to get a decent night’s sleep, though the lights stay on, fluorescent white at all times, programmed to stay at full brightness in case of an emergency. 

Even the sight of your own reflection makes you flinch until you realize it’s just you. 

One twenty-four hour period cycles into the next, pulling you into its embrace like crossing over an event horizon, your future self already distended out in front of you. 

In an effort to finally put you to good use (you try not to resent the implication when it’s framed like that), Farah tasks you with conducting pressure checks on the fuel tanks and lines around the ship while she continues to focus on the issue with the cruise control. You’re tasked with attaching a pressure gauge to the tank and increasing the pressure while keeping an eye out for any leaks or drops in pressure. A task simple enough that even the uninitiated could perform it. Busywork. 

You shut down the part of you that beats on your chest and demands that you leave. That this isn’t your job; you were brought aboard for a particular purpose and this isn’t it. You could be conducting your own research instead in the comfort of your lab, ensconced in data on antimicrobial resistance in space or microgravity-induced orthostatic intolerance. Not checking fuel tank pressure.

Someone raps their knuckles against the wall nearest you from the outside of the ship, startling you. 

“Shit,” you curse, the pressure gauge slipping out of your hand and clattering to the floor. You sigh when you bend down to pick it up and wince when you notice a crack in the glass where it hit the floor. 

“Love? Is that you?” Gaz asks from the other side of the wall, voice muffled.

Ignoring his voice doesn’t keep your heart from beating harder. You try to focus instead on the task at hand, pressuring the tank to fifteen hundred psi and waiting for the needle to stabilize on the gauge. Nothing abnormal. You jot it down and move on to the next tank, removing the gauge and starting the process anew. 

Another thump against the hull, the sound sending a jolt through your body. 

“I know you’re there.” He sounds amused. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

How could you avoid someone in your head? You almost say as much but then catch yourself on the verge of opening your mouth. You turn back your task, scrolling down the checklist on your tablet. 

There’s an edge to his voice the next time he speaks. “This is starting to annoy me, love.”

“I’m not avoiding you,” you whisper, finally breaking, the stylus nearly slipping from your clammy hands. Brows scrunched, eyes shut tight. Another breath out to stabilize yourself. 

“Ah, there you are,” Gaz hums. “Thought you didn’t want to talk to me anymore.”

Just ignore it, you think, breathing in and out again. 

“You’d rather talk to Farah than me,” he says when you don’t respond, almost accusatory, and you nearly brush it off until you register what he said.  

“How do you know her name?” you hiss under your breath, turning your head to stare at the panel that his voice emanates from behind. 

“I thought I was just in your head,” he says, amused again. Voice lighter than a moment prior. Easygoing as ever.

You worry at your lower lip until the skin threatens to break. “Yes, but—”

“Who are you talking to?”

Your head whips around at the sound of Farah’s voice. You hadn’t heard the cargo hold doors open, but she stands in the doorway, staring at you with an unreadable expression, shoulders squared and hands on her hips. 

Your instinct is to ask her how long she’s been standing there, but that won’t serve you in the long run. You almost want to ask if she heard his voice too, but you don’t think you could handle her confirming to your face that Gaz’s voice is all in your head. 

“…No one.”

Her face hardens and you wonder if you made the wrong call choosing to lie to her. But what else should you have said? The wall behind you remains conspicuously silent.

The next few seconds under her gaze feel endless. Eventually though, Farah pivots on her heel without another word and leaves the way she came, the doors sliding shut behind her. 

The room bellows its cold ire. Only the sound of your own breathing reaches your ears. 

An hour passes. Possibly longer. The stress eats away at your insides. Though you don’t cross paths with Farah for the rest of the day, you can’t help the way every sound makes you flinch and glance towards its source. Jumpy; paranoid. 

You make yourself dinner when the galley is still empty and eat in the medbay instead of with the rest of the crew. The peppery aftertaste is more prominent than usual while you eat; you almost have to choke your food down. Almost metallic, like antiseptic. 

It happens again on your way back to your quarters. The lights cycle with the night and dim in the hallway, a soft pale glow like a low-hanging moon illuminating the floor in front of you. 

You catch him in the corner of your eye this time, no knock to signal his presence. Just an astronaut hovering outside the window, nearly translucent with the absence of light. The fear that overcomes you is almost animalistic until it settles into the folds of your skin like an ointment rubbed in, and you turn to face him. 

It’s the same but different. You know what he wants. What he’s waiting for. 

“I don’t think I can let you in,” you whisper, looking away from the window to the other side of the hall. His gaze seers into the side of your head.

“Why not?” It’s the first time Gaz’s voice has sounded cold to your ears. The hair on the back of your neck stands on end. 

“I’m worried you’re not real. That maybe you’re just in my head. And I can’t—” You bite your lip, swallowing the warble in your voice. “—I can’t let them know I’m crazy.”

Let them know. As if it were a foregone conclusion. As if you’ve already passed the point of no return. But what other conclusion could you draw from your observations as of late? The constant disappearances and reappearances, his voice in your head only when you’re alone. His voice in general, somehow audible despite there being no medium for it to pass through. You’ve been ignoring his anomalous properties because you’ve been desperate to believe that your mind hasn’t been compromised. That you aren’t a danger to the people around you—a voice in your head telling you to open the airlock when there’s nothing out there in space. 

When you turn your head, he’s still there, eyes stony behind the visor of his spacesuit. He tilts his head and the visor glints black for a second, suddenly opaque, obscuring his face.

He looms like a figure straight out of death, imposing even from the outside of the ship. Your arms hang limp at your sides, locked in place under his gaze. Even the thought of moving fills you with dread. 

But he isn’t real; he’s just in your head.

When Gaz lifts his head again, his visor clears and his smile is pleasant again, back to what it once was.

“I’ll prove that I’m real. Wait for me, love.”

And then he’s gone, the view beyond the window night sky black. Gone between one blink and the next; faster than light.

[azullumi]

trying different types of kissing with scaramouche?💔 like forehead, neck kisses, hand or anything at all....

“say yes to heaven” ; wanderer/scaramouche

summary — ultimately, he really does just want to be loved, behind the many layers of him to hide all that yearning and longing. but how can he say it when love, for him, was a synonym to forgiveness; alternatively, different kisses with him, with each one signifying a progressing relationship.

pairing — scaramouche/wanderer (w/ gender-neutral reader) ; could imagine this with either but i wrote this with wanderer in mind

tags — established relationship, fluff, a little bit of angst, not proofread, 1.1k ; ficlet

note — i needed an excuse to write a fic that is just all about kissing him and also comforting him (but still, i hope u like this nonnieee!!)

i. hand

You hold his hand and press small kisses on his knuckles, a little bit ticklish it was for him but he doesn’t retract. The feeling of it makes something in his chest ache with an unfamiliar sensation, and he knows it’s not his heart because he never had any.

You kiss the back of his hand, an intimate gesture, like devotion, like he was something—or someone—that should be adored.

“I am no god.” He was no deity to be worshiped so why are you so gentle to him? He wasn’t made of glass nor is he fragile; he was born from ashes of a burned home, he was carved out of war and winter storms and everything that you could ever pray against, he was a symphony composed of nothing but bad luck and conflicting melodies—he was not the kind people would choose to be around, much less adore.

And as if you bear a part of him in your mind, you understood what he was trying to say, could hear the questions that tormented him, could see the conflicted look on him as he looks at you with a gaze that seems to scrutinize your being when only he is looking for an answer. He tries to look for a crack, a gap in your expression, so that he can look through it and see what you’re really thinking.

“You don’t have to be one to be loved.” You press one last kiss on his hand just as you finished speaking, looking up to him. Indigo blue orbs met yours in a gentle gaze, eyes filled with affection only for the other to drown in. If he could put all that he was feeling, all that he was asking and seeking an answer to, into a simple word, it all condenses to: why?

“Do you still have doubts?” You ask, despite knowing the answer. He opens his mouth only to close it again, looking for the words that he should say but chose to be silent instead. And you smile—not a beaming grin nor a subtle paint on your features, but something gentle and comforting as if you’re assuring him: it’s okay, I understand you. I know you.

“You’re not unloveable.”

Loving him wasn’t the hardest thing to do, it came to you naturally as if breathing but the man thinks otherwise. A burnt child who loves the fire will only hear the fact that he is loveable, people just choose not to.

“How do you know that?” You know him well enough to hear the way his voice trembles at the effort to allow himself to be vulnerable. Long was the fall of the tall and formidable walls that he built around him.

“You’re not unloveable.” You repeat, taking hold of his fingers to kiss his hand once more. “Am I not enough proof of that?”

ii. forehead and cheeks

You cupped his cheeks and kissed his forehead, an unspoken language of tenderness in which he took a long time to understand. When love and affection has finally been given to him after decades of yearning, he’s unsure of how to hold it in his hands—does he gently hold it with both? Every bit overwhelms him to the bone, the gratifying yet intense feeling seeps through his being and settles inside of him in a way that it slowly consumes the crevices of his mind, until all that is left of him is nothing but a starved man who only longs for the feeling of your skin against his own.

There was a flicker of warmth in his expression and he closed his eyes as he relished in your kindness, your hands cradling his cheeks with warmth that coaxed his entire existence, your lips pressing against his forehead softly. Then, you started to pepper his face with small kisses and the man could only surrender to your touch, a dance of vulnerability and intimacy as he crumbled into your hold.

No one has ever come this close to him (a closeness that was a stranger to the pages of his past, a tender note composed solely for him), no one and nothing.

You spoke, murmuring against his skin and close to his lips: “Sunshine.” Humor weaves through your tone, teasing the absurdity of the mismatched title and the man who wears it with subtle grace.

“Don’t call me that.” He snarks yet no bite. It’s ironically funny how you use that nickname on him despite him being the complete contrast of it; he stands as the living paradox of the word itself.

The sound of laughter bubbles up in your throat and you answer, “Why not? It suits you perfectly, don’t you think?”

What else should you call the man who grasps the warmth and tender light in his chest only the sun could give? To be with him was to sit in the autumn sunlight, to sleep in the comfort of your sheets when the rain patters against your window, to walk barefoot on the sand even if it feels like shards of glasses against your sole, to be with him was to simply exist; you’ve never met anyone who had the sun for a soul and he has never met anyone who had the stars in their eyes, and while you had the universe etched on the palm of your hands, he has your name engraved on his.

iii. lips

Your lips ghost against his own, albeit in a tantalizing manner, teasing and quite slow—but he wasn’t a patient man.

“Are you going to kiss me or what?” He whispers and you don't waver at his straightforwardness, having been used to this note. There was no hostility in his tone, just pure and raw desperation and desire to feel you.

You could imagine the eye roll he would give you had he not had his eyes closed at the moment, could imagine the frown on his expression while he spoke and could imagine it faltering soon when you finally kissed him, slow as if to savor the softness of his lips and how it reminds you of spring; he could not properly express the warmth on his chest at the thought of how you love him when he still tasted of heartache and war.

You part from him but remained close, foreheads pressed against one another, breathing heavily, and looking into each other’s eyes. You wanted to tell him that you will find him in every lifetime, but the silence between you two was enough to convey such strong affections that you could hear him respond: And I will love you in each one.

(And he somehow finds himself thinking at the same, this is what he deserves. He’d do these, these vulnerable moments where he lays himself bare for you to touch and hold even if you’ll see the scars and cracks on his skin, the falling and getting hurt despite the fear, the burning and constant searching for something, he’ll do it all over again—if it’s you.)

If someone were to ask him what forgiveness tastes like, he would utter your name—everything that he has ever longed for came in the form of you. And he fears that this longing will last forever even while you’re here, that this longing will grow even when he crumbles to dust, that this longing will outlive this body and weave life into the earth that swallows your existence.

© azullumi — do not plagiarize, copy, repost, nor translate any of my works.

[yawnderu]

Lamb of God — Nikto x Medic!Reader | Part I

Shot, stabbed, beaten... Mikhail has been through hell countless times, yet no amount of training or experience from years in Spetsnaz could ever prepare him for what Victor Zakhaev did to him. 8 missing nails, multiple new wounds on his already scarred body, and a face so disfigured he could no longer recognize himself— not only was his body broken, but so was his psyche.

His first visit was with the medics, wounds in desperate need of cleaning even with infection starting to set in most of them, the chemical burns on his face already blistering and itching despite being scolded by the medic multiple times for scratching himself. He was a difficult patient to say the least— not wanting anyone to touch his injuries or even look at him, only accepting treatment from the only person who dared confront him.

“'Stop that.” Your request comes in a sharp tone, not wanting him to itch his blistering injuries and make the scarring worse than what you knew it would be. A mumbled ''don't tell me what to do'' makes its way to your ears, though you decide to ignore it when he puts his hands way, adhesive bandages decorating his fingers where the nails had been ripped off.

“Sit up for me.” The man is an aggressive dog that defends himself with fangs bared, yet he somehow listens to your commands— even when he scoffs or grumbles before finally doing what you ask. Your gloved hand goes to his chin as you examine the red skin on his face, noting it was washed when he was first rescued, no residue of the acid left. He mumbles something and you raise an eyebrow, waiting for him to repeat himself.

“Is it gross?” His deep voice asks, accent even rougher with the raw emotion he's feeling. He knows for a fact it's gross, he saw it himself— he has blisters covering over half of his face, still remembering the acid dripping down his face from Zakhaev simply wanting to cause him pain.

“I've seen worse— at least you still have a face.” Being a medic for the military allowed you to see both human cruelty, and the extends injuries could go. You've seen multiple soldiers missing their face, skin pulled and bones poking out of their bodies— Mikhail's injuries aren't the worst you've seen, not even close.

“Your nose doesn't look too weird either, even when I was told it was broken. Your eyes still work, all your limbs are still attached... you'll recover from everything in no time.” You try to keep a positive attitude despite the way his baby blue eyes are staring holes into your head, pupils looking tiny despite the dim light in the room.

“I'm mostly worried about what's going on here.” You tap his head softly and he doesn't take long on pushing your hand away softly, a small smile making way to your lips when you notice how he avoids eye contact for a second before he's back to staring at you. You stare back for a while, trying to decipher what he's feeling before going to grab a cloth, filling a small bucket with cold water and making your way back to him.

“This might hurt a little bit, let me know if you want me to stop and we can take a break.” He looks down at the bucket of water and the cloth you're dipping in, squeezing the excess water as you wait for his approval. He gives you a nod in affirmation, flinching slightly as the cold cloth makes contact with his face. It doesn't hurt as much as he imagined— if anything, it feels almost soothing, the previous ache and itchiness disappearing even if only for a very short while.

“Заканчивай быстрее с этой хернëй.” He mutters under his breath despite how good it actually feels on his injuries, not wanting to get any pity from you.

“Be patient.” It almost feels like he's getting scolded by his nana, faint memories of the old woman cleaning his scrapped knees come to mind, holding onto them to try and stop the bad thoughts from flooding his damaged brain.

“Mikhail.” Your soft voice slowly brings him back to reality, feeling an odd sensation all over his face. His hand goes up to feel his cheeks, only now realizing that you already dressed his wounds. He looks utterly confused, not even remembering you getting gauze, everything happening too suddenly. Now that he thinks about it, he doesn't remember most of the heli flight back home, too busy thinking about... what was he even thinking about?

“Mikhail.” You repeat, one of your gloved hands going to his shoulder in attempts to make him look at you. He's still staring blankly at the floor, just as he has been doing for the past 20 minutes, not responding to his own name.

“Quiet, I hear enough voices.” He brushes you off, finally getting up from the medical bed and quickly leaving your office despite the small limp from the beatings he took for days.

He hears voices? His next stop will have to be with the provided psychiatrist once his body recovers a little bit to test if he's still fit to be part of Spetsnaz, leaving your heart filled with worry until you move onto the next patient, making a mental note to check on him later.

A/N: Mikhail is Nikto's name in this fic, the person he used to be before turning into Никто.

[sixpennydame]

Part Two: The Clinch

Pairing: Boxer!Choso Kamo x Fem!Reader [Jujutsu Kaisen]

Word count: 5.8k

You decide to trust Choso and he commits to helping you. But it might be more than either of you bargained for.

Author's notes: Like the Jujutsu Kaisen world, this story is set in Japan, and there is mention of yen as currency and yakuza as organized crime groups. Thank you to my beloved @littlerequiem for beta reading.

Series content/warnings: No curses AU, bare knuckle boxing, violence (in the boxing ring and out), mentions of blood and broken bones, eventual smut

Chapter content/warnings: EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT. Unprotected sex (wrap it up irl, everyone), oral sex (fem receiving), light biting, soft couple intercourse, gambling, yakuza

Part 1 / Part 3 / Series Masterlist

AO3 | Playlist

There’s rarely been a time in Choso’s life when a physical connection didn’t involve pain. 

A mother who was practically unknown to him.

A father who was as verbally manipulative as he was physically abusive.

A boxing coach whose view of encouragement was a wooden sword across Choso’s back.

The only exceptions were his three younger brothers. They’d always been his one, loving constant.

When they were little, he remembers play-wrestling with them in the house, always letting them win. Their skinny, gangly arms pinning him down, Choso laughing uncontrollably when they’d dog pile him. 

All those years, they’d only had each other to depend on.

He knew sending them to boarding school was for the best, but it didn’t make the choice any  easier. The day Choso saw them off at the train station, he pulled them into the tightest, longest hugs. 

After that, his life changed. It was lonely without his brothers, so Choso began to focus his time and attention on fighting, training, and eventually, on his matches at night. He lived as frugally as he could so he could send the money he earned to the three younger siblings so far away. How long had it been since he’d seen them? Would they even recognize him now?

Some days, Choso felt more like a machine than a man: going through the motions of his day, beating up others and getting beaten upon. But when his skin would break and the blood would flow, it made him feel alive. Sure, it was a shitty way to live, but he accepted it as his own.

And then, everything changed when he walked into your office.

Your touch was so soft that night, so gentle—when you held his head, checking for signs of concussion. 

He felt his heart race every time you pulled him close to check on his wound, or looked into his eyes and asked how he was feeling.

And when his lips finally met yours for that kiss, Choso thought he had to be dreaming. He waited for you to push him away or slap his face; but instead, you returned his kiss with the same fervor, opening your mouth, and inviting his tongue to mingle with yours, a faint taste of blood from the cut on your lip.

He practically ran down the hall after his fight, hoping to find you waiting for him. 

(You were.) 

It felt like a risk to reach his hand out to you. Would you trust him, let him protect you?

Your hand in his was all the answer he needed as you both walked to your apartment. 

On the street, the two of you now pass by anonymous faces, the night still young for those searching for a vice. Choso is alert and on edge, still coming down from that rush of adrenaline he gets when he fights, but also from the possibility that the blue-haired freak might have decided to follow you. 

“I don’t live far from here, just around this corner.”

It’s the only thing you’ve said to him since you left your office, but he can almost see the wheels in your head turning, trying to make sense of all this. Choso was trying to understand too: why he was so drawn to you, why he couldn’t get you out of his head, no matter how hard he tried.

 (But let’s face it, he hadn’t really tried that hard). 

Sure, there was so much he still didn’t know about you, but he could feel you opening up to him, little by little. You seemed so strong but delicate, serious and sad. Besides his brothers, he’d never cared much for anyone else, but now…

….All that was starting to change.

A card key beeps and the door to a dingy brick building clicks open. You let go of his hand as you start walking up a narrow, stuffy stairwell, the sound of your shoes scraping against the concrete. When you get to the third floor, you turn and walk down a dimly-lit hallway. 

Keys jingle, the door creaks open, and you take three steps inside, but Choso stays just outside the doorway.

You’re home safe, like he wanted, and it’s late. He should say goodnight, walk down those stairs, and head back to his place. 

But then you turn to him.

”You wanna come in?”

His body suddenly won’t move.

”Just for a moment?” you add.

“Y-yeah,” he says, crossing the threshold tentatively, as if you might change your mind at any minute. 

It’s a small, one-room apartment, with a bed in one corner and a cafe table in the other. The space is neat and tidy, but bare of any personal touches: no pictures of friends hanging on the refrigerator, no trinkets or knick knacks. There’s nothing that connects you to anyone or anything, as if you are just passing through.

”You want a beer?” you ask as you walk over to the refrigerator.  

“Sure.”

You hand him the can and he sits at your table while you situate yourself on the bed across from him. 

You’re not quite sure why you invited him in; all you know is that you didn’t want him to leave just yet. You’d been debating on what you’d do when you got to your place, and now he’s here, drinking his beer, with eyes keenly focused on you. You take a drink as silence fills the room until Choso says your name, softly.

”What’s going on? Why did that man hit you?” 

You hesitate. “It’s a long story.” 

“I figured that.”

“When I tell you, you’ll think differently of me.”

“Why don’t you let me decide that for myself.”

When you shift uncomfortably, Choso closes the gap between you and sits on the bed. He places a hand on your thigh.

“You can trust me.”

How long had it been since you’d actually trusted someone’s word? Perhaps it was finally time to open up to someone, and Choso seemed willing to listen without judgment. The burden had been heavy for so long.

“My father is a gambler,” you start, your eyes cast down and your hands folded in your lap, picking nervously at your nails. “But not just casually. It’s a compulsion for him. Been that way ever since I was young. He was constantly selling things in the house to pay his debts and sometimes, he’d be gone for days at a time. My mother and I often wondered if he’d ever come back; if the loan sharks he’d borrowed money from had finally come to collect.”

A complicated family life. Choso could understand that. 

“I left the house as soon as I could and went to university to become a doctor. I promised myself I’d leave my nightmare of a family behind and only rely on myself. But turns out, that’s easier said than done.”

You swallow, thinking of how to phrase the rest of your story. “I was in the first year of my doctor’s residency when my father showed up at my apartment. He said he owed ‘some bad people’ millions of yen in unpaid loans. Of course he didn’t have the money, so he came to me.”

“Your father expected you to pay off all that debt for him?” Choso interrupted.

You shake your head. “He knew I didn’t have the money on me, but since I worked at the hospital, I had access to drugs –  strong painkillers that could be sold on the black market. He begged me, said they were gonna kill him if he didn’t start paying them. I saw the fear in his eyes – I knew what he was saying was true. And yeah, he was a shitty father, but I couldn’t just let him be killed. His life weighed on my conscience. So I agreed to help him. I started stealing drugs from the hospital and giving them to the organization that was threatening my father.”

“You started working for the yakuza?”

You shift uncomfortably. “Yes.”

“Instead of just making your father sell it?”

“I couldn’t trust him with that kind of thing. If I was going to do this, then I was going to deal with the group directly. I knew what I was doing was wrong, but I told myself that it was for a good reason. That surely after this, he’d change his ways. For a while, I actually thought it was all gonna work out.”

“But…” Choso can feel the climax of this story.

“But the hospital found out. They wanted to keep it quiet and avoid any bad press, so they silently let me go. I should consider myself lucky, I guess, but it’ll be impossible for me to be a licensed doctor now.”

“And that’s why you’re working at the arena?”

“I had nowhere else to go and still had so much money to pay off. The organization runs this arena - What else could I do?” 

Choso can see tears starting to form in the corners of your eyes, but you quickly wipe them away.

It surprises you, how much you’ve allowed yourself to say to this man you’ve only known for a week. Long-guarded family secrets seem to flow faster than you’d realized was possible and hearing it out loud makes you feel even worse.

“I’ve resented my father for so long, but in the end, I’m just like him. Just some worthless piece of shit.”

“That’s not true.”

Choso’s large hand moves from your thigh to your hand, squeezing it gently. “You did what you thought you needed to do. You were put in an impossible situation. But we are not our fathers.”

“We?” you say, a puzzled look on your face.

Choso blinks, looking down. “My father is a terrible person. He was manipulative and abusive to my mother, me, and my brothers, although I took most of the physical blows. I remember just lying in my bed and wanting to kill him. And then he just…disappeared, and left me and my brothers to fend for ourselves.”

Choso struggles to continue, and so you give his hand a squeeze.

“I try to be a good brother, and a good man, but there’s this anger, deep inside me. And I’m scared that I might become just like him. Like it’s some kind of curse.”

He turns to look at you. “But I know I have to be better, for the sake of my brothers. I’ve made a lot of mistakes because I had no one to guide me; but I’m not gonna let that happen to them. That’s what keeps me going.”

That large hand now suddenly feels hot and sweaty in yours. Choso sighs.

“There’s just one thing.”

At that, your brow furrows. “What’s that?”

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you since you stitched me up that night. It’s starting to become a bit of a problem.” His words make you chuckle. “Seriously, I thought I was gonna have to get beaten up every fight to ever get near you again.” 

Choso feels your hand squeeze his again, just a bit. You look up at him with your sad eyes and he can’t help but move closer. 

“You have no idea what you do to me..” he confesses.

Then he says your name in that low voice you’ve come to yearn for. 

“Choso…you don’t know what you’re saying. I’m no good for you.”

“Good…bad…I don’t care about any of that.” His body is now shifted even closer. “All I know is I want you. All of you. The good and the bad.”

The words you want to say to him hang just on the tip of your tongue:

I feel the same.

I want you, Choso.

But you’ve never been good with words. They’re too permanent, too binding. They create promises no one can ever keep.

Instead, you busy your lips by pressing them against his. You don’t notice his eyes going wide, as if he wasn’t expecting this to really happen. But it doesn’t take long for him to pull you closer, meeting your anxious kiss with his own determined energy.

Perhaps a little too determined, as the eagerness of his kisses press too hard on the cut on your lower lip. You suck in a breath and pull back, noticing that the wound has reopened.

Choso immediately cups your cheek. “I’m so sorry! Did I hurt you?” 

“No, no, it’s fine. Just a bit tender.”

Choso stands up, takes your hand, and leads you to your bathroom. Closet-sized, the two of you barely fit, but Choso doesn’t seem to notice as he immediately grabs a washrag and wets it.

“What are you doing?” you ask.

“Taking care of you, for a change. Now keep still.”

He gently and deliberately dabs the washcloth on your swollen lip. His brow is furrowed and his eyes serious, and it gives you this flutter in your heart; a heart that for so long has known only the sting of pain, loss, and disappointment. Suddenly there’s a desire within you to experience more of this new feeling.

You place your hand on top of his and pull it away from your lip, then lightly kiss the corner of his mouth. One kiss is followed by another, then you start moving down his jaw to his neck - slow, sensuous kisses that make his breath hitch. Lips parted, your tongue draws in the salty taste of his skin, and as you move further down, you feel the beating of his pulse.

Choso can barely contain himself. His hands move under your shirt, cupping your breasts over your bra. When he hears your hum of approval, he pulls the shirt up and over your head.

His eyes rove over your collarbone and bare chest, where skin meets the cotton of your bralette. It’s now his lips exploring your neck and chest as he pushes you against the sink. You try to adjust, but the space is too cramped, so you pull away from him.

Choso’s face contorts in concern. “Did I hurt you again?”

But you’ve completely forgotten about your injured lip as you push him out of the bathroom and toward your bed. Getting the gist, he moves backwards, bumping into the table and chairs as he pulls off his sweatshirt, then t-shirt, and finally his pants.

It’s clumsy and awkward, but both of you smile between kisses as you grope and pull at the other’s clothing. You even laugh a little when Choso stubs his toe on the edge of your bed as he unhooks your bra. 

It’s as if the heaviness of the night has been lifted away and all that’s left is the dark-haired man before you. Choso. He stands over you now in only his underwear, his chiseled chest and abs marked with scars and bruises. Black hair leads lower down, disappearing beneath the waistband of his underwear, his growing arousal evident.

He looks over you as you lay on the bed with his shy smile, only to be replaced by something more serious.

The small bed creaks as he positions himself over you. 

“Is this ok?”

“More than ok,” you reply, attempting to keep calm but unable to hide the nervousness in your voice. Your very core is screaming to be consumed by this man, but this feeling of desire is so new and unknown. To be so vulnerable with someone - physically and emotionally - is territory you’ve rarely explored, if ever.

His dark eyes seem to look through any walls you’ve built up around yourself. You look away to avert his gaze, your cheeks burning.

“…it’s just…it’s been a while and I…”

Choso can’t help but smile. He cages you in with his arms and moves close to your ear.

“I told you, I’m taking care of you tonight. Will you let me do that?” he asks, before his lips start moving down your neck, then your chest. The trail of kisses make it to your breasts, his tongue flicking one nipple while his fingers pinch the other. Your eyes meet and you nod.

“Yes…” you breathlessly reply.

With that answer you see a change in him: a spark in his eyes that wasn’t there before. It makes your heart pound even faster. 

His mouth moves even further down, stopping just as he reaches your core. By now your whole body is shaking in expectation and desire. 

Choso doesn’t contain the growl that escapes his mouth when he pulls down your underwear. He has to taste you, to feel your heat, but he also wants to take it slow, to make sure you’re completely satisfied. 

So instead of diving between your legs, he lifts one up, resting it on his shoulder before kissing along your calf. When he reaches your inner thighs, the light kisses turn to biting and sucking, which elicits a moan from your lips. Choso stops and smirks against your soft flesh.

“You like that, huh? I’ll remember that.”

Choso has never been one for studying or books, but he knows how to read people and the subtle tells their eyes and body give. Years of fighting in and out of the boxing ring taught him that when facing an opponent for the first time, you have to test out the waters - find their weak and strong points, and what gives you the better advantage.

He’s not in the ring right now, and you’re not his opponent, but he is studying your body, taking note of every twitch, listening to every sigh and moan. By the time he’s made it to your upper thigh, leaving kiss marks along the way, your breath has sped up and the leg hitched on his shoulder is pulling him closer to his intended goal.

“Choso, please…”

It doesn’t take a genius to know what you want.

And so he moves to your center, starting with a gentle lick at your folds. You’re so wet and you taste so good, it compels him to keep going, his tongue moving around your clit, your moans getting louder. Each moment you get wetter and wetter, and he’s lapping it all up like a man dying of thirst. When your hands grip his hair and your hips start bucking into his mouth, he knows you’re close.

Hell, he’s about to cum just from your moans alone. He begins to rut his hips against the bed, to temporarily appease his aching cock.

Because no matter what he wants right now, it’s your pleasure that comes first tonight.

It’s been a while since you’ve been sexually intimate with anyone, but you can’t remember anyone ever eating you out this good. The way he moves against your swollen clit has you seeing stars, and you find yourself moaning his name, begging for more before he finally plunges his tongue deep inside you. Your hips now move of their own accord, desperate to reach that sweet orgasm that you know he can give you. 

When it finally comes, you can barely think straight. A warmth from deep within your core begins to radiate through your whole body, making your legs tremble. You buck against his mouth one final time before you finally release the grip you have on his dark locks. 

“Shit,” is all you can manage to say at the moment.

Choso sits up on his haunches, a smirk on his face as he sees you blissed out beneath him. His hands on your quivering thighs, he rubs them up and down, reveling in the softness of your skin. Your body spread out before him like this, he’s never seen a more beautiful sight in his entire life. 

“I’m not finished yet,” he says as he pushes his underwear down, his hard cock springing free. Precum drips down his hand as he grips his girth and pumps once, then twice, before leaning over to align with your center. He searches your face for any objection; when he sees none, he pushes in.

Choso isn’t religious, but he swears he sees god in that moment. Your warm, wet walls envelop him so fully that he has to take a moment just to be able to think straight. 

“Ah…you’re…so…tight…”

He says each word with a thrust, each one deeper and harder than the next. Eventually, your body adjusts to his size and he moves faster, his abs flexing with the movement. Sweat from his chest drops down on your stomach as he pushes even deeper.

“Choso!” You cry out as your arms pull him against you. Again and again he buries his cock in you with an intense, steady rhythm. 

“Mmmm….you feel so good…” 

Choso takes both your legs and hitches them over his shoulders and as he pushes in, you cry out. His cock is deep now, hitting that place inside you that makes you arch your back in ecstasy. 

“Don’t stop…” you plead.

“I won’t…” he answers, “…I can’t…”

He lifts you up to sitting and you both look at each other, breathless and sweat-drenched, his black hair sticking to his neck and forehead. Neither of you seem to be able to form coherent words, so instead, you press your foreheads together. The brief pause allows you to catch your breath and in that moment you have a realization:

The stream of negative thoughts that constantly bombard your brain have stopped. Years of having to rely on yourself had forced you to always be thinking two or three steps ahead, but right now, there’s only this moment with Choso. You take a deep breath and even the air in your lungs feels different. 

He leans back slightly and you begin to move your hips, riding his cock as the two of you grind against each other. It’s all too much and not enough - his body as it moves with yours, his staggered breaths. You never want it to end.

Then you feel that tell-tale flutter building up inside you as your second orgasm releases in a spectacular climax; the sensation has you holding onto his neck as if your life depended on it.

When Choso feels you clenching around his cock, it takes everything within him not to cum right at that moment. He barely lays you back down before he pulls out, his warm seed releasing onto your stomach.

You’re shaking, holding onto him just as tightly as you were moments before.

“Choso…Choso…” you whisper his name in the dark.

“I’m here…” is his quiet reply, “…I’m not going anywhere.”

—— 

The two of you lie on your bed, exhausted and completely spent. You stare up at the ceiling and he does the same, both expectantly waiting on the other to say or do something. 

Choso breaks the silence first.

“Use me,” he says.

“What?”

“Make wagers on my fights. Let’s beat them at their own game.”

You’re quiet, contemplative. Surely he’s joking.

When you make no reply, he continues to press the issue. “I’ll win for you. Every time.”

”You can’t guarantee that,” you counter.

”Yes, I can.” 

You sit up in bed and gather the sheets around you, your back facing him. 

“I’m not going to pull you into my shit. It’s my burden to bear.”

There’s a shifting and you can feel him directly behind you. 

“I figured you’d say that. But I’m winning, regardless. You might as well make money off of it.”

Your mind weighs all the possibilities that this could go wrong. What if he doesn’t win and you get deeper in debt? What if the organization finds out you’ve partnered with him?” 

But at this point, what other choices did you have? 

There’s a warm, strong hand on your bare shoulder.

“You can trust me,” he says, his voice resolute.

There’s that word again. Trust. But trust takes time, and you barely know him. It’s a gamble, in every sense of the word; a gamble you’re not sure you should take.

 As you turn to face him you can see that he’s already looking at you expectantly. 

“I can tell you how much to wager based on who I’m fighting. This can work.”

Your father had always said that a gamble always takes a little bit of faith. Perhaps it’s time to test that theory. And from the look in Choso’s eyes, you can tell that he’s not giving up on this idea any time soon.

“Ok. Let’s try it,” you concede, before he pulls you back down and into his arms.

——

The following day you walk to the bookie’s office alone. You both knew it would be too risky going together, so he prepped you on what to say.

“My next fight is in a week against a man named Naoya Zenin,” he instructed. “You can earn more by placing a bet on exactly when I can bring him down, so wager that it’ll be a knock out in the third round.”

Choso spends the rest of the week training in the evenings while you work at the clinic; but in that dark time between night and morning, when you take care of  the last injured fighter and lock your office door, there he is, waiting for you without fail. You walk past one of the custodians who is sweeping away scraps of betting tickets that litter the floor, while another is mopping blood off the ring. When you finally make it outside you see him standing, soldier-like, just outside the entrance.

He insists on walking you home every night. “For your safety,” he says, “Just to make sure no one is following you.” But the two of you barely make it through the door before you’re both pulling off each other’s clothes and fucking on your tiny bed, or against the kitchen counter, or over the table. 

It feels good, being fucked senseless by this man you barely know, letting all your cares and worries wash away with each climax he gives you. You’re certain he feels the same way just by the way he acts around you: protective and gentle, as if you’re the most precious thing in the world. 

But you know it can’t last;  It is a transactional relationship, after all, a means to an end. You and he are both getting something out of this that the other needs, and that’s all there is to it. 

By the end of the week, the muscles in your thighs and ass are aching and you wonder if Choso’s body is just as sore from the sexual exploits. Probably not - he is an athlete in peak physical condition, after all.

He tapes up his hands as you busy yourself in your clinic. The week passed more quickly than you thought it would, and now, it’s time to see if Choso’s plan will actually work.

“Are you going to watch the fight?” he asks as he finishes wrapping his hands.

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“Why not?” He walks over to caress your cheek. “Are you worried I’ll get hurt?”

“No,” you reply curtly, turning away from him in an attempt to avoid his gaze. “I’ll just be busy with the fighters before you.”

”Yeah, yeah.” He chuckles as he wraps his arms around you. “Just admit you’re concerned about me.”

You want to melt into his arms, like you do every night, but your nerves are on edge. You’d wagered over half your savings on this fight, and putting this amount of trust in someone else’s abilities was something you were still getting used to. 

(Choso’s welfare was also heavy on your mind, but you weren’t about to tell him that.)

“I’m just concerned about my money, is all.”

“Both me and your money will be coming back to you safe and sound,” he assures, putting his head on your shoulder, “Just listen for the third round bell.”

When he leaves your office, you don’t look back.

There’s a heavy stream of injured fighters into your office that night, just as you thought there would be, but through the stitching and wrapping, you hear the first round bell ring for Choso’s fight.

He’ll be fine, you tell yourself. 

But as the second round starts, you’re rushing to the arena.

It looks like Naoya Zenin was able to get some hits in on Choso - a punch to his cheek and a hit to the ribs - but from the bruising on his forearms and biceps, it seems that Choso has been able to deflect most of his opponent’s attacks. Zenin, on the other hand, has a swollen eye and cheek, which you know must be messing with his depth perception. The young man barrels towards Choso, putting his arms around his chest. 

“What’s he doing?” You don’t realize that you’ve asked this out loud.

An old man with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth answers. “Zenin is using a clinch against Choso, trying to slow down the action and keep him from punching. It’s a desperate move on his part.”

Zenin holds on tightly to Choso until a referee shows to break it up. Almost immediately after that, the bell rings for the end of the round.

Both fighters go to their respective corners while a bikini-clad woman walks across the ring to announce the third round.  When the bells ring again, Choso is already up and making his way toward his opponent’s corner. He punches Zenin hard in the nose and the young man stumbles back, but before he can gain composure, Choso hits him with an uppercut that brings him to the ground.

“Winner!” The referee says, taking Choso by the arm and raising it high in the air. 

A knockout in the third round, just as he’d said.

That night, after bandaging Choso’s ribs and icing his cheek, you both go to collect your first winnings.

It’s now a set routine: every week or two, you place a bet in Choso’s favor and every week he takes down another opponent. Sometimes he’s covered in blood just like he was the first time you met him; other times, it’s only a few bruises. But no matter what condition he’s in, he always comes home with you. In fact, he’s practically moved in at this point. His clothes are nestled in your chest of drawers and his toothbrush is right next to yours. It’s a strange kind of domesticity neither of you expected.

Week after week goes by, and by the third month, Choso is still undefeated. His fights are now the headliners of every match night, and wager rates soar in his favor. You still refuse to watch the fights, but you can hear the crowd cheer his name as every opponent meets the same end.

”Blood thirsty.”  “Relentless.” 

That’s what they call him.

It’s hard for you to believe they’re referring to the same man who stays with you every night; that the strong hands that just brought a man close to death are now gently cupping your breasts, or positioning your hips on top of him. He loved it when you took control and rode his face or his cock, and was always eager to please you.

You keep telling yourself that it’s the sex that always brings him back to your place every night, or that keeps him fighting for you, but when those deep, dark eyes look into yours, you know it’s more than that.

And something changes  in your heart as well; you feel empty when he’s away, or when he can’t come home with you right after a fight. Your stomach drops when an opponent gets a good hit in. 

Perhaps this isn’t  transactional for you anymore.

——

The next night, as another night of fights comes to an end, you hear the door to your office open.

“I’m closing up,” you say as you put away your instruments.

“Just here for your monthly payment,” the blue-haired man called Mahito says, leaning against the entrance to your clinic.

With a sigh, you reach up into your cabinet, take out a small bag, and throw it at his feet.

“Here you go. Now get out.”

”Tsk tsk, all these months and you still treat me so coldly. We should be friends by now.” He opens up the bag to see the bills stashed neatly inside. “Wow, another big payment. Miss Doctor. You certainly are lucky these days. Did a rich aunt die or something?” 

“You’re getting your money aren’t you? That’s all you should care about.”

Mahito smiles a toothy grin that makes your skin crawl. “But you’re also our precious employee. I’d hate to hear that you’ve gotten into more trouble.” He slinks towards you and you move backwards, hitting the edge of an examination table. He picks up a piece of your hair and lets his fingers move through it. “Maybe you’re becoming just like your father, huh?”

“Get away from her.”

Choso stands at the entrance, hands in fists and bracing to attack.

Like a child that’s suddenly interested in a new toy, Mahito turns from you and walks towards your lover. “Ha! Like a dog to a whistle! Just the person I wanted to see. Walk with me, Choso.”

The two men walk down the hall and amongst the crowd exiting the arena for the night. Of all the men that Choso has fought these past months, he’s never wanted to beat someone to a pulp more than the man next to him. Mahito is slight of build with wide, child-like expressions, but one look in his eyes and Choso knows that this bastard has killed others just for the enjoyment of it. He’d love to smash that smug face in.

“What do you want?” Choso asks coldly.

“I have a proposition for you. One that could solve all of Miss Doctor’s problems.” 

Mahito stops to see if Choso will react. When he doesn’t, he continues. “We want to set up a fight. A big one.” Mahito’s eyes glance towards the man walking beside him. “With you and Ryomen Sukuna.”

That stops Choso in his tracks. “Sukuna’s out of prison?”

“He is indeed. Seems that they couldn’t get that manslaughter conviction to stick because of some kind of legal error.” Mahito smirks devilishly. “And he’s ready for a comeback. What do you say?”

“What does this have to do with her?”

“Oh come on…you think we don’t know that you’ve been helping her place bets on your fights?” He laughs and it makes Choso’s skin crawl. “I must admit, it is rather romantic, and it’s made your popularity soar these past few months. But it’s time for both of you to remember who you really work for.”

Now outside, Mahito takes out a cigarette, lights it, and takes a long drag as if he has all the time in the world. Choso just wants this conversation to be over with.

“Do this fight, and Miss Doctor can consider her father’s debts paid in full, with our thanks.”

Choso’s instincts tell him there’s more to this plan. “What’s the catch?”

A sinister smile crawls across Mahito’s face. 

“You have to lose.”

Part 1 / Part 3 / Series Masterlist

Join my taglist!

@amywritesthings @nube55 @delirious-donna @moonchild-angel @littlerequiem

@mrsackermannx @romantichomicide95 @youre-ackermine @q-p-mayo @levispersonalslave

@peachdues @lavenderandoranges @fr0mthefires @luvrsbian @tzillas

@gatnalien @velouria17 @m1yu-11 @e1aine008

[pandoras-box0]

|| : Title : 'golden touch'

|| : Characters : aged up! neteyam x metkayina! reader

|| : Contents Warnings : male!body worship; hand job, oral - male receiving; marking; switch! neteyam; fluff; kissing neteyam's gunshot scar; Metkayina warrior! neteyam; brief cum play; newly mated, honeymoon phase couple;

|| : Synopsis : as a newly mated pair, you and neteyam can't keep your hands off each other. what's better than body worshipping your man during fertility season?

Your lips trail down Neteyam's chiseled chest, leaving purple splotches in your wake. Neteyam's chest heaves, pulling air deeply into his lungs as your lips wander him.

You can feel his abdomen quiver under your hand, as it is sprawled out across his azure skin. The bioluminescent beauty marks lead you as you plant an open-mouth kiss anywhere you see a bright freckle.

You and Neteyam are a newly mated pair, and with the breath of fertility season in the air and your fresh union in your minds, the two of you cannot keep your hands to yourself. So when he comes back after a three-day hunting session, you can't help but jump his bones. Not that Neteyam minds any, he can't get enough of you either.

You giggle at the shake of Neteyam's abdomen as pleasure courses through him. You nibble along his pecs, leaving teasing bites across Neteyam's chest. His fangs are embedded into his lips at your wandering mouth that leaves open-mouthed kisses along his skin. Your warm hand rubbing along his cock.

"feels good, 'teyam?" You ask, greenish blue eyes peering down at your lover. Your thick, paddle-like tail sways with anticipation, as your ears pivot to drink up the male's noises. He lets out a shaky breath, and his eyes flutter as the sounds of your wet hand sliding along his dick bless his ears.

Neteyam hand cups your face, where he runs the pad of his thumb over your cheek. Your chin rests on his chest as your keen into his touch, your wrist still working along his lengthy, cock. Using the remnants of his last orgasm to work his cock in your wet grasp.

Your lips are a rosy color, indents of your teeth pressed into your bottom lip. All Neteyam can think about, is how good you look as you pleasure him. Curly hair in a disheveled, sexy mess. "Yes baby, it feels good." The words slip from him with a light, throaty groan, as you massage his cock in your palm.

His eyes convey just how you make him feel. The dilation of his pupil leaves nothing but the thinnest ring of amber, giving you a dangerously lustful (yet loving) gaze. His hand is heavy on the back of your head as he coaxes you to return your mouth to his chest.

Your ears lightly press into your skull as you look along Neteyam's skin. You kiss along every freckle he has, every scar. Every mark that litters his body, you kiss along. Neteyam watches through droopy eyes, as you press kisses along his flesh. Your tail swishes through the air softly, mind filled with your lover and how content you are, the comforting scent you put out permeates through the air and into Neteyam's lungs.

Neteyam's mouth is slightly open to inhale it deeper, waiting til his lungs ache to breathe you out. You kiss along his gunshot scar, a symbol of his hardship. Shudder crawls its way up the both of your spines as your lips make contact.

Your eyes skim across his dark blue skin, where they settle on his eyes. They hold a vulnerable, soft gaze. You never touched that scar outside from times like this, where you'd be leaving kisses along his skin, worshipping the man in his whole. Every part of him, including that part.

Sprawled out on top of Neteyam's body, pooling between his legs, you let go of his throbbing cock to hold yourself up. With the hand that you have on his chest, you reach up to hold his jaw.

You cradle his face in your hand, giving him a comforting touch. Your thumb tugs his bottom lip as you trace your fingers for the bioluminescent freckles on his chin. Your eyes ask if he's okay, eyes flickering to wear your lips are pressed.

You map him like the fishermen map the stars, holding him as gently as your body will allow. He can't help but kiss the heel of your hand, nodding as your eyes give him concern, love, and comfort. He's more than fine, he's never felt better.

You worm your way down, giving a few sporadic and soft kisses to his sternum before drawing further down. Your hand makes quick work of itself, reaching between your bodies to pick up Neteyam's neglected and drooling cock.

Neteyam lets out breathy groans as you pull away to spit on his cock and your fist. You rub along the tip of Neteyam's dick, coating him in the spit that you'd given him. Your tongue swirls along the stripes of Neteyam's abdomen, sucking hickeys onto his skin when you make contact again.

You pay extra attention to the brighter freckles of Neteyam's. The ones that sit around his belly button, just above his pelvis. Your tongue pressed into the brightest one, biting where you are kissing him.

Neteyam is grunting at the feeling of your wet, warm muscle licking along his skin. His grip on the back of your head tightens as you kiss so close to where he needs you. "Lo..lower, paskalin." He practically chokes on the words, as your hands speed up. Neteyam can't help but grow needy for you, grinding up into your hand.

His eyes flutter shut, long lashes kiss his cheeks as you leave open-mouth kisses along his dick. "Oh, Eywa," his hips gyrate, itching for more as you kiss along his blue shaft. You leave small hickies along his cock.

Your pink tongue peaks from behind your lips, as you tilt Neteyam's cock to lick across the bottom of it. Tongue pressed into a vein that dances along his member, before popping one of his squishy and swollen balls in your mouth. You give it a gentle suck, watching as Neteyam writhes underneath you. His large hand gripping your braided-out curls, a sigh leaving his lips. "Fuck, yawne,"

The noises Neteyam makes when you finally take his entire length down your throat are downright sinful. The feeling of your mouth on him, the feeling of your tongue massaging his cock, it's all so much for him. Neteyam's eyes squeeze out of pleasure. You run a comforting hand over his thighs, and when they open, they met your loving gaze. Neteyam can't get enough of you and your golden touch.

2023 © Pandoras-Box0 — all rights reserved. do not repost or recommend my works on any other site. plagiarism will not be tolerated! inspiration is appreciated if credited, reblogs and comments are also appreciated. Minors dni with my content.

|| : Author's notes : I couldn't help myself lmao, I'm not a fluff writer so I don't know if this is any good. @cinetrix thank you for creating the aged up neteyam art 🙏💙 they're masterpieces.

[hwanchaesong]

↗🏢 Entering 2nd floor: An encounter forced by fate, alcohol clouding your system, now you're drowning in his vermillion sheets. 🌌

🎧: Chase Atlantic - Slow Down

wc: 838

genre & warnings: smut, jealousy, angst if you squint, sprinkle of fluff ig, college setting, cursing, drinking and party, petnames, unprotected sex, mentions of cunnilingus and fingering, kind of toxic situationship with yj etc etc (yes, this is the same universe as Soobin's ver) mdni

a/n: this is a part of The Paradise Hotel series. if y'all want, you can read the other album inspired fics of other groups here.

Your vision is starting to go dim, and it came to a point where the nasty noises are nothing more but static in your ears.

It was all hazy, sweaty, and hot but who could blame you but the man who was currently rearranging your guts.

The man who sees red whenever his demons turn into that of green and blue monsters, the one and only Choi Yeonjun.

In what way did you even manage to anger him? You have no idea, you were merely enjoying yourself in a party that you know he will be at, yet you chose to play with fire.

"I leave you alone for a while and you're whoring yourself for everyone to see." he rasps, gritting his teeth when your insides clenched tighter on his member that continuously bullies its way into your overstimulated cunt.

"Oh? You like getting called a whore?" he mocks, his thrusts neverending and harsh.

"I d-don't!" you cried out and he chuckled darkly at your weak attempt of fending off his accusations.

You really had the guts to be this courageous when you could've been his obedient little doll.

"Deny all you want babe." a hand of his that was formerly on your hips in a bruising grip snakes towards your collar bones, his finger traces the hickeys that he left on your smooth skin, "But your pussy says otherwise."

You whimpered at his degrading words, but you couldn't deny it.

How could you when you're basically dripping?

Every time he pushes his pulsating length into you, the more your juices squelch, gushing all over his vermillion sheets and his thighs.

Yeonjun really isn't in a good condition either. He's been holding back his release for hours now, and he did everything in his power to do so.

From eating you out until you're squirting in his mouth, letting him lap on your wetness, not stopping even if you beg him to stop because you're too sensitive from the prior high caused by his fingers. To fucking you into different positions just to feel more of you.

You are so fucking addictive and he couldn't get enough of you.

Since he met you through Soobin's girlfriend, you got him hooked, and he'll be damned if he can't have you in this lifetime.

His hawk eyes watched you flirt with some ugly asses in the kitchen of his frat house, and he deemed it proper to let you finish the bottle of beer you're drinking before dragging you upstairs and cornering you in an empty bedroom.

And now he has you crying out in pleasure whenever the tip of cock hits your g-spot perfectly. Begging for him to stop but the second he slows down, your eyes shoot wide open in panic. Truly, you are a statement of hypocrisy and that excites him more.

Rejecting him when he clearly knows that you're weak for him, that you can never sincerely say no to him.

"Yeonjun.. please." you mewled out his name, his snapping hips against your staggers for a bit as he was startled, but quickly regained his composure.

"You were saying, princess?" he tilts his head, his hand going over your tits to squeeze on the fatty mounds and tugging on your nipples.

"I want to cum." you mumbled, gazing into his hooded dark orbs, and his image burns into the back of your mind.

Insanely, utterly, and out of this world attractive. That's what he is.

With his messy hair, beads of sweat on his forehead, pink lips and fox-like eyes— he is magnificent.

"Hm? My princess wants to cum?" he mused, chuckling when you nodded your head.

Aren't you adorable?

"How much do you want to cum?" he asks, examining your desperate expression that made him crazy to no extent.

Your hands flew to his broad shoulders, nails raking on his porcelain skin, "So much. Please, Yeonjun, let me cum. Make me cum."

He hisses at the sting, his thrusts getting erratic while his dick inside you twitches in anticipation.

Yeonjun leans down, his face hovering over your own, his elbow supporting his weight, while the other one goes to your neck, lightly squeezing it.

"Tell me you're mine first." he orders, face dangerously hovering over yours, his warm breath fans across your lips.

The slight closing of your air pipe gave you a sensation of haziness, his words made you tingly, and his unrelenting fucking are making you feel a sensation of euphoria.

"Yeonjun.. Yeonjun." you chanted his name like you're in some sort of daze, dragging your hands to cup his face, "I am yours. All yours. I belong to you."

Yeonjun's heart squeezed, overwhelming feelings led to him capturing your lips in a sweet yet searing kiss, letting you two bask in the crashing waves of euphoria as the both of you reached utopia at the same time.

Surely, whatever color the stoplight shows, Yeonjun won't ever slow down when it comes to you, and you wouldn't have it any other way.

taglist:

@hyunjinheartbreakprince @lun4kazumii @once27 @purrplegyuu @yawnzsof @baeksofty @shakalakaboomboo

[st-el-la-luna]

It's Not Enough: Captain John Price x Reader

(sorry for vanishing I am mentally unwell)

An injury leaves the Task Force's Captain unable to do all that he usually does. You're more than happy to help.

NSFW 18+

➔ gn!reader ("you"/"your" pronouns, described as "pretty" once), Price is readers boss, pillow fucking, desperate almost subby Price

unedited, written on mobile in Spanish class

part two

It wasn't fair to say that the mission went south. It's not like the Task Force failed it or anything. You guys secured the intel you needed and cleared the base no problem.

Except there was a problem. Your intel on the enemy operation had been spotty and it turns out the enemy was more prepared than you all had been lead to thought.

Sitting silently in the back of the truck you all quietly lick your wounds. Soap had been stabbed, "'tis just a scratch," he had announced before taking out three men with an improved explosive. (Ghost hit him for that one) (the Shakespeare reference. Not the bomb). Gaz and Ghost both were shot, the former in the knee and the latter, grazed on the neck by a bullet that very well could have killed him. You got a little too close to a grenade and now your ears are ringing and you're covered cuts and scrapes from the shrapnel, bits of metal still embedded in your skin.

Price got it the worst though. One of the enemy soldiers managed to sneak up on him. This hulking, unit of a man who made Ghost, Ghost, look like a gangly teen.

You always wondered how Ghost, being as big as he is, could move so quietly so quickly. This enemy soldier made you think that maybe you were just loud and slow.

Not a single person realized that the soldier was there until it was too late. He tackled Price, knocking the gun from his hands then threw him, literally threw him, like a doll, over the catwalk ledge.

Price was lucky though, in a sense, because he crashed to the ground close enough to you and Gaz that you could provide him cover.

He was unlucky, or maybe just stupid, because he tried to catch his fall. His fall from three stories up.

With his hands.

Never have you heard bones snap so loud.

You glance across the truck at him. He's breathing slowly and deliberately, self-soothing. His hands resting on his thighs, fingers twitching occasionally, but otherwise motionless.

"Hey, look on the bright side, Captain," you say with a crooked grin, blinking away the blood dripping from a gash above your eye. "At least you won't have to do any paperwork for a while."

"Won't be able to jack off either," Soap adds with a crow of laughter. "Poor lil John's gonnae be black and blue... Won't even be able to feel the pain in yer hands over the straining of your–"

"That'll do!" Ghost snaps, ever the one to keep Soap in line.

It's quiet for the rest of the way back to base. It's quiet as you all head to medical for treatment. You're all drained, happy with a job well done, but exhausted from, well, everything.

Tired and sore, you decide to forgo dinner in order to catch some extra sleep. You're walking through the halls when you pass by Price's office.

The door is cracked open, which is unusual, and a rhythmic sound tumbles out into the hallway. A blend between panting and grunting.

He groans out a frustrated, "Fucking... Ah... Fucking hell!"

"Captain?" You ask hesitantly, knocking on the door. You hear shuffling inside, the rustling of cloth, soft jingle of metal. "I, uh... Everything okay?"

"Everything's fine," he grits out, breathless and frustrated. "I'm just..." More rustling. "Fuck!"

"Can I come in?" You ask, already opening the door.

He doesn't say no. In fact, he doesn't say anything. Until you've got the door open and are left staring at the scene before you.

"I didn't want anyone seeing me like this..." He grumbles.

He's standing behind his desk, both hands and forearms in casts. He's struggling with a zip up hoodie, tangled in the fabric as he tries to put it on.

You fight back the urge to laugh and succeed. You fight back the urge to smile and fail. "Want some help with that, Captain?"

"Please."

This continues for the duration of his injury, him coming to you for help with tasks he can't do himself. For as long as he's in those casts, you're at his beck and call.

It's not uncommon for you to be called away from some mundane task to help the Captain with something equally mundane. But hey, at least you get to spend time with your Captain.

Your handsome, rugged, often flushed as of late, Captain.

You're captain whose casts you've wrapped before he can shower. Whose shirts you've helped put on. Whose hair you've brushed. Beard you've combed. Whose-

You keep having to tell yourself that this doesn't mean anything. The only reason he comes to you and no one else is because, well, he doesn't want anyone else seeing him like this.

So what if he blushes when you help secure his belt around his hips? Or when your fingers graze his neck as you button his collar. So what if once or twice while youve helped him dress your hand has brushed his cock (and oh, it's big), and it's jumped to attention. It's a natural reaction, really. Price never even mentions it. He's probably embarrassed. Ashamed. Nothing more to it.

But what if...?

No. You tell yourself sternly. Bad. That's your boss.

But...

He has been calling on you more. Has been standing closer. Leaning in when you speak. Burying his nose into your hair before you leave his room and inhaling through his nose, then shutting the door on you, leaving you a little dazed and more than a little confused in the hall.

Still. It doesn't mean anything. You've just never spent this much time with him. Maybe this is normal.

You're in the armory with Soap and Gaz when your phone goes off in your pocket. Price is calling.

"Captain?" You ask, holding the phone between your shoulder and ear as you continue to clean your rifle. "Everything okay?"

"I know I told you I wouldn't need anything until later, but I... I need your help," he says, his voice gruff and rumbling. "Now."

Soap mimes a blow job and Gaz snickers, shouldering him playfully.

"Could have called anyone, Captain," Soap calls out loud enough for Price to hear through the phone. "What is it you need help with that only our pretty little Corporal can do? Hmm?"

"Shut up, Soap," Price grumbles.

"Captain says to shut up, Johnny," you relay to Soap. He laughs.

"I need your help," Price repeats, his breath stuttering slightly.

"Alright," you say, setting the rifle down. "What with?"

"I'm..." his words are cut off by a groan and the sound of shuffling, followed by something clattering to the floor. "Fuck... I'm trying to..." He pauses, breathing heavy. "Tryna trim my beard and I.. Just get over here quick."

"Aye, sir. I'll be in your office soon."

"Not my office. My quarters."

You pause, holding the phone properly now. "I... Your quarters, Captain?"

Soap snickers, and thrusts his hips into the air a couple times. You flip him off.

"Yes," he says. "It's where I keep my products."

"Right, of course," you shake your head. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Good," he says, letting out a breathy sound through his nose. "I can't deal with this any longer..."

"Your beard has gotten scruffy," you muse.

"I... Just... Hurry." He hangs up.

"Getting out of work early again, huh?" Gaz asks with a grin. "Or should I say getting off work early?"

"Not you too," you whine, flipping the pair of them off as you leave the room.

You don't catch what Soap says, his words muffled by his accent and the closing door. Judging by the raucous laughter that breaks out when he's done, you figure that might be for the best.

You get to Price's room and knock, waiting a beat before turning the knob. "Hey, Captain, just a heads up, I've never actually trimmed a beard before but I–"

You stare at the scene before you with wide eyes, blood rushes to your cheeks as your jaw drops.

"Close the door," Price grunts, staring up at you from his place on the bed. On his knees, forearms braced against the mattress, his face red, jaw slack as he lets out rhythmic pants and groans.

You don't dwell on it. Instead, your attention is drawn to the clumsy, desperate movement of his hips as he ruts desperately against his pillow. His pillow which is covered in... Is that one of your workout shirts?

"I... Captain?!" You squeak in surprise, taking a slight step back.

"Soap was right," he grumbles, humping and grinding and moaning into the pillow. Into your shirt. Your shirt. This is happening. This is real. Price inhales deeply through his nose, his tongue lolling out. "Haven't... Haven't been able to... It's... I... It hurts, i... I thought this would... it worked before but i... It's not... not enough, I.. Help... Please."

Slowly, hesitantly, you shut and lock the door behind you. "Oh, so you've done this before?" You quirk a brow as you approach his bed. "Fucked into your pillow like a desperate whore thinking it was me?"

He whines, actually whines, and his hips falter for a second before speeding up. With each forward stroke of his hips you can catch a glimpse of his cock. Thick and red and painfully hard, dripping so much precum it looks like he's already cum before you got here. "Don't... Don't tease me, Corporal... Don't forget who's in charge here."

"Seems to me, Captain, that I'm the one in charge here," you hum, slowly kneeling on the bed. He looks up at you through his sweaty fringe, his breaths hot and wet when they fan against your skin. "I mean, you're the one who needs help, after all... You're the one whose job could be on the line... I doubt the higher ups would be thrilled to find you like this, all backed up and desperate for one of your soldiers?"

His eyelids flutter, he bites his lips muffling a growl that crescendos into a moan when you cradle his face. "Stop, I... I just... It hurts..."

"I'm sure it does," you hum sympathetically, running a hand through his hair. "Been too long, hasn't it?"

He keens and leans into your touch, drool dribbles from his lips. "I... Weeks, may, ah, maybe a month... Or longer... I-I need it... Please."

"Well, that just won't do," you tut, shaking your head in mock sympathy. You tighten your grip on his hair and he bows, arching his back like it's his job. "Just look at you, Captain..."

He whines and you shush him gently, hand sliding from his hair to cup his jaw and chin, forcing him to look up at you. "Don't worry, Captain... I plan to do a lot more than just stare..."

Please reblog to support my writing!

Masterlist

[amostimprobabledream]

Ignite Me (Homelander x Reader) Part Ten

Here comes the SEX!

They call it ‘the little death’ in French.

There are many euphemisms for sex, to come, but that’s the one that springs to mind.

If it’s little death, then clearly, Homelander’s trying to kill you.

He's aggressive and overpowering and everywhere. You feel like you’re drowning in him, being flooded with him. From the moment he threw you onto the bed (though even in the throes of passion, he was careful enough not to break it. Or you.) with all the effort of tossing a throw pillow, it’s like he’s trying to devour you whole. “Mmh…”

You don’t even bother trying to get some semblance of control – he’s so eager and yet so demanding that it feels like you’re attempting to surf a great wave. Your only goal is to simply not fall off I the chaos around you. His hand is cupping the back of your head as he presses feverish kisses to not only your mouth, but your neck, collarbone and anywhere else that’s available to him. You’re kissing him back with equal fervour, even though much to your disgruntlement, he’s still wearing his suit.

That’s not to say it’s not enjoyable, though.

It's almost unfair – he’s got super strength, he can fly, shoot lasers from his eyes and he’s a damn good kisser. He seems to know, by some natural instinct, when to use tongue, when to let you breathe and when you want more.

You’re sitting on your bed, but you’re leaning so far back on your elbows you might as well give up and lie down. He’s above you, one hand gripping your jaw and the other sliding across your stomach, dipping past your jeans and teasing you through the cloth of your panties. He did at least remove a few things, namely his boots, gloves, and belt, so the feel of solid flesh and bone instead of the padding still sends an odd thrill through you. He’s normally so covered up that even an inch of his bare skin feels scandalous.

You’re a little surprised though – you thought that he’d be eager to get between your legs, seeking relief for that rock-hard boner you’d felt against you earlier, and your skin had tingled with the heat of it, but he seems intent on taking his time, having you at his leisure.

“Fuck.” He murmurs, his voice soft and velvety-smooth. “You smell so fuckin’ good.”

He's said that more than once, and at first you thought he was complimenting the perfume you’d liberally applied when you got ready for this ‘date’, but in this context you don’t think that’s what he means.

You’re so busy with being kissed by him that it takes you a second to realise that he’s already undone your fly and worked your jeans partly down your hips already, his fingers pushing aside the wisp of underwear you have on and sinking into your wet heat. You can hear it and feel heat scorch your neck as his fingers glide easily inside you, and you let him peel off your jeans and panties, seeing no reason to keep them on anymore. They fall to the ground with a muted thump, and he grins at you with those sharp teeth, a kind of what-big-eyes-you-have kind of smile.

“So wet.” He purrs in approval, either oblivious or enjoying your embarrassment – you’re not used to this, to having someone so determined to experience your body, to know it so thoroughly. But Homelander is sampling you like a rare, exotic fruit that he doesn’t get a chance to sample often.

He doesn’t have to touch you to get your legs to part – he just stares at you, his blue eyes locked onto yours and he pointedly flicks them to your naked thighs that are covered in goosebumps. It’s slightly embarrassing how much the silent command turns you on – he isn’t asking, he’s demanding, and your body hastens to obey before your mind has a chance to overthink it.

“Good girl.” He says in genuine approval and heat floods your body as he speaks.

With the feline grace of a lion settling down to enjoy a fresh kill, he hunkers down between your legs and the next thing you know, the world’s greatest superhero is licking against your soaking core.

An undignified noise, like a squeal or a hiss, leaves your mouth as his scorching hot tongue drags a smooth stripe up your slit, and you can feel his facial muscles shift into a triumphant grin against your cunt. The fact he’s smiling somehow manages to be sexy and you even find your own lips twitching upwards in response.

Homelander doesn’t pin you down – he doesn’t have to. You’re immobilised with pleasure and some vague, paralysing disbelief that this is actually happening.

You’re not granted the reprieve to wallow in your confusion, though. Homelander wants to feast.

Your thighs squeeze either side of his face and one hand reaches down to tug on his blonde forelocks because you need something to hang onto, and he growls softly in response. There’s literally nothing that you could do that would physically hurt him, after all, so he doesn’t mind a little rough handling.

For Homelander, he was engulfed in a myriad of scent and taste that was driving him fucking feral. He’d caught the whiff of arousal from you early – a little pulse of it when he held your bloodied body in his arms the first time you met, that moment when he first kissed you, right here in this apartment, and when he’d dragged you onto his lap not an hour before. But now? Now he was permitted to fuck you with his tongue, have your flavour flooding his mouth and leaving him desperate for more. “Oh…” Your whines and moaning is only amplified by his super hearing and Homelander’s determined to commit it to memory, for something to recall during interminable meetings with Vought shareholders or when he’s listening to the Seven bickering over their stats or where they are in the popularity polls (something he doesn’t need to concern himself with – he’s always at the top). No, this sound is exclusively for him and him alone, and he hoards it greedily.

“Homelander, Homelander…” you mutter over and over, like a chant, and it’s better than a crowd of thousands screaming his name hoarse.

He makes a guttural sound, like he’s determined to drag your orgasm out of you by any means necessary. He hitches one of your legs over his shoulder and buries his face deep into your pussy.

You can barely form a coherent thought, barely speak. It should be absurd, the icon of America, the face of millions of posters and action figures, lapping at you like you’re a five-star buffet, making the obscenest sounds as he devours you. He doesn’t leave his hands idle either, fingertips pinching your clit and teasing it between thumb and index finger and your mind buzzes and blurs with pleasure fizzing and popping in your bloodstream. Moans so loud they make your ears ring spew forth from your lips, but you can’t help it, lifting your hands to your mouth to muffle your cries doesn’t even occur to you. It’s like the world has shrunk down to this little apartment bedroom and all you can think of is Homelander’s tongue exploring every inch of your cunt, waves of molten pleasure washing over you.

With such intense stimulation, you can’t stop yourself from coming on his tongue, your limbs twitching like they’re being manipulated by puppet strings, and you lie back panting on the bed, vision swimming, staring up at your ceiling and watching the fairylights strung above your bed twinkle out-of-focus. They look even prettier when you look at them through blurred vision like this. Homelander groans as your thighs twitch either side of him and your sweet taste coats his tongue.

Homelander slowly sits up, a smug expression on his face, chin shiny with slick. He licks his lips like a cat, his gaze half-lidded as he looks down at your prone form.

���Look at you.” He says in a teasing voice, affectionately swiping his thumb across your bottom lip. “You’d think you never got eaten out before.”

“Not like that, I haven’t.” you mutter in reply, heart still pounding like you were sprinting for the bus.

He barks a laugh at that, his eyes glittering with exhilaration. Unlike you, he isn’t winded in the slightest.

“Don’t worry – you’ll get used to it.”

Before you have time to digest that sentence, he’s dragging you up, up, off the bed, and all you can do is make a vaguely confused noise, half a question, before he’s arranging your body like a ragdoll’s so you’re sitting on his lap again. Except this time, you’re naked and the ragged hiss of a zipper being undone fills the air. You jump as the blunt head of his cock nudges your soaked core – he’s so hot, figuratively and literally, it’s like sitting directly on a radiator.

“Now,” Homelander breathes huskily into your ear, nipping it with his teeth and a shiver of delight crawls down your back as you picture those sharp fangs of his. His hand settles on your waist, holding you steady. “Here’s what I want, pretty thing. You’re going to sit on my cock, alright? I wanna feel you ridin’ me. Think you can manage that?”

Even if you suspect that is a rhetorical question, he doesn’t have to tell you twice.

“Yes sir.” You blurt out without thinking.

Sir? Where the fuck did that come from? But Homelander likes it – he makes this approving growl in his throat that makes your stomach flip.

“That’s a good fuckin’ girl.”

He sloppily kisses you as he pushes his way inside you and though you were expecting it, bracing yourself, a hiss leave your mouth at how goddamn thick he is, filling you up with his pulsing heat.

“Fuck!” you splutter. You’re really bringing you’re a-game with the dirty talk today, apparently.

You feel Homelander smirk against your neck.

“That’s the idea, sweetheart.”

Homelander doesn’t waste time with pleasantries – he rocks his hips and you gasp as he sinks deep into you, the length and girth of him pressing up against your inner walls, the heat igniting every nerve ending in you.

“Bounce on it,” Homelander orders you, and your stupid, animal brain is helpless to do anything but obey.

The sensation of the head of his cock hitting your sweetspot has your mouth actually falling open, your thighs flexing as you start to move. He lets you get used to him first – he knows full well he’s a lot to take and it’s cute watching you valiantly adjust to the size of him, your attempts at retaining any kind of cool reserve eroding away beneath this onslaught of new sensations and feelings. He groans himself as he feels you clench around him, like you’re sucking him in, and he rests one hand on your hip as you start rocking your hips forwards. Though he’s deprived of the sight of your tits in his face, which is a pity, he does like the look of your back undulating before him, and he traces a teasing line down the curve of your spine and watches you shiver.

“Look at you,” Homelander all but purrs as he leans forward and cups your tits, teasing your nipples, enjoying how you writhe beneath his grip. “Taking all of me like that…what a champ. You just wanted a good fucking, didn’t you?”

You groan in response. It’s not enough for him that he’s pounding you senseless, but he has to tease you and throw in some dirty talk too? Your stomach clenches at his words, the sultry, slightly mocking lilt doing it for you in a way you’re not sure you’d be able to articulate even if you wanted to. There’s something undeniably attractive about power, and Homelander’s casualness in how he uses it is addictive.

“Yes…nn…fuck me…” you mutter, knowing it’s what he wants you to say, but you do mean every word even as embarrassment jabs at you as you say the words. “I need…”

Homelander shifts, and he lets go of your breasts to grip your hips, slapping one hand down on the curve of your ass, making you yelp like an animal getting its paw stuck, the sting making your cunt instinctively clench around him, and Homelander lets out a breathy sound in response.

“Sure. I’ll help you.” He singsongs, but you can hear the hint of strain in his voice now.

He lifts you up effortlessly and then lets you sink down, impaling you on his cock and the keening whine he gets in return is everything he could ask for. He likes it so much that he does it again, and again, leaning forwards to nip a the flesh where your neck meets shoulder as you rock your hips forwards on his cock, feeling it nudging up against your core and sending sparks of pleasure coursing through you.

“Oh god, oh fuck…” you moan, practically drooling, which would be embarrassing if there was any room in you for modesty. At the moment it’s all you can do to keep going, you’re coming apart in his hands and he knows it. “God-!”

“No.” he says sharply, his voice like a whip, but even that isn’t enough to pierce the fog of pleasure you’re lost in. “Say my name.”

“Homelander!” you cry out as he ups the pace, rutting against you with abandon now, and you know you’re going to have marks on you when you wake up tomorrow, fingerprints on your hips, hickies and bitemarks on your neck and collarbone, teeth marks on your inner thighs…that’s assuming you survive today, of course.

“That’s more fucking like it…ugh, fuck…!” he half moans, half snarls, mindful even now of his strength.

He's wanted this for so long, he realises now. He’s wanted to fuck you ever since he felt your soft, sweet lips against his, that jolt of electricity, of instant sexual attraction between you, like a defibrillator bringing someone back from the dead. It just took him, and you, time to realise it, what with everything else going on, the media storm, your surgery, Vought’s interference, all of it. But here, this, this is real. And Homelander has no intention of letting this go, of releasing you back into your ordinary world like letting a goldfish rejoin its brethren in a tank. You’ve opened a door to something Homelander wasn’t aware was an option for him, let alone understood it was something he might want for himself. He’s no stranger to being desired, when you’ve been the face of the most famous group of heroes for as long as he has, he knows exactly the effect he has on others. But this isn’t the same. It’s not the mindless adoration of the masses, easy to win or lose, nor is it some complicated chess game he’s required to play, dangling promises and deals and money until Vought has the advantage. No, this is something honest. Real. If he has to make you come over and over to keep this thing, this one thing he has that’s entirely his and has nothing to do with Vought, then that’s exactly what he’ll do. He certainly doesn’t imagine you’ll be complaining much.

Mine. “Oh, fuck, Homelander…I can’t…” you gasp out, and he can feel you clenching around him, your inner walls fluttering. The sting of arousal in his nose is almost overpowering, but he likes it. “I’m- “

“You can.” He growls back. “You will.”

It seems you like a little bossing around, at least in the bedroom, because your body responds accordingly to his verbal commands. He can smell how close you are, your pants and hissing noises gaining a strained edge, like you’ve been screaming for hours on end, and your movements are getting sloppy, falling out of rhythm as pleasure overwhelms your fragile little body. With his hands still firmly gripping your hips, he helps you ride out your orgasm, savage thrusts that jolt your body forwards, driving high-pitched whines from your mouth. He’s not immune to you, though, he can feel himself inching towards the edge, but he wants to see you come first, wants the sight of your head thrown back in rapture burned into his retinas.

He gets his wish. Your final jerks of your hips give way to your body falling still, trembling with pleasure as your orgasm rocks you, pulses of it rushing up through your body and rendering everything else secondary.

You’re barely aware of Homelander taking control and giving a few last thrusts of his hips, groaning into your back as he does, so lost are you in your own haze. His arms wrap around you, and he pulls you back against his chest, where you loll like you’ve just been through a shipwreck. Your body is all sweaty, but you can’t find it in yourself to care and let Homelander shift back so he’s lying on the bed on his back, you clamped to his chest like his own personal teddy bear.

Neither of you speak for a little bit, you mostly because you’re trying to get your bearings and breath back and Homelander because he’s processing things. It’s not an uncomfortable silence, though, and a little part of your mind whispers about how it’s…nice. It’s nice to have warm, strong arms holding you like this. You wonder if that’s how Homelander feels too, but you don’t yet have the breath to ask this and you’re reluctant to break the sweet, fragile silence yet.

Of course, he’s the first one to do so.

“Didn’t fuck you too hard, did I?” he asks, and though his voice has the cadence of a joke, you can hear a lick of something else in there. Is he worried about you?

“No…I’m good…” you manage to gasp out, giving a feeble wave of your hand before your arm flops heavily onto the bed. “Just…need a minute to recover.”

He knows you’re going to need much longer than that – you look like you’re on the verge of passing out, actually, but he humours you and gives a little hum of assent. If you need a power nap to get your strength back, he doesn’t mind indulging you. You don’t know he’s already aware of how cute you look when you’re sleeping.

“Sure, whatever you need.” He replies in a soothing hum, and his palm gently strokes your hair off your damp forehead. “I can wait.”

It's possible he might get called away before you wake up, but Homelander decides to worry about that when and if it happens – anyway, you know who he is and if you’re going to insist on keeping this whole thing you have going on a secret, you can hardly bitch if he’s called away to save people’s asses or go to a public event or whatever other fucking thing Vought needs him to do. Everyone needs him, don’t they?

He's saved from being too caught up in bitter thoughts, which are increasing in frequency of late, when you snuggle up against his chest, all your carefully done makeup now smudged beyond redemption.

“Sorry…I’ll be fine.” You mumble, slurring a little with how exhausted you are. “Mm…”

He's quiet for a moment and you wonder (vaguely, it has to be said) what’s going through his head, but you’re just so overwhelmed…you just need to rest your eyes for a second…

“Well,” Homelander says in a cheery tone of voice, as your try and fail to keep your eyes closed. “That went well for our first date.”

[livestock-and-bibles]

Things I've Noticed During My Several Rewatches of The Doomstar Requiem

(Lock in, this is gonna be long)

Murderface is the only one out of the group to have a completely obscured face, possession foreshadowing perhaps? Also he lacks the golden streaks on the halo-esque circles behind them. Inch resting... (Not gonna talk too much abt when the scene goes red and the beam behind Murderface is dripping blood because I believe it's already been talked about before by others, and I don't want to include anything in this post that's already been discussed) Also I love how all of their weapons match their instruments

The way Toki doesn't even flinch when he gets alcohol poured on his wound is heartbreaking, likely either because the torture his parents put him through as a kid has given him a wicked pain tolerance or because he's so dissociated, similarly to how he behaves in Dethfam when his parents are around or Dethzazz when he's mentally in the punishment hole (I do believe this sort of catatonic state he's in is what's causing him to seem so much worse off than Abigail—though his untreated diabetes + Magnus targeting him more because of his relation to Dethklok probably also adds to it—he's likely not really eating or taking care of himself)

At first I thought that Magnus was feeding them dog food, but on closer inspection I actually believe it to be human remains. Yeesh. You can see it really looks like muscle fibers, and there's bones, as well as skin that still has hair on it. Magnus Hammersmith they could never make me like you

On the table is the Klokateer from Tracking/Ishnifus and The Challenge!!

I think it's interesting how much Nathan's fantasies look like Toki's! I just think it's neat! They're more similar than they seem :)

This is the most expressive we've ever seen Charles and it makes my heart hurt AUUGHH

The way Nathan licks his lips/teeth after the "How can I be a hero when my dick's as big as a shoe" line. DISGUSTING /affectionate

Does this fan look familiar? He should, because it's Dethklok's son, Fatty Ding Dong!! Good to see he's doing well lol, and his real name is Rick, we can also assume that at LEAST four years have passed since season 1, since in season 1 episode 10, he's said to be 14. Since he has a roommate now, he is likely to be around 18 years old

(Apologies for the low quality screencap I had to nab this from Youtube) I kind of wish that the animators didn't change this original animation for the end of The Fans Are Chatting. I just feel like Nathan pushing away the Klokateers is more symbolically relevant. Nathan is quite literally pushing away the safety and security his avoidance has given him, the hologram disappearing and the fans leaving is a metaphor for the fact that he can no longer keep himself deluded into thinking that everything is fine, he can't hide from the truth anymore

Almost all of the Rock A Roonie Fantasy Camp counsellors came to the Dethklok audition, there's even the depressed blues guy in the background. There's also Sammy Candynose from Snakes 'n Barrels, so I like to think that Pickles told him about the auditions

There's also the guitarist from Get Thee Hence

Toki's shadow!!! The wings!!!

The animals they take the form of match two of the guitars Brendon Small created with Gibson, The Thunderhorse and the Snow Falcon :D

It's super tiny but their smiles :'))!!! Also the way their parts play on different sides when you listen with headphones but then combine at this part makes me so crazy. Not only does Toki challenge Skwisgaar and inspire him to get better, but they're also having fun! Which I can imagine never really happened when he played with Magnus

Probably just an animation error but Skwisgaar is animated as his present day self here. Idk, just thought that was interesting

I think the order of the rest of the band joining in on the background vocals is really interesting, it goes: Skwisgaar, Pickles, Nathan, Murderface. Personally I choose to interpret it as a representation of how long it took each member to warm up to Toki as their rhythm guitarist, Skwisgaar was super fast since he was the one to choose him, Pickles was the one wanting a new guitarist in the first place, Nathan and Magnus seemed to be close, so it would definitely take more time for him to accept Toki as the whole Magnus situation would still feel a little raw, and Murderface is a professional hater so of course it took him the longest

I really love just how soft and content Murderface looks in Toki's fantasy. We all know he has a softer side and I think that either Toki perceives it, or possibly Murderface shows it towards him (Which I can believe because they're often together and they get along pretty well, Toki is probably the person Murderface gets along with the best actually)

I also want to mention that at this part of I Believe, Toki is no longer singing along with the other's background vocals, and is harmonizing with himself, which gets really sad when you realize that it's because this was just Toki remembering this to keep himself sane and he's actually kidnapped, hurt, and alone. Ouch :(

The drunk driver who crashed into the Jomfru brothers is the same guy who crashed into Nathan's second grade class in Dethgov. I guess there's only one drunk driver that exists in the Metalocalypse universe lol

I think we as a fandom need to appreciate Eric Jomfru more. He's such a real one. The way they make you care about him after he's already gone is so evil lol /affectionate

The way the Klokateers join in on this song makes me wonder if perhaps they view each other as brothers, or if there's just like a strong sense of brotherhood between them

The groupie on the left can actually be seen in Fatherklok at the beginning of the episode, as one of the women Skwisgaar has been with, so y'know what? She has valid reasons to be mad honestly

Murderface's pose up top always sends me, sir please calm down, keep it together king

Murderface holding his wrist :(

If you look closely, you can actually see that the Revengeancers are eating Ishnifus. Which is just,, utterly horrifying

In between the shots of the band and the assassin, there's so many inconsistencies in the placement of the characters. For the last two images, I just like to rationalize it as Pickles immediately attempting to run away, then noticing that the rest of the band is still there and being like "Oh shit we're squaring up? Ok I guess". I know it's just so Nathan can be in the center when they use the Dethlights but I just think it's funny

Also in the second to last picture, the way Murderface, typically the most cowardly of the band, isn't looking at the assassin, but instead, is looking worriedly at Toki, makes my heart hurt. I adore their relationship

Murderface is actually sleeping in Nathan's bed here. If you compare different shots of their bedrooms and beds, it's clear that this is Nathan's, you can tell from the striped pillowcase. I'm not gonna talk too much about this, mostly because I want to make a separate post talking about how Murderface is seen more than once sleeping in Nathan's bed when he's hurt/unwell. It's very sweet lol

ANYWAY! Thanks for reading these rambles, I love The Doomstar Requiem so much! I might make a post like this for Army of the Doomstar as well, and also just some analysis posts if I get the confidence lol. Big thanks to @ratskal for watching this a dozen times with me and pointing out things too. (I actually reached the max limit of pictures allowed in a post which is a little funny, I am so normal about this show /lying)

[barbieaemond]

Thorns in your mouth

PART 1

PAIRING: Aemond Targaryen x f!reader

WARNINGS: angst, smut, oral sex, a bit of religious kink, a bit of choking

WORD COUNT: 787

Author's note: Widow's blood is poison. This will likely have a third part.

taglist: @zae5 @arcielee @bunbunbl0gs @multyfangirl @chompchompluke

“Until all the roses turn to black.” you said, but they didn’t have the time to either wither or blacken. A fresh new bouquet of white roses is found on your nightstand any other day following the events above Storm’s End.

His lack of regret is also lack of concern. He doesn’t care about the Gods as much as he doesn’t care about the maid knocking while you are sprawled on the chaise as if lying in your tomb, still but feverish, waiting for another death.

“Answer.” he mumbles, with his mouth full of your cunt.

“My lady?” The young woman calls, but the call of his tongue drains you of every will, except the arching of your back, the drops of sweat on your temples. The swirls of his tongue are soft as a rose on your throbbing flesh, sharp as a thorn as he buries it deep inside. One last time and you're melting in a trickle of blood—of bones.

Your hand knots his hair and pulls at the roots, clawing at your need, raw, a wound split open that leaks and pours into his mouth. His name is a curse and a blessing clashing on your tongue, your fingers keep pulling, grasping silver and leather.

A flash of glinting blue before your eyes and you greet it with a smile, as one upon seeing a star. There’s a sneer twisting his mouth, one that you felt curling your own lips countless of times. That sneer is a glimpse into a mirror, a glimpse at your own desire. Ugly, exactly as desire is.

He thrusts inside you with ease, an act that goes almost unnoticed as breathing, but necessary. You're an extension of his body as he grips your waist and starts rutting with a cruel purpose.

“Do you like taunting the gods, don’t you?” he grins watching the seven pointed star stuck with sweat around your neck.

“I like taunting you.”

He wraps his fingers around the thin silver chain and twists, so hard he’s able to lift your head from the cushion.

“Will you get on your knees after this? Will you ask the Gods forgiveness for your sin?”

“I will ask them to give me more of it. I will beg them to make me sin before it vanishes.”

“What?”

“The smell of you on me.”

It does fade away for a few days. Everything fades away except the wailings of the Queen echoing through the walls.

“It’s not your fault.” you whisper in his mouth “It’s not your fault.”

“You’re lying.” he croaks in your neck, guiding your hips to move slower and slower.

“I know, but you believe me.”

Fingers dig in your skin, willing to break you, to tear his grief to pieces. But in the end, he only says “Yes.”

Everything was slipping from his grasp like water. Helaena, Aegon, his mother. You were the only immutable condition. Stable, firm, stone that does not scratch despite the winds, rains and storms that come against it. And he wanted to carve himself into the woven you were made of.

He asked you to stay one night, and the next, and the one after that.

“My husband will grow suspicious.” You said once, lying next to him, your flesh still entangled in one another.

“You could slip some widow’s blood in his cup.”

“To make myself a widow?”

“To make myself your husband.”

“You are.”

“No. I will be when I will fuck you in the royal gardens and no one will spare us a look. I will be when I can come inside you and see you round with my child.”

That was the last night you spent together.

Despite all the careful measures and lies and deceptions, this thing was just as plain as those white roses, plain as Aemond intended it to be. It only took a careful look. A glimpse at how your eyes would find his and his yours. It only took asking the maid to whom she was bringing those bouquets of white roses. And she did ask, Queen Alicent. She did look.

“This thing must end, Aemond. Immediately. We need her husband’s support, his army. Why are you challenging the Gods? Have they not cursed you enough?”

“I thought the Gods had forsaken me by now.”

“You forsook them the moment you succumbed to sin with a married woman.”

“I can assure you, Mother, she’s more my wife than his.”

“Enough! The Gods may have forsaken you but I did not. And I will not let you forsake your family even further.”

And enough it was.

Roses were left to bloom on their branches. While you, and him, withered and blackened.

[shibaraki]

WHAT THE WATER GAVE ME ┊ MIDORIYA IZUKU

synopsis: when your sailboat is caught in a vicious storm you are saved by a whale sized mer that cannot keep his curiosity—nor his affections—at bay.

tags: GN reader, suggestive, merfolk au, giant mer deku, storms + boating accidents, language barrier, a little angst, fluff, near drowning + mild injury (no detailed desc), courting behaviours, modern fantasy, macro/micro, manhandling (literally), hopeful ending

wc: 6.4K

↳ for the mermay collab hosted by the teahouse server! ↰

There’s little you remember. A breeze carrying the taste of sea salt grew bitter and cutting. The gentle lull of the waves slowly grew treacherous. Freezing sheets of grey rain blurred visibility, ocean foaming at the mouth. You lurched as the boat tipped, taking a hit to the head on the main mast. Grappling with consciousness, you recall how your body had been flung into the depths, a sharp and endless cradle; cold enough, kind enough, that you quickly lost all sensation.

Then you’re gasping desperately. When your lungs fill with cool night air relief floods your system. An ache wracks your being, muscles seizing and bones rattling, but the only thing you can think is: I’m alive. I’m alive. I’m alive.

Everything comes back in small pieces. You slump back and clutch at your soaked shirt, wincing at the bruising around your lungs with each breath. Above is a wide open sky littered with stars and the moon hangs high. You notice that you’re floating then; not on the surface of the water but in a steep puddle that stops above your waist, clothes entirely soaked. Surrounding you are… walls?

Adjusted to the darkness, your eyes drag cautiously across them. They are curved like a bowl, and seem oddly shelved, quite similar to a cupped human hand except much bigger. As that thought crosses your mind the upper shelf moves, and the two walls turn inward, opening a small crevice underneath you to let the water spill back into the sea.

And then a soft lucid croon vibrates through the air. You feel it deep in your chest; the sound is soothing, like a mother’s hum, pressing on an old, innate need for comfort.

Gravity swoops through your belly as the structure moves. Down come the walls. They lay slightly flat, though still keeping you in a shallow divot. Your eyes squeeze shut and sting. The storm must have killed you because what is plain to see could only be conjured in a dream.

The size of a small blue whale—neither blue nor whale. A soft jaw and a pale face, cheeks covered in what appeared to be sunspots. Full lips parted to warble in quiet wonder, revealing a set of large sharp teeth. Either side of the creature's neck are diaphanous slits. Gills. Smatterings of luminescent green scales trail beautifully from the throat to the shoulders. You notice a glow on the ocean’s surface, the rest of his form hidden below.

Rocked off balance as their head dips, dark tendrils of hair clinging to skin, you are met with a pair of large pupil-less eyes. Vibrant green speckled with white, full of curiosity. A few clicks and a whistle echoes into the night. Your tongue feels like a slab of lead, cloven to the roof of your mouth, frozen by unadulterated fear.

It's a mer. It must be. Mer sightings are incredibly rare. You’re in the palm of a legend. A giant one at that.

What you now presume to be the mer’s thumb passes over you cautiously. You flinch despite his obvious attempt at telegraphing the movement. To someone your size it still happens a little too fast. The sinew in your neck hurts, wrung with tension as the thumb stops an inch short of your crown. Seconds elapse. There’s a light pressure, liquid streaming down your face, a back and forth motion, a low warbling.

The mer is petting you.

“Wha—?” your voice comes out rasped, painful as it scratches the inside of your throat. Dissolving into a violent coughing fit, you curl forward with arms crossed over your stomach as you vomit, crying out through the sharp stabs in your ribs. Overhead, the mer whines, and you’re prepared this time as his hands move.

“I’m… I’m okay, I think,” you croaked, mostly to yourself, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. The acrid taste of blood and salt lingers in your teeth. Suddenly, a warm gust of air knocks the wind out of you— the tremors too. The soft hair on your arms prickles at the sudden chill as the warmth retreats, but you’re grateful to be a little dryer.

When you glance up the mer is much closer. His face has gentled into sadness. He'd huffed a breath over you the same way one might do to keep their hands warm. You are struck by the thoughtfulness. Unlike the old stories this mer seemed intent on keeping you alive. So far he has treated you softly, albeit clumsily, and tried to comfort you. Understanding settles over you accompanied by a sense of helplessness. To this mer you are probably nothing more than an injured baby bird.

“Did…” you try to speak louder, the words strained. “Did you save me?”

The moonlight kisses him just right. His expression blooms when you speak, a reflexive trill building in his throat to verbalise happiness. Beneath the mass of curls on his head there are two fin shaped ears fluttering. Giant as he may be, the mer is… cute, as well as devastating.

You swallow and wince. It feels like sandpaper. “Can you understand me?” you ask, purposefully slow. Any local information gathered about merfolk was either a lie or rumour. Some say they can understand spoken word and others don’t. Perhaps this mer had migrated from far away where the human tongue is different. Or maybe it was his first time meeting a person. That would explain the enthusiasm.

You’re given a plaintive blink. Membranous lids first, outer lids after. The muted roll of the waves fills the silence as you gaze at one another, nearly forgetting your question all together as you’re pulled in—wading through sea glass depths. Two pulsing clicks ripple across the open water and you startle out of your reverie.

He tips to meet you halfway. You steel yourself, unsteady as you try to stand, and choke a laugh when the creature nudges his nose into your middle. He rumbles a purr, as though pleased by the proximity. You shudder when it resonates pleasantly through your body.

“Okay that’s—dangerous,” you strain a laugh, bracing against his nose. Fatigue threads its way into your muscles. The adrenaline is beginning to wear off and giving way to a harsh headache. Your eyes close, the only mercy being that it is dark out. The mer exhales another hot breath against your lap.

“Guess you won’t be talking anytime soon,” you continue aloud. A weak smile curls at your lips as you recline to look at him better, “Sorry if I don’t make good company”.

Seeing him cross eyed makes you laugh, even through the tenderness, and you stroke your hand against his cheek; so contrivedly real looking that it seems like it must be a trick. Licking the salt water from your lips, you drag your palms from freckle to freckle, forming patterns and constellations. His skin is deceptively soft. Smooth and slippery—like blubber, you can only assume.

“You’re so gorgeous,” you lean into the hum he is emitting, low and supple. You reach with fingertips stretched to skim along his lower lashes. Closer now you see the green hues in his hair where the light reflects. Though he might not be able to understand the language you hoped your reverence would carry through in your tone. You think perhaps it does; a faint red glow stains his fin tipped ears and happy whistles quake through your bones.

The saccharine moment is cut short by something splashing nearby. It sounds big. You startle with a yelp, cowering back into the safety of the mer’s hand. Glancing back over his shoulder, face crinkled and lips thin, you thought he looked almost petulant. How unsettlingly human it is.

Collapsing into a puddle of vertigo, you clutch your head as he suddenly turns. A sad trill reverberates in your skull and you’re sliding, the too-corporeal ground rising to meet you. You land with a thump on damp wood where he puts you down, forcing a pained wheeze from your throat.

Another splash. This time it is followed by a stern wailing call that forces a frantic urgency into the mer’s movements. From above he looks between you and the black horizon, eyes wide and beseeching, as though he wanted to impress his intentions with his gaze. You think you get it.

I’ll be back soon, he’s saying. “Go,” you try to smile and gesture to your surroundings. “It’s not like I can go anywhere anytime soon”.

Relief colours his features. Then he’s gone. Sinking into the ocean like a stone, frighteningly silent. The boat rolls over a passing wave and nausea churns in your stomach. You squint through the moonlight, dizzy, and make out the limp flapping material of the sail, now torn and strewn across the deck. Good enough.

You gather strength and stretch to pull it over your form. If drowning didn’t take you then hypothermia would. Dark spots gather in your vision, closing in as you curl into yourself. The ocean rocks you gently in her arms. You can only lie back—on what you now know to be remains of the boat—listen to the rasp in your breathing, watch the flickering stars blur together, and think of how small you really are.

When you wake the sky is bleeding into dawn with the quieting rays of light. Soft enough that you can look directly at the sun and see the blushing canvas it paints. Sitting up with a wounded groan, you stare at the far off horizon. You cannot discern where reality began and your dreams ended, only that at some point you walked between them.

Tugging the tarp close to your chest you survey the surroundings. Pinpricks of seawater spray up the hull. The mast has been snapped in half and the main sails are gone along with the helm. Below the cabin is flooded. Most of the resources you brought, along with the VHF radio, have seemingly gone overboard.

Your lips are unbearably dry. Skin splits, iron mixing with salt. You inhale deeply, lungs bloating with crisp air, and exhale raggedly through the soreness. First priority is water. Like a newborn calf you amble over to the hatch. There are coolers fixed to the floors under the cockpit that you hope survived—

One broken and empty. One mostly undamaged.

“C’mon… Please…” opening the lock is more strenuous than it should be. Your fingers tremble and slip, still numb. A sob wracks your body. Relief buckles you at the knees and you brace against the counter. Inside is an emergency flare gun and an assortment of non perishables, including biscuits and bottled water.

You fumble with the bottle cap, shaking as you bring it to your mouth. It immediately soothes your throat and you begin to gulp mouthfuls, pulling off only for breath. Tearing the biscuit packet open with your teeth you settle back in the spot you slept on. It crumbles, dry enough to stick to the roof of your mouth, but food is food.

Two things are certain. You’re stuck here, and you have no idea how far off course the storm threw you. You shoot the first flare, a bright red vein soaring into the sky, leaving you with nothing to do but wait. The gun had at least three more rounds. Would anybody see it out here?

Another streak of light flares as the sun rises and casts an orange shimmer across the ocean surface. The giant mer crosses your thoughts as your eyes drag over the large indent pressed into the side of the boat. Though unsure if he existed at all you miss the security of his hands.

You lose focus listening to the sea exhale. Barely cognisant of the formless blur spreading like ink in the distance, growing in size the closer it gets. It slows a few feet away and the momentum has waves jolting through the water. Scrambling to grab the side of the boat as it jerks, ice grips at your heart when you notice the huge shadow lingering nearby.

When it rises the blur sharpens and takes shape. Features distort, rippling under the tide, and you daren’t blink. Eyes of sea glass stare back with equal hesitance. Cool morning light reflects off dark green curls, strands laid to a pale forehead, flat and reminiscent of wet seaweed. The surface breaks dramatically, water rushing down his head and fizzling into foam.

You release a staggered breath, realising you’d been holding it. A mer really had saved you. In daylight you can appreciate the sheer size of him. Shoulders near the width of your boat, covered in opalescent scales and dark scars.

Emboldened by your silence a careful hum vibrates in his throat. His gills pulse and flutter as he comes in closer. The sun is eclipsed by his hand, shadows looming across the deck where his fingers come to rest. Careful, retreating quickly when the structure groans, and then returning again, gentler.

“You… came back,” you whisper. Disbelief bleeds into your voice. A needling sensation flows to your legs as you stand. You grasp his fingertip and the mer smiles—atrill behind his lips, stretched warmly across his face, enough to lift the swell of his freckled cheeks. Light undulates brightly in his eyes, swaying like patterns you see on the seafloor.

“It’s good to know I didn’t lose my mind,” a wave of uncertainty washes over you as the mer watches you expectantly. There’s a clear intelligence in his gaze, rapt inquisitiveness, but you can’t yet be sure he really understands. Equally, you know precisely nothing about mer social etiquette. “Does this make us friends? You’re friendly, right? I hope so. I probably taste like shit, you know”.

Ignoring his curious hum you brace against his hand and lean toward the edge of the deck. Illuminated by the sunlit hues, more of his upper body is visible to you. Waves lap placidly up a strong chest, smooth muscled pecs glistening. The scales spanning his flanks are notably larger and thicker.

You wonder the science behind his existence, if it was simply work of the Gods, or there was some reason for him to be so egregiously large. Merfolk have always been depicted as human sized or close enough to it. “...Guess I should give you a name. You’re pretty green. Midori? Too simple. How about Midoriya?”

His finger wiggles slightly with a playful whistle, happy about the name. It bends to curl around you. Even a slight shift causes the boat to dip. What must be an imperceptible movement for him nearly knocks you on your feet. “Ah—Steady!” your yelp scratches at the inside of your throat and nausea pulses hot in your stomach. “Oh, fuck. That sucked”.

Midoriya’s head tilts and he croons. It sounds apologetic. “Just go easy with me, alright? You could probably squash me like a bug,” you squint at the folds in his finger, and further at the gossamer webbing in the spaces between each knuckle as your stomach twists uncomfortably in hunger. Asking him to bring you fish would probably be futile.

Patting the firm heel you move away from his hand and dismiss his solemn whine. For a creature his size he sure was a bundle of nerves. “Don’t panic. I just need to eat something,” you pick the bottled water up once more and sip, keeping it held in your mouth for a few precious seconds. The sun flares as the giant creature moves silently, leaning in closer. He huffs through his nose at the food packets.

“Nu-uh, you can’t have these. They’re mine,” the biscuit falls apart, sodden between your damp fingers. Tasteless and yet not so insipid now that you’re with company. Swallowing thickly, you watch the large body bob and dither beside the boat, scrutinising your every move.

Hell, you’re not even doing anything particularly interesting. This must be how animals feel in zoos.

Dragging your gaze to the skies your thoughts turn toward getting home. There is nothing for miles. Laid out before you is a near seamless horizon, planes blurring together the longer you look. “Hey, Midoriya. Are you the only one out here, or are there more?” Whales were your first thought. They traveled in pods, to your knowledge. “Is that who called out to you last night?”

Midoriya’s answer comes in wide eyed blinks. A self deprecating smile thins across your lips. The lack of response is expected, though you are struck by the quick flash of emotion crossing his expression as you say, “Nevermind. As long as nothing comes around to eat me before I die on this stupid boat”.

Midoriya pouts. Shakes his head and makes it rain. He clicks firmly before descending into the depths again. You panic and scramble closer to the edge, wondering if you’d upset him, but find that he is lazily circling the area back and forth. His hair moves in soft tendrils around his face, dancing along the current. Your eyes widen, mouth open in awe as he dives lower and suddenly—

Opalescent hues of green and red. Breaching the surface Midoriya arcs his body into the air and twists his torso in your direction, arms splayed out in joy. There isn’t enough time to appreciate him all. His lower half is longer than his upper body, thicker at his waist bordered by wispy iridescent pelvic fins that flare in the breeze, another running the length of his spine. The tail tapers, narrowing toward a large fork ending with two broad fins.

He lands with a great splash. Exhilarated laughter shakes your shoulders as you cling to the nearest fixture, swaying clumsily over the oncoming waves. You squint through the thin spray. White sea foam ripples out in wide rings, sparkling softly under the sun and dissolving in the calm.

“Holy shit,” adrenaline numbs the tenderness throbbing in your gullet. Midoriya jumps again as he draws closer to you, this time with less height, and you cup your hands around your mouth to cheer for him. His beaming grin is all sharp teeth when he resurfaces, finned ears vibrating. He looks happy that you’re happy.

Part of you remains one foot in disbelief. You expect that anytime now you will wake up washed up on an old forgotten beach. Another cannot discount how real the mer feels under your palms as you reach for him, the vibration of his pleased hum shaking your bones and warming your belly. Midoriya rises up into the insignificant touch like a pampered feline and forces your arms wider to accept more of him.

A strong briney smell fills your senses. “That was incredible. Were you trying to cheer me up?” plastered to his cheek in some poor imitation of a hug, you press an exaggerated kiss to his cheek. A glow spreads across his skin like circuitry, crossing over his nose bridge, flushed red. It makes the air taste metallic. You feel another warm exhale billowing where his own mouth pouts, pushing against your lap. Tears prickle behind your eyes and you blink them away as the anxiety in your chest recedes, “Thanks, big guy”.

Midoriya keeps you company well into the day, never straying too far. You acclimate to his presence and feel at ease with him by your side. Hair half dry in the softening light of the afternoon sun he lets you coil his waves around your arm with eyes crinkled at the corners. He doesn’t appear to be bored in the slightest.

You’re kept under his watchful eyes as you amble around what remains of the boat for something, anything, that might help you get home. At one point you wade into the flooded cabin and search for the HF radio again only to be bombarded by a cornucopia of concerned wailing. Lesson learned: Midoriya does not like when you’re out of sight. You come up empty handed, vexed and dizzy.

There are a few instances you’re almost tipped over despite Midoriya’s determination to be careful. One by one, you are gifted with more current-smoothed stones and rusted trinkets than you know how to carry. His curious hand pokes at the broken equipment strewn around. You end up rambling for hours, explaining each gifted object to him to keep yourself conscious. It’s not as if the mer is an unwilling participant. You might be unable to understand him but the stuttered clicking and whistles he responds with are as close to conversation as you're going to get. Plus—it’s cute.

Noon elapses and no vessels in sight. Now laid beside the indent left in the hull, your vision rises and falls as the ocean shifts. Midoriya lies parallel to you, on his back, buoyed on the surface and sunning himself. He looks a lot more vibrant than before, as though he had really soaked up the daylight. A true picture of serenity. His eyes are closed for the first time; an opportunity to observe him candidly.

There are deep scars on his arms, and elsewhere too. Healed pink on skin and pallid white where his scales would be. Your gaze drags lower, over his bare front, appreciating the defined peaks of his abdomen. Down to a toned navel where scales climb over his hip bones, pale skin gradually blending into rich green. Further, to the powerful muscled tail elevated in the water. You absentmindedly lick your lips and wonder where his di—

You halt. Heat flashes through his body in a strange mix of shame and arousal and you violently shake your head as if to throw away the thought.

Midoriya hums. Snapping back you meet that drowsy half lidded stare, caught red handed. You gulp and offer a sheepish grin, “Sorry. I just wanted a closer look”.

At that the mer turns noiselessly and broad ripples fan out into the distance. Cautious, you push up onto your forearms as Midoriya proffered his hand, indicating that you jump onto his palm. Your spine straightens with a frisson of excitement.

“You’ll let me see?” you gestures to yourself and then to the others' languid repose. Midoriya’s eyelids blink. He tilts expectantly. “Fuck. Okay. Promise to catch me?”

Click, click, whistle. It’s as good a ‘yes’ as any.

Weak in the knees, you feel your thighs ache as you move. A rush of wind blows over, sharp and chilly. Your pulse throbs and knocks around your skull. It’s more strenuous than it should be to climb down, a deep instinct unwilling to part with the railings, fighting fear as you hang your lower body over the depths.

Midoriya scoops you up delicately. Your stomach rolls at the sudden change in direction, gravity bearing down on you. You land in the shallow of his palm on hands and knees. Head lifted, you lock eyes, and a sonorous trill thrums through your veins.

“What did I say about being caref—Hey!”

He brings you to his chest. Legs unfurl from under your hips as you slide down onto his collar and land feet first in the ankle deep water covering his body, soaking your pants through. Midoriya is safe, solid ground beneath you, buoyed on the ocean surface, yet still uniquely soft in the way relaxed muscle often is.

You keep tension in your abdomen for balance and give a cursory glance, first seeking permission before wading toward the cluster of green curling around his shoulders. A webwork glow blooms quietly across his skin and hems the edge of his scales red.

Midoriya’s pleased face takes up most of your peripheral vision. A plump mouth filled with pointed teeth that could swallow you whole juxtaposed by the wobbly smile playing on his lips. You crouch, knees wet, and brush your fingers against the hard plates decorating his skin. They’re slightly slimy and the smallest ones are the size of your hand.

“They’re beautiful, Midoriya,” you tell him earnestly, grinning. The kaleidoscopic patterns in his irises appear as though they’re dancing. Flecks of white and gold gleam amidst the green. Humming in dulcet tones, heavy streams of seawater rain down on you as his thumb comes to rest atop your head once again. There’s barely any pressure—seems you no longer need to worry that he might accidentally break your neck.

You squeezed your eyes shut, exhaling harshly as the thick rivulets trickled over your face and glaring the second you looked back at him. “You’re lucky you’re so cute,” your nose wrinkles, brine lingering unpleasantly in his nostrils. You think you can taste it in the back of your throat. Midoriya is busy preening, turned into the crook of his arm and creating waves, flustered by such a simple compliment.

A cherry blush follows the path of your thumb as it returns to smoothing over the tiny ridges impressed into each individual scale; retaining your heat for a few seconds before fading into green. They flash luridly at your words—specifically your praise. Knowing you had such an effect on a mer of his magnitude stokes something in you, possessive and fond, a feeling you’re not sure you’ll ever be able to replicate. But it also confirmed what you had been suspecting for most of the day.

“I knew it. You can understand me,” you accuse breathlessly. It isn’t a question. “You’ve been pretending this entire time”.

Midoriya’s expression wanes. His brows pinch into a doleful frown, eyes crossing to tentatively watch you stand and trudge toward his tucked chin, almost losing balance where his collarbones dip and the water suddenly deepens.

Fingers nudged under your thighs to act as a seat. You startle at the sudden elevation; it’s still surreal to feel the ground collapse beneath your feet, your knees collapsing against the pressure. Midoriya brings you up to his face, letting his tail sink into an upright position. Gasp caught in your throat you frantically hang onto the end of his nose. The large mer whistles quietly. Low and forlorn like an apology.

From up here you’re all too aware of up and down—endless in every direction, surrounded by a flat canvas of blue. He’s the only thing you can see for miles. Bottom low caught between your teeth you turn inward, squashing your cheek against him.

“You know I can’t stay here, right?” you tell him. Midoriya listens attentively. You’re close enough to hear the soft slide of lids drawing across his eyes, stained gills venting as he breathes, the waves crashing against his back. You point to the far horizon, “I need to go home, or close to it. Think you can help me one more time, hero?”

You aren’t prepared for the mer to sulk. The lower half of his face slips beneath the water and you’re face to face with a freckled forehead. Looking up at you now, eyes big and round like a puppy, he blows air out from his mouth to create a sad burst of bubbles. You had vastly underestimated his attachment to you; and your own fast-grown affection for him.

But he nods anyway, setting you back on the worn deck and righting his posture. Unfounded guilt squirms in your chest, tightening as you relays the plan in simple terms, knowing that these would probably be your final moments with him.

Get nearer to the shore and fire a flare. That was the plan. He pointed in a specific direction when you asked if he knew where the land was. Unable to understand his complex vocalisations you simply needed to trust he could do it. Easy—the day will darken so the flare will be more visible against the gloaming. You could play the fool and claim the tide brought you in. Most importantly there was no risk of Midoriya being seen and put in danger.

As the sky dims the sun begins to sheath itself below the horizon. The numbness spreading through your limbs at least meant you couldn’t feel the cold.

“We don’t need to get too close,” you kneel over the edge of the bow to speak to him. Hands that held you delicately are now wrapped around the hull, ready to push. “Your kind stays hidden for a reason, right? I don’t want people trying to come after you”.

You consider the gleam in his gaze. Appreciative and amused, as though he found it endearing that you would be worried about him. “That confident, huh?”

Receiving a toothy grin—eyes closing and smiling with him— you find you’re no longer nervous.

Consistently gentle, Midoriya guides the boat. The ocean parts around the oncoming obstruction and leaves behind a long trail of foam. That red network of veins returns, glowing across his upper body as the velocity increases, his powerfully muscled tail working to propel you forward and glinting in the warm evening light.

You call for him to stop when the distant skyline becomes uneven, the familiar bumps and divots of mountains near your port town and the islands surrounding it. The mer brakes abruptly, tall waves crashing up over the deck as your body is thrown backward, narrowly missing the broken mast. You can hear the various gifts he gave you rolling into one another over his frantic stuttered clicks as Midoriya tries to get a look in.

“I’m okay! I’m alive,” barely, you think. There’s a worrisome pain in your rib you can’t let yourself think about. The ground beneath you tips as his fingers come to rest on the boat's edge. You begin to slide on your ass, unceremoniously careening toward him, vertigo flooding your senses.

Midoriya catches you, murmuring at your spluttered curses. Abruptly, you cover his mouth and swallow the acrid bile crawling up your throat, mustering up a tired glare. Heart palpitating, it echoes harshly through your body. The muscles in your legs are heavy like wet sand and your vision doubles, overlaps, and then rights itself.

“Starting to think you like manhandling me,” you croaked teasingly. It’s a testament to Midoriya’s attentiveness that he hasn’t accidentally killed you yet. Though you wouldn’t be surprised if most of your organs had completely rearranged themselves given how you’ve been thrown around in the past few hours.

The playful air dwindles when reality rears it's head. “…I guess this is it, hero”.

There’s that sad sorry sound again. Melancholy bleeds into the atmosphere as silence befalls the two of you. Staring intently at one another, committing faces to memory; kiss curls tucked behind ears, faint sunspots, scales of green and honeydew, the luminescence that belies his true emotions. You wondered what Midoriya saw as he looked back at you. Just a silly lost human.

“Thank you, Midoriya,” your palm cups his cheek, thumb stroking beneath his eye, a touch that probably feels like an itch. He leans into it anyway. “You saved me twice now. I’ll never forget this”.

A mellifluous song thrummed in his throat. You feel the vibrations under your hand and it seeps honeyed and sweet into your bones. Outlined in soft evening light against a dusky sky, Midoriya nuzzles you one last time.

You’re anchored by unexpected grief when he sets you down. The hull rocks as the tide rolls. Water cascades down his scarred forearm as he lifts it up, fist unfurling to reveal a single scale. His scale.

You gape. “You’re giving me this…?”

He suddenly looks painfully bashful you scrambled to take it; a scale still wrought with luminescent colour, alive, still connected to him in ways you may never understand. Having it, holding him. Even after you were home Midoriya would be with you.

Emotion swells within you, struck by the trust you’ve been given. Merfolk remain a mystery for a reason. Human greed knows no bounds and money would be no object if you decided to sell him out.

“Thank you, I—I promise I’ll keep it safe. And you, Midoriya. I won't tell anyone,” you vowed, cradling the scale close.

Shadows widen across the bow as he then rises up ever so slightly. Midoriya dipped his chin. Your eyes reflexively clenched shut at the wet pillowy press of his lips taking up the entire left side of your face. A kiss. Seawater rivulets drop down to your collar, soaking into the fabric. Before you can speak he does it again, lower this time. Mouth pressed to your front, beginning at your chest and ending at your navel. A purr rumbles in his throat. You shudder, thighs clenching as the titillating vibrations reverberate between them.

When Midoriya pulls back his finned ears are vibrating earnestly and his scales flush red. The surface of the water is suddenly displaced and the waves are forced in every direction as he darts away from the boat with a trill, resurfacing a few feet away. “I see how it is. The type to hit and quit, eh?” your voice grows louder, lips twitching into a besotted smile. Egregiously lightheaded and giddy, you yell out, “I’ll miss you, Midoriya! Don’t forget about me!”

Midoriya responds in kind. He waves coyly—understanding more than he lets on—yet remains at a distance until the flare is lit. It arced far into the darkened sky with a quiet hiss, casting a spotlight over your stranded vessel, and only when lights blink in the distance does he disappear from view.

You tuck the scale into your waistband, concealed beneath your shirt. The rescue boat approaches at high speeds. Garish red with a v-shaped hull, cutting through the sea to reach you. There’s a five person squad sidling up at your side, immediately tending to any major injuries and tightly strapping a thick orange life jacket around your upper half.

“What happened?”

“Got caught in the storm last night. Was stranded until the tide brought me in”.

“Do you know your name?” You give it in full along with your birthday. “Are you dizzy? Nauseous?” More than they can imagine.

Concussion, they tell you. Fractures, probably.

“What’s all this?”

“Oh, that…” you turned to gaze at the collection of things Midoriya brought to you throughout the afternoon. “That was there when I woke up here”.

“Strange. Maybe a mer took a liking to ya,” the man, Oda, grins. His mouth is crooked, speaking in a tone meant to be playful.

“What makes you say that?”

He blinks, expression dimming. “Never heard the stories?” You shake your head. “Sailors used to say finding gifts an’ sea stones on board was an omen. Especially the shiny ones. Meant a mer wanted to seduce you”.

Another voice, their name escapes you, interrupts. “Eh? I thought they did that whole singing thing?”

Oda yanks a blanket around your shoulders with more force than necessary as he shoots his crew mate an exasperated glare. “That’s sirens, idiot”.

“What’s the difference?”

You tune out their bickering, acutely aware of all the polished stones in the pile. Of the scale hidden flat to your back. You look to the calm dark surface, throat swelling at the implication. Hand held to your left cheek you feel the plush impression of Midoriya’s lips like a phantom. Accepting his offerings—what had that meant? To him, to you?

The muffled voices come back into focus as Oda rounds on you once more, encouraging you onto the rescue vessel. “C’mon, let’s get’cha home. And don’t stress the big stuff, we’ll tow your boat in”.

You can’t take your eyes off the ocean, aching. The distinct feeling that you have misplaced something incredibly important sits poignantly in the recesses of your mind. It sees you to the dock, strong-armed into an ambulance because your legs have forgotten what solid earth is, and when the doors slam shut to obstruct the view your chest hollows out.

The hour is past midnight and the streets are empty. Miraculously you're mostly unharmed. You make it home with bruising, hairline fractures and a bad concussion. Your body looked a bit like a pollock painting if you squinted, blue and black converging on one another around your skin, vascular threads of purple hemming your ribcage. Painkillers dulled the pain enough that movement was tolerable.

Oda kept his word, decent enough to salvage your things. They are lumped together in a crate hidden in the doorway, an ever present reminder that what happened was real, not a figment of your concussed imagination. The scale remained awkwardly concealed under your shirt. You peel off your clothes, taking it between your hands. Vision adjusted to the darkness, you see a fleeting shimmer passing through the ridges, reflecting on your bedroom walls before dimming.

You climb into bed, plagued by thoughts of Midoriya. His plaintive farewell song, the reverent stars in his eyes whenever you spoke, the affectionate lean into your every touch. You should leave it alone. Let it be. A sane person would allow the memory age naturally and change into a story to recite over sake for years to come. After all, sometimes things just happened to you, like gravity or grief—or being the object of affection for a mer about the size of two school buses.

Scale cuddled to your front, the memory of his mouth laid itself against your sternum. It pins you to the mattress and begin to hum. The notes are almost tangible, echoing through skin, close-lipped and soothing. A final thought bleeds into your consciousness as it slips:

You hope you can find him again.

[chronically-ghosted]

I always thought the scene from Deadpool was hot where he and Vanessa are having hot sex mixed with food on Thanksgiving.

Maybe that with Joel or Javier P?

Ahhh, anon. this has been stewing in my brain since you sent it. And I know you said thanksgiving, but the line in this happened in, like, a single scene after the thanksgiving one! please forgive my timing!

kiss me ‘till I’m warm

rating: T

Pairing: jaiver peña x f!reader

word count: 1.6K

summary: a very drunk javi has something he wants to share with you.

warnings/tags: mentions of alcohol, drunkenness, one stupid joke, the absurdity of someone drunk off their ass trying to flirt, light kissing on body parts, references to smut, but ultimately this is fluffy as hell

a/n: wishing all of you a great start to your week as december plods along! shout out to the incredible @saradika for the divider!

🤍Masterlist

Javier Peña is a giggly drunk. 

Not all the time, mind you, not always. Depends on the liquor, his mood, and what he’s had to eat that day – if anything at all. But given the right circumstances and the stars align, once in a blue moon, Javier blushes and giggles like a fourteen year old with a first crush. 

Now, that might come as a surprise to anyone who has seen him lurking around the hallways of the American Embassy, scowling and smelling of stale cigarettes. The women he used to visit would swear up and down that Javier Peña was not a giggly drunk, having seen him knock back a drink or two, or three, or five. Certainly, all the narcos he’d rounded up and captured would be rather offended to hear that about the man who sent them to prison. It would shock them all to hear that, in the end, it was eggnog. Eggnog, the creamy, thick holiday drink that in terms of calories and sugar blew every other frappuccino out of the water – it was eggnog that turned Javier’s world upside down. From frown-set smokestack, to someone who wanders into his girlfriend’s bedroom after her office party and nearly blows his knee out on the bed frame. 

“Javier, honey, are you okay?” You scramble towards where he tripped, expecting either blood or for him to be knocked on conscious. But instead, you just see fluff. White fluff. White fluff that proceeds red velvet, more fluff, and then thick dark hair. 

Javier stands up, grinning from ear to ear. He stretches his arms wide, his white undershirt thin on his chest. He arches further, revealing a dusting of hair below the hem of his shirt that disappears into the waistband of his jeans. Well, when his pants are buttoned.

“Tada!” he beams. You roll your eyes and he giggles, following you on his hands and knees as you crawl back to your spot by the pillows. You had come in here to get some lotion for your hands and despite your insistence that he does not leave the couch, he stumbled in after you.

“Pero, mi amor,” he pouts when he sits on his knees behind you, “te fuiste.”

“You poor thing,” you frown at him over your shoulder as you rub the lotion into your hands, then your knees. His eyes bob between your tits through your sleep shirt and your circular motions over your skin. You narrow your eyes at him when his mouth goes slack and his eyes dark. “Oh, absolutely not, Javier. You are drunk as a skunk and about two minutes away from passing out.”

He rolls his eyes and leans forward, wobbling slightly as he crawls towards you. “Please?”

“No.”

“¿Por favor?” 

“No!”

You frown, suspicious, when he chuckles as he loosely grabs you by the ankles, thumbs pressed in below the knot of bone. His shirt is loose enough you can see down the collar to his tanned chest. It’s not like the idea isn’t enticing, but you’d only seen him this drunk once before after the Christmas party at Steve and Connie’s two years ago. He made the same proposition back then and when he went to lie down on the floor to take his pants off, you looked over the bed to find him passed out, spread eagle and only his belt undone. 

“Bien, bien,” he waves his hand in the air, the cotton ball of his Santa hat falling over his eyes, “pero tengo un chiste para ti.”

Another sign that Javier had reached the point of no return: he spoke much more in Spanish and the words blurred together, as if sticking on top of each other. 

You eye him with faux annoyance when he uses your legs to pull himself in between your ankles. He kisses the tops of your knees, his palms warm beneath the weight of your calf muscles. Giddy and care-free until he wakes up with a pounding headache, drunk Javier is something you always cherished, because it is one of the few times he can be care-free. Relaxed. You are the only person he lets see him like this and you would protect that vulnerability with everything in your heart.

“Javier.” He hums, his teeth against your knee and dropping lower. His eyes are closed and his breathing’s changed. “I think you had something you wanted to tell me.”

He blinks, open mouth freezing on the bone of your calf. “Right. Yeah. Of course, mi vida.” 

That heady, blurred look of desire on his face melts away almost as fast as it came on. He presses the arch of his nose against your other knee, giggling, as he readjusts his feet under him. 

“Okay, okay,” he sniffs, sits up, and looks at you with bleary, water-y brown eyes. “Steve told it to me, so if you don’t think it’s funny, it’s his fault.” 

You nod and then he taps the inside of your thigh with two fingers.

“If your left leg is Thanksgiving y tu pierna derecha es Navidad,” he outright gropes your other thigh, his slur worsening, mouth full of damp, gummy cotton balls. “Can I visit you entre días festivos?

Javier Peña raises a single eyebrow at you, as if he had been the first one to discover pick up lines, perfected the art of flirting, and discovered he had the ritz to seduce any woman in the world all in one night. His hands tighten in the meat of your inner thighs as he pushes them apart, his chest pressing forward, down, into you. With surprising dexterity and stability, he crawls between your open legs, hands firm as they plant on either side of your head. He’s still wearing that infuriatingly smug grin, his hips rolling forward until you feel the scrape of the teeth of his jeans on your thigh.

“What do you say, baby?” his teeth edge the rim of your ear, “¿p-p-puedo –,”

He full-on snorts in your ear, suddenly overcome with giggles and you jerk away. “Javi!”

You pinch his waist and he flops over on to the other side of the bed, his face turning red as he howls with laughter. His Santa hat pushed up over his forehead, the back of his hair sticking up from where he’s nestled against the pillows, Javier clutches his sides as he rolls back and forth. 

You sit up, smiling, and watch the man you love enjoy himself for once. Sure, he could (and did, often) get lost in sex, but this is different. Your mother always said there was something healing about laughter, about feeling safe enough to close your eyes around another person, and Javier had spent far too long with his eyes wide open. 

Tears are streaming down his cheeks by the time you pluck the Santa hat off his head and kiss his forehead. Giggles trickling down, he curls onto his side, his bare feet seemingly so large on your covers. You stroke his cheek, your thumb brushing the corner of his mustache, and the last giggle fades to a hum. He closes his eyes, cheeks pink, his head turning ever so slightly towards your touch.

“Do you need some water, baby?”

“Mhm hmm.” 

Kissing him on his nose, you slide off the bed and go towards the kitchen. After filling up a glass from the filter, you turn off the lights, check the front door, and close the blinds. But when you come back to your bedroom, the golden light of your bedside lamp the only glow left in the entire apartment, you know instantly he’s already asleep. Javier lies still curled up on his side, his wide shoulders curled in, the white expanse of his t-shirt rising and falling with each breath. 

You didn’t know him very well the first time you slept together, but the night he stayed over, all the way until the morning light broke through your shutters, you knew it had been an extraordinary step for him. 

Now he sleeps in your bed, unguarded and unburdened, as much as he can. 

You put the glass of water on his side of the bed and gently ease him onto his back. His arm slithers over his torso as his shoulder collides with the mattress, his matted hair where the hat sat in a line stiff against his forehead. 

In his more morose moments, Javier announced he was getting old. His back hurt, his eyesight was shit, and he swears he spots more and more gray hairs in the mirror every day. 

But, when he’s like this, when he’s Javi not Javier, when he’s just yours and no one else’s, he is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. 

A hand pressed to his warm chest, you lean forward and kiss his cheek.

“Merry Christmas, baby,” you whisper against his skin. He stirs, but doesn’t open his eyes.

Sliding your earrings out of their posts and into the little dish beside your bed, you glance at him one more time before turning off the light. The room is dark, warm, and in the emptiness you can hear him breathing. 

The shape of him is more familiar to you than your own, able to trace his profile with nothing but memory, so without searching, as though reaching for a piece of yourself, you intertwine your hand with his. 

His fingers twitch and the sound of his breathing slows. 

In the absence of every other sense, you are overwhelmed by the weight of his palm in yours, the soothing rock of the rise and fall of his chest, your ears tuned to his every sigh, every noise –

In the absence of everything else, you listen to him inhale –

“Merry Christmas, baby.” 

– and exhale. 

[jazjelspen]

leaving on wild charted waters

(what if our mc just got tired of Night Raven College and it’s inhabitants?)

(and possible part 2)

It got to the point where you have simply just had it, you were done with the antics of Night Raven College and most especially Headmaster Crowley, whom is apparently so kind, so but so kind in fact that he’s been leaving you to do his job. In the end after the last overblot you ended up with a broken arm, a few small yet painful stitched up lacerations on your side aching your body to the bone, and a broken heart. 

Your heart just can’t take anymore of the neglect and ache from the headmaster as well as seeing overblot after overblot consistently during your stay in this strange world. Ace and Deuce didn’t help make this entire experience any better with the trouble their actions caused, and as much as you loved Grim he wasn’t exactly the greatest either but you knew that in Grim’s case you’d always see him try to help you out at some point in every day you were together unlike others around.

So now here you were taking the next boat from NRC to the infamous RSA, Royal Sword Academy. You weren’t sure if they were going to enroll you in there as well but you were a bit more positive that there would’ve been a likelier chance of effort in getting the help to get back home.

The breeze of the sea ran through your hair as you watched Night Raven College slowly but surely fade farther and farther away, and even so you could still see the face of your beloved fiery cat that you already miss so dearly even while sailing across the sea. Although you will miss a few of your classmates and friends, you knew that this was better than staying there only to eventually become incapacitated or killed. 

You wondered if anyone would miss you, scoff and say ‘good riddance’, or not have any particular feeling or reaction. 

Maybe a bit surprised..

Especially since you haven’t told anyone but your beloved cat and childish headmaster that you were currently off at sea at a new opportunity.

You knew there already was a chance at Grim spilling the secret so soon, and you had an idea that Crowley would either be incredibly vague about it or just flat out say it.

Nonetheless you knew it’d get out at some point.

You didn’t want to tell anyone you’d be back but then again you didn’t want to lie and then never come back either.

“On your way to visit RSA my friend?” A voice popped out from behind you as you were looking off at the endless blue which caused you to jump a bit and snap your head over your shoulder.

A young man of fair skin, bright candy red hair that reached down the nape of his neck and eyes with the same shade of blue as the sea you were facing at earlier. He has a gentle smile on his face with genuine curiosity sprawled out on his features as well.

“Ah.. hello- yes I’m currently on my way to visit RSA..” you spoke as you turned your body towards the boy “You are?..”

“Oh, my apologies!” the redhead spoke “You can call me Rielle my friend, and you are?” “My name is ______,” you looked down quickly at his outfit to see him wearing RSA’s posh white uniform with accent of blue and gold, except the sleeves of his uniform were up his elbows and the jacket was freely open. “Seems like you're from the academy yourself, Rielle.”

He chuckled as he walked beside you to then relax his arms up on the edge of the boat to look out at the sea “No kidding!” he joked as stared off at the sea, a look of familiarity on his face. 

You looked at him with a small smile then the sea before you heard your new redhead speak again “If you don’t mind me asking ______, what are you going to RSA for? Are they still enrolling during the school season?” 

You shook your head “Not exactly.. I’m not sure. I’m just looking for a way home..” you sighed as you let out your sentence. “Hopefully your school will be able to help me out here, something Night Raven couldn’t do.”

Riel looked at you with a look of pity, not a bad kind but more of a ‘I want to help you’ kind of way. “I see.. I apologize you haven’t been able to make it to your home, my friend..” he paused before he then shined a comforting smile towards you “But hey! Nothing to fear, we’ve got some of the best mages and wish-granters in RSA as well! I’m sure we’ll get more than a few clues to get you back home.” Rielle spoke with such positivity and confidence that you couldn’t help but smile as much as he was.

“Very well then, I guess we just have to wait and see.”

[randomwriteronline]

"Ah! You're one of those," a voice came to his ears.

Nuparu turned to find a tall Gaquri standing at the entrance, looking at him curiously.

"I am a Toa," he corrected.

The other nodded: "Yes, I do know that. Forgot the name is all. You're a, uh... Ko?"

"Onu."

"Hm! My mistake. Which element is that, again?"

"Earth. Do you need something?" the inventor cut their small talk short, lightly tapping a tool similar to a wrench against the skeletal frame of what appeared to be a heavily modded chariot: "I'm working on a project."

"You know where Berix is?" the Gaquri asked. He raised an arm: an interesting weapon, with a jagged light blue blade at one end and some kind of projectile mechanism attached to the handle, dangled from it casually. "Wanted to drop this off to him. The thornax launcher's been jamming up more often and I know that boy can make it work like a charm again."

"He's getting parts," Nuparu answered. His eyes rested once more on the blade and he added, tilting his head intrigued: "You can leave it here if you want."

"So you can study some original Bara Magna manufacturing?" the other joked.

"It's not really my field, but it looks remarkable."

He watched the organic being laugh heartily as he approached - with a fairly heavy limp, he noticed: "Remarkable! Now that's a bit of an exaggeration, kid. I made these from some bones, whatever viable scraps I could find from wrecks of the Core War, and a few patches across the years when I could afford it. It's held together by spit and whatever Ackar's friend did to make it spurt water."

"From what I understand, spit doesn't seem like a good adhesive."

"That's what we say here to mean something's parts are real shoddily connected together."

"Hm! Like dried mud. Or aluminum sheet."

"That's the idea. Ah, where should I put this, anyhow?"

"There is fine. What's with your leg?"

The Gaquri gave a grimace: "Nothing much - just my knee acting up," he replied, patting the guilty joint. "Something must have gotten rusted. It happens."

Even through the lack of expression of his mask Nuparu treated him to a baffled look.

"What?"

"Organic parts don't rust," the Toa sputtered. "At least, ours don't."

The other eyed the tendons and muscles peeking through black armor, and his lips perked up in a little smile.

Without a word he placed his weapon on the least cluttered corner of Berix's work desk before redirecting his now free hands to the side of the faulty knee, messing with what appeared to be the graceless stitching of a large wound: his fingers sank deftly into it and pried through the gaps enough to loosen the whole thing, and before the less organic being's flabbergasted eyes pulled down the fake skin and meat to reveal a fully mechanical joint, complete with pistons and springs and even what seemed like wires.

"Don't worry," he chuckled with a wave, "Ours don't either. But most crusty old Glatorian like me haven't been completely flesh and bone in a long time."

If the inventor's attention had been piqued before, he was completely captivated now. He was leaning on his seat towards him, vehicle project all but forgotten, intently studying as many details of the prosthesis as he could see from that distance.

His eager interest made the other laugh again: "Why all that surprise! Don't you see something like this on you every day?"

"Yes, but I'm not you!"

"And what's that mean?"

"You're all flesh! And meat! And skin! How does that work?"

The Gaquri considered something for a moment. "If you can get me a seat and figure out what's wrong with it, I'll be glad to let you have a closer look," he offered at last.

Nuparu pulled the stool from right under himself so fast that he fell on his ass.

He then placed it down with extreme care and patted it insistently.

The other barely held back a snort.

His implant hadn't caused this much of a scene since the first day it had been up and functional.

"The name's Tarix, anyhow," he introduced himself as he sat down a little heavily. "Since you'll be rummaging knuckle-deep through the insides of my leg for the next thirty minutes."

"Hm," Nuparu replied as he kneeled until his mask was all but grazing the joint.

Tarix waited a dozen seconds, and added: "You got one too, Toa?"

"One what?"

"Name."

"Nuparu."

"I see. Ah - nope, nope, don't-" his fingers quickly pinched the mechanical being's and lifted them away from the scarified tissue binding the meat to the metal: "That's real flesh, don't peel that - the nerves still work, you'd put me through the pains of Plude."

"What's that?"

"You folks have a place in your lore built just to torture you forever?"

"Yes, Karzhani. I've been there."

"Huh. Well, I've been to Plude too back when it still existed, and I'll just say that the only good thing the Lord of Sand might've done was collapsing it on itself. So, you get what I mean about the pain."

"Hm. Yes, I can imagine. But how do I - see, to check the individual parts, I'd need to pull them off..."

"Oh - hold it, let me just..."

Angling his leg in an uncomfortable position and hunching down with a hiss, the Glatorian set to work carefully pulling screws loose with the help of an empty pipe he'd fetched from his pocket. The small parts dangled from their sockets without falling, just distant enough from the point the metal touched to allow the top and bottom pieces to be pulled apart without needing to pull the much more easy to lose components out of the whole.

"Hold the calf a moment, will you?" he muttered with the pipe now stuck between his teeth. Nuparu complied, holding the lower half of the leg still as Tarix worked his magic on the inner wires. At last, satisfied, he unfurled his back up once more and puffed satisfied: "There, pull."

When the Toa did so, the prosthesis came apart as easily as a house of cards. Suddenly, in the mechanical palm was a whole calf, still warm with life and undoubtedly organic.

Tarix watched genuinely amused as Nuparu tested the ankle in his hands and on the ground, miming an attempt at a walk as though playing with a very concerning doll with nothing short of pure unadultered fascination.

He posed it as if stuck in a sprint: "Can you feel this?"

"Not a single thing," the Glatorian replied. He patted the metallic femur's exposed head: "And neither can I here. The connections are all in the wires, they go right into the nerves, see? So long as they're apart I can't feel crap anywhere from over here," and he pointed to the flesh that stopped around the middle of his thigh "To the rest of the leg underneath. Not that I should be able to, frankly, if we wanted to abide by nature's whims, but luckily for me us Spherus Magna natives never cared much for that."

Nuparu hummed: "How'd you get it like this, anyways?"

"Oh," the Glatorian shrugged as though it were the most normal thing in the world, "Blew up."

"It just exploded?"

"Not by itself, of course, someone shot the whole thing out of me."

The Toa treated him to an appalled look.

Tarix waved a hand harshly, chewing on his unlit pipe: "The Core War was absolutely barbaric, kid! I've witnessed stuff I wouldn't wish on a Skrall. When I saw that half you've got there in your hand fly over my head as gracefully as the ugliest bird known to any being with eyes, I thought I was going to die of shock like a Mountain Striker with a broken wing. I still have no clue how I managed to keep awake through the bloodloss and pain long enough for the fixers to figure out I was still alive enough to be taken down to the medic."

Nuparu regarded the half of a limb in his grasp with newfound horror and fascination. A whole portion of leg, shot right out... He wasn't sure if even the Vortixx could have had something capable of doing that. Oh, sure, they had plenty of possibly worse things, but even the most blunt tended to have slightly more complex effects than just 'blows a chunk off of you'.

And the fact that they had managed to rebuild the broken joint and connected it to the rest of the nervous system was nothing short of miraculous, compared to the same thing done on a mechanical being - whose organic components regenerate, too.

"And all Glatorian have something like this?"

"Us older ones, yes," the other nodded. He watched with a sort of lazy interest as the Toa turned his attention to the mechanism of his prosthesis, checking for damage as he had promised. "The rookies tend to have the usual stuff, thank goodness - scars, plaques, maybe a limb, some fingers..."

"Fingers?"

"Yes, some of them. They tend to nip 'em a lot during training, you know, when they start to get the hang of it and stop holding their weapons like they're gonna grow a mouth and bite them - they cut tendons often those first few times. Or just the whole thing."

"Really?"

He chuckled, playfully waving his fingers: "Gresh keeps losing them. If you look closely you can tell which phalanxes are still his."

"I thought he was good at fighting."

"He is. He's just young. And a little too brash at times."

Nuparu hummed, moving onto the piece of implant attached to his thigh: "You mentioned limbs, too," he noted absentmindedly: "Is that also common, during training?"

"Losing them? Oh no, that happens out in the desert. Or, used to happen... Well, the desert's still out there, just smaller, so I guess - point is, you'll sooner get one cut off by a Bone Hunter or chewed up by a Vorox than find a fellow Glatorian who'll do that to you, on purpose or not. We made sure to try and avoid that sort of thing when we made the rules for the job."

"And plaques?"

"Oh, these," and he tapped some strange metallic protrusions on the top of his legs, on the side of his arms, and on his shoulders. "Nothing special, they keep armor in place. Easier than having to strap it on. We install them when we come of age."

Their shape was somewhat familiar: "Berix has them too, I think."

"I think everybody gets them - Agori, Glatorian, Skrall..."

"They are pretty useful," the Toa nodded.

He couldn't really imagine how they could have managed to stick armor to themselves otherwise. Maybe through some cloth? But then it might chafe their joints, and they'd have to find a way to insert it in the metal anyways...

He hummed thoughtfully, wracking his brain as he tried at once to figure out both the logistics of putting armor on fully organic beings and whatever was wrong with the implant.

So concentrated he was that he actually jumped a little when the pipe gently smacked his shoulder.

Tarix had a strange look on his face as he pointed down at a spot on his prosthesis: "Don't - it's nothing to be worried about yet, just, watch it," he warned, "That coil there you've got near your index, she's real frisky. Won't be a problem now that it's taken apart, but when you stick it back together you'd better avoid even just so much as grazing it - it'll pull my calf back at top speeds to kick my ass. Been like that since the start."

"Oh! Sounds painful."

"It is!"

With a hand already rummaging through a box of springs, Nuparu offered: "Since I'm here already, I could replace that..."

"Ah, there's no need really," the Glatorian quickly stopped him.

"But it's a liability."

"If it's out in the open like this, yeah, but - well, when it's covered it's a lot more manageable, and the wires-"

"It's still a malfunction. I can fix that without any trouble."

"I get it, but it's - I - hm! Let me explain. See, when - if I cover it up, see, with my-"

"The fake flesh?"

"Yes, that - it still jerks back if touched, but not as hard, you get me?"

"But it still does."

"Yes, and here's the - the thing is, I also have my nerves connected, right? Right, and when the coil gets touched and makes my leg jerk, it... Er... See - have you ever - hm! Hmm-hm. Hold on. Do you... Is there something that you know is not good for your body, but when you do it it just feels nice?"

"No."

"Alright, this complicates things."

"Oh! Oh, no, wait - when I cut metal with a saw, I like to keep myself as close to the sparks as possible so they can hit me because they tingle. It's fun. Do you mean like that?"

"Eeeh, close enough! That's what's going on with that coil."

"It tingles?"

"It... Uh... Sure, let's. Call it that."

The change in tone was weird, and he seemed to be somewhat embarrassed about having brought the subject up.

Now, in regards to asking personal questions, Nuparu tended to be as uninterested in other beings' private matter as much as a Kofo-Jaga is in lightstones.

However, this was directly related to the machinations of an impressive, if a little primitive, handmade mechanical joint.

So yes, he would have loved to pry.

The mental manifestation of Turaga Whenua repeatedly smacking him over the head with his drilling staff was currently the only thing keeping him from inquiring on any activities Tarix might have enjoyed dabbling in outside of his work hours, but luckily for the Glatorian that singular imaginary scenario was also an extremely effective deterrent for any Matoran or Toa that had ever at some point of their lives resided in Onu-Koro.

As such, the Toa just shrugged and diverted his attention onto the object the Gaquri was now nervously twisting in his hand: "What's that, by the way?"

The total swerve in subject matter destabilized the Glatorian briefly. He looked down at his fingers, then back at the Toa.

"A pipe?" he replied.

Nuparu squinted at it a little better: "That does not look like a pipe." he decreted.

Tarix lifted an eyebrow, curiously: "It's just an Agori pipe."

"That's not a pipe," the inventor insisted.

"And how should a proper Toa pipe look like, then?"

"Matoran pipe, maybe-" the Toa scoffed, rolling his eyes and making the other chuckle a bit while the mechanical hands went right back to checking on his implant in the midst of his correction: "First of all, it's far too small to be of any proper use; second, that seems to be made of wood, which is the worst material for this kind of thing - even if you could fit that tiny piece in a proper hydraulic system, long time usage will lend it to rot and come apart much faster, which is why we used to trade iron with Le-Koro to avoid the whole village from caving in on--"

"Oh!" Tarix interrupted him all of a sudden, smacking the object on his palm with a hollow sound: "Oh, you meant - no no no, it's not that type of pipe! It's a, uh -- pipa! Nagele! Sghitt!"

"Don't curse at me, please."

"I'm not cursing at you, it's just different names for this! You really don't have a word for-?" then he cut himself off as he seemed to remind himself of something evidently obvious: "Ah - well, I mean, you don't have a mouth, of course you can't smoke..."

"Yes we do."

"You do?"

"Yes? How else would we hold our masks?"

Tarix blinked, briefly wondered if he should have asked, and decided it didn't matter: "But you don't smoke? At all?"

"No? Unless we get catastrophically overheated or are set on fire," Nuparu replied as he attached the disjointed calf into the thigh again. "Both of which in all fairness have happened before. Not very often, but they have happened."

"No, I meant... Ah, hold it, hold it..."

He stuck the unlit pipe back in his mouth, puffing out nothing a few times with a thoughtful expression on his face.

"See - it's a bit like the coil and the sparks again, the matter with smoking," he decided to start explaining: "There's certain plants, if you dry them and burn them well, that make really pleasant smoke."

"How is smoke pleasant?" the Toa muttered.

"The smell can be," the Gaquri shrugged, "And the taste too. Wait-" and he gently knocked the foot of the pipe on the top of the Volitak before the inventor could interrupt him again "-Wait a second, I can't very well clear this up if you keep cutting in. Alright, so the bigger part here, the bowl we call it - you need to press the dried plants in here and light them up, only a little before the whole thing burns up; once they're charred nicely, you inhale through the shank, and then you puff it back out. That's how the smoke gets in your mouth and you can taste it."

"And how does it taste, then?"

"Ah, depends on what you smoke," was the whistful answer. "Same goes for the smell. The Lebori have a certain bark that gets real flexible when wet - they make whole pipes with it, they burn up real well, but it's a bit too sour for me. Before the Shattering there used to be a type of kelp I liked, and Kiina said they had River Eyes up near the Dormus that made some terribly sweet smoke."

"River Eyes?"

"It's a flower! Small, round, blue, and it grows on river banks. Never got to try them, though, and it's better I don't go around asking for some with the lungs I've got. Like I said, smoking's the same as the coil and the sparks: feels good to do, but it's bad for the body."

Nuparu hummed deeply, rummaging inside the knee as he handled the hanging wires carefully.

"I think I figured out the problem," he announced.

At that Tarix perked up: "Rust?"

"One piston has developed a limestone growth that makes it much harder to move properly, and as a result one of the springs is bent out of shape and chafes right against the nerve."

"Ah! Well, damn. You can get limestone in there?"

"If it's humid enough, it can build up over time."

"Hm... Alright, I guess all those years sweating in arenas and whatnot were bound to do the trick eventually."

"Also there was rust."

"Hm. Where?"

"Three screws. I changed them already."

"Wait, really? When?"

"While you were talking about the Core War."

"Huh! You're quick. And quiet."

The Toa shrugged: "I like working."

He pulled the prosthesis apart for a second time, laying the calf down on the floor. He then leaned back to search through a tool box brimming with bits and pieces - bolts, nuts, coils, springs, and all sorts of other things - with what his mask's stillness still managed to convey as a focused furrowed brow, evidently still thinking about what course of action to take now that he had pinpointed the anomaly to fix.

Changing his mind, he stood up and made his way to one of the various piles of junk and assorted more or less useful knicknacks to start looking for something in there instead.

"Speaking of the Core War," he said, implying he wanted to start a conversation but without really adding to that sentence.

Tarix waited a few minutes, puffing out in silence while watching him shift towels or bottles until he found what he was looking for (a clean enough rag and flask containing a murky liquid), before figuring that he was waiting for some kind of permission to continue on the admittedly not particularly pleasant topic: "Yes?"

"You said other older Glatorians also got implants like this from it."

"I implied it, but yes, that's the case."

The Toa hummed as he settled back before him: "And they're all knees, like yours?"

"You want to ask what their own prosthesis are?"

At that, he got no response.

"You can, by the way," Tarix reassured him, "It's been a damn long time by now, it doesn't hurt as much as say, eighty hundred years ago. We've been living like this long enough to joke about the whole thing and whatnot."

Nuparu mumbled something indistict as he soaked up the rag and began scraping the limestone off of the metal with it.

"Don't act all shy now, kid! As I said, it's no trouble." the Glatorian repeated. A sly smile curled the corners of his lip: "You can't get embarrassed like this every time you have to ask about new possible clients, you know," he jokingly reprimanded him, "Otherwise you'll have a hard time getting any."

"I don't want to be paid!" the Toa replied. "I'm just curious, is all! This is... Well, I didn't expect it to be something you'd have."

"Oh, don't worry, not everybody's missing a whole chunk of leg like me," Tarix chuckled. "We Glatorian like to keep ourselves distinct from one another."

"In implant too?"

"Of course! Let me think, now..."

He inhaled a long breath through his pipe, leaning back a little as the kid continued on with his work, and exhaled with a whistle.

"So, let's see - Vastus, he's got a good chunk of his lower spine replaced and, oh, 'bout three quarters of his intestines," he began: "Kiina had her hip crushed and put back together, and that should be... Ah, nope, nope, half of her left hand and the whole ulna too. Telluris I haven't see in a long while now, but unless he's figured out how to place his brain in a tin can I'd bet his head's all that's left. Certavus, bless his memory, I don't think he had a single original organ left by the end, and Gelu's got bionic feet - one foot, one leg, right, a whole leg, so then Strakk was the one who got his eye shot out and his nose crushed. And the jaw, of course. I don't remember if it was him or Malum who cracked his head but I do think it was him, because Malum had the femur that got split in half and it worsened with that problem with his ribcage where the metal was corroding and messing with his blood... Which is why he had to get his marrow replaced in his leg later on. Oh, and Ackar also had to... Ah, wait, which one was it? Right, right. Ackar, poor guy, his back itself is worse than a Plude street but his real problem's his right shoulder blade, which got essentially pulverized - I was there, ghastly sight - so they had to replace the whole thing, and that was bad enough; but then, and this is the fucked thing, the implant actively degraded the rest of the arm, so he had to keep replacing bits and pieces of it until it was just completely gone."

Nuparu lifted his head, eyes wide and flabbergasted: "The fixing made it worse?"

"It did! He kept having trouble moving it."

"How?"

Tarix raised his shoulders: "Beats me," he replied just as baffled. "It's a common thing for Tapyri, honestly. It's hard to tell if the material's bad quality or has trouble with the heat. Perditus too - after he got half his leg replaced, the damn thing somehow managed to melt halfways and left him limping almost worse than he would if he just didn't have it."

"And he can't replace it?"

"It's grafted onto the bone and the muscle has grown over it. They'd have to carve the whole thing out with it, it's just not worth it."

The Toa stared at him positively appalled.

"That is horrid," he spat, punctuating the adjective with a harsh yank of his hand over the faulty piston, thus launching a loosened piece of limestone to skid across the floor.

"You're tellin' me, kid."

"That's - it's inadmissible. It's insane."

"And I haven't told you about the Agori."

"What about the Agori? Were they fighting too? Do they-?"

"No, not fighting, usually - it's something we got in common with your lot: we're basically the same species, but we are much bigger and they're much nimbler. So you had us larger folk tearing one another to bits properly, while they tended to work as scouts if they weren't busy trying to put us back in one piece."

The Gaquri interrupted himself to stretch his arms up, pulling one towards his head.

The movement produced a loud 'crock!' roughly around the height of his shoulder, followed by much softer pops crackling all the way up towards his wrist as it twisted.

Satisfied with the sound (which instead made the inventor a little uneasy considering their conversation), he moved to massage the sides of his spine with his knuckles, rolling his neck: it seemed to make a curious ticking noise in place of a meatier sound, filling in the quick pauses of Nuparu's rag scrubbing the limestone away.

At last he puffed into his unlit pipe: "If you look at the older ones - the Agori, I mean - you'll see they've got less lower half than upper."

"That makes no sense."

"It does if you don't count implants. We've got them a bit everywhere, I told you, but an Agori with an arm prosthesis is a real rarity. They've got them mostly between their soles and the top of their hipbones."

"And why's that?"

"It's 'cause the lucky ones stepped on mines."

The Toa hummed thoughtfully.

He did not raise his eyes from the almost clean piston: "And the unlucky ones?"

"Well, we were trained to aim for either the neck or the head."

Ah.

Those certainly had been unlucky.

For every thing Toa and Glatorians seemed to have in common, a complete opposite came around. To imagine a Toa willingly kill was already hard, though not impossible - the Mahri themselves had been met with the chance to do so once or twice, and it had been tantalizing to say the least; but to envision a group of his brothers and sisters being not only instructed but even trained to kill, and especially to kill Matoran...

Well, he was glad he did not live in that kind of world.

"That's just how life is," Tarix sighed in the end. "Nobody wins. They've got their metal hips, and I've got my leg held together by wires and pistons. And an artificial diaphragm."

That snapped Nuparu out of his unpleasant musings: "A what?"

"That one wasn't the war's fault, though - well, it was, but it came in later. See, I had some sharpnel that got stuck in there but nobody noticed, and then one day I got a shove in the wrong spot during a match and just stopped breathing. So I had to get a mechanical one, and when I have to put myself under any sort of strain I need to hook myself up to an oxygen supplier to make sure it doesn't collapse under the effort - you know, that tube thing you might have seen on me, sort of like yours."

"Your gills?"

"I..." the Gaquri briefly did a double take. "You call those gills?"

"Yes?"

They blinked at each other briefly.

"Yeah," Tarix conceded, "Yeah, I guess those would be gills for you folks, huh. Makes sense."

"What was it that you had to replace?"

"My diaphragm."

"What is that?"

"... The muscle?"

"Which muscle?"

"The... The one that makes the... Lungs? Work? I understood you did have lungs?"

"Lungs work on their own."

"No they do not?"

"Yes they do. They are muscles."

"No they are not??"

Before Nuparu could further argue his point by lifting his chest plate and forcing Tarix to behold the disquieting spectacle offered by his very much clearly autonomously moving lungs, the unmistakeable noise of a small variety of hollow brass objects gracelessly crashing on the floor and being hurriedly chased after by stomping feet attracted their attention elsewhere.

Berix did not notice them as immediately as they noticed him, since he was busy making his entrance on all fours as he scrambled to pick up a bunch of scrap metal that had spilled from his arms.

The other two beings made no sound as they watched him curse to himself after stepping on a rogue bolt. They decided to simply observe him in silence much like an equipe of entomologists observes a particularly frenetic spider panicking for some kind of fault in its web, making no motion to lend the young Agori any help as he crawled along the ground to collect the scattered pieces of his scavenged treasure of junk.

It was particularly fascinating when he accidentally shoved several bolts in his mouth to the point of almost stuffing his cheeks with them, realized his mistake, and spat them in what looked like an exhaust pipe.

He almost cried when they fell out of it and rolled away again.

Then he lifted his eyes briefly to the other two silent beings in the room and failed to recognize them.

Meaning he then proceded to jump almost three whole bio straight in the air once he figured there were people looking at him - landing on a screw.

"FUCK!" he whimpered.

Tarix waved: "Hello to you."

"Do you need help?" Nuparu asked with a notable delay.

The Agori kneeled to the ground and skidded across it: "No no no, I'm good! I'm good, I'm - hey, hi, Tarix, hi, when did-? What are you-? Uh," he said nervously as he tried to catch as many nuts and springs as possible, "What is going on there? Is it, did I interrupt or, should- should I leave? Again? Should I leave again?"

"Nuparu's fixing my leg."

At that Berix snapped his head with a deafening gasp to look directly at him, the most betrayed expression to ever grace his face plaster across it.

"But I wanted to do that!" he cried out in anguish like a desert fox cub experiencing the horrors of its mother's tongue bath for the first time: "I told you I could do it, I- I replaced Gresh's ribs and, and I fixed his lungs when the Skrall got him and he hasn't had problems with them since, I told you I could do it, I'm good at fixing-!"

"I know that, and Gresh told me you did real well," the older Gaquri stopped him, "But - don't take it personally, kid, you're good and all, but when it comes to my leg I only trust you as far as I can throw you and believe me, it ain't far."

"But then why does he get to do it!" Berix wailed, pointing at Nuparu still scrubbing off the limestone.

"He's got a whole body like this, I'd imagine he knows what to do."

"But I know what to do too!"

"I told you, I'd rather have a specialist on it."

The Toa briefly wondered if being a descendant of the Water Tribe had something to do with how outstandingly wet Berix could will his eyes to look, or if it was just a specifically Berix thing.

Mabe it was an Agori defense mechanism. After all, it would have been pretty hard to want to hurt something that appeared to be the personification of the verbs 'to whimper', 'to whine', 'to sob', and last but not least 'to wail'.

Whatever the origin of such an expression of anguish, Tarix was not immune to its effects: "Oh, don't be like that," he finally pleaded with a tired but guilty tone, and pointed off to the cluttered desk not too far away: "There, I've got something for you too, alright? I came in 'cause my Thornax launcher's busted and you're the best with 'em. Could you fix that for me? Pretty please?"

That was enough to light the younger being's face up again.

With the sort of excited thin howling laugh that a mischievous ghost might have, he scuttled away to the mess of a table that was the headquarters for most of his projects: onto it he dumped the rest of his scraps, not caring even in the slightest that it only helped to worsen the general situation he already had going on as he was already completely absorbed by the thought of the inner mechanics of the weapon at hand.

The perfectly good chair right beside him thoroughly ignored in favor of sitting on the ground in a curled position that would have made a shrimp suggest booking an osteopathic appointment, he immediately started tinkering around to figure what the problem was with the drive and precision of a blood hound.

That had been perhaps one of the best things their unplanned collaboration had brought Nuparu - aside from all the knick-knacks and thingamajigs and vehicles and tools he'd been able to make or just plan out with the Agori, of course. Watching Berix work on something was such a fun and fascinating experience: his intensity gave his body language a sort of visceral desperation that contrasted his careful fumbling motions, pulling pieces apart with his scarred skeletal fingers and letting them fall all around him as though discarded carelessly - yet he somehow always knew where to search when he needed them again, and if in the middle of his fixer's frenzy you asked him for a specific nut or a gear he could pick it up without even looking, always on the first try. The thunderous act of creation and its rhythmic symphony played on rough instruments whisked the both of them away from the world at large, but when the Toa managed to pull himself back to reality (whether done or stumped or just in need of a break) it was enjoyable if not just all-together mesmerizing to observe the other hard at work on his own project.

A loud bang was not enough to deter him from the launcher either.

The equally loud voice that followed with an exasperated bark did, however: "BERIX! THE DOOR!"

"RIGHT! RIGHT- RIGHT, HOLD ON!" he squeaked hurriedly, abandoning (with a little more care) the weapon to scuttle away as fast as he could to the entrance of their laboratory.

The figure that emerged from the held open door replied to his rambling apologies by grunting every few steps - not without reason, seeing as they were carrying the carcass of an older model of chariot intertwined with some other mean of transport that had clearly gotten lodged sideways in its back, trying to balance the hellish thing on their shoulders in a way not too dissimilar to how a shepherd might carry a too small Mahi tired from a day of running wildly.

The mess of a car accident was dropped rather gracelessly onto the first largest spot of floor available; freed from their herculean weight, the being sighed and pulled back their arms, making the rather dull metal vertebrae poking from their skin creak in a somewhat unsettling fashion.

Nuparu briefly wondered if they were encrusted in limestone too.

They sort of looked like it.

Hm.

Now he had to wonder if it was a common yet not very well-known problem for organic beings with mechanical implants. Maybe it had to do with an excessive production of sweat?

While he was busy pondering that, Tarix grinned at the sight: "Hello, my beautiful wife who sucks at killing me," he crooned lovingly.

Vastus turned to him with a smirk, thin feathers raised and brows slightly furrowed in a manner that was much more fond than annoyed: "Hello, my beautiful husband who can't aim for shit," he replied; upon noticing the Toa kneeled before him, he cheekily added: "Committing adultery, I see?"

His partner wheezed a loud gurgling laugh: "Twelve thousand years we've been married! Twelve thousand years and now you mistake me for Gelu!"

"For who?"

"What, you haven't heard about--?"

"NOT IN FRONT OF MY PROJECTS!" Berix shrieked.

The Lebori chuckled - it was a strange sound, some kind of hiccuping hiss - and reached out to rub his hand all over the younger Gaquri's head; the kid swiveled away from him with a soft rattling noise as his annoyed trembling arms shook his scales against one another, face contorting into a piqued grimace, and returned to the launcher to tinker the other two away from his conscious perception.

"And where'd you get that?" the Glatorian inquired, pointing at it with his chin as it was common to do in his tribe and getting no answer.

"It's mine," his husband reassured him, "He's fixing it."

"Jammed again?"

"Seems like it."

"Bet you just didn't clean it properly."

"You don't know that."

"But I'm right," Vastus teased him as he approached to steal the pipe from his mouth. "And over here, what's going on?"

"He's fixin' up my leg. Nuparu, by the way, that's his name - he's a, ah, Ko- nope, Onu-Toa, he said - thought it was rust but I had limestone in it."

"We can get limestone?"

"Might be the sweating," Nuparu interrupted them suddenly. He fixed his unmoving mask onto the Lebori: "Can you turn around, please?"

Tarix snorted at the other's brief baffled blink: "Hey now, kid, I get you've put your hands in me and all, but you shouldn't go around just checking my wife out like that!"

"NOT! IN FRONT! OF THE PROJECTS!"

The Toa looked between the three of them with no clue what any of them was going on about: "I thought there might have been crusts on the vertebrae," he explained. "Since I have the solvent at hand already, I could handle that already if it's the case..."

"That's what they all say," the Gaquri snickered.

His confusion was palpable.

Vastus flicked a playful finger at his husband's head, warning him: "Berix is gonna kick you out at this rate... But I'm sure it's just some dust, kid, nothing to worry about."

"It still would not hurt to do a simple visual check."

"He's right," Tarix interjected while trying to snatch his pipe back and failing: "Maybe you've been building up a limestone deposit this whole time without knowing it."

"I don't have limestone."

"You don't know that."

Vastus smirked at him as he turned around for Nuparu to check: "But I'm right."

"You can't keep answering that and get away with it."

"I can if I'm always right."

The inventor gave a high pitched hum: "False alarm. That's just dust," he confirmed.

A triumphant grin briefly met the Gaquri's eyes as he rolled them.

Nuparu reached into a box to pull out a short variety of springs in order to compare their size with that of the one that had been bent by the affected piston, now cleaned and hopefully ready to work smoothly; careful not to dislodge anything else, he carefully pried the ill piece out and hooked up its replacement.

Satisfied with how the procedure had done, he pulled himself back a little and announced: "I have another question."

"Shoot," Tarix answered instantly.

"What do 'wife' and 'husband' mean, exactly?"

A hot second of silence passed in which the Glatorian regretted opening his mouth.

He glanced at Vastus.

His wife glanced back.

The quiet persisted.

"We're married," he answered lamely at last.

The question he dreaded slapped him in the face with outstanding punctuality: "And what does that mean?"

Having had his fun of seeing his husband's best full-body impression of a yam turning exponentially smaller when fried to a crisp piece of coal, the Lebori finally intervened: "You folks have contracts?"

"We do."

"Marriage is a contract between people where you become part of one other's family. And tribe, if you're from different ones like us."

A vacuous gaze met his explanation.

"Alright, what's confusing you?"

"The 'becoming part of' thing."

Vastus shrugged, his feathers puffing out for a moment before returning flat in a way similar to how certain avian Rahi did before starting a very long song: "It means we become relatives," he tried again. "Here, look - Tarix is a Gaquri and I'm a Lebori, so my family and hers come from different tribes. By marrying me she became a sort of honorary member of the Jungle tribe, and everybody treats her almost as though she was my brother, or my cousin; in the same manner, I became an honorary member of the Water tribe and I'm treated like her sister or cousin."

"So... It's sort of like assembling a team?" Nuparu tilted his head, puzzled: "There's no need for a contract for that. All Toa consider each other siblings already."

The other clicked his tongue as though he'd bitten it by accident: "I shouldn't have used that metaphor," he muttered.

"Why not?"

"First of all marrying your actual blood-siblings is frowned upon."

"Why? What's a blood-sibling?"

"I'll tell you when you're older. Secondly, I can assure you marriage is nothing like siblinghood."

At that, the Toa frowned: "It sounds the same to me."

"Your knee and Tarix's look the same to me, too," Vastus argued: "They're both made of metal, so they're the same thing."

"They really aren't." then he blinked, bright eyes flashing briefly, looked to the ceiling to recollect his thought, gave a loud hum, and met his gaze again: "I see your point."

The Glatorian smiled: "Good kid."

"Back to the point - how do 'wife' and 'husband' fit with all that?"

"That's just how you call someone who's married."

"So they're synonyms?"

"Yes, pretty much."

The answer seemed to satisfy the inventor greatly.

"I'm learning so much about your species today," he commented in a giddy tone. He returned to the discarded robot calf on the floor, dusting off its mechanical parts to make sure not even small amounts of debris would interefere with its functions; just as he plucked it back into the bulk of the implant, he looked again at the two Glatorian and told them with complete and total earnestness: "You know, if you were significantly smaller, quadrupedal, perhaps vaguely insectoid and incapable of speech, Turaga Whenua would have the best day of his life writing down and trying to decypher your absolutely incomprehensible habits."

That was the highest compliment an Onu-Matoran from the island of Mata Nui could bestow upon someone.

It was not categorizable as such by perhaps any other being in the entire universe, considering the source of such an idiom had been cut off from all other known civilizations and it was generally not considered particularly flattering to be told that you would make for a great petri dish for one's paternal figure to microscope if you were any less sentient, but luckily his tone did manage to properly convey the positive nature of his otherwise insane sentence.

So instead of knocking his head off with roundhouse kick, Tarix and Vastus smiled awkwardly in an attempt at not laughing in his face and just replied: "Thanks."

His Volitak did not have a mouth, but Nuparu's grin was blinding.

Berix chose that moment to shriek triumphantly.

"Fixed!" he declared, Thornax launcher hoisted into the air like it was the second making of the Element Lords.

The older Gaquri turned to him with eyes wide: "What, already?"

"It was encrusted with Thornax juice!"

Not even the time to feel bashful about such a silly and easy to fix thing hindering his battling performance so much that his wife was already leaning down into his line of sight with a smirk so wide that he could have just bitten his whole head off with it.

"What did I say?" he teased.

Tarix sighed, a weary smile on his face: "You cannot keep getting away with this."

"Yes I can," Vastus gloated, "If I'm always right."

[tadpolesonalgae]

Vampire!Poly-batboys x reader: Mercy, Devil - Part 2

A/N: The poly part two to the vampire fic is here! Hope you enjoy!!

Warning: Vampirism, poly!batboys, blood, biting

Word Count: 4,154

-Part 1- -Part 3-

——————————————————————————————————————————————

Thunder rolls across the perpetually stormy sky, his castle seemingly gifted with its own unique weather system. Rain lashes at the windows, criss-crossed with diamond-shaped indentations upon the glass, streaked with icy water. Lightning cracks across the dark, heavy clouds, flashing with startling light, briefly illuminating the chambers you’ve been returned to.

You swallow heavily, rousing from an empty sleep, fatigue weighing on bone marrow as you push up from the bed. The pearls have gone, replaced by a pale blue nightgown and memories of the evening you stumbled into the castle return. Right into the beast’s jaws.

Fingers trace over your throat, pockmarked with tiny puncture wounds, skin aching around the slightly swollen marks. Memories of the fear and alarm upon feeling those gleaming incisors skating across your neck rush in, the overpowering strength of his hands on your body, shoving your head to the side so he could drink deeper. The hot spill of blood as it dripped down over collar bones, the mad frenzy in previously sharp and clear eyes. He’d seemed utterly undone, at the mercy of his own hunger as he’d fed.

Your pulse spikes in your chest, fear diluting in your lifestream, breathing deepening as you hastily peer around the room. Searching for something that could possibly help keep the beast off of you. It’s a stupid thought, you know that—why would he have the means to his demise so readily available? In his own home, no less. That would be idiotic.

“Sleep well?” A low, silken voice asks, making you scream, flinching back as you snap your head to the doorway. He’d entered on completely silent feet—the door hadn’t even made a sound. “Now, now. There’s no need for that,” he chides soothingly, “you’re alive and well. No need for theatrics.” But your nails are practically tearing at the sheets with how tight you’re gripping them. Something like him—something that drinks the blood of women, relishing in draining away their youth—can be nothing but pure evil. Hell incarnate.

“Stay away from me,” you grit out lowly, back pressed against the plush cushioning of the headboard. “You have no power over me. Let me leave.”

He’s quiet for a moment, watching you intently, before lowering his head, a mix between a sigh and a laugh huffing from his lips. Raises gleaming violet to pierce into you, as if able to pin you to the bed with a glance alone. “I’m afraid I won’t be doing that,” he says amicably, still in that velvety voice of his, like satin brushing teasingly across your skin. “You see, little devil, I have lived centuries in this world. Travelled far and wide, sampled a number of women and men alike, and yet I’ve never once come across a taste quite as exquisite as yours.” Protectively, you raise your palm to your throat, as if blocking the skin from his view may serve a chance for freedom—or undo what he’s already found.

“Because of that,” he continues leisurely, as if he hasn’t turned your life upside down within the span of a breath. “I will be keeping you for myself, here, in my castle. Is everything clear?” You blink, dread sluicing through your veins.

“I’m not— You can’t do that.” You splutter quietly, incredulity and fear drenching your tone in horror. “I’m a living person. You can’t just lock me up. That’s— That’s wrong.” You manage to whisper, too shocked to bellow.

“You don’t have a choice here. Well, not one you’d like,” he muses idly, hands sliding into the pockets of his dark, tailored trousers. “What is it?” You grit out anyway, attempting to conceal your trembling fingers.

The charming smile fades from his elegant mouth, slipping into something blank and unreadable. “Either, you can agree to my generous offer and remain mine in this castle,” he says, voice turning to freezing silk, prowling toward you in the low thunderous light. “Or, I can take my final drink now, and let you pass on into the next world—or rather, into the next half world.” He reaches the edge of the bed, but you’re too terrified to move.

Even as he pulls his hand from the neatly stitched pocket of his dark trousers, you remain still. Petrified, until his icy hand settles on your throat, thumb and index finger pressing to the soft sides beneath your jaw, tilting your head to him. “You should know: I would not be kind if you forced me to turn you,” he murmurs tenderly, leaning over the bed, bracing his forearm against the headboard. “You are quite to my tastes,” he says softly, lowly, “I would hate to see you become a servant, instead of what you could be.”

“And what is that?” You manage to ask shakily, forcefully pushing yourself as deep into the headboard as you can.

Glittering violet briefly scans your features, then the edges of his mouth are curving, dipping down to nose at your throat. Sharp, piercing teeth graze the shell of your ear. “Cared for,” he answers, cold lips brushing the erogenous skin, fingers flexing around your neck. “Desired,” he murmurs softly, dipping lower, skimming the erratic pulse of your life force. “Cherished.”

Incisors scrape, and you flinch, muscles contracting with fear.

He pulls back, staring down at you from not even a breath away.

“So, my dear,” he muses, “what will it be?”

You stare at him, eyes widened, pupils no-doubt dilated with fear. You swallow thickly, overwhelmed by the intensity of him, the heaviness of his presence, the dominating sense of self rolling from his powerful figure. Pulse spikes with the thought him ending your life—would the rightness of thwarting him be worth an eternity of obeying his word? At the mercy of his absolute power?

“You wouldn’t ever taste my blood again if you turned me,” you rasp, trying to force the tremors from your voice. “You’d lose the exact thing you’re trying to gain.” Sharp eyes flash, his jaw working at your brazen answer. “Are you sure you want to test that, little devil?” He asks, voice rougher than before, anger and hunger kindling in his eyes. “I’m offering you a life of comfort and care in exchange for your compliance. Anyone can see you’re gaining much more than I am out of this agreement.”

“Which is exactly why I know you won’t turn me,” you return shakily. “Why give so much for something so unimportant, right?”

A muscle feathers in his jaw, then he’s pushing away from you roughly. “You’re being foolish,” he warns, eyes glittering with hunger. “Maybe I won’t turn you, but I believe you’re somehow forgetting I don’t need your permission to take what I want.” His fingers flex at his sides, shoulders rolling subtly before he’s sliding hands into his pockets. As if to calm the urge to pin you down and drink.

You stiffen in your place. Reconsidering his offer. If you refuse, but he decides to take anyway, where will you be kept? In some subterranean dungeon, left to lie and rot on a damp pallet of hay? Locked in some long-forgotten room, only allowed out when he wants to feed?

Rhysand senses your doubt, honing in on it like the beast he is, able to smell the indecision. “Think about it,” he says calmly, earlier hunger banished, not a trace to be found. “I have some visitors to see to, but will be back this evening for your answer,” he smiles politely, turning for the door but pausing at the threshold. “If you need a reminder of what it feels like…” You could swear his eyes darken with glee at the way your muscles contract, legs pressing together as you remain huddled to the head of the bed.

“Until tonight, then,” he grins, gleaming white teeth glittering in the low light. The door sweeps to a close behind him, leaving you alone with a choice to make. A sense of impending doom weighing in your blood.

————

You have to get out. It’s the only viable solution.

You don’t want to be stuck as a glorified chicken for the rest of your life—used until you’ve grown too old, then devoured entirely. You have no preferable choice, so you’ll have to make your own, and escaping seems like a pretty good idea.

Easing down a breath, you swing your legs over the edge of the bed, the pale blue cotton of your nightgown swishing softly at bare ankles. Peering around the room, you search for anything that could be used as a weapon against a…whatever he is. Some blood-sucking devil.

The neatly preserved figure of gleaming armour catches your gaze—if a weapon is to be lying about somewhere, surely it would be here? With a spark of hope in your chest, you creep forward on what you hope are quiet feet. Not that you should be too concerned. Despite how silently he can move, the castle seemed intimidating in size, and you doubt he’d be able to pick up footsteps from so much as a corridor away.

Your pulse spikes as you eye the short scabbard wrapped over the waist of the armour, slightly shaky fingers pulling on the string to move it around. There’s a handle poking from it’s top, and your heart stumbles in your chest. With trembling hands, you pull the string loose, tying it instead around your own waist, thumbing the blade free experimentally. It’s so clear you can make out the gleaming wetness to wide, frightened eyes.

Breathing deeply, you return the blade to its new home at your hip, tip-toeing for the door, hoping he will have left it unlocked. Underestimating your drive to keep your own pathing. You will not have choice taken away from you.

The handle turns, and the door swings open on well-oiled hinges.

A cool wave of relief sweeps over you, pulling it open to peer down the long, stretching hallways either side. Nothing out-of-the-ordinary to be found. Except maybe the blood-red carpeting. You should have realised how strange it was, how macabre the whole setup is. Maybe it’s a lovely colour, but not one you slather your entire house in, let alone a whole castle.

Shaking your head, you slip out over the threshold, silently bringing the door to a close at your back, before making your way down the stretching hallway. You move silently, keeping to the edges of the carpeted floor—as if you’d be able to hide from him. In the pale gown, you stick out like freezing blue lips in a rose garden.

Following the path he had taken you to dinner, you manage to relocate the entrance hall, heart beating wildly in your chest, eyes darting left and right frenetically, searching for movement. It’s an open stretch. Once you’re out there, you’ll have to go straight for the door. There’s nowhere to hide yourself once you step out into the hallway.

You take in a steady breath, then step out into the open.

Silently, you make your way as swiftly as possible down the curving case, feet padding softly along the well-polished boards, trying to keep sound to a minimum. The heavy-looking door looms before you, menacingly staring as you approach. Hairs raise at the nape of your neck, but you push away the apprehension, hands shaking as you reach for the knob.

It doesn’t shift.

You try pulling, but nothing.

You twist it harder, using both your hands, but to no avail.

Mentally you curse—you’d hoped it would be unlocked like last time. He’s seemingly taken some precautions, then. You’ll need to find another way out, or maybe the keys… Where would keys be?

They could be anywhere, you realise despairingly, and in a castle this large, you don’t have the time to spend painstakingly searching for them. You’ll have to find another exit. Every home has a backdoor, there must at least be one for the servants he mentioned—there’s no way they’d be allowed entrance through this hall.

“Who are you?”

You scream, jolting away from the voice, turning to find a man at your side—he’d been completely silent, just like Rhysand. You stumble back, hands shaking at your sides as you take in his towering figure. Wearing dark leather, surrounded by the glowing red of the castle, he cuts a terrifying silhouette. With black hair that come to his shoulders, and the eyes that feel like they can pierce straight through bone, you can feel in your blood he’s the same creature as the Lord.

The blade at your hip weighs heavily, but you know from a single look there’s no way you’d be able to do anything with it. You’re more likely to end up slicing yourself open, dripping over the blood-red carpet.

His lips part in an almost wolfish grin as he takes you in properly. “Oh, I see,” he drawls, stepping closer. “You’re one of Rhys’, aren’t you?”

“Please…” you breathe, heat building behind your eyes. “I don’t—…I just want to leave…” Lungs spasm with fear, and his nostrils flare delicately, before taking a step back. The man raises his arms placatingly, exposing his palms in a sign of peace. “I’m not stopping you,” he says lowly, still baring his teeth in a smile.

Your tongue swipes out to wet your lips, staggering a step back hesitantly, then another. Never taking your eyes from his hulking figure.

Your muscles involuntarily contract with soul-deep fear as a blood-curdling snarl rips through the castle’s interiors. A wave of bone-crushing terror smacks into you, like a flash of lightening followed by the roll of thunder as something dark pulses through the building. The man’s smile widens at the sound, turning a little feral. “Better be on your way,” he warns roughly, voice like gravel. “Before the beast catches you.”

Heart pounding, you spin on your feet and run.

You could swear his low chuckle follows on your heels as you sprint from the room, nearly stumbling over your own toes as you pass over carpets and rugs, running through doorways and dodging around rich, plush armchairs and large, heavy instruments. Fire crackles in one room but you have no time for pause, feeling that power closing in no matter how far you run.

Feet slam on the polished wood of floorboards, and you spot an open door down the stretching corridor. Without care for noise, you dart inside, snapping the door to a close, hurriedly taking in your surroundings—it’s a frighteningly large library. Cases of books tower on wide-set shelves, neatly stacked but tightly packed, perfect to hide within.

Not giving it a second thought, you make for the towering furniture, darting between the aisles as quickly and as quietly as possible, keeping your eyes wide for any sign of movement. If you can just wait until you feel this cloying power pass, you can try venturing out again.

You think back over the conversation which must have been in the morning if he said he would return at night. He’d said he’d had guests to see to—that man must have been one of them, but how many are there? Are they all like him? They must be. Unless they bring humans along with them? What if there are more beasts prowling the halls for you now that signal has practically shot lightening into anything capable of breathing within the castle?

“You aren’t supposed to be in here.”

Muscles go taut, stomach tightening as cold dread ices your skin.

You turn rigidly on your heel, coming to face another man, wreathed in darkness. Silky hair gleamed in the low library light, his sharp hazel eyes pinning you to the spot with a single look. You shake your head, managing a single wobbly steps back, before he’s slowly prowling forward, gaze trained on you like he’s finally locked in on his prey.

Turning, you stumble away, running back through the tall cases, now understanding their disadvantage. He can’t see you, but you also can’t see him. Fighting your growing terror, you break from the shelves, running toward a door that will no doubt only lead you deeper into the castle, separate from the one you came in from. But he appears before you in a blur of shadow, and you smack into the stone-like muscle of his chest—utterly freezing, utterly lifeless. Death wreathed in darkness.

You still in your spot, staring up into sharp, predatory eyes with visible terror, vaguely remembering the blade at your hip.

“What are you doing here?” He asks lowly, hands kept casually at his sides, but you don’t doubt he could strike at any moment should the desire take him. “I— Please,” you beg, internally screaming for your body to move, to turn and run from the beast before you clad in the skin of an angel. “Just let me go,” you breathe shakily, stumbling back.

The man watches you silently, coldly. “You know that’s not going to happen,” he says shortly, “either you can obey and I’ll escort you back to your room, or you can make this painful.” Your eyes widen, pressure building quickly, the blade practically searing into your skin. If you comply, you’ll probably be locked up. You’ll never escape, and choice will have been taken from you. But if you fight… Even against something as terrifying as him… It will be on your own terms.

But you’re not a fighter—at least, not in the face of this particular beast. The best you can do it run.

You spin on your heel, turning for the door, but a stone-cold hand has already gripped your shoulder and you cry out in pain. His hold is like ice, stern and unforgiving. “Fine,” he mutters, making to—

“Hold on, Az,” that voice drawls, pure terror slicing through your stomach.

One was impossible enough, but two? There’s no way. You’re going to die.

The man—Az, he’d said—stops, his grip lightening by a fraction. “She’s Rhys’, Cass. We should return her.” Muscle trembles beneath his grip, neck craning to turn to spot the other man at your back, having come in through the hallway. He shrugs nonchalantly, as if the warning gleam in the shadowy one’s eyes doesn’t bother him. “That’s his fault for letting her out,” he drawls, coming to stand closer behind you. Too close.

His hazel eyes drop to yours, that wolfish smile breaking across his lips. “Besides,” he says lowly, “you know he only keeps the good ones around for more than one meal.” The man—Cass—steps closer, hands going to your waist as he lowers to your throat, pulse spiking as he noses along the smooth expanse. “This is it,” he mumbles, lips brushing your skin. “This is what I picked up, Az. She smells so good.” He pulls away, pulling your hair to the side, exposing the bare top of your shoulder and you tense, remembering how little clothing you’re wearing. How unprotective it is. “Go on,” he urges quietly, “give her a try.”

Az narrows his eyes, but relents, curiosity getting the better of him. Spine turns rigid as he dips down, nosing along the column of your throat, feeling the trembling pulse of your life-force beneath his mouth. You hear the sound of him inhaling, scenting your skin, before pulling away. “See?” The man at your back drawls. “I’ve got a good nose for these things. I told you I smelled something delicious.”

“Rhys has good taste,” the other answers flatly, “unlike some people, Cassian.” Still, his eyes remain on your throat for a little too long for your comfort.

Cassian doesn’t seem bothered by the jab, instead raising one of his hands from your hip to trace along the stuttering pulse of your heart, grazing down your neck. “I bet she tastes good,” he murmurs, and you can feel the weight of his gaze alone, hairs prickling beneath its intensity. “Cass,” the man at your front warns, voice low and cold. “She’s Rhys’. He won’t like it if you decide to put your grubby teeth all over her.”

Cassian pays him no mind, and Az’s grip on you tightens, pulling you toward him, aiming to distract the other. “When was the last time you drank?” He asks distastefully. Cassian shrugs again, “I assumed Rhys would provide a meal, and since he has such good taste,” he says pointedly, “I thought I’d enjoy myself.”

Another beastly snarl rips through the halls of the castle, and Cassian muffles a low chuckle. The man before doesn’t seem to find it as funny, the shadows at his back darkening. “What did you do this time, Az?” The man asks, lips curved with mirth.

“You’re the one who said you wanted to slip away,” Az hisses in a flash of canines. That deadly thrum of power intensifies, and you realise it must mean Rhysand is approaching. Whatever Az had done, the illusion’s over. It feels like he’s already right outside the door.

“Are you going to drink, or not?” Cassian asks, rough fingers slipping beneath the neckline of your gown, thumbing at the soft buttons at your front, slowly un-popping them in order to move the fabric out of the way of his teeth. “I don’t want to share Rhys’ meal,” Az says, a note of distaste to his words.

“Why not? It wasn’t a problem a couple of centuries ago,” Cassian drawls, challenge in his tone. “What happened? Spend a few decades fawning over a woman and suddenly all taste for adventure’s gone?” He scoffs, the taunt clear in his deep voice. “You’ve lost your touch, brother. You’re getting soft.”

A warning snarl drags from the other man’s throat, hazel eyes flicking to the door.

But Cassian sees his chance, head dipping down, incisors piercing your throat, biting down and spilling blood. Your lips part in a scream, paralysed as his venom enters your body, making your limbs feel heavy and clunky.

“Cassian,” Az hisses roughly, forcefully ripping him from you. Pain stings through your shoulder and collar bones, the only thing keeping you up being the hand at your hip and the chest at your front. Pressure wells behind your eyes at the ache, blood trickling down your skin. “What’s gotten into you? One scent catches your attention and suddenly centuries of discipline dissolves?” He snarls lowly, aware of the pulsing power that’s filling the room.

Cassian’s silent, but you can feel his body begin to tremble at your back. Fear drenches your skin as his grip tightens on you with the same display of inhumane strength Rhys had shown after his initial bite. Weakly you try to press closer to the man before you, but his attention is now trained on the blood beading at your throat, the puncture wounds already sealing over.

Terrifying hunger fills the dark hazel of his eyes, and you want to shrink away.

“You’ve got to try her, Az,” Cassian rasps at your back, voice low and strained. “Fuck, that’s the best I’ve ever had.” Wide eyes lock with hazel, silent and pleading. You’d take being returned to that room over this easily, no doubt in your mind.

The dark, raging power grows closer, reaching it’s peak. He’s right there.

Az’s lip curls back for a moment, but then he’s forcing the neckline of your gown over your shoulder, tearing at the lovely cotton in favour of piercing his canines into the softness of your neck. Your head tips back, falling into Cassian as your lips part in a soundless scream, rounding into a pained shape as he drinks, his own venom sinking into you.

Already dizziness is taking over you, but then Cassian is curving over you again, mouth parting, incisors sliding back into your skin with a now pleasurable pain. Arms go limp at your sides as their bloodlust wraps around you, completely overpowered by their hunger as hands grip and grope at your skin.

Tears push from your lashes, dripping down your cheeks as the ecstasy spins your mind, wickedly turning the pain into something soft and blissful. Making you want them to drink deeper, wanting to have their teeth in you, to put their hands across your body.

Darkness explodes through the room, rage blasting through the soft warmth of lust, pulling you from the jaws of vampiric seduction.

The world tilts a little as they pull away, but without the adrenaline of their venom you feel weak. Like you’re unable to go on.

The last thing you remember is the fierce grip on your hips, the possessive touch over your back and shoulders as icy violet brings the night to its crescendo.

Then everything explodes in glittering black.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @amygdtjhddzvb @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks

az taglist: @azrielshadows1nger @jurdanpotter @positivewitch @nightcourt-daydreaming @vanderlinde @marvelouslovely-barnes @v3lv3tf0x @kalulakunundrum @vellichor01