#literally waiting for blade to snap their neck

[lorelune]

That post of the most fucked up relationship of all time x the most vanilla sex is architect Blade 2 me

oh anon so right so true... blade and architect reader are so fucked. literally woven together by kafka's scheming and some unseen script... but when they finally fuck its gonna be the most vanilla yearning awful thing

[yumeboshi]

𝜗𝜚。．．❛ #02. XXX!

𐙚 topic。．hcs of random things that turn on hsr men

．。𝜗𝜚 cw。suggestive content, i wrote this with no brain, MINORS DNI

．。𝜗𝜚 a/n。aven, sunday, and blade. I wanna write for my bootyhill but i need to study him more to get a grip of him lol

#AྀིྀིྀིྀིྀིྀིྀིྀིVENTURINE ⇢ rebuking his argument in a fight

。i js know he would go crazy when you do this 。he’d find people who just agree with him as boring. To him it may look even insincere 。but you? countering his smartly crafted arguments with irresistible logic with your pretty brain, glaring at him as you do with those adorable eyes? 。this man would go from being mad to being horny. tbh he would have probably already been horny in the argument 。nobody can be more masochistic than he is

“ARE YOU STUPID?” You glare at your boyfriend who looks nonchalant as he idly examines the coin between his fingers. “Fucking look at me. Do you know what happens when you join forces with them? You’re just risking the IPC and it will eventually lead to your unfortunate befall.”

You continue barreling on furiously with concrete points. Every time you prove him wrong, his eyes dance and he tries his hardest to bite back the grin that plays at his lips as you rant on. You are so perfect, he thinks- he is nonetheless impressed at you, your wondrous little brain. Something snaps inside of him when he sees you focused on derailing his points, your lips moving quickly to spit out syllables. He feels a loud moan caught in his throat.

“I get it, I’m sorry, princess, I won’t do it.” he suddenly surrenders and you eye him suspiciously as he advances, hands sneaking up to your back. “Let’s talk this out in bed, ‘m gonna apologize to you there.” He says softly, giving you lovely kisses along your neck but the way his fingers dig into your skin lets you know he’s not going to wait any longer.

And you will be confused as hell, because although you did win the argument, you feel like you just lost something else, a hidden little game he never taught you the rules to.

#SྀིྀིྀིྀིྀིྀིྀིྀིUNDAY ⇢ whipped cream on your lips

。hear me out… i have a gut feeling he likes it a little too much 。ik it’s totally random but he will go nuts when he sees you bite down a particularly creamy cake that promptly smears its remains over your mouth- he tries to think of something more dignified, but he just can’t. His poor brain keeps returning to the most vulgar visuals of you. 。he will always point out whatever you had near your mouth when you two eat, because he’s such a clean freak, but anything with cream, specifically white whipped cream, he will be unable to comment on it and fall weirdly silent to he point you are confused why you not hear his scolding to wipe your mouth. 。he’ll just watch you eat dessert with a smile on your face as you savor the taste innocently. Unfortunately his brain is not, and he will start to feel his cock struggle under the fabric. 。”you have cream over your mouth, sweetheart. should i clean it for you?” he’ll sound restrained, like he’s being choked but his expression doesn’t waver. 。and after he found out his new obsession, he will literally only buy you huge whipped cream cakes for dessert.

“THE CAKE HERE IS SO GOOD.” You savor the taste happily and dig into the whipped cream cake and eat without much care. “Where’s it from?”

Sunday is too busy staring at you to register that. The creamy ring around your pink lips. It bothers him in a bad way. It’s making him feel like he is out of breath. His wings flicker wildly like a cooling fan, trying to blow off the heat that suddenly started to build inside his stomach like a raging primal flame that’s trapped by his own conscience.

You tap his shoulder gently and he snaps back to reality and tries to stare at your eyes instead, yes, lovely eyes, he thinks- your words phase in and out as he gulps, darting his eyes back to the cake.

“…the brand? The cake brand?” You ask again, frowning at his silence.

“Ah, yes, sorry, sweetheart. I was thinking of something else for a moment.” He breathlessly apologizes, the words spilling out a little too quickly like an excuse that makes your frown deepen in confusion— he closes his eyes and opens them again so the heat will ebb away. But his plans are obliterated when you take a portion of the cake and eat it, all while looking at him in the eye with curious doe eyes.

That’s when he can’t restrain himself anymore. He suddenly seizes your chin with his gloved hand, making you squeal in surprise when he practically devours your lips, licking up the cream residue around them roughly before shoving it inside your mouth with his tongue. The sweet cream melts when it gets to your mouth, mixing with his saliva that dips down your chin to make messy thick lines.

“It was from a shop at Golden Hour. I hope you like the taste,” he’d say as if he didn’t just feast on your mouth like a starved beast. “Me personally, i think it’s a tad too sweet.”

#BྀིྀིྀིྀིྀིྀིྀིྀིLADE ⇢ treating his wounds

。it’s ironic because Blade doesn’t want to be healed at all 。but how could he refuse you you’re frantically at his door with an emergency kit, worry written all over you- you are like a cute puppy that keeps following him around. 。he lets you do it reluctantly at first, grumbling about it inwardly 。but when you lift up his shirt with no hesitation to put gauze to soak in the blood, his muscles tense visibly, when your touch ghosts over his skin like tiny little lilies blooming in their wake. 。what have you done to him? He feels nothing but tension and something he didn’t want to register, something a little too pleasant to him. 。and at some point he will actually look forward to having his would treated by you. He still likes pain, but he likes your touch drifting over his bruised skin like an innocent butterfly way more.

“DOES IT HURT?” You softly pat the ointment around another fresh scar on his broad chest. It pains you to see that most of the scars are near his heart. You sigh like a worried mother. “You worry me.”

“I enjoy it,” he grunts in response, but his brain ran a quick recap. Enjoy what? The pain? Or your smooth touch?

“Stay still,” you say, and he does, as you carefully squeeze in another ointment into an ugly looking scar. His eyes never leave you the whole time, his muscles tense at the pain but otherwise he’s relaxed. His intimidating stare makes you scared a little, considering this mysterious man didn’t speak his mind often.

“I think that’s it,” you say, quickly trying to lower Blade’s shirt back- but the man grabs your wrist mid-action. You jump, confused. His eyes are unreadable but he states, “You’re not done.”

you frown in puzzlement. “I double-checked, im pretty sure I didn’t miss a spot.”

He lifts his shirt up and with his bandaged finger, cuts open the scar you just treated for him, making it ooze another layer of fresh blood around the dried wound. His lips form a rare smirk as he looks at your wide-eyed stare.

“There, you have a new wound to work on.”

He will do that until you are out of ointment, and the next day he will come visit you first this time with another set of fresh scars.

[aanxiousangel]

I'm always dying for more asl bros content pretty please *sparkly dog eyes*

ᴊᴇᴀʟᴏᴜꜱʏ, ᴊᴇᴀʟᴏᴜꜱʏ~

anˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ANONNNNN YOU READ MY MIND AND STOLE MY HEART goshhhhh i love asl bros I COULD CRY <3 its a little unedited tho fml :') ((and if its not obvious ace is my BABYYYY)) wcˏˋ°•*⁀➷ 2965 total cwˏˋ°•*⁀➷ jealousy, y/n smacks tf out of ace, y/n is kinda fuckin drunk..., cheesy shit

Portgas D Ace

Fire Fist Ace. Loved by many, loved even more by women on the islands. You decided to join him in sailing, tired of being stuck on that island. Sure, you saw Ace as a brother for a long, long time. But…it was inevitable. You hit puberty and suddenly, it wasn’t some sibling bond. It was nothing but blood, sweat, and tears to fight off the emotions.

I mean… Come on. He was tall and fucking hot. Literally. You lost count of how many times he almost burned you when he was still learning how to control his devil fruit powers. In turn, you poured ice cold water on him as some sort of punishment. He wasn’t happy in the slightest.

Eventually, you two grew into some fine young adults. And I mean fine as hell. Pirates swooned over you left and right until they saw Ace constantly by your side. Despite them catching somewhat of a memo, the fangirls did not.

Women flocked to the ebony-haired beauty with ease, practically dogpiling upon seeing him to get to him. Often enough, it earned him a free round of drinks and food in an attempt to catch his attention. It made your skin crawl constantly.

And while he definitely seemed like a flirt, he couldn’t care less. He did enjoy the food and liquor though. He was just so oblivious to you glaring daggers from the bar.

Little to your knowledge, Ace purposely scared men off by your side, throwing evil glares or quite literally spitting fireballs at them. Like your own personal guard dog.

One night, you’d had one too many and you couldn’t help but get irritated. You paid your tab, not giving Ace and his groupies a second glance as you stormed out. It took the drunken sailor a moment, not thinking it was you storming out at first. But the second he caught a whiff of your sweetened scent, he jumped the table, darting out after you.

Hell, you were already halfway to the ship when he spotted you. Have you ever seen a man run so fast in heavy ass boots?! Fuck no. But his impending steps scared the shit out of you. You drew your katana, spinning around to meet Ace’s neck with the blade.

He could see the fear in your eyes until your brain registered it was him. There was a moment where your gaze softened, but quickly turned sour. It made his heart ache. You never gave him that look.

“Why did you leave? The party wasn’t over!” Ace rasped, still catching his breath as you sheathed the sharp blade.

“Go back, Ace,” you snapped, a slight slur between your words.

“C’mon, Y/N, come back with me,” he pouted, knowing it made you weak. His damned puppy-pleading eyes and lip quiver always had you giving in.

“No,” you snapped, turning on your heel to continue going home.

“What the fuck?” Ace fell into step alongside you, staring in disbelief. “You actually just… Y/N! What did I do?”

“Nothing, Ace! Go party with your fanclub,” you huffed out, running a hand through your grimey hair. Gods, you were beginning to sweat just from anger.

“Wait, fanclub? Those chicks? Is that why you’re so pissy?” His voice had risen, as if he had a right to be upset with you. You just wanted to get out of there.

“Pissy?!” You half-laughed half-scoffed, stopping dead in your tracks.

“Yeah! Pissy! You’re bein’ childish!” He mocked your exasperated tone.

“Oh, because you can talk!” A sarcastic laugh escaped you as you pinched the bridge of your nose.

Ace sucked his teeth, “Don’t be a bitch, Y/N.”

Before you could think about your actions, your palm was stinging and his jaw was slack with shock. Neither of you were exactly coordinated at the moment so it was his jawbone catching most of the impact. His hand carefully cupped the stinging sensation, his jaw moving side to side.

“Fuck,” you whispered, staring at him all doe-eyed. “A-Ace, I’m so sorry. I-I…”

“You really pack a fuckin’ punch,” he chuckled, not meeting your eyes.

“I swear it won’t happen…again…” You watched as he took a deep breath, looking up at the sky.

“Stop bottlin’ shit up. That’s exactly what happens. You fucking blow up,” Ace’s voice held no anger, no malice, nothing. He sounded almost like a parent scolding their child.

“I’m going back to the ship.” You whispered, stepping back.

Ace’s fingers wrapped around your wrist, yanking you into him. Nausea hit as you stumbled into his chest. You couldn’t even warn him before it spewed from your mouth, eyes watering as you choked.

“Ew! Y/N!” Ace whined, quickly jumping back.

“You throw a drunk person–” Another wave hit you, forcing you to vomit on the stone road, “And you expect them not to vomit?”

“You stink,” Ace shuddered, stepping back.

“Obviously,” you sobered up, standing up carefully. There was a bit of vomit in your hair making you cringe. “I need a shower.”

“Shit, now I do too,” he whined again, freaking out that a drop of vomit splattered on his leg.

You rolled your eyes, “Could have one of your maidens clean you up.”

Ace frowned at you, “Come on! I thought ya dropped this whole chick thing!”

“Whatever, Ace,” you walked up the gangway, leaving him on the edge of the docks.

You didn’t hear his heavy boots following behind anymore. It twisted your stomach into knots as you walked through the empty ship, finding your way to the bathroom. Your hands weakly worked the nozzles to turn the water warm, eyes still unfocused from the amount of sake you downed to forget the image of him. Specifically the women flanking his sides, shoving alcohol and food down his throat. Somehow, not their tongues.

Steam fogged the bathroom as you undressed, a little wobbly on your feet. Puking was definitely your least favorite thing to do after a party. The door swung open as you worked the buttons on your shorts, a sharp scream escaping you.

“Tell me what the hell I did,” Ace shut the door behind him, hands on his hips like a sassy woman.

“Ace! Get out!” You covered your breasts immediately.

“Tell me what’s got a stick up your ass!” He wasn’t even focused on your tits. Just the fact that he couldn’t understand why you were genuinely angry at him.

“I’m naked, asshole!” You felt dizzy, heavily embarrassed by his intrusion.

“I have boobs too!” Ace motioned to his muscles, clearly not giving a shit how you were freaking out.

“Those are pecs!? Are you dumb?!” You tried shoving him towards the door, but he wasn’t budging.

“Same shit. Now talk,” his boot tapped impatiently as he pouted.

“Oh, my god! Turn around!” You whined, needing to get in the water while it was still hot.

Ace rolled his eyes, turning around. You shoved the rest of your clothes off, almost eating shit as you hid behind the shower curtain, soaked with water. He glanced back, seeing your shadow against the opaque drape.

“Start explainin’.” He moved to sit on the countertop, leaning back against the wall.

“It’s not a big fuckin’ deal, Ace.” You thoroughly washed your hair, the massage making your eyes roll back. Fuck, how long had it been since you felt this clean?

“It is to me, Y/N. That should mean somethin’ to you.” He muttered. Maybe you were hearing things, but he sounded hurt.

“It just gets on my nerves to see women obsess over you.” You stated, closing your eyes as the water drained the bubbles from your locks.

“Someone’s jealous.” His smirk was evident in his voice.

You stayed silent. It wasn’t easy to lie to him. Nor did you want to confirm his suspicions.

“Y/N?”

Nope. Not doing it.

“Y/N.”

You were planning on staying silent but he yanked open the curtain, half worried that you’d magically died in the shower. He let out a sigh of relief when you shrieked, smacking his hand away to pull the curtain back into place.

“Pervert!”

“Am not!”

“Are too!”

“I thought you dropped dead, idiot!”

“Are you dense?!”

Ace pursed his lips, staring at your eyes. What did he do wrong? Obviously, opening the shower might’ve been was wrong. But the anger. You were so angry with him… It actually hurt his feelings. Poor baby.

“Ace, why are you so stuck on this?”

“I don’t want you to be mad at me.”

And there goes your heart. It ached at his words. If you weren’t soaking wet and bare, you would’ve hugged him. So, you did the next best thing you could think of. You told him the truth.

“You’re an idiot.” You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. A habit when you were giving in to whatever he wanted.

“Ouch. Hurtful,” Ace crossed his arms.

“No, not because of that. You’re so fucking blind, Ace. I’m…fuck. I like you! So, yes, I get upset when women are touching you, getting all of your attention. You flirt with them in front of my face. It hurts. You always do that shit.”

Ace’s poor face. His jaw slacked, staring at you. He was stuck on those three words. Was he seriously that drunk..? Was he starting to hallucinate? Had to be. Not…not you, right? How could he be so blind? He was a god at reading women, so, why not you? Right up until this point, he assumed you still saw him as your older brother.

“Earth to Ace?” Your hand waved in front of his face.

“You like me…” He exhaled, not realizing he stopped breathing for a few seconds.

“Yeah, kinda just said that.” You yanked the shower curtain closed to finish up.

“You like me!” Ace yanked it back open.

“Stop that!” You tried fighting his strength without ripping the thin plastic.

“Hell no!” Ace jumped into the shower, almost falling over as he cupped your face. “You fucking like me?! Since when?”

“Sh-ince–” He squished your face too much, making it hard for you to speak clearly. “Ace!”

“Sorry.” He retracted his hands, resting them on his hat.

“Since we were kids, dumbass,” you rubbed your cheeks softly.

“I’m so stupid,” Ace breathed.

“You are,” you went to turn back to your shower, but he was quicker.

The tiles were ice cold against your back. The warmth of his lips made up for it though. He pulled back, looking down at you.

“You taste like vomit.”

“Ace!”

Flame Emperor Sabo

The stars twinkled against the midnight sky. You poor thing, drinking away your feelings. It almost became a monthly ritual. You’d sneak off in the dark with a heavy bottle of sake and sit on the shore’s edge. Water rippled around your toes, leaving icy kisses against your skin.

It wasn’t that you enjoyed being drunk out of your mind. It just took the edge off most times. You actually kind of hated the burn. The flavor wasn’t too great. Flavor… Huh, your mind lingered on wondering what Sabo tasted like. Just one little kiss. Wouldn’t that be something…

This was the first night you finished a whole bottle so you weren’t coherent whatsoever. You didn’t catch the footsteps walking up behind you or his voice softly calling your name. Not until his hand rested on your shoulder did you look over and see him.

His blond curls and black attire made you smile lopsidedly. You thought that you were just starting to see things from your inebriated state. Fuck, how strong was that liquor?

“You look like Sabo,” a giggle escaped you followed by a hiccup.

“I would think so,” he chuckled softly, sitting next to you. “Why are you out here?”

“I don’t know,” you turn your gaze back up to the stars.

“Are you sure about that?” Sabo hummed, gazing up at the sky.

“It’s dumb,” you snort, rubbing your heavy eyes.

“Tell me. I’m a great listener, you know,” he chuckled.

“I just really like him. No…I love him.” You sigh, your eyes growing heavy. You desperately try to fight it off, but it’s getting harder by the second. “But he doesn’t feel the same. So, I drink to force it all out. Or push it down. However it works. It’s a thing now. My thing. I don’t know how you found me.”

“Who?” His voice cracked, his eyes moving to glance at you subtly.

“Sabo.” Now it’s your own voice’s turn to crack. “He’s so sweet, so passionate. He doesn’t have time for a relationship though…”

He stays silent. Did he hear you right? Were you even sure? He could see the bottle was empty. There was no way you were all the way there. You must’ve been drunk out of your mind.

“See? ‘S dumb,” you mumble tiredly. “Just…don’t tell him I told you.”

“I won’t.” He watched your eyes slowly close, your body letting the waves lull you asleep. “I promise.”

Sabo scooped you up, bringing you back to the ship. He made a B-line for his quarters, tucking you into his bed. Out of respect, he wasn’t going to sleep with you. He couldn’t. But…your hand latched onto him tightly, brows furrowed in your sleep. Sabo tried to tug your hand from his coat but fuck, were you strong.

Sabo sighed and slid in beside you, holding you close. “I love you, too, Y/N.”

“I know,” you mumbled drunkenly against his chest, feeling his body tense up against you.

Monkey D Luffy

Oh, sweet Luffy. Such innocence in this strong fighter. It was laughable really. You could absolutely do anything and he wouldn’t bat an eye. Wouldn’t dare second-guess that you were just being you. After all, you two grew up together. Well, you four. But you followed Luffy on his adventure, some sort of instinct to protect this naive kid.

You were really into him. The whole crew could see it from miles away. Nami and Franky always teased you about it. Hell, even Sanji teased you. He tried giving you love advice, but you’d give him a pointed look and he would roll his eyes.

“You don’t have to look at me like that.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Alright! Alright! Tch. I know.”

You’d bring Luffy snacks while he was busy doing things around the ship–if he wasn’t already scavenging the fridge. Or force his stinky self to bathe. He’d scream halfway across the ship, telling the crew you were kidnapping him. Robin would tease that you were like his mother which you’d shiver in disgust.

“So, you enjoy being a parent?”

“What?”

“You’re like his mom.”

“Ew… That feels so wrong.”

One Sunday evening, Luffy came creeping into your room. He watched you carefully, extremely confused. You looked up from your book, raising your eyebrow as he flinched.

“What’s wrong, Luffy?”

“Bath.”

“Is it broken?” You get up, leaving your book on the bed.

“No. You didn’t make me take one.”

You stared at him for a moment before bursting into laughter. “Um, no, I didn’t.”

“Why?” He tilted his head and it made you smile.

“I’m not your mom,” you shrug softly, rubbing your arm awkwardly.

“So?” Luffy, still confused, went over and started tugging you along. “I know you’re not.”

“Where we goin’?” You raised your eyebrow.

“Bath.” He made it sound so obvious.

“You want a bath?” Your hand flew up to your mouth to stop your laughter.

Luffy stepped into the bathroom, pointing at the tub. “No… Yes… I don’t know.”

You started the water, plugging up the drain. He watched you, pouting. Why’d you stop fighting him? Was he being too annoying? His chest felt funny as he stared at you.

“Why aren’t you making me take one?” He asked again, poking your side.

“I figured you didn’t want it.”

You weren’t just going to up and tell him Robin’s comment made you feel strange and distant. You didn’t want him seeing you as his mother. Not when you had feelings for him.

“You’re lying. Your nose moved.”

“What?”

“Your nose. It did that thing when you lied.”

Your face went red, looking away from him. You shut the water off and nodded at it.

“Get in.” You glanced at him.

“No. Why are you lying? We don’t lie to each other.”

Luffy was right. You two didn’t lie to each other. It was just something that stuck all throughout the years. You sighed softly, dropping your head between your hands.

“I know and I’m sorry. But I can’t tell you.”

“That’s the same thing as lying.”

“Luffy, get in the damn tub.”

“Hey! Don’t be mean!” Luffy whined.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m sorry,” you rubbed your face, looking up at him. Dammit. He was adorable. Cute. Really fucking attractive. Especially when he wore his shirt open… Crap. “Luffy, I love you.”

“I love you too,” Luffy tilted his head again. “What’s wrong?”

“No, like, I love love you.” You mumbled.

“What do you mean?” He sat in front of you, forcing you to look at him.

“Like… I have a crush on you, dummy. I love you. In love,” You bit your inner cheek, nervously tapping your heel on the floor.

“And…you didn’t want to make me take a bath because you love love me?” Luffy got up, taking his clothes off.

You looked away until you could hear the water splashing, “It’s not going to make sense.”

“Oh, well,” Luffy laid in the water. Before the effects could fully weaken him, he yanked you into the tub with him. “I think I love love you too.”

“Asshole!” You sputtered, looking up at him now drenched.

Luffy grinned, puckering his lips. Maybe he wasn’t so naive.

[death---dealer]

Jealous Noa does something to me. 😚

hi uh thanks satan now i cant stop thinking about it let's get FERAL

NSFW CONTENT BELOW ( 18+ ) PLEASE READ AT YOUR OWN RISK THANK YOUUUU.

Imagine Noa like... Denying you seeing your friend ( another male ape in the clan who you've gotten close with ). Noa brings it up of course, a bit bitter at the way you smelled that particular afternoon, maybe some added stressors like the Elders being on his ass about something.

Like, you have accidentally brought this Apes SCENT into the nest? How DARE? It's on your clothing, it's in your HAIR, soaked into your SKIN? That's how close in proximity you've been, you're defending yourself, Noa knows that and there's rational thought in there somewhere but he doesn't like it. "You're not allowed to see him again."

"You can't stop me from seeing my friends, Noa!"

"Do you... want to bet?" A phrase you had taught him comes back as he rounds near you, the intentions in his eyes flurrying to you as you swallowed and nodded. Yeah, you wanted to bet. You wanted to find out. "What are you gonna do to me, Eagle Boy?" Your voice is nothing more than a tease to him.

And well

Your clothes are nothing but a tangled mess on the ground, torn to PIECES because Noa doesn't feel like sparing them a second chance, the absolute carnage of his canines against your neck, him swiping your body so you're pressed against him, your back flushed to his chest and he starts trailing his bites along the back of your neck and RIGHT BETWEEN YOUR SHOULDER BLADES.

Right in the most tender spot that he can find and he's holding you against him as you're moaning, squirming and telling him that you're sorry, that you won't hang out with him again and he just. Let's you rub against him like that, letting your scent rub against him of course, but in return, you're getting absolutely blasted with his own and something deep inside of him knows that it's going to take a lot of washing for it to fade.

Plops you right on the nest, face down he doesn't know how to handle his emotions looking at your face, thinking that this other Ape had more intentions with you than you were really willing to realize.

No foreplay this time, he's mounting you. You're his and you know you are as your body is reacting to him, urging him to take you as you moaned his name.

No pleasure outside of the brief moment he shatters into you and your hands are hard to grasp the animal pelt below you, lungs rattling at the pure force and drive of his hips snapping into yours.

I have a feeling he'd be spiteful enough to make you wait to orgasm though, quick for himself to fill you to the brim, marking you even further as you squiggle against him and he can feel you tightening around him as he continues at a slower pace, content in his actions as he light licks the blood from your shoulder blades, lapping his tongue around and giving artistic swirls of red against your skin.

You're begging him, literally, to let you cum. To touch you, to do anything, legs shaking and forearms tense as you were struggling to keep yourself up. You think he's done? No, no. He is on his butt, grasping your legs and tearing you right against him, back once again flushed to his chest as he helps you right him, your legs being almost suspended in air as Noa uses the strength he had to practically man-handle you on his cock. Hard, he's relentless and mean almost, feeling the tug of bruising along the softer nature of your inner thighs but you don't want it to stop. He brushes his tongue along the side of your neck, cementing even more of himself on you as you toss your head back against his shoulder as you finally orgasm against him.

Afterwards is really nice and tender tho like. Noa making sure that he didn't hurt you, making sure that you were okay as he racks his hand through your hair ( Hey another sprinkling of his scent all over you, how sweet <3 ). You're face down in the nest and just laugh as he looks at the pretty nasty bite mark between your shoulder blades with a bit of guilt, thinking that he had actually hurt you. But, you turn your face and laugh softly at him and mutter, "So it took hang out with another Ape to get you to come out like that? I need to hang out with them more."

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 1: Am I More Than You Bargained For Yet]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra's wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook's Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother's life. Now you are in the lair of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting...

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, violence, serious injury, a brief history of burn treatments, alcoholism/addiction, references to sexual content (18+), a wild Sunfyre appears, catching feelings for literally the single most inappropriate man on the planet.

Series title is a lyric from: "7 Minutes in Heaven" by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: "Sugar, We're Goin' Down" by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 5.3k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

💜 I’m going to tag like a bazillion people since this is the first chapter of a new fic, but I WILL NOT TAG YOU AGAIN unless you ask me to. I hope you are all doing well, wherever you are in the world! 💜

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You scream when he grabs you, this lightning strike of a man with a grip like an animal trap that splits bones. He pulls you away from the soldier you’re soothing—a young dark-haired Norcross, disoriented, doomed, his intestines spilling out onto the grass and blood on his lips—and through the forest of smoke and corpses and pine trees. Your eyes sting and water, your boots snag on gnarled roots. When you yelp and stumble to the earth, the man drags you upright again. You struggle like a beast with a blade at its throat, cold, serrated, pressure on the jugular. You shove and scratch at him, trying to plant your boots in soil strewn with gore and glowing embers.

“Stop, stop it, you’re hurting me!”

“Hurry up.”

“You’re going to break my wrist—!”

He wrenches you around to look you full in the face, and only now do you know who he is. A gasp hisses through your teeth; the acrid air in your lungs vanishes. Every muscle and tendon and ligament of you is taut with horror, tight enough to snap. It’s like meeting one of the Seven, the Warrior or Stranger or Smith, a shade you know only from myths and nightmares. It’s like being led to the executioner’s scaffold. His long silver braid hangs over one shoulder. His eyepatch conceals the childhood maiming that left him half-blind. There’s blood and ash on his scarred face, a ruthless breed of fear in his remaining eye, icy blue, creek-shallow, soulless. The man clasping your wrist is Prince Aemond Targaryen. “I’ll break your neck if you don’t come with me now.”

He does not wait for your protest or acquiescence. You couldn’t give it anyway. Your muddied boots move numbly as he tugs you forward, this man they call Aemond One-Eye, a monster, a murderer, a kinslayer. The earth is littered with carnage from the battle, charred ribcages and disemboweled horses, scattered armor and severed limbs. Ashes fall from the smoldering treetops like dark snow.

What does he want from me?

Rape seems unlikely; everyone knows Prince Aemond’s deviancies do not run in that direction. He is cold, hateful, dispassionate, made of stone. He does not lust for anything but power and retribution, fire and blood.

To kill me?

But why not do it here, now? There is a sword hanging from his belt, a dagger in one fist. There is no reason to wait.

To take me prisoner? To feed me to his dragon? To torture me for information?

Surely there are more knowledgeable people around to torture. What use could you be, a healer, a woman? Unless…

Unless he knows who my father is.

You glance down at the fabric band looped around the upper half of your right arm, the only mark you wear of your house, stark white banner, skittering red crabs. It is soaked through with blood. It is unreadable.

Someone is shrieking, but not like a dying man. He has too much fight in him for that, too much glass-clear agony, unwanted blistering consciousness. He screams like someone being flayed, gutted, burned alive. You’ve only ever heard this sound once before. You choke on the greasy, putrid, metallic sweetness of scorched human flesh as it sears down your throat, not knowing if it is real or remembered.

There is a tent in the midst of the pine trees, fluttering canvas that’s green like emeralds or jade. The wind is picking up; you will need to evacuate soon. The cinders will spread and the forest will blaze. Somewhere a dragon is roaring, wounded and mournful like the cry of a lost child. The screams of the man grow louder; they fill your skull like a fever, scalding and senseless and red. Aemond yanks the tent flap aside and pulls you in. And when you breathe it is nothing but the sickening miasma of burnt flesh, coppery blood, suffering, sweat, ruin.

He’s writhing on a wooden table, the man the Greens call king. It has to be him: white-blond hair down to his shoulders, blue eyes and fine aristocratic bones. Two ancient, shaky-handed maesters—hastily commandeered from the defeated House Staunton, you assume—confer nearby, clutching glass bottles of milk of the poppy. A man in armor is cutting tatters of clothing from the so-called king. When he lifts the fabric away, skin sloughs off with it. Aegon wails, struggles, begs him to stop. Aemond goes to his brother and carves away scraps of melted leather and charred cotton with the swift blade of his dagger.

“Shh, shh, don’t fight us, we’re trying to help—”

“Aemond, let me die,” the burned man rasps. He is trembling violently, he is half-mad with pain. Meleys’ flames claimed a swath of his right cheek, his neck and chest and back, his arms down to his wrists, his belly to the crests of his hip bones. “Please. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want it to hurt anymore. Don’t try to help me. Just let me die.”

Aemond looks back at you. “Can you treat this?”

He thinks I’m a Green, you realize with panic, with relief, with terror. And of course he would: you had wandered into the Greens’ side of the battlefield and therefore did not surrender or flee or die with the other Blacks, you were tending to a Green soldier when he found you. Aemond the Kinslayer would not comprehend the notion of service to humankind without a line drawn down the middle of it, of uncategorical compassion.

“Can you help him or not?!” Aemond shouts; and you know that he is not just afraid but shattering, spider-leg cracks inching across a window or a mirror. Perhaps the Greens have souls after all.

You shed your paralysis like daylight erases the stars and approach to examine the so-called king. You do not touch him; still, he whimpers, sobs, quakes like waves in a storm. “He needs more milk of the poppy. A lot more of it.”

“Yes,” Aegon agrees immediately. His streaming eyes—a bleak, murky blue like the sea off Claw Isle—list to you, agonized and grateful.

The maesters gape. “More could kill him,” one says. And they are petrified of being blamed for it. They are plagued by visions of Aemond hacking off their heads and displaying them on spikes above the stone walls of captured Rook’s Rest.

“No drawbacks at all then?” Aegon manages between moans.

“If his pain does not abate, he will die of shock,” you say. “He must be unconscious.”

“Knock me out,” Aegon pleads, pawing at Aemond. “Tell them, tell them.”

Aemond looks to the man in armor: dark-haired, olive-skinned, Dornish. Sir Criston Cole, you realize. The Hand of the King. The Kingmaker. After a moment, Criston nods. “Do it now,” Aemond orders the maesters.

Grimacing, grim, they pour the opalescent liquid into Aegon’s mouth. He gulps it down as quickly as he can. “Enough,” you tell the maesters. Instinctively, you reach out to comfort Aegon: a palm rested lightly on his forehead, fingers threaded through silvery hair that’s filthy with soot and blood. You should hate him, but you don’t. When you look at the Greens’ broken king, you cannot see a murderer, a usurper, a depraved hedonist, a consumer of innocence. You can only see a man worn threadbare by ill-advised bravery.

“Hello, angel,” Aegon murmurs as he gazes up at you, a ghost of a smile on his lips. His eyes really do remind you of home: ocean currents like iron, fog like flint. “Welcome to the end of the world.” And then he’s out, extinguished, eclipsed.

Servants bustle into the tent carrying heavy buckets. “What is that?” you ask.

“Pork lard,” one of the maesters says. “For his wounds.”

“No, no, no, some of these burns are nearly down to the muscle. They’re too deep, too fresh. Lard is for later, to help with scarring, although olive oil or rose oil would be better. He needs to be cleaned with vinegar diluted with water. Or red wine, if that’s all that can be found.”

“Vinegar?!” one of the maesters exclaims.

“It helps prevent infection. Nobody knows why.”

The same maester turns to Aemond, imploring him. “My prince, I can assure you, the Citadel recommends pork lard or cow dung as topical cures, or both used alternatingly. There are also reports of cases where frogs have been helpful, warmed in oil and then rubbed on the affected area.”

Criston blinks. “I’m sorry, you do what with the frogs…?!”

They’re going to kill him, you think. Not with malice, but with stupidity. A wasted life, a wasted death. You demand of the maester: “When was the last time you treated burns this severe?”

He glowers at you, sharp dark eyes like flecks of onyx in a nest of wrinkles. And you know you’ve won when he replies: “When have you?”

“My brother was burned in a housefire started by an upturned lantern. It was five years ago, but I remember the direness his injuries. And what was done to save him.”

Silence in this tent the color of summer: green grass, unsinged trees. Aemond waits for the maesters to produce some astute rebuttal. When they cannot, he orders the servants: “Vinegar, water, rags. Now.” They dash off to oblige him, wide-eyed and quivering like small dogs. Then Aemond looks to you. “What next?”

“His wounds should be treated with honey and then bandaged. The dressings must be changed frequently, at least once per day. He must be repositioned so the scar tissue does not immobilize his joints. He will suffer, it cannot be avoided, but he should suffer as little as possible. Listen to him when he says the pain is too much. Let him sleep. When he is awake, he must drink plenty of fluids. He is losing water through his burns, and it must be replaced. Milk is preferable. Tea and fruit juices are good as well. Some wine is acceptable if that’s what he likes best.”

“And it certainly is,” Criston mutters. You’ve heard the same: that the Greens’ king is a drunk, an adulterer, a coward, a ghoul. You cannot speak to any of this. You know him only as someone who is horrifically pained and sick to death of fighting. Again, without thinking, you comb your fingertips distractedly through his hair as he lies unconscious on the table, bleeding from everywhere. He’s so young, so breakable, so unlike the monster you’ve been led to believe he is.

“Get honey and bandages,” Aemond tells the maesters. They depart, casting each other incredulous glances: Are these our new overlords? Men who heed the wisdom of impetuous young women filthy with blood and earth?

“I’ve heard salt can be helpful for wounds,” Aemond says. “They used it on me when…” He gestures to his eyepatch, to his scar. Lucerys Velaryon took that part of him in self-defense; at least, that is what you have always been told. But you’ve read enough to know that for every event, there are at least two stories. Whatever the truth is, Luke paid for that eye. He paid, Rhaenyra paid, the world continues to pay the price over and over again.

“Because it dries. It absorbs moisture.” You skim your palm over Aegon’s forehead, without lines of fear or anguish as he sleeps. There is a ring on his left hand, a gold dragon with glinting dots of jade for eyes. You twist off the ring so it will not hinder circulation as his fingers swell and give it to Aemond. “But burns weep as they heal. They need to be wet. If they get too dry, they will crack open and fester.”

“Is that what happened to your brother?” Aemond asks.

“Where we did not pay enough attention. The backs of his knees, the soles of his feet.”

“But he survived.”

“Yes,” you tell Aemond; and you can see how desperately he is searching for hope in your face, your words. “He did.”

The servants return with buckets of water, handfuls of rags, glass bottles of vinegar that is cloudy and rust-colored.

“What’s it made from?” you say.

“Fermented a-a-apples, my lady,” one of the boys sputters. He watches Aemond out of the corner of his eye like sheep look for the shadows of wolves. He shivers, he sweats. This boy, who last night was fetching meat and mead for Lord Staunton, has heard the same stories you have: the degenerate king, his murderous brother.

“That’s fine then.” You haul over one of the water buckets and Criston helps you lift it up onto the table. You empty half a bottle of vinegar into the water, mix it by wobbling the bucket back and forth, and then soak a rag in the pungent liquid. “You can help,” you tell Aemond and Criston. “Dip a rag in the bucket, wring it out, then press it to his wounds. Remove any dirt or scraps of fabric. But don’t rub. Try not to damage the skin he has left.” You demonstrate: dabbing at flesh that is torn and bloody and blistered, a black-and-ruby wasteland that at best will leave him irreparably scarred and at worst will swallow his life like ships sink in storms.

Tentatively—with hands at ease with killing but not tenderness—Aemond and Criston join you, studying your movements and imitating them with great care. There is a sniffle, a teardrop that falls onto Aegon’s filthy but unburned left hand and glistens there like a splinter of glass; you are alarmed to see that the Kingmaker is weeping.

“Criston,” Aemond says gently. “We are doing everything we can for him.”

“Since the day he was born, I promised…”

“I know.”

“Your mother…”

“I know,” Aemond says again, and you think: The Greens aren’t demons, they aren’t savages. They’re just patchworks of memory and flesh and suffering, the same as any of us. “He will live. And his sacrifice won us a victory today.”

As you tended to wounded men caked with blood and pine needles, you saw them tangled above in the overcast sky, scales of scarlet and gold and an ancient muddy viridescence. There were flames and shouts, and then all three dragons hurdled towards the earth and out of view. “The Red Queen?” you ask Aemond, mindful to keep your voice perfectly level.

“Dead,” he says: dark satisfaction, fearsome pride. “And so is her rider.”

“The gods are good.” You are amazed at how easily it slips out, a reflex of self-preservation while your mind is elsewhere. Does my father know yet? Does Rhaenyra, does Daemon, does Corlys? People will be searching for you soon. If you do not appear from the smoke and chaos of the battlefield, your eldest brother Clement will come looking with his sword in hand. Everett, scarred and unagile but clever, will be pouring over maps to see where you might have ended up.

There is no suspicion in Aemond’s face when he glances over at you. He is gingerly cleaning soot and charred strips of ruined skin from Aegon’s chest, which rises and falls in deep, slow breaths. “Which family is yours?”

House Celtigar, but you can’t tell him that. You scramble for a noble family of the Crownlands whose accent you share, whose history you have been taught, whose men fight for the Greens but are not so distinguished that Aemond will know them well. “House Thorne.”

He nods. “Are you one of Sir Rickard’s sisters?”

You startle. Perhaps you have chosen the wrong disguise. “Far less illustrious than that. Just a cousin.”

The two maesters return, their archaic hands piled high with linen bandages and glass jars of honey, a fiery gold like sunset. “Set them down over there,” Aemond orders, pointing. He has a presence, it cannot be denied. He is tall, fierce, swift yet calculated. He moves like a man who has killed once, twice, again until it is no longer something that keeps him awake at night. It is something that has become a part of him like arteries or bones. “Prepare a room in the castle.”

“For Prince Aegon?” one of the maesters says, then quickly corrects himself. “I mean, for the king?”

“For until we decide what to do with him.” Aemond stares at Criston. Criston stares back, his dark eyes huge and shiny. There is a war to be waged, but Aegon will not be able to help them. Not for months, at least. Not ever, if he dies. The maesters disappear again, grumbling to each other. Unwelcome tasks, unwelcome guests.

Rhaenys is dead, you think as you work. It doesn’t feel real. Meleys is dead. Hundreds of Black soldiers are dead. Rook’s Rest is the Greens’ greatest victory yet, and one they desperately needed. This war is nowhere near over. And the betting odds keep changing.

You say to Aemond and Criston: “Help me turn him. We must clean the burns on his back as well.”

They listen, they obey, they help you because helping you means helping Aegon. When he is washed as well as he can be, you spread a thin sheen of shimmering honey over his wounds—an amber river that will trap moisture and discourage inflammation—and wrap him in bandages. The only burn you leave uncovered is the one on his right cheek. It creeps up over his pale face like red tentacles, curling and grasping, hungry, insatiable. They match now, you think. Two brothers, two scars.

Criston assembles a group of Green soldiers and Aegon is carried in a litter to the castle that serves as the seat of House Staunton, once allies of Rhaenyra, now traitors, now dead men walking. Outside rain has begun to fall, putting out flames born from dragonfire. The pine forest is saved; wounded men lie in the dirt with their mouths open hoping to quench their thirst. By the time Aegon is placed in an opulent bedroom with a view of Blackwater Bay, he has already bled through his bandages. You clean him again, bandage him, dribble milk of the poppy down his throat when he begins to stir and whimper. Aemond gives you command of a makeshift fleet of caretakers: the two requisitioned maesters, three maids, servants to bring food, drink, bandages, wood for the crackling fireplace.

My family is searching for me, you know as you battle to save their enemy’s life, this maybe-king with silver hair and eyes like deep water.And then: I cannot leave him. Not now, not yet.

In the night, as cool rain patters against the ocean and Aemond and Criston are slaughtering House Staunton men down in the castle courtyard, you dose Aegon with milk of the poppy every few hours. The maesters refuse to take responsibility for it; if the king is poisoned, it will be you who swings from a rope for it. You hold cloths dripping with cold water to his forehead. You feed him nibbles of bread and venison when he is conscious enough to eat, cinnamon tea, pomegranate juice, goat milk. You inspect him for any signs of infection. You braid a small lock of his hair before you’ve stopped to consider why you’re doing it.

And when no one else is watching, you untie the bloodstained armband of your own house and burn it to ashes in the fire.

~~~~~~~~~~

Someone is jostling you, grabbing at you. You fell into an exhausted, sporadic sleep in the next room long after midnight. It’s morning now; warm sunlight blooms like flowers on your face, yellow roses and buttercups and daffodils. When your eyes open, they are sore and unfocused. Aemond is a blur of white hair and black leather. He is tugging on you again, his lithe fingers like a vice around your forearm.

“Stop it, get off me!” You shove him away. He waits, bemused. “You can’t keep dragging me around like this!”

“Why not?”

Because my father is one of the wealthiest men in the Seven Kingdoms. Because I may not have silver hair or a dragon, but if you cut me open the blood of Old Valyria would spill out like red waves. Because the man I am pledged to marry is good at killing, very good at killing, maybe even better than you. “Because I’m a noblewoman. I’m a lady.”

“You don’t act like one,” Aemond counters. “Ladies flee from blood and gore. Ladies are nowhere to be found on battlefields.”

“I like being useful.”

“Then I have brought you a gift. You are needed now. Aegon is asking for you.” And then, when you hurry out of bed, finding your footing on chilly wood floors: “Well, that certainly got you moving quickly.”

“He’s in pain?”

“Not especially, from what I can tell. I think he just wants you.” Aemond glides out of the bedroom. You follow him to Aegon’s chamber. The Greens’ king is propped up in bed on a great mass of pillows, bandaged, limp, eyes glazed and barely open. There are men huddled around him. You recognize Criston, though not the other ones, some old and some young and all in armor. You hope that none of them are Sir Rickard Thorne.

You feel Aegon’s forehead for fever. To your relief, he is no more than modestly warm. He catches your hand, holds it tightly, doesn’t let go. After a moment’s hesitation, you sit down beside him on the edge of the bed. There is a curl of his lips, just a whisper of a smile, just a phantom of one. Aemond glances at you and Aegon with mild interest, then turns his attention to Criston.

“Aegon,” Criston informs the king, patiently, like a good father would. “We have to move you back to King’s Landing.”

“No,” Aegon says. His voice is so low and weak that he’s difficult to hear.

“Your recovery will be long and arduous,” Criston explains. “Aemond and I will be needed in combat. We cannot stay to guard you. The Blacks may try to retake Rook’s Rest. You staying here is not an option. King’s Landing is safer. It is well-supplied, it is protected. And we have our own maesters there who will help tend to you.”

“Can’t leave,” Aegon croaks. “Sunfyre.”

“Aegon—”

“I can’t leave without Sunfyre,” he forces out with immense effort. Then he gasps and moans, tears pooling in his eyes. You offer him milk of the poppy; he guzzles as much as you’ll allow him to have.

Criston sighs. “You can’t stay. And Sunfyre can’t leave. One of his wings was nearly ripped off, he’ll never fly again. We have no way to transport him, he’s too heavy.”

One of the armored men mutters: “And that’s assuming he wouldn’t incinerate anyone who ventured close enough to try.”

“Where is he now?” Aemond asks the man.

“Down on the beach, my prince. Eating dead soldiers.”

Criston shudders. Working in close proximity to dragons has not given him a liking for them.

“Can’t leave him here,” Aegon whispers, shaking his head.

“You must,” Aemond says.

“What if it was Vhagar?”

“I’d leave her. I’d have no choice.”

Aegon frowns, squeezing his eyes shut. It’s all too much for him. “Not the same.”

No, perhaps not; Aemond’s dragon may be the largest and most lethal in the world, but Aegon’s bond with Sunfyre is said to be what legends are built of, words written in ink and stone. You watch the agonized confliction on Aegon’s drawn face: can’t leave, can’t stay, can’t fight, can’t run. You say softly: “Could Sunfyre be assigned a detachment of guards?”

Aemond looks at you as if just remembering you’re here. “What?”

“Men could be tasked with ensuring the dragon is secure and fed. From a safe distance, of course. They could report on his health. Then perhaps when he is stronger, he can be reunited with the king.” The king. Again, it stuns you how easily the treason rolls out, like waves bubbling over rocks and sand.

Aemond turns to Criston. “Could it be done?”

“I don’t foresee many men volunteering for the task. But it could be done, yes. Sure.”

Aemond asks his brother: “Would that make a difference?”

Aegon’s eyes drift to you. They are churning with sluggish, clunky thoughts, heavy burdens to bear on raw shoulders. The braid that you wove absentmindedly into his hair is still there. “Alright,” Aegon agrees at last. “I’ll go.”

“Good,” Aemond says. “We leave at dawn tomorrow.” Then he looks to you. “You will come south with us.” His tone invites no argument. He doesn’t even conceive of it as a possibility. Why would you refuse? Why would you, a purportedly devout Green, shy away from the opportunity to nurse your king back to health? You bow your head in compliance. You wonder what is being discussed in the Black Council; you wonder what your father is thinking, what Everett believes happened to you.

“But I have to see him first,” Aegon says.

Aemond does not understand. “See who?”

“Sunfyre.”

“But you can’t walk to the beach,” Criston says. “You can’t walk anywhere.”

Aegon grins, showing his teeth. His dazed, deep blue eyes glitter mischieviously. His hand has not disentangled itself from yours. “Then carry me.”

The deal is struck, like a face minted onto a coin or a bolt of lightning meeting the earth. Soldiers transport Aegon down to the stony, mist-sopped shoreline. Blade-sharp agony is flooding back into his face, but he refuses more milk of the poppy. He wants to be awake when he gets there. He wants to be himself.

The soldiers cannot get too close to Sunfyre; no one besides Aegon can. He is helped off the litter and then tries to amble across the wet, grey sand. After a few steps he collapses. You rush to him, dodging Aemond and Criston’s grasps as they try to stop you.

“No,” Aegon says when you attempt to help him to his feet. He is panting from the pain, his face flushed with torment and exertion. His white-blond hair whips in the wind. “Do not follow me. Not even if I pass out, not even if I’m dead. I don’t know what Sunfyre would do to you.” And then he crawls forward alone on his hands and knees.

Waves crash, spraying saltwater into the air. Crabs scuttle over rocks. Gulls swoop low to claim mouthfuls of flesh from bloated corpses in worthless uniforms. The dragon known as Sunfyre the Golden is curled up on the beach. Many of his metallic scales are singed; the pink membranes of his wings are tattered like lace. His right wing hangs at a ruinously odd angle. You would know how to set that if he was a human. And you could do it without the threat of being reduced to ash and history.

Sunfyre unravels as Aegon nears him, long angular face rising, frayed wings settling by his sides. You have seen dragons before, of course—Syrax, Caraxes, Arrax, Vermax, Meleys—though never from this close. They horrify you. You cannot look at them without thinking of the devastation they sow like a plague, of how they so unmistakably no longer belong in this world.

Sunfyre’s head stretches out towards his rider, a half-dead man kneeling in wet sand and wearing only bandages and loose cotton trousers. Beside you, Sir Criston Cole sucks in a noisy, nervous breath. Aemond watches Aegon, his face like stone. His hair hangs in long, damp waves.

Aegon embraces Sunfyre, clinging to him, resting his face against the dragon’s. They stay like that for what feels like a very long time. Then Aegon crawls back to you, sobbing with pain by the time he is lifted into the litter. You give him milk of the poppy and he accepts it eagerly. He is unconscious again within seconds. Down the beach, Sunfyre looses a soft desolate cry like a plea: Don’t go. Don’t leave me. You might never come back.

~~~~~~~~~~

The drivers have been instructed to proceed slowly and with caution; still, the carriage pitches and jolts as you traverse the Rosby Road towards King’s Landing. In addition to the caravan’s most precious cargo—the Greens’ fragile and intermittently sentient king—it transports also two severed heads: Lord Simon Staunton’s in a basket, and Meleys’ in the bed of a mule-drawn wagon. High above in slate-grey clouds, Aemond and Vhagar are safeguarding your progress. Criston rides on a monstrous warhorse just outside the carriage. You are leafing through a book that you found in the castle library at Rook’s Rest: anatomy, surgery, sicknesses and cures. Aegon is bandaged and heavily medicated in the cushioned seat across from you. While servants flit in and out frequently, you are the only passengers in the carriage at the moment. You do not know that Aegon is awake until he speaks.

“Sinful,” he says. His voice is groggy, only half-here. He is gazing blearily at the illustration on the open pages of your book: a quite detailed naked man, his arteries and veins mapped like the roads of Westeros, his cock bare and sizeable.

“It’s informative,” you reply in your own defense, smiling.

“My father would have hit me for looking at something like that. If he’d noticed.” Aegon smirks, resting his head against the back of his velvet seat. His hair has been scrubbed and rinsed by servants, the braid you made for him undone. “He probably wouldn’t have noticed.”

“Mine has a great love for all books.” Bartimos Celtigar is eternally turning pages: computations, records, revenue. He does not just sit on Rhaenyra’s council. He is her Master of Coin. He funds her war effort, he fuels her like wood to a fire. “Besides, I have seen naked men in person. No book can scandalize me now.”

A little twitch of his silvery eyebrows: fascination, amusement. “He does not lose sleep over your spent innocence?”

“He has other things on his mind presently.”

“Like what?”

Like helping Rhaenyra win the war. You find a different truth to tell him. “Some men consider one daughter to be too many. My father has four. His attention is thoroughly divided.”

“He doesn’t like you?”

“He likes me plenty. He just doesn’t need me.”

Aegon nods. His eyes travel over you slowly and meditatively, not leering but learning, memorizing slopes and angles, taking you in like he’s never been able to before. He is in the brief lull between doses of milk of the poppy: lucid enough to speak but not so much that he can feel the full extent of his injuries. “Are you married?”

This is a bit of a fraught subject. “I am betrothed.”

“Oh,” he says, with what might be disappointment. “And he wouldn’t rather have you home right now? Putting all that knowledge of male anatomy to good use? That’s difficult to believe.”

You peer evasively down at your book. “He has a role to play in the war. I’ve been given permission to serve in my own way until it is over.”

“Permission,” Aegon echoes. He finds this interesting. He studies you for a while before he asks, his voice gentle: “What’s wrong with him?”

“Nothing. He’s honorable, he’s brave. He’s marvelously formidable. He could carry you around like a sack of potatoes.”

Aegon chuckles, a slow reflective laugh, curiosity, intrigue, something to think about besides the fact that he’s missing half his skin. “Do you fear marriage?”

What is the answer to that question? Do you even know yourself? “I fear being possessed. And having no remedy if the circumstances are not to my liking.”

“You can’t get one of your three superfluous sisters to marry him instead?”

You smile faintly. “No, we’ve met. He chose me, he favored me. I’m not sure why.”

“Probably because you’ve read all there is to know about cocks.” Aegon grins, drowsy and crooked and playful. “Who is he?”

“Just a man,” you say. You can’t tell Aegon more than that. It would give your Black affiliations away.

You are betrothed to the Warden of the North, Lord Cregan Stark.

[xotication]

idc what anyone says, i lowk feel like kaneki is such a slut, & he doesn’t even realize it.

like he’ll send you shirtless pics when he wakes up but he means no harm. he just wakes up that way & stretches his arm out to snap a quick pic. you’ll NEVER complain but it’s just so mmm. what’s more is that he doesn’t even think he has a great body or anything, but you drool over every picture.

when you sleep over at his house, he always wakes up before you so he can cook the two of you a nice lil breakfast.. it’s just that when you walk in & see him with no shirt & black sweats hangin from his v line, you damn near drop to the ground. he looks so fucken good with his hair shaggy & his lil puffy sleepy eyes nd swollen lips. you could DIE for this man.

omg nd when he showers, he’ll wrap the towel around his waist & not even like tuck it in. he’s just loosely holding it nd his hands look soso pretty. plus he doesn’t mind if you’re in the room or not.. he’s gonna get changed. & don’t get me started. HIS BACKKKK?! it’s not huge or anything but it’s just nice to look at; the way that his shoulder blades move nd everything. you’ll never feel ashamed for snapping a pic of it either.

when you guys go out, he will not keep his hands off of you. especially if you’re wearing a dress or a skirt..? his full attention is on you. not even just because you look good, but bc he’s making sure that shit doesn’t ride up in the slightest. if it does? he’s wasting no time in running his hands down your body & pulling it down. & he’ll give you a “be mindful, sweetheart. there’s people around” AAAHHHH!!!

you just melt at this. because deep down you know you don’t have to be mindful of shit. his eyes are on you like a fucken hawk. don’t even think abt leaving his line of sight.

kaneki also can never pull you in for a kiss normally?! like when he wants it, he’ll get it. he fucken grabs you by the neck nd pulls you in for one. either that or he’ll lift your chin up & then let his hand rest on your neck. it’s so dwkfjeksk. your mind goes hazy.

one thing abt him is that you literally don’t have to do anything but breathe around him. you’ll be trying to open a water bottle, he’ll come & open it for you. someone’ll ask you a question & he’ll answer it for you. you need to go somewhere? he’s driving you. you’re tired? he’ll carry you to the bed. going out with friends? he’s putting your socks nd shoes on for you. he’s quite literally told you “when you’re with me, you barely have to think baby” like HELLO?! stop that.

also unpopular belief but. he SENDS YOU NUT VIDS!!! like he’ll outwardly tell you he’s horny bc he doesn’t gaf abt tmi. your his partner nd 1,000% the reason he’s feeling that way anyway. so he’ll be sitting pretty in front of his mirror, making the most prettiest noises too. nd he’ll send that shit to you like it’s nothing.

“fuck y/n” “you’re so fucking pretty baby” “making me feel so good— shit” “can’t wait to touch you— gonna fucken cum”

LIKE?!?! i need to stop. i’m fainting.

ugh. i could go on & ON about this man but i’ll leave it here.

[snakeredbirdbatkatana]

Damian's panicking.

It was idiotic the moment he saw Grandfather enter Gotham he should have called Father, or Richard even Todd but instead he went on a one man sucide mission.

He knows that he has nothing to prove he didnt have to track Ra's down egaged him in a fight that he can't win.

Especially when he isn't fighting to kill even back in the league trying his hardest he never measured up, his Grandfather has been and will always be untouchable.

He's down katana lost somewhere down below it's almost fitting another Robin dangling off the top of Wayne enterprises. Pearched at his throat a Katana ready to tear through blade sharpenerd that even with only the slight pressure a drop of blood has already rolled down his neck.

He will die again at the hands of another member of his family he seems immortal until it comes to another Al Ghul.

Tears start to slide down he hears grandfathers cruel laughter at how pathetic his grandson is he closes his eyes he doesn't want to see.

A sharp gasp reaches his ears and than a pained moan.

His eyes snap open.

Ra's Al Ghul stands a blade protruding from his heart that is quickly ripped out as he drops to his knees.

Damian's forces his gaze to move from his grandfathers bleeding corpse to the figure holding the blade.

His brother stands in nothing more than his suit he can't help the relieved sob as he pulls himself further away from the edge and throws himself into Tim's waiting arms.

"How did you find me, how did you get here so fast," he forces out through the sobs that's are starting to hurt his chest.

Tim pulls away enough to force Damian's head to gaze up.

"Oh sweetheart, Dami your literally on top of my building, Nevermind that kiddo I'll always find you."

He collapses back into his brothers arms burrowing as far as he can into his chest he doesn't have the energy to do much else other than cling.

He feels Tim shift him so he's carrying Damian as the adrenaline runs out. He doesn't try to fight sleep as he dozes off feeling safer than he ever has with the brother who saved him.

His brother who must have run from whatever meeting he was in without any armor to rescue his little brother. He wasn't saved by Red Robin but by Tim Drake and for once he can't imagine how he ever wished for a different one.

[fandom-imagines-stories]

Running in the Dark

Matt Murdock x Reader

Words: 4139

Summary: The reader’s work as a decoy for one of Matt’s clients puts her in some hot water with her boyfriend- as well as a jealous ex-husband who has connections more dangerous than anyone could have imagined. 

Notes: This one honestly came about when I was walking around my campus at night. I literally pictured Matt watching over me from the top of the Humanities building. Yes, I am doing fine, how are you?

Warnings: Violence, general peril (I just love making the reader get herself into trouble, don’t I?)

More Matt Murdock: HERE

-

You knew he was there. Your eyes scanned the rooftops of the buildings enclosing you. Even though you couldn’t see him, you could feel him. Standing. Watching. Waiting. You could practically hear his frustrated pacing, his furious objections.

“This is a bad idea. There are other ways. Safer ways. You don’t need to do this.” 

All things he had said before tonight. 

But this was about more than just playing decoy so a woman could be free of her abusive ex-husband. 

This was about what that piece of shit could do for them. 

You may not have been able to hear him, but you knew he could hear you. So, as you pulled Nancy Bartman’s door closed and your hood further over your face- careful to let your hair show- you muttered up at the figure hiding in the shadows. 

“Back. Off.” 

Your phone buzzed in your pocket. You ignored it. 

Jogging at night in Hell’s Kitchen alone was a risk all on its own. Every alley you passed seemed to lurk with some unseen threat. Every shifting sound put you on edge. 

God, you were turning into Matt. 

You turned the corner to the street where Detective Morrow was waiting in a dark Sudan. If this didn’t work, everything could go back to square one. They had to catch this guy. You had to catch this guy. He knew something. Nancy wouldn’t say what, but you could tell she was holding something back. Bartman was the key. You could just feel it. 

The Sudan crept forward, keeping far enough away to not look suspicious, but close enough to give you a crumb of comfort. 

You could do this. 

“Promise me you won’t do anything stupid.”

“Says the one who misses date night to go after crime bosses.”

You couldn’t wait to see the look on Matt’s face when this was over. His mild annoyance of being wrong overshadowed by pride. Proud that his girlfriend had made a difference. That you had not only helped a woman in need but also got them one step closer to catching the bigger villain here. Fisk. 

You could do this. 

A hand pulled you into the alley. 

“Did you think it would be this easy, Nance?” Corey Bartman hissed into your ear, pinning you against the brick. “Did you think you could just leave me like that?”

You lifted your head, letting your hood fall back. “You’re never going to hurt your wife again, Corey,” you spat. 

The man’s eyes widened, then filled with rage. “Why you little bitch-”

You heard the flick of a switchblade. 

“Corey Bartman, you’re under arrest!” Detective Morrow’s boomed. 

Corey flipped you around, arm across your chest, and switchblade at your throat. Morrow raised her gun, as did the other cops. 

No no no, you needed him alive. 

“Drop the knife, Mr. Bartman,” Morrow ordered. “This is not how you want this to end.” 

“Don’t be stupid, Corey,” you muttered, trying to swallow without cutting yourself. You lowered your voice to a whisper, your words meant for a different presence. You could feel him, looming from one of the above rooftops. If Corey went any further, he would reveal himself and that would be a whole other problem.  “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“What did you say to me?” Corey snapped, tugging you closer. The blade dug just enough into your neck to break skin. You winced. 

Matt would smell the blood. 

“Don’t do anything stupid,” you said again, hoping he would listen. 

“You can come back from this, Mr. Bartman,” Morrow said. She stepped closer, eyes meeting yours. “But not if you hurt her.”

You gave her a small nod, feeling the blood drip down your neck. 

Bartman gripped you, his hot breath on your ear. “This isn’t over.” 

He let you go. 

You couldn’t help the sigh of relief, pushing yourself away from him as Morrow pushed him against the wall and cuffed him. 

“You okay, Y/L/N?” She asked. “Theo, call a bus!”

“No, I’m fine,” you said. “Really. It’s just a scratch.” 

She handed Morrow off to another officer to put him in the car. “Are you sure? That looks like it hurts.”

“Nothing a little whiskey won’t help,” you smirked. 

“Yeah well, go get yourself a drink then.” She gave you a smile and put a hand on your shoulder. “You earned it.” She started to walk away, turning back. “I expect you bright and early at the station to give a statement though.”

You gave her a mock salute. “Yes ma’am.”

Morrow joined the rest of her team. You sagged back against the wall. 

“I know you’re there,” you breathed out. 

A gloved hand pulled you further into the alley, out of sight from the others. The hand lifted to your neck, just below your new wound. 

“He hurt you,” Matt growled. His other hand held onto your arm, holding you to him. “Morrow shouldn’t have let it get that far. He could have…” Matt trailed off. What if Bartman had done worse? What if he didn’t have time to stop him? 

“Hey,” you said softly, laying your own hand on his cheek, feeling the fabric of the mask under your fingers. “I’m okay.” You checked to make sure no one was coming, then brought his lips down to yours. When you pulled back again, you were smiling. “We got him.” 

Matt couldn’t help but return your grin. “You got him.” 

“I told you I would.” You poked his chest teasingly. “It was unwise to doubt me.”

“I never said I doubted you.”

“It was heavily implied,” you laughed, making yourself wince from the sting in your neck. 

Matt’s expression softened under his mask. “Come on. We should get that cleaned.”

You didn’t argue this time, letting him lead you back home. 

-

It had been a long night for both of you. By the time you got back to Matt’s apartment, exhaustion sagged in your shoulders and weighed in his steps. You breathed in the familiar air like you were drinking water in the desert. Matt’s hand found the small of your back, guiding you to the couch while he grabbed his first aid kit. 

“Really, Matt, it’s just a scratch,” you insisted. 

He didn’t listen, finding a cloth to dab at the now-drying blood on your neck. You winced a little, the alcohol stinging the open cut. 

Neither of you said anything. The silence hurt more than the cut did. 

“I know you’re upset,” you started softly. “But I told Nancy I would help to keep her safe. Now, she is.” 

Matt stayed quiet, putting the kit away. 

“Matt, please. I knew what I was doing.” You reached for him, fingers grazing his arm. “And I knew you were there, watching over me. I knew that I was safe.” 

In one quick motion, Matt pulled you into his arms. It almost felt like he was shaking. 

“Don’t scare me like that again,” he whispered into your hair. “Please.” 

You sat, shocked for a second. Then, you wrapped your arms around him, running a soothing hand up his back. 

“I’ll try my best,” you teased, pulling away to look into those perfect dark, unfocused eyes. “I’m okay, Matty.” 

Matt’s hands cupped your face, gently bringing your lips to his as if to remind himself you were here. You weren’t hurt, not too badly anyway. He hadn’t lost you. You were here. 

“I’m okay,” you said again against his lips. 

Matt pulled you into his lap, your legs on either side of his hips. 

“We should get some rest,” he murmured, resting his forehead against yours. “I’ve got a big day tomorrow thanks to you.”

You bit your lip to contain your giggling. “You’re welcome.” 

Matt’s hand found the back of your head, tangling his fingers in your hair. 

You leaned into his touch. “You’re right, though.” You pulled away from him, smirking. “We really should get some sleep.” 

His head fell back against the couch, a deep chuckle rumbling from his chest. Matt listened as the zipper of your sweatshirt, the fabric brushing over your skin as you took it off, walking toward the bedroom. 

“Are you coming or not?” You asked. 

In a blink, Matt was on his feet and following. 

-

Tangled limbs, sweat-stained sheets, and the memory of sighs filling the space enveloped you as you fell asleep. Matt kept his arms around you, as if afraid you’d run off and do something stupid. Not that sneaking out was ever an option with him. The problem with dating someone with enhanced senses. An overprotective someone who didn’t like it when you did your job because it occasionally put you in dangerous situations. Dangerous situations that you were perfectly capable of getting yourself out of. 

These were the thoughts running through your head as you stared up at the ceiling, Matt’s head against your stomach, his arms draped around your waist. 

Then, Bartman crept into your mind. And with him, came Fisk. 

Fisk. 

Bartman could have papers, maybe even whole files tying him to Fisk’s operation. But they would be at his apartment. The apartment that now lay empty with its inhabitant locked up. But Fisk would send someone… if he hadn’t already. 

You sat up slowly, trying to keep from moving Matt’s arm too much. 

If you could get to the apartment first, if you could find something, anything that could incriminate Fisk, you could wrap this up tonight. In and out under the cover of dark. Easy. 

“Where are you going?” 

You flinched. Maybe not so easy. 

Matt sat up beside you, kissing your shoulder. “Hmm?”

“My apartment?” God, even if he didn’t hear your heartbeat, that was unconvincing. You started to stand, but Matt gently grabbed your arm. 

“You want to go over there,” he said softly. 

You sighed. “There’s a lot of information just ripe for the taking.”

“So breaking and entering, theft, and pissing off a guy who beats his tenants into leaving is your plan?” 

“Well, I think we’re well past the pissing him off stage,” you said. 

Matt frowned. 

“All the more reason you need to stay here.” He moved closer to you, but you stood up. If he held you, you would let him. And you needed to work.

“I can’t just let this lie, Matt. He hurt people. Innocent families. And he did it all for Fisk.” You ran a hand through your hair, gathering and putting your clothes back on. “We have a chance to take them both down.”

Matt stood as well, putting his hands on your arms. “You’ve done enough. You helped them catch Bartman. Let the detective do the rest.”

You pushed him away. “You mean let you do the rest.” You crossed your arms, keeping just out of his reach. “You don’t get to lecture me about being safe when you go out there and do the exact same thing.” 

“Because I know how to take care of myself, Y/N,” Matt fired back. “You go out there, unarmed and unprepared and you might as well be digging your own-”

“I am not helpless!” You screamed, cutting him off. “I don’t need protection, I don’t need to be coddled, and I don’t need you.” 

As soon as you said the words, you felt them sink in, watching Matt’s face fall. He took a breath, squared back his shoulders, and his features hardened again. 

“Fine,” he said, concerningly calm. 

You were shaking from the raging mix of emotions inside you and it infuriated you to know that he could tell. He knew every tick, every clue to how you worked. And you knew so little about him. 

 “Fine,” you snapped. You turned, grabbing your keys. 

“Y/N, wait-” Matt started, his voice tinged with worry. 

But you were already gone. 

-

The sun hadn’t yet risen and the streetlights gave the world a menacing, muted yellow glow. You walked with your arms crossed over your chest, hands tucked under your arms to ward off the cold, and your sweatshirt hood pulled up. You couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being followed and it made you shiver more than the early morning air. 

“I swear to god, Matt,” you muttered to yourself, but, of course, there was no answer. You kept walking, head down and eyes searching. It wasn’t hard to find Bartman’s apartment again. You’d gone over it so many times with the detective that it felt like you’d been there a million times, even if you had never set foot inside. 

You went down the list, pressing each buzzer until someone let you in. It surprised you a little. After everything Bartman had put his tenants through, you expected them to be a little more cautious of who they let in. Maybe they didn’t have the energy to care anymore. After all, if the evil comes from within, what outside could be worse?

Going up the stairs, that creeping sense that made your hair stand on edge never went away. It was like someone was following right behind you, breathing down your neck. This wasn’t Matt. That was for sure. When he followed you, leaping from rooftop to rooftop, you knew it was to keep you safe. It wasn’t overbearing or dark. As annoying as it was sometimes that he didn’t trust you could take care of yourself, you always felt warmth in his presence. Like nothing could happen to you. 

This feeling wanted to hurt you. It wanted you scared. It wanted you to run. 

You picked the lock to Bartman’s apartment quickly and slipped inside. 

Everything was dark and the heater rattled and sputtered, doing little to warm up the frigid room. Many of the light fixtures lacked bulbs, probably to save on electricity. He was cheap with his building, so you weren’t entirely surprised to find he skimped on his own living situation. Besides, Fisk probably promised him a palace compared to this place. 

You turned on the flashlight on your phone and swept over the various, disgusting surfaces. You didn’t want to know what most of the stains on the tables and counters and floors were. When Fisk found men to do his dirty work, they certainly were dirty. 

Through the mess, you found what looked like it could have been a desk in another, cleaner life, and started going through the drawers. All you needed was something, anything that could connect Fisk’s companies and accounts to Bartman. Even if it was just a simple check, it could be enough for a warrant or at least an investigation into Fisk. 

As you rummaged around, the door clicked open and shut behind you. 

“I was hoping I’d get to see you again.” 

Your shoulders tensed. Your hand slowly reached for the taser in your pocket. 

“It was a clever trick, you know.” Bartman stepped toward you, flicking on one of the lamps that retained their bulb. “You look like her.” He took another step. “You’ve got that same bitchiness when you walk. Like you’re better than everyone. Better than me.” He ran a thumb across his bottom lip. “Still… you just happen to be my type, sweetheart.” 

“Stay away from me, Mr. Bartman.” 

“You pretended to be my wife, you can at least call me by my first name.” He held out his hand with a mocking grin. “Jerry Bartman. I would say it’s a pleasure, but it won’t be for you.” 

You backed away, but your back hit the desk behind you. 

There was nowhere to run. 

Shit.

“Who made your bail, Mr. Bartman?” You asked pointedly.

He just chuckled, looming over you. “I’ve got friends in high places, little girl.” His eyes fell behind you to an envelope sticking out of the bottom drawer. 

Bingo. 

“Thank you,” you said, regaining a little of your confidence. “For being such an idiot.”

You jammed the taser into his side, listening to it crackle against his flesh. He yelped and stumbled backward, giving you enough time to grab the envelope and dart for the door. 

His hand caught your ankle first, yanking you to the hard, uncarpeted floor. You landed on your right arm and felt something crack. Your scream was cut off by a kick to your stomach. 

“You…. little… bitch…” Bartman gasped out, holding his side with one hand and pulling back for another hit with the other. 

The door opened. 

Bartman looked up. 

The shot.

The blood. 

The body landed on top of you with crushing force, knocking the scream out of your lungs. 

As the tears cleared from your vision, you saw the man standing over you, dressed in black, with an indifferent expression painting his features. You scrambled to push Bartman’s lifeless form off of you. 

“Shame,” he said. He sounded bored. Like your life was little more than a nuisance he had to deal with. “And you’ve been so helpful getting him out of our way.” 

He raised his gun. 

Not knowing what else to do, you ran towards him, ramming into his ribs with your shoulder and making your arm scream from the secondary impact. He grunted and the second gunshot echoed through the apartment, finding its mark in the lamp bulb, shattering the only light in the apartment. 

You were plunged back into darkness, but so was your attacker. 

Remember what Matt taught you. Feel the air move. Listen to the smallest sounds. And never, ever let your guard down. 

A stumbling step signaled you to the man’s swing, allowing you to dive out of the way before his fist could collide with your already sore ribs. 

“What the hell?” He hissed. He reloaded his gun. 

You kept low and moved quickly, holding your throbbing arm against your torso. Judging by the thundering steps and the sound of him stumbling into things, Bartman’s killer was completely blinded by the dark. 

You ducked into the hallway and found it almost as dark as the room before. Someone had shut off the lights to the whole building. The only light was the EXIT sign at the end of the hall, tinting everything in a deep, menacing red. You could hear Mr. Trigger Happy still coming after you, and debated between your two escapes; down the stairs to hide on one of the lower floors, or out onto the faster fire escape, but left you exposed. 

You ran to the red sign. 

A quiet scream escaped your throat, a hand grabbing your arm and pulling you away from the exit. Your mouth was covered by a hand before you could scream again. Your back hit something firm behind you and an arm locked across your chest, holding you tightly. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay it’s me,” Matt whispered, his breath hot against the back of your neck, breathing heavily like he’d run here. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.” 

You whipped around, his arms wrapping around you, caging you safely in his embrace. 

“Matt,” you gasped, voice low so only he would hear. “They killed him. Fisk. He sent someone. He killed Bartman.” You shook in his hold, turning your head to try and look down the dark hallway. “There has to be more of them. We need to get out of here before they come.” 

Matt gently pushed you back, one hand firmly on your shoulder, the other gentle, softly tracing down your cheek. He could feel your heart racing, your broken bone scraping against itself, your cracked ribs creaking with every scared breath. Every sound only amplified in his chest. 

“Where is he?” He growled, feeling his anger bubbling over. 

“He isn’t important,” you said, a small smile breaking through your panic. You held up the envelope. “I think I found something. Bartman didn’t want me to find this and, clearly, this creep didn’t either.”

Matt shook his head, the black fabric of his mask molding to his hard expression. 

“Did Fisk’s man see you?” 

You swallowed. 

Your silence was enough. 

Matt moved you behind the wall, concealing you in a dark corner, and started back toward Bartman’s apartment. 

“Stay here,” he said. 

“Like hell,” you snapped. Tucking the envelope into your back waistband, you hurried after him. 

Matt turned, jaw tensed and tone dangerous. “Get out of here, Y/N. Go home.”

“What, so you can beat the shit out of some guy who shot at me?” You put your good hand on your hip. “I’m not going to hide. I want to finish this. Nancy Bartman deserves to stop being afraid. We all do.” 

Matt pushed you behind him. 

You grimaced, the spreading pain in your arm worsened by the sudden movement. 

“Really?” The hitman scoffed. “If I had known you’d be joining the party, I would have been quicker with the lady.” He smirked at you. “Friends in low places, huh?” 

“Fisk has you,” you glowered, stepping out from behind Matt, “I have him.” 

“Two birds-” He aimed at Matt’s head. “One stone.” 

Matt moved like a bullet, knocking the man back, twisting his arm to an unnatural angle, and kicking the gun across the floor all in one fluid series of actions. 

You didn’t waste time, picking up the gun and turning it on its former owner. Matt kept him on the ground, knee between his shoulder blades. You pressed the barrel against his temple. 

“Why did you kill Bartman?” You asked. 

“You know, if you wanted to get me going, you didn’t have to bring your friend.”

Matt dug his knee down. 

The man cried out. 

“Why did you kill Bartman?” You asked again, already knowing the answer. 

The assassin glared up at you, his eyes glowing in the red light. “Loose end. Just like you.” 

“Why does Fisk want this building?” 

“He made a deal.”

“So you do work for Fisk?” You pressed the metal harder against his skin, a small victorious rush coursing through you enough to ignore the screaming in your arm. 

He jerked suddenly, lunging for you. 

Matt slammed the man’s head against the carpet once… twice… The man stopped moving, though you could see his chest rise and fall faintly. 

“Did you hear that?” You exclaimed. “Of course, you heard it.” 

Matt didn’t say anything. He just grunted as he got the man up, pulling him back to the apartment and laying him beside Bartman’s dead body. 

“Call the police. I’ll make sure they find him here.” 

You did as he asked, saying that you were a neighbor and heard all the noise. He called Claire so she could be at the apartment to treat your arm. Then, you followed Matt up the roof where he could listen for the police to come. He didn’t say a word to you the entire time.

You could feel the anger tensed up in his shoulders and it wasn’t from the fight. This was a different anger, one that wasn’t violent or loud or could be worked out by hitting something. This was anger that came from one thing: fear. 

“I didn’t think they would come after him tonight,” you said softly, “let alone pay his bail and send him home.” 

Matt’s covered face stayed turned away from you. 

You took off the mask. “Matt, please.” With a hand on his cheek, you made him face you, staring into his beautiful, unstarring eyes. There were tears in them. 

“When I heard the second gunshot…” He whispered, voice cracking. 

A shot of guilt splintered through your chest. 

But you weren’t going to back down. 

“I know you think you are the only one who can face all of this, but you aren’t,” you said gently, but firmly. “You aren’t alone, Matt. We have to be partners if this is ever going to work.” 

Matt sighed. He listened to your heartbeat, reminding himself that it was still beating. You had made it through, even if he thought he’d been too late. You did that. He slowly brought your lips up to his, careful not to move your arm too much. 

When you both eventually pulled back, a small smirk spread across his face. 

“You know, when you were standing there, gun against that guy's head, even I was a little intimidated,” he chuckled. 

“Right? I can be a badass when I want to be,” you snickered, laying your head on his shoulder. You turned so you could see his face, lightly kissing his jaw. “We make a pretty good team. Maybe you should let me go out with you…”

Matt laughed, the sound turning less amused. “Don’t push it.” 

He wrapped an arm around your shoulders and you held your injured arm in your lap as he held you. The two of you sat and waited for the sirens and lights to break through the dark of the night. 

-

Hey look, I remembered the tag list this time!

General Tag: @rae-gar-targaryen; @takemepedropascall; @childhood-imagination; @mylovegoesto; @yellowbadgergirl; @itmejado; @suckmyapplejacks; @kendahl0216; @yellowbubblewrap

[konigbabe]

John Price headcanons (SFW & NSFW)

Author: @konigbabe

Pairing: John Price x f!reader

Warnings: domestic!Price; fluff; nsfw [smut] below the cut

A/N: A small bunch of relationship-related headcanons I came up with ever since my obsession over Capt. Price came to life. This is my own idea of how Price is in a relationship! NSFW under the cut.

masterlist • request • faq • taglist • AO3

─ ୨ SFW ୧ ─

Okay, so you two definitely met either during one of his missions with TF 141 when you were assigned to help or at some pub near his place.

If you two met at the pub, he made the first move almost immediately after spotting you.

"And I thought the scotch was the only good thing about this place."

For the fun of it, you dodged his advances at first but at the end of the day, you agreed on a date.

If you two met on a mission, he didn't act on his attraction towards you until the mission was successfully and completely over. He was your captain and a professional after all.

You said the L word first despite him knowing he loved you since your first kiss.

He doesn't hurry anything. That's why it took him ages to ask you to move in with him.

He's not home too much and always getting called back to work but when he is at home, his days revolve mostly around you.

You love dancing with him even when he's just standing in the middle of your living room while you circle around him dancing to modern pop. He prefers 80s and 90s music - what he grew up on - but still lets you have a blast with to Lady Gaga or Beyonce.

He loves cooking you breakfast, especially because he wakes up before you and won't wait for you to cook for him.

He's a tea drinker while you love your cup of coffee.

You always wear his shirts at home - they are comfortable and warm and if he's not home, they are your reminder of him.

Sometimes, he lets you trim his beard in the morning - you still in his old shirt that you use as pjs, sitting on the bathroom counter with his calloused hands running up and down your thighs and his eyes fixated on your focused gaze as you ever-so-carefully slide the blade on his cheeks.

He's a silent observer - watching you dust, cook, read or do your favorite things, he will always be around, his eyes never leaving your figure as you move around the house.

Price isn't a big fan of PDA but he goes absolutely feral when someone hits on you outside. He wraps his arm around your waist or holds your hand or even gives you a kiss just to prove that you belong together.

Not a big fan of dates outside the house - he would rather cook you a romantic dinner and run a warm bath with rose petals and candles just so you two can spend the evening together, without the prying eyes of other people.

He always buys you candles even tho you never lit them (except for the dates).

He's absolutely a sucker for skinship even inside the house - his hands always on your waist, fingertips grazing your arms, casual kisses on temple/forehead/jawline/neck or literally anywhere he can reach, "thank yous" always followed by a peck on the lips.

The primal urge you give him whenever he sees you doing your evening yoga to relax your muscles before bed...

─ ୨ NSFW ୧ ─

...and you know what your yoga routine does to him so you use it as a weapon whenever you want to fuck.

Price is a switch but still remains a power bottom.

He's a pussy-pleaser and a gentleman inside and outside the bedroom - ladies always first (preferably multiple times).

He loves eating you out while you're sitting on a table or the edge of the bed.

He prefers deep penetration positions where he can see your face and touch you - his ultimate favorite is the cowgirl.

He secretly likes it when you take control from time to time, holding his hands above his head while sinking deep on his cock as he watches you take all of him, the feeling of proudness only adding to his pleasure as he snaps his hips upwards, getting a satisfying moan out of you.

He always, always makes sure to clean you out with his tongue afterward as you lay on the bed, completely submitted to his mercy.

Both of you are big on aftercare.

He's a gentle dominant lover most of the time but there are days, usually right after he comes home from work when the only thing he wants to do is spend the rest of the day balls deep inside you - you two don't even need to be fucking, he just wants your cunt to warm his cock, to feel the tight squeeze of you.

During those days, he sometimes goes totally primal in bed - sure, he makes sure you come before he's even inside you but after that? You feel like nothing but his own sex toy as he manhandles you into any position known to humankind and uses your body to chase his own desired high. And you taking it all makes him love you even more.

The first time he wrapped his fingers around your throat and the sound you made, it caused him to lose his rhythm as he watched your pupils grow and moans become louder than he ever heard.

He loves it when you deepthroat him but never forces you to do it.

He was the first person to make your legs shake during sex - you always believed it was only a myth until you met Price.

He might need some time recovering after each round but that man can go for HOURS - he's a captain for a reason after all.

[inkofthebrain]

Of The Trees (1)

[Mizu x masc!foreign!swordswoman!reader]

Tags: first-person, follows canon(ish), classic Edo era xenophobia, slight violence, blood (literally once), mentions of captivity, They/He/She pronouns for Mizu (progresses through story just trust)

Word count: 1,050

AN: I got a few requests that had similar vibes so I just combined them. Felt like doing first-person for funzies? Let’s see how it goes… I was giggiling and kicking my feet thinking about this.

——————

Hidden deep in the trees away from the buzz of civilization there were rumors among the locals of a wakizashi*-weiilding demon. A foreigner living high in the trees, attacking unexpexting travelers. Those brave enough would attempt to kill the horrid thing, yet none ever returned from the depths of trees. Tales of its brutality merged into the existence of life and death.

In that transition I find myself, laying on the thick bark. My journey thus far has been nothing but cruel. Stolen off the streets to be kept as entertainment for a benevolent smuggler known as Fowler. Years spent studying his warriors, earning his trust, sneaking into his office to look at maps. Plotting. Plotting my escape. Years spent traversing the harsh uninhabited nature, far from people. Time spent hunting animals and robbing men who were sent after me for weapons and clothes. I know what the locals think of me, I know they want me dead. A life of seclusion has been the only option.

Sitting close to the trail, waiting for a carriage of supplies to pass hoping to swipe the essentials, my chest slowly rises and falls as I find a moment of relaxation in the harsh Japanese winter. The snap of a branch pulls me into focus as I sit up, hand on my blade, looking into the path. I see a figure, staring up past the branches and into my eyes. Stabilizing myself on the trunk I stand up, jumping to a neighboring tree. The figures gaze follows, switching to the hand gripping the hilt at my side. Examining every detail, every movement. Suddenly they move their hand to unsheathe their blade and I spring forward, tackling them. Subsequently this knocks off their glasses and wide brimmed hat.

As our bodies hit the frozen ground, my blade pinning them to the slush by their neck, a small gasp leaves my body as our eyes meet. Piercing blue eyes look back at me in an almost unnerving way. Holding no emotion, just waiting. Watching. For the first time they blink. The moment has been interrupted, the stare broken for a brief moment. They don’t move at all, they don’t even try to fight you.

They stare down at the blade pressed against their neck and simply takes a breath. The next couple of seconds are spent in complete silence, just eyes looking into eyes. Fear, anger, confusion. All running through my body, burning with adrenaline. The silence is soon broken by a velvety smooth voice.

“You know how to use that sword” They mutter. This comments pulls me back into reality as I kick their katana out for reach and press my blade slightly harder into their neck, scowling at them.

“Then I assume you have killed before?” They speak again, still looking into my eyes.

“I’ll do it again” I say, my voice hoarse from silence.

“I believe that much” They state.

“Who sent you? The Fangs? Shindo?” I demand, bending down closer to their face, slightly applying more pressure to my blade, a thin trail of blood comes from where blade meets skin. The stranger pauses, still staring intently into my eyes as a quick flash of confusion crosses their face.

“I was sent by no one. I am simply passing through, now may I ask you a question?”

I glare at them in response. Staying silent, I glande down at my blade pondering if I’d be better off just killing them now.

“I asked you a question” The voice comes again, sending shocks down your spine. Its smoothness juxtaposing the harsh air. “You did not answer it, let me ask again: May I ask you something?”

I let out a scoff of annoyance, aggravated by their formality.

“Yes but then you must leave and tell no one of me” I say blandly.

They finally has an expression: a slight almost imperceptible frown. It disappears just as fast and the figure simply shrugs their shoulders and nods at me.

“Very well then. I do not care about anyone else enough to speak of this.” She pauses, her eyes have me transfixed, such a beautiful blue. “May you please pull your blade away, this situation is quite uncomfortable.”

I let out a groan as I come to my feet, keeping my blade pointed at their figure.

“Ask your damn question” I snarl, annoyance lacing every letter.

They finally shows a small bit of emotion, but it is nothing more than a small smirk, voice becoming slightly more sarcastic and teasing.

"Such language.” They sigh, “It does not suit you."

“Leave now or I will kill you” I say, tightening my grip on my blade. This time her smirk completely fades into cold apathy and her voice becomes cold and emotionless again.

“You would have done so already, I’ve heard about you. The devil in the trees. Lurking, seeking its revenge on those who brought it to Japan.” She says slowly, inspecting my reaction. My face is still, yet internally my mind is on fire. Questioning how this stranger knew this, how they found me,

“What do you want” I say.

They let out a small hum before speaking, “Information. That of which I know you have” They start.

“Why should I help you?” I question angrily.

“Madam Kaji told me of you, of Fowler. I must find him.” They state. My lips pull into a line at the mention of the brothel owner. We talked countless times while she serviced Fowler, showing me great compassion as I told her of my life under his control. She had helped me plan my escape, providing a safe landing place as long as I was never seen my customers. My eyes leave their gaze as I glance at the ground, taking a breath.

“Why are you looking for Fowler” I ask, shocked at her statement.

“I’m going to kill him.” They say in an emotionless tone, the voice of one that has killed before. My arm falls to my side, lowering my blade. I meet their blue eyes once more.

“Fine.” I pause. A look of approval flashes across their face. “On my terms only.” I say

“And what are those?” The stranger asks, slightly cocking their head to the side.

“I get to help”

——

| Wakizashi (a short sword)

——————

AN: IM SORRYYY, I’m splitting it up into two (maybe more, might make it a series…) parts! Hope you guys enjoyed. Smooches and love.

[neptunescore]

for ur driver pairing and a random word oneshot, can i ask for sebmark and the random word is monaco

Prompt word: Monaco | Pairing: Sebmark

“Ugh.”

Mark grumbled as he swiped the blade across his beard again.

Fuck sky sports for calling him in so late — what was their need for him anyway? They literally had every retired driver on their payroll, but noooo, they needed Mark to fill in the emergency spot. God —

Another swipe.

They couldn’t even tell him a week prior. No! They just had to wait till yesterday afternoon!

‘Oh! You have to be there by tomorrow morning, Mark! It’s Monaco, Mark. You know how it gets!’

The retired driver let out a groan, resting his hands on the basin in front of him as he pulled himself closer to the mirror — carefully checking to see if he’d managed to get everything. It’d been so long since he’d gone clean-shaved. He was diligent with his barber appointments, always making sure he got a touch-up every 2 weeks. The poor man was awful at trimming and styling his own hair; no matter if it was on his face or on his head, his hands simply refused to follow any instructions his frustrated mind tried to provide.

Yeah, fuck his job. Couldn’t even let him go to his barber’s before dragging him here. Of course he fucking knew how Monaco worked, he’d fucking won here for Christ’s sake! Twice! The way he’d wrap his hands around the neck of whichever sick sod bailed so late —

An abrupt snap stopped his inner rant; Mark’s head shifted as he slowly looked down at the sink with bewilderment. Was that-

Was that a crack? Oh my god. It was. What in the fuck. What kind of shitty hotel room had they given him. Why couldn’t he have a single break already? Why —

The reporter stepped back, closing his eyes and pursing his lips before swivelling around and making his way back to the main room, electing to ignore what had just happened; instead, shifting his focus to putting on some decent clothes so he could finally head out to the godforsaken track that was causing him all this misery.

Eyes lifting up; his gaze caught against the window next to him, a muted pang running through him as he registered the dark green banner attached to the lamppost in front.

Seb.

Oh, how he missed him.

Mark could already feel a sense of melancholy reaching for him; A clouding of nostalgia as he remembered their whirlwind romance, remembered their promise to come back to each other — to settle down properly when they both felt right in the head again.

The taller man had done his part, he’d reached out to Sebastian as soon as he felt he could, an unanswered text laying in their chat logs as Mark forced himself to remain satisfied with the small glimpses he caught of the other’s life now.

Maybe Seb hadn’t meant it. Maybe he’d moved on —

The shrill ring of an alarm.

Fuck, he was late!

The brunette pulled on his clothes, swearing as his elbow bumped against the closet handle, and the telltale pain of what could only be a forming bruise encapsulated it. He hopped side to side as he pulled his pants on, nearly slipping and falling as he hurriedly rummaged through his suitcase to find his paddock pass.

The sharp ding of a bell.

What idiot was outside his room?

Mark walked towards his door frantically, pulling at the knob with irritating force as he prepared himself to shout at whichever poor lad had thought itself okay to interrupt him this late.

“Mark.”

His eyes widened.

“Mark. I’m retiring, Mark.”

His jaw dropped.

“Oh, for god’s sake-”

Cracked lips pressed against his, teeth knocking together. Mark could already hear Sebastian’s laughter as he felt his knees give out.

This was so fun! I honestly had no idea what to write for it at the beginning, but I think i did a pretty good job🤭 I hope you like it nonnie!💗 i listened to 'kiss her, you fool!' while writing this, and that's probably the reason for that kiss in the end, but I love it🤗.

As always, divider credit to @cafekitsune ♡

Rules and details☆°•~

[fiikaela]

By the Blades We Meet

*mysteriously reappears* *drops a random chapter*

yoo this time we finally get to see and interact with our boi ganondorf more!! Semi-long chapter ig...?

Chapter two if you feel like it; feel free to skip Chapter one since nothing really happens

--

Chapter three

"We sincerely welcome all the leaders of our diverse nation to attend this important meeting. On behalf of our glorious King..."

The snobby, short Hylian's sentence dragged on, saying the most grandiose but empty things that one would ever have the pleasure to listen to. Ganondorf sat at the fancy, unnecessarily long table, boredom already sneaking up his head.

It was such a nuisance to have him--and virtually every other leader of the nations--rush over first thing in the morning only to be greeted with such a pretentious speech. He had set out from the desert before the break of the dawn, bringing a small troupe of close guards. It was so rushed that he didn't even have time to wait around and give that to you himself.

Right, you.

The mysterious young woman whose power and strength not only matched his, but has the formidable potential to overpower him; whose blade might as well cut through his own if he wasn't as careful. His hand trailed over to his chest subconsciously at the thought, the scars from yesterday's fight were gone thanks to a few fairy tonics, but the sting of it was still reminiscent. Someone who could truly match his own power without any help from others... that idea brings such an odd flavor of excitement in his chest. You bring such an odd feeling in his chest.

Plus, you didn't look bad for a Sheikah either.

He'd seen lots of women throughout his lifetime--apart from the fact that he was literally born into a tribe where he's the only male--you probably couldn't be counted as the most physically attractive out of all of them. You are, however, one of the scarce few that had ever piqued his genuine interest. Was it the way you had so confidently faced him as an opponent? Was it the way you had danced your way through all the other fights without breaking a single sweat? Was it the determination and seriousness that seemed to still the air around you once you realized how strong he was? Or was it that fleeting moment as he claimed his victory, his blade pointing at your neck as you looked up to him like he was the one thing you had looked for all your life?

That brief instant of softness that had thawed your stoic expression and melted the sharp look in your eyes... He can't help but to wonder if you'll behave the same way towards a lover: would that momentary gentleness be solidified as a permanent fondness? Would you lean against your lover, with a gentleness that will dissolve every single negativity? His mind wandered, trying to picture it onto your face. A smile that's like the warmth of the sun? A surprise that seem to put stars in your eyes? A blush that dusts even over your sharp ears?

He chewed on that idea, somehow being more fascinated by it than he originally thought. What expressions can he prompt you to make? What would your reaction be, if he were to ask something out of the blue, like your hand in marriage as half a joke? What would your reaction be, if he'd decided to lean just a bit closer, to-

A quiet cough to his right snapped him back to reality. Slightly annoyed, he turned to look at the red shark who had interrupted his--well, he wouldn't necessarily call it a fantasy--his train of thought. The king of the Zora motioned behind him at the servant who was holding something over their extended hands ceremoniously.

Listen. The shark mouthed, nudging his head slightly towards the Hyrulean King, who is slowly standing up from his seat. All the others quickly followed suit, watching him curiously.

"King Ganondorf." The Hyrulean king spoke up, raising one arm to gesture towards Ganondorf, "for that valiant endeavor you had done to protect us from a group of infiltrators the other day, I hereby humbly present you a gift as an honor for your bravery. Please accept it, it would be the most gracious of you."

Oh... it was that time when he defended the king when a group of Yiga Clan barged into the castle. The fight was child's play, they were a bunch of idiots anyways. Even though all Ganondorf did was throwing off the five masked men who jumped on him and proceeded to knock them away with the handle of his own blade, that somehow went past the Hylian king's head who thought it was a "dangerously close assassination attempt". Ganondorf isn't too interested in correct him.

It was quite funny to hear the prideful king of Hyrule spoke so humbly, as if he was scared of Ganondorf. Well, it appears that a lot of people seem to hold him at a high esteem after the news that he was found, apparently, unconscious beside a forest by a passing traveler. He eventually became the king of the Gerudo again for the honor of tradition, but the feared whispered across some of the people didn't go unheard from his ears. It seems that he'd done something bad, but he can't place his hands on exactly what. The majority of his memories were almost wiped clean, with nothing but foggy, blurry scenes that sometimes came to haunt him. Well, that's what he presumed those recurring nightmares to be, like the one staring up at the ceiling of a cave for thousands of years.

It felt so real. He'd felt each day pass by, unable to move, with every second that turned into swirling green and occasional drops of water. Something kept being conjured up inside of him and taken away. He would get bored, so bored he'd started to count the days as time slowly trickled by.

The servant walked over solemnly, handing him something small and heavy. Ganondorf unwrapped the cloth to find a small dagger, heavy with delicate ornaments and designs, lying motionlessly on the servant's outstretched hands.

It is pretty, but utterly useless in battle.

He felt the admiring gazes all across the room, even the usual grumpy Goron leader seemed to look at him in awe. The amount of respect he saw in everyone's eyes were quite foreign, but not unwelcome.

He always got the feeling that he shouldn't be looked up with respect, but fear. It was almost on an instinctual level, incomprehensible to his logical mind, but out of almost a habit. It tugged at something deep inside his head that he can't recall, it felt like war, conflict, euphoria, and rage. All mixed up into a confusing jumble.

All that aside, he took the blade in both hands, and bowed his head. The king said something, and after so much formalities he finally sat down.

Much to his own amusement, his thoughts wandered back to you out of everything. He can't wait for this to be over and return to his home, where he would find you somewhere.

...  ...  ...

You sat on the very top of Gerudo Town, your beloved flute in hand as you watched the last sliver of colors fade into the night. Soft notes flowed off your fingertips, dissolving in the gentle winds of the evening. You can be as lost in the scene as you want, years of practice granting you the convenience of playing pieces automatically without thought.

You seemed to have become some kind of celebrity for challenging the king, all the adults inviting you to drinks and all the little kids surrounding you and asking you to teach them sword techniques. You don't dislike the attention, but you don't like it either. A part of you just wanted to be left alone as a stranger, a part of you wanted to seek out Ganondorf. You aren't sure why, but maybe just to talk about random things or spar once more would suffice. Unfortunately he's out of town for the whole day on some business thing in Hyrule. Busy guy, you thought with a hint of bitterness.

It's just a little boring without him, you supposed.

The melody came to a conclusion, with the stop of the last note you lowered the flute, head slowly whirring out of the trance. Quiet claps sounded, and only then when you snapped your head to that direction you realized that you had an audience who sat right beside you that giant rock.

"Ganondorf?" You almost jumped, not knowing when he came here or when he even came back to town. You had expected some loud commotion and such when the king comes back, but you heard nothing; perhaps you have been too focused on your playing. He smirked at you, clearly satisfied with your reaction.

"Yes, you remembered my name," he said, rolling his eyes jokingly, "congratulations."

You gave him a deadpanned look, "it's not polite to sneak up on someone."

"It is impolite to give no formalities for a king, either." He retorted, cocking a fiery eyebrow at you, his lips curled playfully.

To be honest, it didn't look bad on him.

"Well then, I guess we are both even." You said lightly, turning away to make you sure you accidentally stare.

"Very well. But not even get a warm welcome from my dear opponent?" His huffed, tilting his head down to peer at you.

"Welcome back." You sighed, unsure if it was the same snarky and confident person who had won you in a duel yesterday. He snickered at your exasperated response, a sound that made your heart skip a beat.

"Good girl." He hummed, the eyes boring into you had a weird look you can't name. It's almost testing, but also dark, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared, making you doubt whether it was a trick of the light.

You nodded, slightly caught off guard by this comment. Maybe it's a Gerudo traditional thing to say to someone, you never know.

"So... How was it in Hyrule today? You left awfully early." You started, diverging the conversation before it could go south.

"Ah. I'm glad you asked. Seems like my little bird cares about my sleep schedule?"

Hylia. Does he have to make everything sound so... flirtatious? He studied your expression for a second, before continuing on.

"Just the usual, calling us over for some 'important meeting' but actually the king wanting an active audience." He grinned in his own humor, gaining a small smile from you. "How have you been doing? Not too sore from yesterday, I hope?"

"Nah," you ignored his not-so-clever wordplay, "just hanging around in town."

"Sounds relaxing."

"Sure."

He chuckled at your dry reply. You seemed to relax around him, your shoulders easing off and your legs started to swing lightly over the ledge. For some reason, he finds this version of you to be very endearing.

"By the way, you are not only a talented fighter, you are also a good flautist," he grinned warmly at you, "you should showcase this during our festivals, if you ever feel the desire to, I'm sure my sisters will all enjoy it very much."

"Thanks." You brushed away a strand of hair, slightly flattered by the unexpected compliment. Though to such a flirty person like him, it's probably something he'd do to everyone he meets.

"Though, I won't mind to have you all to myself."

You looked up at him, slightly confused at the lack of context. You saw that that same, almost possessive look flitting over his eyes, then melted back to the glowing amber they were before, making you doubt again if it was a trick of the light. He looked at you expectantly, as if waiting for a response that you had missed. You could also swear that he is now a bit closer to you than before.

"Pardon?" You asked, secretly glad the way the night wind rushed over your ears, relieving the heat that threatened to come up.

"I would be most pleased to enjoy your music a little longer," he gestured to the flute, then back at you with a slightly tip of his head. "Anything you like."

Ah... so he meant the flute, not whatever else you thought you heard. You sighed in relief, raising the instrument to your lips, allowing your hands to take over the melody.

You did not, however, know was that Ganondorf meant exactly what he said. It was more of a little test to see your response, though to his slight disappointment and amusement, you didn't seem to catch the hint. Well, it just means he have to try harder.

The music unwind itself, the airy flute sighed along with the wind. It was a sad tune, almost nostalgic as if he had heard this somewhere before, in a life long forgotten. Your eyes were closed, light tainting your eyelashes as if they were covered in snowflakes. He couldn't help but to stare.

Moonlight bounced off your silvery locks, kissing your features with an otherworldly grace. Your features were, in his words, delicate, but not that fragile kind of delicacy carved by a skilled hand on glass, no. It was the kind of delicacy that held the subtlety that wields both strength and elegance. One that he finds himself to be somehow entranced with.

He may as well have mistaken you for a goddess.

His view shifted to your hands, at the fingers that danced so adeptly over the instrument. A proficiency that can be only sculptured by years of practice, and he admires it so much. Maybe he'll even ask you to teach him someday.

Before either of you know it, the music winded to the last note, you stopped, allowing the silence to linger just a bit longer. You can feel his eyes boring into you this entire time, and for the first time in your life, you aren't sure how to approach it. Did he like the music? Was it too simple of a tune?

"Beautiful. You truly are a wonderful musician."

His breath seemed to tickle your ear as he murmured those words. You felt a shiver running down your spine, the dawning realization of how close you two are washed over you.

You could feel his shoulder brushing against yours, could hear the soft dangling jewels that hang around his toned biceps, could feel the strands of red locks brushing against the thin Gerudo fabric on you. You could almost feel the heat that radiated off his large stature. Your heartbeat quickened, hand instinctively wanting to grab onto your katana.

"You flatter me." You said simply, in an attempt to cover your restlessness.

"On another note--no pun intended-- did you like the gift I sent in earlier today?"

You huffed a small laugh at his joke, feeling the atmosphere relax once more.

Ah, he must be talking about that pretty, unnecessarily heavy ring with a giant ruby fixed in the middle. You even thought of selling it until the guard who handed to you said it was sent by "King Ganondorf, and he hopes that you have had a restful night." Deadpanned, you pocketed that thing in hope of returning it to its sender today. Who does he thing he's joking around with?

"Right, I want to return it to you." You fished around your pockets, handing the ring back to him. "I appreciate your thoughtfulness, however."

"Why?" He tilted his head curiously, "I choose to gift it to you, it is yours to keep, no need to be shy about it." 

You were never the one who loves extravagant gifts anyways. What use would something be, if all it's meant for was to be displayed and showcased for nothing but its appearance?

"It's just... I don't think I'll have much use of this, you know." Since this is inefficient anyways.

"Isn't it beautiful, though?" He took over the ring, twirling it under the moonlight, making the light reflect in all kinds of ways, "if you want me to take back such a nice gift to you, you have to at least give me a convincing reason, hm?"

His voice dropped to a soft purr, you could hear the way his breath sounded, quiet in his chest, which almost vibrated against your shoulder.

"You won't be offended?" Funny, people usually would've either blown up or sulked by now.

"I would be offended if you didn't be honest with me."

You looked at him skeptically, but saw no deceit in those golden eyes.

"It's just quite... impractical, you know. I wouldn't want to wear this ring while I'm holding a sword, a flute, or whatever." You said, "even though I think it's pretty, there's nothing beyond that."

He seems to be chewing on your response. You supposed that he didn't expect your taste to be so low. But honestly, what did he expect?

A hearty laugh boomed from his chest, it rumbled like storm clouds in his chest, giving you a slight jump in its suddenness. You glanced up curiously, hearing the way the gold jingled in his laughter.

"What irony! I just received a similar gift today!" He reached around the other side and pulled out an exquisitely embroidered dagger. It had a golden handle, and a white blade that looks like it's made out of jade. Not to mention the uncountable number of jewels that glimmered in the night like stars. "What do you think?" He asked, you can still hear the smile in his voice.

"Inefficient." You mumbled, which was responded with another laughter and a pat on your back.

"Exactly! That was my first thought as well! What a huge coincidence!"

You laughed awkward along with him, "this looks really expensive, where did you get it?"

"It was a gift by the Hyrulean King. I defended him from a group of Yiga Clans."

Your immediate look of disappointment was golden.

"The Yiga Clan?" You repeated, "must've been a notoriously difficult fight."

He grinned in your sarcasm, giving you an almost appreciative glance, "they are quite the clowns though," he agreed.

"Yeah."

He paused, as if thinking something.

"How about... we both keep our gifts as a memory for this... ironic coincidence?" He nudged your arm lightly, mischief twinkling in his eyes.

Such a witty offer to solve this problem.

"Sure." You mumbled, secretly complimenting him for such a clever idea. You took over the ring and pocketed again, leaning back onto the stone. "But please, no more of this. I don't even know where I can keep it." You added quickly, in case he's getting new ideas of toying with you again.

He chuckled, muttering some assurances that he wouldn't send those anymore.

Maybe it's time to adjust his plans a little bit.

Maybe asking your hand in marriage wouldn't be too much of a joke. He'll just have to see.

--

Thanks for reading!! Sorry im just going erratically about updating this. Absolutely baffled by the support i received on the last one y'all are too kind 😭

i think im getting an interesting direction to where the story would be going (surprisingly). There is a possibility that im going to take the story into a darker turn with him finding out about his past and succumbing to his own desires--with the reader being the catalyst and center to that possessiveness and darkness, but dont take my word for this im not even sure yet :<

OH AND I FINALLY FINISHED TOTK GANONDORF FIGHT IT WAS EPIC FHDSGHJASjFSHJ

[thethistlegirlwrites]

Trapped

To her credit, Joey isn’t panicking. Yet. There are dried tear tracks on her face, but she’s not screaming or yelling.

Maybe it’s just practical. Nico had sure as hell screamed when that silver trap snapped shut on his leg, and no one came running. Maybe she’s already figured that out.

Joey is never one to waste her energy on a lost cause.

But Nico doesn’t know when to give up. 

He lunges at the vamp beside her, trying to draw attention away from Joey and onto himself. He’s pretty sure she’s been bound to the dual I-beam support pole that’s one of the few parts still standing in this old factory, but if he can give her half a chance to get away, he’ll take it.

All he succeeds in doing is hitting the end of the chain that is apparently welded to one of the floor beams that’s now buried under a dense tangle of rank grass and decaying weeds. Which is also how he missed seeing the trap waiting for him.

That, and he was paying a little too much attention to Joey, and the monster holding a silver-bladed kukri to her throat, to watch where he was stepping.

He can’t pry the trap off his leg. Every surface is coated in silver. Touching it burns his hands. The kind of grip he’d need to pry it off would leave him in so much pain he’d never be strong enough to manage it.

He can feel the trap’s teeth sinking deeper into his leg with every move he makes, but still straining to reach the flat piece of rusting steel he can see beneath another tangle of brownish leaves. If he doesn’t have to touch the trap…

The vamp steps forward, glances down at the exact piece of metal Nico’s fingers are inches from, then catches it with his boot, sending it flying, clattering, to the far end of the crumbling room.

Nico bellows something between a scream and a roar, lunging at the vamp but nowhere near close to touching him. He falls back to the floor, leg burning as the trap’s teeth dig in even further. The more he struggles, the worse it will be.

He’s not sure exactly how this day went so badly wrong, but he does know when it did. 

He’d thought it was taking Joey a long time to finish up on the third floor. But after he’d walked through every room calling for her, he’d found her mop bucket next to smashed glass with a note taped to the mop handle.

An address, and a warning. To come alone or get his mentee back in a coffin for good.

“What do you want from me?”

“I want my fledgling back.” The vamp snarls. “And you made sure I couldn’t take him.”

Nico’s first mentee was a mother of three, Roxie Conover. His second was Javier Avila. The third is Joey.

They’d never been able to determine who Javy Avila’s sire was. 

Well, they know now.

Not that Nico has a name to put with the face.

A face staring down at him while holding a blade to the neck of his mentee.

“You took something of mine,” the vamp hisses. “Now, I’m going to take something of yours.”

“Don’t you touch her. You can do whatever you want to me, just let her go.”

“Oh, no, that just wouldn’t do. I want you to know that you are powerless to stop me. Nothing you can do but watch.” He steps back slightly and swings the blade with a practiced arc, and Joey flinches back from it. “Trapped, just like I was in one of the hunters’ cages, while you took away what was mine.”

It’s starting to make a certain amount of sense. Javy was bitten in Nevada. Nevada is quite literally the wild west of hunting. There’s one official agency operating in Las Vegas, but the rest of the state is more or less patrolled by vigilantes with all sorts of fringe attitudes toward vampires, who are hard to find, harder to shut down in any legal or effective manner. A group who likes holding onto their captures and experimenting with potential cures must have had this guy.

Nico can’t say he’ll be too sorry if this vamp left a trail of destruction in the wake of his escape, but nothing excuses what he’s doing right now. 

He wouldn’t be surprised if both the knife and the trap are some of those vigilantes’ gear that this vamp decided to bring along; they’re not even close to common usage among vamps, but they’re exactly the kind of thing hunters who skirt the edges of legality are known to use. He’s not sure what group it is that favors this combination of weapons, traps, and long term captivity, but Sierra Stoker and her team probably know. 

If he lasts long enough to pass that information along, he imagines they’ll be more than willing to at least find out if this guy left anyone standing.

But at the moment, it’s not his survival he's most concerned about.

“Listen to me. She’s not my fledgling. She’s not mine.”

“But you care about all these like they are. See, that’s the problem. You traitors are ruining the natural order. Sire and fledgling. How it’s meant to be. You step in, on the side of the humans that hunt our kind down like animals, and you separate us from our children. Weaken our bonds. Make it easier for the humans to pick us off, one by one.”

“Then you don’t wanna kill her. She’s one o’ us.”

“Don’t you get it yet? She’s not one of mine.” The vamp snarls. “Which means killing her is doing my fledglings a favor.”

The knife moves away from Joey’s neck, but Nico knows that’s not a good thing. Staking is the preferred method of killing vampires, since it’s far easier to conceal stakes than a knife big enough to do the job right, but decapitation will do the trick as long as you impale the heart after. It’s a more complicated, but flashier method, and enough Sunrisers favored it that Nico knows the basics. Like the fact that to get a quick, clean cut, you need the arc of a wide swing. Trying to cut with the blade close to the body is time consuming and messy.

He knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that he is about to watch Joey die. 

This time, the metal pinning him down is wrapped around his ankle instead of stabbed through his thigh, and this time the terrified face of the person he promised to protect but can’t is Joey, not Vin, but the past and the present are blurring around him, and he can’t quite tell if he’s in a warehouse in New York or a derelict factory in LA. 

All he knows is, he’s going to have another person’s death on his conscience for the rest of his unnatural life.

Then Nico hears a footstep behind him.

“Put down the knife.”

He’s got to be hallucinating from the silver in his blood, because there’s no way Maira Lawson just happened to appear exactly when he needs backup.

The vamp moves in a flash, putting himself behind Joey and holding the knife to her throat, pressed tightly again, so much so that Nico can see and smell a bead of blood welling up and sliding down the blade.

“I think maybe you should put your weapons down.”

“Last chance.” Lawson’s voice is even. She’s a negotiator, a highly skilled diplomat. She knows when to push and when to back off.

Nico has to remind himself that Joey’s life is in the hands of the best possible person for the job.

The knife presses a little deeper, and a drop of blood splashes onto the cracked cement just as the crack of gunfire echoes through the space.

The vamp drops the knife and drops like a stone, howling.

Several figures move at once, feet shuffling while snapping repeated warnings of “don’t step in another one of those traps” with “you watch your own step” as the reply. 

Someone kneels next to him, hands working around the trap’s springs and jaws. He’s dimly aware that it’s Kira Burke, who he’s passingly familiar with from the agency, but he’s paying the most attention to Joey. She’s slumped against whatever cable was holding her to the support beam, almost unmoving as two more of the hunters free her. Someone cuffs the vamp, then drags him away, but it’s hard to see anything right now with the lights the humans need in order to see cutting back and forth across the area, occasionally swinging to hit him directly in the eyes.

He just needs to see that Joey’s okay. 

“I’ve got it. Pull your leg out, now.” Burke’s voice is strained, she’s got the jaws of the trap pried apart but he knows she won’t be able to hold it forever. He yanks his leg free and struggles to stand, shifting weight off his bad leg. He has to get to Joey.

He takes one step before he stumbles.

“She’s alright. Sit down before you fall down,” Lawson orders, stepping in front of him. 

He does, mostly because if he fell, he’d fall on her, and no one would ever let him live that down.

She’s brought the cavalry, looks like. John and Sierra Stoker, and parts of both their teams. Burke from John’s, as well as Barrett from Sierra’s. John’s wrestling the vamp into cooperation, while Sierra and Barrett work on freeing Joey. Actually, it looks like Sierra’s doing most of the work getting her loose, and Barrett is keeping her calm. Of all of them aside from Nico, he’s the one she knows best. 

He hasn’t actually realized Jemison is here as well until he catches a glimpse of the guy climbing down from a crumbling section of wall, slinging a well-worn rifle, without a scope, across his shoulder.

“Don’t you wear glasses?” Nico asks as the kid walks up. Not that he’s not grateful, but the slightest missed shot could have put that bullet through Joey’s skull. 

“For reading. I’m farsighted.” Jemison replies. “I was barking squirrels with my dad since I was old enough to hold the rifle steady.”

Nico doesn’t want to even ask what that means. 

He’s just glad that today, it means Joey is alive.

“Heard you were having a little trouble.” Lawson bends down beside him, inspecting the damage done by the silver-toothed trap with a grimace. “After he tried to get into the Avilas’ house, I got a call from Javy. He said his sire had shown up and tried to make Javy let him in, but thankfully Javy was able to refuse and block him out. We sent a team to his house as soon as we heard. Everyone’s okay, just shaken up. Unfortunately, given Javy’s one of the people who drives his work van home, I guess this vamp saw it in the driveway. The team found one of the windows punched out, and the clipboard with staff schedules that Javy said he always kept in the glove box was gone.” She frowns. “I tried to call you and warn you someone would probably be coming after you, but never could get hold of you.”

Probably because he left his phone behind at the last job in a rush when he realized Joey was missing. 

“H-how’d you find us?”

“Nico. When you were getting your business started, who gave you vans?”

“You guys. You were replacin’ half the motor pool and…” He trails off. “You never pulled the trackers. You sneaky…”

“Don’t say what I think you’re going to say,” Lawson replies. “It was in the agreements you signed when you leased the fleet.”

Damn. He really needs to start paying more attention to fine print.

Although in this case, it probably saved him and Joey. 

The vamp is hauled out past them, snarling and snapping at Nico until John Stoker wrestles him into the back of a holding van that’s just pulled up to what used to be a loading bay door. 

“He won’t be a problem much longer. Once we match his venom to Javy’s kit, he’ll get the stake.”

Honestly, after what this vamp has been through, that might be a mercy. 

Quick footsteps clatter across the open space, and then Joey is collapsing onto the floor beside Nico, a hand finding his and wrapping cold fingers through his own. 

“What’s a vamp doing running around with gear from the Hawthorne Hedge?” Sierra Stoker asks, holding the knife up and tilting it as the light in Lawson’s hand catches the blade, running her fingers over a pair of branching, entangled H’s stamped into the metal near the hilt. 

Knew she’d recognize the handiwork.

“Same with the trap,” Jemison answers, flipping it over and pointing out the stamp on the bottom of the plate. “Maybe he was a vigilante who got turned?”

“From what I could tell,” Nico manages, trying to sit up and wincing when it jars his leg, “he was one of their captives, managed to break himself out. There might not be anything left of that group, depending on how thorough he was.”

“Looks like we’re going to be heading to Nevada to check it out. Again.” Stoker grins. “And it’s gonna be my turn as road trip DJ.”

Jemison and Barrett both groan, but the Stokers just high-five as John returns from the van. 

Sierra’s team move off in a cluster, discussing their next move, and Burke walks up with two small packs of blood in her hand. 

“You’re both injured. No arguments.” She places a pack in each of their hands, then backs off, along with the others, to let the two of them feed in peace.

Nico ignores the blood in favor of putting an arm around Joey’s shoulder. She’s probably in some sort of shock, and while the blood will take care of the physical damage from tonight, there are deeper wounds he’s worried about.

“Hey. You okay?”

“No. I will be, but…not right now.” She’s shaking, the tension bleeding out of her. “You?”

It’s probably not wise to lie to her if she’s been honest with him. “Not really.” He pulls her in against him, running a hand over her hair the way he’s seen her do with Olivia. “I’m sorry.” It’s his fault. It’s all his fault. This vamp took her because of him. Because of what he’s done. “This is my fault.”

“For helping someone else just like me?” Joey’s voice is muffled in his sweatshirt. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

He doesn’t have anything to say in response to that. Just sits there and holds her and wishes doing the right thing didn’t have so many consequences.

(You can read this story and more from this universe on my WorldAnvil here!)

@catwingsathena @nade2308 @the-one-and-only-valkyrie @telltaleclerk @ettawritesnstudies  @writeouswriter @whump-place @the-lovely-wren

[thomasshelbydrabbles]

The Messenger (21/22)

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x Adeline Taylor (OC)

Warnings: period typical sexism, series typical violence, period typical views of PTSD, period typical racism, blood and gore, smut

Summary: In Germany, Adeline impresses George and is rewarded for it. Back in Birmingham, she settles a score for the Peaky Blinders. 

**This is a series, so you should read The School Teacher first if you want to understand everything.**

Note:  As the show does, I am loosely using actual events and people from WW1 and other time periods represented in the show. These are fictionalized versions of both events and the people.

Word Count: 4266

A/N: Okay, so I know it’s been literal months since I’ve written anything. I had such a major case of writer’s block here because I couldn’t figure out how to get to the ending I have planned. So, here’s an update...finally, of me writing myself out of writer’s block.

Germany, 1916

“Please, mercy, I beg you. My men know nothing. Mercy. Oh God, mercy.” 

Adeline’s lip curled up in disgust. Another one her mother would have venerated, held up to her as a paragon of some virtue she was meant to embody. The soldier had done nothing but cry and beg for his life, for the lives of his men, for just one more moment in his wife’s arms. He’d bleated on about God having mercy on his soul, as though any of them still had one, as though men not moments away from death spoke of God’s mercy for their sins. 

Why did their skin always become a mess of blotchy red patches on their face? She could make out the trails of tears as they cut a path through the mud and the blood on his cheeks. They’d been thorough in their interrogation. Adeline glanced over her shoulder. George muttered to himself as he paced the length of the room, distracted by the papers in his hands. She played with the knife she held while she waited for the man to answer. He could be quite tedious when the mood struck him, and something about the damp in the air today had him curiously reserved. 

“He no longer has useful information for us, my dear. I’ve no further use for him.” 

Looking back at the soldier covered in his own blood, Adeline shrugged her shoulders. With a snap of her fingers, she had the other men brought to her. It had been a small group of soldiers, half a dozen, plus their leader they’d been asked to interrogate. Setting the knife down on the long table, she picked up a pistol. Six shots rang out, the noise bouncing back against the walls of the enclosed room. She placed the gun back on the table and picked up her knife. Kneeling before the man she studied him, took note of the horrified look in his eyes, the dumbstruck way his mouth hung open. 

“I’m in a giving mood today,” Adeline remarked as she traced the knife along his neck. “My gift, although I won’t take it personally if you don’t quite see it as such, was granting you the knowledge that I did show mercy to your men, as I will show to you. Let’s call it my…better nature.” 

His eyes narrowed as he glared at her, alight with a hatred she could taste in the air around them. She smiled sadly at him because they both knew it was a futile, empty sort of anger. With a swift movement, she slashed the blade across his neck, watched the blood leave his body. 

Wiping the blade on her skirt she stood to her feet.

“Mercy, Arke?” George asked, amusement lacing his tone. “I thought you might still be fighting me, still searching for a way to save these men. Could it be that you have finally learned that we are in the middle of a war?” 

“The only mercy in war is death.” 

George gazed at her, eyes scrutinizing her face. She relaxed her shoulders, settled her stance. He stepped closer to her, his papers forgotten on a nearby chair. Gently, with something that might be confused for tenderness, his thumb traced the bow of her lip. 

“It was a bit of a calculated risk when I allowed Captain Solomons to be the one to escort you to Calais back then, and I feared it might have unintended consequences for us both,” he paused. 

A shiver raced down her spine as his lips grazed her ear, his voice a low intimate whisper. “It still might.” 

Her eyes narrowed on him.

“Don’t look at me like that, Arke. I know very well Captain Solomons taught you many things, has continued to teach you things as this war has continued. I value useful things.” 

She wanted to bite off his nose, to see what his bones looked like stripped of skin as she gnawed on his flesh. She wanted to know the taste of his blood as it dripped from her mouth, to feel it wet, warm between her fingers. 

“I have received some information I think you will find particularly useful, and I hesitated on sharing it with you. However, your exceptional work today has swayed me.”

Again, the feeling of wrong settled around her as he circled her. She could feel the heat of his body as he settled behind her, his hands on her hips felt like chains binding her to this place, to him, to her choices, to Arke. 

“It appears your favorite Captain has found himself a small measure of trouble. Seems he has been captured, taken away to Krefeld.” 

Adeline forced herself to breathe. It had been nearly a year since she’d last seen him. Knowing he was alive, even if he had managed to get himself captured, the idiot, was good news. Alfie, of all the people she knew, could take care of himself. Belgium had revealed her close relationship with him, and George weaponized it against her. She couldn't risk him harming Alfie. Not after Belgium. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder if this whole thing wasn’t a trap. Going could be just as disastrous as not going. 

“Always thinking, Arke. Always looking for an angle, trying to anticipate my next move. Good. I’m glad you’re taking this seriously, but I assure you, this is no trap. I want you to go to Krefeld. The fates, it would seem, are on your side in this since it is not only an officer’s camp but a hospital.” 

“After Be- ”

“Stop.”

Adeline’s mouth snapped shut, knocking her teeth together. He moved so quickly that she barely tracked his movements. Her cheeks ached from the harsh grip he had on them, his fingers biting into her flesh.

“We do not speak of Belgium. I warned you about attachments, but you chose not to heed my lesson, now you suffer the consequences of your own foolishness.” 

Would his blood taste like brimstone? Perhaps it would hold a slight aftertaste of sulfur. Taking a slow breath, she forced herself to relax, to become pliant in his grip. As she did, George loosened his hold on her face, moved his hands down her neck, and brought her lips to hers in a kiss that tasted like ash. 

“How long?” 

“One week. One week from today I expect you to report back to me at our location. Do whatever you can manage within that time.” 

* * * * *

Sneaking into the Krefeld prison camp was easy. Surprisingly so. Of course, here, she was simply another nameless, faceless nurse, one as interchangeable as the next. No one cared about names anymore, not this late into a seemingly unending war. After spending one day blending into the hospital, making herself seen, but unremarkable at various locations throughout the camp, she began searching for Alfie in earnest. 

Naturally, she heard him before she saw him. Even in captivity, his voice echoed through the halls, his presence filled each corner of the room. He sat at a table with a deck of cards, looking a bit malnourished, but unharmed. Quietly as she’d entered, she left the room. Waiting in a small closet just across from the room, she listened. Heard the guards muttering to themselves, the scrape of chairs against the floors, the distant bang of gunfire and artillery. Fighting never far off anymore. 

There. The sound of his heavy gait unmistakable. She opened the door and hauled Alfie into the closet before him or anyone else noticed or could react. Hand over his mouth, she shoved him against the closed door, only the element of surprise keeping him from overpowering her. 

In the dim light of the room, it took a moment, but she knew when he recognized her. She smiled as she removed her hand from his mouth. Alfie’s eyes narrowed as he glared down at her, mouth pulled down in a scowl. 

“I know I’m not seeing you, pet. Not seeing you here in this place because that would be stupid. Too stupid for you, right? Came to an agreement, we did.” 

“Aye. Then you decided to get yourself captured like a giant idiot of a man, so here I am. I don’t keep patching you up only for you to get yourself caught and killed in a German prison camp.”

“You’ve seen me, seen that I’m fine. Now that you’ve seen that, right, now that you know you’ll leave the way you came before someone notices you. Not a good place, this place.”

“No good places on this continent, Alfie. Not anymore. I’ll leave, and you’ll come with me.” 

Alfie stroked his beard before shaking his head at her, as though he were disappointed in her. She rolled her eyes. Always so dramatic. 

“Come on. We have a short window for my plan to work. I’ll get you out either way, but quieter is better.” 

Reaching into the bag slung across her shoulder, she pulled a knife and a pistol. She handed both to Alfie who began to check the weapon over, pull the slide back, count the number of bullets. She wanted to scoff at him, to scold him for thinking she’d give him an ineffective weapon, but she couldn’t because his attention to detail, his insistence that she always check her weapons had saved her more times than she cared to think about in the past year. 

“Good edge on this blade, pet. Seems you’ve not forgotten everything useful that I taught you, even if you have lost all sense.” 

“I was hardly going to leave you here once I learned you’d been captured.”

“Mmm, reckless, pet. Always so reckless.” 

Adeline turned to face him, met his gaze. “Nothing about saving you is ever reckless, and you’ll have to take that pistol in your hand and shoot me between the eyes to keep me from doing everything in my power to keep you safe and alive. So either shoot me or shut up and follow me out of this ‘not good place’. Make your choice.” 

For a few suspended moments, they stared at each other. If he’d been anyone else, she thought he might shoot her. If she were anyone else, he might consider mercy. Unfortunately, he liked her too much to ever grant her the mercy of war. She figured it was only fair since was just as selfish; she’d keep him alive no matter how much he protested. Idiot man. 

When he finally nodded his head, she grinned at him, quick and cheeky just to hear the sound of his laugh. 

Moving quickly down the hallway, they encountered no one at this hour. Her timing held, and while the guards rotated, she and Alfie slipped out the backdoor. Backs pressed to the wall, they slowly moved along the far side of the building, eyes searching the distance for any movement. At the edge of the building, Adeline held her arm out, halting them. Alfie looked down at her. She pointed to a building no more than 100 meters away from them, closer to the forest, closer to the cover that would allow them to sneak through the camp and escape. His eyes followed her arm, glanced around the forest as though tracking her escape route in his mind. Nodding, he moved in front of her; she rolled her eyes but allowed it because they didn’t have time to fight about who got to lead them out of Krefeld. 

Their luck couldn’t hold out, and just as they began the dash from the side of the building to the cover of the next, angry shouts of HALT! sounded from behind them. Seems as though she’d need to enact the backup plan she’d spent her first day in camp preparing. Shame. 

“You run to the tree line,” Adeline ordered, voice broking no argument, although she could see it on the tip of Alfie’s tongue. “I can’t fight them and save you at the same time. You’ll get me killed if you don’t do as I say.” 

Even as she turned away, she knew he wouldn’t listen. Wouldn’t do as he was told. Same as her in that regard. Once, years ago now, she would have done exactly as he told her, too sacred, too weak to argue if she wanted to live. Part of her missed that girl. The simple nurse from the north who wanted more out of life than what her mother and father mapped out for her. What a fool that girl had been. 

After Belgium, she’d spent some time in France, met some clay kickers who’d not been fortunate in their digging. Listened to them talk about their thankless job, about how to build a tunnel, how to explode one behind them to keep the enemy back. Explosives weren't her favorite tool - much too loud, but she couldn’t deny their effectiveness when she needed a distraction and enough carnage to keep everyone too occupied to notice small things, like two figures dashing off into the forest. 

One of the soldiers who’d been shouting caught up with her. She slit his neck as soon as he grabbed, her and spun her around to face him. His lifeless body fell to the ground with a muted thump. She dropped another half dozen bodies before she reached her location, saw the nest of wires. Maybe the soldiers she’d spoken to in France, the ones who spent all their time below ground, maybe they would be proud of her, of knowing she used the skills she learned from them to escape, to save Alfie. Maybe one day she’d be able to thank them for their knowledge. On second thought, she doubted they’d want or appreciate her thanks for that. 

She heard another soldier behind her, saw his shadow looming above her shoulder. A cruel smile stretched across her lips. With lithe movements, she jumped to her feet and navigated her trap. Behind her, she listened to the soldier’s blundering gait, felt the moment he hit the tripwire with his leg. 

One breath.

Another.

A moment of silence, and then…

The heat of the explosion blasted against her back, threw her forward and down onto the ground. On her hands and knees, she crawled forward, toward the forest. She could see the outline of Alfie, watched him hesitate just enough to make the foolish decision. Behind her, she could hear men yell, scream, cry out in agony as they suffered burns, likely even shrapnel wounds from the explosives she’d created. Alfie, fool that he was for not doing as he’d been told, met her halfway between the camp and the forest. His big hands hauled her to her feet and they ran, legs pumping, feet pushing hard against the ground beneath them. 

Once clear of the camp, and assured no one had followed them, they slowed. Walking in silence, they caught their breath as the enormity of the previous days caught up with them both. She led them to a small village about five kilometers from Krefeld. She’d left provisions and two horses with a nice couple who appreciated the extra money for their farm. 

“Venlo is 32 kilometers away, but with the horses, it should take four maybe five hours. Once we’ve reached the border, it’ll be safer for you.” 

They rode in silence, but she could feel Alfie’s eyes on her. Knew he wanted to say something to her. It’d been a year since they’d last seen each other and she realized with something close to regret, she hadn’t even given him a hug yet. There hadn’t been time. No. She hadn’t made time. A year ago she might have made time. She found it hard to remember the person she’d been. 

Once they crossed the border, she found a place for them to stop. Once again paid the farmers for the use of their barn. Glancing up, she caught the look on Alfie’s face. If she hadn’t been looking for it, she would have missed the concern she saw lurking in the corner of his eyes. Damn him. 

Adeline ran a hand through her hair, turned her face away from Alfie. “Do you remember the promise you made to me that day long ago in a snow covered field in Calais? 

“I do remember that day, and the promise I made to you. I remember that day, pet.”

“And, are you a man of your word, Alfie?”

He moved around the horse, sat on a bench along the wall of the barn. 

“I’m not adamant about always being truthful, that’s true enough, pet. Never met anyone who avoids lies as much as you, so I’ll not sit here and say, right, not say I never lie, but I am a man of my word to those I care about. And, see, despite me best judgement, I care about you.” 

Adeline sat next to him. Took his large hand between hers, felt the heat and the warmth of it. “I’ll keep you to your promise, Alfie, the one you made to me that day because I haven’t been me in so long, I don’t think I’ll ever be just Adeline again. Each day kills another piece of her. Each piece is replaced by Arke.” 

Her laugh was humorless, harsh in the stillness of the barn. She traced the veins on the back of Alfie’s hands to distract herself from the voices in her head. 

“Do you know why I knew you’d been captured? I’d love to say I did it on my own, figured it out, felt it in the bloody universe. George told me. Sent me to rescue you. Gave me a whole week to do it, too. As a fuckin’ reward for killing a whole group of soldiers, without fighting him about finding another way. I didn’t think about it, Alfie. By the time I even had a thought, they were all dead at my feet. I called it mercy, too. Meant it, even. You taught me that death was mercy in war. I understand that now. George, I think he found it amusing that I use mercy as a shield to do what needs to be done to survive. Told me what camp you’d been taken to, said it was fate that had you taken to one with a hospital.” 

She paused. The words tasted bitter in her mouth. Felt like weakness to be sitting her next to Alfie, felt like she was admitting to failure, as though George would be lurking in the shadows ready to punish her for it. She shook her head, dispelling the downward spiral of her thoughts. 

“Somewhere in France, sometime after Belgium, I lost the part of me that cared about life. There is no life in a war. Just death. Some slower than others, but we’re all dead. Some of us just don’t know it yet. And I comfort myself with that thought. If we make it back, I’ll need you to help me cobble together what’s left of me.” 

Alfie pressed a kiss to the side of Adeline’s head. “We all lose ourselves in wars. No place for decent people in a war, no place at all. So, I’ll do as I said as long as you do as you said. Survive, pet. Do whatever it takes, no matter how awful it is, no matter how much of yourself you feel you’re losing because I can, right, I can put the pieces back together. But, the only way I can do that is if you live, if you survive. I know you’ve changed. It’s been a year, but that’s a lifetime at least in a war, in this hell and you’re a different person, pet. It’s good though, this change, might not think so, but it’ll keep you alive. Fragmented, broken and reforged, but alive.” 

A year ago, she might have cried. 

 Harborne, 1922  

The house was small, but clean. Reminded her a bit of the house she grew up in. She sat in the chair near the fireplace. It’s embers no longer emitted heat, but the owners had been out for the day, and wood shouldn’t be wasted on an empty house. After some time, she heard the door creak on its hinges as it opened. 

A smile crept across her face as she watched Irene O’Donnell startle, saw her drop her basket to the ground, her hand cover her breast as her heartbeat quickened. Small joys these days. 

“The bloody hell are you doing in my house, Miss Taylor?”

“It’s a shame about your boy. But, I think in the end I’ll be do him a favor. One he might not thank me for, should he ever learn of it, but such is the way of things.” 

“You’ve not told me what it is you’re doing in my house.” 

Adeline smiled at her. “I’m here to collect for the damage you caused to Arthur Shelby’s pub.” 

“You’ve no proof that was me.” 

Adeline tisked. “Now, we’re a bit beyond lying, hm? It’s just us women, no men to put on airs and graces for. I do wonder how a woman like you, one with a child, gets herself in the middle of a political situation that will never be resolved. But, the question I truly want answer to is how you think someone like Inspector Campbell can be trusted. He’s killed or been responsible for killing so many of your kin it’s a wonder you can look at yourself in the mirror.” 

“What would you know about a cause?” 

“It’s funny. You’re not the first person to ask me that question. Someone, who if you don’t know them personally, you’ve at least heard of. He is what you people with a cause call a true believer. A nice enough man by the name of Byrne.” 

She enjoyed the way the color drained from Irene’s face. Took pleasure from her labored breathing. 

“I see you’ve heard of him. Good. That makes the rest of our business easier. See, he doesn’t tolerate traitors, a stance I commend him for. We met down in London earlier, after one of our first meetings with the good Inspector Campbell, and we had ourselves a little chat. The details aren’t important, but what we agreed to is this. I leave his man Donal, a true IRA man, alone, and, in exchange, I get to deal with the woman responsible for blowing up Arthur Shelby’s pub.” 

Irene stumbled as she sat on a wooden chair near a table on the opposite side of the room. 

“I’m doing you a favor. I’ll make it quick since I don’t give a single toss about your cause, or your need to turn traitor. Makes no difference to me. But, a man like Byrne, oh for him it’s personal. He’d make you suffer. Your family, too. Arthur’s not one for making women suffer either, so that makes you twice lucky. Your son, he’ll be looked after. Sent off to America where the IRA have no interest in him, and he’ll - if he’s got any sense - forget about whatever nonsense about a cause that you’ve put into his head and grow up, live his life.” 

“And I’m supposed to trust a woman like you?” 

“Trust me or don’t, it won’t change anything. You’re going to die today. I’m going to be the one who does it. Your son is already down in London, waiting for a train down to Southampton. From there, he’ll get on a boat, travel with a nice family to New York. I’ve been asked to make it look like a suicide, something that can be made useful for the cause. Personally, I find it a bit distasteful, but it was the price for your son’s freedom, so I figured it would be better. Make your death useful for more than just payment for your own foolishness. Death should have meaning. If you’d been in a real war, seen real violence, I think you might agree. Too late now, of course.” 

Irene nodded her head. No doubt the poor woman felt overwhelmed, too shocked to put up a fight as Adeline moved her to sit at the table properly. She took the pistol from her purse, pulled the hammer back, noticed the way Irene winced at the sound. Maybe, years ago, before the war, she might have felt pity for this woman, read about her story in the paper and been saddened by her lot in life. Moving to stand behind her, Adeline realized it didn’t matter. The story in the paper wouldn’t have been written for her, so the message would have been lost on her. 

“My son,” Irene’s voice broke on the words. “Will he know? Will he believe - ”

“Aye. He’ll know. Can’t say if he’ll believe it or not, but he’d not have a good reason to doubt it. Hopefully, he won’t know until he’s older, until he goes searching for a truth he’d be better off never learning.” 

“I wish I’d never met you.” 

Adeline nodded. “I know.” 

As she placed the gun to Irene’s temple, she thought about Clara. She could almost make out the details of her face, see the curve of her smile, the color of her eyes. Adeline pressed a kiss to the top of Irene’s head. 

“May whatever awaits you beyond this life bring you peace.” 

Pulling the trigger felt like a beginning, not an ending. 

As the sound echoed through the room, Adeline felt a chill dance up her spine.

Part 22

Master List

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[aryasage]

go and save yourself

so.

liv and i were Talking. as is often the case. and, let's just say…i had some Ideas about how ltfite could have gone differently.

some warnings beforehand!

this is not canon, okay?

this is not, in fact, what happens in ltfite nor what happens after. obviously.

viego will not ever use this tactic for the following reasons.

viego canonically does Not Understand Relationships. he does not actually love isolde. he loves the idea of her. he wants her and he would create the entire ruination to get her back but if he could make her live again in exchange for his own life he would not do so because he doesn't care about her. he cares about having her. so him exploiting relationships like this would not make sense.

even if it did make sense, if viego did this, he would pretty much be undefeatable. that's no fun for the story. and we all know how incapable ppau is of having unhappy endings. i can safely say having literally everyone get ruined and viego possess everyone is not a happy ending.

this is Dark. ppau is Not This Dark. no, viper does not count. and besides, liv isn't the one who wrote the Actually Dark part. temporary character death is fun and all but this scene is Not Cheery at All.

(even not counting the viego stuff parts of this are not entirely canon-compliant for…Reasons.)

however! Darkness aside, it does make for some good angst, and the brainrot is quite powerful. so if you're not fazed by any of that, keep reading for a little snippety bit of what i had some Random Thoughts about :)

(mild blood and. uh. Threats, possession, if that wasn't obvious, implied temporary character death)

“Faker. I know you’re still here,” the Ruined King taunts in his shadowy voice of mist. Faker stops breathing. There should be no way of seeing him, cloaked in shadows, but the Ruined King doesn’t seem to care all that much for the laws of physics. “I know you’re watching me. Watching them. You care about them, don’t you?”

Faker couldn’t care more about the four teammates standing by the side of the Ruined King, misty green crowns hovering over their heads, eyes swirling with green shadows. Not after all they’ve been through. Not after he failed them so recently, and the Ruined King seems to know this all too well. “You would not stay here if you did not, after all. Little demon king, you will bow to me yet. Your kingdom will fall regardless. Show yourself, and those you love will not be harmed. Stay hidden, however, and you will watch them suffer one by one for your stubbornness.”

Faker’s blood runs cold, and he can do nothing but stand there, frozen as he watches the Ruined King lazily glance around, waiting for Faker to reveal himself. When Faker doesn’t respond after a minute, the Ruined King sighs. “So be it. Why not start with your weak little support, then? So loyal to me. So willing.”

Faker can only look on in horror as misty water forms in Keria’s empty palm, freezing into a wicked dagger of ice. All of his teammates look wrong, but Keria especially so, the green glow of the misty crown above his head casting a sickly light over his face, causing him to look even smaller than he usually does. Keria’s eyes are watery, tears threatening to spill over, and his arm violently trembles, but then it stops, moving unnaturally smoothly instead, slowly raising the blade to his neck. 

As it meets his throat, Keria’s eyes suddenly unfog, sending a clear message combined with the slightest shake of his head that causes beads of blood to well up. Don’t give in, Keria’s begging, but Faker can’t see past the sheer terror in his eyes, and as the mist clouds them over again, the pure fear is still all Faker can see.

As Keria’s hand presses harder, causing those first few drops of blood to spill over and drip down his neck, the tears in his eyes do the same, streaming down his face, and Faker snaps, forcing the shadows concealing him as far away as he can and revealing himself to the rest of them.

“There! That wasn’t so hard, was it?” the Ruined King asks, a smug smile on his face, but Keria doesn’t lower the dagger, the implicit threat still hanging over Faker’s head. 

“I surrender,” Faker whispers, and he immediately hears four muffled noises of protest. I’m sorry, he thinks. But I’m not letting any of you die for me. I already failed you enough. “But you have to let them go.”

“You are in no position to argue, little demon king,” The ruined king scoffs. “And yet, I admire your spirit. So I shall acquiesce. Once I have you, I shall let the others go.”

Faker nods. Steeling his nerves, he pulls his chestplate off in one fluid motion and braces himself for the impact. Still, nothing prepares him for the sheer agony as the Ruined King’s sword stabs straight through his chest. White-hot pain courses through him, so overwhelming that he nearly forgets everything else. Somehow, though, he manages to look up at the Ruined King in determination even as his body freezes up. 

“Now,” he grits out. “Free…them.”

The Ruined King lets out a laugh, a sharp, merciless bark. “No,” he says. “They will be useful, after all.”

[yutaspierced]

i want the details on literally EVERY johndery fic excuse me and ALSO urodela duméril because that title seems a little out of place like, acoustically

Johndery is one of my secret greatest loves and dfrojfgheoirfg so good knowing I'm not the only one fascinated. Ever since I wrote that Johnny/Hendery/Kun/Taeyong poly thing they've haunted me

So anyway

"Johndery impact play" is a. fit that's actually almost complete, it's just been sitting in the files untouched for over a year. Hendery and Xiaojun are in an established D/s relationship with Johnny. Henry has a massive panic attack and Xiaojun calls Johnny over to the snap him out of his negative thought spiral. The scene is more about their dynamic than being "sexy" per se.

"Johndery feet fic" was moment of horny panic sparked by that time barefaced boyfriend mode Johnny (from the Peter Do meeting). That Johnny getting pussy!Hendery off under the table at a group dinner with his toes/foot.

"Work It Unit Group Bonding (Sex)" would obviously include some Johndery fun, but I don't have anything specific at the moment.

For urodela dumeril, I'll just give you a snippet. teehee

warnings for blood (so much blood), gore, knife play, body horror

The dull blade caresses Yangyang’s jugular and he’s just a hairs’ breadth closer to coming. “C’mon, baby. You can do it. You can do it. Please.”

Shotaro hesitates. His hips slow their grinding. Yangyang asked for a duller blade because it would hurt more.

Thick trails of dried blood already run down Yangyang’s back, down between his ass cheeks. Shotaro most likely fucked some of Yangyang’s blood into him before the wound disappeared and the blood stopped flowing.

But Yangyang wants more. He asked Shotaro for more. It’s not like it’ll kill him. Yangyang heals. He always heals.

Shotaro puts pressure on the blade and speeds up his hips again. Yangyang moans. “Yes, yes, baby, please. Ple-” He’s cut off with a wet, strangled cry as Shotaro drives the knife through Yangyang’s jugular and rips it away. Blood sprays over the sheets, the pillows, the headboard, the wall and Yangyang comes, dirtying the sheets with ribbons of pearly white as he collapses, gasping for air and choking on blood instead.

His body tightens like a vice around Shotaro. He pitches forward to lick some of the blood off of Yangyang’s shoulder and buries himself deep. His come mixes with Yangyang’s blood inside him and Shotaro’s whole body shakes with the aftershocks.

Shotaro collapses onto his side. His sweaty, bloody skin sticks to the ruined sheets (it’s okay, they were five dollars at target and there’s twenty more sets in the hall closet). His chest heaves with every breath.

He closes his eyes and thinks about drifting off for a nap while he waits for Yangyang to come back. But he can feel the sticky film of blood drying on his skin. The tangy, copper smell is already overwhelming in the room. If he waits the ten or so minutes it will take Yangyang’s neck to knit itself back together, things will get nasty very quickly.

Shotaro sighs and peels himself off the bed. He pulls a pack of baby wipes out of the nightstand on his side of the bed and wipes himself down first. When he leans in to start cleaning up Yangyang, he hears the tell tale hiss and thick bubbling noise of Yangyang’s sinew and cartilage rebuilding itself one centimeter at a time.

He finishes wiping away the dried blood and pink tinged come leaking out of Yangyang’s hole and flips him over. Sizzling lashes of skin whip out to wrap around each other and fuse. Like a line of horrible teeth, the ragged edges of Yangyang’s skin fold themselves together.