#made all the more painful for the fact that he reveres his abuser right up until the end

[put-them-thangs-away]

[hits blunt] hey so you ever think about the fact that vegas and kinn were pitted against each other their entire lives with no real fuel for the animosity other than the words of their respective abusive fathers? that, despite it manifesting in different ways, they both ended up with the same outcome to some extent? neither of them learned how to properly communicate or form relationships through anything but violence and obsession: the two driving factors of their abusers? and in the end neither of them achieved closure, despite gaining love? anyways.

[vampyrial]

A World For Her Alone | A child of ill omen

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12

cw (chapter specific): emotional infidelity, abuse, illness, murder, self harm, suicide, childbirth, vomiting

pairing: claude x fem!reader

summary: in which Claude tries again.

author's note: oh boy.

When he opened his eyes he was in his bedroom. He jolted from the sudden change, looking about him and trying to make sense of what he saw. He was lying on a soft bed instead of the hard, splintery wood he remembered from before. Just a second ago he had been sure to die and now he was home and unharmed. He felt for a wound in his chest, believing that perhaps he’d been saved from his fate, the knights who tried to stop your knight from killing him had taken him back home. But there was no pain there, not even a scar. He had felt the pain searing him for a few beats, the blood drowning him and then there was nothing, there was only this. But it couldn’t have been a dream. He did not dream like this, not so prophetic and pained.

A knock at the door made him jump, every ounce of stimulation made him feel as though he were going insane, as if any moment he would find himself back on the ground. “Come in” He said, in a voice that did not even sound like his own. It wavered with uncertainty very much unlike him, it sounded weak even to his own ears and he resented it. As soon as the butler greeted him with a measuring gaze, concerned he might be ill from the distress on his face and in his voice, he was asking about you.

“You are due to see the lady today. The preparations have been made as you commanded.” 

A broken, relieved sound fell from his lips at the words. You were alive. This life he’d arrived in was new, unblemished from the faults of his past and you were the proof. He lived again, you lived again. The day was miserably overcast, the light was a dull gray and much of the room was cast in shadows. This realization of his second life felt like fool’s gold and yet he wanted it badly enough that he reached for it anyway.

“I see…” He murmured “Nevermind that, prepare a carriage now. I will visit her early.”

“My lord, are you feeling alright?” The butler asked anxiously, clearly baffled by the unusually emotional state of him.

“Do I have to tell you again?” He asked sharply, impatient. He sounded like himself again. 

The butler looked mortified and had the sense to chasten himself before responding. “No, my lord. I will prepare it right away, I apologize.” He excused himself quickly but not so much so that Claude did not catch a sliver of remaining worry on his face as he looked up at him. 

It didn’t matter how he looked, it couldn’t wait. He needed to see you. He needed something to tether him to this bleary new life, to confirm it was all more than a dream, more than a hell made for him where he’d be forever in waiting. He remembered what Felix said. “Do you even know how she died? How long she was held in that filthy, inhumane place?” Had you waited for him then? 

This time, without fail, he’d show up for you. Even if it could not change the fact that he hadn’t before.

When he arrived, he was greeted by your parents who were surprised that he was there early but instead of meeting him with an edge of reproach, they apologized profusely for the tea party not being prepared yet. It was ridiculous how much reverence they showed, it was well past courtesy. Claude couldn’t help but notice the way their faces changed when he asked for you, when they told him you’d hurry along and be down in a minute. It was almost as though your name was unsavory gossip, existing only to be whispered and grimaced at.

Nevertheless, they directed him outside to wait for you at the table. His body had never been so wrought with anxiety as then, he thought he might truly go insane with the waiting, the desire to see you again and the fear that in his deserved punishment, he might never. 

A sense of foreboding came over him, an insistence this was a doomed desire. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he believed something awful was about to happen. What he didn’t know was whether to trust in it or in his hope, his intention and need. He chose neither and merely observed the beautiful and wretched day he’d come back to, trying to hold fast to the feeling of relief he’d felt when he realized you were still alive but wielding his wariness as a weapon in front of him.

When he set eyes on you, finally, he might’ve flinched. For, even though he wished so desperately that you were here, part of him didn’t expect it to ever really happen. He expected some divine punishment, perhaps it was wishful thinking on par with wishing you would alive and safe. But it couldn’t be a punishment, not if you were here. Not if you were really alive again as he was.

He didn’t want to wait for you to reach him, he wanted to meet you halfway and take you into his arms so that he could feel your heart beating, your breathing, the little sounds of surprise you’d let slip. But he remained seated, somehow, and he was able to ignore the tendrils of doubt creeping into his always so cynical mind. Shortly after you, a figure in red. He could not yet take his eyes from you but his lips could not form words. What could he say to you that would make any sense? And how did he speak without falling apart?

When you reached the table, you stalled a moment, eyes unfocused and dead. You greeted him as you always did but somehow you felt far away from him, from everything. There was a murky look in your eyes, like something waiting to emerge from a great depth. He stood, mercifully his body obeyed, he came closer to you. It hadn’t been like this before. Did something happen to you? It unnerved him see you see you look so dead; even in the sunlight your eyes looked so flat and dark to him that they reflected nothing, conveyed nothing. Unreal, like an ink drawing.

His hand had begun to tremble. Something dark was hanging over this day, over him, over you. Ah, would he wake up now? Would he wake up to the true nature of what he believed was his second chance? 

“Are you alright? This isn’t like you.” He heard himself speak, but not from the horror that ruminated in his mind, words that seemed to be at a slight disconnect with his intentions. No…what was this?

Your body was trembling, swaying like a tree in the wind. All of the sudden, life poured into your eyes, something fragile took the place of the shadows. He might’ve been glad for it, for a moment at the least, but he realized that the look in your eyes was utter ruin. Those were not the eyes of his fiancée, not steadfast or bashful and avoidant, these were the eyes of someone who had seen it, the sword falling over her head. Those eyes, he was certain, were his condemnation. 

Did you know that he had killed you before? Had the you from his past lent you the view from below?

Lady Diana, whom he had not even considered until that exact moment, finally reached the table. The tightness in his chest immediately unwound. The rose red dress, her golden hair on the wind, these were images he hadn’t known he’d held to until he saw them again. The unwitting euphoria flooded his body yet again, reaching deeply inside his mind and caressing every anxiety. Diana was here. She lived just as you did. That thought was not cause for anything really, it shouldn’t be but…he felt that he wanted to cry when he set eyes on her again alive. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her and she, under his attention, looked bright and curious. Alive. Such a contrast from her before, already cold and dressed in a thin, bloodied gown. Her throat had been slit but from the struggle there were many bruises on her pale skin, along the whole of her body. He ached to see her unharmed like this, the bright girl he had loved well before. He couldn’t help himself, even with the nauseous feeling that accompanied, he longed for her. It was the only thing he could hold on to for the turning of this strange new life. That familiar and far reaching feeling drove itself past flesh, bone, blood, into something immaterial. 

It wanted him back.

You dropped a teacup onto the grass, freeing him from the hold momentarily as he turned back to you. His stomach sank to see you, your jaw was clenched and your eyes were glassy with unshed tears. Had you been shadowed by something as he had?

“Are you alright?” He was desperate to know. He felt like he was speaking in a rush,  something was creeping up on him as sudden as the clouds blocking the sunlight. Something cloyingly familiar and unwanted. Were you specter or human? Retribution or revision? And what was she, then? What was Diana?

You were the little ghost of something he had killed. You would not respond and he wanted to touch you, so much that his mouth went dry. When had he ever wanted something this badly? He needed to take you by the shoulders, to look into your eyes, maybe his could communicate something to you. Some sincerity that his lips refused to muster. Perhaps if he could only touch you, you’d understand. 

“What happened? You’re not yourself today.” He heard it from outside his own body, automatic like breathing. He could not reach you; he was, in all reality, quite far away from you despite the closeness of your bodies.

“I’m sorry…” A wavering voice that sounded as if on the verge of tears. It made him ache inside when you showed him the same smile you always did, the smile that seemed to always be at the verge of collapse. It was as though he could feel the reverberation of the pain he felt when Felix’s sword broke his skin. It was a burning pain, the breaching of his heart. He smiled back at you and soothed a hand over your back. 

This was what it meant to be ghost. He understood finally, you were not the ghost, he was. He was immaterial, unable to affect anything around him.

Interestingly, you were different this life in more than the bleakness trapped behind your eyes. You worked with a ferocity and you became a much more cunning lady than you’d ever been before. You were more involved in politics and court, willing to shake hands with twice as many people who before you would not have paid any mind to. When had you ever had any desire to be so congenial to everyone? Had you ever had such ambition in the past life? Your intelligence had always been impressive but now it was frighteningly astounding. It seemed in this life that you had somehow become more proactive in amplifying the position of the marquisate, you were fortifying it against its enemies.

It was just another way in which you were looking after him and he appreciated it but inside, there was a certain hurt that came from seeing you work that hard and be condemned by others for it. They called you a “horrible woman” and rumors swirled around high society about you more so than before when you were merely a “jealous, fearsome lady.” He could only stand beside you and your actions, he couldn’t dispel the notions about you that seemed incessant no matter how ubiquitous your goals were among nobles. He wanted to hunt those who would harm your reputation further, to hold their deeds up to the light and make them see they were not, would never be, in any position to act scandalized over what you did.

He meant what he said, he was lucky to have you for a wife. Even more than that, he was lucky that he was able to make himself express it outwardly. That was a good omen, he thought. This time, things would be different. He was no longer a ghost, he had just needed to see you to come alive. His feelings for Diana, compulsive as they were, would not win him over this time. He would not let them. Maybe he had not been saved completely by god but he had been given the chance to save himself. And he would, he would save you too.

He had all the arrogance befitting of his station.

You had become very protective of your little sister, it was a good thing, he tried to tell himself. If Diana could avoid her death, you would not be a suspect. He knew you hadn’t killed her before but the moment it was murmured into his ear that you might be the culprit, it was decided. And for how many others was that the case – considering how badly everyone wanted you to be a villainess? There hadn’t been a single voice that rose in doubt of you being capable of murdering your sister, the voice had been his and that was buried under the weight of something unmovable. 

That was why he agreed when you asked him to look after her one day. He didn’t want to, he hated how his affection for her defiled what convictions he held. He tried to keep in mind that it was for your sake more than anyone’s, to guard himself. But it didn’t work, at the mere suggestion, his heart leaped. He was inundated with a joy that smothered the him that lived beneath. The sweetest of any happiness he’d ever held was to be found at her side, he could not deny that truth but it came with a horrible remorse, a violation of the self that a greater part of him wished to kill.

Diana was glad to have a visitor, no, glad to have him. The thought thrilled his dulled senses. Your parents gave no sense of wariness about having a man alone with their unwed daughter which baffled him, he knew he practically had hearts in his eyes when he arrived, overflowing with anticipation of her. He couldn’t have been more obvious and yet, all your mother did was smile. “It’ll be nice for Diana. She’s really fond of you, my lord.” Her voice was so soft and teeming with the affection she had for Diana, as if she was truly glad for her. Diana was not even her child, born to her or adopted, she came from an affair. At first, he’d thought your mother only showed courtesy out of your father’s desire. But this…it was the smile, the happiness of a mother. And she did not show it for you. 

How it felt to be in her room. It was indescribable, what being surrounded by her scent, her books, her things, did to him. Her room to him was like a secret cave, shielded from society. The pink painted walls were not walls at all but barriers from the world itself. All of hell could rage outside and what would they know of it? In that room only, they could get lost inside each other. Diana was feeling better that day, so the two of them were able to have tea together. She showed him some of the books she kept, she would read her favorite parts in her airy voice that always, always betrayed her feelings. She was bursting with happiness at having someone to show them to.

He stayed for hours, captivated by every little detail he learned from her and greedy for even more. She was nothing like a wonderful hostess should be but he liked her that way, she was innocently impolite and honest, unrestrained by the graces of high society. It made her easy to talk to, easy to tease and laugh with. Had he ever laughed so much as he did with her? He felt delirious from the contrast of his headiness and his dread, the heavy stone weighing on his stomach. His body and the greater part of his soul belonged here but his mind was with you. He wondered what you’d think, knowing he promised to be home by dark. You were probably worried and that bothered him, he wanted to be the sort of husband you wouldn’t have to fuss over. He wanted to be dependable and yet it was decided now that he could not.

Diana felt like the center of the earth, a small divot in the earth for him to rest his tired body. Diana felt like a noose around his neck at the gallows, sure and wrested around his neck tightly. The inevitable she. A veritable stranger no matter how he felt he knew her. All he knew was you. You were not important, another part of him argued. You were his wife. You were not Diana. 

And so raged his thoughts until he could bring himself to come home to you. He’d been told you’d gone to bed and his stomach dropped with disappointment. He’d at least wanted to bid your goodnight, tell you that he’d come home safely so that you didn’t wonder. He wanted to sleep in bed next to you but his feet led him to another room. He justified it in his mind – you needed to sleep and he would only disturb you. Because he could not control his actions, he made up flimsy justifications for them. Though, he was not sure from which voice they came from. He wasn’t sure which he hoped they came from.

The months that came after were as he imagined they would be, still he could not help but hope, he was yet unused to the kind of weakness he displayed. He was born to be strong, to be responsible for many lives, many fates and yet when was the last time he had felt in control? He needed this dichotomy of his two selves to be a war, he needed it to be something he could fight.

Even in his failure, he treated it as if it were his own fault. When he sent a letter to Lady Diana, feeling as if he had only watched somebody else’s hands write the words, he cursed himself for not trying hard enough to resist. The next time was to be different, he would gather his strength. He told himself this even knowing it wasn’t true, even when the steward gave him Diana’s response and he felt relief soothe every tense muscle in his body. He told himself the next time would be different even when he responded to that letter.

He needed to believe in this second chance. This time around, things were actually going quite smoothly with your relationship. To a certain extent, he’d been able to praise you for your efforts as he hadn't before. He’d made you happy when he told you he was lucky to have you, you looked up at him shyly with a genuine smile on your face, a very rare sight which had only grown increasingly rare over time. It was only in that moment that he was able to feel unconflicted. It was only in that moment that things were simple.

They didn’t stay that way. 

A letter arrived to the manor, it was placed directly in his hands rather than yours both because he was the only one who ever received anything from your home and because it was specifically from Diana herself. The steward had whispered the urgency of the matter so he read it at the table before you, even though the him within cringed at the shamelessness of such an act. The larger part of him refused to show such inhibition and as he read the words, his heart only dropped for their contents and not for his wife watching him warily from across the table.

With a shaky breath, he announced to you that Diana’s condition had worsened significantly. He only managed the words because he had to, because it concerned you. The darkness was spreading through his body again, rotting even the reasonable part of himself he’d held above it. He could think of nothing but Diana. Her condition was such that she felt she was going to die, she couldn’t even leave bed without fainting and couldn’t keep down food. The fact that she’d been able to write him would have been a comfort, except that she’d included that she’d had to have her maid write the letter for her. 

It shouldn’t have struck him so, Diana had always been ill, this outcome was not a surprising one but he felt as though he might lose his hold on everything if she died. What would he do if he never again saw that smile? He tried to stifle the ache rising in his body, his inner self had not stayed hidden, it objected and raged against the grief. He commanded himself to come together, to grin and bear it if he couldn’t make it go away. But his body did not listen, how could it when his voice was only a whisper?

Claude stood up and announced his departure, he rallied what strength he had to stop himself but it was entirely futile. His body moved regardless of his objections, just as it had the last time. Even so, he strained himself against the almost autonomous machine he’d become, until the very end, he tried to make his body stop. Even the sound of that pleading voice behind him did not give him what he needed. You were begging him to take you along and he kept finding reasons to deny you. It was vile. He knew she was your sister before he was your anything but inside him, woven around his throat was a pressing need to see her. A selfishness that demanded to be alone with her.

The thoughts were stirred up to the surface of his mind easily and they lashed against each other. You didn’t care about Diana, why should you be there? She had asked for him, not for you. You were only trying to cling to him. But why shouldn’t you? He was your husband and he was leaving you behind in matters that concerned your family. No – Diana was hardly your family, if he wasn’t going, would you have even bothered? Of course you would have, he refuted within his mind, you were a dutiful sister even if you weren’t close to Diana. How vile you are, wouldn’t Diana be able to see how little you care for her? Would she have to die knowing her sister curses her for having his affection?

Even though all his eyes saw was the picture of a woman desperate to get to her sister, he was quickly growing agitated with you. Whatever the cost, he simply did not want to be with his wife while he was falling apart over her sister. He thought his face should be the one Diana saw, he wanted to see himself reflected in her eyes. He wanted to be the one to give her hope. No, you couldn’t be there, hovering over his shoulder and serving as the cruel reminder of all that had been robbed of Diana. It didn’t matter if you were her sister or not, he wouldn’t let Diana be unhappy on top of what she was already going through. Why did you insist on being a burden so much?

He shuddered when he felt himself grab you harder than he ever would have and put you from his body. He caught a sliver of your expression and his misery only grew, suddenly stricken by the thought that he might hurt you worse and be unable to stop it again. Would he yet again be helpless? This time, would he be aware and powerless to watch himself harm you? Would he have to watch himself kill you, beat you, betray you — knowing that the difference between himself and this darkness scarcely mattered anymore?

For once, he surrendered and did not try to rebel when his body moved away from you, out the door.

Through the balmy night air, he moved like arrow darting through the sky. He reached Diana, his princess in her tower. Yet again, your parents showed him reverence and did not so much as ask about their other daughter. It was as if they were only expecting him in the first place, no — that they only wanted him in the first place. In consideration of his status, they were courteous and asked about him, congratulating him on a promotion given to him as a knight. He wanted to tell them to shut up, to stop with the small talk if they couldn’t be bothered to ask about you. He was curt with his answers, he didn’t know whether that was by his design or something else’s.

The instant they caught him up on Diana’s condition, however, he was alert. He was fully consumed by the doomed desire for her life to be spared. Every word that came from your mother’s mouth broke him. When he went into her room, finally, he was left alone with her. She was pale, thin, the light had been siphoned from her. When he went over and brushed the hair from her sweaty face, murmuring sweet words of comfort that he’d never been given himself, she opened her eyes and a little glimmer returned to them. Since when had he known of such romantic words when he was a pitiful man who could not even tell his wife once that he loved her? Since when did he have such power that he could return life to this girl?

Diana nearly exhausted herself trying to sit up to talk to him. He’d had to lay her back down as tears rolled down her ivory cheeks from the frustration of her body giving up. It broke his heart, he felt as though he might really bleed to see her cry so hopelessly. She, with her body and her beauty such a temporal, fragile thing, knew that she was withering and could do nothing to stop it. She cried as she squeezed his hand and he could bear it no longer. He leaned over, taking her face in his hands and kissed her until she calmed, until she thought of nothing but him. Her lips tasted like bitter medicine.

When he pulled away, Diana looked at him, docile and sparkling with an ill fated hope. His love for her in that moment caught in every cavern of his heart, it blanketed all else. It was a gentle intrusion like rain seeping in through his clothes. It quieted his better self for the moment. For the time being, he knew nothing but his desire to comfort her. And so he did.

His inner self was already quite tired after a few days, longing for home, for mercy from this place that seemed to revolve around Diana. She’d become the object of his misery and he’d held to the hope that you’d show up soon but you hadn’t thus far. Where were you to save him from this? It was a pathetic thought but it was true that he wanted to be at your side if his body would not allow him to come home. He knew that as long as he lacked control, it was much better to stay away from you and yet he could not deny himself the simplest desire for the sight of you.

He got his wish months later when he needed to return home for work. He saw you in the foyer waiting for him to stop, even though he kept walking as if he didn’t. He raged at himself in that moment, full of righteous fury against his own body. He wanted to hurt himself, to break his bones, to bruise and bleed his frustration, his anguish. But the moment you blurted out the news: “I’m with child!” He was able to stop, everything stopped, his vengeful thoughts and the anger churning inside his heart. 

On one hand, Claude felt soft at the thought of a child between you two. You had asked him to start trying for a baby and it was the one time the greater force inside was forced to do something that his inner self was more than approving of. It was satisfying, to finally have some piece of a real marriage to you. It was more than needing an heir, it was wanting to have a family with you who would definitely make a great mother and could teach him to be a good father. His heart was satisfied in that regard.

On another…he was terrified to have a child while he was like this. He was already afraid of hurting you, of the disdain he felt for you. What would he feel for this child? There was no promise that he’d never hurt he child that would be born from you, no promise he wouldn’t be resentful that it wasn’t born from Diana. The fear was like a vice, strangling what joy he’d had about the prospect. This voice inside was like a curse.

And even still, there was another front on which he was conflicted. The greater voice inside made the other conflicts seem like drops of water in the sea. The most pressing issue was that you were pregnant and Diana was about to die. You and this child would force him from her. Why now? Why did you have to be pregnant at a time where his greatest responsibility should be comforting her? How could he tell Diana he would have to leave her for the sake of his child knowing that she could never have the family she desired? Agony filtered through his body, sapping away what warmth he felt before and leaving him empty. 

In the end, with such things inhabiting his mind, he could not even express a perfunctory “That’s wonderful” or even tell you that he was thankful to you. He only left, disappearing like a coward with his poorly concealed tears to feel sorry yet again for Diana, for himself. To feel a need to break his own body.

He went back to cheer up Diana, to keep her happy even while you lay at the back of his mind. He knew that he should be there for you while you underwent something so stressful and important but the rest of him didn’t seem to mind ignoring that fact. It was glad to surrender you to thoughts of Diana. He trembled with each sign that she might recover, he died inside at every indication that she would not. He fell up and down the sliding scale of her health and all the while, whispered his love in her ears to reassure her. He felt more justified with every day he spent, that a dying woman needed him more than his wife who had always had robust health and was surrounded by servants and doctors. He strengthened this lie even as a voice of doubt tried to gain his attention. You hadn’t had robust health, not according to Felix who knew you best. Perhaps things would be different in this life but he mourned every single day he spent away from you, he wanted to crawl back home to you. He wanted you to be well, he wanted to make sure you were well.

He could not. His place was with Diana. What pleasure he took in the center of that tragedy, in living in his fantasy of being unburdened and free to love her. It was consolation he felt that he deserved. Soon, Diana did ask to see you and he had to put his greed aside. 

Although he did not desire to break the immersion of him living with her functionally as if they were the last lovers alive, her wishes were more important and she was not long for this world. She, who loved you even despite your coldness, had to leave you with something.

When you came, he could not help but notice the difficulty with which you walked. Your skin was wan and you wore a grave expression, the one he’d have been wearing if he had the choice not to smile for Diana’s sake. You were heavily pregnant, he wanted to ask about your health but his mouth would not open. Your parents also did not inquire, although he had hoped with all his might that they would so that his worries would be soothed. He could only translate Diana’s wish to you.

You left nearly as quick as you came once she required nothing else from you, he wanted to catch your arm as you walked by and tell you to stay here the remainder of your pregnancy. It was dangerous to travel, especially looking as sickly as you did. In his stead, who had been looking after you? What was being done for you? He was forced to watch you leave, not even waiting to see you walk through the door before turning back to Diana’s room. His own consciousness screamed for the loss, for the feeling of impending tragedy. The darkness inside relieved the tension in his body and thought only of Diana.

He went into Diana’s room again to find her crying. She refused to tell him why even as he begged for the reason. “Is it because the lady has gone back? She’ll come back soon, it won’t be long at all before I can call her back.” He was scrambling for something to put an end to her tears when his sweet nothings wouldn’t. “No, don’t send for her. It’s nothing” Diana said as she tried to hold back sobs. “What did the two of you talk about?” He murmured as he held her, trying to bring her back to the sated girl she had been. However, his question only seemed to further upset Diana. “I told her that I loved you. How can I confess something like that to my own sister? How can I be in love with you like this? I should have kept it inside until the day that I die.” She sobbed into his shirt. It took hours to calm her to sleep. 

He was soft with Diana, reassuring her that it was alright, that you would never blame her for falling in love, that you would forgive her. But when he came home, he was nearing madness with indignation. He was certain that you had lashed out at her in jealousy, if Diana had told him what she was planning to say, he would have talked her out of it. She shouldn’t need to confess to you, who already hated her.

It didn’t matter that his own voice spoke up and refuted, desperately citing that you had every right to be angry with her. What an awful girl she was, stealing away her own sister’s husband when she needed him most and then begging like a dog for her forgiveness, using her illness to force her to be graceful about a situation she should be allowed to have anger about. That denial was thin, it evaporated easily. It was insignificant amongst louder, greater ones that favored Diana.

He took his anger out on you, even though his inner self trusted that you wouldn’t have said anything to Diana. He said awful things to you, feeling like her knight, feeling as though he was seeking retribution for her. He watched you grow smaller before him, your eyes go bleak like they had the first time he saw you. He knew what he was doing to you and he hated himself for it but it was if he were only a player in a story who could not diverge from the role he’d be cast in.

Stop, please, stop. 

“Everything you’ve done so far to other people”

Bile rose in his throat as each word left his lips. He tried to stop with all the desperation as one trying to save his own life. 

“How can I believe you? You used that same face while scheming against others without a thought”

He knew what his next words would be, he knew they would kill you. And he could see that there was no end. He surrendered to the darkness, he wanted to escape what came next, what he knew would be another sword through his chest.

“That child you’re carrying, is it even mine?”

He left you reeling, with a visceral disgust for his wife whose jealousy knew no limit. To think that she would even choose to attack her sister as she lay in bed dying. He had no doubts that the child had to be his but it didn’t matter to him, he felt that you deserved to be humbled that way. This was the consequence of your actions. If you behaved as an untrustworthy, nasty woman, wouldn’t it make sense to treat you as such?

He went back to Diana, he wanted to be at her side before she woke up.

Diana’s room felt like a place constantly in stasis, the world was on pause when he was there and she was never to die. In his own misery, he had begun to wish that she would finally die. He knew that he would be there until she did so he prayed that she would set him free. Let her die, he thought, Please. Undoubtedly, his eyes must show it. His gaze must be casting the blame he felt she deserved. Why was she still alive, monopolizing his time? If she could only see it. No, if he could only free his body to smother her and end it. 

A messenger arrived with news from the mansion. His heart dropped in anticipation. In the halls and safely away from Diana’s ears, the steward told him that you had gone into labor. He saw the fright in the steward’s eyes and knew he absolutely had to be there, regardless of what Diana needed. You mattered more. He said that it was a tumultuous birth and encouraged Claude to be there in more reverent language befitting a servant. Despite the screams from inside, he heard himself brush off the request, citing Diana’s condition even as the steward spluttered objections in shock. He himself was shocked at the extent of his helplessness even though he had no right to be. When he could not win the right to control his own body, when he watched the messenger leave, all hope abandoned him. He was a ghost and this home was his only domain as the world kept turning around him.

Diana finally passed the day after that, as he held her in his arms. Something broke apart and allowed him finally, to vent the anguish he had been feeling for months on end. He cried, he let his fingers dig into his hands so hard they bled. It didn’t matter that he knew the tears were not brought forth out of sadness for his wife, he gave them to you anyway. The only thing worth considering anymore was that he would finally return to you. Those tears were his relief, his daybreak. They were his grief and regret.

However, he was again visited with more news. He was told that you had died giving birth. The situation was further explained to him but he did not hear, all sound negated as he seemed to detach from his worthless body. He had let you die alone. Was he only brought back so that he could watch you waste before his eyes? Why, this time, could he not save you? He had let you die, weak and helpless to even do so much as be there with you as you did. 

He’d likely been holding onto Diana as you died. The darkness receded and gave way to grief which weighed his body down, it left him gasping for air as his body returned to his control. He was no longer floating, he was painfully aware of himself, of his failure and what it cost. He reached for his dagger, it was the only thing he could think to do — if this was his punishment, he’d learned his lesson and he would gladly move on to the nothing which surely awaited him. But the steward stopped his hand. “My Lord!” He cried, wrenching the dagger from him and cutting his own hand in the process.

“I’ve already prepared a carriage, please, the daughter Madame left behind still needs you” He was bleeding quite a lot, but he kept his eyes on Claude as he used a handkerchief to wrap it.

The daughter. His child. He’d accused you of being unfaithful, he had said such things knowing they couldn’t be true simply because he knew they’d hurt a fragile woman already in a desolate state. And now she was dead from trying to deliver that child. His child lived same as he did. It was the same as before, same as if he’d killed you himself. Was this all that he lived for?

He allowed the steward to lead him to the carriage, made docile by the numbness that preceded. He came home to the wailing of an infant who, the steward had anxiously explained, had not stopped crying since her mother died. He was urged to rest but refused, he only wanted to see your body, to punish himself further. He wanted to commit it to memory this time, where before he’d abandoned you to a prison far away, he needed now to make himself see.

He wielded the image of your body against himself like a dagger, like his nails digging into his hands. He ripped open his wounds with it, he retched at the sight of you, bloodied and still. He was disgusted at himself, at knowing you had been torn apart for his weakness, as if presented with life he’d taken with his own hands.

He made himself look at his daughter. This pitiful, small thing who resembled him so closely…he’d used her to hurt his wife. He couldn’t bear to hold her and look down into eyes that seemed to damn him with their resemblance. It was as if god had given him his copy to say “You, who would condemn a good woman as an adulterer, have your proof of her fidelity.” When he had demanded an explanation from the doctor, even knowing it was unfair of him, the frail and weeping old man managed to confess that she had declined to save her own life by giving up the child’s. 

He wished that reality would break open, would fracture and crumble. He wished that he would lose his sanity so that all that occurred would be rendered nothing to a mind who could no longer comprehend the definite nature of reality. But there was only one way toward even the sliver of a chance for mercy. It would not be given to him as a gift. He held the dagger up to his throat. In the moment before it bit into his skin, he thought of the perverse escape the darkness had offered. 

Next

tags: @kage-tobiuo @kreishin @rosephantomhive@yeahdrarry@splaterparty0-0 @dear-dairiesss @qluvrv @hafsuhhh @eissaaaa @ayolk @doan-19 @fourcefulcupid@ariachaos@cerisearan@irisspade@yaesflorist@jcrml@xiaosprettygf@yevenly@amaris08atoshi012022 @obsessed-with-a-fictional-man @softbummiee @cassanderasblog

[riewritten]

TO A POINT OF NO RETURN

ANNA LIEBERT x FEM!READER | READ ON AO3 TAGS: graphic depiction of violence, moral corruption, obsessive behavior, non-con kissing, proceed with caution WORDS: 1k DEDICATED TO: @suusoh my darling sweetie pie, one of the people I missed the most during the time I was gone ! i made this after finishing Killing Eve (which she recommended). i got inspired by how the main character loves it when her partner is lichrally dismembering people. i love messed-up lesbianism.

The tears blurring your vision couldn't wipe the horrendous sight of blood on your trembling hands. Poor Petr Čapek, no? He who had spent a life being an invincible evil force, now splayed down with neck open, face beyond recognition, and with a mouth as wide as his dead eyes, staring into your soul and now tainted conscience. After all, the mess is done by no other than you—in fact, no one in this world would've done such a thing, for Anna even. Anna herself knows it.

You look all over your surroundings and heighten your senses (or so you try) to grasp the very needed presence of mind only to no avail. The scent of blood pooling down Čapek's stomach and neck is starting to permeate your rationality, looming in the air and cradling the terror in your nerves.

And yet, at the corner of the room, you see the flabbergasted Anna kneeling and leaning against the door. Unlike the look of terror due to the sight of her abuser reliving the most painful memories of her childhood a while ago, her face now shows palpable awe.

No one in this world, and perhaps even beyond, would be willing to do this much for her. One might say her twin brother could, but she doesn't consider him because he is her and she is him. Only you, a completely separate entity, a girl whose life has been completely different than hers, came to understand what needs to be done.

Despite the trembling—which is not out of fear but of joyous reverence—she crawls towards you. She savors the sight of Čapek's bloody corpse first. Lovely. How utterly lovely. She couldn't help it.

“What the hell are you smiling for, Anna?!”

Your panicked voice turns her gaze towards you—her beautiful angel, her one and only glorious savior—and so then and there, you see her eyes gleam further. She crawls again, her knees stomping Čapek's corpse along the way, not minding the spurt of blood gushing out brought by that, and then she hugs you. Deeply, tightly, as if she has never done it before. She feels your rapid heartbeat upon her chest, your ragged breathing, and your soft sobs; oh, god knows how bad Anna wants to pin you more to her until you're inside, forever bound and inseparable.

“W-what have I done? God, what have I done?!”

“Shh,” Anna coos, “you did nothing wrong.” A tone softer and you would believe her words. The way she starts stroking your head didn't help either. “My lovely, lovely girl, you did nothing wrong.”

“No!” you push her away. “I-I killed him!” And so your eyes lay upon your bloody hands again. “I cannot turn this back—hah—I cannot—”

Anna gently squeezes your hand and brings it to her cheeks, smearing Čapek's blood on her porcelain skin before it dries up. You think you're soiled? Then she's soiled with you. You look like you're drowning in quicksand right now; are you scared? No worries, you have sealed your fate with her at this very moment. You're not gonna die alone.

“Anna, please listen—”

She couldn't help it anymore. She needs an outlet this instant. All the love she's kept in to keep you comfortable aches to be let out. And so she cuts you off with a kiss, deeply and almost harshly, with rigor and reverence. She licks the blood off the corner of your lip, then your chin, then your cheeks, before slipping it inside. You're too surprised to note how disgusting Čapek's blood tastes. You try to push her away until you feel her tears on your cheeks.

Oh no, Anna.

You let her on then, barely returning it, but when you feel like Anna is about to pin you to the ground, you gently retract. “Why are you crying, Anna?”

She checks to confirm. She is indeed crying, and yet she smiles—sweet and grateful—that you almost forget the matter at hand. She tries to open her mouth only to back off at the last second. What could she say that would not upset you further? Knowing your head to toe, Anna's sure you'd be more rattled if she decides to speak what's on her mind: You're no different from me now. Oh dearest girl, now you're tied to me. We'll never get separated again. No one in this world would've done this for me. Now let me do everything for you in return. You don't have to worry about anything else but letting yourself be loved by me. I love you. I love you. Oh god I love you—

“Anna?”

“Let me clean this up—” she gets a handkerchief out of her pocket and gently wipes your face. She kisses your hand before cleaning it next. “—before anybody else comes in.”

It daunts you again. “I—” you don't know how to start, “I don't know what came to me.”

Anna hums, offering you a safe space to let it out the way she just did.

“All I knew was—” you let out a ragged exhale, “was that he needs to stop talking. And your face, your horrified face, stricken by his words—I-I just can't—”

“Thank you,” she kisses your hand again, now cleaned up from the blood. She walks to her closet to get you fresh clothes before continuing, “Thank you for doing this.”

“Thank you?” you quote, aghast. “Do you have any idea how fucked we are right now?”

Anna, as if she hears nothing, raises up your bloody shirt. And you let her (or maybe you're trembling too much to even stop her), clothe you again. “We're not fucked, darling. Don't you know who I am?”

Indeed, who is Anna even? How could you do this much for her? After all, everything Čapek had said before the commotion unfolded was things you heard for the first time. What the hell is Red Rose Mansion? What about Anna being forcefully separated from her family due to an experiment? What about Anna having the potential to be the perfect subject only to no avail because of Bonaparta's rotten pity? Who the hell is Bonaparta, even?

“I know how to clean this up. Just sit tight and relax, understand?”

“Who are you really, Anna?”

“I used to wonder, too,” she cryptically responds.

Who is she, indeed? She and his twin brother were nameless monsters. They don't have names. They were the only two people in the world. His twin brother made the monster inside her sleep for a while after being adopted by the Lieberts. Only after a series of harassment from Čapek and his team who wanted to take her again did the monster awaken. And since then she has killed plenty. With no remorse, with no difference from her brother. As if they were both born just to do that. 

Now, Anna's question for the longest time is starting to get answered. Maybe Johan and her aren't very alike this time around—not anymore. And slowly, surely, she will adapt to this change, too. Just the same way you'll get accustomed to the new life ahead of you, a life bound to her and nobody else, a life where you'll get smothered with the flowers she'll give, a life where she doesn't have to hold back with the feelings she has for you.

“Who are you, Anna?” you start again, getting more confused at her tranquility.

Anna hoists a strand of your hair before kissing your forehead. With a loving sigh, she answers. “I'm yours. That's all that matters.”

The world could only hope you'd be able to take what's about to come from hereon.

TAGLIST: @s0m4-sh4rk @acid-bunnyy @xeiin-n | SUBSCRIBE TO STORIES

[llycaons]

I'm trying to be chill for my reread but chapter one is called "Love Thy Neighbor" OH FUCK OFF.....okay under the cut the rest goes

never paid attention to the chapter titles honestly I just slurped it all

the manga actually starts with imuri stating her desire to fall in love - to have a genuine romantic bond with someone that she doesn't ruin and that people don't try to hurt her for. I've seen the claim that she's the 'true' protag of the manga and I think that's a little silly. she can be a serious major character and not the protagonist. she's not even as major as some other anime/manga deuteragonists I can think of

the fact that she paints humans and demons falling in love hits a bit on the nose knowing who she is but it's also an honest depiction of her desires so. it's okay

why the hell are you laughing at a 12 year old getting beaten up. are you stupid (he's stupid). he is cutes tho

nicholas is so dehumanizing towards the priest damn...I actually don't think dante experienced as much physical abuse from him between the other kids being mad at him for being favored EVEN THOUGH HE'S GAY and his attitude towards the church as a kid being generally positive, just a hassle to deal with. but who knows!

and four years later the church is like damn the priest is doing so bad mentally thats crazy. typical allusions to remaining 'pure' and warning dante not to be a womanizer around him

hehe. anyway he says he's going to raise the priest but at the end of ch1 I think he just leaves?

oh stop this might have been one of the first kind touches he's ever had. DANTE...no wonder the priest remembers him fondly. he was like hmm this kid is really withdrawn I should give him some affection. and it kind of worked

the post I made about this got like 50 notes in a day bc we're all starved but he does appear to be in physical pain. and it's not even that he forges connections with these women or appears to really get to know them, he just invites them over to drink together and then give them tons of money. it would be nice if he actually got to know these women and maybe spent his money more umm strategically like maybe these women are fine but they know other people who really need it...but I don't think he's thinking that hard it's just verge on the mind. but he's also focusing his efforts on adults and not poor kids...🤔 like that woman a bit later doesn't want to be pitied

WAIT I FORGOT...he was doing this as a ploy to flush out succubi. it WAS part of the job and he WAS thinking about it and he WAS forcing himself to act het for it. sad. well I guess it worked

nah this is a W for dante keep scamming the church. OHHH MY GOD verge thinks that dante goes to brothels and fucks women and that's part of why he's mad at him right. like he thinks he fully embraced the homophobia of the church and denying himself and is pissed at him. I thought he knew about the money but why would he! i mean it's vague so maybe...he heard about it from becu or someone else who was there but maybe not! anyway im sure dante is a virgin

he did seem a little holier-than-thou lmao I liked this

we see his face later and it's not like this so I genuinely think he's been stressed out his whole life due to pressure and abuse and he just thinks its normal

okay I went to dante's wikipedia page bc I wanted to know where he was from and I saw 'markmanship' among his abilities and I just started laughing. I know it's not funny. but. well we know he hit ONE person dead on

also if he grew up in the plavce the priest did I guess he is italian but he mentions 'coming to this country' so ig he's been living elsewhere

he's so baby....

dante asks him if he's joking and he QUOTES SCRIPTURE at him...also this is a trait that we see later on too, his comittment to and reverence of honesty

OHHH MY GOD it was because she wanted to fuck him

dante must really be an elite exorcist if the priest is impressed...we see how well he fights later too

genuinely didn't see that coming. chills

oh good lord the pregnancy horror. it doesn't bother me but I forgot to put it in the tw list 💀

WAIT. SHE IMPREGNATED THAT DEMON WITH HERSELF THEN RIPPED OUT???? scream...kind of metal tho

SEX AND DEATH ALWAYS IN THE SAME PLACE.....what a line to start this manga out on given how much priest's trauma is from 1. sexual assault and 2. physical violence

because he is literally gay...another thing I like a lot about how the story handles the demon of lust. attraction is not universal...

LEAVE HIM ALONEEEE

god no wonder he's suicidal

the way that the demon of lust slinks in and exposes all his vulnerabilities immediately and then uses them against him...that's an aspect you see later with aria too. she used his attraction to get close to him and then uses that closeness to hurt him. I screencapped this because it's a particularly upsetting page, but the 'don't look' really hit me on both reads. vulnerability and intimacy, emotional or physical, is difficult enough for him. to have it forced from him is horrifying, and I want to say mirrors the physical assault they're treatening him with as well. a really scary aspect of lust

my antichrist theory...or son of lucifer theory...or the jesus theory who knows

LUCIFER WAS AN ARCHANGEL NO???

she talked such a big game about being the most powerful of the seven sins and he defeated her in like five pages. well she does come back ig

dante internally going 'whatttt the fuck what the fuck what the FUCK'

it may be extreme, but the series doe not beat around the bush in establishing its themes and subject matter

he looks shocked/horrified here but his dialogue is PISSED....he knows nicholas obviously and he probably already hates him

I actually really love this panel. it's easy to make fun of it but it's genuinely what the priest needed to hear just now in his sexual shame-induced spiral and and it does become relevant later. also I like how it's laid out. dante very firm, very strong. this is good advice! consensual sex is okay! masturbation is okay!

esp as a gay man in the church (even closeted) with the experiences we knew he had, I think dante probably sees his job as damage mitigation not just in the sense of literally defending people from demons and giving money to swers, but providing a more supportive and umm less regressive voice in the church. probably not many kids are AS twisted up about this as priest is, but there's plenty of young people in the church with religious trauma, and plenty of gay catholics specifically

he wasn't wrong....

the thing is..he's right. the priest isn't actually that faithful

dramatic irony is a hell of a thing

:( he is twelve years old

THIS HUG....🥺

[mellowswriting]

i work this weekend so i’m sending this in early but; Soap with a breeding kink 😩 he wants a huge family idc

babe. you are so right. don’t even get me started on how crazy he would be when you’re actually pregnant 😩

sinful sunday

Johnny talks about it constantly. He muses about what life would look like with a few little ones running amok; a full house, the sound of little feet stampeding through the halls, raising little warriors that look like the two of you. He doesn’t push or pressure you, of course. He’s more than willing to wait until you’re ready - but that doesn’t stop him from waxing poetic about how amazing it will be. The moment you tell him you’re ready to start trying, his brain bluescreens from the rush of different emotions. 

“Dinnae say that to me, hen.” He whispers, eyes wide. “Not unless you really mean it.” 

“Well, I stopped taking the pill and I saw my doctor.” You wrap your arms around his shoulders as you settle in his lap. He looks at you like you’re blowing his mind and giving him the entire universe all at once. His hands come to rest at your waist, his touch gentle and reverent. “Plus, both my calendar and the test I just took say I’m ovulating.” 

John blinks up at you, still buffering as he processes. “So… you really mean it?” 

“Yeah, you dork. I really mean it.” 

Your over-preparedness was a necessity because you knew for a fact that the moment you told him, he would not rest until he knocked you up. Getting everything squared away meant all that pent-up eagerness would be put to good use - and boy, does John really use it. 

It’s been at least thirty-six hours since you’ve seen anything besides the four walls of the bedroom you share with your baby fever stricken husband. You feel hot, your body wracked with trembles as his softening cock slips out of your well-fucked pussy. Fuck, you never knew it was possible to feel so empty yet so full at the same time. You’ve lost count of how many times he’s fucked you, how many orgasms he’s pulled from your strung out body, how many times he’s buried himself deep and filled you with his seed. 

“There you go, that’s my girl.” Johnny sighs, honeyed reverence dripping from his lips. His big, warm palms slide up your thighs and squeeze gently, tenderly helping you come down from the rigorous way he’s worked you over. His eyes are bright with affection as he looks over you for even the slightest sign of pain or discomfort. “You look so pretty full of my cum. Gonna look even prettier with my baby in your belly.”

“Fuck, John…” The roughness of your voice makes him smile. He’s always had a thing about this - you all sweaty and fucked out, your voice hoarse from screaming his name, your body prone and trembling beneath him. John thrives on being a good husband and right now, that means knocking up his pretty little wife. His cock twitches, already half hard and nudging your thigh. You give him an incredulous look and huff out a disbelieving laugh. “How are you still hard?”

“Can ya blame me?” John’s eyes trail down your body and he shakes his head. “I mean, look at you… my gorgeous wife, all fucked full a’ me…” 

His praise sends you flush with warmth, stokes the flames of arousal in your belly. The effect he has on you is intoxicating. Your body aches with overstimulation yet John gives you that appreciative look, his eyes bright with desire, and you ache for more. His hand slips down to trace the mess he’s made of you and you concede to him, spread your thighs and welcome the pleasure-pain of his touch. 

“Just one more, hen. One more and I’ll let ya rest. Gotta make sure it takes, don’t we?” He babbles as he presses close and hooks your legs around his waist. The kiss he drags you into is messy, all spit and tongue and desperation. He drinks in the sound of your cry as he slides into your abused pussy, meeting no resistance as his cum leaks out around his cock. “ I’ll do all the work, you just lay back and let me make you feel good, yeah?  That’s it, good girl…” 

[discluded]

KinnPorsche is my first view into BL fandom. Every time BOC announces something the comments from many fans are all about what they want instead and how the announcement is bad for the artists they have. Wtf? This level of entitlement from fans who have no insight into the actual business or plans is so disheartening. Is this normal? Like they announced a tour date for HK and people are like why another tour date, we need a series, we need the artist to be actors etc. Do they think making a series costs nothing? Do they not recall we got 14 WHOLE amazing episodes? It all breaks my heart.

Hey, I don't usually talk about fandom drama but sure I'll bite since time it's about business and I guess there's going to be new people coming in once in a while (hopefully!) wondering about why the fandom is so messed up.

Anyone who doesn't want to hear about the merry-go-round of drama from the last 6 months, should probably bow out.

So it's a bit of a multi-fold problem.

(1) You're right about the entitlement, but part of it is because many fans are coming from a background of engagement set by kpop where there is so much contentification of the idols' lives and their work schedule is really unsustainable and harmful.

Fans will hear that and go "boohoo the company is abusing them!" and then turn around and demand an insane level of content/access and not put two and two together... In fact, some fans named kpop agencies as better talent management companies when they headed to KPWT Seoul like many of those agencies aren't notorious for working their idols/trainees to the bone. It's inheriting a set of expectations from a toxic industry where the core content also is smaller/more bite size (songs vs. whole series).

(2) BOC is an extremely young company and are facing growing pains. Some things they've done from the KPWT promotion and talent management side are genuine missteps that need to be corrected. For example, they announced a KPWT date in Vietnam and then later had to cancel the date after it was apparent the scheduling was too tight. In the cancelation of the date, they also misspelt the name of the city (HCMC), which was named after a revered leader in Vietnam. Fans had already started booking travel/hotels around that date so it was already a cause of inconvenience and fans felt even more upset because BOC refused to apologize for the misspelling. Some of it now is genuinely fans being overreactive, but a not-small part is friction that was built up from missteps BOC made earlier, and thus is now leading to fans feeling sensitive whenever they feel that they are being slighted.

A lot of fans already decided they dislike BOC so there's no incremental improvement BOC can make at this point to win them back. But there genuinely was a lack of comms/PR leadership and planning by the company in the middle of this year.

Somewhere in the middle of these two - fans feeling like BOC does not take care of their artists and the lack of socmed/PR/comms leadership is the Daemi problem. feel free to search "kinnporsche daemi" on YouTube to learn about that. I know at least one person made an explainer video and I'm not also interested in talking about it.

(3) BOC is also competing within the Thai BL industry with GMMTV, which produces the majority of BLs that air in Thailand. Again, this is a problem of expectation setting. GMMTV is a well-oiled machine that consistently turns out bad to mediocre to acceptable products like clockwork. BOC served a single Michellin-star quality feast, but fans are looking at GMMTV and going "They're going to McD's five times a week" as though those two experiences are comparable.

(And a horrible machine in some ways -- it was recently exposed that an assistant director was using his powers to predate and he was arrested so like, fans really need to ... not hold GMMTV as the standard).

I'm not saying fans' expectations are valid. They are not. But a lot off fans were on BOC's side during the airing KPTS and had been rooting for them, and there is an explanation for why some fans now have unfavorable feelings towards them. The fact that they dug their heels in and refused to apologize / openly acknowledge improvements are needed when they made obvious missteps made a lot of people who generally feel neutral about them like myself not that inclined to stand up for them in other instances. Combined with toxic industry standards coming from other fandom (kpop) and industry (Thai BL) angles, it's not really surprising to me that this is where we got to.

[mypoisonedvine]

𝗵𝗮𝗽𝗽𝘆 𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗹𝗲 𝗽𝗶𝗹𝗹 || dark!alex kerner x reader

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆 ◦ alex has been waiting so long for you to figure out he's the guy you should be with, but you just see him as your best friend. he's tired of being a virgin, and he's tired of hoping that someday you'll wake up and realise you're meant to be together— if he can't wake you up, at least he can put you to sleep.

𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁 ◦ 6.7k

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 ◦ smut (noncon, somnophilia, creampie), drugging, obsession, "nice guy"/incel vibes, a bit of possessiveness, very slight degradation, male virginity loss, overall just alex being super unsettling and awful lmao

“I’m gonna run to the washroom, watch my drink?” you requested casually. Alex nodded quickly, heart starting to beat a bit faster as he watched you weave your way through the crowded bar, leaning back a bit to make sure you were out of sight for good.

He took a few glances back and forth at the people around to make sure no eyes were on him, leaning in closer to the bar to try to conceal what he was doing— reaching into his inner jacket pocket and fishing for what he’d bought just a few days ago, waiting for this moment. He was absolutely terrified that someone would catch him— that you would catch him— but he was willing to risk it in exchange for such an incredible reward.

After struggling for a second due to his hands shaking slightly, he found the plastic baggie and discreetly slipped it out, not even looking at it as he opened it close to his chest; he figured if he stared straight ahead it would be less suspicious.

He managed to get the bag open and lean forward just enough to dump the contents into your drink as it rested on the bar, looking around absent-mindedly to remain nonchalant— except that when he leaned back to see if the powder had dissolved easily, he found that he’d missed the glass entirely and dumped the light blue substance right onto the bar.

“Scheiße!” he frantically cursed under his breath as he whipped his head around to make sure no one had seen, trying to decide how to recover from this. Thinking quickly, he grabbed the glass and held it up to the edge of the bar, brushing the powder with his hand across the smooth surface and right over the slope into your drink; it hit the alcohol and started to dissolve quickly as he used his finger to push in the excess on the wooden bar before brushing the rest away with his jacket sleeve. He held the glass up to his face to look at the liquid closely, still seeing some remnants of the powder and trying to swirl the drink a bit to encourage it to fade away: if you saw something by the time you got back, he’d have to start all over again.

“When I said ‘watch my drink,’ I didn’t mean it that literally,” you giggled, and he jumped, not having realized you had returned. Considering your casual attitude and your hands eagerly reaching for the glass, you must not have seen anything leading up to this moment— and thank heavens for that.

He watched a little too intently as you took the drink from his hand and took a sip, waiting to see if you had any reaction, but you set it down without saying anything. “Thanks,” you broke the silence after swallowing, “god knows this place is probably full of creeps.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” he agreed awkwardly. There was one benefit to being so deep in the friendzone: you trusted him. Right now, that and some pharmaceutical support were all he had going for him.

He wrung his hands nervously as he hoped that the second would come through for him. The guy he bought this stuff from said it was guaranteed to work, but Alex didn’t necessarily trust the word of a drug dealer selling daterape drugs. Not that he thought the label of “daterape” was very fair— if he could get you on a date, he wouldn’t have to do stuff like this in the first place! But after years of being your best friend, your partner in crime, your confidante, and the constant shoulder to cry on while a carousel of abusive assholes treated you like shit and kicked you to the curb, you still didn’t get the fucking picture. So no, this wasn’t a date; it was just two friends getting drinks, and one friend finally getting what he deserved from the other.

He took a swig of his own drink to try to calm his nerves; nursing the neck of a bottle of beer made him realize he got lucky that you ordered something served in a glass, since getting powder down a bottle would’ve been a pain.

Quickly the conversation returned to the mundane: your latest break-up, his week at work, your favorite bands, his favorite movies. He really did enjoy being your friend, all things considered, he just needed more. And as the night continued without much sign of the pill kicking in— even as you finished your drink— he worried he wouldn't get it.

But then, finally, he noticed the subtle signs: you were blinking a bit more often, and for longer. You seemed to be breathing a bit slower, staring off into space. "Hey, you with me?" he prompted, waving his hand in front of your face to get your attention. "Sorry, my story was boring—"

"No, it's not that, I'm sorry," you shook your head.

"Then what's up?" he asked, adding faux concern to his tone.

“I just…" you sighed and started over again. "Let’s head out soon, I’m getting ready to turn in,” you decided.

“It’s only ten!” Alex pointed out with a laugh.

“Fuck, really? I thought it was later,” you frowned.

“Who knew you were such a lightweight?” he teased, pushing you on the shoulder and getting a playful shove back— but he could feel that you were a little weak, and he saw you almost falter in your balance. “Hey, you don’t look so good, let’s go outside for some fresh air.”

You nodded and took his hand, letting him guide you through the crowd and out the back door.

The overwhelming noise that had been present inside was muffled in the damp alleyway, just the distant roar of a thousand conversations and the heavy bass of the music left now. He watched you take a deep breath, closing your eyes. "You good?" he prompted.

"Yeah," you decided, but your voice sounded a little heavy. "Let's walk to the train station…"

He nodded and walked beside you, but you hardly made it a few steps before losing your balance. “Woah!” he laughed as you stumbled, thankfully catching you just in time, and tried not to get too caught up in how amazing it felt to hold you in his arms. “I think you’ve had a little too much to drink…”

“Alex,” you mumbled as you started to go limp, clearly fighting to keep your eyes open (and losing).

“I’m gonna take you home, okay?” he offered as you started to fade out.

He kept that promise; he just took you to his home instead of your own.

It was a bit of a struggle to drag an unconscious body back to his apartment without arousing suspicion, but thankfully it was only a couple blocks and with his your arm slung over his shoulders it was pretty easy for any passersby (of which there were very few at this hour) to assume it was just a chivalrous boyfriend helping his date after one too many drinks.

The hardest part was actually getting his keys and unlocking his door without dropping you. Once you were both inside, though, he grunted slightly as he slung you over his shoulder and carried you to the bedroom, laying you down on the bed and looking down at you as he caught his breath.

He was embarrassingly eager; he was already rock hard just from seeing you like this, laying on his bed. It’s not that he got off on you being passed out, but from the feeling that he could do whatever he wanted to you— and the knowledge that he was going to.

Finally, after all this time of being just your friend, he would get what he’d been dreaming of from the beginning.

He was slow and patient, for once, as he sat down beside you on the bed, trailing his fingers over your face, brushing your hair out of the way tenderly. You looked so beautiful this way, peaceful in a way he was almost jealous of; he closed his eyes as he leaned down and kissed you softly, moving his lips even though yours were slack and still.

Past the taste of alcohol, there was something distinctly unique to you, and he took in a deep breath as he sought more of it, adjusting himself until he was on top of you... just having you beneath him was such a rush.

He licked over your lips, even nibbled on them before holding your jaw so he could open your mouth wider and taste inside of it. “Baby,” he whispered to you, heart swelling at the chance to finally call you something that friends don’t call each other— only lovers. “Baby,” he said again, mumbled into the kiss, “you’re so beautiful…”

He precariously balanced on one arm while using the other to feel all over your body through your clothes— and even under them, for a moment, as his hand awkwardly snaked up your shirt and squeezed your tits through your bra.

Suddenly he pulled back with a new desperation, sitting up and breaking the kiss as he started to undress you. “Let’s get you out of these clothes,” he cooed at you quietly, starting to lift your shirt to expose a bit of your hips and stomach.

It was pretty difficult to push your shirt up, since your weight was holding the back of it down, and so he had to awkwardly lift your limp upper body to finally pull the fabric aside before he laid you back down and carefully— gently, with reverence— exposed your bra which itself he pulled down with much less care.

“Oh, god,” he groaned as he got an eyeful, and then a handful, of your tits. “Fuck, wanted to touch you for so long…”

You were so warm, in fact you were hot to the touch, and he hoped his hands weren’t too cold for you… but then again, you couldn’t feel any of it, could you? Did you even care?

For cold hands or not, your nipples started to get harder and he smiled to himself. “You’re sensitive here, just like I imagined. I’m gonna suck on them,” he promised as he started to lean down, pushing them together a bit to make them easier to reach. With a hum he wrapped his lips around one bud and closed his eyes, swirling his tongue and moaning at the taste of your skin. Already his hips were rocking forward into the air just a bit, his cock throbbing and eager to be inside you. But he couldn’t stop doing this to deal with that, couldn’t stop suckling on your perfect tits, going back and forth and massaging them both as he let his tongue explore you.

“God, you’re so fucking perfect,” he groaned against your skin, “you’ve got such perfect tits… you like being sucked here, don’t you? I bet your pussy’s getting so wet.”

As his cock flexed in his pants again, he found the strength to let go so he could move on to better things.

“Let’s find out,” he decided as he sat up and moved down your body to start opening your jeans.

If he thought your shirt was awkward to remove, your jeans were a whole other story; he had to fiddle with the button and fly for quite a while since his hands were starting to shake from the adrenaline rush of it all, and then it took several hard yanks to get the tight denim down your legs. He considered just getting them down enough to do his business and be on with it, but decided it would be better to see all of you— and so he stood up off the bed for a moment, though it felt a bit awkward physically with his cock doing its best try to bust right out of his trousers, and pulled the jeans off over your feet which he also relieved of their socks.

“Aw, you even have pretty feet,” he cooed as he cradled one in his hand briefly before climbing back up over you— after all he’d seen them before when you wore sandals and while he’d always found it a bit titillating when you wore them with your toenails painted in bright colours, they were absolutely nowhere near the main event tonight.

His hands ran over your legs, admiring the smoothness of your skin as he carefully held and lifted each one, moving them out further to spread your legs. Again, they were heavier than he expected as dead weight, and the softness of the bed meant that they sort of rolled back a bit so he had to move them more than he expected at first, but it was worth it to have you spread out beneath him like this with only your panties and rolled up shirt to cover you.

“I can just… pull these aside…” he mumbled as he hooked a finger into the fabric of your panties, revealing your cunt— and god, just the sight of it nearly pushed him over the edge right then and there. What a waste it would’ve been to come this far and just end up coming in his pants at the sight of you, so it was a good thing he held it off just barely. “Mein Gott, you have such a beautiful pussy,” he sighed. “It smells good… I wanna taste it. I’ve never tasted a pussy before…”

Carefully, he leaned in and gave an experimental lick to your folds, moaning softly at the taste. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting but he liked it more than he thought he would, going in again to get a more thorough taste. That said, as soon as he started to push his tongue into you, he knew he needed to feel inside you with something much more capable of appreciating every detail of you. He breathed heavily as he quickly brought his fingers up to your entrance, pushing in one but adding a second right away once he felt the warm perfection of your channel. This he’d done before— fingering, that is— and it had been rather lackluster so he hadn’t realised how much he would enjoy it when it was you; you were so much warmer, and wetter, and tighter… his fingers curled slightly to press against your walls, his attempt to feel every detail of your body, and he moaned as he sucked on your clit while he pumped his fingers.

One more flex of his cock against the confines of his trousers made one thing very clear: now, or never.

“Fuck,” he groaned beneath his breath as he sat up quickly, pulling his fingers out of you to use two hands to fumble over his belt and jeans, “need to be inside you— m’gonna fuck you baby, you want it? Yeah, you wanna be fucked, don’t you?”

You were, of course, still and silent… but your pussy was wet, you obviously wanted him.

He shouldn’t have rushed it quite so much but the moment he pulled his cock out, he found himself leaning forward and hovering over you again, swiping the head through your folds to coat himself in your wetness. As soon as he felt your entrance, he pushed all the way inside.

“Fuck!” he moaned loudly at the overwhelming feeling of you— so hot he thought he might burn up and he wouldn’t even mind it— already bucking his hips as he thrusted quickly. Lost in the feeling, he threw his head back for a moment and blindly searched with his hand until he found a breast to grab onto. “Oh my god, you feel so good, baby…”

He didn’t have much freedom to move his legs since he’d only pushed his pants down just enough to get inside you, but he found a way to make it work anyways, just from pure desperation. After a moment, he looked down at your sleeping face, tossing around slightly as his thrusts rocked your unconscious body, and you looked so angelic that he just had to lean down to kiss you again. So he did, and he did so hungrily, passionately, moans echoing into your mouth, as he already felt himself getting closer and closer to the edge.

“Taking me so good,” he praised roughly, “feels like you were made for me… you’re fucking tight, too, how am I supposed to pull out when you’re this tight? Oh fuck, I have to come inside you— I can’t pull out, you feel too good, and you’re not awake to yell at me anyways…”

Truth be told, he had no plan for when you woke up tomorrow, sore and leaking his come. He’d never thought that far ahead, not even when he was buying the sedative for your drink. All he could think about was this moment, this exact place that he knew he was meant to be: inside you.

“Gonna fill you with it,” he promised with a grunt as he kissed his way across your cheek to the crook of your neck where he buried his face as he thrusted faster. “O-oh god, I’m close, I’m so fucking close, just— just like that, baby— fuck!”

He may have caught a little glimpse of heaven as he came inside you, each pulse of his orgasm running straight down to the base of his cock and making his balls tighten so hard that it would’ve probably been painful were it not for the euphoria superseding everything. He gave you a few more weak thrusts, not pulling out very far since he couldn’t manage being anything but buried completely inside you, before the waves subsided and he collapsed on top of you.

“You’re so amazing, baby, Mein Gott,” he breathed as he kissed all over your face, “look how fast you made me come, you’re fucking perfect.”

He let himself rest for a little while, content to just stay inside you for as long as he could stand it, before sitting back up again and very carefully pulling himself out of you.

That first one only took the edge off; now that he was thinking somewhat clearly again, he could take the time to do this right— he carefully pulled your panties down your legs, tossing them aside along with your shirt and bra once he’d figured out how to get them off somehow.

He really savored you this time: kissed you all over, talked softly to you about everything he couldn’t wait to do to your pliant body, ran his hands over anywhere he could reach. He even played with your clit, watching the way it made your walls flex which pushed a bit of his come out every time. “I love the way your pussy looks, baby, it’s so fucking sexy,” he grinned. “And you know what? I think it looks even better with my come leaking out of it. You want more? I can give you more, baby, I have so much left to give— I’m gonna use you until my balls are empty and all my come is inside you. We’ve got all night, after all.”

He stripped himself as well, wanting to feel your skin against his this time, and stroked himself for a moment as he stared down at your body, laying there at his disposal. He couldn’t even count how many times he had jerked off imagining being with you, and now his dreams were coming true, if maybe not exactly the way he would’ve predicted.

On his knees between your spread legs, he lifted your hips up and propped you up just how he wanted you before pushing inside, groaning instantly not only from your warmth but also because of the way his own come eased his path and left you dripping wet. “Oh fuck,” he breathed, placing one hand beside your head so he could hover over you while the other squeezed your hips tightly.

But now that he’d already come before, he had some real stamina to work with and that gave him time to move you into a new position— just for fun, he turned you onto your stomach and fucked you from behind for a while. He was definitely a breast man all things considered, but he was absolutely not one to let a great ass go to waste; he loved watching yours ripple each time he slammed into you, pushing your back down to force it to arch a bit.

“You probably like taking it from behind, don’t you? Is this how you liked to get fucked?” he taunted with a groan. “Yeah, I think you like it— I think you’re a bit of a slut, hm?”

He took your absence of response as a yes, squeezing handfuls of your ass before spanking you a few times for good measure.

After that, he pushed your legs up to your shoulders, groaning in awe of such a lovely view of your pussy and face at the same time. This time when he pushed his cock into you, he felt himself hit the very end of your body— he moaned as he realized his cock was using all of you, really claiming you as his own. He needed to come this deep in you, he needed it like he had never needed anything before.

Soon enough it ended up with your legs draped over his shoulders and his hands roughly grabbing at your tits, and that transitioned naturally into him slipping his arms under your back and holding you tight as he fucked you fast, rough, needy— animalistic, near the end.

He let his mind run wild with some insane idea of what it might be like if you were awake: in his fantasy you were begging him for more, moaning about how he was the best you ever had, digging your nails into his back as he brought you to ecstasy with only his cock. You seemed like the type to cry with joy when you came really hard, at least that’s what he’d imagined before, and so he thought he might kiss your tears away while he spoke his little praises to you, hearing your sounds of pleasure right against his ear.

Suddenly he pressed his lips to yours again, almost wishing you could kiss him back properly but appreciating that this was the best he could do for now— and it still did plenty for him, making his cock start to flex inside you as his second orgasm drew closer.

“You’ll make me come, baby— you’re so good, I’m gonna come in you again,” he whispered against your lips. “Oh, Liebling, you’re going to be so full of my come, do you think you can take it all? Can you take everything, baby?”

It was different from the first one: in some ways more intense, kind of building on the last, and in some ways more subdued as he knew a bit more of what to expect by now. But it was no less incredible, and he moaned loudly into his unrequited kiss as he filled you once again.

Once the most intense pangs of sensation had faded, once the ringing in his ears had stopped, and once he’d (mostly) caught his breath, he sat up slowly and looked down at where your bodies were joined. It had, understandably, made a bit of a mess to come inside you twice in a row— he hopped up from the beg on slightly-wobbly legs to retrieve a damp cloth, cleaning his cock first before giving your pussy at least a cursory, exterior wipe down like any gentleman would.

He knew there was no real point in getting you fully cleaned up since he’d be back to use you again soon enough. But that was a ways out from now since he definitely needed a while to recover.

With a parting kiss to your forehead and a brief search for his boxers, Alex left the bedroom to forage the kitchen for something to restore some energy. He settled on a coffee (there was still plenty of night left that he would definitely prefer to be awake for), an apple, and some orange-chocolate biscuits, which he enjoyed while he turned on the TV and watched whatever was left before the end of broadcast.

Of course, with nothing interesting to watch, he found himself not really paying much attention as his mind wandered to other things. Most of all, for the first time he considered his plan for after the pill wore off and you had questions. The most thorough solution would be to give you a bath to get his fingerprints off of your skin and his come out of you, then to redress you in your clothes from the bar and simply say that you passed out and he gave you the bed while he slept on the couch.

Another option, though more dangerous, might be a bit more fun: he could leave at least some of his come inside you before he redressed you, just to know he’d left a bit of himself behind.

And, of course, there was always his last resort, perhaps the most obvious but highest risk solution. He could admit that something had happened, but try to convince you that it was of your doing, a drunken initiation that you simply couldn’t remember. But even then, it would all depend on what you remembered of the moments at the bar before blacking out; and considering the thorough beating your pussy had been receiving so far tonight and would continue to be receiving, the odds were probably pretty low that he could convince your hungover self in the morning that nothing had happened. Not that Alex would know, but he had a pretty good feeling that a sore vagina is not a common side effect of a hangover for women.

His cock started to stir as he imagined the absolute best case scenario when you woke up in the morning.

Alex, what happened last night? Did we have sex?

Yes, baby, and it was amazing, I just wish you could remember it.

Oh, Alex, I’ve been waiting so long for you to just man up and take me— you’re all I ever wanted.

I know, baby, but I’m sorry I had to go about it that way, giving you that pill in your drink. I just had to be sure you wouldn’t say no to me, I couldn’t take it if you did.

I’d never say no to you, Alex, and I never, ever will. I wouldn’t even know how, not after last night— I know that we’re meant to be together now. You shouldn’t apologize for drugging me either, I should be thanking you. We can finally be together, I can finally be all yours… come here and make love to me again, I promise I’m going to remember it this time— I’ll remember it for the rest of my life.

And to make up for such a one-sided night of passion before, he decided that this time you’d be loud and proud, even bordering on dominant by riding him with reckless abandon— bouncing happily on his cock and bringing yourself pleasure like you’ve never known before. But, of course, you’d both be well aware who was really in charge, who you really belonged to.

Alex, I’m yours— my body is yours, my heart is yours, everything, it’s all yours… I swear, nobody’s ever made me feel like you do, you can have me whenever you want me— use me, Alex, I love you, I love you!

Fuck, he was hard again. Way harder than he had any right to be considering how he’d spent the night so far. He could even just barely see a little stain of precum on his boxers by the tip of his cock, hard to make out with only the dim, blue-ish glow of the TV to see by.

But thankfully, while you were here, no boner would go to waste— he stood up and stretched away the soreness that had settled in from sitting on the couch for a while, before walking to his bedroom and cracking the door open. You were laying there, exactly as he’d left you, and even though it was no surprise at all he still smiled to himself proudly.

“Hey baby,” he grinned as he slipped off his boxers and hopped onto the bed beside your motionless body, “you’ve been waiting for me, huh?”

He ran his fingers down your stomach, over your thighs, then came back up to start to touch your pussy. He still couldn’t believe how soft and silky it was, you were just too good to be true— and here you were, spread out on his bed for him to use as much as he liked, his best friend turned into his own personal sex doll.

The only shame was that the drug would wear off eventually, and he couldn’t just use you this way forever. It was only one night, at least until he found a way to do it again, and he needed to make the most of it.

So, not looking to waste any more time, he climbed up on top of you and rubbed his cock over your pussy— wet and spread out on display for him, though even wetter after he took a moment to pull back and spit on it— while his mouth laved at your hardening nipples. Honestly, he could probably come just from this, just from rubbing himself on you and sucking on your tits, but why do that when he could fuck you again?

He held your legs apart for himself as he pushed inside, purring as he felt your swollen channel struggle slightly to accommodate him. “Aw, it’s not too big for you, is it baby?” he taunted you with a smirk. “You can take it all, right? Yeah you can, that’s my good girl…”

He fucked you a little faster right away, focusing his hands and mouth on your breasts for a while and wondering if he might find the self-discipline to pull out and come on your tits this time. Probably not, but it was fun to imagine. He always thought your tits just deserved to be covered in his come, though, ever since you wore that one dress that showed them off just a little too much and it made him too horny to even really be jealous that you were putting yourself on display like that.

You dressed a little too provocatively, all things considered; he never got his head around on how all these controlling douchebag boyfriends of yours let you leave the house like that. If you were his girlfriend, he’d treat you loads better than any of them did, but one thing he’d be sure of is to dress you up in baggy sweatshirts as much as he could get away with. No more of those tops with the straps as thin as a noodle and the jeans so tight that every guy who walked by was obviously staring at you. A body as lovely as yours would need to stay Alex’s-eyes-only, if you two were ever going to end up together. But obviously, tonight proved that Alex was more confident than ever that that could never really happen. It was nice to play pretend for the night, though.

“You’re taking it so good, baby, look at you,” he groaned as he sat up a bit to get a glimpse of your cunt stretched wide around his cock. “Can you believe it fits? I can, I know you were made to take it— ‘cause you’re my girl, huh? All mine…”

For all intents and purposes, he was talking to himself; but as stupid as it was, it worked.

“Yeah, you’re all mine,” he continued, fucking you faster, “this pussy belongs to me, all my come inside it makes that pretty fucking clear, don’t you think? Such a beautiful little pussy and it’s all mine.”

Overcome by it all, he leaned down to rest his head beside yours while he fucked you, feeling a thin layer of sweat gather around most of his body from the exertion of fucking you as hard as he was.

“You’re never gonna let anybody else touch you,” he demanded against your shoulder, “‘cause you’re mine, baby, and nobody else is ever gonna fuck you… just me, you’re gonna be mine, Liebling.”

He heard you let out a little sigh and at first it was the hottest thing he’d ever experienced— the closest he’d ever gotten to hearing you moan for him— but then he pulled back and saw your eyes blinking open and staring straight up at him…

And suddenly it was the most terrifying thing he’d ever experienced.

A rush of adrenaline— much less enjoyable than before— shot through him and left him petrified as he stared back at you.

“...A-Alex?” you croaked out weakly. “What’s happening?”

Even in his state of terror, he was moving on pure instinct: and his instinct was to keep fucking you. He couldn’t stop, not even staring you down like this, not even moments away from facing the very terrible consequences of his very terrible actions. “You’re dreaming,” he blurted out suddenly, suppressing a moan as he felt you squirm a bit beneath him— it made you even tighter when you struggled. “This is just a dream…”

You reached up, a pathetically weak attempt to push him away, and he quickly pinned your arms down beside your head.

“You’re just dreaming, baby,” he repeated in a groan, “a really, really amazing dream.”

You whimpered a bit but didn’t say anything else, eyes falling shut again; he carefully leaned down to press his face into your neck, kissing along your pulse and up to your ear.

“You’ve dreamed about this before, haven’t you?” he whispered to you softly. “You’ve dreamed about how good it would be if you let your best friend fuck you. And it feels good, doesn’t it? I dreamed about this too. For as long as I knew you.”

When he looked up at your eyes again, they were still shut, and your breathing started to slow down again. He couldn’t say for sure that you were asleep quite in the same way you had been before, but you weren’t awake the way you’d been before, either.

The safest option, of course, would be to stop now— but he was too close to coming a third time and he just couldn’t bring himself to stop moving when the slick friction was just so fucking good.

He tried not to be too rough so he wouldn’t jostle you awake, and even just that took all that was left of his willpower; it wasn’t all too much later that he came inside you one last time, whispering to you about how this might be the last time, but that he hopes you enjoyed your strange little dream about making love with your best friend.

Truth be told, he didn’t mean to fall asleep in the manner that he did— that being on top of you— but the coffee did little to keep him up compared to the sedative of three orgasms and your perfect pussy keeping him warm all night…

By the time he woke up, though, you two had migrated apart slightly, though you were still tangled up in his arms with your head on his chest.

Smiling down at you, he let himself run his fingers lightly over your back, over your arm draped on his chest, before he felt you start to stir with the sunlight in the window shining on your face.

You hummed a little, starting to move, but he thought he might’ve caught the moment you realised you were laying next to someone— and you looked up at him with those pretty eyes all confused. “Alex?” you groaned.

“Morning,” he greeted, trying to mimic the hungover exhaustion that tinted your voice.

“Oh Christ are we—” you choked, glancing down at his bare chest. “I think we’re naked.”

“That… seems to be the case, yes,” he agreed awkwardly.

“Did we…?” you prompted, looking up at him in a way that made it painfully ambiguous what answer you might prefer.

“I don’t know, we were both pretty wasted,” he offered, banking on you not remembering him being much more composed than you when you passed out. “What do you remember last?”

“Um, the bar…” you trailed off. “And we were walking outside…”

“Yeah, that’s kind of where my memory cuts off, too,” he bluffed with a nervous chuckle.

He saw your eyes get wide for a second before they darted away, and he raised an eyebrow. “Oh… oh shit,” you choked as you sat up suddenly, trying to cover yourself as you searched near the bed for your discarded clothes.

“What? What’s going on?” he asked quickly.

“I, uh, remember one other thing,” you explained pointedly, finally finding your panties and slipping them back on under the covers.

“Well, what is it?” he asked, but you ignored him as you searched for your bra. “Hey,” he barked, grabbing your shoulder as he sat up, and finally you faced him again, “what do you remember?”

“Well,” you sighed, “I, uh… I think I can say with complete confidence that we fucked last night.”

“Wait, what? Are you sure?” he pressed, sitting up a little straighter.

“I… remember,” you explained, “just a little bit.”

He just prayed that you didn’t remember that little bit where he drugged you. “Well, what happened?”

“I don’t know, okay? I just remember you on top of me and—”

“And?”

You swallowed thickly, and he had to hide a smirk when he realized what the rest of your sentence was. And it felt good.

“I should go…” you mumbled awkwardly, and he reached out to grab your arm.

“Wait, please,” he begged, and you looked back at him with watery eyes. “Look, I’m not sure what happened last night, but maybe it wasn’t a mistake— I mean, how can we be sure if we don’t give it a shot?”

You tilted your mouth a bit as you considered it.

“I mean, they say alcohol takes away your inhibitions, not that it gives you new ideas, right?” he added. “So we both got way too drunk and… if this is where we ended up, then maybe this is what we both really wanted all along.”

He scooted a bit closer to you on the bed, wrapping his arms around you. You sighed as you leaned into his chest, relaxing a bit. “I just don’t want to lose this,” you breathed. “You know: this.”

“Of course,” he agreed, “we’re always gonna be best friends, nothing can change that.”

He leaned in to kiss your temple… then your cheek… then just below your ear...

“Alex,” you breathed as he slowly laid you down and pressed you back into the mattress, but you jumped a little bit when he pressed his cock against your thigh. “Alex!”

“C’mon, baby, let’s remember together,” he encouraged with kisses all over your neck, grinning as your back arched.

“But… but we’re just friends,” you protested.

“Not anymore,” he purred. “I don’t remember much, but I remember you begging me for more. You loved my cock way too much for us to just be friends now, Liebling.”

For all the conflict on your face, your legs spreading open for him was pretty unambiguous. Your mind might have missed the memo, but your body was already used to him. With you conscious he could make you come around him, he could hear you moan his name, he could make you beg him to come inside you… the possibilities were really endless.

He should’ve known he’d never have the self-control to let it just be one night; he was a goner from the beginning, he’d do anything to have you— lie, steal, kill, spike your drink— and he wasn’t going to let you get away so easily, not when you were finally right here in his arms.

“You’re gonna be mine, baby,” he whispered in your ear as he slowly pushed his cock inside you once again, “all mine.”

[jinmukangwrites]

Gifts

Read on AO3

Prompt

Summary: Wild tells of the gifts the past Champions have given him. All that's left is for the others to witness these gifts.

Warnings: Descriptions of injury, temporary character death.

Notes: Finally got a prompt done. Y'all proud of me? If you are, then know I wrote this instead of Chapter 2 of Succumb because I'm an awful creature who has a solid idea for the entire fic except Chapter 2 and I'm avoiding it. Stop being proud of me now.

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“How about you, Champ?”

Wild blinks from the daze he's fallen into and looks up to see eight pairs of eyes all looking right at him. The moon hangs lazily above them, nothing more than a C-shape tied to the stars to watch them all talk themselves to sleep. Wild’s zoned out of this one, for reasons he can’t really explain why. It’s not that what they’re talking about tonight is particularly dull or offensive. It’s just… well… they’re talking about magic and discussing the common theme that seems most sources of magic that they know has been given to them.

Time and Great Fairies. Hyrule and wise men in caves. Wild’s sure the others all have similar stories, he’s just decided to not listen to them tonight.

“About me?” He asks hopefully. Maybe they have changed topics while he was trying to decide what the woodchip by his boot resembles.

Four leans forward on his knees, wiggling his eyebrows. “Any magical gifts that you’ve been holding out on us?”

Wild tries not to let his disappointment show on his face. “Ah.” He curls his fingers around the hem of his tunic before they could nervously knit with each other on his lap. “Nothing that’s important.”

Besides him, Twilight scoffs. “Nothing that’s important? Cub, either you really are holding out on us or you’re being humble.”

“Wild? Humble?” Warriors snorts. “Perish the thought.”

Wild sighs. “Really, I don’t have any cool stories to tell tonight. I’d much rather listen to you all.”

“Listen, huh?” Four challenges, grinning like an imp. “Who taught Hyrule how to shoot fire from his sword?”

Wild rolls his eyes. “Some old guy in a cave.”

“Actually,” Hyrule says with a soft, apologetic smile, “it was an old man in a basement.”

“What is up with you and old men?”

“Anyway,” Twilight says, giving Wild a hard look, “you’re obviously not listening. Is something wrong? You’re usually more talkative.”

Does Twilight have to be a doting old mother in front of everyone? Wild can feel himself bristling. “Maybe I just don’t feel like talking tonight. Vet isn’t talking and you’re not pestering him.”

“That’s because Vet never talks about himself,” Warriors says, foiling Wild’s entire argument. Legend has a smug look on his face. “Not unless he’s trying to heighten his own ego.” Legend’s smug look falls into a glare.

“Fine,” Legend says. “I’ll tell one. Then Champ can tell one, so that you all will get off both of our backs.”

“It has to be serious, Leg,” Wind butts in, completely oblivious to Wild’s dying hope of getting out of this conversation. “No ‘I got my magic from being super cooler than everyone else’ bull.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Legend snaps. “Besides, I don’t have magic. I have magical items. Which is just as useful.”

“Then what’s that one?” Sky points at the small clay ocarina in Legend’s hands. “You’ve been holding it all night.”

Legend stills and his face softens, and immediately the whole group can tell that whatever that ocarina is, Legend has feelings attached to it. He takes a deep breath. “It’s not very magic,” he says, his fingers rubbing over the holes reverently. “It used to be able to summon a gust of wind to take me wherever I needed to go. It could also awaken the dead under specific circumstances… now it’s nothing but clay. It doesn’t work anymore.”

“Where’d you get it?” Wind asked, and not unkindly. He, like the rest of the group, knows that Legend wouldn’t be holding an item so tenderly if it only didn’t work anymore.

Legend stays silent for a moment, allowing the crickets in the forests to sing uninterrupted. Then, his shoulders fall. “The most beautiful woman I ever met gave it to me. She had the most lovely voice. This… after… after I lost her, I woke up stranded at sea. It was around my neck on a string… it’s all the proof I have that she ever existed.”

Silence hangs over the group like a heavy blanket. Wild can’t help but feel a lob of guilt get stuck in his chest. All he can do is sit and watch Sky lean over and place a hand on Legend’s knee.

“Love is one of the most powerful magics an item can hold, even if it’s just a good memory.”

Legend brings a sleeve to his eye, holding the ocarina tightly with his other hand. “Oh shut it, you sap,” he says through a smile. Sky smiles back, and Wild curls his arms across his chest.

Besides him, Twilight looks at him. Not expectantly, though, but with understanding. Perhaps he knows now why sometimes someone would wish to stay silent during these kinds of nights. Not everyone got magical gifts from old men in caves. Or basements.

But the guilt sits, and no one is saying it’s Wild’s turn to spill some beans. Not even Legend. But how could he stay silent after Legend told something so personal and sad? It’s not fair, even if he’s the only one who thinks so.

He bites the arrow and takes a breath.

“I don’t have magic. I have… blessings. From friends I had before the Calamity.”

For the second time that night, eight pairs of eyes fall onto him.

“I don’t use them much anymore,” Wild continues; somehow his hands have made it to his lap anyways, knitting his fingers together like string on needles, “they gave me everything they had so I could defeat Calamity Ganon. Now that he’s gone, I don’t want to abuse their gifts any longer.”

“I don’t mean to pry…” Four says, “but maybe they gave you everything they had to help you. Maybe they didn’t consider it abuse.”

And somehow, Wild doesn’t feel like Four is prying at all. In fact, it startles a chuckle out of him. “Maybe. But not Revali, that’s for sure. He and I got along worse than Vet and Cap.”

“Not an easy feat,” Warriors says to the others while nudging Legend with his elbow. Legend rolls his eyes. “I’m impressed.”

“What blessing did he give you?” Wild asks. There’s stars in his eyes that always get there when he gets too interested in a story. Though, Wild supposes any story involving a rival-ship greater than their very own Legend and Warriors is something to be interested in.

“It was the power to call upon the gusts of wind he used to command with his powerful wings. He was a Rito, the best there ever was. He could fly into the air without having to jump off of ledges. The wind would carry him up itself, like it belonged to him.”

-o-o-o-o-

Agony is a poison pulsing through Hyrule’s leg. The fall had been great, and it’s a miracle Wild had been there to dive down and at least try to lesson the fall with his paraglider. The ground was weak in these desert-y canyons, and maybe Hyrule shouldn’t have gotten so close to the ledge to warrant his boot’s slipping, but at least Wild was there.

Hyrule’s ankle is broken, or at least badly sprained. Either way, it’s painful enough that he can’t even stand up as Wild paces the bottom of the crevasse they have found themselves in like a pair of cornered animals. The others… they’re close to an hour’s worth of time away. He and Wild were exploring and gathering whatever they could find that might be used as firewood as the sun began to set. It’s been a terribly awful day of traveling in the desert heat, and he and Wild were excited to experience the sunset’s breeze while the others set up camp.

They got too excited. Too far away. There’s no way anyone will hear them if they call. No one will come looking until the sky is black.

And who knows, maybe they won't consider that maybe they fell. Maybe, if they come looking, they won't look down the right scar in the land, and they will burn to death in tomorrow's sun.

“What do we do?” Hyrule asks through an embarrassingly choked voice. He’s been fighting tears since the moment his ankle bent wrongly in their crash landing. He knows Wild will not judge him for sobs, but it doesn’t make it any easier for him to allow any to escape.

Wild sighs and glares up at the lip of the cliff they’ve fallen from. “Any trinkets?” he asks back.

Hyrule bites his lip. He wishes he were like the others and had a trinket for every situation. Legend had promised to give him an old grappling hook he had hoarded away the next time they end up at his and Ravio’s place. “No.”

“Okay,” Wild says. Not angrily. “Okay.”

Determined?

“Champ?”

Wild takes a deep breath and looks down at Hyrule with… fire in his eyes. “I won’t be long. Will you be okay while I fetch the others?”

Hyrule licks his lips and looks down at his leg, already braced with brush twigs and the wrappings that usually decorate Wild’s arms. A cold breeze blows suddenly, making Hyrule shiver and remember the desert only takes what it’s given when it comes to heat. When the sun’s up, it thrives, and when it’s gone…

“Don’t take long,” he replies, even though he doesn’t really know what Wild’s about to do.

Wild nods, shrugging off the cloak he usually always wears and gives it to Hyrule. Hyrule nods his thanks and takes the warm accessory, placing it over his head and wrapping the caped section around his shoulders.

He watches as Wild walks towards the edge of the cliff facing where the others are with camp. Hyrule wonders what he’s about to do as he clings to the edge of the cloak. Wild unfolds his paraglider from his back, baffling Hyrule even more, and widens his stance.

A moment passes. Then another.

Then a gust of wind appears seemingly out from the floor, powerful enough to blow dust back and almost get in Hyrule’s eye if he hadn’t instinctively covered his eyes. There’s a flash of teal through his fingers… then an unfamiliar voice snorts.

“About time, runt.”

By the time Hyrule deems it safe enough to uncover his eyes without getting dust in them, Wild is already high in the air. The miracle gust of wind cyclones in the spot his friend used to be, growing weaker and weaker by the second before it’s gone completely. There’s no sign of whoever made that flash of teal… nor who spoke, but Hyrule doesn’t think too into it as Wild drops his paraglider and grabs onto the upper ledge of the cliff.

Far above him, Wild climbs to safety and looks over the edge. He waves, and Hyrule cannot help the giggle that climbs through his throat as he waves back.

Pain in his ankle be damned, whatever Wild just did was cool, and as Wild turns and runs towards the others he knows he won't be in pain for long.

Not much longer than an hour passes before the others come with their ropes and grappling hooks and worried voices. Wild glides down to him to help carry him up. There’s something about the way he stands that gives Hyrule the feeling that he… realized something today. He gives Hyrule a bottle of health, then helps tie a rope around his waist as his ankle begins to hurt a little less.

As he’s lifted off the ground towards the top of the cliff by his friends, he looks at Wild who is clinging tight to Hyrule’s body like a stronger lifeline than any rope or chain.

“Was that Revali?” He asks, without really thinking.

Wild looks at him with wide eyes, and then a wider smile. “Yeah.”

Hyrule smiles back. “He sounded like an asshole.”

A startled laugh bursts from Wild’s mouth as he throws his head back. “He is an asshole,” he agrees in good nature.

They reach the top. They reach the others. Twilight scolds their ears off the entire way back towards camp, and Hyrule can't stop grinning for his own safety… and for whatever mended in Wild’s heart tonight.

-o-o-o-o-

“What about the others?”

“Well… ah… there’s Daruk. He was one of my oldest friends. The strongest Goron there ever was, though he was a little fearful of dogs.” Wild laughs, as do the others politely; probably imagining the biggest Goron they could be scared of a small fluffy animal. “He had the strength to block anything, and he was always ready to take a blow for the team. Even after… even after… he still protected me. He gave me the ability to call upon even a fraction of that power, that way nothing could hurt me in case my own shield failed. Without him… I would not be here, I’m confident in that.”

-o-o-o-o-

They honestly should have expected an ambush before Warriors was the one to call it out. Four likes to consider himself lucky for coming from a comparatively peaceful time, relatively speaking, but even he should have expected the top of the hill to be lined with determined monsters with big rocks.

The first few moments of watching the boulders come down feels almost like Four is stuck in time. There’s nowhere to run, the expanse of the monsters at the top is too great. Left or right would bring more chances of being hit. They can’t run back down the hill and outrun the danger either. Their only option is to dodge through the rocks until they can get to the top and take out the danger.

Distantly, as time spreads up, Four is aware of Time and Wild each releasing arrows towards the top of the hill, igniting various monsters on fire, but soon it becomes pure chaos. He can only focus on himself as he does his best to jump out of the way of rocks that are much bigger than him. The colors in his brain scream as he tries to remain calm and collected. No Blue, he can’t just jump over the boulders because it will look cool. Red please calm down you’re screaming too loudly. He knows to go left, Green!

It’s a miracle he’s managed to last this long with the confusion. Which is why he’s not surprised when something finally hits its mark. He’s just glad that when the agony of a shattered bone shoots through his body, it’s only his right shoulder that took the brunt of the hit.

Not that he has time to be thankful for that. After the boulder hits into his side, his balance is knocked right out of him. He ends up crashing to the tilted floor in a jumble of limbs and dust. There’s tears in his eyes, and he can barely focus enough to lift himself back up. His entire arm feels like he’s stuck it into the mouth of a dragon—teeth and all. His chest feels tight and his hip all bruised. He wouldn’t be surprised if he’s broken a few ribs as well.

He barely has enough time to look ahead of him from where he lies on the ground. There’s another boulder bouncing right towards him. If… if he doesn’t move now… he will surely die.

But he cannot move. He cannot move because his entire side hurts too badly for him to go at a speed that matters. He closes his eyes and tries to make himself smaller. Maybe, if the goddess decides she likes him today, she will allow the boulder to bounce over him… or something as unlikely.

Either way, he accepts whatever fate he’s about to meet, even as he hears Sky scream his name.

And maybe it’s because he’s a coward and he’s scared, but he opens his eyes to look at his approaching doom. Only… that’s not all that he sees. What he sees is Wild jump out right in front of him with a ball of orange energy surrounding his entire body. A surge of horror swells inside of his belly the moment he sees this. Is Wild serious?!

Then, a heartbeat passes, and the boulder rams right into Wild. What happens next, though, Four would never have guessed. The orange energy explodes in shatters around him. Standing over Wild, however, is a ghostly Goron that’s bigger than anything Four’s ever seen. He shouts as the boulder stops in its tracks, crumbling before his mighty fists.

“I got you, little buddy,” Daruk’s spirit says. Then, the teal spirit disappears with the orange energy, leaving Wild standing there with the shattered remains of the boulder at his feet. Up the hill, Warriors, Legend, Time, and Sky take out the remaining monsters before they can release any more rocks.

Wild turns towards Four with a crazed, adrenaline fueled gaze. There’s a grin on his face though, one that Four finds himself matching.

Next thing he knows, Twilight, Hyrule, and Wild are rushing to his form and shoving various medicine bottles into his face; of which he takes gratefully.

“Thank you, Wild,” Four makes sure to say once he’s finally back on his feet with a makeshift sling over his only slightly aching arm. Wild turns towards him to give a blushing smile. He rubs the back of his neck with his hand.

“I couldn’t just watch you die. It’s the least I could do.”

Four hums. “I’m still thankful. Though… your Goron friend looked big enough to squish me between his fingers.”

Wild grins. “Daruk wouldn’t do that. It’s his hugs you have to watch out for.”

Four’s sure that if Daruk’s hugs are anything like Wild’s, then those hugs would be very tight indeed.

“I will take your word for it, then.”

-o-o-o-o-

“And then there’s Urbosa. She… if you think you’ve met a scary Gerudo, then you haven’t met her.” Wild waves his hands in the air, only slightly aware that he’s getting too invested in this story now. He didn't mean to spill his guts on his past friends tonight, but here he is, living their memory. Passing on their stories to his new friends. He finds he doesn’t mind it as much as he did several minutes ago. He doesn’t know why he was afraid. “She was the leader of her people, and she could summon lightning onto anyone who's ever defied her. She fought armies of Yiga all on her own and came out without a scratch. She’s blessed me with the ability to summon lighting as well. It’s my most powerful attack, and it’s saved my ass more times than I can count.”

-o-o-o-o-

This is bad. Very bad. Time can’t even properly express how bad this is.

An ambush of monsters? That’s manageable. He has confidence in himself and his companions to be able to handle a meager ambush. However, this? This is a whole army of monsters. Lizalfos, apparently, like to group up in camps when they’re not scrambling around in ancient dungeons and temples.

There’s enough to outnumber the heroes five-to-one. It’s not impossible to take them down if they had stuck to the outer edges of the camp and took a good portion of them out with long ranged attacks… however what happened was much less graceful. They walked into the forest, intending to make a camp for the night, just to wander right into a community of Lizalfos armed to the tails.

So now? They’re running; the monsters in an excited chase. Like Time said: This. Is. Bad.

“We lead them to the river,” Warriors suggests, ever thinking of solutions. “We can push them in and weaken their numbers.”

“I say we turn and fight!” Wind shouts. He looks too excited. He pulls a bomb out from his satchel and before Time can say anything, the boy turns around and throws it at their pursuers. There’s a blast, a few screeches, but nothing significant happens. The numbers are too great. Wind is pulling out another bomb.

“The river,” Time says, nodding at Warriors. Wind cheers as another explosion erupts. He leaves the boy to it. As long as he keeps up. “It’s the best bet.”

Time turns his head to tell the others about the makeshift plan, but before he can say a thing Wild looks him straight in the eye. “Have everyone get as far as you can away, I know what to do.”

“What?” Time asks, baffled.

Wild doesn’t explain. He just turns heel and runs the other way towards the enemy.

“Cub?!” Twilight shouts, turning around as well to grab his wayward protégé, but Time grabs his shoulder and keeps him running in the opposite direction. Twilight gives him a panicked look.

“I don’t know what he plans,” Time explains, “but he seems confident. Trust him.”

Twilight swallows and nods. Time shouts at the others to pick up the pace.

Behind him, the Lizalfos screech in delight, a sign they and Wild have now met face-to-face.

Whatever you’re about to do, wild one, do it now.

He doesn’t have to wait long. The smell of ozone becomes intoxicating all within a heartbeat. The hairs at the back of his neck rise as the sky goes impossibly dark for the time of dusk that it is. Then, light flashes all around him in thunderous claps. He can barely hear the sound of screaming monsters over the bolts. Time can’t help but stop in his tracks and turn, lifting a hand above his brow to see green lighting like he’s never seen before attacking the earth through the trees.

As soon as it begins, it ends, and the sky brightens with silence.

Time doesn’t waste time running forward. What he finds when he runs towards the small clearing Wild had met the monsters in is something he will never forget. Static energy seems to curl around his hand, raised into the air and on the end of a snap. Beside him stands a tall Gerudo woman, cloaked in a ghostly aura, her back towards the others and her hand on Wild’s shoulder in triumph and fierce protection. There’s nothing but black, charred corpses of monsters around them.

Time watches, as do the others, transfixed as Urbosa looks down at Wild and smirks.

“You should have called earlier, my desert flower.”

-o-o-o-o-

Everyone looks so transfixed, that Wild almost moves on without really thinking about it. Only… the words catch in his throat. He finishes telling of Urbosa, and just… freezes. His hands are back in his lap, wringing each other out.

He was so engrossed with his own stories that he’s forgotten that while he loves each of his past friends equally… not all are so easy to talk about.

The others must sense his inner struggle, as none of them call out his sudden silence. He knows that if he decided to stop now and not tell them of his last blessing… they would not argue. They must know this pause is similar to when Twilight stops talking about his adventure when he reaches the point where he meets a mysterious companion. Similar to when Time pauses in his magical tales of his childhood. Similar to when Sky looks off in the distance with his voice trailing off as he tells of special places in the sky.

It’s a pause of loss. A pause of something cherished. A pause of something that you fought so hard for, but will never come back.

A hand falls on top of his own. He recognizes the shape of Twilight’s calluses without having to look up at him. “You do not have to force yourself to continue,” he says.

Wild shakes his head. “I’m alright. I can continue…”

A beat of silence. Wild takes a breath.

“Last is… Mipha. Not only was she the most beautiful Zora I’ve ever met, but also the most beautiful soul. She… would always be there for me… whenever I got hurt. She could heal my wounds better than any potion. I…” his throat bobs, the words are no longer coming. “I cannot bring myself to tell of her gift. It’s too special. I pray I never have to use it again, nor must any of you witness it.”

-o-o-o-o-

Twilight didn’t know what to think when the attack had begun. It didn’t start with a shout. It didn’t start with the enemy running screaming out from the shadows of the trees with swords raised. It didn’t start like any kind of monster attack that Twilight had grown so used to.

It’s probably why they were unprepared for an attack by something smarter than monsters. Something that has no problem sitting quietly in the trees, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. He’s heard that there’s a group of former Sheikah in Wild’s world who have it in for the hero’s life, he just never really expected to meet them.

That’s probably why the arrow met it’s mark too. They’ve all grown accustomed to the sloppy ambushes put together by monsters. It’s the only thing Twilight can think of to justify how none of them saw it coming until there was a thwip of a feathered arrow flying through the air… and landing with a thunk in Wild’s stomach.

Wild fell to the ground, and with a flash of cards and light appeared several Yiga Clan members. Nobody stopped to stare. It was pure rage from the heroes at that point, and as soon as it began the Clan members all put their hands together and retreated into seemingly thin air. It all ended about as soon as it began.

And the only thing he could think about now is Wild laying there on the ground in a growing pool of his own blood. The arrow still sticks out of his midsection, undoubtedly having hit something important judging by the trail of red going down the corners of his mouth.

Twilight is the first to run up to his side, but thanks to the quick thinking of Warriors, he’s not the first to offer a way of healing.

However, by the time the bottle of the red potion reaches his life stained lips… it’s too late. Twilight can only stare in horror as the light leaves Wild’s eyes.

The Yiga Clan… they’ve succeeded… and everyone knows it when Warriors falls backwards in defeat to sit on his heels, looking down at the full bottle of healing in his hands. Sky falls to his knees. Hyrule chokes a cry. Twilight's sure the rest of them are feeling their own reactions of grief, but he can no longer pay attention to anything but his own.

He’s… he’s failed. The one person he swore he would protect… pass on his ways… his stories… his teachings… it’s all for nothing. All it is now is a gaping hole in his heart. His cheeks are wet with tears that came too quickly.

Suddenly, something happens. There’s a flash of teal, and somewhere behind him someone gasps. Twilight can only watch with wide, tear-drowned eyes, as the teal swirls around into the glowing form of a beautiful Zora.

All eyes are on her, but hers are on Wild. There’s a fondness to her face that could be mistaken for sadness. Her hand brushes his cheek, and to Twilight's surprise Wild blinks and breathes in a soft breath. The hole in his stomach glows bright blue… and the arrow dissipates in shining bubbles.

“I will always heal you when you need me, my love.”

Then, she’s gone before anyone, including Wild, can respond.

Wild slowly raises himself to his elbows, blinking and smiling sheepishly like he’s never gotten even a scratch.

“I’m sorry you all had to-” he begins, but Twilight cuts him off by launching himself forward and wrapping the idiot in his arms. Mipha’s gift, the one he wouldn’t tell them about because it was too special, the one he never wanted them to witness…

He’s such an idiot.

“Shut up,” Twilight says through a tight breath. “Thank the spirits… just let me hold you.”

Wild doesn’t say anything, he just returns the embrace and the hold just as tightly.

Thank Hylia and all of the goddesses for this miracle. Wild clearly has friends that care so much about him that they would protect him fiercely even after their deaths. Twilight knows that from now on, he will spend his nights praying thankfulness to them. Wild is a formidable hero, one of the best in fact, yet Twilight can only imagine where he would be without these gifts. Imagining it makes his gut twist, however, so he squeezes his hold just once before letting go.

He smiles at the younger boy, and Wild smiles back, everything that needs to be said being translated there alone. You scared me. I’m sorry. Don’t apologize, just be more careful. No promises… but I will try.

The wordless conversation passes between them in a moment, and the moment is broken by Wind pouncing onto Wild. Wild, the poor boy, is shoved straight onto his back from the force of the tackle, yet he’s laughing as Wind calls him an idiot over and over. Everyone else gathers as well, to tell him they’re glad he’s alive in their own ways. Time places a hand on Twilight’s shoulder and shares a knowing look.

“Let’s set up camp early tonight,” he says, and Twilight cannot help but agree.

As Time announces the plan to the others, separating the others and telling them to give Wild some space, Twilight lets his heart calm. Wild always says he was alone in his adventures, but now he knows that that wasn’t all true. He also knows now why Wild doesn’t abuse the abilities his friends gave him.

With a silent vow, he promises Revali, Daruk, Urbosa, and Mipha that he will work harder to protect their boy. For now, Wild has been barred from making dinner tonight, and Twilight has to be sure that Hyrule gets nowhere near the cooking pot.

[yanderenightmare]

YANDERE ! DABI x FEM ! READER

goodiebag WARNING: yandere, dubcon/noncon, abuse, amnesia, arson, drugging, human trafficking, kidnapping, abduction, stockholm syndrome, stalking

PART ONE

NOTHING BURNS LIKE THE COLD - part two

THOSE THAT WAIT...

Strange that someone with such an icy exterior could cause your skin to start sizzling. It’d been brief. She woke up late in the day, taken a shower, and went to work. Like every other miserable day. Though, she never got to working. She remembered a tall lanky fellow with purple patching decorating his already dark features. She recognized him as just another regular, but more as the villain named Dabi. He was never here this early, she’d taken notice, as one should when entertaining dangerous individuals. They hadn’t even opened yet. In fact, she was rather early herself, none of the other dancers had arrived, only her. It was strange to say the least. A customer here before the staff.

He had spoken with The Ringleader, he seemed distressed. Their eyes shifting over to her every now and again as she ate at the bar, as she always did, except; her food was already set before her and the bartender was absent. She didn’t think much of the peculiarities nor their flickering, lingering gaze. She was wearing nothing more than a translucent kimono after all. Men are curious animals, she knew this more than anyone. The rest of the night never came.

“You ought to be more careful, little one.” She didn’t quite capture it, the words fused out into blunders. Her vision spotted, a strange flutter took place in her head and her skin became all tingly. Yet, she swore she felt a warm set of hands rest on her shoulders, a wind of some sorts brushing against her neck, something hot pressed against her jawline, right before she didn’t feel anything at all…

The bed was definitely softer. She was away and mistook it for drowsiness. The welcoming warmth and embracing fabric making it easy not to resist, where she didn’t exactly struggle to try and shake the sleep from her limbs. Her poor attempts; with words could be described as intentionally pathetic, as she failed and continued slumping down into the pillows and drapes. Her body, after so many nights of unwanted worship, delved deep into the blissful harmony of silence, as if in reverence of the blessed void of noise, as if just now realizing how spent she was, receiving the much-needed rest with ease and not so much as a hint of war. He enjoyed that.

“How far you have fallen, Angel.” She hummed at the sound of the rusty voice, not quite alarmed yet, still sleeping, not yet remembering what had happened the prior night or who the handprints on wrists belonged to. Not yet feeling the bonds digging into those same delicate wrists of hers. Perhaps in the form of denying herself the truth, not allowing her the reality yet.

He had been holding back, while studying her, for the better half of the night, denying himself his prize. Not in punishment, however... in a form of delayed gratification. Meaning, that by holding himself back, he was in some way earning the delectable offering before him, and therefore grateful enough to relish in every drop of it more thoroughly later. He had been patient, as any God should be with their offerings, however... he was still a God, and what God would he be if he didn’t revel in his omnipotence and take advantage of his divine rights? He unshackled himself, first by lifting his shirt over his head and shoulders, then by the unbuckling of his belt. The crisp noise of metal stirring her ever so slightly, reminding him of the importance of silence, something he would often forget after so many nights spent alone. His trousers slipping off his hips and making a rather reckless contact with his arousal. He felt his member push against the fabric of his boxers, but he wouldn’t release him just yet.

And now, with his morals left with his clothes on the ground, he lifted the covers, exposing just a little of her. He bit his lips in a struggle to contain himself. The itch so vigorous and viscous and brutal under his skin. Practically shaking with anticipation, he reached out to allow himself a sliver of what would be his by the end of the night, a single taste to torture and drive himself mad with.

Something rough like sandpaper traveled up her thigh, a stark contrast to the soft covers she was splayed out on. One digit first, then all five stroked her ambrosian skin, hungrily. If she had been more aware she could probably have felt the wanton pressure in the touch, as if holding back in savory. The gesture not being enough to stir her sleep, but then again, it wasn’t meant to either. His moves were calculated, despite his lust; careful, godly.

Still half asleep she felt the warmth once accompanying her leave, the duvet being pulled off in slow and calm movements, bit by bit. The cold slightly nipping at her skin, so much as though her eyes fluttered for a moment, and he was sure if had turned the lights on, it would have been enough to wake her fully. Goosebumps were quickly following suit to adorn her otherwise smooth skin, not that he minded the decoration, he was more awestruck than anything, his adoration leaving his lips in long, unsteady but controlled breaths. And, in encouragement from her slight stir, he reached out with his hand to accompany one of her breasts, that had now, because of the cold, perked in search for warmth, which it shuddered in contact with whence his fingers granted her a little more than just heat, by teasing the sensitive spot with the excitement or even playfulness of a child.

She moaned softly, heavenly, like the moan one extracts from a pleasant dream. Her lips kindly sucking on the red ball in her mouth. Drool had yet to be seen running down her chin, a sight he was awaiting with the most eager patience. His fingers lingering, continuing to squeeze and flick in ever so delicious movements, keeping her reactions on beck and call.

She wasn’t used to being touched, despite her experience with seeing the earnest in predatory eyes, to hearing the hunger in their growls, witnessing the almost threatening bulge in their pants. However, her lack of experience with touch showed, and it was all too visible that the pimp had been truthful about her chastity. Not that he would have minded her being touched by others before him. He would do well in singeing loyalty into her bones, making it utterly unquestionable who it was that she now belonged to, making even the slightest thought of someone else’s hands on her burn with a vengeance on her skin in phantom punishment. However, he wouldn’t deny the fact that being her first and last didn’t bring him some pleasure. The fact the he would teach her how to be his perfect girl, without his lessons being compromised by lesser minds she had prior connections with, brought him a certain satisfactory ease. Especially when it was displayed all so beautifully with her body already. The inexperience so adorable and mouthwatering to perceive.

Keeping one hand on her breast, his other moved absentmindedly down to his cock, who was stiff and yearning for some form of attention, or at the very least recognition. He finally freed himself fully. His cock sprung in the most elevated thrill, flat against his stomach. Dabi granted himself one more taste of euphoria by rubbing himself to the same beat of the moans emitting from her. Picturing what he’d do to her first, what to introduce her to first. His eyes searching up and down her exposed body, resting mostly on her face, where the red ball did a perfect job at both accessorizing her sweet expressions and keeping her throat open and therefore sounds sheer for his ears to revel in.

She made a harsh pull to her restraints. The product of him being a little too vigorous with his fingers, twisting and pulling at the sensitive pink nib. However, her halfhearted efforts for liberty were to no use. Even if she had given it all her strength, seeing how both her wrists were tied snuggly behind her back, making her attempt parallel to the act of grasping at straws. Her chest arched over her arms some further, making it seem as if she was yearning for his touch.

Something in the mix of a whine and a whimper escaped her lips when her arms wouldn’t budge from their rightful place behind her back. She started groggily squirming, twisting in her position, feeling the sting of a heavy migraine take shape behind her forehead. His fist moving more vigorously, gripping himself tighter, upon seeing her frustrated and futile struggles.

Her brows furrowing and moving in tremors to the same beat her nose twitched. A tear, maybe remnants from the night before, or a painful dream reaching the surface, or probably, what was bound to be a burning headache brewing in her skull, paved a path down her cheek.

Leaving her nipple for the time being, his hand was quick in catching the droplet with his thumb before it hit the fabric of the pillow, putting it to his mouth before sucking it off, shivering in ecstasy at the salty taste it left on his tongue. His hand assuming the same position it left, now with a hint of moisture, making her nipple glossy with wetness.

He wasn’t sure how she’d take it, being this exposed, this vulnerable, his, but he was dying to see her reaction. And, with that thought pushing him much farther to the brink, he decided she didn't have to be fully awake for him to have a little fun with her before that time, seeing how his actions proved to influence her even with her not being fully aware of it. The signs obvious to his prying eyes; her hardened nipples, her parted thighs, her toes moving in and out of a curled state, her soft yet distinguishable moans, as if to test or coax him. However, she was still very much asleep. The drug wouldn’t be surpassed that easy.

His knee sunk into the mattress by her hip, his weight making the bed dip quite a few inches down in its softness, making her body slightly shift to rest against his leg, now paralleled with her thigh. He swung his other leg to follow the first and placed it between her thighs, careful to rub his knee up against her pussy, wanting to find it soaking. He was disappointed. He rigged his other knee symmetrically with the last, and propped her thighs up onto his, kneeling before her; spread out for him. He swept his digits over her clit again, wishing for a different result. He was being greedy and impatient, he decided.

She should have been conscious enough to feel it, just unable to do act on it when she did. She moaned again with the heat of his body seeping into her, the building chill in her bones replaced, her goosebumps subsided and left smooth skin in their wake. He enjoyed the show, and was tempted to slip inside her right then and there, fuck her until she woke up, but decided on waiting. Those that wait don’t wait in vain, he kept telling himself. Besides, there was so much he wanted to do first.

She felt it, the two palms that placed themselves tenderly at her sides, calloused thumbs rubbing into her midriff, before they started to wander, squeezing at what they found, exploring as much as conquering. Cupping her breasts again, one in each hand. Placing his tongue under her bellybutton and leaving a wet, cold trail as he made his way to her nipples. Wanting to feel the softness in his mouth, the prodding button slightly tickling when playing with his tongue-piercing. Her chest stirred again. A gasp, that was far from a real gasp, struggled in her throat.

She kicked, it was sloppy, but a kick nonetheless. It must have been a reflex, she still hadn’t opened her eyes. He caught her knee when she tried a second time, pushing it flat against the bed with a cruel chuckle. At this, she opened her eyes. Pretty, fluttering doe-eyes met his ice-blue ones. She was quickly rid of her drowsiness, replaced by panic instead. She made a series of strained, desperate cries, all repressed by the red gag filling her mouth like a dream. He saw spit foaming around her lips, and as though they somehow absorbed the wetness, her lips became that much more plump and glossy and bite-able and fuckable.

He was going to say something when she woke up. He had something planned, but had currently forgotten in the midst of feeling her timid struggles beneath him. He bet he must have looked like the onset of death in the dark room, looming above her, scarred, with eyes so bright and piercing. With a fried mind, he leaned in and sucked some more on her exposed breasts, biting more savagely this time. No need to tiptoe around anymore, he thought. One hand remained teasing her nipple, but the other traveled down to in between her thighs, simply rubbing circles in her clit with his middle-finger. She squealed beneath him, struggling so preciously, so adorably. His teeth and tongue nipped and sucked their way up to her collarbone, making sure to mark her flesh as he went, until he rested his face in the crook of her neck. Salty tears coating her throat, he appreciated the flavor.

Hot breaths fanned against her ear, as he continued to pinch and rub her sensitive nipple between his thumb and index-finger, with another hand rubbing aggressively down below. “You’re just made for my hands, aren’t you?” His voice was feral, teasing. She whimpered at the sound of it. “Built for abuse.” His actions become more and more brutish as he went. And, against his hot skin, she became unsure of whether he might burn her. “No…” There was a pout in the word. Yet, despite how disgustingly sweet his tone was, the groan that followed was nothing but beastly. “Built for begging.”

He dragged himself off and made to sit and gaze down at his creation for a minute. His hands falling back to her waist before moving towards her thighs and groping curiously into her doughy flesh. She wiggled, quite amusingly in his eyes, her brows furrowed together in the outmost pleasurable pleading expression. He felt his mouth water again. Lifting her leg to rest on top of his shoulder, nuzzling, almost affectionately, into the crook of her knee. His hand, again, flickering over her clit ever so teasingly, earning himself the cutest little flutter. She seemed unsure of herself now, her eyes were terror-wide and intense and beautiful, no longer sleepy, yet still longing, or at least, he liked to imagine that’s what he saw lurking in those orbs. She shuddered when his finger delved into her folds, only one at first. She attempted to clench her thighs together, but Dabi simply pushed them back open with an amused laugh, and added another finger. She winced, back arching just a little further outward.

She could start sobbing. He wouldn’t have stopped if she had. But the fact that she didn’t, could only mean one thing, he mused. He started curling his fingers inside her at the thought. Focused on what reaction she’d give away this time. She jolted, gasped and then moaned. He licked his lips for the hundredth time, sure to start drooling soon. He kissed the inside of her thigh, a kiss that turned into a bite and then another kiss. His thumb; currently digging into the tender flesh at the backside of her knee, pushing it up against her chest. He planted a path of wet kisses down the inside of her thigh. “I’m gonna destroy you.” He mumbled it, the words smeared onto her skin instead of released into the air. But she heard what he said just fine, and it made her stomach fold. His fingers quickened their pace, thrusting in and out in a relentless fashion. She didn’t get enough time to collect herself before she was met with his drooling mouth, a hot, eager tongue dragging along the length of her slit. It was in that hauled out moment the realization of her impending corruption dawned on her. She only barely heard the rest of his speech. “By the end of this night, I’ll have reduced you to a wet, hot, cross-eyed mess, Angel.” The words tickled against her, snapped her once again back into reality.

She kicked and flailed, despite the heat that soon simmered were his hands were placed, sure to leave bruises if not scorch marks. Attempting to writhe and struggle until he let go, but the resistance only managed to amuse him and egg him on even further, diving into her with a new-found growing determination. He was going to have her cooing underneath him before the night let up.

Although it was invasive, aggressive, brutal, it was pleasure nonetheless, and she found more and more that she had never in all her life felt this alive. Unsure if it was the fear, the pain or the unwanted fire that was being constantly kindled by a stranger’s tongue between her legs. She would have felt dirty for her ongoing, growing desire if it wasn’t for the state of the man in front of her, drinking her down as though he were starved, utterly depraved and void of any shame. His thumb flicking over her clit, as his tongue drew a series of incoherent patterns, prodding and poking and lapping and biting and abusing every sensitive spot that made her contort in those involuntary violent spasms. His piercings didn’t help the case, teasing and tickling the tender skin it scraped against. Her whimpers turned meek and pitiful as they became more and more like moans instead of protests. He moaned in return, growled and groaned, the reverberations sending unwelcome yet pleasant tremors through her body into the very tips of her toes.

It was foreign, the building knot in her core, pooling, spiraling, tightening, untouched until now. She wasn’t sure if she wished it had remained that way, not anymore. Her question was answered when she caught herself a little too late, her hips following Dabi when he finally, unfortunately pulled away.

He straightened himself, admiring his work with a feral, dripping smile carved upon his face. Her tits glistening with coated sweat he had brought to the surface. He didn’t even make an attempt to wipe the slick from his chin, he only leaned forward, his wet hand gripping her neck hungrily, teeth biting down on her earlobe. “I think you’re beginning to enjoy yourself.” His slender fingers made it to the back of her head, unlatching the clasp that kept her gag in place. Visible bite marks marred onto the once polished red ball. “Let’s give you something more to suck on.” She was nearly too gone to respond. Nearly. She spat in his face, not sure who she was disgusted with more, herself or him.

He wiped his face with his hand in a nonchalant fashion, bringing those same fingers down to her dripping clit, only barely diving into the folds, gathering his own drool amongst other translucent liquids, before he motioned back to his face. His other hand took a grip around her chin once again, his nails digging into her cheeks, forcing her lips to part.

“Taste yourself.” Pushing his fingers into her mouth, scratching the back of her throat pitilessly. “You taste good, don’t you?” He asked as though he wanted her to agree. Finally kissing her, biting down into those juicy, plump lips. She bit back aggressively, but found that it only earned her a red-hot smack across the face. She looked stunned. The viciousness on her face, in her eyes, replaced by something rather docile. When he leaned in to kiss her again, she complied willingly. Letting him set the motion, teaching her how it should be done. “That’s right, you just need a little guidance.” His tone was sweet; patronizing, as he admired the forming handprint on her cheek, covering half her face.

Something hard, something strong, kept pushing against her thigh. She knew what it was, but didn’t want to give it any attention. Both hands around her throat, one descended to grope her breast on its way down to her clit. She shuddered at the contact. The flesh even more sensitive, swollen, now than before and every touch, no matter how feather-light, sent electricity coursing throughout her body.

“You know who I am.” He didn’t seem to mind that she merely nodded instead of given him a full answer. Perhaps she wasn’t even able to, maybe that slight tilt of her head was all she was capable of doing after what he had made of her. He enjoyed the thought. “You know what I will do if you decide to disobey me.” He threatened and this time he heard the tiniest, breathiest little yes splutter from her lips. “Good. I’m gonna untie you. If you try to run, if you try and struggle, if you upset me just a little bit too much, trust me…” He slid a finger down her cheek in an affectionate manner. “I will hurt you.” His voice was so dark, and his eyes so bright; staring down at her, enslaving her very spirit.

She quaked beneath him. Eyes so frantic, so wild, but… he could see it hiding amidst the terror, a look of lust, a look of piqued thrill. He didn’t take the leather cuffs off, simply unhooked them from each other. Half wanting her to run, just as a provided excuse to spank that perfect ass of hers. All in good time, he thought when she remained still, only barely daring to rub her sore shoulders. She was bound to do something wrong at some point, all he needed was to give her more rules. He’d have his way.

In retrospect, he wished he’d put a collar and leash on her. Next time, he humored. “Get on the floor, on your knees.” He seated himself on the edge of the bed, spreading his thighs, cock in hand, listening to her slide slowly off the bed, legs wobbly and weak. He was expecting her gaze to be locked onto the floor in shame or embarrassment, but she was far from it, looking up at him like a lost little puppy, orbs full of expectancy, bottom lip trembling. Her knees held tightly together, hands resting on top of them. “Spread.” He motioned to her thighs, and she did as she was told. “More.” She inched them even further apart. “Good girl…” He praised and stroked her hair, only to gather it all into a ponytail in his fist. She winced at the act, but remained where she was. “Show me your hand.” So compliant, so docile, a perfect little pet. He spit onto her now presented palm. “Spread that on your tits.” He only hummed in response when she hesitantly did as he said. He liked this, he wanted more of this. His hand was furiously gripping himself, motioning back and forth inches away from her face. She didn’t dare look, but she was going to have to very soon. “Lick your hand.” Her other hand ascended, the one without his spit on it. That wouldn’t do, he tutted her and she stopped. “The other hand.” There was a tremor presented in her brows, but she did as she was told despite it. Dragging her tongue from her palm to her fingertips, feeling the cold, slippery surface slide against her. He was delighted to see a string of spit connecting her mouth to her hand when she pulled away. “Take me.” She still hadn’t looked down. Her breathing began to hitch, the fear dulled all other senses, to the point where even her vision became spotted and all she could see were those ice-blue eyes staring down at her. He gave her head a pull. Her hand visibly shaking as she reached out to grab around him, feeling a cold dreadful feeling sink to the bottom of her stomach at the realization that she couldn’t fit him in her hands. He, on the contrary, enjoyed the sight. He looked even bigger in her clutch than his. At the moment all she did was hold, her eyes searching for some form of direction. All he needed to do to get her started was growl, and she began slowly pumping. Her fingers slightly stirring each time they hit a new piercing. To his surprise, he quit liked the slow pace, her careful placed strokes, holding him as though it were something precious in her hands. He wondered if her mouth would do the same. “Stick out your tongue.” He inched forward at once when she opened her mouth, pure impulse. She took it as a hint, placing her tongue on the tip and flicking it side to side, not minding the velvety feel of his tip grazing against her.

She didn’t seem like such an amateur anymore, not when her eyes were so intent on focusing on him, soaking up every reaction to see if she was doing it right. He pulled her closer and she widened her mouth more, talking his entire cockhead, resting it on her tongue, tasting it. It was salty, yet something about it was sweet as well. Her mouth watered in preparation. She moved more on her own volition than on the guidance of his direction, aiming to keep him content. She exchanged her performance by taking him in her mouth and licking up the sides with her tongue, trying to go deeper when he added a little more pressure to the back of her head. Her hand pumped where her mouth couldn’t reach, but he wanting to break limits. He pressed on, his other hand accompanied the one holding her head, pushing his entire cock into her mouth, feeling it bend down her throat. She made a series of objections, but they all felt rather good when being received by his cock. The spasms were far from contained, bracing herself by placing her hands on his knees, trying desperately to create more space between them. She failed. He only let go when he saw the tears drip down her cheeks. She tore away at once when she was allowed, hiccupping and coughing rather violently with her head bowed.

She felt his hand gather her ponytail again, dreading what was to come. “One more time, Angel.” The nickname didn’t help. His cock sprung past her lips quickly this time, hitting the wall of her throat with speed, filling her mouth completely. She whined, the plead entering her tearful gaze yet again. But her prayers were unmet. His head had fallen backwards, mouth parted, groaning and moaning shamelessly with her lips wrapped around him. Her fists started hitting lightly on his thigh, but he didn’t notice, and if he did, he certainly didn’t pay it any mind. She tried her best breathing through her nose, but when his back hit the bed and his legs wrapped around her, with her nose buried into his pelvis, she fell prey to the only solution panic allowed her. The second she sunk her teeth into him, he released, almost as though he was expecting it.

She coughed, the burning lack of air far more than itchy at the back of her throat. Small splutters of spit rained onto his thighs. Gathering herself quickly, knowing that this couldn’t possibly be overlooked, let alone forgiven. His maniacal grin didn’t suit her feelings. Looking apologetic, no; terrified, and then pained, when he yanked the perfect ponytail he’d gathered in his deadlock of a fist. It didn’t take long before she was off her knees and bended over his lap instead, her ass presented to him in delicious offering. She began struggling, knowing that the punishment would come either way now. He didn’t blame her, not when he bet she felt the heat boiling in her veins. The hairs viscously pulling at her scalp was only one form of burning. Sapphire flames moving like tendrils around and about his fingers, almost with a life of their own, eager to get started, eager to taste her perfect skin and ruin it. She screamed, and it was bloodcurdling. His large hand planted at her ass cheek, flames still lit, even after giving the blow.

“I’m sorry!” She only barely got the words out amidst her cries. Singing hot tears running new paths down her cheeks. He gave another slap to the same place and she wailed even louder. Her ears were burning, but she could still make out his appreciative hum. His hand kept going relentlessly and only quit their harsh abuse on her cheeks to see if she was still wet. And she was dripping. He chuckled at that.

“You’re a little masochist, aren’t yah?” She only whimpered in response. Saying no wouldn’t help her case, but saying yes didn’t seem like a valid option either. She could only hope it wouldn’t earn her any more punishments. A groan followed his initial statement. “I’m gonna have a lot of fun with you.” Remnants of the flames lingered in his fingers in the form of simmering heat, as he grabbed ahold of her hips and positioned her in a kneeling stance, hovering over his lap. “I want to hear you beg for it.” His nails dug into her delicate skin, she tried recoiling back with the slightest shift, but he held her firmly in place. “Come on…” He drawled, eyes intensely daring her to ruin his wishes. “Moan my name.” He leaned in closer, dragging his tongue up her cheek, capturing all the shed tears he’d made fall. “Scream it.” He pulled her closer, and she felt the wet pole slide against her thigh, imagining its heat inside her. “Tell me you want me.” He bit down on her nipple; harshly. The words he was wanting sprung to her lips.

“I want you!” It came in the shape of a gasp. His teeth gracing, grinding around the nib, threatening to bite it off. “Dabi…” She whimpered, almost crying. “Please…” She sniffled, unmoving of her position, yet unable to control her shaking. “I want you.” This time it came as a whisper, and in his mind, he managed to make it sound like the most lude and lustful thing he had ever heard. “Plea-”

Her plead was left hanging in the air as she choked, feeling her hips forced down. His cock pocking, prodding against her entrance. She closed her eyes, unconsciously wiggling to better slot him inside her. And at once when the head found its place, Dabi snapped his hips forward, jerking until he was all the way inside her. Taken by the moment, she moaned loudly, like a brazen wanton. “I knew there was a hungry slut behind that innocence.” His tone gruff, licking her throat. “Why don’t you show me how much you want me?” It wasn’t a question, it wasn’t a request. He fell back onto the bed, his hands on her hips letting her now she wouldn’t be getting very far, was she to try and get off. “Convince me of how much you love my cock inside you.” His eyes were challenging her to oppose him. She didn’t dare. Despite the almost unbearable pain shooting through at him stretching her out, she slowly started to rock her hips back and forth, earning herself a satisfied moan from the man under her. “There you go… good girl.” He started rubbing circles into her hips, a form of gratitude. “There you go, ride, slow and deep.” He seemed to repeat himself. “Just like that.” His head tilted back. Moans upon moans, each more raspy and struggled and feral than the one before, extracted from deep within his throat. His eyes tightly shut. “Good girl…” Hands loosening more and more. She thought if she flung herself towards the door now, she might just make it.

However, as though sensing her coming escape attempt, he gripped onto her hips again, digging his fingertips into the doughy flesh. Not intending on letting her solo-act continue for too long. Just when he felt his eyes roll back into his skull, on the verge of giving into the pleasure, he claimed control again, grabbing her hips and assisting her with rolling them faster and harder, pushing her with a violent passion down upon himself. With the yelp that left her lips, he was encouraged to sit up and wrap both hands around her torso, as so to have her jump up and down on his lap. Still using his strength to lift her just enough so that the tip of him teased her entrance, only to be smashed down and filled to the very brink with an earnest and inane hunger.

“Excited, are we?” He said in a craze, referring to the adorable sound that escaped her teary lips. His was an insinuating tone, the words spoken like a statement or a fact more than a question. Lips parted and curled up un a sadistic and frenzied smirk, contorting each time he derived a pleasurably raw sound from her throat or an uncontrolled spasm of her body. Brows lifting in expectancy, furrowing together over the growing fire down below, a fire kindled by the soft sanctuary sitting in his lap. He threw his head back and made a long breathy moan, before positioning his mouth next to her ear and growling, “Come on, be a good angel and bounce for your master.” His teeth sinking into her earlobe for a quick scare, before his mouth went on in finding her neck a nice muzzle to let his groans and growls into, loving how she, even in this overwhelmed state, made room for her terror and let her shivers and whimpers almost overpower, or at the very least equal, her moans of painful pleasure.

She reacted well in every definition of the phrase. Her insides contorting, twitching, tightening and squeezing around his shaft in a pleasant and relentless fashion every time he would hit that sweet spot inside her. Her body succumbing, surrendering, melting into his embrace even without him holding her in place, perhaps out of fear of punishment, perhaps in exhaustion, or perhaps in search of comfort from her new master, some search for recognition and praise. He enjoyed the thought of it being all and everything. The soft skin of her thighs, legs, belly and breasts were some form of resolution against his marred purple flesh. And the tones leaving her tongue in prayer, in worship, was nothing short of heaven.

She wasn’t given the peace of mind to feel guilty about the knot in her stomach or how it seemed to tighten each time he hit deep inside her. She shoved her hips against him just as much as he did her, fighting to move in synch. The fire inside was unrelenting; roaring. She was holding onto every moment of him pushing inside, stretching her out, going deeper. His pace so earth-shattering she began clenching around him. He groaned in response, slowing his pace for just a second to acclimate, before diving back with even more strength and speed than before.

Her nails dug into the purple flesh of his back, her drool coating his shoulder as she was resting in the crook of his neck, moaning sweet hymns right into his ear. She felt like she was breaking, falling apart, becoming undone. Toes curling until they cramped and then some. Eyes switching from traveling all the way back into her skull and crossing paths. The twitching in her core grew and grew. She propped herself further up, pressing her chest against him, expecting something to snap inside her. It was strange she knew what to look forward to without having ever felt it, but when it happened it was exactly like the crushing weight of paradise. Shocks of electricity zipped through her entire body, as she clung to him for dear life, as he continued pushing in and out of her.

“That’s a good girl.” Feeling her orgasm coat around his cock. He landed a slap to her ass, but it felt only an inch away from heaven this time. A gasp that half-way through became a moan left her lips. “But…” She didn’t take it as a threat this time. “I’m far from finished.” She moaned when he pulled out, twitching at the ticklish feeling. Her eyes half-closed when she felt herself be placed down on the bed, his heat completely leaving her. Catching herself missing it, but not finding it in herself to care about her fall to debauchery whatsoever. “On your stomach.” It was a military command, and she looked up see him seated with the pillows propped up behind him. Like a throne, she thought as she rolled over onto her stomach. “Legs up, point your toes in the air.” She didn’t hesitate. With one hand he grabbed her chin and the other made to pet her head. His cock swayed from side to side in front of her. “Are you gonna be a good girl this time?” He was teasing, coaxing, challenging her to revolt, but was pleasantly surprised when she nodded her head compliantly, large eyes looking up at him with a look he thought seemed strangely akin to love. “Can you keep your hands behind your back?” He stroked the back of her head, feeling her shudder in gratification. “Or am I gonna have to tie them up again.” She shook her head, placing her hands behind her, feeling herself dip into the bed, unable to hold herself up. But, his hand held her head steadily. She was patiently awaiting her next command. “Be daddy’s good little girl and open up.” He tightened his lock around her jaw, but it was unneeded. Her mouth fell open willingly, promptly starting to suck as though she were devoted. “That’s right.” He groaned. “Just obey.” Closing his eyes, as he let his head fall back to rest on the pillows, stroking her smooth hair again and again. “Just obey, Angel…” He could cum right then, but he wanted to last longer. Looking back down at her intently nuzzling between his thighs. He added a slight pressure to his hand. “You can take it.” She didn’t protest, only braced herself. “A little deeper, Angel, come on…” She lost her cool when he hit the back of her throat, but he didn’t let up. She tried relaxing, letting him venture all the way down her throat. “Hold.” He groaned savagely, bucking his hips forward on repeat, fucking the very back of her throat. Choked whimpers and moans sprinkled over his dick, as he held on tighter to her head. She didn’t bite this time. He didn’t exactly let go, not allowing her to drop his cock, keeping it inside the comfort of her warm mouth. “Such a good girl.” He praised, unable to control his moans. “Come on, baby, lick the tip for me.” Her tongue was eager to swirl around him, playing with him inside her mouth. She felt his fingers pressure against her scalp again, taking it as a warning and prepared herself a second time. “And now all the way back.” She wasn’t able to hold back the whimper, but he only seemed to enjoy it more. “Mmh, there you go…” The squealing and whimpering and moaning and small cries she made was almost too much for him to take. “Ahh, fuck.” He groaned, his fingernails digging skin deep into the back of her head. “Good girl, come on… just a little deeper.” He made to fuck her mouth again, feeling her lips tighten around him. She hollowed out her cheeks, and his knees jolted by the act. “So close.” He repeated it a couple times, pointing his chin to the ceiling, cursing and groaning. “Fuck, hold, hold, hold.” He snapped his focus down to her, giving the back of her head a light smack for each word, on top of the other hand holding her in place, pushing himself just a little bit further each time.

Hot, creamy liquid sprouted deep inside her throat, sliding down her jugular and filling up every empty space still left in her mouth. Sickly sweet, to the point where it wasn’t really sweet at all.

Her brows neatly furrowed, eyelashes glued together after keeping her eyes tightly locked, the cutest flush adorning her cheeks. “Now, be a perfect little angel and swallow.” She rested against his thigh, gulping down the thickness, licking the excess off his cock with her tongue when noticing it was still dripping.

He was twitching, his toes curling into the bedsheets, gripping them, focusing on her tongue running up and down the length of him. His hand resulted in stroking her head, until he fell limp, his orgasm fading into a pleasant sense of satisfaction. Pulling her up to rest on his chest, catching himself hoping she wouldn’t irritate over his calloused purple flesh. Feeling such a genuine feeling of fulfillment when she nuzzled up against him on her own, her eyes closed in gratification, an actual smile on her face. Small, delicate hands wrapped themselves around his neck. Large, calloused hands hesitantly made to rest on her waist, stunned at this display of affection. They were both fast asleep.

PART ONE

[british-bombs]

( TO BEAT THE DEVIL ) An introduction.

FORMAT: teleplay / novel

GENRE: horror, coming of age

LOGLINE: An interning demon drives a pair of twins cursed with obedience and honesty to kill their cult leader.

THEMES: Trauma, sexual abuse, domestic violence, victim blaming (particularly self blame), peer pressure, redemption, internalized homophobia, and religion.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Sexual abuse, violence, domestic and otherwise, manipulation, and death

EXTENDED SUMMARY, CHARACTERS, EXCERPT AND NOTES:

Carmine can taste it. They're hiding something. Humans have such a silly smell about them, turns an overwhelming shade of sweet when they've made a demonic deal. All four of these children have. He just can't figure out what, and more importantly: why.

It keeps him on the surface longer than he should be. Long enough that Lilith sees it fit to send him a fucking trainee? And if that wasn't insult enough, the trainees one of the eternal teenage know-it-alls.

He's already got four annoying toddlers to trail, and now there's one tugging his hand in the new generation's approach to soul-catching like Carmine isn't one of the best employees they've had since the turn of the century.

And somehow, to make it all worse, the trainee is good at it. And if Carmine wants to keep his spot at the top of the food chain, he's going to have to get the soul of that dumb bitch who's running the joint.

But, of course, the kid gets him murdered??? And then has the nerve to figure out how what those toddlers managed to stick their syrupy, grubby little hands in. What gives?

But two can play at that game. If he can't get the dead guy's, then he can have the next best thing.

Jesse has lived just under seventeen years, but he's ready to check out. Or he was. But of course, some selfish bastard had to come along and say you can't ever act on those thoughts again! Don't think like that!

And then the hole kept getting deeper.

Six feet deep, to be exact. He's got blood on his hands and no matter how fucking good it felt to cut off the air supply to the God who stole his innocence, it's probably not going to feel very good to watch his mom suffer through a highly publicized trial with headlines like CHILD MURDERS HIGH PROFILE BENEFACTOR!!!

Oh. Well. Billy did say if he really got in that deep, he could always strike up a deal. His soul, everything wrapped up in a nice little bow, sweet as Easter Sunday. But until then? Yeah, he's content to live in a stupid fucking Sherlock Holmes novel.

CHARACTERS:

JESSE NIX: A soon-to-be seventeen-year-old saddled with the curse of obedience. Unlike miss-lucky-Ella-Enchanted, he wasn't told to give away his mommy's locket. No-siree. He was told to give away his virginity. In his opinion, the only appropriate payback is a life. Maybe, one day, if he really snaps, he'll dig up Pastor Dallin's corpse and chop his dick off. Really stick it to the man. If he doesn't go to prison first, anyway. (spotify playlist)

NANCY NIX: Also a soon-to-be-seventeen-year-old, though saddled with the curse of honesty. It's really not so bad. That is, until she stumbles across the sight of her dearest little brother covered in blood for no reason he can push through his metal braces. She refuses to believe he did it on purpose. If only she could convince the cops without sounding like a nutjob. (spotify playlist)

BEVERLY PINES: A seventeen-year-old cursed to feel the pain of those around her. It makes for some fun family dinners with a sadistic mom and a missing dad. Distance nulls pain, but she can't ever seem to make it past state lines before her mom gets wise and breaks one of her ribs. Oh, well. She's got a bone to pick with psychos like her mom. Apparently, Pastor Dallin was one of them. She doesn't think she could stomach the pain of killing someone, so next best thing, right? (spotify playlist)

CLARICE ANDERMANN: Also a seventeen-year-old cursed to be constantly in motion. It's honestly not that bad. She's Yale bound! Perks of having endless energy for everything to cheerleading to debate contests, though she can't imagine her heart's going to keep up like this. It's already hanging on by a thread. That thread is named Beverly Pines and like hell she's letting it go to prison for nothing. (spotify playlist)

BILLY: An annoying fuck trapped in a seventeen-year-old's body. No curses. The opposite, in fact - blessed with a silver tongue and a keen sense of deduction. It takes him all of two hours to put together (almost) everything about Jesse Nix. He just didn't think he could push the repressed little fuck to murder that quick. (All the more power to him, though. Prison always makes people desperate and paranoid, AKA: an easy mark.) (spotify playlist)

MAVIS EVANGELISTA: Former housewife turned grieving widow turned revered prophet. If she got a little help from someone downstairs, then who's to know? They love her all the same. Now, she really, really wants to see how far she can push them all. (spotify playlist)

CARMINE: Just a helpful guy, passing through. Really doesn't need anything, just a little pledge, is all! And then? Then, you can have everything you want, fame, money, power, love. The sky is your limit. The water's fine! (Ignore the piranhas, they'll wait till you're dead to eat your face, just a little bit.) (spotify playlist)

NOTES:

- all of these characters have equal importance within the story.

- personal tag system for story stuff is '#tbtd' and character tags are just first name (ex: '#jesse')

- this is kind of really fucked up. the only reason i wrote it was cause i was thinking damn ella enchanted really is NOT fucked up enough. like i don't think the author of ella enchanted went dark enough. a locket? that's it? a bitch move. i'm taking it to straight murder and sexual abuse

- jesse transgender, no character straight except evil people

- i'm not entirely sure how tag lists work but i think i get the gist of them?? idk if you want rb or ask or something </3

EXCERPT:

There were moments, where she was reminded just how different this voice was, how violent.

She had found Lynette, making off with her makeup that she’d spent her own allowance on. Mavis doted on her and, from what she’d seen of other families, everyone else looked upon their little siblings with contempt, despising the burden they dragged along with their existence.

But Mavis adored Lyn. When she'd been born, her mother had come home with a tiny thing bundled in pink fleece. Mavis had taken to Lyn on sight, thinking Lynette’s headband adorned with a baby blue bow was the universe’s way of telling her happy birthday! as reparations for the ones her mother had missed while she was enduring her week long stay at the hospital.

But that mindset was a disease, one that had finally caught up with her. Had Lynette not become her burden? She was nineteen, busting her back day and night so Lynette wouldn’t have to, that she might avoid the life that Mavis had lived in those blissful six years where it was her and her alone.

Had her mother not tampered down her birthday celebrations since Lynette’s was so very close and they couldn’t afford double anyway? Had Lynette not deprived her of the teenage experiences she heard her classmates speak of, going out and tasting alcohol for the first time while Mavis followed a ten year old Lynette house to house so she could complain of a stomach ache after she’d devoured all the candy on the walk back home?

And now this! Stealing her few precious items, the few things she bothered to save up for, few things she bothered to keep hidden. For what? It wasn’t as though she was ever going to have the courage to ask a peer of her’s out. She was a thief.

One Mavis had made the mistake of taking care of. She should’ve embraced those stirrings of resentment, should’ve left Lynette to her own devices since Lynette didn’t appreciate anything, or even half of what Mavis afforded her. She should’ve left her out in the cold that Christmas. How could anyone have known? It wasn’t as though corpses could talk--

She had let Lyn take off with the whole case, as if to remind herself when she woke up the next morning what she had considered, how vile the thought was.

Lyn had never done anything unforgivable to Mavis. Mavis didn’t suppose she ever could. It was no fault of Lyn’s she didn’t understand what it was like to live with their father. How could she? It was a topic off limits to Lyn by both Mavis and their mother. After all, a child born blind doesn’t know until it’s pointed out to them.

And yet, she found guilt hard to summon. She did, but the speed at which it came, the strength, made her uneasy. What had happened to the girl she was? Lyn had been her world. What had changed?

Then, dully, that other voice, entirely of its own volition, said You did.

[martellthemandalor]

Hiiii, could you do a Mando x reader fluff where Din is always calling the reader cute names and giving them compliments in Mando’a but they don’t know what he’s saying. Bonus if other people are around and can understand Mando so they think it’s cute. Thank you and sorry if it’s confusing!!!💜💜💜💜

Hello anon! i nearly screamed when i saw i had an ask in my inbox lmao

I had a lot of fun writing this little drabble for you, and don’t worry you weren’t confusing at all! I hope this is the sort of thing you had in mind :)

It’s All In The Nicknames

Mando still hadn’t told you where you were landing next. You were sat silently in the cockpit with him and the baby, who was sound asleep thank the maker, just watching as the steady streams of hyperspace lights shot past outside. It made you slightly uneasy that he hadn’t told you yet. It was part of your routine with him, you’d take off from whatever planet he’d had business on, he’d set the next destination, spend some time with the baby and then the three of you would settle in the cockpit and he would explain where you were heading next.

Sometimes he’d tell you what business he had there and other times, usually when the job was less than pleasant, he wouldn’t. It didn’t bother you really. After all, it wasn’t your job to know every detail of his work. Your job was to look after the baby while he was away. 

In truth when you took the job you hadn’t expected the baby to be a small green creature with adorably large black eyes and even bigger ears. Neither had you expected to catch feelings for the emotionless man of beskar and yet here you were, worrying every time he was late getting back or having your stomach drop whenever he came back with sooted armour and gashes under his clothes.

It was a little confusing that Mando had broken your routine. It was, in the end, really the only thing that kept structure to the endless ebbing time inside the Razor Crest. This however wasn’t the only thing that had changed with him the past couple months. At first you were sure you were imagining things, but by the 5th time of catching him staring at you when you were holding the baby you knew you couldn’t be mistaken. 

He’d also started finding more excuses to touch you. Things like pushing that stray hair out of your face when you had your hands full, coming up close behind you to adjust your aim when your practicing with your blaster (which Mando had given you ‘just in case’) and, most commonly, placing a hand on your back as you navigate the dodgy last step from the cockpit to the main hold. And then there was-

“Can you take the kid down to the hold and wait for me, cyar’ika.” (“Sweetheart”) Yeh. That. He’d started to refer to you in a language that you didn’t understand. It didn’t bother you. In fact whenever he did it your heart faltered in its steady beat. It was something to do with the way he said it, there was a reverence there, and a sort of tenderness behind the words.

“Yeh, no problem Mando,” You replied, scooping the sleepy child from its crib. It was tricky to manoeuvre yourself and the bundle in your arms down the ladder but you managed it. You held the slowly waking baby close to your chest, bouncing them gently in your arms as they began to stir, hoping to quell the oncoming tantrum of being woken up to soon.

It seemed to be working, until the hold jolted, throwing you drastically off balance. You tried to hold the kid as steady as you could as your other hand flew out to catch yourself on the weapons storage. No such luck. The small gasps from the baby soon turned into wails as tears fell from their black orbs.

“Shh baby it’s okay,” You said quietly in the child’s ear, wiping away the tears from their face. “Your dad just made a BAD LANDING that’s all,” You hissed in the direction of the dark figure scaling down the ladder.

“Sorry, mesh’la,” (“Beautiful”) He said, coming up beside you. He rested one hand casually on your back, while he spoke calmly to the blubbering baby. You tried to ignore the way his mere touch felt electric, the simple feeling of his hand on you spreading a restless warmth throughout your body. Instead you focused on cooing at the kid with Mando.

Now that the child had the attention of both of you turned firmly on them, it didn’t take long for the tears to stop and the wails to die down to quiet hiccups. With the baby now calm you turned to face your reflection in the beskar. He still didn’t move his hand.

“So are you going to tell me where we are or not?” You asked, teasingly poking at his fabric covered upper chest. If you’d been listening harder you would’ve heard the way his breath hitched under the helmet at the sudden contact. He turned so his visor was fixed on you.

“I think it’s better if I show you,” He simply replied.

-

You were hoping for some planet of crystal waters and hot sun, or endless rich green fields to relax in. At a push you were secretly wishing he was taking the three of you to a hotel as a surprise. He’d certainly been doing enough jobs to afford a room at one. But no, instead he’d let you to much a bigger surprise.

One you were overwhelmingly honoured he trusted you enough to share with you.

It was an underground clan on Mandalorian’s. One of the few thriving clans left in the galaxy. You were shocked he’d managed to track one down, let alone risk coming here with an outsider like you. It moved you so much that you nearly cried when you thanked him for trusting you. He responded as if it was no big deal, merely taking your hand and telling you that you can repay him by letting him teach to fight properly.

That’s how you got here, kitted out in second hand beskar armour and being guided by Xarra, a clan member you’d befriended, to one of the training rooms. The armour fitted you surprisingly well, but it didn’t stop you from worrying that you looked ridiculous. You felt as if you were just a kid playing dress up. The anxiety spiked again when you walked into the room. It had three big sparring mats, two of which being vigorously abused by pairs of fighters, the centre one however was empty, save for your Mandalorian. Mando turned to face you and just…froze.

“kandosii'la,” (“Stunning,”) He said, a little breathlessly. Xarra chuckled behind you, clearly understanding what had been said. You turned to ask what he meant, but before the question could form on your tongue Mando called you to join him on the padded ground.

You reluctantly walked to meet him in the centre. He must have noticed you nervousness, because he softened his fighting stance.

“Mando I… I don’t even know where to start,” You said, running a hand through your hair.

“That’s okay, cyare,” (“Beloved”) His voice was soft as he moved to stand in front of you. “Start by moving your left foot in front slightly, that’s it, then shuffle your right foot to be in line with your shoulder,” You followed his instructions, glancing nervously between your feet and the dark glass of his visor. “That’s good, now bend your knees a little, and ground your power into your feet, distribute your weight evenly.” He stepped back a little, and you mourned the loss of closeness. Then he mirrored your stance, but drew his fists up so his left hand was nearly in front of his face, his right drawn further towards his chest. “Now copy me,” He commanded.

You did as he asked, then watched as he drew himself up straight again. He circled you, helmet tracking up and down your frame. He did a full rotation, then stepped forward. He placed a hand on your upper chest, just under your right shoulder.

“Draw up here, cyar’ika.” He said, the proximity of the vocoder to your ear sending a cascade of shivers down your spine. He guided you to pull back a little, putting your torso on a slight twist, then moved back to admire you again. “Perfection, mesh’la.”

One of the other Mandalorian partners murmured to each other at that, looking between the two of you. Mando caught bits of what they were saying. He particularly blushed under the stifling helmet when he heard them mention how adorable it was that he called his partner such loving names in the Mandalorian mother tongue, even when they couldn’t understand what he was calling them.

He shook off their comments and went to stand opposite you. He adopted the stance himself, but left his arms braced by his sides.

“Now hit me,” He said, tapping his chest. “Hard as you can. Use your right hand.”

You steeled yourself, bracing for the pain that was sure to come from striking that beskar with all your strength. You lunged at him, throwing your fist against his chest. He rocked back, which you were proud of, but pride did nothing to quell the pain that exploded across your knuckles.

“Kriffing maker alive!” You cried out, trying to shake the pain out of your hand.

“That was good!” Mando praised. “Again. show me how hard you can really punch cyare.”

And so the hours flew by, Mando was an excellent teacher and an even better sparring partner. He showered you with praise when you made even the smallest improvements. Things like:

“That was even better dral solus!” (“Strong one”)

“Your right hook is getting good,”

“You had really good form that time round, ner me'suum'ika,” (“My Moon”)

By the time you had finished that afternoons lesson you and Mando were the only pair that remained sparring. The only other person in the room was Xarra, who was sat observing the two of you. She had chimed in every now again with helpful comments on your technique, but mainly the only sound you heard from her was a soft chuckle whenever Mando made comments in his mother tongue.

It peaked your interest that your friend could understand, so when your Mandalorian told you that he some things to sort with the armourer and he’d meet you back at the room, you made the decision to adopt a mission of your own.

Mando returned to your shared room that night to find you sat on his bed, a huge bantha-shit eating grin on your face. He shook his head at you and went to set a bag onto your bed.

“How was your meeting with the armourer, cyar’ika?” You asked, with flawless pronunciation that you were more than a little smug about it. Mando dropped the bag he was holding to the floor and slowly rotated on his heel to face you.

“How long have you-” He started in a low voice.

“Only the past hour, Xarra took me through a very thorough translation session,” You replied quickly, not wanting to make him embarrassed. He moved quickly to sit beside you, and you wasted no time in slipping your hands into his gloved ones.

“Does this mean that you… you feel the same?” His voice was quiet through the vocoder. Gloved thumbs ran across the flesh of your hands, his visor fixed upon where the two of you were joined. You gently pulled a hand from his and used it to tilt his helmet up so he could meet your gaze.

“Of course Mando, for a long time to,” You replied. There was a beat, a beat that seemed to last a lifetime, where he didn’t move. When he did move, it was with such slow precision it almost scared you.

He guided your hands to his helmet and rested them either side of his helmet, then his own moved to frame your face. He tilted his head forward and guided yours to do the same, until your warm flesh met the cold of his beskar. You closed your eyes. The raw feeling that overcame you the moment you did made the months of build up worth it. Pure trust, pure affection and pure unadulterated contentment flooded your senses. Only when you thought you’d been successful at holding back tears did he speak again.

“My name is Din Djarin,” He murmured. That was when the dam broke. A sob wracked your body, and as it did you felt his strong arms envelope your body and pull you tight to him. And then, as if on cue, the damn baby woke up with a loud cry.

(read part 2 here!)

[baoshan-sanren]

A Series Of Unfortunate Events: Floor Mats are a Thing

a part of the Nielan Arranged Marriage AU that exists mainly because the bed-breaking anon did not actually get to see any beds being broken

also, because a little smut never hurt anyone (except for me because I’m terrible at writing it and yet I keep trying)

and also because @acutebird-fics made this art I have not stopped thinking about for a single moment in over a week

They do not break the wedding bed like that.

Even the insinuation is preposterous. Their wedding bed is obnoxiously large and extremely sturdy, and Lan XiChen cannot possibly imagine the type of intimate activity that would... result in such damage.

Except that this is mostly a lie, because he is capable of imagining a lot of things, and does so on daily basis.

MingJue, of course, is to blame for this. Lan XiChen distinctly remembers a time in his life when his head was free of inappropriate thoughts. When he could easily focus on a book without remembering MingJue’s fingers on his cheek. When he could move through his sword forms without the relentless burning in his thighs reminding him of their activities from the night before. When he could listen to MingJue speak in a crowded hall without imagining the man’s hot breath panting into his ear, words whispered into his hair, teeth sinking into his neck.

MingJue has no shame whatsoever. He has no reservations about vocalizing every inappropriate thought that crosses his mind. All of them are likely to make XiChen hard in moments; most of them make him want to die from mortification. His husband is a terrible, awful person. XiChen loves him so much that it physically hurts him. It is a constant source of pain in his chest, sweet and overwhelming.

But they did not break the wedding bed like that, and to be fair, although most incidents of such nature are MingJue’s fault, this one is solely on XiChen.

He had spent the day behind a desk, dealing with one tedious issue after another. Springtime is always a busy time, whether one is trying to run a Sect, or a small family farm. The previous year, XiChen had still been in the process of learning how to run the Unclean Realm, and A-Sang had readily taken on any burden that XiChen could not handle.

This spring, A-Sang is at Cloud Recesses, attempting to pass for the fourth time. XiChen may have spent months preparing A-Sang to achieve this goal, but he still very much regrets sending him away. Never more so than on days like these, when small insignificant matters pile up so high that he cannot see over his desk, and when every person in the Unclean Realm seems determined to seek him out.

Needless to say, by that evening, he is stiff, bad-humored, and restless. His mind is still preoccupied, and he cannot seem to settle down or relax. Afterwards, it will occur to him that their... intimate activities would have probably worked just as well to unwind him. Except that only a small part of him is interested in a physical activity; the greater part of him just wants to fight something until he is exhausted.

Despite the fact that sparring in the bedroom is MingJue’s idea, XiChen is the responsible adult in the room, and as such, should be the voice of reason. It is a nonsensical suggestion, and XiChen should firmly decline.

He does not.

BaXia versus the wedding bed score: 1 for BaXia, 0 for the wedding bed.

--

It takes two days for the new bed to be built. In the meantime, they discover that the bed in XiChen’s Cloud Recesses room is a torture device in disguise. XiChen would never disparage A-Sang’s abilities, and he knows that the bed had been chosen with utmost care. But it is a bed clearly built for one person. A person who sleeps on their back, with their arms crossed.  

The first night, they fall into it in a tangle of limbs, neither one considering the fact that this is not their large, abnormally sturdy wedding bed. By the time they realize that perhaps some adjustment and caution is necessary, two of the curtains have been torn down, and XiChen has bruised both his knees. But caution has not yet made an appearance in their lovemaking, MingJue is listing all the ways in which he intends to employ his tongue, and XiChen is absolutely devoid of any coherent thought process whatsoever.

In addition to all this, MingJue wears entirely too many layers. XiChen hates all of them. He is not alone in this, as MingJue is quite resentful of XiChen’s layers as well, and more than one silk robe has had to find its way back to the seamstress hall. The fact that MingJue can never wait for XiChen to be fully undressed, before his mouth has latched on to any exposed flesh, is entirely to blame for what occurs next. XiChen pulls on one end of his robe, MingJue tears at the other, both balancing precariously on the side of the bed, and the material decides that this is simply too much abuse to bear.

The robe rips, MingJue’s knee slides, and XiChen, feeling himself tilt forward, attempts to grab the wooden post. He misses spectacularly.

Three full days pass before MingJue can see out of his blackened left eye.

--

The next incident is in no way related to any bed, or any activity involving XiChen. He is utterly blameless. He is as innocent as a newborn lamb. Whatever issues MingJue seems to have with the seamstresses can in no way be blamed on XiChen, as he treats all twelve of these women with the proper amount of reverence and respect, and is adored by them in turn.

MingJue’s relationship with these same women is somewhat more... complicated. XiChen understands that there had been an event, prior to his arrival in the Unclean Realm, involving silver brocade and MeiLing. He does not know the details, but he does notice that MingJue always seems to dress himself with care, as if expecting his newly sown robes to attack him at any moment.

XiChen finds this overabundance of caution both endearing and silly. The seamstresses are lovely women, infinitely accommodating, patient, and good-natured. He cannot imagine them holding on to some small slight for over a year. They are servants, not assassins waiting to strike when MingJue finally drops his guard. XiChen spends some days convincing MingJue to give up this nonsensical fear of retribution, and is majorly successful, although he still catches MingJue eyeing his clothes with suspicion on more than once occasion.

By the time the spring robes arrive to replace the heavy winter clothes, MingJue has relaxed completely, and does not hesitate to shrug into a new, lightweight coat. When less than three hours later, he develops a rash on his neck that looks as if he had been mauled by a wild beast, XiChen is the only person shocked by this development.

--

The new bed looks as large and sturdy as the first. It is put in place midday, and XiChen does not spend the rest of the daylight hours thinking about the nightfall, his husband, the bed, or anything including all three of those things together. He retires for the night as soon as the sun is down because he is tired. Being a Sect Leader’s husband is exhausting work, and XiChen only wants to sleep in a bed where he does not have to worry about elbowing his husband in his sleep.

As it happens, MingJue also retires early, because he is tired as well.

To be clear, XiChen does intend to just sleep. He does not have any ulterior motive. Still, two hours later find him slick with sweat, thighs burning, toes curled into the the fresh sheets. By now, MingJue is bearing the brunt of his weight, fingers digging into XiChen’s hips, holding him in place at just the right angle, where XiChen can do nothing but whimper. It is a position he still cannot picture in the daylight hours without burning with shame. Sprawled across MingJue, his back pressed to the man’s chest, legs quivering on either side of him, every thrust excruciating, impossibly deep, hitting every pleasure point along his spine. One of his arms is wrapped around MingJue’s neck, fingers buried deep in his hair. Although he feels closer to him this way, he will often hide his face in the curve of MingJue’s neck when the sight of his own body, flushed with pleasure, is too much to bear.

MingJue is merciless like this. The sheer strength of him is astounding. He has held XiChen’s body in the same position for hours, the rhythm of his hips never faltering, never stuttering, each thrust precise and ruthless. XiChen never wants him to stop. XiChen thinks if he does not stop, the pleasure will surely kill him. He has been on the razor’s edge for hours, centuries, and the sounds leaving his mouth no longer resemble human speech in any way. MingJue is a terrible, cruel creature, determined to make him suffer. XiChen loves him. XiChen loves him so much.

There is a creak, a rumble, and the bed collapses.

--

MeiLing is silent for a long time, which is very much unlike her.

XiChen has been married to MingJue for over a year now, but MeiLing’s request that he meet her for tea had still caught him by surprise. He had been made aware, early on, that she does not bother with courtesy. She does not have pointless conversations, does not perform aimless visits, and is unlikely to give out compliments for a job well done. XiChen has not spoken more than ten words to the woman since his wedding day, and has always understood that her absence from the Unclean Realm is a sign of approval, rather than neglect.

As long as XiChen performs his duties well, MeiLing will find something more interesting to occupy her time.

The fact that she is here now, sitting across from him, fills him with anxiety. He had done something wrong, or he had failed to do something, but no matter how much he searches his memory, nothing stands out.

“There are rumors,” she says abruptly, and XiChen is taken off guard again.

Rumors? What rumors?

Immediately he thinks of A-Sang at Cloud Recesses, and his anxiety increases. Has he gotten himself in trouble somehow? Has he said something he should not have?

That seems very unlikely. A-Sang would be more apt to start an inappropriate rumor than be the focus of one. There is no gossip in the world so damaging that A-Sang cannot turn it to his advantage with very little effort. This cannot be about him.

MeiLing is watching him carefully, as if waiting for something, but XiChen cannot guess what that something could be.

“What rumors are these, nainai?” XiChen asks finally, no longer able to bear the silence.

“Two broken beds in less than a month.” 

XiChen feels his face heat, and fumbles the tea, nearly spilling the hot liquid on his freshly mended robe. 

“Ah,” he says, “This.”

She hums over her cup, still watching him, but he has suddenly found his own teacup extremely interesting, and intends to focus on nothing else for some time.

“There is also the black eye,” she goes on, “and something about a mauling.”

XiChen squeezes his eyes shut.

He would like to be back in Wen RuoHan’s torture cell now please. Or perhaps on the receiving end of Wen RuoHan’s whip. Anywhere else in the world, bearing any type of torture, would be a blessing in comparison.

“I am very pleased,” she says.

Lan XiChen would like to die now. He would very much like to-- what?

“I must admit, I was skeptical in the beginning. Do not take this the wrong way dear, but you do appear to be very delicate on some matters.”

Delicate. She-- what? What is happening?

“I am glad to see A-Jue has made a good match. Although perhaps, in the future, you may consider spreading some mats on the floor instead. Bedmakers can be notorious gossips.”

XiChen realizes that his mouth is open, and closes it. His face is burning. Even his eyes feel hot.

He should be saying something. Anything.

“Ah,” he says.

That clearly does not fall into the category of speech, and he tries again.

“Ah-- thank you. For this advice. I will-- keep it in mind.”

“Good,” she says, “I believe that was uncomfortable for both of us, so let us speak of something else. Tell me about A-Sang. How are his studies progressing?”

--

It takes him three days to even consider the idea without feeling embarrassed, and another three to have a number of mats delivered to their chamber without wanting to die from shame.

--

They are nowhere near where they started; somehow, MingJue has squirmed half-way across the bedroom floor, and now, he can go no further, cornered between the wall and the bed frame. XiChen has one of his thighs trapped firmly against his waist, rock hard and slippery with sweat, feeling each tremor of the muscle under his grip. XiChen’s other hand is occupied, three fingers buried deep in a slick, tight space, angled to hit the small bundle of nerves on every pass.

MingJue is beautiful like this. Although XiChen is not so bold to speak words of praise the same way MingJue often does, he hums his approval each time MingJue’s hips jerk off the mat in search of friction, his stomach muscles quivering from the effort. His eyes are glazed and unfocused, eyelashes heavy and damp, lips bruised from the earlier kisses. Most of the time, XiChen cannot stop him from voicing every thought that crosses his mind, but now, nothing that leaves MingJue’s mouth resembles words. For the first time, despite numerous ways they have made love, he feels vulnerable under XiChen’s touch, mindless with lust, trembling and fragile. He does not beg as XiChen would. Each time his fluttering eyelashes lift, his clouded gaze is on XiChen only, as if nothing else in the world matters.

XiChen had wanted to know how long it would take, for MingJue to come like this, with no other friction than the one his fingers provide. But now, a fierce protectiveness floods his throat, savage and hot, threatening to obliterate anything else. There is a small pool of slick already collected on MingJue’s stomach, and his flesh sears a path across XiChen’s lips, before he can capture the length in his mouth. To XiChen, he has always tasted like salt and steel, the savor of a battle won. This time, he scarcely has a chance to taste it before MingJue cries out, muscles contracting around XiChen’s fingers, flooding his mouth with release.

MeiLing was right.

The mats are a very good idea.

[fuwafuwagem]

Client file: CHISAKI, Kai

Chapters: 1/1 Rating: General Audiences Relationships: Chisaki Kai | Overhaul & Reader Additional Tags: Amputee Overhaul, Tartarus, don't ask me what readers job is, they are a PROFESSIONAL!

Session 2 here!

Your supervisor had advised you to be wary of the villain as you headed out, and you’d simply rolled your eyes. Being vigilant around villains was part of the job. You’d almost asked if he really had so little faith in your skills but had instead opted for silence. No point in picking senseless fights. It was less a moment of being undermined after all, and more a request to be particularly cautious.

Overhaul had been a very dangerous man.

You’d thoroughly looked over the file on Kai Chisaki on your way to Tartarus. It was quite an extensive read. From his takeover of the Shie Hassaikai, his grotesque abuse and experimentation of an unconsenting minor, his drug distribution network, and countless deaths at his hand, Chisaki had no doubt been a true villain.

The operative word being had.

The situation had changed significantly somehow between Chisaki’s battle with the heroes and his eventual arrest, and that change was the reason you were now at Tartarus.

Various security protocols were initiated throughout your long walk to his cell. You silently endured each, as you had many times before. The officer led you through the halls of the maximum-security prison until your destination was reached and simply advised you to call for him when you were done.

Kai Chisaki sat opposite you behind a glass screen. His shoulders were slouched forward, and he only offered you the briefest eye contact as you took a seat at the small desk you’d been provided with, laying out your file and the notes you’d taken on your client.

“Mr Chisaki. It’s good to finally meet you,” you said politely. “I’ve read all about you, so it’s good to finally be able to see you in person.”

Chisaki shifted slightly in his seat but did not make any response. You’d seen him in photographs. As the young head of the Shie Hassaikai, he had always looked to be a proud man, but he had lost that pride along with many other things; some were more obvious losses than others.

“I’m sure you’ve been told why I’m here,” you continued, unphased by his apparent disinterest. “I’m here to assess you. Basically, I believe you are eligible to be moved to a lower-security facility. Somewhere like that would allow you more freedom.”

Chisaki’s head still hung low, but his eyes rolled up to meet yours. “Why?”

That was the question, wasn’t it? Why would Chisaki be eligible, after all the heinous things he had done, to the luxuries of any place other than Tartarus?

“Because you are no longer considered dangerous.”

Chisaki’s head finally lifted and his glaring eyes narrowed.

“Because–” you began, but you were swiftly interrupted.

“Because I lost my quirk along with my arms?” he hissed, raising the stumps so that you could get a good view of the damage that had been done to him. “I was, for all intents and purposes, neutered.”

You didn’t flinch at the venom in his tone. “That’s right,” you said simply, again with a polite smile and inclination of your head. “I believe that you would be much better suited in a different sort of correctional facility.” You arranged the papers in front of you and continued. “Depending on how these sessions go, I will be able to recommend your transfer. A transfer would mean you’d be given a custodial sentence and a chance at rehabilitation. How do you feel about that, Mr Chisaki?”

You heard a harsh snort of air expel from Chisaki’s nose, and his expression darkened. He didn’t speak though, and you took that as a signal that he was willing to listen. What you really wanted, however, was communication.

“I want to begin my assessment by discussing the events which brought you here.” You wet your lips with your tongue. The file had been an unpleasant read, even to a professional like you. It wasn’t the easiest thing to do, keeping your client’s best interests at heart. You didn’t really mind if he died in Tartarus, but your job needed you to remain a neutral party, and so you would do your best by him. “You’ve experienced a great deal of loss. Both your arms and your quirk were forcibly taken from you in quick succession. That would be a traumatising experience for most people. Have you been receiving therapy?”

Chisaki grimaced, then sighed. “They tried. I wasn’t interested.”

Your brow furrowed slightly at his confession. There was no doubt that Chisaki had gone through acute trauma. When the police had initially found him, he had been in a severe state of shock, his body trembling violently. You wondered where he found the strength to come back from something like that.

“The loss of your quirk must have been quite a shock to you, but it’s that very loss that has opened up this opportunity. If you are transferred to a lower security prison, you may also be entitled to receive prosthetic limbs.”

That announcement seemed to stoke some fire in Chisaki. “Prosthetics?”

You nodded. “They’ll be simple. Nothing that can have the potential to be modified into a weapon, but it will mean you have some means to hold items; cutlery, books, that sort of thing. Prosthetics aren’t permitted while you’re incarcerated here in Tartarus, so there is a silver lining if you’re open to viewing it as one.”

Chisaki’s back straightened as he rolled back his shoulders, finally choosing to face you more directly. “What exactly do you want from me?” he asked.

You smiled. “Just a conversation. Some of it might be painful to talk about, but I want to understand you more so I can make my assessment. I truly believe that Tartarus is not somewhere you belong, but I need you to confirm it for me.”

Chisaki sucked in a long breath before his lips parted again. “Fine.”

You glanced at the file in front of you. There was something that needed to be addressed; more than his quirk, more than his run-in with the League of Villains, more than his cruelty and manipulation. “Let’s begin with your relationship with the leader of the Shie Hassaikai.”

You saw Chisaki’s body grow tense. “Pops …” he whispered, and as the word quietly rolled from his lips, the pain in his eyes deepened.

“Mhm, that’s right. He was a father figure to you, right?” you asked, though the answer was already clear from what you had read about Chisaki.

He nodded. “He took me in, raised me, tried to teach me his values.” His mouth curled down at the corners. “He wanted the yakuza to have honour, not to become like villains. But the yakuza have sunk so low. People used to respect us, but we became nothing but lapdogs for those more powerful than us. Quirks threw everything into chaos.” His gaze hardened as the creases in his brow deepened. “The world stopped progressing. The advancements of science and technology came to a standstill, and even now, everything revolves around quirks. People’s futures, their careers, are practically decided the moment their quirk manifests. Quirks have made our society sick, and that sickness continues to spread.” He stopped and drew in air through his clenched teeth. “Pops wanted to protect the yakuza name, but he wouldn’t make the sacrifices needed to restore us to our true glory.”

You lifted your chin and met his frigid gaze. “But you would, and you did. Starting with your takeover of the Shie Hassaikai.”

The stumps of his arms moved as if he had tried to cross his arms defensively. You almost felt sorry for him as his mouth warped into a thin line of a man frustrated with himself.

“If I’d known …” he began, but his voice caught in his throat.

“The doctors haven’t been able to do anything for him,” you said, a sympathetic tone leaking into your words. “He’s currently in a hospice, but there’s no hope that he’ll recover. He’s being kept comfortable, though, if that is reassuring at all.”

“I planned to restore him once I’d achieved my goals,” Chisaki said. “He wouldn’t let me do what needed to be done. I would have fixed him once the cure began to spread. It would have only been a matter of time. He would have returned to being the head of the Shie Hassaikai in a world where the yakuza were once again revered.” The golden gleam of his eyes shimmered slightly, damp with unshed tears. “I wanted him to be proud. I wanted to show him how grateful I was for everything he’d done for me. But now …” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed thickly. “Now my quirk is gone, and I can never bring him back. I wanted to thank him, but I killed him. I killed him, and I have to live with that.” His head drooped once again. “I wanted to give the world a cure. I was so close, but the sickness was too strong for even me.”

“Do you regret what you did?” you asked.

Chisaki stood, making you jump slightly, but you quickly settled. He was behind a thick wall of glass. He approached it, and pressed his forehead against the barrier, his eyes boring into yours, holding your gaze like a hostage.

“That is a pointless question. What good is regret? What’s done is done. Pops is in a hospice, I’m in this cell. No amount of regret will change that. We’re all right where our choices led us.” His eyelids dropped, releasing you from the hold of those glittering irises. “I failed. I’ve come to terms with that fact. This is the consequence of the actions I took. I won’t say I regret what I did, but I am … sorry. To those I hurt.”

You watched him as he returned to his seat. You didn’t feel like there was any deceit in his words. Only sorrow. His losses had changed him. He was a man who had suffered great pain, both physically and emotionally, and that pain had left scars; in some places, the wounds were still wide open and raw.

Kai Chisaki, who had once insisted on being called Overhaul, did not belong in Tartarus. Of that, you were becoming more certain.

“Thank you for your openness, Mr Chisaki.” You rose from your seat, motioning to the guard that you were ready to leave. “I will be returning. We are scheduled to have two more meetings, but I believe that we have made a positive start.”

Chisaki’s jaw stiffened, but he nodded. “I guess, thanks,” he muttered. “Not many people would be so willing to help me. It’s not like I have a lot of friends.”

“I’m just doing my job,” you insisted, but gave him a reassuring smile. “Until our next meeting, Mr Chisaki, take care.”

You were led away from Chisaki’s cell by the same guard who had led you in. The same security protocols were followed, as well as some additional ones, and it took you a full twenty minutes to get out of the prison. The air you breathed once you were outside was the freshest you felt you’d inhaled in your life. Tartarus was never a fun place to visit, but you’d still be back soon enough.

Chisaki would be waiting.

[c-atm]

She asked him to take her to it, her headstone. The one they made for her when she (Or rather 'Connie Maheswaran') supposedly died. She didn't exactly know why she wanted to see it; maybe it would jog some memories of who she was before becoming ' Sara's grand jewel' ...Before becoming 'Sheva.' Even the thought of those times enrages her to no end; how Connie was used as a tool of murder, espionage, seduction, and entrapment.

"Connie, you ok?"

Steven's voice, sweet, protective, and lovingly caring, as was his grip on her shoulder. The way her name ( Connie's name) came out of his voice sent waves of affection throughout her nervous system. Even after a month of traveling together, she still wasn't used to the new [old] moniker, nor did she feel she deserved it, but she wasn't going to stop Steven from calling her that.

"Connie?"

"Y-Yeah!" It came out brokenly harsh, more than initially intended.

"Sorry, Connie."

The guilt in his voice, slight as it was, hurt her heart immensely.

"No-nonono! You're ok! I promise, and I'm stupid, pleasekeepholdingmyshoulders !"

She covered her mouth and turned around before she became more of a babbling mess, something that has been becoming more common.

Ever since that dream...Hell, ever since they reunited (met), told her his name, and ripped that collar off of her; that spark of need, of craving...Of humanity seem to grow brighter gradually with every smile, touch, or kind deed her hero sent her way and how scared it made her to lose him. The adoration he sent her way, how it warmed her heart to the point of feeling burned.

How she would excuse herself before breaking into full-on bawling on more than one occasion. Steven was wasting it on her; she couldn't even understand natural human affection anymore.

She was so broken.

Connie breathed out before turning to him. "I'm...sorry that was weird of me...I'm strange...And umm... Nervous."

"I would believe so," He gave her a ginger smirk, holding his hand out to her," We're about to visit your memorial. "

"Connie's memorial." She snided before she could stop herself. "Ah..I-"

"One and the same." Steven interrupted, kissing her hand softly before massaging it with his thumb as he interlaced his hands with hers, giving her a small but loving smile. "Come on. You don't want anyone to find us, right?" He whispered, wiping her cheek of a runaway tear.

She could only nod and offer him a silent smile. He was right; she didn't want any of the residents of his (and hers as well, she figured) hometown to know they were here(her nervousness, caused by him).

It was twilight when they traveled to the cliff overlooking Beach City and Little Homeworld (spending most of their day at an abandoned lighthouse), remaining unnoticed by the populace (their attention on something called ' Beach-a-palooza'). What greeted them was not a simple headstone.

In her sights was a statue of who she was...Of ' Connie Maheswaran.' Made of marble, Ice and layered by some illuminated solid of cobalt stood a picture-perfect image of herself(?)Brandishing a naked blade on her shoulder with a star hilt, silky hair flowing down to her upper-back with some resting on her shoulders and an attractive bang, dressed in a crop letterman jacket with a star on the breast over a sporty halter top, low-rise Bermuda shorts, a pair of thigh-high stockings some loosely laced boots but obviously secured.

'Well...At least, they didn't take my fashion sense.' She mused, taking a look at her current outfit, a mimic of the statues (ironic or inherited, she didn't know). Looking back up, she focused on the differences.

'Connie's' hair was loose, free, and weightless, while hers was in a tightly braided and heavy reaching her waist.

'Connie's eyes were determined, fiery, full of life and light. In contrast, her eyes were duller, colder, and steeled by guilt (though being with Steven has brightened them up a bit.)

The most contrasting thing would have to be the smile.

Looking at her past self, at 'Connie's' bright and confident grin that displayed her teeth and radiated

Looking at her past self, at 'Connie's' bright and confident grin that displayed her teeth and radiated victory and promise, made her feel small. Seeing that kind of smile on that face, on their face, was so foreign and daunting to her. Someone who hasn't truly smiled or laughed until a month ago, which was due to killing her tormentor (who she still has sob evoking nightmares about). Even still, her smiles were weakly small, few, and full of painful appreciation.

Connie's' laughing, even more so.

"She's beautiful," Connie spoke in reverence to the memorial as she walked into the small garden on Bluebells, Hibiscus, and Orchids with various pictures of her past life that surrounded the statue. Photos of trips with human and gem friends, graduations, various other accomplishments...Moments of bliss with Steven(some with a pink lion).

"She had her whole future ahead of her."

"You can still have a bright future." Steven's voice from behind her.

"Heh." She scoffed, "You're sweet." She turned her eyes to the description under the statue.

- Connie Maheswaran

Student, Friend, Daughter, Sister,

Cherished Crystal Gem & Adored Jambud.

Our valorous knight, who outshines diamonds and stars alike.-

"It's hard to believe that I was her."

" Are ...You are her."

Connie shook her head, "we aren't the same."

"Connie?"

"I don't have that smile."

"You do."

"I'm not that strong."

"You are."

"I can't be as warm as her."

"You can."

"NO, I CAN'T !" Connie yelled, holding herself tightly, "I'm tainted, Steven...Broken. '' she rolled up the back of her top, exposing the numerous shards integrated into her brown back.

"A pile of shards upon flesh from years of experimentation and 'education ,' made into a masterpiece of murder, of violence, of spying, of abduction, of sex." She spat in disgust, nostrils flaring in anger. " How dare you?"

"Connie?" Steven took a step towards the angered ex-weapon.

"How dare you say that about her?" She hiked her breath as a sob came out." How dare you insult her by saying we're the same!? "

"Connie!" Steven turned her to face him. " Rather you want to admit it or not; it doesn't change the fact... You are her!" He said sternly.

"No..." she shook her head. "I can't believe that I can't."

"Connie?"

"She wouldn't do the things I've done."

"You can't blame yourself...You..." He tightened his hold on her shoulders, "they violated you, abused you...You are a victim in this."

"Exactly..."

Steven looked as she stepped out of his hold and pointed to the statue. Her fist clenched and face down. "She's not a victim..."

"Connie..."

"She would never have been a victim. Captured and made into a weapon...a tool." She started to laugh, a shallow sob still in her throat. "This is stupid...I came looking for ways to jog my memory and now, that face to face with it. I wanna reject it."

Steven kept silent as he pulled her in his torso, his arms around Connie's back and nape, keeping her close as she soaked his shirt.

"I'm jealous..."

Steven gazed at the top of her head as she gripped his shirt.

"I'm jealous..." Connie admitted through closed eyes, gritting teeth, trembling lips, and running tears. "I'm jealous at how determined I was. How accomplished I was. How large and bright my smile was..." she looked up at him. " How easy it was to reciprocate your love." It took all her will not to run when he wiped her eyes of tears." She did it so easy, right?"

"You..." He corrected, "You did..."

"Of course.. bet she didn't run from your affection. Lock herself away to cry...Cause she didn't know how to deal with honest adoration...It wasted on me, Steven." She gave him a broken smile, "even now I wanna run away, cause I can't fathom your warmth...I don't deserve you...but I'm afraid that I'll lose you."

"Silly Strawberry." Steven breathed, cupping her cheeks and resting his forehead on hers. "I searched for too long for you and gone through too much to just leave...My heart is yours, Connie."

Connie's fist started trembling as her face glowed in maroon, her heart pounding, and her black eyes seemed to dilate. Before looking down,00, "P-Please...Don't let me go...I really wanna go and hide right now...S-See hehehe...Weak. I'm so weak."

"You're far from weak. A weak person wouldn't take her life back from those who took it."

"Only because you provided a chance with the breaking of the shock collar and of Sara's jaw."

"Still took the chance." He argued. "Don't diminish your courage."

She didn't answer him at first. "I killed her...I threatened you with the same fate right after. How can you not be mad at me? How can you accept me? How can you love me?"

"You're Connie Maheswaran." He answered truthfully, "Not just in the physical way, the night I saved you. The defiant look on your face as I approached." Steven grinned gently, "That more than proves you and her are one and same. It's not hard to love you when I never stopped."

Connie remained silent at his words, but she was decidedly more heated than before as she leaned into his facial hold, holding his hands in her own. "Can you...Can you promise not to leave me alone?

She didn't expect him to answer her question the way he did.

Steven lips caressing hers in a gentle, tender, heartwarmingly familiar lip lock. The feeling

Of his suckling upon her top lip, mixed with the massage of his tongue onto and across her own, made her shiver and evoked moans of need towards him as she gripped his shirt, pulling him closer.

After a few moments, they broke their kiss, breathing a shared breath deeply as he placed his forehead on hers.

"You can't leave me." She pleaded, nuzzling against the bridge of his nose with her own.

Steven answered by pecking her once more, getting a trembling -squeak!- in return.

"I promise that I..."

-Koff!-

Connie could only watch in horror as Steven blood met her face from a wet cough.

Shocked tears ran from his brown eyes down as he took a step back before coughing up more blood. His back in a wet pain. His sight going hazy, watching her look at him with tears streaming down.

"I won't leave......"

Was the last thing he said before the light left his eyes. His last image was something pink joining her side.

[notfromanotherworld]

Note: This letter is an excerpt from a collection of Gandhi’s letters which have been compiled into a book titled “Mahatma Gandhi’s Letters on Brahmacharya, Sexuality and Love” by Girja Kumar (Vitasta Publishing, 2011). More detailed citations and references on the chapter on Gandhi in Rita Banerji’s book “Sex and Power: Defining History, Shaping Societies,” [pages 265-281, Penguin Books, 2009].

But Gandhi is long dead. So why should the naked girls in Gandhi’s bed matter today?

Well, because the issue goes way beyond Gandhi. What really matters now, and it matters deeply, is how we respond to what Gandhi did.

Today we like to believe that we are far more progressive in terms of recognising and condemning the abuse of power by men for sexual exploitation and abuse. And yet, I repeatedly find every time I bring this up most people’s responses are defensive and regressive!

This 1947 storm in the Gandhi camp was set off by R. P. Parasuram, a young man from Kerala, who for two years had served as Gandhi’s personal secretary and typist and watched his personal affairs from close by. Like many students in India at that time, Parasuram too, had idolised Gandhi and after his studies, had travelled to Gandhi’s ashram to live and work with him, and help with India’s freedom movement.

But two years after working with Gandhi, Parasuram quit the ashram and his job. Before he left, he wrote a 16-page long letter explaining his distress at what he had witnessed in Gandhi’s behaviour with girls and women in the ashram — which included other things besides his ‘experiments‘ in bed. He said that as much as he had worshipped Gandhi, his conscience did not allow him to stay silent any longer. And that in order for him to continue, Gandhi had to concede to five of his demands (all of which dealt with Gandhi’s physical interactions with girls at the ashram) which he listed in the letter. [See the letter below.]

On January 2, 1947, Gandhi responded to Parasuram’s letter with, “I cannot concede your demands. Since such is my opinion and there is a conflict of ideals, you are at liberty to leave me today.”

But under this onslaught, Gandhi eventually conceded defeat, even if not willingly. He said he felt like a “broken reed.” His ego and narcissism had been broken by people around him who fortunately understood and did better than we do today.

This is the question that I’d like to ask everyone reading this: Why is it that it’s hard to say that Gandhi, the hero of India’s freedom movement had also used his power and position to sexually exploit/abuse girls and women who came under the mantle of his leadership?

- “Gandhi Used His Position To Sexually Exploit Young Women. The Way WE React To This Matters Even Today” by Rita Banerji

Below is an extract from R. P. Parasuram’s 16-page letter to Gandhi just before he quit. He called it his letter of “indictment.” _____________________________________________________________________________________

1 January, 1947 Srirampur

Revered Bapu,

I write these lines in sorrow and pain. You know how shy and unforward I have been these two years. You must imagine to what depths I must have been agitated then to overcome my shyness and become bold and that too with a man who is considered by many to be the greatest man living.

You must also ponder over the fact as to what it is that has made me bold and say things so boldly. It is because I feel I am so clearly in the right and you so clearly in the wrong. It is the cause that gives me the courage.

It is not that I did not know these before. I knew and kept quiet. I thought, “Why should I bring these to him?” There are men like Kanu [Gandhi], Kishorilal bhai [Mashruwala], etc., experienced men and men knowing you fully.  And then I had not the courage. I have come over my shyness with you.

When [at] first I came to the ashram, I came with high respect for the ashram and its inmates and its way of life. All that was knocked off in 24 hours. After coming here I must confess to having lost a portion of the respect I had for you. You are the Father of our Nation. You have taken us so far along the path of freedom and independence. You must see the hand of God in the fact that I have overcome my shyness.

I object to your sleeping in the same bed with members of the opposite sex. In February 1945 or so, I was given the draft of a statement to type. I was shocked by the contents…I must tell you that even before I know of this. One day Amin-bhai came and told me that he was shocked to see Manu [Manu Gandhi — Gandhi’s own grand niece] getting into your bed.

In those days I was more shy than I am now. My only friend in the ashram was Amin. Even then I came to know of the discussions about this affair because the ashram people are so careless and can’t keep their mouth shut. Everybody objected to your doing this.

Apart from the question of any affect on you, what about the effect on girls?

There is something of other wrong with them [the women who sleep naked with Gandhi]. [The] Punjabi girl who lived opposite my room in Matunga. She used to weep unrestrainedly and that not caring whether others saw her or not. She laughed also unrestrainedly. And then here is Dr. Sushila-behn [the 24-year-old in-house physician at the ashram who Gandhi also used for his ‘experiments’]. How many are the days when she has not wept? She is a doctor and yet she is always a patient, always is ill. Who has heard of a doctor who cries out at night?

Even then the whole thing is considered wrong by the world. I do not like it. Nirmal babu [Bose] does not. Sucheta-behn [Kriplani] did not like it and said, “However great he may be, he cannot do such things. What is this?” You must admit that there is something in our objection. You cannot waive it aside.

As for blood relations [this is in reference to Manu Gandhi]. The world is sceptic even there. There have been cases of immorality between father and daughter, brother and sister.

I object to your having massage done by girls. When I was studying in college, I read a report saying you were being massaged by Dr. Sushila-behn. And now I find you do get yourself massaged by girls.

Those people who know that you are naked during massage time say that you could at least put a cover over it [his genitals].

The same objection I hold against girls coming to the bathroom when you go there. Ramachandran saw you like that and said you had fallen a little from his estimation. However great you may be, you cannot do these things.

Your placing your hands on shoulders of girls. You had written once that you gave up this practice because others intimated you with evil intention. I have not come across any other writing saying you could resume it. So it was strange to me why you resumed it. During the two years I have been with you, about 50 letters or so objecting to this practice from admirers and calumniators came. None of them got any reply.

Your being seen naked [during his bath and massage] jars on the mind of strangers, admirers though they might be. Ramachandran did not like it. He said it was the limit.

Ever since the 17th December [1946], when in the small hours of the morning you made those dreadful sounds, dreadful because it came from you man of such eminence, even otherwise unbecoming for any wise or old man, my head has not been at peace. I have heard of another such instance from Mr. Ramachandran of the API [Associated Press of India] when you told Sushila-behn to leave you. I have seen such another instance at Delhi. But this event shook me to my depths. I said to myself that God and the nation would not forgive me if I kept quiet.

You commit Himalyan blunders. But you refuse to see these things and when told, you are irritated. I say you are conceited and constitute yourself to be the repository of all the wisdom in the world.

And now to my charges. Unless [my demands] are fulfilled, I [will] depart. I beg to differ and go away. Your actions to which I object:

1. Your sleeping with any member of the opposite sex. 2. Being massaged by any member of the opposite sex. 3. Allowing yourself to be seen naked by any member of the opposite sex. 4. Allowing yourself to be seen naked by strangers and even by people who are of your party who are not so intimate. 5. Placing your hands on the shoulders of girls when walking.

- “Gandhi Used His Position To Sexually Exploit Young Women. The Way WE React To This Matters Even Today” by Rita Banerji

[divinityoswin]

for the caged bird sings of freedom

➳ this work is a multichapter fic

summary: Dragons were the ones who ruled the heavens, who soared above all. It was unbecoming of one to desire to live down on earth.// Sabo knows nothing of his past. Im knows, though. Im always knows best. 

In which Im finds themselves in need of an heir, and the newest slave at Mariejois seems to be the perfect candidate.

characters: Sabo

words: 2221

content warning: angst, slavery, abuse.

»»————-　♔　————-««

A free bird leaps on the back of the wind  

It’s strange, he thinks, that there was an entire world out there to explore, yet the town seems insistent on caging its residents in.  

He can see it - the bars that lock them in houses, the corsets holding the women in place and the stiff suits that restrain the men from running out and living .  Their very hearts are locked and sealed away, to the point that they would turn their noses up at the screams of those begging for mercy.  Its a cage of their own creation, and he wants no part of it.

Why did he want no part of it?

He couldn’t move, he couldn’t speak.  All he could do was lay down and stare at the wooden ceiling, counting the planks as his body swayed gently back and forth.  A bandage is wrapped around one of his eyes, as well as most of his body - and something is strapping him down to a bed.  The last thing he remembers is an awful sensation encapsulating the left side of his body, and then nothing.  But that’s not the problem here.  It also happens to be the only thing he remembers.

Oh, he remembers feelings , information - he knows he detests nobles, and he knows that there are four seas - five, including the Grand Line.  But he doesn’t remember himself.  No name comes to the tip of his tongue, and any attempt to look back into his past is only met with an orange glow within his mind.  Fire, he presumes, which would explain the numb feeling in his body.

The boy would cry, if it did not hurt to do so.  Instead of weeping, he wonders.  Wonders of where he is, of what would happen to him.  He would welcome death, if a voice in the back of his mind did not scream at him for thinking so.

“You gave everyone a nasty shock out there.”

The voice is serene, and it sends shivers down his spine.  He cannot move his head, so it’s up to the stranger to come into his own view.  Just out of the corner of his eye, he spots a flash of orange - not the warm kind, like the fire that once engulfed him, but a harsh, sharp kind.  One that clashes with the black the stranger is wearing.

It’s a woman, he thinks to himself.  Danger.  Danger.

Get out.

“It is thanks to the kindness and generosity of our Saint that you were rescued,” she continues.  It’s almost as if she’s preaching, and he wishes desperately he could escape.  The last thing he wants is a lesson . “Tell me, do you know why you are here?”

He cannot move, nor open his mouth, so he merely stares at her general direction and waits.  Minutes pass by, and he can feel her gaze boring into the side of his skull, until finally she steps forward and comes into his field of vision.

She has a sharp nose, sharp eyes, sharp lips, sharp cheekbones - everything about her is sharp .  As if she were made of razor blades.  Yet freckles litter on her sun-kissed skin, and her curly bright orange hair is braided in a way that reminds him of a flower he had seen but could not remember, and she smiles with a grin that looks like honey.  None of this does anything to appease him, however, and he finds himself locked in a staring match with her.  It’s only when she sighs and looks away that he breaks eye contact.  The ceiling is much more interesting, anyway.

“As I suspected.  Your head trauma renders you unable to move or speak.”

A quill scratching on paper.  She’s writing something down.

“I suppose it would be useless to ask for your name,” she says.  She tuts, as if it’s somehow his fault that he’s incapable of moving. “Mine is Doctor Hymn.  A pleasure to meet you.”

Unfortunately, it isn’t much of a pleasure for him.  In fact, it’s rather unnerving, and a bit stressful.

“I will be your Doctor for this trip.  You should consider yourself lucky you survived the accident.”  He feels her hand - warm yet not in a comforting way - rest upon his forehead.  He winces. “I will begin to ask you some yes or no questions.  You will respond with blinking.  One long blink means yes, two means no.  Understand?”

He’s not exactly sure he’s in the right mindset to be answering questions.  After all, he’s still delirious from whatever ordeal he had been through, and everything happening now is driving him into a state of panic.  But Doctor Hymn’s grip on his forehead tightens, and he finds himself shutting his eyes before opening them again.

“Good, good.  Now. . .”

The floorboard creaks as her hand is removed from his forehead.  She’s stepping away, scribbling something more down, and humming to herself.

“Were you planning on assassinating our Saint?”

He blinks twice.  She’s talking absolute nonsense to him.  Even if he couldn’t remember a thing about his past, he got the sense he wasn’t the kind of person to kill others.

“Are you currently dissatisfied with the World Government and its system of governance?”

What a strange question, especially to one such as himself - a child.  He blinks twice, because he feels blinking once would be a mistake.  But in his heart, he feels something stir within him, and it takes him a moment to realise he’s lying to her.  

Why was he lying?

“That’s wonderful to hear.  Now, are you a strong young man?”

He can’t move a muscle, so he instead rolls his eyes and gazes at her general direction and waits.

“Not when you’re injured, of course,” Doctor Hymn clarifies.

He blinks once.  At least, he assumes so.

“Very well.”  She sets aside her notepad and quill, and takes a seat next to him. “You’ve passed the test.”

What test , he wants to ask, but of course nothing escapes his lips.  Doctor Hymn seems to understand his confusion, though, and continues.

“Discard your name.  It doesn’t exist anymore.”

A sentiment that would work if he could just remember his name.

“From now on, you will be called 0731.”

0731 shivers.

                                                    * * *

It takes 0731 only a day to understand the meaning behind her words, and to know exactly where he is.  Well, not exactly - but he senses something is important about where he is, and that it doesn’t bode well for him.  As far as he knows, he’s on a ship, he’s in some sort of medical area, and there are some very, very important passengers on board.

Doctor Hymn, the only person he has been allowed to see so far, refers to these passengers as ‘Saints’, speaking with such reverence as if they were holy creatures.  0731 can only assume that they’re either actual Gods, or they were simply nobles who had become so twisted in their self-worth and ego that they thought themselves to be so.

Something tells him it’s the latter.

Whatever the case may be, he isn’t allowed to see them.  Not yet, anyway.  Doctor Hymn tells him he’s too sickly to see anyone but her, and he knows for a fact it’s true.  Just the mere act of breathing, of his chest moving slowly up and down in ragged gasps, is painful.  Moving his body around - now that is physically impossible.

As for his company, she’s not bad company, but something about her sets alarm bells in his head.  From the way she dresses in a blinding white, to her vaguely familiar hair that he couldn’t quite place, to the freckles dotting her skin that looked so out of place with her cold eyes.  Every word that came from her tongue reeked of honey and venom, and now, as he lays down alone, he feels grateful she’s not there.  Probably off worshipping her saints, or something.

He would snort, if it weren’t agonizing to do so.

It just leaves the case of what exactly he is now.  And he has a inclination he knows what that is.

Slavery.

Despite his amnesia, he’s still very much aware of the term and concept.  The disgust runs down his spine and he shudders.  The very idea that one human being could be considered lesser than another, to the point that they’d be kept as pets , is sickening.  Yet here he is, a slave in all but his heart - his name already taken - travelling to who knows where and being stuck with who knows who .  He hears screams and cries from somewhere on the ship, and wrathful yells, and then silence.  His imagination goes wild, and 0731, for an instance, considers biting his own tongue off.

He doesn’t, of course.  Something in the back of his mind tells him not to.  But the instinct is still there.

The door creaks open, and the clack of high heels against wood resounds across the entire room.  0731 knows who it is, from the three times she’s been in already.  Doctor Hymn, here to check up on him no doubt.

As far as answers go, she’s told him nothing.  Not that he exactly asks many questions, considering the whole cannot move and talk situation, but that’s beside the point.  She keeps secrets close to her chest, and while he’s sure she’s never lied to him, she’s never told the full truth either.  Instead she gospels and speaks of her saints and expects him to know what she’s referring to.

“The blood samples have been completed,” she says.  She’s somewhere behind 0731, fiddling around on what he presumes to be a desk. “You have no illnesses, as far as I can tell.  As for your current condition. . .”

He feels her gaze bore into his skull.

“You’ll have to bear with it for a little while longer.  Once we get to Mariejois, you’ll be at the hands of the finest doctors in the world.”

The name Mariejois is unfamiliar to him, but it’s an indication of where he’s going, at least.  If only he knew where that is.

Something sharp pokes into the back of his spine, and suddenly it feels like knives are sticking into his back.  It takes him a moment to register that Doctor Hymn is lifting him up.  Not that it makes it any less painful.  He wants to scream, to cry, but any words hurt to say.  She seems to understand he’s in pain, however.

“This is only temporary.  We can’t have you drinking when you’re lying down, can we?” she says.

He wants to curse her, but all that comes out is a pathetic whimper.  

Doctor Hymn pours out a glass of water and brings it to his lips.  He’s parched, he realises, so he swallows it gladly.  Yet it stings and hurts down his throat.  Tears build up in the corner of his eyes, and he grimaces.  Doctor Hymn looks mildly concerned.  He wonders if she’ll be his solace during this time.

“We’ll have to fix that soon,” she says. “Our Saint would not want a product that cannot even drink.”

His heart breaks into pieces, and he loses whatever semblance of hope he has left.  As she straps him back into the bed, he’s dumbfounded.

“We’ll be arriving at Reverse Mountain soon.  Brace yourself.”

With that, she’s gone, and leaves him alone yet again.

0731 wants to scream and break free.  He wants to kick everyone’s ass and go someplace else and to be free .  Free of his shackles, free of this world, free of his fate.  Everything about now is choking him to death, it’s gripping his heart tightly and ripping it apart.  It’s not just about his injuries.  It’s not physical.

Not that they help much with that, either.  The injuries, that is.

So, instead, he stares at the ceiling, and begins counting in his head again.  He’s almost up to the final plank he can see when a sudden jolt breaks him out of his concentration, and the feeling of the straps scraping against his wounds sends him on fire.

Chaos is happening outside.  He can hear that, at least.  Screams, muffled yelling, rushing water .  It almost sounds like a waterfall.  Then, the entire ship rattles and shakes, and with it so does he.

To say that it is painful would be an understatement.  It is excruciatingly so.  His body is in no condition to move, let alone so violently, so being jerked around like that . . . it did not do him any favours.  It lasts for about two minutes before there’s a moment where he’s almost floating off his bed, kept down only by the straps, until he lands straight back down and the shaking begins again.

“Ah - Ah!”

His voice finally comes to him, in a hoarse whisper - but his voice nonetheless.  And at what a spectacular time, too!  For he was, as far as he was aware, about to die from the violent jerking and his injuries.  

Never again.  He never wants to go through that ordeal again.  Now the ship rocks gently, as if it’s on calm waters once again.  A clock ticks nearby, voice from above still muffled and still yelling, albeit quieter than before.

Staring at the ceiling, he begins to sob.  

It doesn’t take long for 0731 to scream.