#my worry has been that I won’t be able to handle the temptation to get silly with the extra cash but like. I’m a grown up.

[plexippusangel]

I hate my life. So much. I’m gonna have to take my retirement out if I want to make it through until I get another job. If I keep skimping on groceries I’m only going to get sicker and then I won’t have the energy to find a better job and I’ll have to take it out anyway so like. I should probably start that process now and not get more behind and actually give myself room to feel well. This fucking sucks.

[livelaughlovesubs]

Omgomg requests ya boi got an idea

Reader x shy clumsy incubus!Sigma

He's a new incubus and has no experience except pure instinct. Luckily, his first target (you) is sympathetic and willing to show him a good time. At first he's flustered and covering his face as you work him open, and by the end of the night, you have him shamelessly drooling and desperately grinding back into your thrusts as you grip his tail

It’s almost the same thing so I paired the two (I’m sorry to the anon for taking so long) anyway… AHHH MAN I STILL LOVE THIS BABY SM <3 he’s still my background! Partly cuz I’m too lazy to change it haha

Dom!reader x sub!Incubus!sigma - reader is gender neutral

Warning: no lube no protection, all night long, until he breaks (lol), saliva as lube, fingering, pegging (I use dick), taking virginity, biting, tail pulling

“Okay.. I can do it, it’s not difficult. I have to, otherwise I’ll starve…” sigma tried his best to pump up some confidence, staring at himself through the mirror. It’s been an entire years now since he became a fully pledged incubi, yet he hasn’t made any advances on any humans. Just look at him! He was all skin and bones! All this time he had to nurture himself through the emergency packs for his kind, in cases where they can’t come into contact with mortals.

The demon clenched his fists before starring at his to-do list. Written on it were the basics that were taught to him while he was still young. Tips and tricks on how to seduce humans, as well as the appropriate clothes or language to use. “You can do it, sigma..!” He said to himself while staring at his body. Then he slumped and sighed, “damn it.. would anyone find me attractive when I’m so slim? I heard muscles are in trend right now.” When he tried to clench his Bizeps, a look of horror washed over him. Those were noddle arms! He can’t hurt a fly like this!

“Don’t they also prefer the bold and confident type, like fyodor..?” He thought to himself. Despite his old acquaintance being just as- if not, weaker than him when it came to physical strength, he was doing way better than him. Many fell for his trickery and became his slave. Though it’s been a while since he saw him, has that man perhaps settled down on a specific person? Sounds unreasonable, it wasn’t like the fyodor he knew.

Nonetheless, it wouldn’t help him to worry about others when he was on the verge of losing it. It’s not like he doesn’t want to, he was too awkward to actually invade someone’s dreams! Again, what if that person doesn’t find him attractive? He’d lose every ounce of self respect if that happens. “No, don’t worry about it.. it will be fine, who would be able to resist the temptation of an incubus anyway?” He tried to reason with his subconscious one last time, finally mustering enough courage to seek someone out.

And that someone was you.

It was in the middle of the night when sigma decided to visit you. He snuck into your room with some simple magic, and started to climb onto your bed. Not on top of you though, only kneeling next to you. What if his weight woke you up, he doesn’t want to drag this out too much. “Ah.. a real human, they looks so peaceful, sleeping like this. They won’t wake up too soon right?” Sigma whispered, starring holes into your body. The boy desperately hoped you won’t wake up, since he wouldn’t know how to handle it. Yet he also kind of wished you would, so that he’d have a reason to return home empty handed.

“Okay, it’s now or never. Hah, I want it too after all. I’m so hungry.” As soon as he was ready, he reached his hand out to you, caressing your thighs. He wanted to get straight to business, hoping to end this as soon as possible when another hand shoot out of the darkness and grabbed his wrist. “Ahh!?” The incubi yelped, stumbling backwards, about to fall off the bed if it weren’t for his tail desperately wrapping around your torso for support. His instincts caused him to use his tail to stabilise himself. “What’s this?” Suddenly your voice reached his ears, poor guy didn’t even have time to breath when you pulled his wrists and made him fall back into your lap.

“IiiiKK..!! Wa-wait.. let go of me!” He panicked and tried to yank his hand away. “Hold up, you came into my room so suddenly, why does it seem like I’m the bad guy now?” You complained, then said, “also.. what is this.. leather? Rope?” After saying that, you poked his tail, making him shudder in surprise. “UghhH! Don’t touch that!” Sigma immediately yelled, a deep blush covered his face. “Hey, wait. What are you?” Finally you realised something was wrong and asked him that question, all while staring at his pretty face. He was so petite and cute, totally your type, but if he turned out to be a stalker you wouldn’t hesitate to make him pay.

To your surprise that person started crying, breaking down as he looked at you through wet lashes. “I’m so bad at this..! All I wanted was food! Let me go, I won’t come back ever again!” Then the guy with the two coloured hair hide his face in his hands, while fat tears rolled down his flushed cheeks. When you heard his comment, you took pity on him, not to mention the vulnerable state he was in. “You’re hungry.. Is that why you came here? I’m sorry to hear that, what do you want to eat then?” You tried to be kind to him, poor thing was starving. Seems like he was a thief who wanted to steal your food, but he accidentally found your bedroom instead. How clumsy…

“I- i… no, you wouldn’t do it with me anyway.” He shouted, making your ears bleed a little, “hey.. tune it down, and what do you mean?” Sigma covered his mouth with his palm, then said, “I need very special food.” You tilted your head, asking, “do I have it here?” Without thinking about it, he responded yes. So you commented, “if that’s the case you can take it.” The boy stopped crying so much, instead he gazed at you and tried to be as serious as he could be. Afterwards he mumbled, “I’m an incubus.. i-I’ll need you to..to, erm.. do that with me, please…”

He couldn’t help himself, you smelled so delicious. Besides his body and mind told him to not let this opportunity go to waste. You seemed nice enough for his first, so he thought now or never. On the other hand, you were wondering if what he said was true. Then you remembered the rope around your body, or rather, his tail. “Are all incubus’ this shy?” You questioned him. “Er, no.. I guess I’m the only one who’s timid. I mean- this is my first hunt..!” Oh dear, he was trying to justify himself, but it only made him sound even more pitiful.

You couldn’t help but chuckle. While he glared at you with a blushing face, you suddenly pinned him down onto your bed as you said, “so why are you waiting? I said I’ll let you eat.” His wrists were now held up above his head and his face pushed into the mattress. “Wait, I-I’m not ready!” Sigma complained, feeling his body heat up at the sudden change in position. “Don’t worry, I’ll go slow with you.” You whispered gently, afterwards your hand slipped lower and lower, until you were caressing his butt. Gosh, his skin was soft, you felt like you were corrupting an angel instead.

Then you rubbed his rim with your middle and index finger, using your other hand to reach for the drawer. You took out everything you might need, but then noticed how you didn’t have lube near by. “Huh, this might be difficult.” You muttered under your breath, contemplating over what to do. “Er, what is?” The incubi gazed back at you with teary eyes, his lips were trembling as he talked. “I don’t have any lube here.” For a second you were almost hypnotised by his looks, but you managed to snap out of it. “I see, well, you could use my saliva, it has a similar effect.” Sigma proposed. Since he was offering it to you, it’d be impolite to decline, right?

Which led to your current situation, where you are caressing his back and spine with one hand, while the other one was over his face and sticking two fingers into his mouth. “Mhmm, hmHh..!!” He let out some muffled choking sounds, all due to your fingers messing with his tongue. You were shoving them too deep inside, he can barely breathe! “GuuHh.. huhMmm.” The boy groaned again, until you finally pulled your digits out. At this point he was already a blushing, flustered mess. Drooling around everywhere as tears threatened to spill. “Good job.” You told him, before smearing his saliva around his entrance. “Ha-haaaa…” sigma had to calm himself, this is it, today is the day he finally catches his first prey! So why does he feel like the prey today?

No long after you sticked a finger inside him, it slipped in very easily. “This makeshift lube is working pretty well.” You complimented him as your middle finger slid in, stretching his rim. “Uh-uHh! It feels weird?” He gasped, his tail was wagging around so cutely. “Shh, don’t tense up now, deep breaths, little incubus.” As soon as you finished your sentence, a second finger joined in. And oh boy he was already a wreck now. Hands clenching the sheets like his life depended on it, back arched so beautifully while those shining tears finally dripped down his cheeks. “Ah. Ha-hnnGg.” Poor baby couldn’t help but moan out loud, especially after you pushed your fingers knuckles deep inside. No one has ever touched that place, it was such a foreign feeling!

His insides were soft and warm, he basically welcomed you with open arms. Those squishy and spongy walls squeezed down on your fingers whenever you moved too fast, or curled them. Each time he’d also let out a whine of pleasure, shaking slightly to accommodate the electricity running through his body. “You.. hnghh, don’t tease..” that was all he managed to say, before a series of moans and whimpers escaped his throat. All because you found that one sweet spot inside him, and now you were poking it continuously. “This must be your prostate? Heh, how cute your voice is.” His voice was so high-pitched after all, almost like a girl. It must be in the nature of lust-demons to be so erotic all the time.

You slowly scissored him, spreading him and preparing him for the main event. But you didn’t neglect his comfort at all, once in a while you’d purposely brush over his weak spot or lean close to him to bite his shoulder. “Uh, haah.. why, why are you so nice..?” He asked, the spot below him was already wet with tears. “Hmm, because I want to?” You didn’t have a concrete answer, maybe it was his charm. Nevertheless when you deemed him ready enough, you speed up your movements a little. Now fingering him at a decent pace. Squelching sounds echoed through the room, such a lewd sound that it embarrassed the little incubi.

“HNng, ha-hmNn, it feels good to-good..” he moaned out again, but this time to his dismay you pulled your fingers out of him. “What-what?!” The boy immediately gasped, a disappointed look across his face. Did you get sick of him, or he wasn’t a.. attractive enough anymore..? “I’m sorry, little incubi, I can’t held myself back anymore.” Before he got the chance to turn back, he noticed how your tip was pressing and poking against him. “Ah-ahh..” another moan slipped from his lips at the realisation, he had to gulp loudly to swallow his nervousness once more. “Please, be s-slow.. go easy on me.” After hearing him say that, you had to use every ounce of self control you had to not pound on him right there right now.

Instead you heed his words and took your sweet time bottoming out inside him. “Is this pace alright?” You asked him after he managed to take the tip in. To be honest that was pretty dumb of you. Did you really think he could still register what you tell him, when he’s literally already in subspace? His eyes were widened and with each inch he took, his mind would go blank a little more. He could swear he couldn’t feel his limps anymore, legs and knees already going numb beneath him. He just didn’t know it would feel so good to get stuffed full..! All these sensations were getting to him, to the point he was melting, shaking and a flustered mess.

When you finally managed to fit your entire length inside, expect to see him begging, pleading for you to ruin him. At this point, his instincts were taking over, causing him to plead with you in the sweetest voice ever, just so you will finally start taking him to paradise. How can you say no to such a honey sweet temptation? Not even five minutes later you were jumping him like any rational thoughts of yours got wiped out, trusting into his slim and adorable body while holding his waist with your hands. His tail wrapped around your torso once more, pulling you closer to him so that you could trust into him deeper.

Or how he’d grind his hips against yours whenever you rub your dick deep inside him <3. He was such a cutie! Pervers noises came from the male like he was praying for something, blabbering with no end in sight. You bit his back and neck area some more, taking special care to not bit any fatal areas. The way his body was covered in traces of you was so beautiful that you wanted to keep him. He was like your perfect match. “AaahhH..!! Oh-ooHh, deeper, ha-harder..! <3.!” Sigma couldn’t control his own body anymore, he was just yelling out whatever was on his mind. His body was as if it got a mind if its own, doing everything it could to keep you pounding into his swollen and puffy hole.

After observing him for a while, you licked your lips. Lowering yourself once again to whisper into his ear, one of your hands grabbed the base of his tail. First you stroked and rubbed that area, then you pulled and yanked on his surprisingly soft tail. “You are doing so good for me, is this really your first? Your cunt is taking me so damn well~” You can’t even imagine how much he shuddered at your words. If he was a younger version of himself, he would have came from your teasing remarks alone. Sigma didn’t want this to end, he wanted to keep getting filled like this until his mind turned mush. All he could say as a response was, “Plea-please..! Fu-fuck me, more..haah…<3”

[multimousefanatic]

The temptation to write a one shot set in the future where Adrien proposes with the Graham De Vanily rings and Marinette is like “ABSOLUTELY NOT!” Is so strong

But I feel like…. On one hand, it’s SO obvious, somebody has to have already done it, right?

On the other hand… The Graham De Vanily rings are wedding bands and technically you don’t wear those until the actual wedding right? You have an engagement ring while you’re engaged and then you put the wedding bands on during the ceremony?

But then I’m like… it’s all the more dramatic if she doesn’t know until the actual wedding ceremony when she sees the rings and they have to stop the wedding to have the argument like

Oh who am I kidding? Here’s the dialogue only rough draft:

“Adrien… Sweet heart…. Kitty… You know I want to marry you, I’ve wanted to marry you since we were 14, but I will absolutely not, under any circumstances, be wearing that ring.”

“But I want you to have it, M’Lady.”

“No, you’re the only one who gets to wear those rings. They’re yours.”

“And I am yours, so why shouldn’t you have one?”

“Because it’s too important! People lose or chip their wedding rings all the time, Adrien, and I don’t know if you’ve forgotten but you’re actually marrying a walking natural disaster.”

“You are not a disaster and there’s no one I would trust more in the world with one of these rings.”

“Why don’t you get it? If something happens to the ring, something could happen to you. And it would be all my fault. I’m sorry, Chaton, but I love you too much to take that risk.”

“You’ve managed to care for a particularly coveted pair of earrings just fine. Are you really telling me that a ring is too much responsibility for the great Ladybug?”

“I haven’t, actually. I lost the earrings in Shanghai when we were kids.”

“What?”

“And if I lose this ring, or damage it in any way, I will never forgive myself. This is your life you’re trying to gamble away, here.”

“It’s not a gamble. If you’re so worried about it, just don’t take it off.”

“Right and then what happens when my fingers swell up so bad that it’s cutting off my circulation and they have to cut the ring off my finger? I’ll tell you what’ll happen, they’ll have to cut my whole finger off!”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is actually, specifically with wedding rings because it’s so common for people to not take them off for years at a time. Most people would cut the ring instead of the finger, but I’d rather lose a finger than lose you.”

“Listen, Bugaboo, I knew you’d be a bit… apprehensive about this, but it’s really important to me. These rings felt like such a heavy weight to carry when I learned what they were and you’re the one who’s been there to make sure I actually carry it instead of locking them in a drawer and pretending they don’t exist to keep myself from throwing them away or cataclysming them. You’ve always handled them, and me, with care. If it weren’t for you, I don’t think I’d be able to wear them. But I am, because you’ve helped me to realize they’re not all that heavy, they’re just another part of me, and I’m asking you to help me carry them now, the way you always have. I’ve always felt safer in your hands than my own.”

“Your unwavering faith in me has put your life at risk more times than I can count.”

“And yet I’m still right here, thanks to you.”

“…Okay. But if I have to take it off for any reason, I’m giving it to you or putting it in a safe if I can’t give it to you. And if I have even one scare, if I misplace it once, if I so much as scratch it, I’m giving it back to you and I’m never wearing it again.”

“You won’t, you love me too much. And now you’ll always have a piece of me with you.”

“…I’m sorry I ruined your proposal.”

“Oh you didn’t. This wasn’t your proposal.”

“What?”

“Trial run. Now you know the real thing’s coming, but you won’t know when or where. I’m going to have a lot of fun faking you out for this next while.”

“I should have never made you watch the Office.”

[ticklishraspberries]

Study Strategy (Simon/Wilhelm)

Summary: Living in a dormitory requires a level of quiet that neither Simon nor Wilhelm can accomplish. (This show gets angsty literally right off the bat and I couldn’t handle it anymore, I had to stop and write some fluff to cope. Thank you to my evil friends, @signinandgetkinky and @nhasablogg for telling me to watch this show, you’ve ruined my life. Hope y’all enjoy the fic!!)

“You are allowed to take a break from studying, you know,” Wilhelm says, smirking.

Simon can’t help the fond chuckle he gives in response. “That’s easy for you to say. You’re good at maths.”

“So are you! You just overthink the questions.”

Wilhelm snatches the notebook away before Simon can protest, pushing him back against the bed and laying across his chest, effectively finding a way to both pin him down and cuddle him close.

Simon would be lying if he said he didn’t like it. “Well, if I fail this next test, it will be your fault.”

“Good thing you won’t fail, then.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but Wilhelm is kissing him before he can form any words, and he can’t help but kiss back. It’s risky, kissing at school like this, but they can’t seem to resist the temptation.

After their lips pull apart, Wilhelm doesn’t stop there. He presses kisses to Simon’s cheek, his jaw, his nose. His face flushes, and he’s certain that the prince can feel the heat radiating off of his skin. Normally, he’d be teased about it, but his mouth is rather occupied.

Simon lets out a content hum, hands wrapping around Wilhelm’s waist and holding him even closer. He loves when his boyfriend gets into these touchy-feely moods, wanting to be so near they’re practically joined at the hip. It makes him feel special, wanted.

When the kisses travel down towards his neck, though, he can’t help but squirm, a breathy laugh slipping out.

“Does this tickle?” Wilhelm asks, mischief glinting in his eyes.

Even his breath tickles. How is that even fair? Simon huffs. “You know it does.”

“I know. I just wanted to hear you say it.”

Simon never expected Wilhelm to be so playful, so affectionate. He assumed that royals grew up so stiff and strict, but it seems as though the prince’s relationship with Erik was just as playful as he and Sara’s own sibling bond. It’s heart-warming, actually, to imagine Wilhelm as a child, shrieking with joy while being carried on his big brother’s back, not worrying about the family’s legacy or public appearance or one day taking the crown. He certainly hadn’t been worried about a world where his older brother was no longer there to bring a smile to his freckled face.

The sad thought isn’t able to linger, as Wilhelm has taken Simon’s half-assed confirmation as an invitation to continue, each peck of his lips more deliberate, more purposefully ticklish, and Simon can’t help but giggle, heels digging into the mattress.

It’s a soft, steady sound until Wilhelm experimentally nips at the shell of his ear, which makes Simon shriek in the high-pitched way he finds so embarrassing, and it makes them both laugh harder with how ridiculous it is.

“Shhh,” Wilhelm murmurs, nose pressed into the crook of his neck. “You’re going to get us caught.”

“Then it’ll be entirely your fault,” Simon replies, scrunching his shoulders, trying and failing to protect himself.

And because that simply won’t do, Wilhelm switches tactics and scratches at his belly, making him thrash wildly, burying his face in the other boy’s hair as some attempt at volume control. It doesn’t do much, and reality sets in and reminds them both that while this is all fun and games, the idea of being caught is a very real, very scary thing.

“You’re the worst,” Simon breathes when Wilhelm finally rolls off of him, curling up by his side instead.

Wilhelm grins. “You love it.”

Simon rolls his eyes and sits up to resume studying, and Wilhelm doesn’t snatch his book away again. He just lays next to him, occasionally helping him with equations, but mostly just watching him.

When he does well on the test, Wilhelm whispers that maybe tickles should be his new studying strategy. It makes him blush like mad, but he doesn’t protest the idea.

[luckycharms1701]

Salutations fellow enjoyer of the shelled martial artist reptiles!

I saw the most recent anonymous request you had about having an open inbox and as such would like to make a small inquiry for some HCs?

My request is as thus: How would our dear masked heroes deal with having a S/O that is waiting to have physical intimacy until marriage? Especially how do you think they would deal with Spring with such a partner?

Sex is quite the bonding moment (or so I have heard) and a great deal of fics and snippets have to deal with something of that nature. Which is completely normal and fine mind you, but as someone on the demi/ace spectrum it can be a little more difficult to place myself in these scenarios as I personally am waiting for a little bit longer than most to engage in that moment.

So I was curious of your input. However, no worries if you're not feeling up to it of course darling, just wanted to pick that brain of yours if you're feeling up to par.

Thank you again!

oh no anon-chan. you have activated my trap card. time to give everyone whiplash lmao

thank you so much for asking this. as someone who is on the aroace spectrum (surprise!!), i do understand your struggle, believe it or not *shoves all the horny posting i've been doing lately under the rug*

so below are some headcanons for how the rise turtles would handle having a partner who wants to wait to have sex, how they would manage their mating season, and a bonus! one way they would bond with you instead

General: Mad respect. It doesn’t matter how they personally feel about it, they will respect your wishes in this department and do their best to treat you properly. How they do that differs with each turtle though.

Raph:

He’s going to be a little confused at first. Once you explain that it’s not him and there’s no disease or injury involved, though, he is 100% on board. He does get a little anxious about being supportive in the right way. You’ll catch him looking at you nervously when anyone so much as mentions sex-adjacent topics while you’re in the room, trying to gauge your reaction and what he should do.

Raph is… well, a very physical turtle. It’s going to be a bit of a struggle for him to not take things further when he’s ready. But he is also very determined when it comes to you and respecting your wishes. You will have to get used to him leaving a situation every once in a while when he feels the urge. He’s always apologetic about it. Totally the kind of turtle to ask your permission before masturbating to thoughts of you, despite how it makes him blush and stutter to do so.

When Raph is in his mating season, he disappears. He won’t tell you where he goes, and he won’t let anyone else tell you either. He does not want you to find him, he is uncertain he would be able to handle the temptation. Once his season is over, however, be prepared for cuddle central. He still wants that closeness, so you spend a lot of time in his arms.

One of Raph’s favorite things to do with you is read. No, really. The two of you discovered that it is easier for him to focus on the story when you read to him. He loves to listen to your voice. You’ll snuggle together with his bears in his bed and read all kinds of books together. Now that he has you to read to him, he’s finished so many books.

Leo:

He’s going to have a lot of questions. He’s going to have emotions about it too. Hopefully you will talk about it before you have to reject his advances, because that is definitely the worst case scenario. You will have to make sure that he doesn’t feel insecure or rejected. It’s going to be a long conversation. However, once he understands and is secure in his place in your life, he has your back. He’s so smooth about removing you from potentially uncomfortable situations that you barely even notice he’s doing it.

His love language is physical touch, so he always seems to have a hand on you. However, never once does he ever touch you in a way that is suggestive or makes you uncomfortable. When you cuddle together he is a perfect gentleman. If things ever head in a way that might turn hot and heavy, he’ll stop. You may need to give him a moment, but he’ll be okay. Will masturbate to thoughts of you without asking and then feel guilty about it. May or may not admit it to you.

When Leo’s in his mating season, he asks you to please stay away from the lair for the duration. However, he cannot go without you completely. He is constantly texting and calling you. He will hang up on you suddenly sometimes, if you do or say something that turns him on. He’ll apologize when he gets back in touch with you again. Once his season is over, he immediately finds you. He’ll be almost constantly in your presence for a few days, he missed you a lot.

Leo really likes to train with you. It started as a way to teach you self defense, because he worries about you. As time went on he realized that he really enjoyed the time spent together doing something physical but not sexual. It serves as a way to touch you and get his physical needs under control without pushing your boundaries. Plus, he gets to show off a bit, that’s always a bonus.

Donnie:

Nothing appears to really change after you discuss the next steps of your relationship with Donnie. He was very accepting and supportive when you spoke about it. This is just another facet of the person he loves. He doesn’t feel the need to ‘defend’ you from uncomfortable situations, he knows you can take care of yourself.

Donnie does get a little weird about touching you for a while. Doesn’t want to overstep on accident. You’ll probably have to have another talk with him about that, a little more in depth on where the boundaries actually are. He’ll probably start checking in periodically, to see if the boundaries have changed any. Won’t masturbate to you at all, he’s going to wait with you.

He is okay with having you around during his season. He’d rather see you than not. However, he will leave if something happens to arouse him. He’s always going to warn you when he’s getting uncomfortable, so you know to not come over. His lab is completely off limits. Seeing you there among all his creations is particularly pleasing for him.

Dancing. What else? Donnie loves to dance with you, anything from silly jumping around to dance battles to salsa. One way you have of pulling him out of his lab (that almost always works) is to ask to learn a new dance together. Nothing gets him to laugh more than when the two of you are learning a new dance. However, his favorite way to dance with you is a waltz.

Mikey:

Mikey is going to be a little put out at first. He was really looking forward to exploring new horizons with you, and he’s not the most patient of turtles. But anything that is important to you is important to him, so he’ll get over it quite quickly. There’s a lot of other things the two of you can do together after all! Mikey will take some time to observe you and see how you react to potentially sexual undertones to figure out if you need his help or not. He’s very good at changing the subject or pulling you away because he has to show you something right now!

Talking with him doesn’t change the way he touches you at all. He still slings his arms around you at every opportunity and snuggles close on the couch. He does get hypervigilant about how others touch you though. If there’s even a hint of inappropriateness he is immediately pulling you away. He gets a reputation as a jealous boyfriend, but it’s not his fault all these strangers keep putting their paws on you! He doesn’t care what others think of him as long as you are comfortable. He’s absolutely shameless about asking if he can masturbate to thoughts of you.

Mikey avoids you for the most part when it’s his season. He gets whiny and needy and he really doesn’t want to push you. He asks his brothers to intervene on your behalf if he does start getting pushy. It’s the only time he hesitates before touching you, gauging his own response to you so that he doesn’t accidentally do something to make you uncomfortable. You’ll often put your phone on speaker and listen to him chatter while you go about your day.

One of Mikey’s favorite things to do with you is meditate. He struggles with the practice, and only makes it through because he knows how important it is for controlling his powers. But when you’re there with him it’s so much easier. The two of you will sit back to shell and lean into each other. Matching breath with you really helps him, and he likes that doing this together makes him feel closer to you. Sometimes he’ll hold your hand while you meditate together.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

head bonks: @yorshie @avery73 @justalotoffanfiction @thejudiciousneurotic

[ereawrites]

Dick Grayson x Reader - Mania

this was requested by: anon

word count: 10.5k / rating explicit

a/n: sex pollen so auto dubcon (?), but both reader and dick are affected so idk

taglist: @daddyissuesmademe @idkmanicantenglish

It's your fault, really. You should never have got involved in the first place, but the temptation was just too great to resist. How could you pass up the opportunity to investigate Poison Ivy's pollen? This was the first decent sample any of you had ever managed to get - even Bruce, though you suspect there have been a few times he's managed to get up close and personal with the pollen - and normally Tim would handle it, but he's away on business with Bruce, and Damian's too young to deal with intensive research, and Jason just can't bring himself to care. So, that left Dick, and you could've left it at that. You should have. Then again, Tim did text you to recommend that you helped Dick: actually, you would never have left your room if it hadn't been for his intervention. It's Tim's fault.

The thing is, everything was fine at first; you've, perhaps, been harbouring the slightest crush on Dick for a while now, and it's always nice to spend time with him. He's fun to be around, even if his classic charm sometimes borders on teasing flirtation, and he's got such an incredible mind. You forget that, at times - he has a bad habit of putting himself down as the 'kind one' of the family, the emotional support or the comic relief, and he forgets to let himself be brilliant, too. He doesn't realise you've noticed that. Or maybe he does, but he doesn't say anything, and you've happily spent the past two hours studying Ivy's pollen together.

"It's definitely pheromonal, but I've never seen a chemical composition like this before-", you say, eyes glued to the computer screen. Dick is leaning over the back of your chair, one hand on your shoulder and one hand on the desk beside you, and you shouldn't feel as tense as you do. "-look, this section doesn't occur naturally in any species we've seen. She's synthesising these pheromones somehow, it's not like she's injecting them, but I just - I don't get how."

He pushes off from the desk, grabs the back of your chair, and spins you to face him with a half-smile. "I hate to break your train of thought, but I think we need a biochem specialist.", he says, and you suddenly notice how tired he looks: his eyes are still vibrant, warm, but exhausted. "We've done as much as we can on this, right? No shame in calling in the big guns."

"Tim?", you reply, knowingly, relishing in the way Dick's smile grows into a full grin. He's still gripping the edges of your chair, effectively caging you in: you are not looking at his arms, and you can be certain of this because you are looking very, very intently at his face.

"Having a genius brother has its perks, I know. I'll call him now. It's late in Tokyo - he won't be in a meeting, he'll probably just be awake in his hotel room, tapping away at his laptop.", Dick says, finally moving away to fetch his phone, and his voice trails off into a mumble that he clearly doesn't mean for you to hear. "God, he worries me. He really does."

It's much too warm in here: you sigh, and shrug off your jacket, slinging it over the back of the computer chair before calling out,"You're such a mother hen sometimes, Dick."

"I care. Sue me.", he replies with a faux scowl. "You don't complain when you're ill and I bring you hot soup."

"You're a good cook, what can I say?"

"Husband material!", he chirps. You feel your stomach leap and your cheeks heat up at his words. He's only teasing, but the truth of it is, it has more effect on you than you would like to admit. Thankfully, he's quickly distracted by the crackle of Tim picking up the phone. "Timmy! How's things?"

Tim's voice is dry, as always, but with a noticeable undercurrent of frustration. "Shit. I hate it here."

"Hey, Tim. Bad day?", you say with sympathy. You feel a little bad for bothering him, now; as hard as everyone in the family works, Tim definitely pushes himself the hardest.

"I'm the youngest person here by at least twenty years, and my stomach can't handle sushi. Plus, Bruce gets separation anxiety from the rest of you. The one upside is that I've been able to practice my Japanese.", Tim replies. You feel bad for him, of course, but the image of him having to comfort a homesick Bruce has you suppressing a snicker.

Dick shoots an amused smile at you - he's too beautiful when he smiles, it isn't fair - that starkly contrasts the comforting tone he uses to respond to Tim. "Don't worry, darling brother - I've got something exciting for you! Check your emails - wait, only the most recent one, though, I sent you a link to a Red Hood fanpage-"

You interject with an accusatory wave of your finger. "Why the fuck didn't you send me that? Red Hood is sexy." If Jason were here, he would probably threaten to shoot you, but as it is, Dick's amusement only grows. His smile is so infectious, like it spirals out into the air and right into your chest, and you can't help but smile back at him. You don't know if it's the warmth of the room or simply from Dick himself, but you feel as though you're going to need to step outside for some fresh air soon.

"Because of your raging crush on Nightwing, probably." Tim cuts in, and you could fucking kill him. Dick gives you a pleased wink. "I'm looking at a pheromonal compound, right? Ivy's special formula?"

You muster as much venom into your voice as you can, without pissing Tim off so much that he leaves you to deal with this on your own. "Fuck you, Tim - and yeah. It's a newer version, though - I think she's evolving, if that makes sense? Her physiology is definitely changing." Tim gives a thoughtful hum in response to your words: you imagine it's in agreement.

Dick continues your train of thought. "We think she's working with someone else, or she's been experimenting on herself, maybe. Do you have any ideas about how she's making the new chemicals?"

"I'll need a few hours. Send me all the data over. You're right about it evolving, though - it's definitely airborne. Shit, this is actually really interesting - the molecules are more compact, smaller, so she doesn't need to rely on physical touch through her plants anymore-"

The rest of Tim's words are lost to a wave of horror. Airborne, he said - you'd doubt it if it wasn't for the similar shock that's written over Dick's face - and you have not been treating this sample as airborne. Ivy has always relied on physical, tangible contact to use her chemicals: you couldn't have known, there was no way you could've known, neither of you are experts on this kind of thing - you've fucked up.

"Airborne? How... airborne are we talking? Like, don't-sniff-the-test-tube?", Dick asks, cautiously, maintaining eye contact with you all the while. *Please, God, let it be don't-sniff-the-test-tube and nothing more than that. Please.*

"Shit, you haven't been wearing respirators - have you?". Tim sounds positively horrified. It does nothing to allay your fears, the worries that you've both been infected with Ivy's pollen; in fact, he all but confirms it. Everything is beginning to fall into place now. The tension around Dick - more so than usual, at least -, how warm you're feeling, the mental sluggishness that had you calling Tim in the first place.

You're angry at yourself, for your own stupidity - not Tim, but you're panicked, you're so unbelievably freaked out, and so you can't help but snap at the phone. "How were we meant to know, man? Ivy's never even hinted at having something of this level before!"

"You're working with chemicals, unknown chemicals, I hate-"

Dick cuts in before this can turn into a full-on confrontation. You've got no idea how he's managing to keep a level head. Perhaps the pheromones are already taking a more severe effect, or maybe it's a placebo effect, and you pray that it is, but you can already feel your heart beginning to pound against the confines of your chest. "It's just pheromones, right? We know it's not toxic, at least - Ivy's victims only take a few days to come around, at most. They're just kinda fucked up for a few days."

You admire Dick so, so much. He's right, he's always right, he always manages to keep you calm and make you feel safe: you'll just have to stay with him, and you'll be okay. If you stay here, he can comfort you, and maybe the impacts of the pollen won't even be that bad. And, if they are, well, there's no one else in the manor tonight, and Dick's so handsome and kind and strong, and maybe he'll - fuck.

Tim snickers. "Fucked, indeed. Only when Ivy's in a good mood, though. You guys better get ready for a tough night. I've heard it can get really bad, especially if you're deprived of - oh, fuck, I can't talk about this, this is too funny but it's so weird, oh my god-", and he dissolves into a fit of awkward, stunted laughter. Dick fixes you with an apologetic look, but you swear his golden cheeks are tinged with red.

"How long until it kicks in?", he asks. It's a stupid, stupid question, because you feel like you're close to dying already. You know what he means, though: when will it get bad? You've seen Ivy's victims before. They're entirely without dignity, practically begging to be touched, sobbing from the pain of it all - and you've only heard rumours about the depraved things they let Ivy do to them. What they ask her to do to them.

The huff of Tim's breath crackles through the phone. "Uh - I don't know, maybe an hour? A little less, since Bruce never opens the windows in there. Just seal the sample up, drink plenty of water, and try not to freak out. It'll pass. You won't die."

///

You thought you could do it - stay in your room, deal with this alone, avoid any potential awkwardness with Dick -but you can't. It's barely been an hour. Sixty-seven minutes since you left the cave, to be exact. Sixty-seven minutes since Dick grabbed you by the waist to halt your speedy departure, touch light but insistent, and said if you need anything, come to me. His eyes were dark when he said it. Deep, dark blue, an ocean that you could get lost swimming in; but pupils already dilating, breath already speeding up. He meant it as nothing more than a kindness. Still, though, that hasn't been enough to stop you from coming onto your fingers with the image of those eyes burned onto the backs of your eyelids.

Ivy's pollen is designed to induce lust, yes, but only for the first person you see after you're infected with it. This means two things: firstly, that you need Dick more than anything right now. Your head is pounding, your lungs feel like they're on fire - the sensation between your legs isn't aching, it's agony, and you've spent fifty-two of the past sixty-seven minutes trying, and failing, to fool your body into believing that your fingers are his. The first thing you know, is that you need him, because you saw him right after you were infected. The second thing you know - there was no one else in that room. You were the only person Dick could have seen.

So, stupidly, you seek him out. You go back down to the cave, without even taking the time to wash your hands, because that's what your body is telling you to do, and you're acting more and more on instinct. Potential awkwardness be damned. He'll fix this.

Dick's facing away from you, reclined in the computer chair: his posture seems almost relaxed, just almost, legs sprawled out and left elbow visibly sticking out from around the back of the chair, like he's got one hand close to his head. You'd assume he was still looking at the computer, if you weren't so hyperaware of everything right now, but you are, and you notice more. From what you can see of his body - it's low-blue-lit from the computer screen, enough that you can make out the muscle of his legs through his sweatpants if you squint, but it's not enough, you need to see more - he seems tense. Too tense. Normally, you'd sneak closer, but your head is practically spinning now and Dick will help you. He'll make this better. Your voice is hoarse and dry when you manage to call his name.

He immediately jolts in his seat, spinning to face you, and now that he's backlit by the computer, you can barely see more than the outline of his body. God, he looks so lean, so tall - "Are you okay?", he asks, and he sounds almost as bad as you feel. You swallow thickly before responding - and, through the fog in your head, you realise that your jacket is clutched in his left hand.

You, miraculously, manage a weak smile. "I just - I thought maybe it would, you know, be better to... be together, during this. In case - if one of us needs help, or something. I don't know.". You sound stupid. Dumb. You feel it, too, and you can't even bring yourself to care. The mere sight of him is helping: it doesn't remove the pain, or any of the physical sensations, really, but at least the panic of not being near him is being soothed.

"That's - yeah, okay. How are you feeling?", Dick replies. His voice is barely more than a whisper, but you hear it as clear as if he were right up against you. Chest pressed to your back, lips on the curve of your jaw, that voice going right through you and into the pits of your stomach.

It's wrong, to think of him like this, when all he's doing is trying to check that you're alright. He knows you aren't, but he's trying.

The best thing you can think to do is make a weak attempt at a joke. "I've got a newfound fear of Ivy." Dick even huffs out a laugh, but it's just as half-hearted as your words. "I didn't think it was going to be this bad at first, Jesus - but it keeps getting worse, and, it just-"

"-it hurts. I know.". Dick nods. As you take a step closer to him, you realise that your eyes have finally adjusted to the relative darkness of the cave, and you realise that you can see his cock straining against his sweatpants. He's hard. What's more, there's a distinct wet patch leaking through the material.

When you entered the cave, you couldn't see one of his hands; the chair wasn't moving enough for him to be stroking himself, and you're not sure whether you're glad he wasn't, but now that you think of it, there was definite movement. Like he was palming himself through his sweatpants, maybe. And the hand that was close to his head, it's clutching your jacket, he was holding your jacket close to his face while he-

"Dick - were you...?"

He sighs, halfway between embarrassed and resigned, and sinks back down into the computer chair. He keeps your jacket clenched in a white-knuckle grip. "I had to take the edge off somehow, right? I'm sorry, I didn't think you would be coming back down here, I never meant to make you uncomfortable or anything-"

"I'm not uncomfortable.", you blurt out before you know what you're saying. Dick's expression visibly shifts - you don't have the mental clarity to figure out into what, exactly - but you can feel your own eyes widen as you process  the implications of what you just said. "Oh, fuck - I didn't mean it like that, I - sorry."

Dick just shakes his head. He must mean for you not to worry. You stand in silence for a while, not exactly awkward but certainly thick with tension, before he pats a hand onto the desk beside him. "God, this is worse than I thought. Do you wanna come sit down?"

Do you? Although being closer to Dick sounds like the only thing you want in the world right now - god, you can't help but think about how good he would look, if you were close enough to really study him, now that you're beyond giving a fuck about etiquette - you're also acutely aware of how difficult it'll be to control yourself. Undeniably, you want him. You've wanted him for months, really - but the pollen has taken that desire and multiplied it tenfold, made it so that it's all-consuming and painful. In your room, nothing more than imagining him, it was bad enough. Now, now that you can see his fucking cock, now that the image of him rubbing himself with a blissed-out look on his face, it's almost impossible to control.

You move to sit next to him. You can't help yourself. Once you start moving, you feel like it's all in slow-motion: Dick's watching you, dark eyes trained so closely on your form, and you're wearing nothing more than a tight-fitting pair of leggings and a thin t-shirt. After what feels like an age - too long to be apart from him - you reach the desk, and upon clumsily perching yourself on it, you see Dick looking as though he's about to pass out.

"Fuck, did I - did I do something wrong? I'm sorry-", you say hastily, but he instantly shakes his head and trains his eyes on yours. The blue is nearly gone. It's all blown-out pupils now, so much that his eyes are nearly black.

He licks his lips as if to wet them. "-no, no, but - when you were in your room - when you were alone - did you do anything to take the edge off? Did you touch yourself?"

You could say no, if you wanted to. You could lie. He would know, but he wouldn't press it, and you could save yourself the shame. For all that Dick must be struggling just as much as you are, he's exceedingly kind, so much that no amount of fucked-up drugs could change that: he's still your Dick, underneath all of this.

"Yeah.", you admit after a heartbeat, and your stomach lurches when you see his cock twitch through the sweatpants. Still, you're embarrassed, and you feel the need to explain yourself just a little. "It felt like my skin was on fire unless I did. It still feels like that, though - like it just wasn't enough, I guess."

"I can smell it on you.", Dick says lowly. Oh, God. That's hot. That's so, unbelievably hot - especially when you see his cock twitch again - but absolutely mortifying. You're torn between wanting to jump on him, right here and now, and retreating back to your room. You compromise by burying your face in your hands, and letting out a pathetic whine to signal how fucked-up you are right now. Maybe you can calm down, now that you don't feel on the verge of a panic attack from being away from him, if you take a few deep breaths.

Naturally, Dick hardly gives you the chance. You feel his hand come to rest on your knee out of nowhere; it's a gentle touch, but you can feel him trembling, and the touch sends a bolt of electricity through you that's strong enough to make you jolt. "I want to help you. The whole point of these pheromones is to make it so that you need touch - it only hurts because we're not getting that. So, I can-", he says raspily, punctuating the pause with a reassuring squeeze to your lower thigh, "-touch you, just... platonically, if that's what you want. What you need."

His voice drops down an octave with the last sentence - you whine again, involuntarily, but you just about manage to turn the sound into words.

"Dick, you don't have to - we can just push through this, I know it'll be uncomfortable for you - I mean, I know it's not like we haven't hugged and stuff before, but this is different, I don't want you to feel forced because you feel bad for me."

Dick must lean forward, closer to you, because his palm slides further up your thigh. The pain that prickles insistently under your skin is beginning to turn into fiery heat: not unpleasant, but desperate, hot, and you're starting to feel like you're not going to be able to stop if he asks you to touch him. "I don't feel bad for you.", he insists, reaching up with his free hand to peel your hands away from your eyes. He curls his fingers around yours as he continues. "I just want to make you feel better - both of us feel better. See, it's already helping, right? Just relax. This is bad enough as it is."

His thumb starts to trace circles on the inside of your thigh. It's nowhere near high enough to be considered sexual, but the movement has your legs almost trembling. You wonder if he can feel the tension of your muscles. "It's... it doesn't hurt anymore. Thank you.". And, technically, you're not lying: it doesn't hurt, in fact it feels fucking incredible. You spent fifty-two minutes trying to replicate this sensation. He's only touching your thigh, it has no business feeling this good, but each little beat of his thumb has waves of pleasure crashing through you. God, how good would it feel to fuck him like this? You're shaking, and you know it, and it only makes him tug you by the hand to stand up.

Even the loss of his touch on your thigh feels devastating, but Dick's next words are more comfort than you could have imagined possible. "Here. Come sit, if you want.", he says - whispering again, voice so low and so deep, but it's just the effects of the pollen, you tell yourself - and gestures to his thigh. "You can lean back into me, don't worry, it'll be better for your back."

This has to feel as good for him as it does for you. Logically, it has to. You've both breathed in the same pollen, his skin has the same sheen of sweat that you can feel on your own skin, you're both trembling in every part of your body, and he's still rock hard. You can feel yourself leaking, god, enough that it might have dampened your leggings and left a wet spot on the desk. What would Dick do, if he saw that? He's clearly turned on, but maybe he still has the good sense to avoid fucking: maybe his view of you as 'just platonic' is so deeply ingrained, he would never touch you down there to feel how wet he's made you. Or, maybe he wants you like you want him.

"Are - are you sure?", you stammer. You can't stop looking at his lap. His cock, painfully obvious (and he mustn't care, because he blatantly drew your attention to it), and the corded muscle of his thighs, spread out straight to form you a perch.

"Mhmm...", he hums from somewhere deep in his chest, and suddenly you're grateful that he's still holding your hand, because the sound almost makes your knees buckle. He tugs gently. "Only if you want to be close to me, though."

He says that like an afterthought - like he knows exactly what you want, and like he's hungry for your touch and doesn't want to consider the idea that you don't want to give him it. You can't bring yourself to look at him before you move to sit in his lap, because you know he'll see the desire, and for now, you're still pretending that you don't want to push him down in that chair and ride him for hours. He'd like that, you think. He'd like it if you pulled his hair while you did it.

Dick lets go of your hand so he can take your waist in both hands, guiding you down onto his lap and gripping harder when your ass inadvertently brushes over his cock. You don't mean to do it, of course, and you jump like you've been shocked: you shuffle further down his thigh to avoid another mishap, but the movement causes your pussy to just barely drag against the hard muscle - you hardly manage to control your moan, forced to sink your teeth into your lip. Thankfully, Dick doesn't seem to notice, and he helps you lean back so his chest is pressed to your back, before lifting his arms to rest on the armrests. From here, he begins to rub soothing lines up and down your arms, and he tips his cheek down to rest against your shoulder with a relieved sigh.

"Fuck, that... yeah, that feels better.", you practically gasp. Feeling him pressed up against the entire length of your body, as torturous as it is, is the most relief you've gained all evening; his legs are shaking just enough that you can feel it in your core, though, and you're forced to tilt your head back to rest on his shoulder. You'll lose your fucking mind if you don't start to relax, he's right.

With your neck exposed, though, you can feel Dick's hot breath tickling your skin when he speaks. "Good, right? It feels good?". For the first time, you really hear the tension in his voice. So much so that you can't pass it off as your own projections, or a trick of his tone - he's just as desperate as you are, holy shit, he sounds halfway to begging, he sounds like he's dying to know that his touch is making you feel good. Your hips twitch of their own accord.

"Yeah... Dick?", you whisper after a few moments. He nods in response against your shoulder, a slow, dragging movement that feels like honey dripping through your veins from the point of contact. "Are you really warm, too, or like - is that just me? I - I feel like I'm burning up... Do you mind if I..." - you trail off, instead opting to tug cautiously at the hem of your shirt.

He sucks in a deep, rapid breath that you feel press against your back. For a moment, you worry that you've gone too far - it feels so good, but it's too weird, too strange for him even now - but then he slowly curls his fingers around the hem, replacing your own hands, and starts to pull upwards at a torturous pace. His knuckles drag over your lower abdomen for just a second and your hips twitch again, and he definitely felt it this time but he says nothing, and his breathing is warm and fast against the skin of your neck; with the shirt discarded, you're left in nothing more than a thin bra. Although the room feels warm, furnace-hot, you're all too aware of the blatant hardness of your nipples, and you tell yourself it's okay, he won't notice, because you're facing away and he won't - his palm drags against your breast on the way back down and it feels so good, too good, and you can't help but whimper, "Fuck, yes-"

Three things happen in quick succession. Dick freezes, you realise what you've done and move to jump up and run for the hills, and then Dick grabs your hips and pulls you back into him, right over his cock, this time. The friction makes both of you let out a breathy sigh, but where you clap a hand over your mouth, Dick follows it up with a hoarse proposition. "I can touch you properly, if you want. It'll make all this go away, I promise - do you want me to?", he rasps, pressing one, quick kiss to the skin where your neck meets your shoulder. "Do you want me to touch you?"

His grasp on your hips is tight, wanting, but gentle enough that you know he wouldn't stop you if you tried to leave again. When you make no move to do so - you're frozen, you can't believe he's just offered to do what your body is screaming for - Dick pulls at your hips, slowly, dragging your ass over his cock and then pushing you back down. He repeats the motion a few times, rolling his own hips up into you a little more with each motion, and soon your muscles start to work so you can grind down onto him. Dick rewards you with a quiet moan - oh, you want him to do that again, you're going to make him do that again, louder and louder - and then, with a touch so light you could cry, he traces one hand over your hipbones and down to your pussy.

One finger traces your slit through your leggings, and you hear yourself moan, but you're hardly aware of making the noise - just this simple touch feels almost as good as the orgasm you had earlier, even just this feather-light pressure through two layers of fabric, and every nerve ending in your body sets alight at once. This is what you needed, more than anything, for Dick to touch you and drag you down onto his cock, and you're so overwhelmed that every muscle in your body goes lax, leaving you to collapse into his chest.

Dick rubs gently at your pussy a few more times, like he's exploring you, and then suddenly he taps right where your clit is. You cry out, and he sighs against your neck. "God, I can feel how wet you are already. You should have told me, I would've done something sooner, you know that - fuck, you're so wet, let me - let me finger you, huh? Please?"

"Yeah - please, Dick.", you whine, and when you say his name, he moans and shoves his cock up against you again. He mumbles something into your skin that you don't quite make out, and then his hand is fumbling with your waistband, clumsily slipping into your underwear and then he's there, his fingers are brushing right against your clit, you sob out a broken cry - you're so wet that his fingers brush right through your folds, gliding like silk, and by the time he reaches your hole, two fingers easily sink in right to the knuckle.

Your pussy instantly clenches down, hard, and you feel more full than you thought could be possible. Dick moans into the skin of your neck and gives you a moment to calm down, to soothe the desperate jolting of your hips, before he starts to pump his fingers; slowly, at first, but soon picking up into a faster and more urgent pace. With each movement, he scissors his fingers a little, spreading you wider every time, and he starts to mouth at your neck with hot, wet kisses. "Do you like that, yeah? Am I making you feel good? Is this what you need?"

You fling an arm behind you to grasp at his hair, and when you tug after a particularly delicious curl of his fingers, he bites down hard onto your shoulder. "Fuck, yes, yes - please don't stop, please, Dick, don't stop-"

"I'm not going to stop, don't worry, I've got you - I'm here, I'm not gonna stop, you sound too pretty for me to stop, fuck - I knew you would sound pretty, keep making those noises for me."

Your body feels like it's going through the most intense orgasm of your life, especially now that he's given up on pumping his fingers in favour of curling them in rapid beats against your g-spot, but you know that you're not even coming yet: you're close, though, judging by the way the room is spinning around you, and the pressure building in the pit of your stomach - "I think I'm close, Dick, - oh, oh, oh my god, I don't - it's never felt like this before, I don't - fuck-"

"I know, I know, baby-", he croons, and the pet name has you tugging at his hair again, the other hand white-knuckled on the armrest, "-it's okay, it's gonna feel different - it's gonna feel better, I promise, it's going to be so good, I'm going to get you there, baby, come on."

"Fuck - fucking - Jesus, Dick, keep going, just like that-!", you all but shout, and Dick continues the massaging movement right up on your g-spot: the positioning of his hand means the heel of his palm is dragging over your clit, and your hips are frantically grinding up into his hand - god, you're gonna come, the world feels like it's crashing down around you, you feel the contractions start a few seconds before it actually hits you and it's going to be earth-shattering, you know it, every muscle in your body tenses up and through it all you hear Dick whispering, come on, that's it, I've got you, come on, come on, and then you're coming-

Distantly, you can feel his fingers continue their movements inside of you, unrelenting - and the other hand keeps a firm grip on your hips, grounding you onto his lap - but other than that, all you know is the white-flash across your vision and the pleasure slamming into each nerve in your body, one by one and then all at once: this is better than anything you've ever felt, better than every orgasm put together, and it feels feels for a moment like you're actually going to black out from the sheer intensity of the pleasure.

Then, suddenly, you're back in reality. Dick is heaving for breath against your shoulder, but it's nothing compared to the way your own lungs are screaming for air - god, you think you were screaming, given the scratching sensation in your throat - and his fingers are back to a slow, steady pumping, in and out of your swollen pussy. It hurts, a little, but this one orgasm has done nothing to sate your desperate hunger: in fact, it's only made it worse, only increased your desire for him, and you swear his cock is impossibly harder against your ass now.

"You - you're dripping onto my hand, baby, oh my god...", Dick pants, and there's a heartbeat where neither of you move - then, you feel his breath hitch, and suddenly his other hand is shoving unceremoniously under your waistband and going straight for your clit. He picks up the pace with the two fingers still inside you, matching each curl with a flick over your clit, and the motions are all so frenzied, those of a man possessed with some ravenous desire, like his one purpose is to have you writhing in his lap, and you give a wordless cry - too overcome with blinding pleasure to actually make a sound - that allows you to hear his ragged words. "Please, give me another one, one more - I want to make you squirt this time, it's going to be so good, I promise, just give me one more, pretty girl-"

This time, it's not just one wave of pleasure, spreading from your core and emanating outwards; no, it's wave after wave after wave, violently crashing over you and completely overcoming every part of your body, unrelenting and constant - this one lasts at least twice as long as the last, but you're hardly in the right state of mind to keep track of time, and every wave of pleasure that rushes through you is tenfold stronger than the last. You hear yourself shriek his name in the most pathetic, broken tone, and Dick cages you in against his body as best as he can as he keeps both hands working at your pussy, and you realise you're sobbing when he finally, finally stops.

When his fingers slip out of your pussy and exit your leggings, they're dripping wet. Dick audibly gasps, and then he brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks, moaning around the digits, and through hazy eyes you can see the most fucked-out look on his face just at the taste of your cum. He licks his fingers clean - you feel your pussy clench down again at the sight - before opening his eyes, fixing you with an intense stare, and panting, "You taste so fucking good - baby, I'm not going to be able to stop, I'm sorry, I need this, I need to fuck you - please."

He's asking permission, you realise. Neither of you are in control of what you're doing anymore, and he's still asking, as best as he can, if he's allowed to fuck you. There's a terrified look in his eyes, behind the frenzy and the lust - you clumsily crash your lips against his. He tastes of your juices, but it's one of the hottest things you've ever experienced, and he moans openly into your mouth, eagerly meeting your tongue with his own. You're exhausted, but kissing him renews your energy tenfold. You're suddenly overcome with the urge to feel his cock - inside you, yes, but you want to see it first, you want to make him cry out and moan and gasp for you - so you manoeuvre in his lap, keeping your mouth against his, to straddle his narrow hips and face him.

"Ah - ah, god, that feels amazing.", Dick moans, broken up between sloppy kisses, saliva starting to drip down both of your chins - but it's hot, so hot - as you frantically reach down to palm at him. The instant you finally touch his cock, you're gone: there's no stopping now that you can feel how achingly hard he is, now that you feel how he twitches under your hand each time you kiss him, and it takes much longer than you would like to undo the drawstring of his sweatpants, pull them down, and wrap your hand around the exposed length of him. He hisses as his whole body jerks.

Instantly, you set a frenzied pace of stroking him, relishing in each ragged moan that you rip from his throat; he's leaking into your palm, you realise, dripping over your fingers as you pull him back by the hair and attach your lips to his neck. When you suck a bruise into the softest part of his skin - the salty-sweat-tangy hollow beneath his Adam's apple - he shouts out your name, loud, followed by, "-fuck, fu- let me fuck you, baby, please, I - I'm close, you have to stop-"

"Come on my hand, Dickie.", you plead, and you're granted a thick spurt of precum when you lick a stripe up the column of his throat: he tastes so good, his skin so hot under your mouth, you can't stop, and you croon right into his ear, "It's - it's gonna last for hours, still, you're still gonna be hard - I'm still so needy for you, Dickie, look - come on my hand, let me see it, please. You can fuck me after, just come for me where I can watch it, oh - oh, please." His moans start to pick up in volume and frequency, coming from a place deeper in his throat. He's close, you know.

You've started to grind onto his thigh somewhere along the way. It feels amazing, it feels even better because you know he's twitching and aching for you just inches away - once you finally drag yourself out of the crook of his neck, you see that you've left a damp streak on his sweatpants in the wake of your hips, and the steady stream of precum leaking from his cock has soaked the material higher up. "Come on, Dickie, come on, let me see you come, I wanna see it, I - I'll, fuck, I'll lick it clean after, Jesus-", you blurt out, too far gone to be horrified at the ease with which the words spill from your lips.

"Oh, baby, shit-” he cries, and then his voice dissolves into a broken jumble of incoherent mumbles and whines. His cock twitches hard in your palm, once, twice, three times against the rapid pace you maintain on him, and then Dick bucks his hips up into your hand, back arched, perfectly still and tense; he comes hard, almost whimpering, head thrown back and eyes tightly shut, looking so, so perfect as you stroke him through it and grind feverishly onto his thigh. It's the image of his cock that has the breath snatched from your chest, though. Several thick ropes of cum spurt from him as you work him through it, some hitting the skin of your abdomen and some dripping down the length, and it just keeps going, no sign of stopping until Dick completely collapses, after almost a minute of moaning and coming - your hand is drenched with him.

The sight of his cum dripping from your palm makes something in your stomach clench hard, painfully, and suddenly you need to taste him, you have to, it hurts so much and it'll go away as soon as you get your mouth on him. You scramble off the chair, almost falling to your knees in front of him - he rushes to steady you, even with weak and shaky arms - but you don't care about how graceful you look right now. As soon as you manage to nestle yourself between thighs, you lick flat up the underside of his cock. The taste of it makes your eyes roll back in your head. Dick spits, "Holy shit!", and it trails off into a deep gasp as you wrap your lips around him and sink down as far as you can go. You'd take your time, usually, but everything in your body is screaming for you to taste him, let him fill you, and you're in no position for argument.

With each dip of your head - punctuated with a moan from the man above you, each one becoming closer to a growl, animalistic, and you think the pollen is beginning to send your bodies into total overdrive now - you take him as deeply as you can. You're nearly gagging, but that's what you need. His hands tangle into your hair; at first, you can tell he's trying to be as gentle as he can, but that's soon overcome with a tight, guiding grip that pushes you further down onto his cock with each bob of your mouth. The burning heat under your skin is killing you now, too much to ignore, so you manage to shuffle out of your leggings and underwear and kick them away: Dick groans roughly, maybe because he can smell you more clearly now-

"Come here, pretty girl-", Dick says, sliding his hands from your hair to lift you up by the jaw. You mean to whine, perhaps beg him to let you back down, because he feels so good in your mouth - then you see the look on his face. He looks totally gone. Nothing like the Dick you know, warm and gentle and relaxed: his eyes are completely clouded over, lips parted and slick with saliva, brow furrowed with something between pain and carnal desire. You imagine you look much the same, with spit dripping from your chin, the heat you can feel burning your cheeks, and the wetness you feel running down the insides of your thighs. He meets your eyes, and there's a moment of stillness. One thumb slips from your cheek to trace over your lower lip.

Then, both of you move at once - you surge forward to kiss him again, those perfect, pink lips - you fumble with the hem of his shirt, ripping it up and over his head while barely leaving his mouth for a second - Dick's hands slide down your body to your waist. He pulls you into him as he leans forward, half-supporting your weight, and suddenly your back is against the floor and he's on top of you, kissing you hard and bruising, the chair long since kicked away and forgotten about. Every inch of freshly exposed skin feels like molten silk under your touch: you slide greedy hands over his torso as he licks into your mouth, feeling the network of ridged scars and each ridge of muscle. Thankfully, Dick grants you a few precious, savoured moments to feel his skin, while he alternates between rolling his hips against your bare pussy and kicking off his sweatpants.

It's all ungraceful and clumsy - wet kisses stolen between your movements, each of you moaning against the other's lips - and it takes much, much too long for both of you to finally shed yourself of all your clothes. Dick's hands grab greedily at your breasts as he ruts his hips against you a few times, and you can feel how your wetness spreads over his cock. Then, his hands fly down to find your knees, and he drags them to fit around his waist, pulling up until your hips are fully tilted, the stretch of your muscles verging on uncomfortable. "Oh, fuck, that's it, baby. Keep your legs there for me, won't you? Come on, wrap your legs around me - I want to get as deep as I can, it's gonna feel amazing, I promise.", Dick says, bordering on a growl now that his voice is so deep and strained, and you do as he says immediately. You need him inside of you, now; you hook your ankles behind his back, kiss him, and desperately grind your hips into his.

And then, with one deep roll of his hips, he's inside of you. One quick thrust and he's buried to the hilt, and, God, he fits inside you so perfectly: your body all but melts at the feeling of finally being filled, and you keen as you instinctively use your ankles to press his hips further into you. Dick's just large enough to stretch you out, even with how wet and ready you are, without becoming painful, and the pollen means it only takes you a short moment to adjust to his size before your body is pleading to be fucked. He's shaking and panting with restraint above you whimper, "Ho-holy fuck, Dickie, please... please move, oh my god."

"I know, baby, I know.", he says, breathlessly, voice tight with pleasure but still sympathetic. Even with him motionless inside you, it already feels so good, better than anyone you've ever fucked, and you can hardly stop yourself from grabbing him by the shoulders, pushing him down, and riding him. "It just feels so good, you feel so good - I don't want to rush it, I want to make it last. Jesus, my body feels like it's on fire while I'm touching you, I - oh, fuck, I want to take it slow, make you feel so good you cry-"

"-We have all night to be slow, Dick, you can do whatever you want to me, just fuck me-"

Dick's hips roll into yours and a drawled curse falls from his parted lips. He pulls out, almost completely, enough that you panic and squeeze him tighter with your thighs, but then he pushes back into you, slowly, letting you savour the way each nerve ending inside your pussy is set ablaze; he repeats the motion, faster, his curses morphing into sweet mumbles of your name each time he bottoms out. You can hardly breathe - it feels so good, and each thrust of his hips is met with a pollen-driven roll of your own, so it's half-grinding, half-fucking - the slight curve of his cock has him dragging deliciously against your g-spot every time. His movements are picking up in intensity now, and you can tell the pollen is taking him over completely. The same is happening to you: fuck it, you don't want to think about the pollen anymore, you just want him.

"Ah, yes! Yes, right there-right- keep going-", you cry out after a particularly hard slam of his hips. Dick is propped up on one elbow, hair clinging to his forehead with sweat, and the other hand slips down to grab at your ass and pull you up into him. He's deep enough that it hurts, but it's the best pain you've ever experienced. "Fuck, faster, please!"

He obeys, mercifully, and you think you can see sweat starting to bead on his temples. "Is this what you need, pretty girl? Come on, tell me what you want - tell me I'm making you feel good, because you're making me feel so fucking good, I swear, better than I ever even imagined - fuck, you're so wet, are you going to come again? Please, please let me make you come on my cock."

The combination of his cock inside you, and his pelvis bumping against your clit, and the overwhelming sensations coursing through your body: it's all too much to bear, your body is going into total overdrive, and it's so embarrassing that he's got you like this. You never normally beg, you never normally come so fast, but this is different and addictive and incredible - you cry out an affirmation to his words, and suddenly his hand is gripping your chin. He's fully collapsed onto you now, and his movements are more frantic rutting than anything else.

"Look at me-", he pleads, using his hand to guide your face so you're staring right into those glassy eyes. "-look at me while you come, and it'll make me come."

You can feel your muscles beginning to tense up as your orgasm starts to grow. Already, your world is spinning, and you feel halfway to blacking out from the sheer intensity, so you tangle your hands into his hair as a way to ground yourself. "Please come inside me!", you whine - the idea of being filled with his cum, letting it drip out while he fucks another load into you, it's fucking mind-blowing and you can't imagine anything better than feeling him shoot into you while you come on his cock.

Dick's jaw clenches tightly. "Are - are you sure, baby? Is that what you want?"

The next thrust hits you perfectly, and you can't help but pull him tighter into you, so his head drops to the crook of your neck. "I need it, Dickie, you know - you know that - you need me too, right? Fuck, fuck - it's gonna feel so good, I'm so close-". He spends a few moments sucking a bruise into the most tender skin of your neck before moving to press his forehead to yours. Each rough movement of his hips has you jostling against the floor; your nipples are dragging against his chest every time, making you keen, and your swollen clit is being hit so perfectly by his hips, and he's making the most perfect and breathy noises against you - he looks so fucked-out, so gone, so completely absorbed in the feeling of his cock inside you, and your vision is starting to blur at the edges as the spark in your stomach finally bursts into flames-

"That's it, baby, come for me just like that.", Dick gasps, just as your orgasm rips through you. You've got no choice but to clutch at him desperately and ride out each devastating wave as a scream tears itself from your lungs: it feels like your body is tearing itself apart with each ripple of pleasure emanating from your core. Like your body is folding in on itself like a black hole does, when everything becomes too much to bear. You actually feel like you've died, you must have, this is too good and too much and too overwhelming - you hang on to Dick through it all, and your pussy clenches down so hard he can barely move inside you, and he chokes out your name before his own orgasm hits him.

You've come down just enough to process the way he looks and sounds as he comes. Your eyes are still hazy - you kept them on him, you must have - but you nearly come again at the mere sight of him. He's too far gone to even make sounds, and instead he stutters out broken breaths through wet lips, cheeks flushed and eyebrows furrowed hard, and his eyes stay fixed on you the whole time. Even as the rest of his body spasms and rocks into you uncontrollably, even as the hand on your chin slips down to your neck and squeezes, he keeps staring at you with all the lust in the world. The best part of it all, though, is how you feel his cum spilling out into you; even more than he shot onto your hand, somehow, and you realise you're crying from how relieved your body is. Fully, fully, crying, and Dick kisses away your tears as he collapses against you.

Despite how both of you are wincing at the overstimulation, neither of you ever stop moving through it all, and you keep grinding gingerly, carefully but sloppily, against each other even while you gasp for breath against each others' lips. It can't be more than ten seconds from when you come down, before you can't control the urge to whisper, "Give me another one, Dick, please. Keep fucking me." It hurts - it hurts because he's not fucking you, he's not moving enough - you need more.

Dick keeps rolling his hips against yours in shallow movements for a few seconds. His mouth is occupied with sucking more bruises into your neck, up your throat and across your jaw: he's mumbling something incoherent, slurring his words. Each fresh bruise has you gasping his name. You're going to be covered in marks after this - not just your neck, his grip on your ass and hips has been tight enough to leave bruises there, too - and you're entirely certain you've left scratch marks down his back. You nearly come again just at the thought of that; Dick, walking around for days with your marks left on him. Scratch marks under his dress shirts when he's on business, or under the tight material of his Nightwing suit, or blatantly visible through the obscenely sheer shirts he wears out clubbing. He's going to be marked as yours.

"You look so pretty like this, holy shit-", he says, pulling his head from your neck to admire his work. "You're so gorgeous - you always are, you always fucking are - but you look even better when you're mine, fuck-"

“-make me yours, then, please-"

You gasp in shock and disappointment as Dick suddenly pulls out, and his own face crumples at the loss of touch, but his palms are firm and insistent on your waist - he kisses you once, firmly, before he's manoeuvring your body like putty in his hands. You're flipped onto your stomach with another whisper of how pretty you are, and then Dick runs calloused palms down the soaked flesh of your thighs, up over your ass, over the curve of your spine and all the way up to gently, gently, press your cheek flat against the floor. He follows his hand with hot tongue, and when he reaches your ear, he murmurs, "You taste so good, pretty girl. Stay there for me. It's okay, let go. I've got you."

Uncontrollably, your ass jerks up and backwards against where his cock is pressing into you. He chuckles. He fucking laughs with his lips pressed to your cheek - maybe having came inside you has cleared his head enough that he can think straight enough to find your desperation funny - and one of his hands slides back down your body, spreading your pussy open for him to look at. You sense his body tense as he gazes at you. "...My cum is dripping out of you, oh my god."

Fuck it back into me, you think, but you're too far gone to string together a coherent sentence anymore. Your body can do the talking. You keep your cheek pressed to the floor, maybe because your muscles are too exhausted to lift your head, or maybe because it was so fucking hot how Dick pressed your head down, but you manage to meet his eyes. You plead with him as well as you can.

Dick's piercing blue eyes roll right back into his skull when he pushes into you again. From this angle, he feels even deeper than before: with one of his hands running lines up your spine, and his lips wet against the backs of your shoulders, and the steady, strong pace he sets fucking you, you're brought to the verge of tears again within minutes. You can hardly move your body to work with him in this position: he uses the weight of his body to press you into the floor, and each thrust of his hips has you moaning loud against the floor.

He brings a string of kisses and nips up your nape, so he can kiss your cheek again. It's sweet, a gentle gesture, only amplifying the pleasure that each deep snap of his hips brings. "I - I'm not hurting you, am I? I know it must be sensitive, baby, I understand if it's too much, I know - you can tell me if it's too much-"

"-no, please-", you whimper, terrified he's going to stop, "-it's so good, please, Dickie, you're exactly what I need-", and then your voice cuts out into a broken sob as one of his hand snakes between your body and the floor to find your clit. The rough pad of his finger brushes over it a few times, eliciting whimpers from you, before he settles for simply resting his finger on your clit. With each thrust, your hips are jostled against his finger just enough to send sparks of electricity shooting through your veins - every time, it feels like flames licking through each limb, and he's fucking into you so perfectly, claiming you with teeth at your neck, rasping your name against your skin - there's wetness against your cheek, like you're drooling, and you're almost certain you can feel the wetness of your pussy dripping onto his hand.

You're so swollen with desire, you can feel how tightly you're clenching down onto his cock. The mind-blowing pressure Dick's applying to your clit is only making it stronger. "You feel so good, baby. So, so, fucking good - holy shit, you're taking me so well." Then, there's a savage thrust of his hips, one that has both of you crying out in surprise and pleasure: he freezes buried to the hilt inside you. "You're going to make me come again soon, sweetie."

That means more of his cum inside you, more of his delicious moans and groans as he comes, and you say, "God, please-"

"-not yet, I want to make you come for me again. You feel so tight and hot when you do - I need it again, I want nothing more than that, please - you think you can give me another one, huh? One more for me?"

"I - I - yeah.", you stammer. You can, you know you can - your body is practically vibrating from how hard you're trembling on the edge of another orgasm - but you don't know when it's going to stop, you don't know it ever will - maybe this will go on all night, maybe he'll fuck you for hours on end and make you cry and let you lick your mess of his cock. But maybe it won't. Maybe your body will give out, or the pollen will leave his system: this will end and nothing will ever compare. You don't want to come again if it means the end of this pleasure. "...Promise you'll keep going after, Dickie."

Dick starts rubbing rapid circles on your clit with his ring and index finger, and kisses your hairline to soothe you as you sob again. "I'm only going to stop if you ask me to, baby, I promise. You feel too good to stop, I swear - I never thought you would be so fucking perfect, but now I know, I can't stop - I'm right here, I've got you, I'm going to make you come so many times you forget your name if that's what you want."

God, you're going to come again, holy shit-

He hardly gives you the chance to come back around before he's crooning, "-one more, one more for me, right on my cock like that-"

You can't even breathe. Your lungs are on fire, your vision is completely blacked out even once the second orgasm ends, your muscles and bones have turned into mush and you can't feel anything other than the sensation of flying. You're weightless, Dick is the only thing grounding you - he coaxes you down from the aftershocks with soft kisses to your cheek, and his hand tracing circles onto your aching hip, and the muscles of his abdomen are flexing with restraint against your back. "I'm gonna come, baby-", he hisses, and you manage the barest nod and then he sinks his teeth right into your shoulder as he starts pounding into you like a whore, fuck, it's sending you spiralling out of control again-

"Fuck, yes, take my cum like that, that's it, keep coming for me, holy shit-"

You're both boneless and drenched in sweat by the end of it. You're collapsed against the floor, Dick's collapsed against you, and he's still hard inside of you. You can feel his cum - it must have spilled out onto the insides of your thighs, judging by the wetness you feel there. His cock twitches inside of you with every ragged breath he takes. You're so exhausted; this is destroying your body, it's ripping you apart from the inside out, and you're terrified that if you come again it'll split you into pieces. And you want that. You twist your body, wincing against the waves of pleasure that crash over you at even the slightest movement of his cock inside you, and kiss him.

[pomegranates-and-blood]

Are very, very old friends

My Masterlist 

Your heart and my heart (first part of this)

Pairing: Ivar/Reader

Summary: A second part to Your heart and my heart, where Ivar and Reader were childhood friends (and pretended to get married when they were children) and got separated by circumstances of life, only to meet again on a battlefield in Wessex.

Word Count: 9.8k (I am so fucking sorry, holy shit)

Warnings: My unwavering state of denial over Aslaug’s death, mentions/descriptions of injury/battle, allusions to sex (nothing graphic), and my terrible writing lol

A/N: I hope you are no longer surprised by how I seem to be able to focus only on the stuff I need to focus on the least, bc here we are. Writing has been very difficult lately, so I am not so sure this is any good, but I still hope you enjoy.

As a reminder: In this universe the brothers (minus Björn) are in Wessex with the Great Heathen Army but Aslaug isn’t dead (Lagertha never took over). This is an almost 6a in age Ivar, but of course a different canon where he has stayed raiding in England. And Princess Blaeja (who was briefly mentioned in the previous part) is engaged to be married to Sigurd.

Your eyes cannot move fast enough to take in the field ahead of you, trying to check every trap and every barricade. Even if you were to find a fault, you remind yourself, you wouldn’t be able to change anything.

Hlíf comes to you, brisk pace that you can still see the exhaustion in, and stands at your side, shield with your colors and your symbol. It looks heavy.

“They are coming, Dane.”

“I know,” A deep breath, and you signal with your head to the center of the camp, “Go back, you’ll lead them to hold the second line. The Saxons will breach the first one.”

“You are not staying here.”

You don’t meet Hlíf’s gaze, instead meeting the eye of a few shieldmaidens that stand tall ahead, waiting for the Saxons to come. They nod their heads once, they know what they are agreeing to.

“We are.”

The forward scouts sound the horns, and before long the marching feet of warriors makes the unfamiliar ground tremble under your feet. Your hands tighten on the handle of your sword, and you take a breath.

Hlíf steps closer, but her gait ins anxious, “You better retreat to us when the time comes, Dane. You are not allowed to die here.”

“Says who?”

Hlíf grunts a curse, but retreats behind the second line of spike barriers.

You’ve been hounded by this group for weeks, ever since you and your warriors departed for York back from a successful raid. You aren’t sure if they are from that city or sent to intercept you from somewhere else, but they are bloodthirsty and determined.

Making camp was a necessity, especially with the wounded and weakened you have in your group, but the years have made you ingenuous, and the months you’ve spent with the Great Army have taught you to use the surroundings in your favor.

Your warriors dug ditches and laid spikes within them, much like you remember hearing Lagertha did when she assisted Aslaug in defending Kattegat, and while you didn’t have the defenses of walls, you made sure to draw passageways with the placement of the tents, to lure the Saxons to follow a path you know by heart when they came.

And now you stand, restless in your spot, waiting for them to get close enough for your archers to thin their numbers, for the frakka’s of those closer to you to take down the stronger ones.

It is not enough, but you never expected it to be.

Once they get close enough, you shout the command to march, and your forces and theirs clash.

The sound of battle deafens you, shouts in two different tongues and death in the same language echoing around you. Still, you seem to hear the faintest of rustles, and you lift your shield as you turn, stopping the downward strike of a Saxon.

Pushing back while you bend your knees, you unbalance him, slashing at his thighs before you plunge your sword in his chest. He meets your eyes, and spits blood in your face before his strength leaves him.

So, it is personal then.

You keep moving, blunt hits of your shield and quick strikes of your sword, taking down as many as you can, worrying more for injuring them and weakening them before they reach the more vulnerable in the camp more than for killing them.

Maybe that is your mistake.

The sword slashes at your leg, the pain sharp and weakening, and your stance buckles. You turn around with a raised shield to try and defend yourself, but you are too close to the ground and the warrior puts all his strength behind his kick and forces you to the ground.

Scrambling to turn on your back and grabbing a discarded axe, you stop the advance of his sword, but your arms burn under the strain, and his snarling face reminds you of a chained dog too close to breaking free.

It isn’t enough. You have no choice.

Releasing the strain of holding him back, you are able to swing your arm back and hit the side of his neck with the hand axe, but not before his sword pierces your shoulder, drawing a scream of pain from you.

Pushing him off you, you stand on uneven ground, trying to make sense of the battle around you and keeping your defenses against the Saxons that are still very much after your blood.

Your shield once again on your hand, you stop the attack of a younger warrior, slashing his chest with a move of your arm that feels weaker and trembling even as you manage to deliver a fatal blow.

Another manages to get close enough to bit the edge of his shield against your wounded leg, and his sword slashes at your side, drawing blood and blinding pain in its wake. He is taken down by a snarling shieldmaiden that comes to stand at your side, and your eyes scan the first line of the camp’s defenses already breached.

You are outnumbered, you are not going to win. Not like this.

“Through the east!” You call out in your own tongue, not waiting for any of the few that remain able to fight to acknowledge your command before you dart for the passageways you can make use of.

You are close enough to the second line of barricades to cross it if you wish to, but your mind is made. The Saxons trailing after you and the few others that still stand, they make quick work of your shieldmaidens soon enough, and you grit your teeth at the screams of pain you can do nothing to stop.

Most of them were foolish enough to think you were retreating, and they trailed after you and the remaining warriors.

Reaching the end of the alleyway, you turn around, standing on shaky legs and lifting one hand. Breathing past the pain is proving difficult, and there’s black at the edges of your vision, but you can still make out the shapes above you, and those that stand next to you.

You close your hand into a fist, meet the eyes of the Saxons that seem to hesitate to approach. They will always fear a heathen woman that smiles while surrounded by blood and death, the fearful -faithful- will call her a monster and insist she is not human.

They fear, they hesitate. And that is enough.

And you drop your hand, the weakest of smiles on your lips as you give one last command,

“Loose.”

____

The first thing you can sense when you awaken is the pain, and the weight keeping you down. Awful, but at least you aren’t dead.

You open your eyes slowly, half expecting to see the murky forests of the Isles towering above you after having been left behind by the Saxons to bleed out slowly and painfully; half expecting something with women on winged horses and a lot of golden shades.

But all that greets you is wood.

Inconsequential, unimpressive, mediocre wood. Yet, your body is filled with such a relief you almost give in to the temptation to doze off again.

Still, you force your body to answer and you sit up on the cot, breaths ragged as the wound on your shoulder sends pain like lightning through your very veins. And slowly, painfully, and with more curses than your mother would like out of a princess, you stand up.

Just when you are considering what the plan after standing up actually was, a woman barges into the room.

“Oh, you’re standing,” She says, and you lift your eyebrows but say nothing. She tsks her tongue, and approaches, her eyes focused on your upper chest, “You shouldn’t be.”

“I would think it was a good sign.”

“Which is why you do the fighting, not the thinking,” She quips, a quirk of her mouth as she glances at you. Quite mean, for an old woman, but still you offer a smile as well. Her palm presses lightly against your shoulder, before going to your side. “You’re not too hot.”

You pout, “Aw, shame.”

“And you seem to be in good spirits.” She chuckles.

You meet her eyes and lean closer, asking quietly,

“That will change soon, though, won’t it?”

“You are the reason a lot of people are angry, yes,” She confesses, before stepping back, “You also are the reason a lot of people are alive as well. Make sure they remember that, and you may keep your head.”

With a non-committal gesture you step past her, a hand on the doorway keeping you upright as you meet the gaze of the expecting shieldmaidens. They call your name and a few expletives in greeting, some in anger, some in welcome, but all in relief.

“While I love seeing you all alive and well, I…have a feeling at least one of you is here under specific instructions.” You state, a quirk of your eyebrow when one of the younger ones stands up, and slips out of the house quietly, with a murmur of being glad you are alright.

You sigh, and though one of them offers you a seat you highly doubt you’ll be able to stand if you sit down, so you wave away her offer, and lean on the doorway.

“Did the rest make it?”

“Most of them, yes. The injured are going to be escorted back, they couldn’t make it on their o-…”

The words die in a gasp as the door to the humble home is kicked open, and a tall shieldmaiden strides in, eyes blazing and set on you.

“You mad Dane bitch!”

“I have a name,” You quip as the shieldmaiden advances towards you. “It is a very pretty one, my mother chose i-…”

She shoves you forcefully, stopping whatever it is you were going to say.

You stumble back but catch yourself before falling, and you can’t help but let out a grunt of pain as your side is pulled tight by the sudden and forceful movement. The healer quips from the room at your back something about not injuring the already injured further, but you both ignore her it seems.

Hlíf still pushes on, “Of all the hare-brained, reckless, st-…”

“Hey!”

“You don’t scare me, Dane,” She huffs back, stepping forward until the shieldmaiden towers over you. “Half dead as you are because of your stupid decisions, you aren’t a threat to anyone, least of all me.”

In the back of your mind, a voice that sounds so alike your brother’s, always calm and collected; begs you not to do this.

You were never good at listening to him, though.

Headbutting one of your oldest friends wasn’t high in the list of things you wanted to do if you ever came back from the dead but…here we are.

Hlíf stumbles back, holding her nose and setting incredulous eyes on you.

Strangely enough, the tension seems to slowly ebb away with the unexpected action.

“I like proving people wrong.” You tell her around a shrug, slowly betraying a smile that she returns, even if there’s a resentful sort of relief in the way she approaches again and presses her brow against yours.

“You are so lucky you’re injured.”

“I wouldn’t call it-…”

“I would. I’d be knocking your pretty ass to the ground if you weren’t,” She promises, and scoffs a laugh that sounds like a reprimand, “You scared me, Dane.”

You meet her eyes, study the dark circles under them, the haggardness on her face, the stubborn tremble in her voice; and realize maybe you weren’t the only one to believe you’d die in that forest.

“How long has it been?”

“A little over a week since we made it to York.” She tells you, motioning for a seat, and motioning again when you refuse it. Stubborn.

You carefully sit down before the fire, narrowing your eyes at the girl that attempts to cover your legs with a fur. You are injured, but you’re far from an old woman.

Though you do accept the awful-smelling brew of herbs the healer presses into your hand before scurrying off back to the room where you were sleeping.

Watching the herbs swirl in the cup, you mumble, “You know, I did the right thing there.”

Hlíf’s kohl-lined eyes narrow, “I don’t think that means what you think it means.”

You gesture with the arm of your good side, “I wasn’t the one leading them! For once I followed orders and we got stuck, it isn’t my fault!”

Hlíf’s eyes only grow bigger and bigger in affront and fury at your insistence, and you decide to shut your mouth.

“You defended when you could have retreated, even though you were wounded, and alone.”

“When you put it like that of cou-…”

She interrupts you, her tone cold and imposing as she repeats, “You defended when you could have retreated, even though you were wounded, and alone.”

“I heard you the first time.”

She offers a side smile, head tilted to the side, “Huh, you listen. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“That is uncalled for, come on.”

Hlíf looks at you, blinks slowly two times, and takes a breath.

“You defended when you could ha-…” She starts again, but you interrupt her with a shove of her good shoulder and a huffed laugh. She does have a point, however insistent she is at repeating it.

“I panicked, I…I needed to give you more time to leave safely, without Saxons trailing after you. I needed to stall them.” You confess quietly, fidgeting with your fingers, elbows resting on your knees, ignoring the soreness on your side as your position strains at the healing wound.

“You agreed to retreat if you were outnumbered, but you didn’t.”

“There were still some traps that hadn’t been used, I could lure them to the east side, and it worked, the archers made work of the thick of their numbers.”

“You were half-dead by the time that happened.” She insists, biting.

“All that matters is that most made it out. It was the right call.”

“If I hadn’t insisted we go back to find you, you would be dead,” She argues, though her voice quietens as well. “You’d be alone in that damn place, we wouldn’t even be able to bury you.”

That is not something you want to think much about, and with your gaze on the flickering flames you press quietly, “Do you want me to apologize, is that it?”

“No.”

“What do you want then?”

“I don’t know, Dane. What do you want?” At your confused frown the shieldmaiden shrugs, “Coming back from the dead and all, figured I could grant you at least one thing.”

“Those Saxons that hunted us down strung up on a tree?” You ask, only half-jesting. Hlíf doesn’t laugh though, she only presses her lips together.

“Can’t do that, Dane. They have been handled already.”

You really shouldn’t have expected otherwise. Still, you ask the question to which you already know the answer,

“Ivar?”

“Poured melted crosses onto their heads, left some alive after it too. Gruesome thing,” She explains, and you nod your head with a hum, wondering how long ago that was and trying to imagine how exactly they were captured so quickly. Hlíf watches you with growing worry, “I don’t know if I should be concerned about your reaction, or…lack of it rather.”

“You get used to it after a while.”

She scoffs, shaking her head, “You do.”

After a few breaths of silence, Hlíf calls your name quietly. She usually calls you ‘Dane’, a habit that never left her since the first days you were fighting together, when you first were able to call yourself a shieldmaiden.

When your attention turns to her, she says, “I’m sorry for shoving you.”

You look into her pale eyes, offer a smile and a nod.

“You should be.” You quip, and after an incredulous breath Hlíf heaves a sigh.

“You could say you’re sorry too, Dane.” The shieldmaiden chuckles, still oddly fond in her defeat.

“I’m not, though.” You reply around a shrug, sharing a smile with her.

The conversation ebbs away as you hear a voice distantly shouting commands, a voice you know well.

“Where is she!?”

“Oh, great.”

Furious stabs of a crutch on the hard ground, and the door opens just as many shieldmaidens scurry away, making way for Ivar the Boneless. His eyes meet yours with a fury you have never seen before, a snarl on his lips and tension coiled around his body like a vine.

When he speaks, though, his voice denotes none of that. His voice is carefully even, dangerously still, reminding you of a beast stalling its breath before it strikes.

For a man as explosive as him, calmness is never a good sign.

“What. Were. You. Thinking.”

Your nose furrows, and you offer with a grimace, “I…wasn’t?”

“This isn’t a joke.”

“I know. I’m the one that almost died, remember?” You prompt, but he doesn’t answer. You nod your head, not really sure what to do, muttering to yourself, “Serious business, dying.”

Hlíf lets out a choked groan, before advising, voice low, “You should really just shut your mouth, Dane.”

Ivar turns to her, the sharp focus of his pale gaze making the shieldmaiden straighten in her seat.

“Get out.” He orders, voice low. You see it in her, the pride insisting on resisting and the instinct pleading to obey.

Instinct wins, and after sparing you a look Hlíf stands up, and motions with her head for the other shieldmaidens to follow, leaving you and Ivar alone in the small home.

It feels even smaller as his gaze returns to you, it even feels almost suffocating as Ivar takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders but says nothing.

You clear your throat, and start what you hope will be a conversation and not a screaming match.

“I am not apologizing for the choice I made.”

An angry breath leaves him through his nose, sharply. His eyes remain on you, quiet intensity that makes you feel exposed.

“Of course you’re not,” Ivar bites out, before shaking his head at himself, “I can’t believe you’d be so-…”

“It was the right call, Ivar.”

He wrenches his gaze from you, looking straight ahead. For a moment you wonder if he refuses to look at you because he thinks he can hide anything from you. Because he should know better, because he should know by now you are aware of the way his jaw tightens, of the way his breaths are intentionally -forcefully- even, of the way anger and pride are the only thing keeping his control from slipping.

“You could have died.”

“And?”

His focus returns to you, and you snap your mouth shut.

Wrong thing to say, wrong thing to say, wrong thing to say.

Ivar’s eyes widen in anger, and when he takes a breath he seems to be twice as tall.

“And!?” He repeats, voice thundering, “You almost died! You…” His nose curls in anger, but there’s something more fragile in his wide eyes, something like fear, “You spent days in that damn bed, they told me it was in the hands of the Gods whether you survived or didn’t.”

A pit of worry forms in your stomach, and you quieten your voice, trying to offer reassurance, “I pulled through, I-I am alright.”

But it falls on deaf ears.

“You were there, dying, and there was nothing I could do,” A sharp breath, but it sounds choked, “You would have gone where I can’t follow, I-…there was nothing to do, nothing I could-…I c-couldn’t-…”

“Ivar…”

He turns to you, accusing, “I was unable to do anything while you died, while you left me.”

“I didn’t die, I am alright.”

“You almost did.”

“That’s-…”

His lip curls into a snarl and your eyes are drawn to the scar on the right side of his mouth, the scar you are responsible for. The process of healing from the deep cut you left that first day you were reunited was a slow one for him, especially because of how much you insisted on finding ways to make him smile and then grumble at the sting of a reopened cut. And now your eyes are drawn to that scar, watching it follow the movement of his mouth as it curls in anger.

“No, I don’t want to hear it,” He interrupts you, a gesture of his hand. “You made the wrong choice. You put yourself in danger when you didn’t need to.”

“If I hadn’t, most of my shieldmaidens would be dead now. We couldn’t fight them directly, Ivar, we had too many wounded.”

He walks past you, the stabs of the crutch on the ground still more forceful than they need to be, and pours himself some mead in one of the unused cups, his back to you.

A deep breath, and before he drinks he offers, “You should have left them behind.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

You move to walk forward, but putting too much weight on your injured leg makes pain shoot through you. You falter, and you try hiding it but you know Ivar notices, judging by the way his eyes narrow.

Still, you insist, slowly walking closer, “What is a few shieldmaidens against all the people we went there to aid? It is a sacrifice we all were willing t-…”

He gestures with his free arm, stopping you, “Well it isn’t a sacrifice I’m willing to make! Not if it costs me you!”

You are stunned into silence, whatever words that were to leave your mouth dying on your lips with a gasp.

Ivar glares at you as if you were somehow responsible for him saying something he hadn’t meant to, a twitch of anger that makes his furrow his nose and his lips press together in a line.

He moves to one of the chairs by the fire, taking a few breaths through his nose that you are sure are meant to be calming but sound equally as angry as before.

You still have nothing to say, no words to leave your lips.

There’s a part of you that never let go of him in all those years you spent -grew- apart, and in these months you have spent with the army, leading your own forces under Ivar and his brothers’ commands, learning from them -from him- many things and offering a few tricks of your own, conquering new lands and fighting new battles; your foolish heart has started to speak of hopes that could never be, has started to feel light like it never did before, as if it and his own heart recognize each other even after all the years and the scars.

Ivar takes a breath, discarding the crutch on the chair by his side.

“I…I never forgot you, you know. Not when you left Kattegat, not when father died and we came to England, not-…I never forgot you,” His eyes linger on yours for a moment, before Ivar turns his head and looks back ahead, clear tell of gritted teeth as he confesses, “I kept an eye on you, through the years. I had men near Ribe when you and your brother fought for it so that they could tell me the outcome of the battle.”

Your heart lurches in your chest, and you slowly take a seat by his side.

“I…I never knew.”

“You weren’t supposed to,” He retorts without missing a beat, hesitating before continuing, “I always hoped we’d meet again. With what I’ve done, with what I’ve accomplished, I hoped that maybe I’d find you again and I could give you enough reasons to stay this time.”

Quietly, you offer, “I never wanted to leave.”

“I know that now,” He assures you, the slightest of movements of his head that you think was supposed to be a nod. Ivar’s eyes lift to yours, and he says, so low you almost miss it, “I just found you again, I can’t…I can’t lose you.”

You don’t know what to say, you don’t know how to put into words what his words are doing to your foolish heart, to the heart that has always been his.

“Ivar…” You start, not certain of what you’re trying to say.

But it doesn’t matter.

Ivar leans forward surprisingly quickly, pressing his lips against yours. The touch of his lips on yours is urgent and hurried, shaky and inexperienced; leaving behind wide blue eyes that look into yours as if desperate for an answer to a question that isn’t a question at all.

You sigh shakily, but your mouth trembles into a smile, and with barely a moment of hesitation, you cross the distance between you again and kiss him, this time deeply, this time eagerly, this time ardently.

There’s the desperation of having lost too much time without this in the way his hold on you is tight and frantic, there’s the anguish of having thought lost you forever in the way your name leaves him in a choked gasp when you part for air, there’s the relief and the elation of finally having you within reach in the way he doesn’t let your lips part from his for any moment, a faint sound of protest from somewhere deep in his chest whenever you pull away.

You finally part but don’t move too far, it seems both of you unwilling to let much space come between you. Breaths labored, you whisper,

“I have wanted to do that for a long time.”

“You have?”

In any other man the question would be a blatant seeking of praise, and maybe it is in him too, but there’s something else too, something more fragile, something more vulnerable. Like some part of him never ceased to be the boy you kissed before you were to leave Kattegat, like some part of him will never truly believe how wanted he can be, how loved.

“I never forgot you either, Ivar,” You confess quietly, lifting the hand you can and tracing the side of his face, the scar on his cheekbone, the scar you claim of your own over his lip. “I could never forget you.”

His smile is awed, and softer than you ever thought it could be, and more boyish than it should be allowed to be for the sake of your foolish heart, that skips a beat in your chest.

With the crackling of fire and the feel of him under your hands, you forget the passing of time, you forget the soreness of your body, you forget everything except him.

You exchange secrets and promises in the shape of kisses that linger always in between adoration and hunger; and after a while, with your fingers trailing absently over the scar on his mouth, you offer your regret.

“I was reckless,” You tell him, resisting the urge to curl the hand on the side of his face into a fist when you notice how much it trembles. “I…I should have retreated. I am sorry.”

“I was…I was stuck here, unable to do anything. I couldn’t go fight with you, I couldn’t go search for you,” There’s the familiar resentment -at the world, at Fate-, and you say nothing, but your hand moves towards the back of his neck and tries to offer a soothing caress. Ivar continues, “I can’t will my stupid legs to work as they should, but I can…I can keep you safe. You have to let me keep you safe.”

“You cannot keep me from death, no one can,” You remind him, before acquiescing, “I promise I…I will be more careful, I will not make pointless sacrifices.”

Even if it wasn’t pointless to you at the time, it is the best way you can word it.

And, judging by the faint and almost shaky nod Ivar offers in acceptance of your words, it was the right thing to say.

____

Ivar had planned to make the journey back to York and raid from there one more time, while matters about his plans to settle in the Isles are solved, and originally you were planning on going with him.

However, he insists you need to rest and heal so he won’t let you fight, and you insist being bedridden will only make you go mad, so you reach a compromise. You and Ivar discuss the details of the agreement as the healer checks the wound on your shoulder, and when he is to leave you notice the way he hesitates before he does, eyes travelling to your lips before meeting yours.

You smile, but then his pale eyes travel to the woman that is cleaning her hands with her back turned to the both of you, and you understand the question.

Being Ivar the Boneless’ woman is not something you would ever feel shame for being, or wish to hide, and though you do have your reservations about what it would mean as a commander of your own share of forces within the Great Army to be so close to one of the sons of Ragnar, you know no fear of rumors is with making Ivar believe you are ashamed of being his.

Instead of voicing your answer to the question he doesn’t ask, you just tilt your chin up, eyes on his.

Ivar’s smile is a tad on the shy side, a tad overwhelmed, but he still dutifully leans down and captures your mouth in his, promising to meet with you again after you’ve spent time with your warriors.

He leaves, and before long, as the healer changes the bandages on your leg and shoulder, you hear the familiar sounds of your friends settling again in the small home. It makes a pang of what you refuse to call regret go through your heart, at the thought of how easily accustomed they are to spending time at this home, waiting to know if you would survive or not.

You take a breath, and walk out to meet them.

Vígdís, one of the elder shieldmaidens, doesn’t even look up from the piece of chicken she is carefully pulling apart with her fingers as she states dryly, “I was betting he would kill you.”

“I’m glad you gals are on my side, really.”

Hlíf swallows a mouthful of chicken and points the drumstick at you, “Hey, I bet you’d kill him.”

You look at her with a frown before conceding, “Actually, that’s flattering.”

She offers a toothy smile, and encourages you, “Yeah, you could take him!”

Vígdís scoffs, “Oh, she wants to,” At your glare the older woman only shrugs one shoulder, “Or the other way around. You don’t have a preference, do you, Dane?”

“Anyhow,” You drawl out, turning to the others, “I suggest you prepare your belongings and say your goodbyes. We won’t raid with Ivar and Hvitserk in these lands, our forces are needed elsewhere. We will be travelling to East Anglia in a fortnight.”

Hlíf scoffs, “One hell of a spat you two had, huh?”

“Wh-…? You know, I really don’t want to hear it. Just…do what you must.”

“I’m just saying, your love life is taking us all over England, Dane.”

“Shut your mouth already.” You grumble, but Hlíf’s brazen laughter resonates in the small home.

____

In the days that go by -way too quickly for your liking- before you are to depart to East Anglia, you find yourself drunk on the foolish happiness of having within reach what you never truly thought you’d have.

It is three nights before you leave that in the quiet of your shared room Ivar presses his lips to yours with a softness that is jarringly unlike him, and breathed over your lips the most hushed I love you.

It was that same night that you tangled your fingers in his hair and drew him back against you, not able or willing to resist the temptation to flick your tongue over the scarred side of his lip to make one of those choked little sounds leave his lips; and when he kissed you back hungrily pulled back to promise the same, just as softly even if you vowed it fiercely, I love you.

And now you are to depart. Standing in the stables and watching as your shieldmaidens and warriors finish loading their belongings and the supplies for the road.

Ivar is next to you, leaning against a wall with an arm secured around your waist and allowing you to rest slightly on his chest.

“Take some of my men with you.” He insists, for what must be the thousandth time since you made the agreement to part until the last month of the spring.

“I don’t need protection,” You remind him, leaning back a bit so you can see his face, “If I remember correctly, and I do, last time it was you who needed help from me.”

“I didn’t need help.”

“Of course not, love.”

Ivar takes a deep breath at your mocking tone, choosing instead to insist, “Just take those men with you.”

“No.” You tell him, one last pat of your hand on his chest before you turn to walk away.

Before you can pull away his free hand grasps yours, and you easily give in to the slight pull, turning back to met him and stepping closer again.

Ivar tilts his head down so he can look you in the eye, something dark and tempting shining through his expression as his mouth curves into a crooked smile.

“I thought wives are supposed to obey their husbands?”

Your heart does a foolish thing in your chest, beating out of rhythm as if trying to leave your chest and burrow into his. Still, you stare him down with your head tilted to the side, and all the answer you offer is a dry reminder,

“‘Countless sons and daughters’, Ivar. If we are holding each other accountable for those promises, we ought to start there.”

He wants to argue, you know he does. And you aren’t entirely convinced some of the warriors that join your forces because they want to aid Ubbe are there at all for him, but you have no evidence, so you shut your mouth and just make sure to keep an eye on them.

As you expected, they act as your bodyguards, no matter how much you try pushing them away.

And so time passes, and in your time on the road towards Soham you are able to heal well enough, slowly getting back to training with Hlíf and Vígdís. And by the time you reach Soham, where Ubbe awaits support to hold on to the city, you are able to fight once again.

And how you dearly missed it.

Time becomes a blur after that. Soham proves to be more difficult to hold than expected, and so your forces remain a while longer before moving to Dunwich where you manage to take over relatively easy, since the Saxon forces retreated from the coastal city.

The years made you capable, and the Gods made you arrogant.

Which is why, as the warriors from Dunwich start retreating, following their Lord’s commands, you, standing still close enough to the edges of the frontlines that Saxons scurry around you, take a knee and pretend to catch your breath.

The footsteps behind you are predictable, and you tighten your hold on the shield. When the warrior gets close enough and tries striking, you lift your shield, catching his arm on the edge of it as you stand up.

You twist your arm holding on to the shield, feeling the strain in his own and hearing his surprised scream of pain.

It snaps out of place under the strain, and satisfied, you let go of him with a push. He stumbles forward and tries grabbing onto a dropped sword with his uninjured arm, and you let him.

Readying your stance, you notice two others refuse to retreat as well now that their countryman is fighting, but make no notice of them as you stride forward, driving your sword through him, ignoring his pitiful attempt at deflecting it.

You approach the other two, shield tightly grasped, and push back against the strike of the first one against your shield, deflecting the sword of the second one with your own.

Making use of your smaller size, you quickly spin in your place and slash the neck of one of them, lifting your shield just in time to stop the attack of the second one.

But he lets out a grunt, falls down before you can kill him. The Saxon falls on his face, an axe protruding from his back.

You lift your eyes to meet those of an unfamiliar warrior, who stands proudly and offers you a nod.

“You’re welcome.”

Walking past him and not bothering to hide your distaste, you insist, “I didn’t need any help, and certainly not from you.”

He proves to be more insistent than you would have thought, and for too many nights you have to bear him sitting close by to you, trying to impress you with one tale or another. The man is unbearably persistent on either bedding you or courting you, and as the days go by after the fight for Dunwich, he proves to not be the only one.

Until, eventually, you can’t take it anymore.

____

“I’m going to need an explanation for that.” Hlíf asks, a broad smile on her lips and eyes shining with mirth.

You grit your teeth and start walking away, but of course she follows.

The winds of East Anglia are biting, and the ground under your feet is still softer and so different than that of your home, but in the time that has passed since you and your warriors joined the Great Army you have learned to be as familiar with this foreign land of England as you once were with your own.

Granted, the incessant waves at the coast and the ever-present sea salt in the air that characterize Dunwich are not something you are planning on getting used to any time soon. You really just want to get back to York.

“I shouldn’t have saved her ass at Soham.” You mutter to yourself, even if you know you don’t mean it.

“I heard that!”

“You proved you have ears, congratulations.”

She skips the few steps she was lagging behind, walking at your side and matching your stride with a wide grin that you choose to ignore.

“Thank you, but I’m married,” She quotes, the mirth coming through in her voice, and she laughs to herself, “Gods above, Dane, what kind of answer is that?”

“He was insistent, and I couldn’t exactly fist fight one of Ubbe’s trusted men,” You explain, your voice a grumble when you add, “Tis not my fault if the prick heard I was a princess and suddenly decided he needed to have me.”

“You sure it was your title? After seeing you fight when we took this city, I’m not surprised so many want you.”

“Hey, I appreciate the compliment, don’t get me wrong,” You quip, sparing a glance to her, “But if you’re trying to court me, I’m afraid it will go as well as it did for Olvir.”

On her lips grows once again the mischievous and devilish smile, and the shieldmaiden tilts her head to the side as she says, “Oh, I know that, because you’re married.”

“I’m not.”

“Then why lie?”

“It wasn’t a lie.”

“If you think you’re making sense, prepare for disappointment.”

You shrug your shoulders, “It’s…complicated.”

“Well, the whole camp will soon hear about you telling Olvir you’re married, so we might as well get the story right: are you taken, Dane?”

Blunt, and to the point, not that you expected anything different from Hlíf.

You consider your words before answer, slowly, “Yes.”

She chuckles, shoulder knocking against yours playfully, “Ah, so who is the fool that has your heart but isn’t staking a claim?”

“He has, you just haven’t noticed.”

She stops walking, and so you too stop, turning to look at her wide eyes and offering a shrug of your shoulders again.

“You mean…” You nod, and past the surprise she finds it in her to laugh, shaking her head in amazement, “Oh, you really are a mad woman, aren’t you?”

“Well, we are technically married. I can’t turn my back on a bond before the Gods, right?”

She shakes her head with a chuckle, “So that is why you have been so insufferable, you miss York. I just thought you really hated East Anglia.”

“I really hate East Anglia.”

“Of course, Dane.”

____

You return to York as dawn breaks, and you don’t have time to get off your horse before Hvitserk is standing there, arms crossed over his chest and leaning with one shoulder on the entrance to the stables.

He offers his older brother a nod of his head as greeting, but Ubbe passes him by and Hvitserk keeps his eyes on you.

He blurts out, “You are married?”

“Hello to you too. I am glad to see you alive and well, dear Hvitserk.”

“You are married.”

You look at him, at his smug little smile and his warm eyes shining with mirth, and take a deep breath.

“You should know, you were there at the wedding.”

His sniggering laughter follows you as you walk away, but you forget your irritation quite quickly as you find Ivar in the rustle of movement, determined and uneven steps carrying him towards you.

Your smile is wide and lovesick and foolish, but you do not care for hiding it. His is quieter, more secret, but it doesn’t fail to make your heart skip a beat in your chest.

Ivar’s free hand grasps at the back of your neck once you are close enough, bringing your mouth to his with urgency, quickly letting the kiss become passionate as he slips his tongue into your mouth. Your hands find purchase on his hips, and more than ever you hate the armor that doesn’t let you feel him his warmth, his strength- under your fingers.

“I missed you.” You whisper quietly when you part, your brow pressed against his.

He blinks his eyes open, more than a little dazed, and the look in his eyes -the need, the adoration, the everything- makes a pang of heat go through you, threaten to set you alight with only a look.

“And I you.” He finally tells you, quiet voice rough.

You barely have time to be alone with Ivar before obligations pull you apart, a feast to welcome back the forces Ubbe and the Princess of Ribe, a reunion to exchange tales of victory and be together with those that were missed in the months apart.

Granted, that means that they don’t let you be together with the one you missed the most in those months apart, but you don’t have it in you to complain. Except you do, but that is not the point.

The night dies down and you roll your eyes at a few pointed toasts in congratulations for your marriage, but remain sitting at your place beside Ivar, pretending not to notice his hand on your knee or his arm around the back of your chair.

You grab his hand when it starts trailing up your leg and making you feel the effects of his touch like lightning crawling over your skin, and you could swear the smug bastard chuckles at the way you have to stop him.

“Eh, sister!” Hvitserk calls out, and with gritted teeth you turn to look at him, sitting by Sigurd’s side with an arm over his brother’s shoulders, “I am glad you are back, truly.”

“Thank you, Hvitserk.” You tell him, immediately feeling like you are about to regret accepting he doesn’t mean to tease you any longer.

“If only because I cannot stand my brother’s moping any longer. Who would have thought a son of Ragnar would be so loyal to his wife?”

You dismiss him with a gesture, but you cannot help but chuckle alongside the others.

Ivar turns his head towards you, nose almost nuzzling at your hair as he moves closer to speak by your ear,

“Why did you tell people you’re married?”

You don’t lift your gaze from your joined hands, following the trace of your fingers as they trace over the back of Ivar’s hand, “So that they would leave me alone.”

“No one is leaving you alone now that they think you are my wife.”

You spare him a look, glancing up, “The men that insist on either bedding me or courting me will, and that is enough for me.”

Ivar, of course, clings only to part of the words you speak, and his voice lowers, expression hardened with what you would swear is jealousy -pointless, unfounded, stupid jealousy- as he asks,

“Who are these men?”

Your eyes narrow, you honestly cannot believe this man.

“Are you serious right now?”

“I just want to know who they are.”

“I-…” Running your free hand through over your face, you bite back a groan, “Everyone thinks we are married now, shouldn’t you be worrying about that?”

He shrugs, “You were the one that told them you are married.”

“You are the one that I told them I’m married to!” You tell him, exasperated. He says nothing, and in the two blinks that he offers you somehow find it in you to be even more offended, “You truly are not worried?”

“Why should I be?”

Slowly, you remind him, “We are not actually married, Ivar.”

He shrugs, “We could be.”

“But we aren’t.”

“But we could be.” He insists easily.

Deep breaths, you tell yourself, taking a moment to bite back irritation, you love him, even when he is being intentionally insufferable.

“Is this your way of asking me to marry you?”

“You seem to have done that for me already,” He replies instead, raised eyebrows and another shrug of his shoulders that only makes you angrier. “You seem to have done more than that.”

You sigh, and shake your head at his mocking, only to make him chuckle at your reaction. Gods, he is infuriating.

Ivar’s smile loses the mocking edge as he leans even close, pressing a soft kiss by the side of your mouth in an attempt to make you stop pretending to be angry.

“What’s the harm in that, hm?” He asks, eyes falling from yours to your lips when you finally turn your head to face him, “They know you’re mine now.”

You almost want to argue there’s no way they wouldn’t know judging by the way the two of you have been joined at the hip since you returned from Dunwick, but you won’t deny a part of you grows darkly proud at knowing everyone knows he is yours and yours alone.

“And you are mine.” You remind him lowly, the beginning of a smile on your lips. His eyes linger on the curve of your mouth, lids growing a little heavier at your words and tone, and you have never felt more powerful.

Ivar nods his head,

“I am, wife.”

____

As you come down from both of your highs you find out Ivar is as unwilling to relinquish the closeness as you are, and in between soft touches and breathed presses of lips on heated skin, you find a kind of peace you never realized how much you missed.

“I was thinking,” He starts, and you cannot stop yourself from teasing him, so you let out a soft, uh-oh, and he scoffs, biting down on the side of your neck in retaliation, “We will be settled in the Isles by next winter.”

Ivar pulls back to look at you, holding himself up on one of his arms. At the strange expression in his pale eyes, you reach up with one hand and caress the side of his face under the guise of moving his hair back.

“We will.”

“Let’s go back to Kattegat,” He tells you, a tad rushed, “For this winter. Let’s spend one last winter in Kattegat.”

“Are you homesick, love?” You drawl, a side smile that he rolls his eyes at.

“What do you say?”

You search his gaze, because something tells you there’s more to the question, more to the action of spending your winter in Kattegat.

You won’t lie and pretend you haven’t missed the town, you won’t lie and pretend the memories you made there aren’t still with you, kept safe by some nostalgic and soft part of your heart.

Fate has a funny way of working, you’ve learned, and time brought you back to the side of the boys you made so many of those memories alongside of. Time brought back to you the cadence of Sigurd’s voice as he hums in par with his oud, time brought back to you Ubbe’s easy companionship as you train together, time brought back to you the secret smiles you share with Hvitserk over a joke only the two of you know of. Time brought back to you the one you’ve loved since before you even knew what love was, brought back to you the heart that your own finds itself familiar with.

But there is a part of you that misses Kattegat and always will, the sinuous streets of your childhood, the foreign scents and sounds of the bubbling market.

Instead of giving your answer outright -you always did like making things harder than they have to be-, you muse aloud,

“Having married you when we were children should keep me safe from your mother’s wrath, shouldn’t it?”

“Wrath?”

You let your fingers trace over the scar over his lip, the one you are very much responsible for. In these last few months, you’ve grown quite fascinated with it, with how it stretches when he smiles one of those big and crooked smiles, and especially with how Ivar trembles when you run your tongue over it before kissing him.

But that is not the point.

The point is you are very much responsible for at least one of the new scars Aslaug’s youngest son bears, and she will know, and she will look at you in that way you remember from your younger years. It is enough to make a grown woman shiver.

Ivar chuckles as he understands your hesitation, “You don’t need to fear her.”

“Easy for you to say.” You scoff.

“And if I tell you she still remembers fondly that childish wedding? Will you agree to come then, hm?”

“No,” At his frustrated sigh you tighten your fingers on his hair in silent reprimand, “Now I know you’re just saying that to appease me.”

“I would never.” Ivar mocks, earning another tug of his hair that he breathes a laugh at. You don’t fail to notice the way the laugh stutters a bit past his lips, you are very much aware of your effect of your hands on him.

Said effect is very much evidenced in the way he doesn’t resist the temptation to lean down and steal your breath with the slowest of kisses, his nose nudging against yours softly before he speaks again, voice low,

“What if it wasn’t just that wedding?”

“W-What?”

His eyes open to look into yours, an edge of anxiety, of hesitation, that he -of course- pushes past anyways, clearing his throat and asking, “What if there were something more…permanent than that wedding from our childhood?”

“Are you asking me to marry you?”

“A second and last time.” He vows, a quirk of his mouth that speaks of jest but does nothing to hide the apprehension that shines in his eyes.

There was never anyone else, not for you and not for him.

Your answer leaves your lips in a breath that Ivar doesn’t hesitate to taste against your lips, with a gentleness that speaks of adoration and desperation, stealing your breath much in the same way he stole your heart.

____

Aslaug almost wants to laugh at the irony that it was the youngest of her boys that was the first one the be married, not once, but two times. And, surprising only those that don’t know him well enough, to the same woman both times.

Older but still holding that arrogant pride at the announcement -the same pride she saw in him when you walked Kattegat’s streets with your hand in Ivar’s- Ivar sat down in front of her and told her he had found a woman he wanted to marry.

And her heart felt a surge of a warmth she had long since missed with all her sons fighting their wars and their father’s across the sea; not willing or capable to hold back the wide smile that blossomed in her face.

Her hands cupped her son’s face, and the small, almost shy smile he offered her reminded her so much of the boy he once was. She promised her blessing and vowed how proud she was, and in silence, as she looked into her youngest son’s eyes, she thanked the Gods for being allowed to live to see this, to see him happy.

She knows there are so many twists of Fate that have let this happen. She knows -like she knows the streets of her kingdom- of the paths their son’s life could have taken, almost took. She knows of yours, and what could have been.

Even if she hadn’t heard of your close encounter with death in England, she would have the moment she was forced to see in her dreams what had happened across the sea, she would have the moment she saw the way it still haunted Ivar today.

For almost two weeks she dreamt of her son’s voice, the same repeated pleas to the Gods -to whatever would listen- said so many times his voice grew ragged and broke. Still, he did the one thing he could, and pleaded with the Gods for more time, for anything other than this.

He needn’t know she went to the Volür and they all made a sacrifice praying with the Gods to give a Dane shieldmaiden strength and health. He needn’t know, and he won’t.

Because it is past now, and you have healed and learned, and he has healed too. And there is no use in resurfacing pain in an occasion such as this.

Kattegat is lively even as winter approaches fast and cruel, the flurry of motion increased even more now that a Prince is to get married.

Your smile is the same mad little smile she remembers from your younger years in Kattegat, and Helga’s hands are more worn and her smile is a tad dimmer, but her fingers are still nimble and gentle as they braid the wedding crown of winter flowers.

Aslaug feels the pull of emotion when Ivar cups your face between trembling hands and kisses his wife for the first time, she feels the tears prickling at her eyes at the lovesick smiles on your faces as you remain in that moment after a kiss for a few breaths, eyes locked together and futures intertwined.

Ubbe stands tall as he watches his younger brother get married, and Aslaug’s heart grows warm at the easy smile that curves her son’s lips. She still cannot help herself, and finds herself hoping before winter is over and her sons are to depart from her side again, that she can see him with a woman by his side as well. For too long Ubbe carried a burden he shouldn’t have, shouldering the brunt of the world for the sake of his brothers, a boy trying to stand as tall as the man that left an absence in his place after Paris. Even if she once argued she cares not if they find love as long as they find a good woman to breed and form a family with, she holds the secret hope that she can see Ubbe happily settled with someone that he can love.

She hopes the same for Hvitserk, who watches the ceremony with a smile that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners, but she knows better than to expect him to settle anytime soon. Before the celebratory feast is halfway over, he has teasingly held a young girl to his side and exclaimed, mother, I am getting married as well, three times, with three different women. She doesn’t hold much hope he will settle soon, and has to bite her tongue and tell herself she is happy for him even if he insists on sleeping his way through Kattegat.

Reluctantly, she admits it is Sigurd who might follow in Ivar’s footsteps and marry next. He and that Christian girl have been promised to one another for years now, and the excuse of war and distance has kept them safe from their obligations to marry. But Aslaug knows it is a matter of time. For all her demure and shy nature, Blaeja’s eyes shine with something like amazement as she takes in the wedding ceremony even if a faint blush covers her face at yours and Ivar’s displays of affection. And she won’t pretend she doesn’t notice the way Sigurd lingers close to the princess, irradiating that gentleness of him that Aslaug is still regretful for having made so fragile in her carelessness.

Winter lets her have all her sons with her, though she knows it is probably the last time. Ivar has plans to settle in the Isles, the title of king and the promise of advantageous positions for his war against Alfred enough of a lure to keep her son across the sea; Ubbe has intentions to settle and take families with him to England even if he has to wade through blood to do so, Sigurd won’t stay too long away from his princess anymore, and Hvitserk will nevr bear to stay apart from his brothers.

But she has this winter, and it is enough. She will sit with her sons and have dinner while they talk and argue and laugh, and she will hear Ivar and Sigurd go for each other’s throats as if they haven’t spent these years fighting side by side, and she will watch you and Ivar get drunk on nothing but each other, and she will thank the Gods for all of it.

____ ____ ____

Thank you for reading, I apologize if this isn’t very good, I tried my best. Love ya!

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius​ @xbellaxcarolinax @1950schick @ietss @peachyboneless @encounterthepast @maggiescarborough @chibisgotovalhalla @fae-sedai @zuxiezendler @crazybunnyladysworld   @stupiddarkkside @northumbria @aprilivar

[gojoho]

MERCY

• pairing; toji fushiguro x reader [ nsfw ]

• premise; it’s the same dance with him, a shameless game of cat and mouse in which he always win but maybe losing is equally as rewarding. 

• words; 2078

• note & warning; i’m back with some toji content, he’s just been in my mind a little to long for me not the write about him. some warnings for this one is public, unprotected ( wrap it and then tap it folks ) sex, with the usual grammatical errors—I swear I try to proof read ya’ll but they just manage to find a way to stay in there. i am slowly but surely getting my mojo back.

Old habits die hard; it's easier to hate each other that way. Labeling whatever that was manifesting between the two of you as that, a bad habit. A dirty secret only an onyx sky could appreciate enough to hide. Perhaps that's what kept it alive and kicking, midnight turmoil, where even the most terrible of bad ideas are more seductive.

Though it's debatable if the alcohol left you unhinged, mindless, and bold. What other excuse did you have for allowing the bastard to enter your domain? There was no shame from the thinking without a conscience, but with the pounding music and pulsing lights, you weren't sure there was even space to think. He held a brazen stare all evening, keen to every move you made.

A man's attention was never anything to sneeze at, but when it was a straggler like Toji Fushiguro, it was intoxicating. And more than the liquor, everything seemed to be within reach under his spotlight. He held his distance, clung to the darkness, yet with such an adamant gaze he could have been right there beside you. At least, that's how you imagined it but the game wasn't that easy.

  He'd stay in his dark corner, not quite able to step closer until you were ready. Until the heat underneath your skin became unbearable, leaving you an aching mess. That made it easier to devour you. Whether it meant burying his head between your thighs or hooking his arms around your waist and keeping you open. Or bottomed out inside you, mouth feasting on your chest.

The club was full, Friday night packed but it would work in your favor. You knew none of the songs, not that it mattered, it was mere fuel to your movements. A nice accessory to the sway of your hips, to suggestive temptation behind them.

It wasn't worth looking in his direction; he was always watching. At that thought alone, your clothes become a nuisance. A means to an end, that would start with him. Toji was a patient man but knew that patience didn't extend to everyone, you in particular. He was a tease, and as your dress inclined it almost felt as if he'd been the one to hike it up.

A sensation too similar to his hands moving over your bare thighs, ready to pry them open. His smug chuckle was right there feeding your imagination, and as one song faded into the next, there wasn't a spot on your body that hadn't been kissed in theory. With one thought, you were drooling over a man less than ten feet away, fantasizing about all the ways he could take you. It was more of a headache than it seems, and as the pace of the songs picks up, the conscience returns. Whilst you make your way back to the bar. You'd need a little more liquid luck to get through the rest of the night.

  “That was quite a show.”

  “Didn’t know I had an audience.” What else could you have done but tell a bald-faced lie? Telling him the truth didn't do anyone any good. How you envision him fucking you in the middle of the dance floor.

“Could’ve fooled me." The bar was located farther away from the DJ and next to the restrooms. The quieter end of the venue, but you're sure you'd have heard his smirk regardless.

After all this time, it's only then that you turn to him.“What are you doing here Fushiguro?”

Big mistake, ten feet away he looked the same as when you last saw him, but up close and personal, some details that had escaped memory came back to haunt you.

“Would you believe me if I told you, I’m here to see you?”

Yeah right, “Not in the slightest.”

“It’s true for the most part, had a job in the area and thought I’d pop in do some sightseeing." He shifted his weight back to the counter, his elbows well-rested on either side.

“Well you came and you saw.”

“On the contrary,” he said. The double meaning has turned your cheeks crimson, and you're thankful for the red lights underneath the counter. “Cute dress.”

Images from moments before gloss over your eyes, heating every part of your body. They burned a path down your chest before settling below your hips. “Seriously Fushiguro what do you want? You made it pretty clear we both want different things the last time you popped in.”

“Things are different.” Sincere wasn't the word you or anyone else would use to describe the guy, but his demeanor defied all expectations. He seemed to be a completely different person.

  “Yeah, they are,” you mumbled, tossing back a shot you managed to order before his interruption.

  “Look," he started and turned to face you. Face inches from yours, his scent enveloping both of you. "I tried the settling down thing and it doesn’t work with my kind of lifestyle.”

It wasn't the words you wanted to hear, but you probably wouldn't have had them anyway. Wishful thinking, “Then that’s clears things up doesn’t it?” Toji Fushiguro didn’t do apologies, much like he didn’t do commitment, and even as he called after you, that would never change. Something you wish your body would recognize, no matter how much it longed for him.

  The corridor to the restrooms was too quiet for him being that close to you...too intimate. In the quick second you had turned you back to him, ready to sober up and head home, he’d already been behind you. Pushing you up against the wall in the far corner, his arms barricading you in.

  “You’re quite stubborn, you know that.” His voice was low, quiet all to maintain the secrecy veiled in the darkness.

  “Thanks, I’ll be sure to add it to my resume.” You witted, going to duck around him but he was quick and with a step forward his hips pushed yours in back place.

  “Will you just listen,” he pleaded. Not that you had much of a choice, but he took your silence as obedience. “I won’t make excuses, I’m a shitty guy but it’s gotten me this far. You won’t get the white picket fence with me. That’s not who I am.”

It was true, he was a shitty person. One minute here and the next gone with the wind. All with impeccable timing, usually around when he’d finish fucking you senseless. Truthfully it wasn’t something too much of a problem, it was better if he had his life and you with your own. Though you supposed between the kisses, and that final thrust that brought you both over the edge left some vulnerability.

  “If I’m stubborn, then you’re quite dense. I never asked for that Toji. I was fine with the wild sex but was a little conversation too much to ask? You’ve got baggage, newsflash so do I, but you’d think we’d handle it like two grown adults. You’ve always been on the move, please, slow down every once in a while.”

The silence is deafening, louder than the upbeat track in the distance. You were irritated, angry, and, to make it worse, aroused. What else did he expect from you but a meltdown? As he moved his head to your back, he lowered his arms, allowing them to ghost your waist. “I'm sorry,” he said softly, kissing it.

In retrospect, you should have jumped for joy, climbed to the top of the bar, and screamed at the top of your lungs like a lunatic, but you didn't. You didn't want to abandon his embrace at that moment; he had really changed.

The kiss in trial is slow and tender, responsive to not only the worries but any emotion in between. Everything you didn't think he was capable of and all rage bleeds into desire. Each of you starved and desperate to find a fill.

The stiffness of his pants condemned his hold, which found its power over your hips. You want to propose that he return the excitement to your place or whatever hotel he was staying in, but he broke the kiss to turn you around. His patience had reached its maximum for the night.

“Wait for a second,” you mumbled out. A slight moan slipped through feeling his erection firm and strong against your rear. The ends of your dress taunted by his fingertips liked how you pictured them too. “Sorry princess, no can do.”

  It’s almost impressive how quickly he lifts your dress and slipping a finger past your thong. But should anyone know your body in grave detail it was him. There’s a ceremonial cheer from the crowd as the DJ lets the beat drop, Toji’s opportune moment of intrusion. Your own cry, not one in interest to the music but the long slender finger to part your folds.

“I’ve waited all night to get my hands on you,” he mumbled out, lips pressed to the back of your neck.

  “Toji—”

“I’ll be quick, just the way you like it.”

  It’s in your best interest to stop him there, keeping private matters just that, you should stop him...should.

  “Fuck…quickly.” you cursed out in compliance. There’s a smirk on his face, you know it. Sure he’s different, but some things never change.

  In the second he pulled his finger away, you whimper half expecting for it to slip back in, maybe even with a partner but a casual Friday night turns into Christmas.

  “I'll take my time with you later, right now—” he started face pressed into the back of your shoulder. “I just need to be inside you.”

  First was the tip of his cock, a feeble tickle before the rest of his inches followed. Stretching you full, slipping deep into your heat. Coaxing the ache that was for him, letting the world see just how easily your body welcomed his own. Yet, it was hard to care about the rest of the world when your own revolved around everything below your hips.

  He gripped them tightly, anchoring you there at the hilt with a slow sure thrust before looping a hand to your front. Twisting the nerves in time with his sudden thrust. Quick like he said, but still slow enough to feel him move inside you. In and out, then over again. The excitement of having him there indulging with your body, and the anxiety of getting caught clashed. Making you even more aware of your walls around him, but in his muffled moans there are words of encouragement. Sweet nothings that make your arousal fierce, sexy, and less wrong.

  “Don't stop, ” you say a little too loud for doing something taboo but you don't care, “Don't fucking stop.”

  The million and one fantasy that flooded your mind on the dancefloor spirals, winding with the moment and coiled in an untamed void. Ready to snap at those trying to control it. And there, shrouded in the thin veil of privacy Toji picks up his pace, teasing it with each stroke until finally, it shudders through. Coming in waves, meeting your peek every time he pushed forward. Bolting down your legs the more sloppy and anxious his hips became.

  “Fuck, ” he grunts hands shooting to your chest. Pulling you closer to him, eating up your moans with his.

  Almost feral with the way he continued despite his cock’s twitches, he wasn't nearly satisfied but that was a mess neither of you was capable of cleaning up at the moment. Regrettably, you push back on his rhythm stopping it completely. Snapping him from the haze.

“We should go, ” you whisper out on his lips. Which he can only grunt back in response to, hesitant to slip from your warmth.

His hands are glued to your body, unable to null all contact as you tugged your dress back down or as he tucks himself back into his pants. You'd ask whether it was back to your place or his but the languid look on his face as the two of you shamelessly stepped into the light made it fruitful. It didn't matter where the two of you went, he'd have you crying for mercy.

[britishassistant]

The Villainous Paranoiac Has Visitors

You’re a fool.

A blind, tunnel-visioned, desperate fool.

There’s no one you can blame for this mess but yourself.

You were moronic enough to think that a promise would’ve been enough to stop Grim from going after more overblot stones.

And now where are you?

Lying in a bed in the infirmary, bandages and gauze wrapped around you from your collarbone to your chin, because the one creature in this fucked up magic world that you were stupid enough to trust unconditionally tried to rip out your throat over a rock.

Your neck aches. You’re so tired it feels like you can barely even move. Your head is a weird weight of white noise, making it hard to think about anything other than your current predicament and how you should’ve seen it coming a mile away. How you should’ve stopped it.

Maybe—maybe it was because you’d made him hold out too long. Maybe that’s it. Maybe you were wrong to make him swear not to eat any more, and him lashing out at you over Vil-senpai’s stone was just-just temptation that had been pushed too far. Why weren’t you looking after him more closely anyway? You’re his supervisor, you’re supposed to make sure Grim doesn’t get into trouble, you should’ve noticed he was gone sooner. Then maybe this whole mess wouldn’t have happened. And it’s not like Grim wasn’t working hard to uphold your deal, you were the one who wasn’t meeting his efforts halfway. After all, he hadn’t eaten anything after Jamil-senpai’s overblot, had he?

...

Had he?

No stone ever turned up after Jamil-senpai’s overblot.

And you were so out of it that night, riding out the aftereffects of the overblot’s venom and the anti-venom warring in your system.

Grim could’ve easily left during the night and eaten it, and so long as you never asked, never pressed him about it, you’d have been none the wiser.

And you didn’t ask. You just trusted him.

You’re a fool. A pathetic, misguided, twisted, worthless fool.

Your family was right about you.

You would grind the heels of your hands into your eyes, but even lifting your arms towards your face feels like more effort than you can spare right now. Luckily it takes no effort to stare up at the ceiling and just hate yourself for your stupidity.

You’d have thought you would have learned that trusting people is an awful idea already. Hopefully this will finally get the message through your thick skull—

“Yuu?”

You tilt your head and blink up at Deuce. He grins, blindingly bright. “Guys, he’s awake!”

You weakly smile back, ruthlessly squashing the urge to correct him.

Epel pushes the divider back as he rounds it, pretty face worried. “Prefect, how are you feeling? Nurse Kamac said you lost a lot of blood.”

“M okay.” You mumble back, your tongue feeling thick and sluggish in your mouth.

“What the hell happened to you, Prefect?” Deuce moves to pull up a chair and sit down next to you, shooting you doubtful looks. “Was it an attack by another overblot or something? Some kind of monster? Did you get jumped by some punks from RSA?”

You wonder what you should tell them. You know that all you have to do is tell him the truth, say the word, and they’ll all be off after Grim like a group of hunting dogs, just like when you used to ask Ace and Deuce to help you catch him back at the start of the school year.

But Grim might get hurt. Or he might hurt them.

Can you put them through that?

Ace collides with the foot of the bed, interrupting your internal debate, eyes wide and panting. “Guys, bad news. Crewel’s outside asking for us, he looks pissed.”

Deuce and Epel stiffen in tandem, darting nervous glances towards the door like the potions and alchemy teacher will burst in at any moment. “What’d you do?!” Deuce hisses.

“How’d you know it wasn’t you, ass?!” Ace protests. “Seriously, we can’t keep him waiting! I think he’s even madder than the time Grim turned his coat pink and green.”

All four of you shudder collectively.

Epel grabs Deuce’s arm, squaring his shoulders. “We just gotta—need to see what Professor Crewel wants right? It may not even be us he’s piss—irritated at. Just gotta man up and face him.”

Deuce nods, even though he looks like he really, really doesn’t want to. He and Ace follow Epel away from your bed and towards the infirmary exit. You loll your head back onto your pillows and resume your staring at the ceiling.

“But Ace, no one’s...?”

“What the—?!”

There’s a bang as the infirmary doors slam shut.

You look over in time to see Ace slide a mop through the door handles, and drag a chair over to prop under them. He then points his magic pen at it all and a padlocked chain loops itself around the whole affair and clicks shut. You can hear Deuce and Epel hammering on the other side, demanding he open up.

“Ace?” You struggle to sit up, your throat aching. “What—”

“Shh, sh, easy, we gotta be quick.” He darts over you, helping you to sit up and pulling up the pillows behind you to lean back against. “Do you need me to get your shirt for you?”

“W-what?” Your brain is still struggling to catch up.

Ace gestures impatiently to your chest.

You look down.

Oh.

Oh.

You look back up at Ace, cold sweat drenching you.

Please no. Not him too.

Ace reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls something out—!

He holds up your binder. “Figured Kamac might not have let you keep it. It hurts your ribs, right?”

Wait. What?

“H-how...?” You stutter, fumbling with the buttons at your collar.

He shoots you a look. “I basically carried you back here from Dwarf Mines. It was easy to tell something was up when Kamac wouldn’t let me or Deuce stay in the room while you were getting patched up. Plus this was kinda dangling out your back pocket when you came out”

Well. That’s. That’s...

“Look are we doing this or not?!” Ace hisses, shooting a nervous glance back at the door where Deuce and Epel’s voices are being joined by others and growing louder. You think you hear Kalim-senpai’s twittering, Vil-senpai barking orders, and Jamil-senpai’s drawl.

You begin working on your buttons with newfound determination.

Ace helps you get your head through the top hole of the binder without pulling on the bandages around your neck too much.

You struggle your arms through the arm holes, and then shrug the hospital pajama shirt back on. He’s already done over half the buttons by the time you’ve recovered from your discombobulation.

“Feel okay? Not hurting your breathing or anything?” You nod, still disoriented. “Okay, let’s just get you back under the covers, and then I’ll let in the circus.”

There’s another metallic clang from the door and a cry of pain that sounds worryingly like Ashengrotto-senpai.

“W-why?” You rasp, an odd swooping feeling catapulting in your stomach, like you’ve just jumped off the bleachers again. “Why would you...?”

Ace heaves a sigh and gives you a look normally reserved for Deuce and Grim. “Because you’re my friend, you little dumbass. Getting something like this for you isn’t a big deal or anything.”

You gape at him so hard it feels like your eyes are burning.

Something inside you feels impossibly, uncontrollably warm.

Turns out getting a lump in your throat really hurts when you’re recovering from having it slashed open.

“Aw, jeez, what’s with the waterworks?!” Ace leans over you, ungloved hand swiping at the tears on your cheeks. “C’mon Yuu, if they get back in here and see you crying, you know Deuce’ll kill me.”

“Good. ‘S a-all your fault. I won’t f-forgive you until you give me a hug, you big jerk.” You sniffle, opening your arms and holding them out.

He huffs a laugh, before following your orders. “You’re a tyrant, ya know that? You’re as bad as Vil-senpai and Dorm Head Riddle.”

“I’m worse than they could ever be.” You mumble, hiding your burning eyes in his shoulder. “Don’t you forget it.”

“Oi, you better not be wiping your nose on my jacket!” He tries to shrug you off gently. He still hasn’t stopped hugging you though. “Get your snot and tears offa me!”

You cling onto him tighter, unable to stop giggling even as a few hysterical tears slip down your cheeks. “Suffer.”

“Tyrant.” He fakes an exasperated groan, but you can feel him chuckling along with you.

There’s not many things you can think of that would ruin this moment.

“King’s Roar.”

...Being bathed in sand as the doors to the infirmary disintegrate certainly wasn’t one you had in mind, though it does the trick well enough.

Lucky you had Ace hugging you to act as a human shield for the worst of it.

He sputters once the deluge has subsided, shaking his head and rudely dumping the excess sand into your lap. “Ugh, senpai, what the hell?! Would it have killed you to wait one minute?!”

“You take too long.” Leona-senpai shrugs, pocketing his magic pen again and sauntering in to stretch out on the empty bunk next to you. “These guys wouldn’t stop whining until I did something.”

Deuce rushes over to your bedside with Epel and Kalim close behind him, kneeling down next to you. “Prefect, are you okay?! What’d he do to you?!”

“His eyes are all red an’ swollen!” Epel points out before you can say anything. “Ace, you bas—”

“Epel.” Vil-senpai stalks in, looking much better since you last saw him at VDC. Healthier, somehow. “But yes, Potato #1, what exactly were you playing at, locking everyone out like that?”

Ace stammers under Vil-senpai’s cold glare, so you take pity on him, clearing your throat weakly. “Ace just didn’t want any witnesses to him fussing over me. He’s allergic to showing kindness, after all.”

For some reason, being able to say that and have Ace elbow you playfully makes you feel...buoyant, somehow.

Everyone stares at you. The weight of their disbelief is heavy.

Kalim places his hands over yours. “Yuu, you don’t have to be afraid to tell us the truth! You’re among friends here!”

“Oi!” Ace protests.

“Who’re you calling ‘friend’?” Leona-senpai interjects, because he’s still a huge bag of dicks.

Ashengrotto-senpai has his magic pen in its cane form and is leaning on it heavily, limping. “I wouldn’t worry Kalim-san. I’m sure whatever the Prefect experienced can’t be worse than having a cauldron drop on you.”

Deuce inches closer to hide behind you and Epel sheepishly.

“Technically Azul, it was rebounded onto you off the doors of the infirmary.” Jade-senpai interjects cheerfully, switching a bouquet from one hand to the other. “Though I’m sure Spade-san would be glad to reimburse us for damages through labor if necessary~”

Deuce lets out a squeak.

“Eeeeh~~ Crab-chan, were you doing something naaauughty with Shrimy all alone in here~?” Floyd-senpai drapes himself over Ace’s shoulders, arms looping around him. “No faaaaaiiir, I wanna play too~~”

Ace stiffens, face growing to match his hair as Floyd-senpai’s arms begin to tighten. “J-Jamil-senpai—!”

Jamil-senpai cruelly ignores him. “Kalim, make sure you’ve still got your magic pen when we leave. The Prefect might try to add to his collection.”

You shoot him a look. “When are you going to let that go?”

He sits on the end of your bed and smiles sweetly at you. “When you stop making a nuisance of yourself by sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong, Prefect.”

You try to dissect that statement, then give up and settle for attempting to kick him off the bed. You only end up depositing more sand into your lap under the covers.

He laughs at you, because for all his talk about reputation, Jamil-senpai is also a huge bag of dicks.

The dust and sand irritates your nose and throat, making you cough hard. It’s not as bad as it was after Vil-senpai’s overblot, but you feel the warning tugs on your weakened lungs and torn throat. You gratefully accept the glass of water Epel hands you, gulping it down.

The sand around you gently shifts and seeps out from under and on top of your covers as you swallow, pooling into a large pile at your bedside.

Leona-senpai’s tail flickers as he tucks his magic pen back away and pretends to be sleeping again.

Deuce begins to fret over you, taking the empty cup from your hands and ineffectually trying to fluff your pillows. You let him hover as Ace rolls his eyes and playfully ribs at him for his mother-henning.

Jade-senpai places the bouquet in a small vase on the table next to you with Vil-senpai and Epel fussing over the arrangement every time Floyd-senpai delights in deliberately poking the flowers out of alignment.

Kalim-senpai promises to bring you a carpet next time, maybe even an elephant if you want, much to Jamil-senpai’s dismay. Ashengrotto-senpai begins trying to negotiate for even more presents.

Leona-senpai half-heartedly growls at everyone to shut up and let him sleep.

You’re a fool if you think trusting these people will turn out any better than trusting Grim did.

But somehow, you feel like you’d rather be a fool and enjoy the warmth blooming in your chest right now rather than anything else.

[fandom-scatteredthoughtsonpaper]

Hi hi! i think you said asks were open in your newest post? If not feel free to ignore this lol

I would love to see headcannons of an MC who, though acting brave, gets very scared of the brothers

example after lucifer and the grimoire and such? like MC slowly becomes MORE scared of them, and tries to hide it, but it's getting obvious that theyre scared if that makes sense lol 💖

Ahhhhh, sorry this took longer than it necessarily should have! I feel like I was much closer to what you wanted with this request than the other, so hopefully you'll enjoy it too ❤️

GN MC THAT PROGRESSIVELY FEARS THE BROTHERS

Living with demons is hard, especially when they're the rulers of hell, err, the Devildom.

Sure, there's the implication they're not supposed to hurt or do anything harmful to you, as you have the safety of being an exchange student, but that veil of ignorance was quickly lifted before even the two week mark of living with these brothers.

You've tried getting along with them, and for the most part you've been successful, but a few circumstances have arisen that have reminded you that these boys are dangerous demons... and you're the human that keeps poking the three-headed dog while it sleeps.

Mammon:

You're not so much scared of what Mammon could physically do, but you're paranoid that he goes into your room and rummages in your belongings and personal keepsakes. Your room is the only thing you have that you can claim as your own, and it's your sanctuary, despite it being in the brothers' house.

Of course, the brothers will periodically just barge in without alerting you by asking or knocking, but you've grown okay with that. You're at least in your room and able to see what they do in there. There are a few occasions Levi or Satan might mention going into your bedroom to retrieve a video game or book they had loaned you, but you make sure to put their item on the dresser by the entrance, so they don't have to venture too far in. You're okay with that.

You're not okay, however, with Mammon when he goes into your room unannounced. Hell, you're not totally comfortable with him being in your room unattended if he does give you a heads-up.

You know how kleptomaniac Mammon can be. You've heard enough complaints and stories to know how relentless Mammon can be in his search for anything that could give him a few Grimm from his brothers. You've talked with this greedy demon about items he's stolen, witnessed thefts a few times too.

So, you feel something akin to victimized when Mammon goes into your room without your permission or you being there. Your room emits this vibe of disturbance, and it bothers you because you don't know what might be missing or "borrowed". It troubles you more because now your room feels foreign again, like the atmosphere was plagued by essences that you know aren't yours. Your anxiety swells with paranoia, fear, and mistrust again.

Leviathan:

Oh, for the most part, you don't have much conflict with Levi anymore. Once you made a pact with the otaku demon he relaxed a lot more and invited you to hang out in his room to play games or fuss about animation qualities in animes or gush about his favorite manga characters.

It's just that after that contest of who was the bigger TSL fan and Levi, enveloped by jealousy and fury, came at you with the intent to seriously harm you, you've had this overly-suspicious fear in the back of your mind, itching your paranoia that it could happen again.

You've learned that Levi's demon form is easily triggered by extreme feelings, rather that's excitement, irritability, or the emotion he avatars over, and you can't help be irritationally cautious when that happens. It's a reflex from the panic that engraved itself into your psyche for self-preservation.

If you weren't so anxious about another envy-fueled incident involving your life you might find Levi's excitement for the stuff he loves more endearing and cute.

Beelzebub:

If you hadn't seen how destructive Beel's tantrums over food firsthand could be you might find it hard to believe this relaxed and mostly uninvolved brother would have such a temper... but you did experience it, so you do believe it.

It was a custard! They're so easy to get more of, but Beel immediately flew off the handle and wouldn't see reasoning, lashing out and destroying the kitchen. If Mammon hadn't pulled you down with him to the floor as Beel started his outraged tantrum you're positive you would have been collateral damage too, like your poor room that was unfortunately placed on the other side of the kitchen wall.

It was a terrifying sight to behold, seeing the kitchen torn asunder and reduced to broken walls, obliterated cabinets, and smashed counters, with kitchen utensils and ruined cookware being sent into flight and raining down, razor-sharp and shattered into broken edges that could easily pierce flesh.

That moment of destruction lingers, along with the intense emotion of fright, triggered whenever Beel complains about being hungry or when he meets your gaze at the table during times to eat. You immediately offer your unfinished plate to him, which he happily accepts and consumes in seconds, to appease the Avatar of Gluttony's temper.

Asmodeus:

Asmo's promiscuity and salaciousness are what unnerve you the most. He's the Avatar of Lust, so obviously you were already on your defense, but you've seen glimpses beyond the surface level to what Asmo can be like. That's what intrigues you about him, and you try to focus on those bits that slip past his perfectionistic lifestyle and narcissistic personality. At the same time, however, this is the cause of your near downfalls when Asmo tries to allure you with his physical prowess.

He's tried a few times to charm you, and you feel this invasive power trying to persuade you to give into your raw and sexual temptations, or this tugging sensation that tries to attract you beyond what you feel is comfortable. The repulsed response is usually what repels you from the power Asmo tries to flaunt over you.

He usually huffs after his failed attempt but quickly rebounds by placing his hands around you and trying to embrace you himself, which Mammon, prompted by his denied feelings and jealousy, usually intercepts in your honor.

There's a few times you've worried yourself nauseous Asmo will corner you, and you won't be able to save yourself from his lustful persuasion. There's also the couple of times he's mentioned eating your heart, so that's also worrisome.

Satan:

There's no questions that you secretly fear Satan, more specifically his wrath. You slighted him once before, and the threat he imposed upon you while you were trapped between his demonic form and an over-stuffed bookcase was enough to brand itself to your soul as a reminder.

As docile as Satan may appear with his affection for cats, deep interest for detective shows, and shared affinity of books he could and, possibly, would rip you apart and lavish in the blood that wept from your lacerated flesh and tension of your bones rebelling before snapping satisfactory in halves and thirds.

Other than that, Satan is much easier to hang out with compared to his brothers, except when he gets that cruel temperament to torment Lucifer, which you exempt yourself from if the pranks are too excessive.

Belphegor:

Terror has never seeped into your soul like this before. Your anxiety spikes to levels you've never experienced before when Belphie plops down next to you on the couch or tries to start up a conversation. Your fight, flight, freeze, or fawn system goes haywire, and you become petrified, unable to respond properly.

You either stay away from Belphie altogether or stay glued to one of the other brothers, Mammon or Beel preferably. Just in case.

Just in case Belphie's lament arises again in the form of murderous hate, gleeful contempt clouding his eyes, as his hands find their way to your neck that remembers the tight embrace his fingers engraved into the nerves of your throat, the ghostly suffocating that chokes you up sometimes if you become too immersed in the memory of a body that hadn't belonged to you.

You're also sure you remember an aching in your ribs and spine that causes you to shiver sometimes, but you're not sure if you experienced that in a dream or illusion of the timeline merging. It still bothers you all the same.

For such a sweet face and quiet voice, Belphie is a demon that decieves, and you're better off staying away from him until you're over your PTSD. If that's possible.

Lucifer:

How many times has he almost killed you? Twice or three times? Enough to be too many and to penetrate your core with panic and trepidation whenever you see that sly smile that forms on his lips. It doesn't have to be directed at you, but it's enough to launch you into a panic attack that you barely keep under control.

That safety guard of being a representative from the human world and exchange student mean nothing when you test it by being a busybody in affairs that definitely don't involve you over and over again, especially when it's the pride and dignity of Lucifer being tested.

You hear your lesson but never learn, and unconsciously you must be masochistic for how many times you've brushed death with Lucifer's anger, but you keep pushing the limits.

You can't help going to Mammon's defense when you feel Lucifer is only targeting him for personal reasons or standing up to his ego when you feel he's going over his limits. Your bravery is stupidity though, and you feel your courageous backbone turn into a central nerve system of adrenaline and fear. You're just too stubborn and self-righteous to let Lucifer do as he pleases, but that doesn't mean you're not scared out of your wits.

You've gained an intuition for when Lucifer is approaching or silently comes up from behind you, and it sends a shiver down your back almost every time you're alone together.

If you have any headcanons that you want me to write, please send them my way! I enjoy writing these out. NSFW is okay, but please know I might not do it if I don’t like it. ❤️

[honeysidesarchived]

WHERE THERE IS NO TEMPTATION, THERE IS NO GLORY.

⊱ a santino d'antonio / oc short-fic

euphemia volpe has never wanted for very much; a safe place to sleep, a soft place to land. to love someone, and be loved back. she has all of those things now, but it's most unfortunate for her that she has fallen in love with a man who will never be satisfied with what he's got.

pt. i: contact is crisis

words: 3.3k

warnings: language, some depictions of a relationship that is not entirely healthy, extensive use of my very basic knowledge of italian (padded with google translate, thank you google!), and an unfortunate amount of endearments and pet names. this does not deviate from john wick chapter 2's canon ending, so please bear in mind this will contain major character death.

rating: m for mature language ??? probably closer to t, but will change later on.

notes: as some of you may know, this has been (unfortunately) sitting on my drive since i first watched john wick chapter two almost a year ago--maybe over a year! i can't remember. all i remember was seeing santino and going "SOMEONE has got to kiss that man". so you know, here i am. this short-fic (only a few, short parts) will take place over the span of the events of john wick chapter 2. yes i built some tiny amount of lore for the camorra. yes i had the opportunity to write a fix-it fic and did not. no i am not taking criticism at this time !

special uber big thank you to my beta and my wifey @starcrier who read this a year ago and when i casually said, "hey, so what if i posted this" told me to do it. also @faithchel, who through the occasional sly prompt slid in from ask games (i see you) has been a true angel while i sort through this, and equally as encouraging!

and of course thank you to you all, who read this. i know this is not the usual content you followed me for but i appreciate you all the same. <3

“I cannot believe that I will marry a man so stupid.”

Euphemia is practically frothing at the mouth, she’s so mad; she storms into the chic New York loft, tossing her purse onto the nearby counter, her heels clipping against the polished floor decisively. It’s late; the silk slip of a dress draped across her body brushes the floor in a sweeping train, and she balances herself on the counter with one hand while she steps out of the stilettos with the assistance of the other.

“Euphie, luce della mia vita,” Santino says, striding in after her and completely at ease. He is, infuriatingly, as he always is; perfectly composed, his dark curls in place and his suit immaculate. Euphemia eyes him through the mirror of her vanity as he sidles up behind her. “We’re not married yet, princesa, so you have nothing to worry about.”

“Luce della mia vita,” Euphemia drawls mockingly. She drips the words in honey on the way out of her mouth, sliding a dainty, glittering bracelet from her wrist and dropping it on the counter. “You sound like a fucking idiot, Santi.”

His gaze darkens, but his voice is still silky when he says, “Watch your tone, cara mia.”

“What for?” Euphemia thinks she wouldn’t be able to watch her tone even if she wanted to; not anymore, not with this hanging over her head. She turns to stare at her fiancé, pressing her index finger to his chest. “You’re going to get killed by Baba Yaga anyway. No point in behaving myself, is there? Idiota.”

“Euphemia.”

“You leave John Wick alone, Santino,” she bites out. “You don’t ask for a thing from him. Of him. About him. I don’t want John Wick near my life.”

Santino grabs her wrist, the hand with the engagement ring sitting on it—snatches it out of the air like a cobra striking, grips it with hands that usually are much kinder.

“Everything that you have now is a gift from me,” he warns her, voice pitched low. “You like your nice engagement ring? Your nice dresses? This nice loft we live in?”

His fingers grip, nearly bruising; these are the only times that he doesn’t handle her with care, that his elegant fingers don’t splay against her skin reverently—when she’s pissed him off.

“I’ve given it all to you, all of these things, this life that you like having and don’t want John Wick near, so I would suggest watching your tone for that.”

There is a brief moment where Euphemia thinks she might finally, right now, resort to the violence of slapping Santino in the face. The threat is not lost on her; it’s Santino’s favorite thing to do when he’s angry. And for her to commit an act of violence against her fiancé would be unthinkable almost every other time, in any other situation. Euphie would not have considered it in the least, but there are times—on occasion—where she thinks for a second that she doesn’t recognize him; that he’s become some amalgam of all of the men who have grabbed her too hard or told her she owes them. Men who have used her meanly.

And Santino has divulged his plan to push John Wick for a favor.

So, yes: she thinks she might, but then her hand is moving of her own volition, sliding the engagement ring off of her finger and stuffing it into his jacket pocket, the more pacifist choice than what her mind is screaming for her to do.

“You have never had nothing, Santi,” she says, biting out the words, “so allow me to enlighten you; I have had nothing before you, and I will be just fine having nothing again.”

His eyes narrow, gemlike slits that sit heavy on her. She yanks her wrist of his grip and says, “And it is a good thing we are not married, si? A divorce would have been so messy.”

“Euphie,” Santino says in a sigh that lacks venom, as though he weren’t just threatening to take everything from her, as though she were the hysterical one, “don’t fuss.”

Don’t fuss, he says, because Santino has only ever had women before that bend themselves over backwards until they break for him; don’t fuss, he says, because he likes and maybe loves her, she thinks, but he doesn’t like or love when she talks back. Santino has always had someone to wait on him, to serve him, and Euphemia has never seen his parents together but she would that his only vision of marriage is that of a subservient, dutiful, loving wife.

“Oh, but my darling,” she coos, very undutiful and decidedly not subservient, “I wouldn’t want you to have to worry about all of the nice things you give me. You can enjoy them all yourself, for the brief time before Baba Yaga kills you for asking him to do a job he does not want to do, when he has announced his retirement.”

It’s a terrible way to feed the monster inside of her. That monster is a pusher, a puller, the kind that picked and chipped away at Santino until he lost that shred of his manicured control and gave her something, anything she could work with. It was impossible to love a man who was so buttoned up there was nowhere for her to put her love.

His expression tightens in the way that she recognizes as his controlled fury; bottling it, merchandising it, saving it for later. Santino is not incapable of killing his sister himself, but for some reason—a reason that Euphemia is sure is only known to him—he won’t. Some stupid shit about blood and family, probably.

“Take the ring back.” Santino’s voice is smooth, belying the danger lurking just beneath. He fishes the engagement ring out of the pocket of his suit jacket, where she’d dropped it, and picks up her hand again; this time, his fingers don’t grip with bruising force, but cradle. Euphemia thinks she might have pushed him, then, right to the line, because his eerie calm is unsettling as his fingers meticulously slide the engagement ring back into place.

He says, “There, you see? This is where your engagement ring belongs and will stay. Here, on your hand. Just like this is where you belong and will stay—here, with me.” His hand comes up to her face; she turns away, and he catches her chin and forces her to look back at him.

“You know I will get you anything you want,” Santino murmurs, “but you have to ask.”

Nicely, is the implied word. A good fiancé, a good wife, wouldn’t storm out of the car after he mentions John Wick in passing, ripping through the loft, calling him names. She knows all of this and she thinks, then maybe I’m not a good anything.

But she can tell when she’s pushed Santino’s buttons just enough—enough to make a point, and not enough to incur his wrath. Not entirely.

“Please, Santi,” she says, her voice still hard but softer than it was before, and already Santi is shaking his head so she plunges on recklessly, “do not cash in John Wick’s debt to you. Ascoltami, I know you—I know you will do something to put yourself and John Wick on opposite sides of the playing field.”

Santino’s gaze is sharp and clear. He drops his hand from her face, shrugging, and says, “So what? I will be playing chess, and John Wick will be playing checkers. You worry too much, Euphie.”

“What you mean to say is that I think before I act.”

He shrugs, and threads his fingers through her hair, reaching up with the other to brush loose strands of it from her eyes. He rumbles pleasantly, “Don’t you trust me?”

Euphemia grits her teeth. Her hands come up to grip his wrists, watching him with a prickle of dread in her chest. “Don’t you trust me, Santi?”

Santi’s gaze darkens. Like that, he drops his hands from her, tucking them into the pockets of his slacks as he turns and wanders further into the bedroom, taking all of his warmth with him and leaving Euphie to marinate in the cold glow of the vanity’s lights.

“You can say no,” she says after him, frustrated. “You don’t have to keep an air of mystery about it.”

“What do I do then, tesora?” Santino demands, turning to look at her from the foot of the bed where stands. “Kill her myself? You know I can’t. You know that you cannot ask me to do that.” A pause, and then, with an added air of entitlement: “And Wick owes me.”

There are complicated feelings wrapped up in the whole of it, she knows; Santino, who wants what his sister was given, but cannot bring himself to end her. Euphemia, who only wants Santino, who doesn’t care if he has a seat at the High Table or if he’s a sister-killer or not, who only wants him to look at her longingly like he did when they first met, just for forever instead of a brief moment in time.

And both of them, intrinsically linked, because Santino isn’t wrong when he says that he’s given her everything she has now and Euphemia isn’t wrong when she says she would be okay with nothing again.

She doesn’t ask it of him; he is right, that she can’t, that she wouldn’t. Gianna has only ever been kind to her, at least face to face, and if Santi’s sister had any reservations about Euphemia, then Euphie would find herself in a completely different situation. Not engaged to the only other heir to the D’Antonio empire, that was for certain.

Instead, then, she says, “I cannot ask you to do it, you’re right. I cannot ask you to do it, and I cannot keep you, and I cannot throw you away, Santino. I was less tired when I had nothing.”

She turns away and walks herself into the bathroom, fingers trembling as she undoes the delicate zipper of the gold dress, letting it pool at the floor in a whisper of fabric. The engagement ring sits heavy on her hand. It’s beautiful—and just what she wants, and also the thing that she fears the most, because she doesn’t know what it means to Santino and only what it means to her.

“Euphie.”

His voice comes from the doorway of the bathroom. She turns on the hot water in the tub, a beautiful porcelain clawfoot that she picked herself. It was one of the first things that Santino gifted to her, the first essence of her in the loft that is now almost entirely half-and-half the two of their tastes.

Euphemia doesn’t say anything, because she doesn’t know what to say, so she ties up her hair and shimmies out of the last of her clothes. She can feel his eyes on her, waiting for her to flower into submission and turn around and beg, oh, please Santino, forgive me, but he should know better because she has never and will never do that for him.

“Cara mia.”

“Do not.” Euphemia’s voice wobbles. She slides into the bathtub before it’s full, the water stinging her skin where it touches. “I can’t stand to hear your voice saying sweet things to me when you are willingly walking yourself into your grave.”

“You are being a little dramatic.” He makes his way over to her, kneeling down beside the porcelain tub, ghosting his fingers over her forehead and then the bridge of her nose, fluttering in a way that treasures her and causes her grief all at once. “Just one job, Euphie. That’s all I’m going to ask of him. And then it’s done, and you won’t have to be worried about the Boogeyman.” The pads of his fingers dip into the hot water and then skim along the slope of her collarbone, raising goosebumps on her skin. “And John Wick, whose lifelong peace you are very concerned about, can go back to his dog and his car.”

Euphemia thinks, it’s never just that, with you, because she knows Santino—she knows he’s hungry, has always been hungry, a boy magicked into a man’s skin all hurt and needing and starved, unable to inhibit himself properly. No self-preservation telling him when to stop, never telling him when enough is enough. Not really.

I see you, though, she thought, her gaze flickering over Santino’s face to trace the handsome lines of his expression. She would have never agreed to marry a man before she saw him without his face off; without knowing the monster underneath.

But while she knows this, and she sees Santino D’Antonio for what he really is, she is an idiot and a fool and loves a man sick with the magic of his own perceived destiny, a destiny he believes he is owed, so she says softly, “Promise me, Santi.”

“On my life,” Santino replies with that boyish charm she knows so well. He speaks as though he is not going to leave her in the morning to visit Baba Yaga, as though she doesn’t fear he won’t ever come back. “Now give me a kiss, princesa.”

“I mean it, Santino—”

“I do, too.” He cocks his head to the side. “I won’t ask twice.”

Euphemia acquiesces; not because she fears what he’ll do if he does feel he has to ask twice—because he does hate that—but because as much as she says she would be happy to have nothing again, she is content to bask in the something that she has now, while she has it.

She kisses the corner of his mouth. He slides his damp fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck and says, “Do you love me?”

“Of course.” Her voice feels rough with an emotion she doesn’t want any of. “Of course, Santi, that’s why I—”

“All I need is a yes or no, my little fox, not an essay.”

Her eyes narrow. She turns her face from him; he shifts his position at the end she’s leaned against, dragging his hands along her shoulders to ease the tension in her muscles. Her body reacts instinctively to him. She is a long cry from the girl scamming rich men out of their wallets and time, but there are some things she is still weak to; touch, the acknowledgment that she has a body, that she is real, to be reassured that she is alive.

Santino is so very good at that. He leans over the end of the tub and kisses her cheek, fingers working into the knots of her shoulders.

I am so afraid, she thinks, her eyelashes fluttering shut. I am so afraid that I will never see old age on you.

“Tesora.” His voice is a lull. Pulling her back in, pushing her back under, reminding her that to relinquish herself to someone is a luxury she does not want to go without anymore. To let someone else take control, to not have to worry about making decisions all the time; this is something that she always wants.

“Yes,” Euphie says, “of course I love you, Santi.”

She can feel his smile against her cheek.

“Good girl.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Tell me your favorite words.”

It’s both early and late; the clock’s cool blue numbers are keeping her awake; Santi’s hand slides along the curve of her hip admiringly above the silk of her nightdress, and his nose brushes the bump at the base of her neck. Euphemia shifts. When she does, the edge of her engagement ring catches on the silky pillowcase, but she doesn’t care—it will always do that, because Santi won’t pick another and Euphie won’t ask him to.

Goosebumps prickle along her skin with the air conditioning, cranked as high as she likes, whispers across it when her shoulder slides out from underneath the comforter. She rolls over to look at him. It’s unsurprising that he’s still awake, and he doesn’t look surprised to see she’s awake, either.

“My favorite words?” she prompts. Santino brings his hand to her face, his thumb dragging absently along her lower lip.

“Si,” he replies. “You are always reading. You can speak a few languages. You must have favorite words, no?”

His request does bring a smile to her face, tired as it is. They may have spent the rest of their waking evening wandering around each other like wounded dogs, wary and licking their wounds, but they are here now, together, in their bed.

Euphie says, “It is late, Santi.”

“And I cannot sleep.” He brushes his nose along her jawline. “But perhaps the soothing voice of my one greatest love will lull me.”

She laughs. Her hand finds his, their fingers interlacing, woven together. He pulls back from her and kisses the engagement ring, but he is waiting. He means it.

“Tendresse,” Euphemia says, the word rolling soft out of her mouth from misuse. Santino quirks a brow expectantly and kisses the pulse point of her wrist. “Tenderness.”

He nods sagely. Against the soft skin of the inside of her wrist, he murmurs, “You are a most tender creature, Euphemia D’Antonio.”

Her fingers slide out of his, running along the slope of his cheekbones and then the bridge of his nose. “That is Euphemia Volpe. If you’ll recall, we’re yet to be married.”

Santino leans in, captures her fingertips playfully with his teeth, and then kisses her palm with a warm, rich chuckle that sends pleasant heat spiraling down her spine. “You will never forget that I was fool enough to say that to you, will you?” he asks. “Tell me another.”

His eyes are just as warm as his voice, and twice as earnest. In these moments, Santino is the most charming; boyish and quick-witted, unburdened by the elements of the world, by his own desires. He thinks of nothing except them. Euphemia feels like she’s in her own little world with him, in their bedroom at three in the morning, while the air conditioner whirrs and ticks and he asks her something so unimportant, like what her favorite words are.

And then, Santino leans in and kisses her cheek, the corner of her mouth, and the underside of her jaw to prompt her.

“Amore,” she murmurs, feeling like the breath has been sucked out of her lungs by his longing. His tenderness.

“Oh,” Santino says, against her temple, “I know that one.”

When his stubble tickles her neck, she squirms, shifting away from him so hat she can take a breath; but he chases her, leans in and captures her in his arms so that he can nose the hair by her ear and kiss there.

“Euphie, my gorgeous girl,” he says in the way that wrenches her heart; drenched and drowned in adoration. “Perfetto e tutto mio.”

Santino wraps his arms around her and pulls her to his chest, his fingers tracing constellations on her back where the night dress slips away from her shoulder blades. Sweet Santi, covetous Santi; she is his greatest art piece, his favorite collector’s item, and in these moments she has never felt more treasured. There is something equal parts safe and selfish in wanting someone to treasure you.

“Say it for me, Euphie. You know I love when you do.”

She buries her face into his neck. Her eyes burn. He will go to Baba Yaga tomorrow, and she will have to pretend not to know, or it will wreck her. Euphie considers ways to keep him in bed in the morning; delay him, make him forget about John Wick and this glory that he is chasing forever.

“Sono tuo,” she murmurs. Tears sting at the corners of her eyes If he feels them against his skin, Santino makes no indication than to card his fingers through her hair. “Always, Santi.”

Always, always, always yours.

[lalainajanes]

This completes column #2 on my bingo card, the square was “Eager Backstage Groupie”

Another Shot of Courage

 Saturday, May 1st, 8:16 AM

Caroline wakes up in an unfamiliar bed, in the little black dress she'd worn to Kat's birthday party, with a headache and a foul-tasting mouth. She's sprawled in the middle of a very large mattress, so the first thing Caroline does is explore. She stretches her arms out tentatively, expecting to poke someone (hopefully an unobjectionable someone) awake.

She appears to be alone, and Caroline relaxes into the fluffy pillows. She wiggles experimentally, satisfied when her bra and underwear dig into uncomfortable areas and gives in to the temptation to burrow under the duvet.

She just needs a minute to regret her life choices before she confronts them. Caroline sighs, stretches, and her fuzzy head begins to clear, memories sharpening.

And yikes.

Can she stay in her self-made blanket fort forever? A lot of her conduct last night had been highly irrational, some of it downright hypocritical. She is a public relations professional, highly sought after. Her clients pay many pretty pennies for her services.

Had she seriously mauled Klaus Mikaelson in one of the trendiest clubs in LA?

Caroline tugs down the blanket, intent on confirming her suspicions, allowing her to look around and study the room with new eyes.

There's a brick fireplace at the end of the bed, a wide armchair in front of it – not particularly revealing. Her eyes flick to the left. There's nothing, but dark curtains pulled tight over a wall of windows.

When she looks to the right, there's a smoking gun. Well, kind of. It's a drafting table, an easel, and shelves featuring paintbrushes, haphazardly stacked sketchbooks, and a bunch of other things that Caroline doesn't currently have the brainpower to identify.

She considers slipping out of bed and checking to see if those curtains cover any kind of door. She thinks it's logical to assume so. She's only been to Klaus' home a few times, tries to insist they meet at her office. She's never ventured far beyond the kitchen and living rooms, but it's a Spanish-style bungalow on a sprawling lot. Why wouldn't he have a walk out into the yard from his bedroom?

She discards the idea with some regret. Running away without a word is a coward's move and would probably backfire. Klaus is still her client, whatever psychosis had gripped Caroline last night, and it's not like she could dump him via email at this point. He's got a huge movie coming in three weeks, and they're flying to London tomorrow to begin the premiere tour. She could probably pass it on to another publicist, but she'd still be on the hook, would have to coordinate her plans long-distance.

Selfishly, Caroline hopes that's not necessary. She'd hate for someone else to reap the benefits of her hard work.

She heaves herself into a sitting position, wincing when her head throbs. Her stomach seems solid, with no hint of queasiness, so that's a plus. Caroline tosses the covers aside, shifts until her legs slide over the side of the bed. She catches a glimpse of herself in a mirror through the open closet door and cringes.

She'd done an excellent smoky eye last night, and it's migrated all over her face. She doesn't even want to consider how long it's going to take to detangle her hair. She decides she can wait a bit to hunt down Klaus, stepping forward and twisting the knob on the closed door. "Jackpot," Caroline mutters, walking into Klaus' bathroom. There's a stack of towels on the counter, and she figures it won't hurt to take a shower.

She'd had her tongue in his mouth and had apparently kicked him out of his bed, so what's one more presumption?

Friday, April 30th, 10:47 PM

In the VIP lounge Kat had rented, elevated above the main dance floor, Caroline waves away a shot of tequila. She'd had one during the birthday toast, wine at dinner. Had just ordered an overpriced cocktail. She's pleasantly tipsy but needs to pace herself because she can't get too drunk tonight.

Besides, Caroline and tequila have a complicated relationship.

Kat boos her, a few of the other girls joining in. Caroline laughs, "I know, I'm boring. I have a million things to do tomorrow to make sure I'm ready to live out of a suitcase for weeks."

Katherine scoffs, "Just make Klaus buy you anything you forget. What good is a guy who's hot for you and makes big fat superhero movie paychecks if he won't buy you pretty things?"

They've discussed this a bajillion times. Caroline has actually run away from this exact conversation, shouting nonsense syllables, with her fingers jammed in her ear, as if she and Katherine still fight over Barbies and who gets to wear dress-up trunk's best princess dress.

Caroline still can't resist arguing – it's a character flaw. "He's my client. That's it."

"Oh, please. Men in this town bone their clients all the time."

"That doesn't make it okay!"

Usually, this is the part where Katherine tries to convince her that Klaus is dying to be boned – her words, not Caroline's – but she gets distracted, squinting across the bar. Kat's lips curl, expression growing sly, "It appears my argument is moot."

Um, what? Katherine's literally never backed down from an argument in the twenty-plus years they've been friends. Puzzled, Caroline turns, trying to see what caught Kat's attention.

The club features several VIP lounges, each located at the top of a short staircase and decorated with wide velvet sofas and crystal chandeliers. There's an attendant who keeps booze and food flowing. It's clever – the sofas are inviting and squishy, tend to force people close together. The chandeliers ensure that anyone who happens to take a picture can get a decent shot, and the free flow of liquor has lowered the inhibitions of at least half a dozen celebrities, resulting in photos that send the gossip blogs into a tizzy as soon as they hit the internet.

When Caroline spots Klaus across the way, a redheaded model sprawled in his lap, she's immediately fuming.

"Looks like he got tired of waiting," Kat drawls. "Wanna reconsider the tequila?"

"Katherine. I love you. But zip it."

Katherine makes a face but leaves Caroline alone, turning to another one of their friends and asking a question. Caroline takes a deep breath, counts to ten.

She'd busted her ass to make him appear family-friendly enough to land the movie with the very PR-conscious studio that had netted him the big fat checks Katherine had just been crowing over. He's jeopardizing that on the eve of the most significant press tour of his career.

She looks over again, leaning forward. The redhead's moved away, she's sitting at Klaus' side, and they now appear to be merely engaged in conversation. Caroline does her best to think like a photographer – is there an angle that could make the scene look tawdry?

Probably not. So really, Klaus isn't jeopardizing anything.

Caroline's anger doesn't cool at the revelation.

She's so screwed.

She's on her feet before she decides to be, stalking down the stairs. She hears Katherine yelling borderline lewd encouragement at her back, but Caroline knows better than to take her advice.

She's marching over to diffuse, not inflame.

Hopefully.

Saturday, May 1st, 9:01 AM

She finds Klaus in his living room, asleep, his legs hanging awkwardly over the arm of a too-short couch, his torso twisted so awkwardly that Caroline's back twinges sympathetically. With the confirmation that she had stolen his bed, more of Caroline's irritation fades. The shower had helped, as had the bottle of water she'd guzzled and the three Tylenol she'd popped.

She takes a seat on his coffee table, setting down her second bottle of water. Caroline reaches out, shaking his shoulder gently. "Klaus," she murmurs when he begins to stir. "Wake up."

She could probably leave him to sleep. Klaus' stylist will handle most of his packing; he's borrowed a dizzying volume of outfits and accessories for Klaus to wear on this trip. The announcement won't come for another two weeks, but Klaus is shooting a Dior cologne ad once his press obligations wrap. The brand had requested he start wearing the newest line. Caroline had attended the last fitting, and she'd had a hard time keeping her blatant ogling under wraps.

Klaus looks good in ratty jeans, in a suit tailored to his measurements? Just about anyone attracted to men would have struggled not to appreciate the sight.

That's how Caroline had justified letting her emails pile up that afternoon.

She'd been a little worried about her control slipping on this trip, once they were alone in the hotel, and Klaus dropped the shiny, press-perfect façade he's learned to maintain. Caroline had designed that mask to appeal to the broadest possible audience. Doing interview prep has unfortunately only emphasized how much more she likes Klaus without it.

Klaus stretches, eyes fluttering open. "Good morning," he murmurs, voice husky with sleep. "I hope you slept better than I did."

Caroline winces, "Don’t you have a guest room or two you could have shoved me in?”

He smiles lazily, “You were quite insistent on touring my bedroom.”

Her eyes slam shut, face heating, “And that is why I don’t drink tequila unsupervised,” she grumbles.

He laughs, sitting up, his legs bracketing hers. He reaches for her water bottle and helps himself to a sip. Caroline leans back, fishing the Tylenol out of the pocket of the hoodie she’d stolen from his closet. She’d needed something bulkier to hide the fact she hadn’t been able to convince herself to strap her bra back on. “Do you want these?” she asks, rattling the bottle.

Klaus shakes his head, “I’m not hungover. I didn’t drink at all, and you stole that shot of tequila that was meant for me, remember?”

Ohhh no. She’d forgotten about that. She’d stolen his and the model’s.

Which, in hindsight, goes a long way to explaining what had happened after. Caroline’s problem with tequila is that once she starts, she has a hard time stopping. It heightens her usually non-existent impulsive streak, leads to sub-par decisions.

Occasionally, tequila does make her clothes fall off.

Caroline buries her hands in her face, wishing she hadn’t tied her hair back. She’s mortified, probably growing splotchy. “I am so sorry,” she mutters.

Klaus sighs, tries to tug her hands away. Caroline resists, tensing her muscles, wishes she’d gone with her first instinct and fled out the backdoor. He rests his hands on her knees, squeezing, voice dipping into coaxing tones. “No apology necessary. I’m not the least bit upset.”

Unfortunately, Caroline’s totally up to the task of being upset enough for the both of them.

Friday, April 30th, 10:53 PM

Once the attendant in Klaus VIP area confirms that he does know Caroline and lets her up the stairs, Klaus has managed to increase the distance between his body and the model’s. He seems pleased to see her, grabbing her hand and tugging her to sit next to him on the couch.

Close enough that they’re connected thigh to shoulder.

The model, whose name Caroline doesn’t particularly care about, is less welcoming. She glares daggers at Caroline’s hand, still enclosed in Klaus’. He makes polite introductions. “Genevieve, this is my publicist and very good friend, Caroline Forbes. Caroline, Genevieve. She’s a friend of Kol’s.”

Klaus’ younger brother is also an actor, still firmly in the throes of his wild child phase. Caroline finds him entertaining, despite her best intentions, but he’s known to delight in making her job more complicated. She glances around suspiciously, “Is Kol here?”

Klaus gestures vaguely to the dance floor. “Somewhere. He dragged me out to celebrate a pilot he booked, then disappeared.”

Hmm, that could lead to disaster. Caroline wonders if she should shoot his publicist a text as a professional courtesy.

Caroline smiles at Genevieve sharply, “So sweet of you to keep Klaus company.” It’s mean, but Caroline wonders if Genevieve has somehow heard about Klaus’ Dior deal through the grapevine. Maybe she’s aiming for a co-starring role – Caroline’s read the treatment for the commercial; it’s supposed to be streamy.

Oh, good lord, High School Caroline has somehow time traveled and taken over her body.

Genevieve pastes on an equally fake smile (at least Caroline’s not the only one regressing). Before she can snipe back, a silver tray is set in front of them, two shots resting on it. The attendant catches Caroline’s eye, “Can I get you anything, Miss?”

Klaus interrupts, squeezes her hand in an absent apology, “Sorry, there must be some mistake. I ordered a water.”

He’s contractually obligated to maintain a ridiculously chiseled body. Caroline’s got a reminder in her phone to order him a pile of celebratory spaghetti after his press obligations are officially over and he can relax for a few months.

The attendant’s eyes flit to Genevieve in confusion, “I…”

“I cancelled that,” she chirps, sliding her hand up Klaus’ arm. Genevieve leans in, tone lowering to what Caroline thinks is supposed to be a seductive level. “Figured we would toast.”

Caroline catches it because she’s practically plastered to Klaus’ other side. “Who toasts with tequila?” she asks. “Other than creeps at bars, I mean.”

Had Caroline not been well acquainted with Katherine Pierce, she might have been intimidated by Genevieve's attempt at a lethal glare.

Caroline stares back, reaching blindly for the first shot. She tosses it back, then the second, fighting the shudder that wants to wrack her frame through sheer willpower alone.

“Bitch,” Genevieve mutters, standing and flouncing away.

It’s petty, but Caroline savors her win.

Klaus is staring at her oddly, a touch concerned. “Maybe we should get you some water, love.”

Saturday, May 1st, 9:04 AM

“There were more shots when I got back to Kat’s party,” Caroline moans. “I’m going to kill her. She knows my weaknesses.”

“While I am reluctant to defend your irritating friend, she did seem rather intent on her fun. It was her birthday, wasn’t it?”

Caroline nods, “Yeah. And Kat’s always been firmly convinced that she should get to do whatever her little black heart desires on her birthday.”

“She did insist I ensure you get home safely. I’m afraid you were rather reluctant to supply your address.”

She sighs, finally dropping her hands. “Honestly, I just moved into a condo. I might not have remembered it.” That’s the less embarrassing option. It’s probably more likely that tequila drunk Caroline had crafted a plan to seduce Klaus, and step one entailed getting invited to his house. “I know you said not to apologize, but I obviously put you out. I’m supposed to babysit you, not the other way around.”

Klaus laughs, his knee nudging hers. “I haven’t needed that for ages, as you well know.”

He has a point – Caroline likely wouldn’t have agreed to take him on if he was still indulging in public drunkenness and paparazzi punching. When she’d first met with Klaus, it had been out of curiosity. She’d made a comfortable living from her client roster, did not need to take on the project of a difficult actor.

Klaus’ bad behavior had been a few years in the past, and he’d just come off a run of festival darlings and had produced a surprise hit sci-fi drama. He’d been frustrated by the doors that remained firmly shut to him, had laid his ambitions on the table.

Caroline had been intrigued. While she’s excellent at her job, but it’s always easier to work her magic with clients who are willing to dive into the work. Klaus’ talent was undeniable; she’d thought he could be a household name with the right opportunity. She’d agreed to take him on, and three years later, it’s paid off.

Caroline tugs the sleeves of his sweatshirt down over her hands, eyes on the frayed trim. “I was mad when I saw you last night, and that wasn’t fair. You’d set you were resting up for the press tour, but it’s not my business if you changed your mind.”

“Did you think I was resuming some bad habits?” Klaus asks. “I know that particular venue has a… reputation. Probably why Kol picked it.”

Caroline sneaks a glance at him, trying to gauge how he feels, but he’s not giving much away. “No, not really. I trust you. I wasn’t thinking super logically.”

She has to admit, at least to herself, that she’d been jealous. Caroline’s going to have to think about how deep that goes, if the feelings that had slapped her in the face last night will prevent their working relationship from being effective. What if Klaus meets someone? Will she be able to plant sneaky tidbits about how happy they are, scour the gossip blogs for rumors that could become issues?

“You? Not thinking logically? However could that be?”

She glares at him, though she knows his teasing is good-natured. “Some of it was the booze. I totally wouldn’t have hauled you onto the dance floor without it. And I wouldn’t have… well, you were there.”

She’s not up to list her transgressions. If Klaus hadn’t been drinking, then his memory of her wandering hands, her flirtatious comments, and heated invitations should be crystal clear. Caroline had been drunk, and she’s having a hard time not dwelling on the kiss – which, to be fair, Klaus had enthusiastically participated in – that she’d initiated.

“I was there. I have no objections to anything that occurred last night, save perhaps wishing you’d been sober.” Her head snaps up, eyes widening in shock, and Klaus laughs incredulously. “Surely you must know of my interest in you, Caroline.”

She’s suspected, but she’s also well aware that Klaus has no shortage of offers. Last night is proof of that. Caroline has always assumed that take one of them, at some point, and his flirtatiousness with her would fade away. She’d dated an actor or two when she’d moved to LA after wrapping up college. Caroline had been working insane hours then, trying to claw her way past the other assistants at the agency where she’d worked. Her exes from that time period had been quick to move on once they realized she wasn’t willing to center her universe around them.

“Interest can be fleeting.”

“It’s been three years.”

“You never made a real move.”

Again, Klaus counters quickly. “You’d not have accepted, and then you’d likely have pawned me off on someone else.”

Yeah, he’s got a point there. “I’m your publicist.”

“I have no objection to mixing business with pleasure. If you do, I suppose I’m willing to suffer a less competent publicist.”

“I’m beginning to suspect you’ve been plotting.”

Klaus shrugs, entirely unrepentant. “Perhaps a bit. I’ve always been entirely honest with you, I merely prevented a situation that would lessen the time we spent together until such a time as you were ready to consider me in a romantic light.”

“That’s a lot of words to confess you’ve been trying to flirt me into submission while flashing your hot body at every opportunity,” Caroline grumbles.

Klaus’ smile widens, dimples now visible. “It seems to have worked. Assuming that you meant the things you said to me last night?”

“I…” she hadn’t been expecting him to ask her that directly. She should have been – Klaus is skilled at choosing the best way to catch someone off guard. Caroline glances away from him, eyes catching on the clock across the room. Crap. She has so much to do. “I have to go,” Caroline tells him, standing up.

His eyes narrow,  and his head tips to the side, like he’s searching for a sign of weakness. Both telltale indicators that Klaus is gearing up to argue. Caroline holds up a hand, “I know, okay? This looks like I’m running away, and technically I am, but this is not the time to begin that mixing you mentioned. We’ve both worked too hard to risk screwing up the next few weeks. Did you read your contract? The fines for non-compliance are no joke.”

“Now is not the time,” Klaus says slowly. “Meaning?”

“We table it now. I’m open to a discussion later.” Three weeks is plenty of time for her to sort out where she stands, right? Caroline never sleeps on flights anyway.

He runs a hand through his hair. “I want a timeline. I understand that you feel obligated to ensure this press tour goes smoothly, but you can only use it as an excuse until it’s over, love. I’m prepared to be persuasive.”

“What, do you want me to schedule something on your calendar? Maybe set an agenda?”

“No need to be so formal. Just agree to have dinner with me once we return. Here, if you’d like, so we don’t risk inflaming the tabloids before you’re ready.”

“You seem awfully sure that this is going to go a certain way. So eager to fire me?”

Klaus gets to his feet, and Caroline sucks in a nervous breath. Sitting across from each other, he’d been a reasonable distance away. Now, with both of them standing in the narrow gap between his couch and coffee table, if one of them breathes too deeply or shifts deliberately, they’ll be plastered together.

She’s tempted despite knowing she’s right about the timing.

Klaus rests his hand on her waist and turns them so Caroline could step back if she wanted to.

She stays where she is.

A tiny smile curls Klaus’ lips and his hand moves, pressing her closer. “As much as I enjoyed your more… explicit ramblings last night, I must confess my favorite revelation was when you confessed to just how long you’ve had them.”

Caroline, not for the first time, curses tequila’s wretched existence.

Wednesday, May 5th 2:20 PM

The meet and greets are going to kill her.

Caroline had thought they were a good idea when she’d poured through the itinerary the studio had sent over. Inviting popular bloggers, auctioning off tickets for charity, allowing fans to enter random draws – it’s great PR and provides the opportunity for viral moments, while also controlling the environment.

Caroline’s leaning against one of the walls, unnoticed, eyes on her client.

A lot of eyes are on her client, some of which irritate Caroline more than others. The two teenage girls, trailed by an exasperated dad, who’d both burst into tears when Klaus had smiled at them? Totally adorable. The nerdy college student who’d grilled Klaus about his character’s comic backstory? Kind of a pain, but Klaus had done his homework, and Caroline had been impressed.

And annoyed. Excessive preparation is very attractive and unhelpful at this juncture of the press tour. Caroline’s already begun to reconsider what they’d agreed to, wonders if knocking on his hotel room door on the last night would be such a bad thing.

That line of thinking might be overly influenced by the scene in front of her.

Klaus is speaking with a woman in an afternoon inappropriate silver dress. Caroline’s sorely tempted to have her escorted out by security. She’d slipped a key card into the back pocket of Klaus’ jeans within 90 seconds of meeting him.

He’s handed it back, said something that made her laugh. They’re still talking.

Klaus glances up, eyes landing on her immediately. Caroline hastily tries to soften her irritated expression lest he guesses its reason. Klaus smiles, subtly tips his water bottle in her direction. Silver Dress invades his personal space a little more.

Ugh. It’s gonna be a long three weeks.

[sitp-recs]

Hello lovely, I'm craving some fake dating, got any recs? 💕 (I love dirtynumbangelboy and In The Shadow of Your Heart and rec those if you haven't read them yet!) Thanks!

Hi darling! Ahh I love these fics you mentioned, they’re so lovely and well written! I’m linking both in case anyone wants to check them:

dirtynumbangelboy by @magpiefngrl (2017, Explicit, 39k)

After Harry’s unfortunate encounter with his ex, Draco Malfoy makes him a proposition. Draco wants his parents to stop matchmaking him and Harry wants to make his ex jealous. All they need to do is simply pretend they’re in love. Problem is… Draco already is.

In the Shadow of Your Heart by @lqtraintracks (2017, Explicit, 51k)

And thus began the very strange circumstance of their fake dating in public and real fucking in absolute secret. It was, with no comparison, the weirdest relationship Draco had ever been in – which was to say, it wasn't one.

And here are my humble recs:

Some Dance to Remember, Some Dance to Forget by @l0vegl0wsinthedark (2019, Mature, 5k)

Over time, fake turns real.

In Which Harry is Magnetic North and Draco Is An Idiot by @bryoneybrynn (2014, Teen and Up, 14k)

For as long as he can remember, Draco’s been bringing fake dates to his family’s annual Yuletide celebration in order to evade his mother’s matchmaking. This year, Potter’s posing as his pretend boyfriend. But as the party gets underway, it gets unclear who’s playing who, who’s pretending what, who’s not pretending at all, and what the game really is. Confused? Yeah, so is Draco…

The One Where Draco Loses his Mind and Gains a Boyfriend by oldenuf2nb and sassy_cissa (2020, Explicit, 19k)

"How is it Potter can manage to drive me crazy and yet make me want to help him? I have to have lost my mind to even consider this insanity."

head over heels by derekmaliknurse (2018, Teen and Up, 21k)

Everyone in Harry’s life thinks he’s engaged to Malfoy. The solution to this is not pretending to date Malfoy, but here he is doing that anyway.

The Gentlewizard Club by @sophiefrench77 (2014, Explicit, 28k)

Draco wants what Draco wants. And if he has to snuggle up to Harry to get it, well, surely, Draco can handle that. Problem is, not sure Harry can.

A Convenient Impracticality by @firethesound (2015, Explicit, 38k)

Somehow Harry ends up agreeing to a fake relationship with his ex-nemesis-turned-friendly-acquaintance-with-benefits, except for some reason it involves an awful lot of actual dating and, sadly, not much sex. Confused? Harry is too, but when has anything with Draco Malfoy ever been as straightforward as it seems?

Chocolate and Pastry by agentmoppet and anemonen (2018, Explicit, 50k)

When Pansy bets Draco that there is no chance he and Harry could carry out a genuine romantic relationship, he and Harry form a plan. But as their fake relationship progresses, Draco sees a side of Harry he never expected. Harry is struggling with something, pushing it far down inside him where he doesn't have to acknowledge its existence. Draco starts to worry, and then he starts to care, and then... horribly... he starts to fall in love.

Thine Enemy is Sweet by XxTheDarkLordxX (2019, Explicit, 53k)

A story featuring a ragtag team of morons, bickering enemies that can't agree on anything, a heist that surely won't end well and a connection that neither Harry or Draco can deny.

Naked by @bixgirl1 (2017, Explicit, 57k)

Harry and Draco are sent on an undercover assignment to catch a Dark wizard — which might not be so bad if it weren't at a Muggle nudist resort. Now Draco has to deal with a very interested Harry, temptation he's long-since learned to ignore, and threats around every corner — including the one to his heart.

There is Always the Moon by @firethesound (2016, Teen and Up, 159k)

Draco's life after the war is everything he wanted it to be: it's simple, and quiet, and predictable, and safe. But when a mysterious curse shatters the peace he'd worked so hard to build, there's only one person he can trust to help him. After all, Harry Potter has saved his life before. Now Draco has to believe that Potter will be able to do it one more time. (A remix of If the Sun Goes Black by pasdexcuses)

[loganisanobody]

Virgil dug his nails into his palms, trying to keep his breathing steady and slow. Another wave of dull pain ran through him, his chest clenching, achiness pulsing down his arms. He squeezed his eyes shut as his mind flew to every location in the mindscape he could find a sharp thing. If he could just nick the skin, he could let the pain out, right? Just one little scratch…

He shook his head, his breathing coming faster even as he tried again to keep it steady. He dug his nails further into his skin.

‘C’mon, c’mon, breathe, idiot. You know you can’t do that. It won’t work and it’ll just worry the others.’

But another wave came over him, and his breath hitched. It was the dullness that got him, like a lukewarm shower, or a chipped cup. Enough to bother you, not enough to fix.

He jumped when something touched his hands, and his eyes flew open.

Another pair of hands were gently pulling his fingers out of his palms. He noticed, against the sure and steady hold of those hands, that his own were shaking.

He closed his eyes again as a wave of disappointment washed over him. He was weak, and helpless, and there was no hiding it.

“Virgil,” came Logan’s voice, low and gentle.

Virgil shook his head. What was there to talk about?

He could feel tears starting to leak out from under his lashes. Ugh, how useless could he be?

One of the hands left his and rested on his cheek, Logan’s thumb wiping away some of the tears.

“May I sit with you, Virgil?”

Virgil paused. He wasn’t sure he expected that. After a moment, he shrugged, and Logan moved to sit down on the bed next to him, taking one hand in his and rubbing the back of it with his thumb. But then, Logan gently pulled Virgil’s arm in front of him and started lightly massaging the inside of his forearm.

Virgil let out a sob before he could stop it, and Logan paused.

“N-no, please…” Virgil squeaked desperately. “I-I mean… could… could you…?”

Logan seemed to understand him, and smiled gently, resuming the massage.

It was like he was taking the dull ache and pushing it away, and it was wonderful.

Virgil gave himself over to his crying. Logan quietly sat with him, continuing his massage up his arm and onto his upper back and shoulders.

Finally, Virgil was able to regain some control of himself, and Logan finished the massage and resumed simply rubbing the back of Virgil’s hand as Virgil leaned on his shoulder.

It was a while before either of them spoke, but it was Virgil who broke the silence.

“How… How did you know?”

“Hmm?” Logan looked down at him.

“How did you know… to do that? The… rubbing… thing?”

“Ah. I have been doing research, for you and Thomas, and have found that there are many physical symptoms to anxiety as well as mental. I asked Thomas about any he had experienced, and made a hypothesis that you might feel the same. I had meant to talk to you about it, but this came up first.”

Virgil nodded.

“I believe, based on this experience and hopefully information I may receive from you when you are feeling better, you would benefit from a weighted blanket.”

Virgil looked up at him, his brow furrowed. “A what?”

“A weighted blanket. It is a special quilted blanket with some type of weight, usually small beads, that make it heavier while still being comfortable. It has proved to be of some use for many people with anxiety, and if you and Thomas… how did Thomas put it… ‘feel achy’ at times, and such things as a massage help, I believe a weighted blanket may as well.”

“Oh.”

“That is to say,” Logan added quickly, “I do not mind giving you massages whenever you feel this way. I only suggest it as a preventative measure and as I know you do not like to come get any of us when you are feeling unwell, and I would like to provide you with the tools to handle it on your own if you do not feel comfortable coming to get m— one of us. I am also recommending it to Thomas.”

Virgil chuckled. Logan was getting so good at anticipating what he was thinking, he hadn’t even had the chance to think through that line of thought before he talked it down.

“Yeah, L, that sounds great.”

Logan grinned. “Good. I will inform Roman. Is there anything you would like to talk about?”

Virgil’s smile fell, and he stared down at their clasped hands.

Logan waited patiently, still rubbing the back of Virgil’s hand.

“I’m sorry,” Virgil finally whispered.

“For what?”

“For… for being an idiot… and a coward…”

Logan regarded him for a moment. “I am sorry, I do not see any evidence of those two claims.”

Virgil rolled his eyes. “I… This pain… it isn’t even that bad, but when it comes, I want…” He closed his eyes and steeled himself. “I want to hurt myself.”

He waited for a reaction, but Logan simply sat there and kept rubbing his hand, so Virgil continued.

“I mean, I just have this thought in my head that if I cut myself, it would let the bad stuff out, and I would be healed, you know? And I know that isn’t how it works, but every time it hurts, that thought comes. And… and you saw me… with my nails… I guess I was already starting to do it. And you had to come in and help me and I couldn't stop it myself and you have to—"

"Virgil," Logan cut him off. "I choose to help you, because I don't like to see you hurt. I do not blame you for your hurt or anxiety. Surely you do not blame Thomas for his?"

"No! That's not… thats's…"

"And though you embody his anxiety, you are much more. You do. Not. Hurt. Thomas. Right?"

Virgil stared down at their hands.

"Not willingly or consciously, and certainly not often. Actually, I have started to believe that the parts of Thomas's anxiety that physically hurt him are more separated from you than you think."

Virgil glanced up at Logan uncertainly, but Logan remained firm.

"You protect Thomas. That is your job, your goal, your purpose. If anything were to go against that, you would fight it to the bitter end." He paused, then sighed. "But I digress. These thoughts of self harm are not uncommon. Whether they are thoughts of actual temptation or simply intrusive thoughts, it doesn't matter. What matters is that you don't act on them. That makes you strong. Virgil." He cleared his throat. "You are very strong, and brave. You… you fight this fight that I can only assume from others' research must be exhausting and frustrating and at times terrifying, every day. And you wake up to do it the next. You never give up. For us, or for Thomas, or I hope for at least in small part for yourself, you keep fighting. That is the bravest thing I have ever heard of, and I am proud to know you for it."

Logan looked up and was surprised to see Virgil staring at him with tears in his eyes. "Did I say something wro—?"

Virgil threw his arms around him in a fresh bout of sobs. After a surprised moment, Logan returned the hug, rubbing small circles on Virgil's back.

Even when Virgil's cries had died down again, they remained in that position, comfortable in each other's arms.

"Thank you, Logan," Virgil mumbled into Logan's shoulder.

"Anytime, Virgil," Logan whispered back. "I promise."

[obeiii-mee]

Hi I hope you're fine! Can you make the reaction of the brothers to a Mc who managed to overtake Salomon and made 100 pacts, the 100 th being ... Diavolo himself ?! (idk if it is really possible) Thank you love on you

I don’t really know if it’s possible either but I gave it a go anyway! I love this concept tho because MC, being the powerhouse they are, now has absolute control of 100 demons one which is actual prince of hell. Idk why I find that funny tbh.

I hope you’re well too and that you enjoy reading these HCs!

————————————

The Brothers Reacting to MC who made 100 pacts:

Lucifer:

-*Surprised pikachu face*

-I’m sorry, w a t?

-Not only did an average human,with no magical capabilities whatsoever, beat a spectacular sorcerer in the span of just one year and managed to make 100 pacts before him

-But they also made a pact with Lord Diavolo as a grand finale??? (MC knows how to leave DevilDom with class holy shit)

-If you look closely enough, you can see Lucifer’s wheels spinning inside his head

-And here he thought you were going to get eaten in the first few days

-He needs to sit down for a few moments, his fucking logic has decided to take a walk

-He really went 0-0

-And on one hand, he’s totally impressed and actually very proud of their little exchange student

-But on the other hand, when tf did you have the time to make 100 pacts??

-You talked with at least 92 other demons and didn’t get murdered?

-Are all humans this hard to kill off or it just you?

-Taking aside his confusion and the way he worries like a middle aged parent, he’s actually pretty boastful about your situation

-Pride on another level, I’m telling you

- Pretty smug about it to Solomon too which is concerning because he isn’t really supposed to have favourites in the exchange program

-But he totally does

-“MC, you’re full of surprises aren’t you? You’re ability to adapt here is very impressive. Just don’t get too reckless, I don’t want you getting hurt.”

-Aw your tsundere and arrogant boyfriend actually really cares about your well being

Mammon:

-“But I’m still your first man, right?”

-Literally the first thing that leaves his mouth when he finds out

-Doesn’t matter how many pacts you make, he’s always going to insist he’s your first and therefore your best pact of them all

-He may freak out a bit at first because he doesn’t like the idea of you possibly chatting it up with other demons but he’s pretty chill

-Until you tell him about Lord Diavolo

-“Guess who just made a pact with Lord Diavolo!!”

-“Is it someone famous?”

-He’s a bit scared because the price you have to pay to be in a pact with Lord Diavolo is pretty damn high

-But if you keep insisting you will be fine, his worry will subside

-He’s a bit smug, like Lucifer, knowing you beat a powerful sorcerer in a non existent contest that he just made up in his mind

-Like “In your face Solomon, MY HUMAN got to make 100 pacts before you had the chance. Haha what a loser.”

-I feel like the brothers sometimes wish to just abandon Mammon somehowere so they don’t have to deal with this

-Dude doesn’t care how many pacts you have or with who as long as you remember ‘he was your first man.’

-Of course you of all people would be able to attain such a significant achievement

-You were his human after all

-No matter what you do, he will be even more smitten with you than before

Levi:

-“That’s cool. Will you pass me my headphones.”

-“....”

-“Wait....you did whAT?”

-You’re telling him that he barely has the courage to step outside the House of Lamentation but you can go right ahead and start making pacts with demons like it’s nothing???

-Did he just get beaten at life by a normie?? His normie even??

-He’s really panicking because the shit you’d have to deal with when making that kind of bond with Lord Diavolo is apparently very terrifying and he’s scared something bad will happen

-Pacts also mean markings on your body, so his whole jealousy thing kinda sparks here

-Because ‘it’s not fair you have all these people’s pact marks on you while mine is barely visible!”

-Even though his is like, really obvious too???

-Other than that, he just feels like you’re gaining EXP and getting stronger, like a video game character which is cool

-I want him to show up whenever MC gets in a new pact and just shout ‘Level Up!’ at the top of his lungs lmao

-He doesn’t have that much of an opinion on Solomon, besides his cooking, but he’s impressed and a bit scared that you can outdo a human like him in something as dangerous as this

-Lololololo, Solomon got wrecked by a human normie what a noob XD XD #badassnormie #solomoncanteven #gameoversorcerer

-The brothers seem pretty adamant at rubbing the salt into Solomon’s wounds, can we get an f in the chat for our white haired wizard boi

Satan:

-He knew that humans were capable of a lot of things but what the fuck?

-How is that even possible???? What is the likelyhood of a random human managing to make 100 pacts???

-He is probably the most unsettled because he relies on probability and logic to get him through his day to day life

-And that shit don’t make no fucking sense

-He’s not agitated, just very shocked

-And then he realises the potential threats you’ve been exposed to considering all the demons you’ve had a chat with

-So now he’s just thanking Lord Diavolo that you weren’t eaten alive by some lower level demon scum

-Don’t be surprised if he asks you how you went about when you started making pacts with demons

-You were always a bit of a special case and you certainly stood out from the very beginning but this was something completely different

-For a human like you, that is a very respected achievement you’ve unlocked

-Satan figures that since you made pacts with him and his brothers, you would try to do so with Lord Diavolo too

-But he actually accepted?? You just kinda gave up part of your soul to the demon prince and now you have full control over him???

-It’s amazing how easily you could make demons of all things to trust you

-He respects that and also appreciates your tactical approach to this as well

-It’d be pretty easy to summon a demon to get your ass out of danger if the need arises

-He has no idea what you do to him but it’s strange he would rather let you ramble on about the backstory of every pact you made in the past year than read his collection of books

-Wrath certainly isn’t the only thing in his heart right now

Asmo:

-#conflicted

-His partner beat his ex fuck-buddy at making a pact with Lord Diavolo

-Asmo knew you were special ever since that retreat at Lord Diavolo’s palace when you managed to summon him with such power

-But he definitely wouldn’t have guessed you would be capable of something like this

-Your bravery when it comes to this sort of thing endears him a lot

-He will probably want to see all of your pact marks now (haha you’re in danger)

-Unlike his brothers, he knew damn well why you had managed to make around 100 pacts in just one year

-Demons aren’t used to anything genuine or with good intent

-So, it makes sense they would be attracted like magnets to you and your approachable, kind nature

-After all, demons can’t deal with temptation very well

-Solomon is cunning and ominous, not that different from anyone else down there and it’s a fact the brothers don’t even trust him that much

-But Lord Diavolo?

-“MC honey you hit the jackpot! Tell me every little detail!! What happened? How did the topic of a pact come up?”

-He’s not worried about you overall

-Not because he doesn’t care but he believes that if you can survive for a year with the seven avatars of sin and also convince 93 other demons to make a pact with you, then you can handle whatever Lord Diavolo throws at you

-He probably buys a bunch of revealing clothing you can show off all of your marks because they look ‘fabulous’

-It’s the only think he’s gonna talk about for a while because how many other humans can say they have control of the prince of Hell???

-Asmo also acknowledges that Diavolo must have trusted you a lot for him to agree to this which he thinks is incredible

-He will definitely listen if you have any stories on the pacts you made because he finds them very thrilling and he loves the sound of your voice!!

-Again, he doesn’t need human souls, just a mirror, some skin products and drama to survive

-And you, if I had to guess

Beel:

-The calmest our of the seven about it

-You made a bunch of pacts? Cool, it just shows how strong and independent you are

-Which made him respect you even more to be honest

-He flinches a bit when you tell him about Lord Diavolo because he knows that the prince isn’t the type to agree to anything without being given something in return

-Even if he knows you can handle yourself, he will be right there beside you to help you out

-Also, uh, don’t tell Belphie about the pact thing Diavolo. He might blow a fuse

-You guys work out together sometimes and he is usually utterly mesmerised by all the pact marks you have on your body

-He kinda wishes you would have asked him or one of his brothers to come along with you when you made your pacts

-Just in case things went wrong

-He regrets a lot of things that had happened until now, but one thing he absolutely cherishes is the pact you made with him

-Beel is aware that his brothers think the same and if you think you can deal with the pressure of having some many demons under control, then he won’t nag you too much about being careful

-As for the Solomon thing, he doesn’t have much to say

-I mean, yeah, he is a sorcerer and you’re just a human but if you could make a pact with Lord Diavolo in such a small time frame before he even had the chance to?

-It means you’re just as special as he is

-And definitely a better cook

Belphie:

-ok maybe humans aren’t as stupid as he originally thought them to be

-Making pacts with so many demons is something that takes strength and intelligence, so props to you

-He would never admit it, but you being able to do all this shit without batting an eyelid is seriously restoring his love for humans and their culture

-might take a while tho

-He also wonders when you had the time to make so many bonds, considering he spends most of the day with you at RAD and at home

-Eh, he was probably asleep

-His view of you before the incident did a full 180 degrees

-This sort of thing in DevilDom is something worth praising, especially for an average human like you

-And ‘I guess you don’t look all that bad with so many pact marks on your body *angy boi blush* but I still like mine best!’

-It might be best not to mention the Lord Diavolo thing, otherwise his brain might snap in two

-But turns out, he seems pretty relaxed about it

-Too relaxed, I would say

-“Hey do you think you could use your pact with Lord Diavolo to do something that would tarnish his reputation and maybe embarrass Lucifer while you’re at it, idk.”

-Ah, so that’s what it was

-He’s such a mischievous, spoiled brat

-“No Belphie shush.”

-“I’m just saying-“

-Despite him hating humans way less nowadays, he still holds somewhat of a grudge against them

-Old habits die hard I suppose

-Especially for Solomon whom he never liked in the first place

-He finds it very amusing when he figures out you just beat Solomon at his life’s work in under a year

-He has a good chuckle about it but never actually brings it up in front of him

-Because he knows you’re gonna flick him over the ear for it

-Belphie is the youngest sibling and therefore the spoiled child, can’t change my mind

(Ok so poor Solomon, I kinda want to give him a hug now lol. Hope I didn’t make these too repetitive or short. Thank you for reading!)

Al~

[lovingrosewho]

The Executioner’s Song (rewrite, sort of)

NOW, ONTO THE GOOD STUFF, and that means, the new stuff :-) I’ve been rewatching all Supernatural seasons and just had to write this. Disclaimer: English isn’t my first language, feel free to give any feedback/suggestions! <3 Ily all, thanks for reading <3

ONE SHOT

Pairing: Crowley x Reader, sort of Castiel x Reader but in a friendly way

Rating: T. Angst, fluff

Word count: 3.1k+

Summary: the title pretty much explains it buuut, basically, Reader gets upset about Dean betraying Crowley

Warnings: SPOILERS AHEAD IF YOU HAVEN’T WATCHED SEASON 10, signs of depression, dialogues taken from the series at the beginning, a few curse words I guess?

When Dean handles the First Blade over to Castiel instead of Crowley, your eyes open wide in shock.

“You lied to me” Crowley says, you can sense the hurt from the betrayal in his voice.

“It’s not the first time today” Dean makes a pause with the demon’s expectant eyes “Cain’s list? You weren’t on it” Dean says and with this, Crowley vanishes.

You begin to feel dizzy, nauseous even, a void made of uncertainty taunts your heart and your stomach, you try to hide it behind being worried about Dean, which is partly true and you let that show as you hug him, relieved he’s alive, in one piece and, mostly, or so it seems, sane. Castiel looks over at you and you just know, he knows.

 The four of you get to the bunker. Not a word from anyone. At the very arrival, you excuse yourself pretending a headache along the tiredness of the whole trip, so you practically run to your room.

The minute you close the door you dial Crowley’s cellphone, your hands shaking as you do so.

 Straight to voice mail. You dial again.

“Damn it Crowley, pick up the fucking phone” you pray lowly.

 Voice mail again. You’ve got to be kidding. You dial a third time.

“What is it that you want?” he finally answers, voice tone a bit raised, taking into account it’s you and he never raises his voice with you, either way, you can’t but let a breath out of relief at hearing him.

“Can you come over here? Please, I’m in my room” you’re not finished telling him and he hangs up.

“Damn it Crowley!” you exclaim again while you dial his number a fourth time, the second ring hasn’t sound when he appears standing in front of you.

“What?!” he almost screams, locking the door of your room with his demon powers. He’s not afraid about Sam and Dean coming in, all guns waving and pointing at him, no, he fears for you, aware that if the Winchesters hear you, not only will they scold you, but could also stop trusting you, hell, they could even lock you up thinking it was his doing the fact that you were friends with him.

“I didn’t know!” you confess instantly, body trembling and feeling like you’re going to puke any minute. You know how Crowley feels about treason, you know damn well and you just can’t let him think you had anything to do with it. He takes a few steps back and looks at you up and down.

“Why should I believe you, (Y/N)? And how? How am I supposed to believe you? Tell me” he raises his voice once again, he doesn’t like doing that with you but this time he just can’t help himself “If you four had only told me the truth I would have gladly agreed and helped you!”

“I know, I know!” you whimper, knowing that is a big-ass declaration from Crowley, and that he wouldn’t normally admit to it, he’s just doing it because it’s you, and he’s hurt. You try to maintain your posture and not let your voice crack weeping “I swear, I had nothing to do with it, if I had known I’d have tried to convince Dean to tell you the truth! I swear!”

Crowley is about to vanish, tired of listening to you, tired of the lies, of the doubts; first his minions being influenced by Abaddon, then his mother, next the Winchesters and now... he never thought he would doubt of his most beloved hunter. A single tear escapes your eyes and Crowley stops dry from disappearing, the temptation to remove that single tear being more powerful than him, the King of Hell.

You’ve known Crowley since he was a blood junkie, locked up in the Winchester’s dungeon. Your friendship started as a naïve excuse to pass the time, at first with just a couple of hostile phrases a day when you found him, and obviously discovered he was a demon, not just any demon but the King of Hell himself, and soon after it turned into something else. When you broke your arm in a fight and had to spend a couple of months skipping on hunts, the boredom increased your time in the dungeon with Crowley while the boys were gone, and you began to admit you liked the guy, perhaps a little too much. Months kept passing and the habit of sneaking into Crowley’s room while the boys were out, stayed, sometimes you would even take the cuffs and chains off of him and let him walk and stretch inside the devils trap, he would always behave and let you put the chains back on. When he managed to free himself from the brothers, he would visit you in your room when no one else in the bunker could hear you; you would talk about anything, his life, your life, Hell, current or past hunts, funny anecdotes... you were not ready to lose that. Not now, not ever. 

Crowley stares deep into your eyes as he holds your face in both his hands and wipes the tear off your cheek. 

“Look at me... and tell me if I’m lying” you say slowly. He sighs.

“I’m sorry, Pet. I can’t” and with this final sentence, he leaves the room, disappearing and leaving you alone.

You swallow hard, your steps conducting you backwards until you hit the end of the bed and are able to sit. At last, you break down in tears, sobs and whines flooding you from the inside out when you hear a knock at the door. 

“(Y/N)?” it’s Castiel “(Y/N) are you okay?”

You don’t respond, and Cas is forced to unlock the door and come in. He stares in shock at you but immediately locks the door back so Sam and Dean won’t come up asking questions. He sits next to you and doubtfully touches your shoulder for you to look at him, which you don’t do.

“He won’t talk to me ever again Castiel” you say in between sobs.

 “Who won’t?” he asks confused, but having a mild idea of who you might be referring to.

 “Crowley! He thinks I knew about Dean handing over the blade to you and not him...” you keep whimpering “He won’t believe me, whatever we had it’s over”.

 Cas nods understandingly and reaches out to hug you, your face covering his chest with tears.

 “(Y/N) maybe it’s for the best... Crowley is...” he begins but you interrupt him, separating from his grip.

 “No you don’t understand. He’s changed. I know it seems impossible but he has. And he truly believed he could be friends with us, I know it, I know him. Castiel I...” your voice breaks.

“(Y/N)” he intertwines his hand with yours “I know”.

He holds you again, and you cry and cry for hours in that same position with him until you fall asleep. Castiel lifts you up and leaves you laying across your bed, he takes your shoes off and puts a few blankets on top of you.

When he comes down everything is quiet, the Winchesters have surely gone to sleep, or at least get some rest after the day they’ve had.

The following morning you don’t come out of your room, not for breakfast, dinner, research, anything.

“What’s up with (Y/N)?” Deans asks, looking towards your room.

“She...” Castiel tries to explain “Wasn’t feeling very well. I’ll go check on her”.

The brothers look at each other and nod at Castiel’s offer.

“Hey, could you please bring her something to eat?” Sam asks politely.

“Yes. Of course” Cas answers.

When he enters your room, he notices you haven’t changed your clothes, and you’re in the same position he left you last night.

“(Y/N)?” he says, leaving a tray of food on your desk “How are you feeling?”

“Not hungry” you say without facing him, smelling the hot breakfast he just left a couple of feet away from you.

“Well... you need to eat. You’re human” he reminds you.

“So? Not hungry” you repeat. He sits beside you and slightly caresses your hair.

“Okay then, we’ll be downstairs if you need us... or just, you know, pray for me” he tells you before getting up and prepare to leave your room until you jump all of a sudden. 

“Wait! Castiel!” you say, startling him.

“What? Whats is it?”

“Please... don’t tell Dean what this is about... he’ll just... he wouldn’t understand” you beg him. Cas nods his head in agreement. 

“Of course”.

When Cas comes down, both Winchesters are looking at him, raising his hands as asking what is going on.

“It’s... like I said, she’s not feeling very well” he tells them when he’s at the table with both.

“Well what does she have?” Deans asks demandingly.

 “I... she wouldn’t say” Cas lies, which gains him a weird look from Dean.

 “Ok that’s it, I’m going up” declares Dean and Cas gets up sharply.

 “Dean! No! She said she didn’t wanna be bothered” Castiel exclaims worried.

 The weird look on Dean remains until he rolls his eyes, says “fine” and heads for the kitchen instead.

 Sam has stayed silent the whole time until Dean leaves.

 “Cas” Sams calls him in a low voice “Is this about Crowley?”

 Castiel sighs and nods.

 “Guess she’ll just have to pull through with this one” Sam follows Castiel’s sigh.

 You don’t go out of your room for two days in a row, sadness consuming you. The third day you decide you’ve had enough and come downstairs to help the boys with research, no one says a word but Dean.

“Hiya there kiddo, had us worried sick but Cas said you didn’t wanna be bothered, everything okay?” Dean tells you, making you smile softly.

“Yeah, yeah. Just you know, some headaches, it felt like I was hungover the whole day, guess that tension from the last adventure really took a hit on me” you lie marvelously. 

“Yeah. But you’re back, we are back, and that’s what matters” Dean tells you and you smile nodding, containing your tears again, you know you are not fully back.

It’s been a couple of weeks and Crowley won’t answer any of your calls, hence you stop calling him.

You miss him, you miss his voice and spending time with him. The boys notice even if you’re back up enlisting on hunts and helping them, something’s definitely off with you. You don’t eat enough, you practically don’t sleep, you barely smile or laugh anymore, and you seem distracted half of the time. It hurts Castiel more than anyone seeing you like this, so he decides to break his vow and talk to Dean.

“You have to call Crowley” he tells Dean when he and Sam are alone in the bunker whilst you are in your room “You have to tell him it was your idea to give the blade to me, you can even mention Sam but not (Y/N)”.

“And why would I do that?” Dean asks confused and a bit angry.

“Look around you Dean” Sam tells him “Something’s off with (Y/N) since that day, it’s not even 9pm and she’s already locked in her room, she didn’t even eat when we got back”.

Dean looks at both of them and grunts.

“How are you so sure this is about Crowley?”

 “Because she told me” Castiel confesses “Now, call him”.

 Dean looks impassive at Cas and Sam but takes his phone out and dials Crowley’s number.

 First call goes to voice mail.

 “Well that’s it, I’m not calling that dickbag again” he declares and Cas catches his arm, grabbing and stopping him from putting away his cellphone.

 “Try again” Castiel threatens. Dean rolls his eyes but agrees.

 “Squirrel, long time no see” Crowley finally answers “How are you?”

 “Listen you son of a bitch” Dean begins “I don’t know what you did or told (Y/N) but...”

 “Oh I didn’t tell, much less do, anything to her”.

 It hasn’t been easier for Crowley. He’s got the advantage he doesn’t eat nor sleep, but distraction has definitely been present. Every time his mother or his minions call him he’s just thinking of you, about answering your calls, about calling back. He misses you, your voice, your laugh.

“Well she hasn’t been okay and the only thing I know is it has to do with you” Dean tells him “She hasn’t anything to do with the fact that I didn’t handle you the blade, that’s on me, Sam and perhaps Cas, but not her. She knew nothing, you hear me? Nothing. ‘Cause see here’s the thing, we didn’t tell her ‘cause I knew you two got along and if I had told her she would have put up a fight and claim it was unfair. Now she won’t sleep, nor eat enough, she’s distracted on hunts and that almost got her killed a couple of times already, so you either fix it or I’ll come down there looking to kill you Crowley I swear”.

With this last phrase he hangs up and throws his phone away, without expecting Crowley to answer, this is non-negotiable.

The King of Hell’s stomach suddenly fills with hope and excitement, it’s not the fact that Dean called him about what happened, no, it’s just that he did not know you cared that much for him, he’d figured after a while you would stop calling and move on.

You wake up in the middle of the night and... what time is it exactly? Phone says 3am. Great. You sit slowly, yawning, still sleepy, and turn on your bedside lamp.

Suddenly you see Crowley standing in front of you and you almost scream whilst reaching for your gun.

“Crowley! For the love of... what the actual hell are you doing in my room?!” you hiss at him, exasperated, tossing the gun aside.

“Well hello to you too, love” he exclaims sarcastically.

“Answer the question, what are you doing here?” you ask again, tired and afraid this is just some sick joke.

“I was bored. Thought I’d pay you a visit” he says walking, or more like snooping, around your room. 

“And you needed to do that at 3 in the morning? When I’m sleeping? And when you haven’t returned my calls in weeks?” you reclaim but he stays silent, still going through some of the stuff placed at your desk. 

You exhale sharply. 

“Whatever, I need to pee, do not touch anything, you understand me?”

 “Yes, yes. Understood, Pet. I’ll be right here”.

You get up from your bed and walk barefoot towards the restroom. When you’re sit in the toilet, your mind begins wondering what truly brings the King of Hell to your room. Perhaps he’s aware that you miss him. Perhaps he misses you too. Or maybe it’s a dream. Maybe he is telling the truth and was just bored of all the meetings.

 You get back to your room to find Crowley laying across your bed.

 “Everything alright, Pet? Was beginning to wonder what took you so long” he tells you. Deep, dark stare into your eyes.

 “Yeah” you say, approaching the edge of the bed, staring back at him “I do everything slower at this time. Now, scoot over”.

 He slides a few inches to the side of the bed, letting you lay down next to him. You turn a few degrees facing him, while Crowley keeps looking at the ceiling, but paying attention to every and each one of your moves, that is until you place your arm across his chest and your hand begins mindlessly caressing the thin fabric from his suite shirt, while you breathe in his scent, the sulphur, the ash, the expensive scotch and fresh cologne.

“(Y/N)?” he begins carefully, voice low “What are you doing?“

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Yes, beg your pardon, why are you doing it?” Crowley asks but cautiously places an arm around you and starts stroking your hair.

“I... I’ve missed you” you confess as you bury your face in his shoulder “Does... does this bother you?”

Your question puts a soft smile in his mouth while he turns to look at your half-hidden face. 

“Not in the slightest, kitten” his declaration is greeted with a relieved and dreamy sigh from you “I’ve missed you too, you know?”

 “You have?” you ask incredulously “I thought you didn’t care...”

 “Of course I care. But here I thought you were the one who didn’t care...” that’s when your engines start rotating and it hits you.

 “Did you speak to Castiel?” you interrogate him, fully facing him now.

 “Castiel? No. I spoke to Dean though” he says guessing what happened. Knowing you, you wouldn’t have let Dean figure out what you were so upset about, Cas must’ve told him “He wanted some intel on someone, don’t know, don’t care, and it slipped the fact that you weren’t feeling so well”.

“What else did he say?” you ask him, going back to your task of running your fingers across his chest. In this moment, you couldn’t care less how he found out, he’s here, with you.

He inhales deeply.

“That you had nothing to do with the idea of lying to me...” he feels your body tense underneath him “Which, by the way, I figured a couple of hours after our little discussion”.

“Then why didn’t you say anything?” anger beginning to creep on you, body still stiff.

“Because I thought you didn’t care that much” he admits “I thought it was for the best. To be honest, I was unsure about what to even tell you after the tantrum I threw that day”.

He places a hand under your chin for you to look him in the eyes.

 “I am sorry, (Y/N)” the King of Hell apologizes and you relax, hugging him a bit tighter.

 “I love you” he’s taken aback by your declaration but after a few seconds he smiles gently.

 “I love you too, Pet” with this sentence he brings your chin up and lowers his lips sweetly onto yours. He tastes like honey, citrus and scotch, and all you ever thought he’d taste like.

 The kiss is so tender and so slow that you’re able to wander your hand towards his hair and then his cheek. 

When the two of you break the kiss, you spend an exaggerated amount of time looking at each other, assimilating the reciprocated love. After a while you start talking about everything and nothing, just like old times, cuddling until you fall asleep, and Crowley, the King of Hell, has the honor to be the one to hold you in his arms.

MASTERLIST